TheMessenger

A desert dwarf sat in his room, his hands trembling as he read the parchment. His face contorted into a grimace, “No… more…” he snarled to himself. He crumpled the missive in grief, pulling a small box from beneath his bedframe…

Farin Sandskin held a long gaze out to the horizon, the pang of sorrow in his heart at the loss of another son of Gloin. He took a deep but shaky breath, “Rest now, Garedyn. The weight of this mortal world no longer keeps you from Dungrimm’s hall.”

Rudorr’Ungri nodded along as the missive was being read and translated for his simple mind. He heaved himself to his feet, “Mi promiz, Popo, da Lur bruddahz am undah mi pro-tek-zhun.” He proceeded to search the city for any green skinned uruks.

Rudorr’Ungri chuckles as he prepares for a Glutroz stew, “Da Maw gunna hav da bub’hozhezt ub feaztz!”

Lesh had been traveling through the harsh desert of Aevos for several miles by now. The chains attached to the manacles around his ankles made for odd tracks as he stumbled across dune and stone. He had nought to drink for days, and the weariness was starting to set in along with the pounding heat of the sun. The orc’s mind had all but faded in that moment, only focused on treading onward. The new city of Krugmar was ahead, and there he would find freedom. Just keep going, he told himself, Just over this next dune. As he did what his own inner conscious had told him, he saw something in the distance. Not a city, no that wasn’t the shape. A tree! Where there was a tree, there must be water! Shade! Salvation! The emboldened Uruk practically leapt towards this promise of safety, never minding the voice in the back of his head telling him it was merely a mirage. If he had any water left in his body, he would have cried tears of joy upon seeing that the tree he saw was as real as he was. Beneath the tree was a small pool of water, no more than a puddle, really, feeding the tree’s roots. Yet still he drank and he drank deeply. When he had his fill, he rested beneath the tree, its roots cradling him beneath its umbrella like canopy. Beneath the shade of the tree he felt compelled to sleep, with its roots feeling like they grasped him ever so tenderly. He slept, and he dreamed. In his dream he saw an oasis, within the oasis, a woman, composed of all that is natural and beautiful. She looked on at the pool of water before her gaze focused on Lesh. In those intense eyes, he awoke, with but a single word engraved in his memory. Freygoth.

Here, I Remain To my kin of flesh and blood. I am Barradin Stonebeard, stone-kin creation of Ulfar Starbeaker. I present you with a message of safety, and a promise for eternity. By the will of my father I have been granted freedom of mind and escape from bondage. In my free will I have chosen to remain in these deep roads as their vigilant guardian. I also present an eternal promise to restore Tal’Yrro to the proud stronghold it once was. No Morí shall follow you to your new home, this I assure. to my family, I ask that you do not mourn my absence, and know that should you ever return to these tunnels, Here I shall remain.

A certain dwarf laughs his heartiest reading this.

A desert dwarf read the missive with a brow raised and a rather amused expression on his face “Did it take you this long to figure it out?” He muttered sarcastically. He returned to his business, looking over various boats for somewhat shady business. A large burned Olog put the paper to his face, giving various grunts before finally concluding, “Mi kannub read.”

One Honorable Dwarf Malagor, the Black Hand, Honorary orc of the Iron’Uzg, had been tracking the Mori for weeks, months, years. He was sick, sick of never being there when the Mori had attacked the orcs, his adopted people, the greatest people he had lived with for those forty years. He still held memories, those sick memories of his time in Urguan, his time as Oinn Silverbeard, son of Okri Oathsworn. Was he truly worthy of the orcish loyalty? Was he truly an orc? Or was he just a dwarf, running away from home in some form of rebellion for his father and his people? He harshly pushed those memories to the back of his mind, they were of no consequence now. He was not Oinn, he was Malagor, he haltingly assured himself. He served his Rex faithfully for all these years, never holding doubt in his mind that this path was a righteous one. In recent days, he followed a trail left by the Mori; they were gathering in big numbers. He came upon a party of cloaked Mori. In a quick action he dropped to his stomach, away from their evil eyes. The leader’s gaze flicked in Malagors direction, who offered several prayers to many spirits not to be seen. The mori’s gaze returned to its original position, edging his soldiers onwards. This was it, thought Malagor, this is what all his work would be leading up to, all his time away from his home to finally find the Mori's true goal. He followed them at a distance, his eyes blazing brightly in his own excitement. As they continued, the path became ever familiar. An odd thought in Malagor’s head, but he focused his mind on the here and now, continuing to follow them. It was then that he noticed the fire in the distance. It came to him at first with the smell of smoke, then the blaze. He finally knew why he recognized the path the Mori were following. This was the path to the Goi. He watched in wide eyed horror as he saw his home, his city, his people in a blaze that mirrored the eyes in his skull. He fell to his knees, the mori no longer a concern in his Anguish. He fell on his hands as well, digging into the trampled dirt beneath him. He failed. He failed his people. He had done just what he hoped to avoid. He had not been there when his people needed him. All his work in these past 3 years had been for nothing. In his anguish, he failed to notice the mori behind him, some stragglers who happened upon an easy kill. In that instant, his anguish was gone. He was no longer before the burning city of the Iron’Uzg, but the grand gates of a city, beautiful in all ways. The city of Stargush’stroh. The gates opened before him, the spirits of Orc and Honorary welcoming their bruddah in with open arms. A tear fell from his face, not of anguish for his loss, but of joy, for he saw he was worthy, worthy of the people he had lived and served and believed with. He was home.

A certain desert dwarf stood in front of a pyre as he read the missive, a wave of both anger and relief sweeping over him, “Let the mountain kin deal with mountain business.” he recited to himself as he released the paper, letting it fall into the pyre and burn to ash.

On the back of the missive read a small text stating, 'Please someone pay something, we're desperate to rid ourselves of this lass!'

Fundin Orckin, the reborn self of Bori Orckin sat in the green collective's cave, scattered pieces of ripped paper all around him. He stood up, hands in tight fists at his side. He was silent for a good long minute before letting out a bloodcurdling roar, plowing his fists into the stone walls again and again, still howling with fury. His eyes seemed to almost glow with red rage, he started slamming his head against the wall until the sap that was once blood poured down his face. He crawled out of the cave almost nothing but a savage beast. He spent hours like this before finally regaining his composure. He returned to the tree, tears streaming down his face. His eyes became affixed to the sword at his side, he pulled it from its sheath. He stared at the steel blade, before looking upwards at the stone ceiling, he leaned up against the tree, turning the blade towards his chest, "Curse ye Norleh!" He screamed, his face then went solemn, staring in front of him, "See ye soon Pa, Ma..." He muttered, pulling the blade towards himself. The blade pierced the tree, and the body of the dwarf lay limp. He did not know what fate would hold for this so called "halfbreed sinner's" soul, but he knew that he would eventually see all those he lost, once again. a single tear ran down his cheek as he let out a final breath. Bori, Fundin, whatever name this dworc now held, had finally and truly died.

A blue skinned hobgoblin sat at a table, reading the parchment with a skull set at the bottom of the page. He turned his eyes to the skull, "Wub lat gruk?" He asked it. After a brief pause, he cackled, patting the skull, "Yub, yub. dey reeli azkin' fur it,now."

[!] A young dwarven lad would be seen in the city delivering a letter to Urguan, written in spindly handwriting. It read, To my dear friends in Urguan: Hello! It feels like quite a while. This letter is to my dearest friends in the dwarven realm, where I can never show my face again. My messenger here's named Sigurd, my cousin's son. Nice lad; helps around the house. The Family has gladly taken me in, let me stay with them for a while, at the least. I suppose I should get to the point, huh? I believe I'm dying. I find myself relying on my father's cane quite a bit, my leafage is browning. Even as I write this letter, I can't stop my hand from shaking. Perhaps it's the repercussions of Mao's transformation. If so, I probably deserve whatever it is. Perhaps it is the supposed reincarnation or rebirth... whatever it's called. I don't know if it requires being below that Gods-forsaken tree. If so, it can stay as far away from me as possible. If not, perhaps we'll meet again, in some fashion. Either way, this will be farewell. I give my well wishes and hope this bloody war can be over soon. Maybe then, I'll have some form of peace. With love, Bori Orckin. The rest of the paper was left with some stained ink and general wet spots.

In the distant hills, in a distant cottage, a dwarven epiphyte sits solemn. He heaves a sigh, taking a sip of tea. He offers his messenger a seat, listening to his tale. His eyes drifted down to the table when he was finished, "The Price o' war, ain' I'? Ah 'ope wit' death came peace, frien'. An' Ah 'ope ye know wha' ye've lef' be'ind" he raised his cup to the sky, setting it down.

Orik Silverfist begins to wonder at the credibility of this newspaper. Fili Steelpick wonders how in the names of the Brathmordakin this is physically possible. In the distant hills somewhere, Bori Orckin is dying from laughter.

Bori Orckin, a young dwarf who's lived in Kal'Darakaan for some twenty years, looked upon the city for the final time. Gripping his walking stick tightly. tears starting to form in his eyes. He let out a slow breath, looking away from the great city for the final time. His boots trod along the stone path, for the final time. The halfbreed took a moment upon exiting the gate to offer a prayer to the brathmordakin, not for the last time. the dwarf trailed along, with the only trace of him left residing in a near empty home in a small part of the city. He was not seen by dwarven eyes for some time afterwards. He would return to his life before he joined the dwarves, moving around small settlements, taking odd jobs to get by. He wouldn't forget the fond memories, but he knew he could never really return. Letters were occasionally sent to close friends, but his eyes never set upon dwarven lands again.

[!] A note weighed down by a wooden carving of a raven would be found in both The Braided Beard and the legion hall. scrawled on them in wiry handwriting would be the words "Consider this my formal resignation. Life in Urguan has become intolerable. War has turned decent folk into haggard old fools who would have no problem with chopping a brother's hand off if he were to poke you. Terminate my employment all you like. My house can be sold, I won't need it anymore. My axe left on my bedside can be kept as a memento, if you wish, I don't care. Urguan, who I believed were noble dwarves blindly waste resources and precious lives on a crumbling human nation. Answer me this: Are your losses worth it? Will you continue to think so when you crush Oren only to face Azdromoth's wrath? Was that not the point of the legion's activity? You lot have lost all sense. Apparently, it takes the eyes of a halfbreed to see the Grand Kingdom's own decline. I hope you lads are happy with your chosen path, because I know where it ends. Resolutely, Bori 'Orckin' Balinsson."

Farin Sandskin looks upon the heresy, disgusted in so many ways. Burning the parchment, he brandished a dagger gifted to him, looking into the blade, "If these dwed do not respect the gifts Yemekar gave them, they do not deserve such things." He spoke lowly, a zeal not seen before blazing in his eyes.

Sitting upon the sand, eyes focused on the depiction of the legion, one thought escaped the mouth of Farin Sandskin, "I wonder long that took." His attention was pulled away from the poster when two dwarves wearing turbans dropped a heavy looking crate at his feet. "So it begins." he said to himself, brushing dust off the top of the crate.

Bori Orckin gives a shout of exasperation, crumbling up the parchment before tearing it to pieces "Ye kiddin' meh!? One thing teh wan' teh kill orcs, another yer own kin!"

Bori Orckin gives a wide smile upon reading the document, laughing with a joy not seen by any living dwarves, "Glad tha's finalleh over. Maybeh another visi's in order..."

Bori Orckin read over the letter and felt a strange sadness, though he had no connection to the city, nor it's people, "Somethin's 'appenin' in Almaris. Somethin' dark..."

Galin read over the paper by the fire with many "Hm"s and "Mi peep"s. After reading it over, he looked into the flames and stated to no one, "Wi reeli ar nub da warnation ani more."

Bori Orckin heaves a sigh upon reading the declaration, placing a hand over his green face. "I sense life is abou' teh ge' tha' much 'arder."