Ironskull
08-27-2007, 09:44 PM
The two dwarves huddled beneath the outcropped snow-covered rock that deflected the rushing winter’s wind over their heads. The graybeard had stubby fingers that pinched a quill, shivering over a piece of snow blotted parchment. They spoke loudly.
“Aye, ya might as well tell the lass.”
”She ain’t gonna be smiling at it.”
“She’ll figure it out soon anyway.”
”Ya think so?”
”O’ course, when the wee one starts kicking on her bladder and stretching her belly. She ain’t a cock-wristed drooler.”
“Of course, ya dullard. But ya ain’t never know. Holy man could ‘a bin wrong. Bin wrong before.”
“Nah. I talked to a priest when I was twelve, ya wanna know what he told me?”
“That someday you’d annoy the piss out of a friend?”
”No, you humorless pike. He said…’get your ‘airy arse off my daughter.’ Now that I say it, I suppose it don’t help ya much.”
“Aye, but I’ve grown accustomed to that from ya.”
”What are ya ramblin’ ‘bout? You’d be a slab stone if it weren’t for me.”
”Ya think so, do ya?”
”Aye, what ‘bout that raid on Dun? Not one, not two. Three. Count ‘em, three Ogres I kept busy. Three, at the same time. And ‘ey didn’t leave a scratch. Not a scratch on me.”
“The one bludgeoned ya in the gut… ya crapped blood for a week. Ya had a bruise the size of a tree trunk!”
“Aye, a bruise, but not a scratch!”
“And it ain’t like ya actually put down the ogres… ya danced between their legs ‘till the elves shot ‘em down.”
“What are you talkin’ ‘bout?! I chopped that bloke into three pieces!”
“Which one?”
“The grisly one with the giant man nips!”
“He was the last to die… took a ballista bolt to the chest.”
“But after I chopped him in three bits.”
“Oh, come on, laddy. It ain’t like you spliced his chest… managed to hack off a couple of piggly toes.”
“Three pieces!”
“I ain’t thinkin’ he even noticed.”
“Ah… don’t know why I bother talkin’ to ya… Nothing good has ever come of it. Ya’d think I would’a learned.”
“Well, ya ain’t that smart.”
Three miles to the north, Sowell Spiritrock held his backpack securely on his shoulder, his schematics and scrolls stabbing out like pins in a pincushion. His goggles kept his eyes safe against the wind that ruffled his beard stroked his bald head. Just down the winding mountain path was Aerie Peak, and the warm cauldrons and steaming mugs of fire ale waiting for him.
“Sowell, you’re back!” her voice was deep and intimidating but he could tell she meant it as welcoming as she could.
“Aye, I’m back,” he shouted back to her, slipping down the path and into her heavy arms.
“I’ve bin so scared here on me own,” Maggie said, rubbing his shoulders and moving her enormous face with a smile.
“Own?” he asked, moving with her toward the entrance to the great gryphon aviary.
“Where are the boys?” he asked.
“Your cousins,” she said biting back a tear, “well…”
“Out with it, woman!”
“Recruiters came…and with the horde having burnt Stromgarde…”
Sowell pushed her aside and headed straight to the southern path. “Puddy-fingered, straw-slashers…” he cursed.
“I hate these clothes…”
”Not with the clothes again... You’re a dwarf for the love of beer, why can’t ya ever get past this?”
”It ain’t comfortable. Why do the damn women make clothes out of goat hair?”
“It’s warm.”
“It makes me leg hair itch.”
“First of all. Goat hair ain’t no more scratchy than that elven drab ya wear when we’re back home. Second of all, ya don’t hate this ‘cause it’s uncomfortable, ya hate it ‘cause ya think it makes ya look ridiculous. And last of all, ya leg itches ‘cause ya didn’t wash yourself after ya slimed it up and down with that farmin’ lass.”
“Slimed it up and down?”
“What? It’s one of your phrases, not mine.”
“It sounds much more dwarfish when I say it. Coming from an old graybeard like you, it just sounds…I don’t know… filthy.”
“Well I’m sure ya weren’t clean and tidy about it. She left in a hurry.”
”Not that kind of filthy, I mean, ya know what I’m sayin’, like a moral clean. It just sounds wrong when it comes out of your mouth.”
”It is wrong. She seemed like a good girl.”
”She was alright.”
“It is wrong, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Ya just taking it personally because ya daughter is starting to buy real dresses.”
“Don’t ya go gabbin’ ‘bout my daughter!”
”I ain’t gabbin’ about her, I’m just sayin’ she’s becoming a woman.’
”No, ya can’t say she’s becoming a woman.”
”She is becoming a woman.”
“I know that, and you know that, but ya can’t say it.”
”Why?”
”Because it sounds wrong when ya say it. You know, ‘like a moral clean.’ And furthermore, I don’t want ya buying her any more clothes.”
”I have ta. Your wife hates me; I have to do something.”
”My missus is a good judge of character. I knew that the first time she told me she hated you.”
”She really hates me?”
”Ya just said it.”
”I know, but ya were supposed to say it ain’t true. Why would she hate me?”
”Same reasons everyone does. You’re pompous, arrogant and generally don’t care about anyone but yourself.”
“That’s it? Only three reasons?”
“That’s not enough?”
“I don’t know, but three? It’s what, the third smallest number? Besides arrogant and selfish describes most people I know.”
”Well, given the people we work with I ain’t surprised.”
“I didn’t mean anything about your daughter, I’m just saying I wasn’t that bad to Sindee.”
“Let’s just not talk ‘bout it.”
“Okay. What do ya want to talk about?”
”Nothin’. I just wanna sit here in silence for a minute. Enjoy the breeze and the smell of orcs.”
“Okay.”
”Good.”
“I hate these clothes.”
Sowell forced himself not to limp as he pulled his tired feet through the snow on the way into the forward command post. A circular sawtooth fence surrounded it and a makeshift dwarven bunker peered out over the top of the fence. Everywhere drops of blood littered the snow. A bald priest stood over a line of dead dwarves, rubbing sacramental oil over their faces. Sowell took a deep breath. He wasn’t going to limp in sight of the brave warriors who were missing fingers, arms and legs.
“Commander?” he asked a stout dwarf with a fiery red beard and blood soaked helm.
“What da ya want?” he barked back.
“I’m lookin’ for a pair of dwarves. Torack and Valdin Spiritrock.”
The commanded ignored him at first, taking the time to yell at a Dwarven mortar team. “Don’t ya go get the powder wet, ya slogs!” He turned back to Sowell. “They’re in the thick of it, mate.” He pointed out over the horizon where a dozen fires leaked smoke in the face of the choking sunset.
Sowell nodded, dropped his sack of recipes, notes and rations at the side of a tent and ran out the front of the camp. He prayed he wasn’t too late.
“They just look ridiculous.”
“Ya wore a purple kilt with a green hat wider than my wife’s backside when we were campin’ in Stranglethorn.”
”No I didn’t.”
“Aye, you did, I was ‘ere.”
”No.”
“Yes.”
”That was when we‘re campin’ in the Wetlands, not Stranglethorn, and it was lavender, not purple.”
“Ya know what I said earlier, about me daughter. Ignore it. Ya can talk about her anyway ya want. What was I worried ‘bout? Ya ain’t even a man.”
“Just ‘cause I know how to dress don’t mean I ain’t a bloke. I get plenty of…”
“Look, we’re wearing gray ‘cause it lets us blend into the rocks and snow. It don’t matter if it looks plain. Be a ‘lil more professional.”
“Why? I’m just gonna wander up there and knock on the door anyway.”
A piercing green light covered the sky and the distant wiz of gnomish flare tickled their ears.
Torack looked at his older cousin with a strange seriousness. All the humor vanished from their conversation. He handed him the letter he had written.
“For Ironforge,” Valdin said with a calm voice as he took the scroll.
Torack nodded, took one last look at his cousin and hopped over the outcropped rock that hid them. The full force of the winter’s wind tore at his golden beard and dried his eyes, but he stepped forward. One foot after the other, down the hill toward the orc barracks below.
On the outskirts of the horde base were a pair of watchtowers but if the lookouts saw the dwarf striding toward them they made no call. The setting suns barely peered through the smoke and snow and the dwarf’s clothes matched the snow perfectly. Walking right passed an orc that slept beneath a pile of dwarven blankets and the remains of several sheep – which appeared to have been eaten raw – Torack walked straight to the mighty double doors of the orcs’ barracks. The knocker being just out of reach, the dwarf picked up a jagged rock and pounded on the door.
Questioning sounds came from within, and a throaty orc voice asked something from within.
“I’m a dwarf, ya sticky-fingered sheep chaser! And I’m ‘ere to kill ya all!”
Sowell slipped out from behind the oak tree, careful to tread slowly on the snow. The orc patrol moved slowly by, oblivious to his existence. He wanted to stay hidden, clutching his boomstick to his chest, but he had seen the green flare and knew he didn’t have much time left. If any. He moved up the hill, climbing over felled trees and stumps, staying stooped over and out of the sight of any wandering orcs, ogres or any other of the Hordes’ new allies. He had even heard mention of undead horsemen with terrifying magical powers. It had all seemed so far away when he was studying in Gnomeregan. But now that he was back he realized how serious this invasion was. And it all seemed to come from nowhere.
From over the top of the cliffs he could look down at the Horde base. He quickly lay on his stomach and pulled his scope off his rifle and put it to his eye. Two watch towers, a pig farm, a couple of peon tents and a large stone-reinforced double-doored orc barracks with spiked walls. From his angle he could peer into one of the stone window frames.
“Son of a…”
The explosion shook the ground and threw the flying buttresses off the sides of the barracks in a bone-tingling crash, dropping the flaming roof down to the floor while the outer walls caved in on themselves. In seconds nothing remained of the barracks but a smoldering rock pile leaking orc blood from every crevice. A few green hands twitched from between slabs of stone.
“Aye, ya might as well tell the lass.”
”She ain’t gonna be smiling at it.”
“She’ll figure it out soon anyway.”
”Ya think so?”
”O’ course, when the wee one starts kicking on her bladder and stretching her belly. She ain’t a cock-wristed drooler.”
“Of course, ya dullard. But ya ain’t never know. Holy man could ‘a bin wrong. Bin wrong before.”
“Nah. I talked to a priest when I was twelve, ya wanna know what he told me?”
“That someday you’d annoy the piss out of a friend?”
”No, you humorless pike. He said…’get your ‘airy arse off my daughter.’ Now that I say it, I suppose it don’t help ya much.”
“Aye, but I’ve grown accustomed to that from ya.”
”What are ya ramblin’ ‘bout? You’d be a slab stone if it weren’t for me.”
”Ya think so, do ya?”
”Aye, what ‘bout that raid on Dun? Not one, not two. Three. Count ‘em, three Ogres I kept busy. Three, at the same time. And ‘ey didn’t leave a scratch. Not a scratch on me.”
“The one bludgeoned ya in the gut… ya crapped blood for a week. Ya had a bruise the size of a tree trunk!”
“Aye, a bruise, but not a scratch!”
“And it ain’t like ya actually put down the ogres… ya danced between their legs ‘till the elves shot ‘em down.”
“What are you talkin’ ‘bout?! I chopped that bloke into three pieces!”
“Which one?”
“The grisly one with the giant man nips!”
“He was the last to die… took a ballista bolt to the chest.”
“But after I chopped him in three bits.”
“Oh, come on, laddy. It ain’t like you spliced his chest… managed to hack off a couple of piggly toes.”
“Three pieces!”
“I ain’t thinkin’ he even noticed.”
“Ah… don’t know why I bother talkin’ to ya… Nothing good has ever come of it. Ya’d think I would’a learned.”
“Well, ya ain’t that smart.”
Three miles to the north, Sowell Spiritrock held his backpack securely on his shoulder, his schematics and scrolls stabbing out like pins in a pincushion. His goggles kept his eyes safe against the wind that ruffled his beard stroked his bald head. Just down the winding mountain path was Aerie Peak, and the warm cauldrons and steaming mugs of fire ale waiting for him.
“Sowell, you’re back!” her voice was deep and intimidating but he could tell she meant it as welcoming as she could.
“Aye, I’m back,” he shouted back to her, slipping down the path and into her heavy arms.
“I’ve bin so scared here on me own,” Maggie said, rubbing his shoulders and moving her enormous face with a smile.
“Own?” he asked, moving with her toward the entrance to the great gryphon aviary.
“Where are the boys?” he asked.
“Your cousins,” she said biting back a tear, “well…”
“Out with it, woman!”
“Recruiters came…and with the horde having burnt Stromgarde…”
Sowell pushed her aside and headed straight to the southern path. “Puddy-fingered, straw-slashers…” he cursed.
“I hate these clothes…”
”Not with the clothes again... You’re a dwarf for the love of beer, why can’t ya ever get past this?”
”It ain’t comfortable. Why do the damn women make clothes out of goat hair?”
“It’s warm.”
“It makes me leg hair itch.”
“First of all. Goat hair ain’t no more scratchy than that elven drab ya wear when we’re back home. Second of all, ya don’t hate this ‘cause it’s uncomfortable, ya hate it ‘cause ya think it makes ya look ridiculous. And last of all, ya leg itches ‘cause ya didn’t wash yourself after ya slimed it up and down with that farmin’ lass.”
“Slimed it up and down?”
“What? It’s one of your phrases, not mine.”
“It sounds much more dwarfish when I say it. Coming from an old graybeard like you, it just sounds…I don’t know… filthy.”
“Well I’m sure ya weren’t clean and tidy about it. She left in a hurry.”
”Not that kind of filthy, I mean, ya know what I’m sayin’, like a moral clean. It just sounds wrong when it comes out of your mouth.”
”It is wrong. She seemed like a good girl.”
”She was alright.”
“It is wrong, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Ya just taking it personally because ya daughter is starting to buy real dresses.”
“Don’t ya go gabbin’ ‘bout my daughter!”
”I ain’t gabbin’ about her, I’m just sayin’ she’s becoming a woman.’
”No, ya can’t say she’s becoming a woman.”
”She is becoming a woman.”
“I know that, and you know that, but ya can’t say it.”
”Why?”
”Because it sounds wrong when ya say it. You know, ‘like a moral clean.’ And furthermore, I don’t want ya buying her any more clothes.”
”I have ta. Your wife hates me; I have to do something.”
”My missus is a good judge of character. I knew that the first time she told me she hated you.”
”She really hates me?”
”Ya just said it.”
”I know, but ya were supposed to say it ain’t true. Why would she hate me?”
”Same reasons everyone does. You’re pompous, arrogant and generally don’t care about anyone but yourself.”
“That’s it? Only three reasons?”
“That’s not enough?”
“I don’t know, but three? It’s what, the third smallest number? Besides arrogant and selfish describes most people I know.”
”Well, given the people we work with I ain’t surprised.”
“I didn’t mean anything about your daughter, I’m just saying I wasn’t that bad to Sindee.”
“Let’s just not talk ‘bout it.”
“Okay. What do ya want to talk about?”
”Nothin’. I just wanna sit here in silence for a minute. Enjoy the breeze and the smell of orcs.”
“Okay.”
”Good.”
“I hate these clothes.”
Sowell forced himself not to limp as he pulled his tired feet through the snow on the way into the forward command post. A circular sawtooth fence surrounded it and a makeshift dwarven bunker peered out over the top of the fence. Everywhere drops of blood littered the snow. A bald priest stood over a line of dead dwarves, rubbing sacramental oil over their faces. Sowell took a deep breath. He wasn’t going to limp in sight of the brave warriors who were missing fingers, arms and legs.
“Commander?” he asked a stout dwarf with a fiery red beard and blood soaked helm.
“What da ya want?” he barked back.
“I’m lookin’ for a pair of dwarves. Torack and Valdin Spiritrock.”
The commanded ignored him at first, taking the time to yell at a Dwarven mortar team. “Don’t ya go get the powder wet, ya slogs!” He turned back to Sowell. “They’re in the thick of it, mate.” He pointed out over the horizon where a dozen fires leaked smoke in the face of the choking sunset.
Sowell nodded, dropped his sack of recipes, notes and rations at the side of a tent and ran out the front of the camp. He prayed he wasn’t too late.
“They just look ridiculous.”
“Ya wore a purple kilt with a green hat wider than my wife’s backside when we were campin’ in Stranglethorn.”
”No I didn’t.”
“Aye, you did, I was ‘ere.”
”No.”
“Yes.”
”That was when we‘re campin’ in the Wetlands, not Stranglethorn, and it was lavender, not purple.”
“Ya know what I said earlier, about me daughter. Ignore it. Ya can talk about her anyway ya want. What was I worried ‘bout? Ya ain’t even a man.”
“Just ‘cause I know how to dress don’t mean I ain’t a bloke. I get plenty of…”
“Look, we’re wearing gray ‘cause it lets us blend into the rocks and snow. It don’t matter if it looks plain. Be a ‘lil more professional.”
“Why? I’m just gonna wander up there and knock on the door anyway.”
A piercing green light covered the sky and the distant wiz of gnomish flare tickled their ears.
Torack looked at his older cousin with a strange seriousness. All the humor vanished from their conversation. He handed him the letter he had written.
“For Ironforge,” Valdin said with a calm voice as he took the scroll.
Torack nodded, took one last look at his cousin and hopped over the outcropped rock that hid them. The full force of the winter’s wind tore at his golden beard and dried his eyes, but he stepped forward. One foot after the other, down the hill toward the orc barracks below.
On the outskirts of the horde base were a pair of watchtowers but if the lookouts saw the dwarf striding toward them they made no call. The setting suns barely peered through the smoke and snow and the dwarf’s clothes matched the snow perfectly. Walking right passed an orc that slept beneath a pile of dwarven blankets and the remains of several sheep – which appeared to have been eaten raw – Torack walked straight to the mighty double doors of the orcs’ barracks. The knocker being just out of reach, the dwarf picked up a jagged rock and pounded on the door.
Questioning sounds came from within, and a throaty orc voice asked something from within.
“I’m a dwarf, ya sticky-fingered sheep chaser! And I’m ‘ere to kill ya all!”
Sowell slipped out from behind the oak tree, careful to tread slowly on the snow. The orc patrol moved slowly by, oblivious to his existence. He wanted to stay hidden, clutching his boomstick to his chest, but he had seen the green flare and knew he didn’t have much time left. If any. He moved up the hill, climbing over felled trees and stumps, staying stooped over and out of the sight of any wandering orcs, ogres or any other of the Hordes’ new allies. He had even heard mention of undead horsemen with terrifying magical powers. It had all seemed so far away when he was studying in Gnomeregan. But now that he was back he realized how serious this invasion was. And it all seemed to come from nowhere.
From over the top of the cliffs he could look down at the Horde base. He quickly lay on his stomach and pulled his scope off his rifle and put it to his eye. Two watch towers, a pig farm, a couple of peon tents and a large stone-reinforced double-doored orc barracks with spiked walls. From his angle he could peer into one of the stone window frames.
“Son of a…”
The explosion shook the ground and threw the flying buttresses off the sides of the barracks in a bone-tingling crash, dropping the flaming roof down to the floor while the outer walls caved in on themselves. In seconds nothing remained of the barracks but a smoldering rock pile leaking orc blood from every crevice. A few green hands twitched from between slabs of stone.