Baerte's Memoirs

[TN_TURKEY 101]

 

 

My life up until this point has been a tumultuous one. In my mere sixty-five years I have lived to see a Revolution, a Crusade, various monster attacks, brushes with the Occult, and too many broken hearts for me to dwell on. I have reached a period of relative calm in my life. And now, as I sit here in the Hold of my kinsdwed, I feel the need to leave behind a few more marks than simply my few good crafts circulating the world’s markets. And so, I have decided to begin writing a memoir, to detail my life up until this point. I am sure I will catch up to current events swiftly, and with so much of my life left ahead of me I’m certain I will need to return to this writing sooner or later. But for now, I may as well begin.

 

Now let me make something clear: my life before the events which I shall detail below, it does not matter. My place of birth, my parentage or ancestry, my childhood residencies or wanderings, none of it. It holds no burden on my soul, and as such I see no reason to detail it further. There are only two things one needs to know about me before I begin: My name is Baerte, and I am a blacksmith.

 

The worthwhile events of my life began in the latter years of the Coalition War. I was a young man, just past fifty (fifty is the age of adulthood amongst Dwedmar you see). I had been on my wanderings for some time, but that time marked the first instance I set foot into the human land of Oren. I was only vaguely aware of the simmering conflict between my kinsfolk and the Orenians, but it held no true matter to me. I was in search of odd jobs, a few instances in which I may practice my craft and earn me enough coin for room and board come the next wayside inn. I found myself at the gates of the old capital, Vienne. The gates, as they were notoriously known for, were shut solid, not a guardsman in sight. I sat by those gates for some hours, watching as the occasional well-dressed Orenian aristocrat passed me by and let himself in without a second glance. I eventually realized I would not be allowed entry to the city, and as such I turned to leave. However, rather than take the main road back south, my sheer boredom spurred me to instead travel around Vienne, and take to the northern forests. I had assumed I would perhaps find a pleasant campsite at which to rest my toes, or at the very least spot an interesting tree or rock. Imagine my surprise when I came upon a truly alive and thriving little village.

 

It was a small, but quite pleasant little place. Situated at the base of a small hill alongside a smaller still little stream, thatch-roofed houses and fields of wheat watched over by a stout, white-walled keep. I bumbled my way into the town square, dominated mostly by a rather spacious, open-aired smithy (which I took great admiration of near instantly), and sat myself down in one corner as I watched the townsfolk bustle about. Farmers mostly, along with a number of armed levymen. Unsurprising, given the war still at hand then. One such soldier, a man whose name escapes me (though I believe it started with an R), offered me some chew tobacco, as well as a rather peculiar warning to stay away from the treeline at night. As I enjoyed the chew, this fellow, accompanied by a pleasant raven-haired village girl, regaled me with the story of this town: It was a barony called Acre, and the reason for the warning was that strange creatures they called “treestalkers” hid in the forest, preying on passers-by when the sun set. I took the advice soundly, thanking the man and the girl (whom I learned was named Emilie) before I began my usual query: if there were any odd jobs or craftings to be had in the village. My queries were more or less ineffective until one of the fellows mentioned the ‘treestalkers’ being fearful of light in general, hence the need for torch or lantern at night. I in turn tossed out the idea of arming their levymen with Lantern Shields, a rather clever design I know of in which shields were outfitted with a small compartment in which to hold a candle. Emilie in particular appeared quite enthusiastic at the prospect, and highly recommended I speak with the local Baron, Gustaf, regarding the design. This potential for work, along with the generally warm welcome of the townsfolk, inclined me to remain in Acre for at least a few weeks. Little did I know the impact it would have upon me.

 

In the short time to come, I quickly found myself more and more ingratiated with the people of Acre. Emilie indeed promoted my Lantern Shield design towards the Baron, whom I overheard questioning whether or not I was an Urguani spy on account of my dwarvish self (I found it rather amusing). As I remained in and around the village I quickly befriended many a member of the community: Of course there was Emilie, a humble housemage who lived on the edge of the village, along with her cousin, a doctor (whose name I fail to recall). There was Orelia, a gardener and scholar whom owned a house across from the smithy I would soon inhabit. There was of course Baron Gustaf himself, along with his father Hannes, and his wife Lady Aloisa. These would be the only people I would ever address as “Lord” or “Lady”. Further still there was the grizzled and stubborn Bailiff Otto, whom I would grow to love dearly as a friend and comrade in arms, as well as the Head Ranger, the stoic Cynefrith Easworth. It would be Easworth who would help organize my position in the village. You see, the smithy I had so admired before was already owned by a fellow known as Slith. A good, hard-working craftsman indeed, but he was more intent on dutifully supplying the local garrison with arms rather than furthering commerce in the village through outward sales or commission work. As such, I spoke with Easworth, and he brokered a deal between myself and Slith. I would take up residency in the village smithy, whilst Slith would continue his own work within the forges of the Keep itself. I would later befriend Slith as well, whom I would often drink with in far Celia’nor, where he held businesses and friends alike. I never actually did craft one of those Lantern Shields I initially promised (I still hope to do so someday), but I did end up rebranding the smithy as “The Lanternshield Smithy” in its honor nonetheless, for it was that idea which earned me residency in this village in the first place.

 

For a bit of time, things were quite ideal. I was fast friends with much of the village (who probably found my gruff, informal demeanor to have an ‘exotic charm’ to it I would reckon), and I soon found my business as a village smith to be quite lucrative. I consider my strategy to be rather clever actually: I did have a small shop of standard tools indeed, but most of my income came via commission, which I purposefully charged cheap, so that my customers would be inclined to tip generously, well above the standard price. I found most of my early customers to be young, aspiring heroes and adventurers, most of whom coming with the intent to face the dreaded Treestalkers of Acre. My first ever commission in Acre was a shamshir for one such traveling warrior (whom never actually returned to claim his order unfortunately. I sold it to Slith in a Celia’nor market faire some years later.) My greatest achievement in that time however was by far a Starsteel Dagger, a sacred metal amongst my people, which I co-forged with a man named Markus, alongside my comrade Bailiff Otto, and another wanderer by name of Vincente, whom I shared many a good conversation with. Life was good, and I was happy. And then shit got tense.

 

I had not taken much heed to the politics of the world beforehand. However, when Gustaf decided that his people had endured enough of a fool’s conflict, and he announced Acre’s withdrawal from the Coalition War, things got very political very fast. Shortly thereafter Oren conceded defeat, and around the same time, rather hilariously, the king suffered a stroke from the stress of it all. Before I could process, the village I had quickly grown to love was being accused of not only bringing Oren’s downfall, but causing the king’s death as well. I still remember the day clearly, when Gustaf called the village folk into the keep for a town meeting. He stood in the center of the crowd (an unseen Treestalker whispering stupidity in the background all the while) and told us that he had been summoned to the Orenian court, and that he alone was to take responsibility for the hostilities erupting, not us. Now, I had settled in Acre and not even set foot in Vienne. I did not consider myself to be an Orenian in the slightest, but an Acrean through and through. So my stance was decided before Gustaf had the chance to complete his speech.

History will likely not remember me for this, but I was the first. I was the first to stand before Gustaf and declare that I would follow only him, and the only banner I would carry would be Acre. And if the Viennite king had a problem with that, then **** the king. That call was taken up by my village comrades, and soon enough, the intent was clear. The Revolution had begun.

The war was mostly a lot of tension followed by mere moments of excitement. I was directly involved in two of the major confrontations: First, when we stormed the Viennite gates itself and chased their city guard into the depths of their own garrison (I mostly stood outside the gates at that time, deterring civilians from the standoff). And second, when we stormed Grodno and captured its leadership, which was by far the more exciting of the two operations. I recall standing in front of Gustaf with my shield raised whilst he attempted negotiations with those on the wall. I remember laughing as we performed a commoner’s jig atop its drawbridge to mock the defenders. And I definitely remember when we were breaking down the gates, and one of the Viennite loyalists lobbed a bucket of shit at me. I can still remember the smell. 

For all the war’s insanity, some pleasantries came out of it, for it was in this war that I found some of my closest and dearest friends to this day. There were the fellow levymen such as the ginger-haired Cliff, the young Sorrel, and the elvish lad Sylan, all of whom I shared many a laugh with. Another levyman was a young Hispian named Tonito (whom we called Toni), who would become the village priest after the war. There was the druid Nemea, who was a grand help against the Treestalkers during and after the war, and remained a dear comrade through many an adventure (I learned she has taken ill not terribly long before the time of this writing, but have yet been unable to visit her. I do hope she is well.) And then there is my best friend, Ser Uther, the wandering Adunian hedgeknight. Uther and I were, and still are, very opposite people. He is a devout Canonist, while I adhere to the Brathmordakin. He is well-spoken, I am only eloquent in writing. He is chivalric and honorable, I am practical. He speaks kindly towards lords and women, I use the same curses no matter who I speak with. But these differences do not make us conflict, rather I find we balance one another perfectly. My most interesting and memorable conversations have been with Uther, and we have shared wonderful times in both open conflict and blissful peace. It was Uther and Nemea whom I considered my anchors to the village, especially with the knowledge that most of the population would grow old and die long before any of us gained wrinkles. They were the ones I could watch centuries pass by with. 

Imagine my surprise and glee when I learned of Freddy’s demise and the Revolution’s success. I had, from the start, envisioned us in a losing battle. But when Petra and Minitz pledged for us, when we stormed Vienne more times than I can count, I was content. I bore no ill will towards the Viennite citizenry, but neither did I weep when the palace was set ablaze. I could finally set down my spear, take up my hammer and start making things again. We were at peace.

 

The years following the Revolution were my longest stretch of peace ever witnessed in Acre. Indeed there were a number of problems, such as the ever-increasing threat of the Treestalkers along with various amounts of internal drama (including but not limited to the killing of a Rivian boy by the Rostrum family, a brawl with some strange witch-warrior whom marked me with an occultist scar, which I bear to this day, as well as an ongoing feud between Bailiff Otto and the Druid Nemea, both of whom I considered very good friends). But beyond these issues, I found life to be on the up! Cliff and Sorrel had taken up their farming careers once more, Tonito was appointed as a proper priest, Ser Uther invited some of his fellow hedgeknights to reside in Acre (including Ser Mordred, whom I would come to befriend). The most pleasant of these experiences however was twofold: My befriending of a fellow Dwed, a merchant named Thalgrim Goldhand (he becomes important later) and my taking on of an apprentice, a young man by the name of Elias. Elias was an enthusiastic and cheerful lad, whom I quickly came to look on as nearly a son (despite still being a young man myself, the age difference between humans and dwedmar is a rather peculiar concept). However, in time I eventually found myself a bit empty, and needing of an adventure. So, at some point, I made my preparations, and left for some years. The goodbyes were bitter yet happy, and I gave my friends many a gift: To Cliff, a crystal sword. To Orelia, some rare flowers. To Emilie, some jewelry. To Tonito, a goblet. To Sylan, a custom-forged blade. To Nemea, a scimitar fashioned for her son, Enderial. To Elias, my very own horse, Bust Rucket. And to Uther, a pattern-welded longsword I named Brother’s Brand. I ended the gift-givings with one to the de Vilain family, an aurum greatsword I named Kingless. And I departed. I was gone for two years or so, and I had a good number of adventures. But I need not bore you with them.

 

Upon my eventual return, things were still looking grand, for the most part. Emilie had sustained some horrific injuries at the hands of the Treestalkers, but other than that most people were doing ok. Elias in particular was doing wonderfully. He had spruced up the shop and had made quite the smith of himself in my absence, and I enjoyed smithing alongside him greatly upon my return. And then, shit got tense again.

It began with the Treestalkers placing a curse on the village, blotting out the sun. Neither the Lectors nor the Druids could seem to do much about it, and Nemea nearly died trying to stop it. I remember rushing blindly southwards towards the Vale alongside Cliff and a Dark Elf levyman named Al, ushering her quickly into the hands of fellow druids who could heal her properly. That was not a very fun day. 

Not terribly long after, Ser Uther was badly wounded during an assault on Minitz by a group of Witches. This, along with other events, spurred the Harvest Confederacy to host a council of lords, which I was present at. There, the Lords and the Lectors agreed to petition the Pontiff to declare a Crusade, and call all of Canondom to their banners in an assault on the Occult Stronghold of Serheim. The petition was successful, and soon I found myself taking up the spear once more, marching alongside humans from all nations and speaking many tongues, yet all shouting the same phrase: “Deus Vult”. I found it rather amusing that myself, a Dwed of the Brathmordakin faith, would be welcomed amongst such a zealous band of warriors. But my familiarity with the Acreans in particular probably earned me some manner of respect. The Crusade was rather anticlimactic I am afraid to say. I partook in two raids upon Serheim, one unsuccessful, and in the other we found the place to be wholly abandoned. The only interesting moment was when the warband decided to search Celia’nor for ‘spooks’, which spurred on a rather stressful confrontation with the elvish inhabitants. Eventually the calls for patrols and raids dwindled, and life continued as if there was no Crusade at all.

The most joyous day of this time was when the curse upon Acre was finally lifted by the Lectors, and the sun shone once more. It was around this time that I stumbled across a rather surprising find indeed: A babe, abandoned on the road to Haense. After a vain attempt to find the child’s parent within Haense itself, I rode back to Acre in a panic, unsure of what to do. Orelia thankfully took the child into her care, her and Uther (whom were engaged to be married much to my joy) soon debating on what to name the babe. I should also mention that Ser Uther had since become a bit of an authority amongst his Adunian kinsfolk, and had pledged to offer the displaced peoples a home in his knightly keep, which he intended to construct on the coast due east of Acre. It was also during this time that there was a schism amongst my kinsfolk, with a number of Dwedmar leaving Urguan to establish Khron’Hundmar in the far north. One of their number was an old friend of mine, that merchant named Thalgrim Goldhand. I eventually made my way there, and befriended one of the community leaders, Darek Irongrinder, to whom I pledged my intent to support this colony, as my kinsfolk and as fellow Dwedmar who have had their fill of kings. Things were good. Things were happy. And then, it all caught fire. 

Gustaf, the man I swore my loyalty to so long ago, had been missing for some time, with his father Hannes having come out of retirement to rule as Baron in his stead. However, Hannes had recently vanished as well, leaving many of us in concern and grief. But with the curse lifted, we still had hope for the future, and did not let Hannes’ loss deter us. We welcomed the next Baron, Gustaf’s young son Volker, whom the likes of Uther and I had acted as father figures for in Gustaf’s absence. I myself gifted the young Volker with a meager farming hoe upon his ascension, asking him to wield it as his badge of office, so he may remember the serfs and commoners from which his family came. For three days he ruled. Three days, before he threw it all away in a vain attempt to play warmonger.

I still do not know why he rallied the levymen in such haste. Why he marched on Balian, and stormed their church in the midst of a wedding, of all things. All I know is that I rushed into the keep later that day to find Ser Uther fuming, Ser Mordred actively resigning from his service to Acre, and Lady Aloisa sobbing. Not a few moments into me being filled in on the crisis, Volker himself walked through the doors, and stated that Balian demanded Annexation as reparations. I put my forehead to Volker’s nose, told him that he had become quite the King, and after declaring to Uther that he would be the only man I would follow after all this, I left. I already knew this was something from which Acre could never recover. Uther and Mordred were both leaving, with Uther undoubtedly taking Orelia, the Adunians, and many of my closer friends with him to who knows where. Nemea and her son did not even live in Acre but rather just visited, and Gustaf was, well, he was dead. My home was well and truly gone before the chaos even began. I packed up my most precious belongings (unfortunately I could not take the paintings I looted from the Vienne palace during the revolution), left a note for Elias explaining where I was going, and I went north. I walked through Dobrov, through Haense, through Norland, and I kept walking until I reached the home of my like-minded kin, Khron’Hundmar. I explained my case to Darek Irongrinder and the religious leader Norli Starbreaker, and they accepted me. They all accepted me, with open arms. But that joy of being so freely accepted by my own blood did not dull the heartbreak of losing my first true home. Not some weeks after I received a letter from Elias, telling me that he too had left Acre, for the new head of the Confederacy, Charles Alstion, had dared crown himself King, dissolving the Harvest Lords entirely. Everything Acre had stood for, everything that I had fought and bled for, the reality in which I lived for ten years, had been for nothing. On that day, I pledged that never again I would live under the banner of a King. And not a year later, when Charles himself came to visit the Dwarf Hold, I broke his ******* nose. 

 

And so this is where I now reside. It has been some years since I moved to Khron’Hundmar, and the time here has been overall pleasant. As much as I loved Acre, there is nothing like the camaraderie of my kinsdwed. Be it carving out new guild halls with Darek, or sorting through fine ores with Fulgrad and the Mineplenty clan whilst chanting “Heigh Ho”, or learning new and amazing forms of craft under the tutelage of the wise Rylanor Goldhand, nothing beats Dwarf life. I don’t do as many commissions as I did before, most of our works are piled together to be pandered off in trading caravans, however I do retain a small customer base with our upstairs neighbors, the Cingedoz tribe. Sometimes it’s almost easy to forget my life before the Hold. But it always comes back into my memories in my quiet moments.

 

I have not seen many of my old friends since the fall of the Confederacy. I saw Tonito once in Haense, we enjoyed a pleasant ride together down towards Petra, where he now spends much of his time. I spoke with Slith a couple times in Minitz, though I’ve spotted him in Celia’nor as always. Only recently have I finally reunited with my beloved comrade Uther, whom has just returned from his travels. We shared an emotional moment lamenting the loss of Acre, and the decades we dedicated to it. But before too long we began to speak of the future. I mentioned my new residency, and Uther has told me of his intent to settle the Adunians out west, just beyond Sedan. That is only across a lake from the Hold, so I certainly intend to visit frequently, and perhaps even set up a shop there. 

 

Darek mentioned this to me a bit ago, but only now am I starting to understand: As a dwed, I will see eons pass amongst the humans, and loss will only grow more frequent as I live on. I expect I will see two, maybe three more kingdoms rise and fall and consume one another in my lifetime. But no matter what human lands are marked on the maps going forth, nothing will remain in my memory as strongly as that little farming village, with the white-walled keep, and the open-air smithy.

Edited October 18, 2022 by TN_TURKEY

[Ireneically 248]

Beyond the grave, a raven-haired woman gently smiled upon  hearing this retelling. Emilie who finally saw once more, the woman able to rest in death... She learned of this from a tiny golden ball of chaos and curiosity, her daughter; Briar. 

 

"I got to meet him Mama! The stories Aunti told me! I got to meet Baerte!"

She chirped to a small urn at her bedside.