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About Bermithian

  • Rank
    Junior Member
  • Birthday 07/24/1992
  1. “Foine noight fer a drink,” Bermithian thought to himself as he strolled through the Mage’s Quarter of Stormwind City. He had taken the night off from Regimental duties and had dawned a more comfortable, casual attire for the evening. Keeping his Regiment Seal tucked away, he wore a simple but flashy orange and black shirt with a slick pair of black dress pants and the finest pair of black boots he owned. Capping all this was his worn crotchet had he adored so much, having swiped it off an enemy he had encountered while in the vast deserts of Tanaris. Bermithian sighed to himself as he ascended the stairs leading to a small deck in front of the tavern, 'It’ll beh ovah soon, just a few more outtin's….' The aged dwarf, with his thick, double-braided white beard and close cropped hair walked into the Blue Recluse into a bustle of excitement. A few commoners up and about gave the tavern a wonderful ambience that Bermithian found pleasing. Despite his attire, the dwarf was here with an agenda. He nodded to the Barkeep, as per custom and headed to a small table in the corner under the staircase. He ordered his usual Dwarven Stout and began to relax a bit. He took a moment to immerse himself in the atmosphere, how he longed for the old days of the nightly tavern life he enjoyed as a young sport with his numerous companions. He then produced a small pad of paper and began to scribble notes. His attention was focused on a group of adventurers within the tavern….
  2. ((End. Tips and commentary on writing style much appreciated.))
  3. Overwhelmed by the large crowds, large buildings, and volume of noise, Bermithian had no idea where to begin his search for the owner of the seal. ‘Oomf’. A sudden forced bumped into the bewildered dwarf from behind. Bermithian turned around in time to see a figure wearing a crimson cloak sporting two crossed, golden hammers on it walking away through the crowds. “Oi got ye this toime!” he exclaimed as he pursued the figure through the paths of Ironforge. “Excuse meh….er, pardon meh…comin’ through,” Bermithian tried to ease his way through the crowd. ‘Oi see whoi tis called tah “Commons”.’ Annoyed at his futile attempts to navigate the crowd, he shouted at the top of his lungs, “MOVE!” only to be drowned out by the sounds of the city. Frustrated, Bermithian began to push through the crowd, causing an awful disturbance. The Ironforge Guard were upon him swiftly: “Oi, lad! Ye causin’ quoite a commotion, aren’t ye troublemakah?” asked one of the guards. “Oi tink ‘e is, mate, let us take ‘im to tah captain an’ ‘ave him dealt with!” contributed his partner. Bermithian, confused as to exactly what was wrong, was frightened and wished Grethor was still here with his diplomatic way of settling things. “Oi, sahs, twas troin’ tah reach someone, oi mean’ nay harm to all tese people in moi way, but getting’ through.” The first guard laughed. “Oi dunnae want yer storeh, ye came tah cause trouble, and we’ dun take kindly tah yer type ‘ere.” The two guards restrained the frightened dwarf, who did not resist a bit. “Alroight lads, let ‘im be. ‘e tellin’ tah truth. ‘es not from around ‘ere. Oi requested ‘im here moiself,” said a figure from behind the two guards. The guards parted to reveal a dwarf, cloaked and hooded in deep crimson. Bermithian instantly knew it was the figure amongst the crowd that had bumped into him. The guards looked at each other, grunted in disappointment, and left the bewildered Berm and the hooded figure. “I almost thought you wouldn’t make it,” said the hooded figure. “Please, come with me, the other’s are anxious to meet you.” “Laddie, ‘afore oi go anywhere, oi wanna know who are ye and wha’ do ye want from meh?” asked Bermithian. “All in due time, young paladin, all in due time.” “Wait a minute, what ‘appened to yer accent?” inquired Bemrithian. “As per my profession, I must be fluent in a plethora of accents and tongues.” Replied the hooded figure. “Oi see. Now ’ow did ye know oi was a paladin!? Oi barely even know tat!” exclaimed Bermithian. “We know everything about our recruits,” explained the hooded figure. ‘Recruits? What am oi recruited fer?’ thought Berm, keeping any further questions to himself and followed the hooded figure. ‘Oi came tis far, may as well see it through.’ The figure, who Bermithian was sure was a dwarf, of that he was certain, led him through the “Commons” and into an obviously more militarized section called the “Military Ward” and to an inn. Berm looked up: ‘Bruuks Corner…loike tah sound of it. Bruuk bettah ‘ave ale,’ thought the paladin. The hooded dwarf led Bermithian upstairs to a table that was occupied by five other dwarves, seemingly waiting for something…or someone. Up stood a dwarf, clad in armor composed of steel, with golden trim. A pair of large pauldrons sat upon his shoulder, steel with golden bosses protruding around it. His helm an open visor, with two wing-like protrusions spanning backwards. He had a thick, well-groomed beard of aged, grey color. He stretched his hand out to Bermithian and said “’ello lad! Welcome to mi crew! Oi beh Oxel Anvilstrike!” Bermithian took the hand of the extravagantly clad dwarf. “Noice tah meet ye, sah. Oi beh Bermithian.” The hooded figure spoke: “This is your new crew. Allow me to introduce you to them: Here we have Cloke Hindquarts, specializing in stealth tactics and recon,” he said pointing to a dwarf with a thick, royal purple cloak, containing the crossed, golden hammers. He continued. “This fellow here with the spiked shoulders, and a dog, for lack of a better term, on his head is Phineas Bronzebarrel, he specializes in long range combat.” Phineas looked up from polishing a large rifle and nodded to Bermithian. “Here we have the siblings, Blagen and Belila Thickbraids, Blagen is a warrior of exception skill. Belila studied the ways of mending wounds with the finest priests of Khaz Modan. If I ever needed a priest, she’d be the one.” The two smiled at Bermithian with a friendly “hello” in unison. The dazzled dwarf noticed the “team” all wore the same heavy, crimson cloak as the hooded figure. Excluding Cloke whose was purple. Bermithian nodded and said his hellos to everyone around the table. He then looked to the hooded dwarf and asked “Now mate, who beh ye?” The dwarf removed his hood and revealed an aged faced, with sunken eyes, and a dwindling white beard. He had a heaviness in his sunken eyes that told infinite stories of a long lived life. He seemed a rather paleish, almost sickening color. “I, my good lad, and Senator Ironmantle. You may be familiar with my writing.” Bermithian looked down at his coat pocket, the letters stashed inside. “Twas ye! Ye are SIM!” “Yes, I am SIM. Call me Senator. I have brought you here to join our team. Oxel, if you would be so kind as to take the reins on this.” Oxel, who was still standing, nodded “Yes sir”. “Well Bermithian, welcome to our little club, mate. We been lookin’ fer a paladin of a rambunctious nature. We need a lad wit’ a temper, always readeh tah foight. Are ye willin’ tah be tat lad?” Bermithian was taken aback by the sudden offer. He thought of his farm, his mum, his brother, and also how that life had grown stale to him. He inquired, “Will tere be ale?” “As much as ye can ‘andle! Bruuk keeps us well stocked. Special discount fer us ta boot!” replied Oxel. “Oi’m sold. Oi’ll be yer paladin.” Quipped Bermithian. “Grand tah ‘ear laddie! Now we need tah get ye a weapon. Sumtin’ devastatin’. Ye will beh trainin’ with tis weapon, whatevah it beh, so oi’ll leave tah decision as tah what koind tah ye.” Replied Oxel, now Berm’s commander. Bermithian reached into his jacket and produced his crude, stone knife that he left nowhere without. “Oi got one!” “Well now lad, can’t do much damage wit a blade loike tat. Can ye?” Oxel asked. “Run down to tah Great Forge an’ meet Ironus Coldsteel. Tell ‘im tah fashion ye a weapon of yer loikin’. Tell ‘im tis fer the Shroud.”
  4. Overwhelmed by the large crowds, large buildings, and volume of noise, Bermithian had no idea where to begin his search for the owner of the seal. ‘Oomf’. A sudden forced bumped into the bewildered dwarf from behind. Bermithian turned around in time to see a figure wearing a crimson cloak sporting two crossed, golden hammers on it walking away through the crowds. “Oi got ye this toime!” he exclaimed as he pursued the figure through the paths of Ironforge. “Excuse meh….er, pardon meh…comin’ through,” Bermithian tried to ease his way through the crowd. ‘Oi see whoi tis called tah “Commons”.’ Annoyed at his futile attempts to navigate the crowd, he shouted at the top of his lungs, “MOVE!” only to be drowned out by the sounds of the city. Frustrated, Bermithian began to push through the crowd, causing an awful disturbance. The Ironforge Guard were upon him swiftly: “Oi, lad! Ye causin’ quoite a commotion, aren’t ye troublemakah?” asked one of the guards. “Oi tink ‘e is, mate, let us take ‘im to tah captain an’ ‘ave him dealt with!” contributed his partner. Bermithian, confused as to exactly what was wrong, was frightened and wished Grethor was still here with his diplomatic way of settling things. “Oi, sahs, twas troin’ tah reach someone, oi mean’ nay harm to all tese people in moi way, but getting’ through.” The first guard laughed. “Oi dunnae want yer storeh, ye came tah cause trouble, and we’ dun take kindly tah yer type ‘ere.” The two guards restrained the frightened dwarf, who did not resist a bit. “Alroight lads, let ‘im be. ‘e tellin’ tah truth. ‘es not from around ‘ere. Oi requested ‘im here moiself,” said a figure from behind the two guards. The guards parted to reveal a dwarf, cloaked and hooded in deep crimson. Bermithian instantly knew it was the figure amongst the crowd that had bumped into him. The guards looked at each other, grunted in disappointment, and left the bewildered Berm and the hooded figure. “I almost thought you wouldn’t make it,” said the hooded figure. “Please, come with me, the other’s are anxious to meet you.” “Laddie, ‘afore oi go anywhere, oi wanna know who are ye and wha’ do ye want from meh?” asked Bermithian. “All in due time, young paladin, all in due time.” “Wait a minute, what ‘appened to yer accent?” inquired Bemrithian. “As per my profession, I must be fluent in a plethora of accents and tongues.” Replied the hooded figure. “Oi see. Now ’ow did ye know oi was a paladin!? Oi barely even know tat!” exclaimed Bermithian. “We know everything about our recruits,” explained the hooded figure. ‘Recruits? What am oi recruited fer?’ thought Berm, keeping any further questions to himself and followed the hooded figure. ‘Oi came tis far, may as well see it through.’ The figure, who Bermithian was sure was a dwarf, of that he was certain, led him through the “Commons” and into an obviously more militarized section called the “Military Ward” and to an inn. Berm looked up: ‘Bruuks Corner…loike tah sound of it. Bruuk bettah ‘ave ale,’ thought the paladin. The hooded dwarf led Bermithian upstairs to a table that was occupied by five other dwarves, seemingly waiting for something…or someone. Up stood a dwarf, clad in armor composed of steel, with golden trim. A pair of large pauldrons sat upon his shoulder, steel with golden bosses protruding around it. His helm an open visor, with two wing-like protrusions spanning backwards. He had a thick, well-groomed beard of aged, grey color. He stretched his hand out to Bermithian and said “’ello lad! Welcome to mi crew! Oi beh Oxel Anvilstrike!” Bermithian took the hand of the extravagantly clad dwarf. “Noice tah meet ye, sah. Oi beh Bermithian.” The hooded figure spoke: “This is your new crew. Allow me to introduce you to them: Here we have Cloke Hindquarts, specializing in stealth tactics and recon,” he said pointing to a dwarf with a thick, royal purple cloak, containing the crossed, golden hammers. He continued. “This fellow here with the spiked shoulders, and a dog, for lack of a better term, on his head is Phineas Bronzebarrel, he specializes in long range combat.” Phineas looked up from polishing a large rifle and nodded to Bermithian. “Here we have the siblings, Blagen and Belila Thickbraids, Blagen is a warrior of exception skill. Belila studied the ways of mending wounds with the finest priests of Khaz Modan. If I ever needed a priest, she’d be the one.” The two smiled at Bermithian with a friendly “hello” in unison. The dazzled dwarf noticed the “team” all wore the same heavy, crimson cloak as the hooded figure. Excluding Cloke whose was purple. Bermithian nodded and said his hellos to everyone around the table. He then looked to the hooded dwarf and asked “Now mate, who beh ye?” The dwarf removed his hood and revealed an aged faced, with sunken eyes, and a dwindling white beard. He had a heaviness in his sunken eyes that told infinite stories of a long lived life. He seemed a rather paleish, almost sickening color. “I, my good lad, and Senator Ironmantle. You may be familiar with my writing.” Bermithian looked down at his coat pocket, the letters stashed inside. “Twas ye! Ye are SIM!” “Yes, I am SIM. Call me Senator. I have brought you here to join our team. Oxel, if you would be so kind as to take the reins on this.” Oxel, who was still standing, nodded “Yes sir”. “Well Bermithian, welcome to our little club, mate. We been lookin’ fer a paladin of a rambunctious nature. We need a lad wit’ a temper, always readeh tah foight. Are ye willin’ tah be tat lad?” Bermithian was taken aback by the sudden offer. He thought of his farm, his mum, his brother, and also how that life had grown stale to him. He inquired, “Will tere be ale?” “As much as ye can ‘andle! Bruuk keeps us well stocked. Special discount fer us ta boot!” replied Oxel. “Oi’m sold. Oi’ll be yer paladin.” Quipped Bermithian. “Grand tah ‘ear laddie! Now we need tah get ye a weapon. Sumtin’ devastatin’. Ye will beh trainin’ with tis weapon, whatevah it beh, so oi’ll leave tah decision as tah what koind tah ye.” Replied Oxel, now Berm’s commander. Bermithian reached into his jacket and produced his crude, stone knife that he left nowhere without. “Oi got one!” “Well now lad, can’t do much damage wit a blade loike tat. Can ye?” Oxel asked. “Run down to tah Great Forge an’ meet Ironus Coldsteel. Tell ‘im tah fashion ye a weapon of yer loikin’. Tell ‘im tis fer the Shroud.”
  5. <p>woooooooooooooot first!...</p>

  6. ((The end.)) ((First story. Tips and criticism appreciated. Thanks!))
  7. It was high noon when the pair arrived at the Northern Gate Outpost. “Halt!” said a guardsman, brandishing a sickly looking axe and thick shield. “What are ye doin’ ‘ere? What business brings ye tah Dun Morogh? Speak quickleh!” Grethor, always the spokesman, addressed the guardsman respectfully, “Greetin’s sah! We are headin’ to Ironforge. We beh but travelers lookin’ fer a little hustle ‘an bustle! We bring naught hostility but a sense o’ adventurah.” Bermithian rolled his eyes. The guardsman looked over the suspiciously, but seeing as how they were unarmed (Berm’s knife was always concealed within his coat pocket, out of sight), the guardsman nodded and let them pass. “Twas simple!” winked Grethor to Berm. “Aye aye” chuckled Berm, exciting and suspense stirring within him as they neared the mountain city of Ironforge. “We should beh there…hmm…oi’d say by suppah,” judged Grethor. Bermithian nodded, taking in every bit of scenery he could. He was speechless, full of wonder. “What did ye realleh want tat ogre’s finger for by tah way?” asked Grethor. “Seems a bit odd fer you of all people to take trophies.” Bermithian reached into his bag, “Oi was ‘oping tah save tis fer when we parted ways agin, but oi guess oi’ll give it now.” And with that, he produced a bone pipe, fashioned from the finger bone of Whollop. Grethor was taken back by such a furtive, but kind gesture. He accepted the gift, always wanting to of owned a pipe, but never quite got to it. “Th..thank ye mate. Tis awfulleh koind of ye,” replied Grethor. “Dunnae mention it, lad,” said the dwarf. They rode in silence, taking in the beautiful landscape, Grethor examining his gift. Just as Grethor had predicted, the travelers arrived at the gates of Ironforge around supper. They stood bewildered by the scale of gates of the city. Nearby guards snickered at their amazement, chiding with each other about “more newcomers”. The two looked at each other, nodded in agreement, and went into the vast city. Taverns, trainers, vendors of all sorts ranging from armor to weapons to pie, Auctioneers, bankers; There wasn’t a thing you couldn’t find in the great city of Ironforge. A perpetually warm place, carved into the large mountain visible from great distances, boasted taverns and inns always with a roaring fire in their hearths. The hustle and bustle was something Berm was not accustomed too. Bermithian, coming from a humble farm all his life (excluding his wartime service) had never seen a place of such scale. He was overwhelmed and could not wait to explore. Grethor suggested they stop at an inn first. “Aye lad, tis great is it not? Let us grab a pint at that there tavern an’ let us talk. Moi body could use a brief res’ an’ oi am itchin’ fer a drink!” suggested Grethor. Bermithian could not refuse such a wonderful idea. Grethor lead Bermithian through the “Commons” section of Ironforge and into the Stonefire Tavern; A place of welcome from the get-go. Two barmaids approached the two companions before they made it to the bar, showing outstanding service, Bermithian loved it. “Two pints of dwarven stout, if you don’t moind, please,” said Grethor, handing the bartender 4 silver pieces. “Comin’ roight up, sah,” the bartender said, quickly and diligently attending to the task. Grethor seemed to adorn a sudden serious tone as he looked to Bermithian, as if he just equipped a new piece of armor. “Listen ‘ere lad, oi ‘ave tah be leavin’ ye now. Oi have business to take care of ‘ere.” Puzzled, Bermithian responded, “But…where are you…what will you….What am oi suppose tah do?” “Oi suggest ye attend to tah letters ye ‘avent let outta yer possession since we’ve been on tah road,” retorted the paladin. Bermithian nodded, “Aye, oi suppose oi should.” ‘Although oi ‘avent tah slightest idea where tah begin….’ He thought to himself. “’ere ye go, sahs, the finest stout in all of Khaz Modan!” the bartender produced two pints of dwarven stout. The companions thanked the bartender, looking at each other, nodded, clanked pints and chugged. Bermithian being a naturally better drinking than Grethor, finished first. Grethor slammed down his pint right behind his old friend’s. They both thanked the bartender again and headed for the exit. The old friends shook hands, gave each other a crisp salute, and parted ways. Bermithian watched his old mate disappear into the crowded paths of the mountain city. They did it. They made it to Ironforge.
  8. “Now whoi dah hell did ye ‘ave to go do tat for?!” exclaimed Grethor. More angry than shocked. “He was givin’ up! Goin’ ‘ome! Ye ruthless, lad. Tis a dangerous trait….so much fer yer oath.” Dismissing his companion’s protests, Bermithian stowed the severed ogre’s finger in his pack carried by his ram. Mounting their rams, the two were beginning to leave Thelsamar. Grethor looked to Berm, “By the way, what was that call you said when ye jump off tah roof?” “Tis moi battle cry! ‘GERROF MI FARM!’, tis been moin since after tah War. All oi’ve dun is defend tah damned farm.” Replied Berm with a chuckle. “Yer an odd one, ye know tat?” “Oi!” exclaimed Bermithian. With that he jumped off his ram and ran into the Stoutlager inn. ‘Must need an ale fer tah road,’ thought Grethor. A few minutes passed and Berm reappeared. Stepping out of the inn holding a letter, his flask in his hand. “Needed another, eh?” asked Grethor, chuckling. His companion responded with a dismissive grunt, seemingly entranced by whatever was on the parchment he was reading from. “Nay, mah flask.” Bermithian said in a low tone, still reading. “Whatcha got tere, lad? A wroitin’ address of a barmaid? Ye always were a dawg, ye were!” chided the paladin. “Nay, tis nuthin’ mate. Let us beh on tah Ironforge. We’ve wasted enough toime!” the dwarf said in a stern tone, his usual comic mood swept up like a storm. Upon entering the Stoutlager to retrieve his flask, Bermithian had a letter waiting for him at his table (He had left his stuff abruptly to aid Grethor at the sounds of commotion) : “Dear Mr. Hardstone, An avid fighter, just as we had thought, despite your….pugnacious character. Your adventures are sidetracking you. Your presence is required within the city immediately. Tardiness is not looked favorably upon. You have two days. SIM ‘Anuthah lettah from SIM. Hm…tis is an odd business, it is.’ Thought the dwarf. Bermithian looked at the back of the letter, the foreign seal from the first letter present on the second as well. ‘Two golden hammers, crossed…surrounded boi crimson. What can it beh meanin’?’ he pondered. Bermithian stood up from his table, recovering his flask, and approached the innkeeper, an unusually short dwarf. “’ello mate. Oi was wonderin’ if’n ye know who left tis ‘ere lettah on moi table?” inquired Bermithian. “Oi saw a figah, but not ‘is face. Twas cloaked, ye see? Real shady charactah it seemed. Slipped in, dropped it, ‘n ee was gone. ‘e did ‘ave a peculiar cloak draped on ‘im though. Maybeh it beh not a ting.” Replied the innkeeper. “What ye mean, mate? Dun play nay games with meh, tis important.” “Well, twas a deep crimson color. Seemed of foine quality, odd symbol on it touh, two cros..” “Crossed gold ‘ammers…aye, oi know it.” Interrupted Bermithian. “Tank ye, mate. ‘eres 20 silvah pieces fer tah drinks. Keep tah rest.” And with that he was gone. “Alroight mate, ifn ye say so. Let us be gone then!” said Grethor, not pressing his old friend anymore on the letter. They rode in silence until dark when they decided to stop and set up camp. “We’ll beh in Dun Morogh tomorrow broight an early. Oi can almost hear tah commotion of tah mountain city!” “Aye mate, oi cannae wait! Oi’ve nevah been. Tis as magnificen’ as tah tales?” asked Bermithian, his eyes full of excitement. “Aye laddie, tis grand! Great cavernous chambers! Masses o’ folks! Auction Houses, A grand bank, shops, taverns, tah works! Tis truleh a grand city.” Answered Grethor, glad to have his old friend’s high spirits back. The night progressed slowly, small talk and reminiscing filling the voids of conversation between the old friends. They had missed each other’s company, longing for the old days of adventure, battle, and ale! “Alroight mate, ye take first watch, oi am hittin’ tah rack.” And with that Grethor retired to his tent to drift to sleep. Alone now Berm produced the large finger of the Whollop the ogre and his crude stone knife, he began to carve and scrape away the flesh and muscle, the sinews sliding off the bone against his knife like the softest cheese his mum ever did make. Hours of the night passed, and still he carved and scraped until he had fashioned a solid, cylindrical length of bone. More he carved…. Convinced they were safe and would remain so, Bermithian retired to his mat, without bothering to disturb his companion. Sleep overtook the dwarf.
  9. A day had passed and the two companions were making great time. “Ugh.” Sighed Bermithian. Minutes passed, “ugh.” A few more minutes passed, “ugh.” Grethor, becoming impatient with his companion looked over and in a not-so-calm voice: “What are ye troin’ tah say, lad?! Or are ye just complainin’….agin.” “Oi am troin’ tah say “ale” but oi’ve got nay ale tah freshen meh tongue! Oi propose we stop at Thelsamar fer some…refreshments.” Not being able to help but chuckle, Grethor agreed, needing to find a tailor to sow a hole in his cloak, caused by the jagged rocks of the cave during the Frisbee incident. Arriving in Thelsamar, a quaint town consisting of nothing more than a sizeable inn, a local blacksmith, a fishing guru, and a few homes, the pair immediately went to the Stoutlager Inn. “Now mate, oi must seh, tis is tah place tah beh. Nothin’ fuels an adventah bettah tan ale!” proclaimed the seemingly refreshed dwarf. “Tis indeed truth ye speak, lad,” stated Grethor, “now if’n ye’ll excuse meh, oi ‘ave tah find a lass tah sow meh cloak anew. Damned rocks.” And with that Grethor departed the inn to find one skilled enough to mend his cloak. This left Bermithian to indulge in his ale. ‘Maybe tah blacksmith could point meh in tah right direction.’ Thought Grethor. Walking across a cobbled path straight into Thelsamar’s blacksmithing shop, he was greeted by a ringing sound of steel on steel. ‘Seems to beh workin’, tis a good sign to ‘is character. Grethor approached the blacksmith and greeted him. “Hello friend, oi beh wunderin’ ifn ye could tell meh where oi can foind someone tah mend moi cloak.” “Ach lad, ye wanna troi tah lass on tah other soide of town. She lives next tah tha plan’ lass.” Replied the blacksmith. “Ye mean a herbalis’?” asked Grethor. “Ach! Tis wut oi said! Tah plant lass! Now get out of mi shop!” ‘Loveleh chap….’ Thought the paladin as he began to head to his new destination. “YOU TRICKED ME! BUY TOAD OR….OR….OR DIE! YEAH, DIE!” a screeching voice came from behind. ‘Oh no…’ thought Grethor. Turning around confirmed his suspicion, there stood a bright red, fist clenched gnome with a bushy blue beard, and a comb over. It was Frisbee. “YOU OWE ME FIFTEEN GOLD! HERE ARE YOUR FIVE TOADS!” Frisbee screeched as he thrust five toads upon the human. “Now now lad, twas hopin’ to be dun with tis nonsense. I suggest ye turn around, moi little friend may ‘ave been cruel, but oi am downroight scareh.” Warned Grethor, obviously having had enough of this nonsense that seemed to drape the gnome like a thick cloak. “SMASH!” bellowed a voice from behind Greth. ‘I had forgotten the ogre!’. “GET HIM WHOLLOP!” shrieked Frisbee! “GET HIM AND KILL HIM! HE DIES!” Whollop charged. “YOU DIE TODAY PUNY HUMAN!” Grethor turned to face the oncoming rush, like that of a conquistador facing a charging bull. He prepared himself for a very tough fight. ‘A full grown ogre, just moi luck.’ “GERRRRROOOOOFFFFFFFF MI FARMMMMMMMMM!!!!!” It was Berm! Jumping from the roof of the inn (Grethor never did find out how Bermithian got onto the roof), Bermithian tackled the ogre. “I got tah small one, matey, ye take care of tah gnome!...hic!” He was heavily intoxicated. “Aye!” Grethor said curtly, returning his attention to the gnome who was now pelting him with rocks. “Lad, oi ‘ave come to ‘ate gnomes very much. I want ye to know that you were tah cause of this.” Grethor said, as he casually approached Frisbee. “DIE! DIE! DIE! HAVE A ROCK! AND ANOTHER! DIE! DIE!....OOMF!” Grethor had taken a rock and pelted the gnome in the abdomen. Keeling over, Frisbee clutched his stomach. “OW! OWOWOWOW! I DON’T WANT TO PLAY ANYMORE!” Grethor picked the gnome up with one hand, carrying him to the edge of the Loch. “Now lad, oi hope yer toad friends can save ye.” And with that, Grethor tossed the gnome into the croc-infested Loch without a second thought and much ease. Bermithian was not having it so easy. “ARGH! SMASH!” said Whollop as he brought his boulder-like fist hurtling down like a comet straight onto Berm’s head. Down the drunken dwarf went. Grethor, turning in time to see, rushed the ogre. Locked in a deadly clench, the human and ogre were engaged in not so much a battle anymore, but a test of strength. Back and forth the momentum swung, such as the tides of battle itself. Bermithian stumbled up cursing the orge, and muttering something about its mother. Such profanity is accustomed to Bermithian, spending time at seas with Grethor during the Second War. The dwarf rushed the ogre, who was still engaged with the human. It seems the tide was in favor of the companions. Berm charged the ogre and struck him like a bull right in his exposed flank. Whollop went down. “YIELD! I YIELD! DON’T KILL ME! WHOLLOP IN DEBT TO GNOME! TOO MANY TOADS! SLAVE! ME SORRY!” exclaimed the defeated ogre, sincerity as thick as molasses. Grethor and Bermithian exchanged looks. Always one for a more civil, stoic approach, Grethor spoke: “Do ye promise tah leave us beh? Tah gnome will trouble ye nay more.” “YES! I GO HOME NOW!” Bermithian was outraged at his companion’s words. Due to his typical, less-than-slightly barbaric approach to conflicts, he made sure Greth knew his displeasure. “Ach, ye sisseh! ‘e will just turn around and whollop us…forgive tah pun, in our sleep! Ye cannae trust ‘im!” “He is sincere. Nay longer confined to tah gnome, ‘e will trouble us nay more.” “Oi cannae beh so koind. Oi ‘ave a massive headache and me innards…tey sore, mate,” whined Bermithian. With that, Bermithian strode up the ogre. Looked up directly into his eyes, and with much agility for a dwarf he withdrew his knife, severed a finger of the ogre, and stepped back. “Ye caused meh great pain, lad: Ye disturb meh drinkin', ye bashed me 'ead, and worst of all, after yer blow - oim sober! Oi beh one believin’ in ‘an eye fer an eye’.” The ogre howled! “OWIE! OWIE! WHOLLOP LEAVE NOW! NASTY DWARF JERK!” And with that, the ogre Whollop ran off into the surrounding wildness. Later visits to Thelsamar by Bermithian would have inhabitants of the town informing him they can still hear his howls of pain at night, carrying a ghastly essence across the entire Loch.
  10. Within two days they had crossed into Loch Modan, avoiding any conflict along the treacherous Dun Algaz. The pair had not seen each other since the end of the Second War, almost four years ago. Bermithian had retired away to his small farm, while Grethor had begun his studies to follow the path of a Paladin. This greatly impressed his pointy-bearded mate. “Seems ye been doin’ gud, real gud. Found tah loight ‘ave ye?” asked Berm in a chiding-like tone. “Aye, tis a strong path, one of righteousness, perfect fer meh.” Explained Grethor, not quite catching the underlaying tones of his companion. “A foine choice laddie, realleh. Oi’ve been puttin’ much taught into moi oath. Maybe oi’ll uphold it fer more tan a week.” The dwarf chuckled. Grethor sighed and shook his head. “HOWDY FELLAS! WANT TO SEE SOMETHING REAL COOL?! LOOK AT THIS!” “What tah ‘ell was tat….” Asked Bermithian. “I ‘ave no idea, keep sharp.” Replied the human. “DOWN HERE! LOOK! LOOK!” Looking down from their rams, the two noticed a small creature. A gnome. With a bushy, blue beard and a receding hairline doggishly concealed with a combover. The gnome was was holding his hands towards the companions, a bright green toad in his hands. “HE IS COOL, RIGHT?! I CALL HIM TIMOTHIE! HE LIKES TO PLAY! WANT TO PLAY?!” Absolutely dumbfounded, Grethor looked down and asked, “What is your name, wee one?” “Frisbee.” Bermithian’s face contorted as he tried to suppress laughter. Grethor shot him a glare. Returning to the gnome, “And pray tell meh, lad, what do ye do?” “I sell toads. I also collected pieces of bark. I have a large collection.” ‘Oomf!’ went Bermithian as he fell off his ram laughing, almost roaring. Frisbee became angry at the sight of the dwarf rolling on the ground laughing at him. He began to turn a bright red color, no doubt from the boiling anger swelling within his little torso. “WHOLLOP! GET THEM!” exclaimed the little one. ‘Bam!’ ‘Whack!’ went the tree branch against the back of the companions skulls. Falling off their rams they went out cold. “Ugh…moi ‘ead. What ‘appened?” Bermithian grumbled as he slowly awoken. “Yer mouth always got us intah trouble, damn ye ye point sized gnoll!” roared Grethor. Clearly upset. Bermithian tried to shrug, until he realized he was bound by rope. Frisbee was standing over them. A large ogre looming over them all. “NO TALKING!” he screamed as he went back to a small pool of water inside what looked like a large cave. Little light provided low visibility for all within the cave. “Let us go, little one. Or ye won’t beh loikin’ tah consequences.” Warned Grethor. “SMASH!” said the large ogre standing ominously behind them all. “At ease big fella, we just beh talkin’.” Berm said, trying to keep the ogre calm. No doubt a confrontation would be onesided being bound by rope. “You made fun of my toads! And my bark! I am upset! FOR THAT YOU WILL DIE!” exclaimed the seemingly delusional gnome. “Now now, I am sure this is but a simple misunnerstandin’ laddie. Let meh fix tis. ‘ow about oi boi a toad from ye? Ye said ye sell em, roight?” negotiated Grethor. “BUY FIVE OR DIE!” said Frisbee. “How much?” “THREE GOLD EACH!” Bermithian let out a hacking cough. Before he could let loose with how ridiculous the price was Grethor shot him a look that even the deepest, darkest night could not hide. Berm shut his mouth. “Deal.” Said Grethor. “Now if you’d be so kind as to untie meh, oi could retrieve moi gold and we can beh on our ways.” Frisbee nodded to the ogre, “Alright Whollop, let them go!” Untying both the human and dwarf, the ogre turned around and began to walk away. “SLEEP FOR WHOLLOP!” Walking out of range, leaving Frisbee and the two to themselves, the ogre dropped with a sudden crash that shook the cave, instantly succumbing to sleep. Bermithian laughed, and began to walk towards the exit of the cave. Frisbee exclaimed: “What about the toads?! You said you’d buy five!” Bermithian turned around, walked up to Frisbee, pushed him into the pool, and began to walk out. “An dun ye evah ‘ave someone hit meh wit sumtin’ agin!” And began to strut out. Grethor sighed and followed, not wanting to argue saving fifteen gold AND their freedom. With that, the companions walked outside the cave, their eyes needing moments to adjust to the sun. Grabbing the reins to their rams they set out again, still pondering whether to laugh about or try to forget their gnomish fiasco.
  11. (Bermithian's Travels: Part 1 - The Gnome Fiasco) (Set four years after the Second War) “I wunner where tis damned place beh.” Mumbled the messenger, blowing hot breath into his near frostbitten hands. He had been searching all day upon arrival into the Wetlands. “724 Gerrof MiFarm, Wetlands, Khaz Modan,” saying aloud the address of the recipient of the message “Bermithian Hardstone.” A gust of freezing wind bombarded the poor messenger. As though a bully wanting to torment an already near freezing, half starved little dwarf ever more, the wind swooped up his letter and began to carry it through the air. Cursing aloud, the messenger pursued. “I did naught come all tis way tah ‘ave tah wind steal meh package!” roared the tattered dwarf as he sprinted along. Seemingly frightended by the screaming, vertically challenged being pursuing it, the letter gently gave way to a different force, gravity, and returned to the ground with a graceful ‘plop’. Bending down, the messenger cursed and retrieved the letter. Upon standing upright, the messenger noticed a fence had appeared alongside the road, going unheeded during his pursuit. “If teres a fence, teres a structure. An’ if teres a structure, teres probably food!” And with that the messenger was off to investigate where the fence led to. Coming upon a wooden threshold, the messenger paused and looked up, “7…2…4 Gerr Of Mi Farm….Oi! Tis it!” And with that, the dwarf ran towards the now-visible, stone structure at the foot of the mountain. Surveying a section of his fence smashed up, Bermithian Hardstone sighed and began the trek back to his shed to fetch supplies to mend the damage. “If’n oi evah catch tah one who keeps smashin’ moi fence, oi’ll skin em bare.” He grumbled to himself. Walking back he noticed a figure had appeared on his land, approaching on a perpendicular course, Bermithian tensed as their paths crossing seemed inevitable. Feeling along the inner pocket of his tattered wool jacket, he made sure he had his crude, stone knife. “Tere ye beh, lettus see wut tis mate wants.” The messenger came upon a dwarf of a rather stocky stature, bright red hair not much longer than shoulder length, and a long pointy beard. Wearing only ragged leather trousers, boots, and tattered woolen jacket that protested the humble, hard working nature of the farms inhabitant, the messenger could sense a sort of depressed atmosphere about the dwarf. “Good mournin’ to ya, mate.” Greeted the messenger. “I know wut koind of damn mournin’ it beh, lad. Get on with yer business. What ye want ‘ere?” responded Bermithian. ‘Not un fer small talk, oi see’ thought the messenger. “Oi am ‘ere lookin’ fer Bermithian Hardstone.” “Yer wastin’ ‘is toime roight now, lad. What do ye want?” “Oi ‘ave a lettah fer ye. You’ll ‘ave tah fergive it’s…weathered nature, tis a long road from Ironforge.” Bermithian snatched the letter with a stern, but civil motion. Upon inspection, he noticed it contained a seal on the back. Two golden hammers, crossed, surrounded by a crimson background. ‘Strange seal.’ Thought the dwarven farmer. Looking up, Bermithian noticed the messenger was still there. Pulling out a gold piece, Berm tossed it to the messenger and spun on his heels, heading back to his humble adobe. Escaping from the cold, Bermithian surveyed his home. A roaring fireplace in the corner, a table in the center of the room, a chair near the fireplace, and a few miscellaneous things lying about his main room. To the right upon entering, a hallway led to multiple, modest bedrooms. Sitting down near the fire, the intrigued dwarf removed the foreign seal, withdrawing the letter Bermithian began to read aloud with a hint of wonder, suspense, and suspicion: “Dear Mr. Hardstone, Congratulations. You have been deemed worthy. Travel to the great mountain city of Ironforge to return to the life of battle you crave. Discretion and swiftness are of the utmost importance. SIM So many questions raced through his simple mind: How do they know my name? Deemed worthy of what? “Return to the life of battle you crave”? Who is SIM? Bermithian wasted no time, for the letter was correct – he craved the life of battle. He had become enthralled in it, ever the fighter since the life changing night on the Thandol Span a little more than four years ago. The monotonous, simple life of a farmer no longer appealed to the dwarf. He went into his room and packed a few necessities. “Let’s see ‘ere. Bread: Check. Canteens: Check. Moi knoife: Check. Ale: Check. All set ‘ere!” Leaving his bedroom, a quick but alarming thought came upon the excited dwarf: “Me brudder Urdin an’ mi mums! What will oi tell ‘em?!” Thinking quickly, he hatched a plan and jotted down a quick note: “To Urdin an Mum, Pursuin’ loife of adventure, didn’t bothah to include ye both. Moi candeh stash in unner mi pillow. –Berm Leaving the note on the main table, Bermithian approached the door. Opening the door to begin the first steps of his new life, he was shocked and surprised at a tall human standing just outside his door with his fist raised, as if to knock. Jumping back out of fright more than false bravado-like instinct, Berm began to reach for his knife. “Woah now. Oi must beh at the wrong home. Oi remembah a taller dwarf being ‘ere.” Exclaimed the surprised human standing outside the door. Immediately Bermithian forgot of his knife, clasping with the human out of pure enjoyment. “Oi ye tall bastard! Oi can’t believe tis ye! Grethor, mi mate! ‘ow ye been?! What brings ye ‘ere?!” Grethor, with a wide grin on his aged face replied “Was on moi way tah Ironforge, thought oi’d stop by and see how ye been ye ruffian!” Bermithian, remembering the letter, particularly the portion of “swiftness is of utmost importance” frowned. “Walk an talk with meh lad, oi got sumtin’ fer ye.” Taking Grethor behind his home, the dwarf went to his stables where three always-packed rams were awaiting. Retrieving two rams, Berm handed the reins to one of them to Grethor. “Tis will cuvah four Winter’s veils, aye?” he said with a wink. Inspecting the slightly aged beast, the human nodded his approval with a smirk. “Beh it a boy or a girl?” asked Grethor. “A lad.” “What beh his name?” “ ‘aven’t thought of a name, doubt tah stubborn bastard would take to it anywho.” “A stubborn one, eh? Oi’ll name em Bulwark. That’ll suit em.” And with that, the pair was off.