DRAGOMIRSSOGUR - [ 𝖨 ]

[M1919 2302]

 

 

[ x ]

 

 

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I

25th of  Svensmánaðr,

IAÁ 542, Age of Dragonfyre.

 

The midlands had been a dull affair, coagulated with the incompetence of near-immortal souls that could not properly discern the right thing to do even if you would write it out for them in great big letters. Or, at least, such is the song that echoes on and on within that Norn's skull. With the ethereal lights sputtering their last sparks, and the whispers gone, Dragomir now stood before the imposing, shadowy entrance of a cave. A suffocating gale of golden-white dust, tasting of grit and smelling of sun-baked earth, fluttered around him as the scorching tendrils of the desert threatened to consume the slopes that he stood upon.

 

  That, now, several others had stood upon. A dozen, then.

 

Armed men, lethal men, covered in armor and with weapons bared before them and others still yet sheathed. There were only two of that group who would trek without helmets to cover their scalp, and for it, the Northman hoped their skulls would be thick enough to withstand much of any blows to be struck. It was a scrape of leather against stone that caught his attention, again, and he had released the holding of a brooch which was fastened along the front of his chest. A thumb traced the outline of a flower’s petal, and while others bantered about the depths of the caves themselves, an outlandish voice emerged from the darkness.

 

“Mmmh,” the stuffy and nasally sound of the southron’s hum reverberates off the petty crooks found against the opening to the desert. “... Yesh - smashing, hello, Heathens!” The man possessed a grotesquely large nose, its cartilage bent like a warhammer, almost comical in its size. He referred to the fellowship gathered as heroes, and bid them to introduce themselves properly.

 

With a flourish of mystical energy, each man performed a vibrant conjuration, a testament to their identity, before they ventured forth. The Norn tuned most of the other ramblings out, and focused more on the tunneled path ahead, as opposed to the attempts to assert command from others. In Dragomir's opinion, the events were utterly foolish, a farcical display marked by bumbling incompetence. He was unremarkable, a plain man among showy peacocks, but their posturing left him cold; he soldiered onward, a malding hypocrite.

 

 A hush fell over the nagging complaints in his mind, leaving a space for something else to take center stage. Another place, with another face, and something that he temporarily used to drone out the quips of the southron who walked with him. 

 

With others igniting their palms, the group continued its progression, their luminous weapons casting an eerie glow. They had rounded the corner, and some creatures appeared. Spiders clad in bells and bronze grazed as cattle would on the earth above the spindling tunnels fellowship stepped further into. To Dragomir, it felt oddly reminiscent of when he-

 

Someone screeched in horror, and something wet was getting crunched and thrashed about against the ground ahead of him.

 

The skull that Dragomir had gotten lost inside suddenly opened up his ears and eyes to what lay before him. Screams interrupted all his thoughts; that  curious man, Nigel, was being ripped apart and eaten alive. He saw the monstrous Oni charge, a terrifying blur of muscle and rage, its wicked ax raised high, just as a comrade bravely stepped forward to stand with him. Then another. But only so few of them reacted to it- others stayed back. Were they afraid? Cautious? Cruelly indifferent to the suffering of their employer? The voice in his head breaks his concentration and in that split second of a thousand and one words drowning his consciousness, he discovers a breath of fresh air as he tears into a spider with his ax. One squelch turned into several, while he and the others pushed through and carried on. He realized he was the second to attack, just behind the leaping Takemura. 

 

With a resounding thud, his ax cleaved through the creature's chitinous armor, spilling thick, black-purple blood onto the stones below, staining the spot where the guide had been moments before. Those insects writhed and cried as brass bent and their husks cracked apart. Legs wiggled and flapped to no avail against the cave’s walls and steel greaves that were guiding the same heels to crunch the remains below. Dragomir fed the frosted starsteel into one-half of a third spider just as another southron stabbed into it with his javelin. Fluids leak off the unblemished metal, alongside some carapace that seemed to cling onto the frosted alloy.

 

Their employer was little more than a ruined mess of a half-eaten meal; shreds of meat hardly clung onto the cartilage, and what organs had survived inside of the ribcage seemed to be gnawed clean through. Takemura knelt and wrenched out the man’s skull, if only to give him some absolute oath that he would see him to the journey’s conclusion. With little else to spur them back to the entrance, the group carried on, with some fool talking about how he was owed reparation for the achievement of accomplishing so little already.

 

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II

 

These men advance with pairs of eyes tracing the winding path ahead. Every twist of rock revealed another, like an unfurling serpent, leading them deeper into the unknown. The shuffle of maille and the breath of mortals, soon turning into a melody that echoed against the cold, damp walls, only broke the silence. Dragomir could hear the choir of voices debating, quipping, and something else.

 

 Their footsteps served as the percussion to this song as they almost rhythmically tapped against the gritty floor, stirring up clouds of dust and grinding the gravelly beads left behind. Much of the air that had engulfed them was heavy with the scent of the scattered spiderwebs clinging to the walls and the dry bones and dust still held hostage within the nets. The dim light from their torched blades and palms danced and flickered, casting eerie shadows that seemed to merge with the gray and black crannies where the lights scarcely reached.

 

A few lone figures showed themselves, barking upon the intruders with a foreign tongue that was anything but romantic. Elfish dialects rarely ever sounded more than the jumbled up mayhem of a gurgling bog, at least to such a bastard as Dragomir. Some of them hissed, arching their spear or tugging back upon their bowstring. The Oni had taken point, bantering or barking. Dragomir listens for the tone, and could understand well that the Mori’Quessir had desired to attack them at a moment’s notice. But something had caught his eye. The way their palisade was built, or whether it could even be called a palisade, caught his eye. ‘Why were they designed to-’

Others wanted to talk to the drow more, but Takemura’s cloak had settled on him. Both groups watched as the Oni disappeared into the cave’s shadowed rock. The absence of such a large thing going invisible prompted a panicked response from the drow. Dragomir was not holding his breath, and when the arrows became nocked, he hurled the javelin of low-density volatite. Other projectiles also flew, and within seconds, they cleansed that checkpoint in a mess of flame and iron.

Dragomir overheard the conversation with others once the rest had settled. He adds nothing to it, electing only to preserve his silence and walk forward. Always forward. They continued, for the slain soldiers of the Underdark had no distinct papers or even a fraction of rations that might be staunch. 

 

“A waste of volatite,” some southron quipped behind Dragomir’s back, while the rest of the fellowship moved onward through the rocky pass and smaller pool of water. While that one and another attempted to scrounge up some sort of rewards for themselves from amongst the dead, the rest of the group had formed themselves up properly. 

 

Just after that, came a larger room. The gathering of drow had either been deaf or wholly worried about something much more important than the sounds of the sentries meeting a horrific fate. Dragomir heard the dispute of strategy, the shuffling of armored personnel, and with one of the folk having bellowed out some Canonist incantation, the host of drow turned. 

 

The Drengr could not determine if they had seen what was to hit them. He assumed that if they could, that they would have likely done anything but stay in place. Two blasting potions erupted into the skulls and eardrums of one gathering of archers, while two men braved the center. Some of the Mori’Quessir had charged forward to meet them, with Takemura strictly holding most of them at bay. Dragomir heard another jump up, and then either slip or stumble into the Oni’s arc of the weapon.

 

The clash of steel and wet sounds of pulverized meat bounce off walls through the cavern, with the sparks of iron and steel illuminating the darkness. More screams, more ripping, more tearing. In the dark atmosphere of those caves, the Norn felt almost everything irked him - even when a man next to him checked up on his person. More bickering, more grinding of the stone underfoot. There was a simple pause, and Dragomir had realized how he was staring at the sign upon a stone arch, an arrow pointed right.

 

SREEN HAGGAN.

 

Danger ahead.

 

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III

 

Another wind, another small bend. In the narrow tunnels, the others’ conversations, a low hum of voices, became increasingly prevalent. They huddled together, whispering about their strategy, their voices low. It did not stop bothering that Drengr, who in his limited perception, felt like they were all just rehashing the same thing, again and again. An urgent caution pushed the Drengr onward, though it was not only alchemical solutions destined to serve as his only hope against the approaching foe. Silently, his worn soles glided along the stone while he surely trailed near the front, almost instinctively. This did not hinder him, however, as he was, in fact, somehow among the select few bearing a shield. 

White flame escorted them on, wielded now only in the weapons gripped in their fists. As one of the leading three, Dragomir owned the right flank, the familiar rasp of his chainmail a welcome contrast to the chirp of the birds behind him. The recognizable feeling, an excitement he knew all too well, encircled his heart slowly; this time, however, he had not tried to defend himself from the spiritual calamities that would inevitably follow from He who had graced his soul with such a blessing. And then he sees them.

It was a small group of Mori’Quessir warriors, who noticed the sounds of the fellowship and were already nocking their bowstrings. Dragomir hurled himself forward, while those behind him prepared mixtures. In truth, the action was incredibly reckless and showed a disregard for potential consequences. With impeccable timing, an arrow lodged itself into his shoulder. The others had missed him, and the wound only made him angrier.

During that forced pause in his advance, someone behind him flung two potions, hitting two of the Mori’Quessir on the left. It was the third drow which had met a brutal end as Dragomir’s axe hacked through him; the singular blow was vigorous and energetic, causing the poor man’s chest cavity to split open like a hot knife through butter. A forceful boot to the hip and a wrenching twist of the axe released the body, letting viscera drip freely. 

The next curl of rock was smooth, and in silence Dragomir saw more men deliver more potions, forcing those drow soldiers to melt and burst with gut-wrenching sounds. 

Another clear passageway was entered afterward, leading the warband further up and to the mouth of another formation of rock- only this one carried some earthy scent with it. Fresh, grown earth. An oasis of life within these spider-infested catacombs. At a glance, Dragomir could tell that they still didn’t care for the messy sounds that led up to them.

‘Not even questioning a rumble? What was so much more important than their backline being eradicated?’

The drow, oblivious to the carnage that had unfolded, continued their conversations and idle holding of the position, unaware of the danger that had been lurking in their midst. A few were checking their quivers, while others leaned against wooden ramparts strutting out from the jagged rock on the slopes and what pieces of healthy soil that stood out. The men behind him were speaking again, louder, more eagerly. Who was to serve a roll? Who was to step up and to act? 

Who? That word echoed in Dragomir’s head. Who?

He saw Takemura get antsy near the mouth of the cave, his axe fidgeting in the right palm as he seemed close to just screaming and charging forward. A funny thing, the Uruk mind. So simple. Blunt as a club, and for the right reasons in times like these. Correctly or not, Dragomir had assumed that he was riled like he was- and the Mareno stepped up afterward, too, reaching for a potion. A divide in the planning, it seemed, and with little else hesitation Dragomir advanced up to where the Oni loomed and made to climb up the rock and enter the center of the archway. Boots plant, and the white wisps of righteousness encircled him.

They had noticed him off sound alone, suddenly, those foemen. Armor  that rattled and spurs that jingle carried in a pristine and sharp sound as those behind the Norn scurried into position almost immediately. There was no quipping at this moment, he realized. No disputes of strategy or uncertainties of planning. Had the pride of his heart festered even more?

“ARVELLAS!” It had. 

Invoking his mother’s name, he unleashed a blinding, white-hot flash of light that scorched the unprotected eyes of the warriors, leaving them momentarily helpless and gasping with the pain of their senses. The surprise and disorientation from the assault left the enemy in utter confusion, clambering and staggering like drunk men. Dragomir heard a metallic clang as something tumbled down, striking the cave floor with a dull thud before coming to rest. 

Chaos erupted.

As the drow’s screams of pain or command echoed, Dragomir’s senses sharpened, with his heart pounding in his chest and muffling all the rest. Behind him, Dragomir heard a man speak, a woman reply, and another ask a question, which Dragomir took as a sign of their head injuries. Here were the first three into the chamber: Sakis, Takemura, and Dragomir, with the last man blinding the enemy. Charging the enemy. Striking the enemy. How bitter that hypocrite from before still felt, but he would not slow down. A kiss of pride upon his heart blossomed into a fiery garden of emotions, a powerful breath of fresh air that ignited his soul.

The man barreled onward, metal rattling and spurs jingling as he passed one foe and made his way for the target in the middle: the bulky dreadknight. Monstrous and clad in some fel-alloy, it was still blind by the time that the Norn was upon him, swinging his hammer. He was too slow, he realized, and by the time that the flare had cleared the blinding of foes, that adversary, a monstrous creature of nightmares, gazed into the son of Arvellas with a soulless purple hue along its visor. Its great maul was hefted up in preparation before it swung out toward Dragomir’s chest. The behemoth missed the Norn narrowly, his two-handed club of metal striking the ground and kicking up earth and dust. 

Dragomir lunged, the Dreadknight turned to meet him with a gauntleted fist. The Norn felt the bitter frame of the knuckles glide through the air close to his armored snout and winced pre-emptively to a strike that would never land. The hammer wielded by the Norn struck into metal, tearing open a jagged line of the cuirass’s backplate and threatening the outlandish energies within that kept the thing alive. 

THU’UM cried Sefa, that gentle woman made from the high-density volatite. The metal of the plate creaked, while Dragomir again narrowly avoided a horrible strike.

All-around him was a glistening pool of mayhem. Blood spilled somewhere, with more of the iron musk mingling with the shadows, and as the battle raged on, Dragomir could hear Takemura open up with fury. Someone else hollered for help, and another barked a curse when bashing a foe with their shield. He heard more glass shatter, and a whirl of air from somewhere on his left. Bones crunched, and a throat choked on thick fluid. Someone died, he realized. And then another, too, but that pyre which engulfed his heart revoked any sort of reprieve. He must move, or he would die.

In a final, devastating blow, the Drengr’s warpick pierced the back of the Dreadknight’s plate, a second THU’UM sung out into that grassy-floored haven. The sound shudders in the air, a burden on the ears of all who could hear it. Two more similar noises cracked off the cave’s frame, elsewhere from the second Dreadknight. With ragged breaths, Dragomir witnessed the monstrous figure’s collapse; the earth consumed its enemy, while others remained defiant in their efforts against this considerably stronger host. 

Although dust had gotten into his visor and was causing significant eye irritation, he could still see clearly enough to determine that they were winning the battle. He realized yet again that his boots had indeed carried him further and further away from the others at his party. The very center of the room was the focal point. 

In a heartbeat’s length, a clever remark occurred to him; however, before he could utter it, a glint caught his eye from his peripheral vision.

Upon seeing the archer, Dragomir made a beeline for him. The transition from his hammer to his axe was seamless and swift. He traded the dull, charcoal-grey instrument of violence for a gleaming one that seemed to hold the light of the moon within it.

The Mori’Quessir met its end at the hands of a lone warrior, who with his mighty axe cleaved first the elf’s hip and leg from its body before delivering a decisive blow that cleanly separated its head from its collapsing neck. As an arterial spring spurted blood, staining the rock and earth below, he clutched the scalp in his right palm.

The silence of the cave returned, broken only by his heavy breathing, and the final twitching of armored bodies and stamping heels. With a flick of his wrist, he shook the blood from his axeblade, which still had yet to even so much as chip against the foe. He would need to take it to the grindstone again, however, as he could tell that the collarbone he had gotten it stuck on earlier helped to dull the metal itself.

 

 

ᛐᚱᛅᚾᚴᛦ

 

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Spoiler

 

 

This is just a short story from a character's perspective of a few neat things. Hope you enjoyed it is rare that I get to sit down and complete stories like these; props to all involved for helping write out a neat little experience. Unfortunately, work and health issues delayed the completion and assembly of this story; however, I hope to write more like it as future shenanigans take place.

 

Shoutout to folks that helped me tweak grammar errors and fix up a few phrases. Always open to more criticism of the stories I write as well, so msg me on the forums or on Discord: herkulean.

 

Christ is Lord.

 

 

[DahStalker 3692]

Somewhere within the countryside a woman of lithe stature tended to her ailing parentage, tenderly lifting a wooden bowl to his lips. “Rest, father. You are hardly well to refuse it so, ay?” Her hands lowered that stew, granting him momentary peace. “Let us pass the time with a tale. One of a man I met in the great White City.”

 

”Of the genteel Dreng Dragomir.” 
 @Nectorist

[Haseroth 1740]