⤁ Storied Stones ⬵

[SirBlocklips 192]

 

 

⤁ It had been as any other day; long treks through the Mountainhome to reach the lands of the Urukhai to delve into their bounties of minerals, stop by Veilward to attempt to remember a smidgen of arcane knowledge, return home through the Deeproads. Many days had went this way, and many more would be similar. Or so it would seem, as Dugan 'Dragonsbreath' Frostbeard strode into the heart of Kal’Baraz, a laden burlap sack swung over his polar bear pelt.

 

Before his eyes stood a congregation of infernal beasts, donned in rotten rags and swirling blue metal that made the Bearserker’s mind spin. The greatest amongst them, towering twice the size of the dwarf, bade him no further entrance into the stronghold of Urguan. “Do not move, dwarf, or I will slay you where you stand” spoke Argal, The Prophet-King, brandishing a mace nearly the size of the dwarf himself, forged of infernal steel born from the hellforges of Inferi magicks.

 

Never one to listen, the Bearserker made haste to inch away, inciting a sound strike sent towards his frame by the Zezimar. The mace catches a flange on his right bicep, and tears soundly, sundering muscle and flesh. A curse of shock utters from the dwarf, left arm reaching up to staunch the wound. He continues his advance back, a weak swapping of his meager dwarven warpick into the might of Rokodra sabatons, for that is all that could be reached.

 

Mighty as he was, the Prophet-King was not nimble. A tower shield of that same cursed metal, standing an entire head larger than the dwarf, stops the blow with a sickly citrine staring with serpentine ire. 

 

Dugan boasted, eyes flicking towards the towering Zar’ei, that wretched beast which towered far above, born of the low hells, yet having to stoop low to strike the dwarf. “Damn ye, wretched spawn ove Khorvad; nae scutum o’ steel infernal will abate t’a moight o’ve t’a Khazadmar!” he shouts, bolstered by determination. An overhead smash Dugan dodges, though not before his beautiful polar bear pelt earned in his Trial of the Bear, slain by his own hand, was torn. Den-leader Dugan of the Bearserkers stumbled forth, a snarl of disdain flashing across his features. “Ye can take me arm, ye can take me weapons, ye can even take me loife ef ye earn et, but naeone be takin’ that which Wyrvun t’a White Dragon has bestowed!”

 

With another strike, that Tyrant would find the shabby warpick is still dwarven, weaving through the defenses and skirting the shield, striking through the Rokodra! A sickly squelch sounds as sour steel is sundered, foul meaty colored rakir spilling upon the stones. The Prophet-King staggered! Dugan found himself one step closer to victory.

 

 

Or so it would have been, had it remained only between the Dwarf and Demon. Had it not been the Prophet-King’s roguish ally, the Ancestors may had seen another outcome. The one known as the Catcher sliced with a sinister steel not of demonic make but of blighted steel, scarred with scarlet veins. Further scarlet was added to its edge, as the heinous ash metal imbued its curse upon the blood of Dugan’s right arm. Excruciating pain pulsed with vigour as blood refused to stop flowing from the cut, and Dugan looked skyward, squinting his eyes tightly as he let out a gutteral exclamation of pain, the sting excruciating. “Redeemer… Redeemer, fill yer Acolyte with yer Breath, jest this once…” The stricken warrior pleads, as adrenaline (or perhaps he whom he implores?) surges through his lungs. Newly winded, a  new bout of stamina sends a strike upwards into the pauldrons once more.

 

The Bearserker finds that the Zezimar’s entrails hang from the opening from his warpick, skinless meat tendrils unraveling. Over the sound of roiling hellfire that began to spread across the stones from twisted kings behind him, Dugan watched as the tyrant entered unto a frenzied state, bred for war as it was. A towering leg was raised and kicked at Dugan, anemic silk in bloodied hues flitting with the movement as the Tyrant aimed to redirect the blow, though not without another puncture into the soles of the demon.

 

The halls of Kal’Baraz began to stink with the stench of rotten meat, reeking of blood and sulfurous scents. So shouted the dwarf: “Tha vereh stones shall hold t’a wretched blood ah spill from yer foul accoutrements, ah’n yer life shall be told by t’a vereh mountains ye shall die within, recounted far beyond t’is Age o’ Silver!”  As the Legionnaire is sent back from the force of the kick, gravel crunching underfoot loosened from the dance of death, he prepares for another sound strike against the immense tower of steel before him. “Face meh, o’ spawn ove t’a Betrayer, be cast by me strength inta Vuur’dor, where ye shall onleh be remembered by t’a stains ye left on t’a stone, for et wos Dugan Frost-” is all the dwarf manages to utter.

 

Dugan’s success had drawn the attention of yet another of the King’s minions, that Chimera of plentiful parts abomination and woe. Ceasing his feasting, the beast swiftly approached from the flank of the unaware dwarf, and swung for the dwarf’s only remaining good arm. With a sickening CRACK, the warpick’s blunt side shattered Dugan’s shoulder, thick bone loosened and set free within. As a cry of pain involuntarily bleats forth, ripped from the winds of Dugan’s breath, his warpick forged by his own hands during his ascension into the ranks of Azwyrtrumm fell from his grasp. It clattered to the stone floor with a series of rapid CLINKS! “B-By Wyrvun’s… Wyrvun’s… Give meh… Breath, once more… Lord o’-” The stout Son of Stone stumbled forth, directly into the might of the Zezimar foe. With an act of finality, the demon smashed Dugan down into the stone he called home, squashed as an insignificant insect crawling beneath the Zar’ei. 

 

Thus was the end of the fight for Dugan ‘Dragonsbreath’ Frostbeard, in an unanswered plea to his God.

 

Argal, the Prophet-King, Zezimar, Zar'ei, He who defeated the Rex of Urukhai and the Demon King.

⤁ As Dugan lie there, motionless in an ever-growing pool of his own self-evidence vigor, it was that wretched beast the Chimera who sought to prevent his death. “Move off of him before he dies, Argal. This one fought well, I would see him survive today” spoke the Chimera. The Tyrant King, he who had fought and bested the likes of the Rex of the Urukhai, even the Demon King himself, found his co-conspirator's words wise, and that it was fitting in even its own warped mind to preserve the dwarf that lay before him, dying by his hand. “...Indeed.” The mountain of errant flesh spoke, gouts of meaty malflame ushered alongside it’s warped voice. “I would not see it die this day… The small ones pack more of a fury than most of the bigger mortals.” The Prophet-King ordered his thrall who had brought the proud Frostbeard to such a low state to seek a sacrifice to keep Dugan alive. For what reason; perhaps for torment, or to be fattened once again to be slaughtered like cattle? Though in the search, the bulging red eyes of the Zezimar now shambling from his fight found none in the mouth of Kal’Baraz could provide sufficient life to aid the dying dwarf.

All at once, an infernal congregation was held, as the sons of Kaz’Ulrah and Bogrin all had their dwedmar souls warped and ripped of their confined in blasphemous harmony. In the finality of the bastardizing of the dwarven host, the fallen Bearserker’s soul was not spared; with plodding steps that stirred up gravel underfoot, the Chimera grasped the thick neck of Dugan, treacherous malflame igniting upon his pallid skin in a broiling hellfire as the demon supped fully upon the dwarf’s soul in infernal gluttony. Dugan did not mind it, however, for he had no mind at all. Planted into the stone in a bed of masoned cobble loosened from ferocious fighting, the indifferent firmament of rock drank deeply the story of Dugan ‘Dragonsbreath’ Frostbeard as a forbidden chalet, told in pulses of vigorous blood mingled with tainted black liquid roiling with demonic Rakir. “Hail IBLESS and Hail IXRIS” echoed the demonic clergy, Pontiff, Black Bishop and Prophet-King all uttering blessings profane, before departing in occult rifts that sundered the world. “War Eternal, Sons of Greed” spoke the winged beast that had supped on Dugan’s soul, and only those words were left for those that remained.

The Chimera, Messiah of the Destitute, Pariah of the Brave.

 

Benefaction would arrive in the form of an adherent of the Aspects, a Druid who would usher the dying into the alchemical waters of the Urguani Clinic. Though the Aspects held dominion over nature, and though the alchemical healing waters bore outstanding magickal portent, neither could undo what had been wrought upon Dugan’s frame. Slipping further into the pools, the dwarf lay there, an insolent watercolor painting being made in hues sanguine and jet. Though he heard it not, his Clan Father, Rhorgvar ‘Rimeward’ Frostbeard, would beseech the Hearth Mother, on her very year of Anbella’s Grace, to save his kin. “Anbella, ah pray on ye, invoke yer holeh magick, nae let Dugan go!” he pleaded with hands raised high to the heavens above, urgency in his tone as desperation carved his features. Dugan would die there, his winds expelling from his lungs, surrounded by those who sought his fate deferred.

 

Such would be the end of Dugan ‘Dragonsbreath’ Frostbeard, the calls to his god unanswered, and his kin fallen at his side in desecrated halls as the dwarf had succumbed to the wounds garnered from his tyrannical foe.

Or so it would have been. 

 

⤁ Into that cold night did the mind slip, a conscious, fleeting, reduced to absence. Then, a frigid scene, the whispers of kin morphing into the roaring of winter winds, with somber clouds of grey split by a striking snowy form, as the ophidian object of worship hazily set into focus. Words of high draconic did not spill from the beings split tongue, but rather speech clearly in dwarvish filled the mind of the Frostbeard’s vision;

 

 

⤁ It was unknown to Dugan what had happened in that healing pool. The Bearserker did not know it was a Farseer and the powers of the Immortal Spirit Akezo called upon by his own kin that had saved the dwarf from death’s clutches. But it mattered not. The dwarf was sure of it; Wyrvun, the Redeemer, had use of the dwarf yet. 

 

In the coming months, as Armakak’s Labor brought with it the sounds of sunny days and sweltering heat, Dugan would find himself kneeling before the alter to his god. He was silent, as a squall of thoughts reverberated within his mind. Thoughts of why, why had another chance been given, and to what end, were forefront. The effigy of the White Dragon gave no answer. Dugan would sit there before the Lord of Virtue for a length, a cane to support his weakened frame. When he rose, he believed - no, he was sure of it now. Whatever the reason, whatever might be his Lord’s purpose: all that mattered was that Dugan was still here. 

 

And that was enough.

 

 

 

Spoiler

OOC: Thanks to @DISCOLIQUID, @PolarLoLs, @PrimnyaQuorum, @Rennart, Elahicol, @BonesOfTheEarth, and @lordjason4 for bringing quality RP (even if eeeeeeevil) to Urguan, as well as facilitating the rules of CRP so smoothly! If Dugan had died, it would have been a worthy death. But he has not! Who knows what might await the Bearserker now…

The moment it was decided to change Dugan's fate from a PK to continuing his life.

 

 

 

Edited February 15 by SirBlocklips

[DancingZebra267 1626]

Rhorgvar kept visiting Dugan during his recovery, the worry plain on his face; he had already lost Dwengar - his older brother - and Dugan, Dwengar's son, was all that remained of him. The thought of losing his nephew too sat heavy in his chest, and without much ceremony he set Dwengar's rune stone beside the bed, knowing both father and son had held firm to Wyvrun, hoping the old stone might lend the lad a bit of strength.

 

Spoiler

Great post

 

[BonesOfTheEarth 2252]

Spoiler

Goated fight, happy you lived! Didnt realize you didn't have figura on. A screenshot from our PoV:

https://gyazo.com/c6d4a16d4eaf9d2155d847d32c49d682

 

I somehow avoided being in almost any screenshots lmao

 

[DISCOLIQUID 2701]

A sauced Catcher, wet with gin, slung sour stories through a smirk; the rogue embellished, wove a tale of their macabre victory over the honorable Dwarves. Still, that arrogant murderer, of no fame & no renown, took a moment to applaud what ferocity they had seen in the ursine gladiator.

 

"He swung his axe like three men!"

 

Spoiler

Exceptional writing. A treat!