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Showing results for tags 'tales'.
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Khron’Hunmar and Kal’Darakaan Miners speak of a tale as they sit in a tavern and enjoy a good Miner’s ale. They speak of a starbreaker they helped within the mines, but escaped before the tragedy. Deep within the caves of the Kal’Darakaan mountain, this starbreaker chisels away at the stone walls. Strike after strike, on a mission to find a gem worthy of becoming the apex of all stones. Why? Well the thought came to him upon a request, a thought that brought him back to the books of Silverbeard history. The first, Urguan Silverbeard, plucked a Star from the heavenly night skies and carved it into the most beautiful gem. Now this starbreaker ponders his possibilities, to pluck a gemstone from the earth and carve it into a Star. A gem to carve into a star, a star to set into a crown, and a crown to dawn the head of a queen. That is the task given to him, a quest to challenge himself beyond what is known as a limit, to show that the prime blood of the Silverbeard is not diluted, but thriving into the creativity of the Craft. Deep within the caves, there he stands, the starbreaker. Strike after strike, the stone breaking away until finally a light breaks through the cracks; light only the starbreaker can see, see with the eye of his mind as his eyes set upon a gem worthy of the Craft. Carefully, he chisels away at the curves and shape of the gemstone, to pry it out of the rough stone walls, but each strike brings him closer to his doom, for he dares challenge the greatest rival, the heaviest idea, the entity of himself. Perhaps this is an attempt to stop him, the Gods and Ancestors declaring him unfit for the task, or perhaps it is The gemstone that wishes to trial him, a gemstone which knows that he dares pluck it not for his own greed, treasure and hoard, but for a purpose, to serve a need. So the walls crack from a thundering strike of the chisel, powered by the determination of the starbreaker. Cracks grow, they travel and migrate across the caves like the rams that run across the mountain sides. Hooves beating against the mountain surface, the cracks spreading deep within the caves. A rumble shakes the starbreaker, but like a pillar standing against the tides of nature, he remains to chisel and chisel away until finally, the final strike against the stone of the earth collapses the cave around the starbreaker, or maybe on the starbreaker. From this point on, it is unknown if Ulfar Starbreaker survived the collapse in search of the most glorious gem in service of the Craft. Perhaps this is the beginning of the Gemstone’s trial or maybe Ulfar Starbreaker is no more.
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Frostbeard Tales II: Entering Khaz'A'Dentrumm A humble tax paying Frostbeard citizen went to the gates of Khaz'A'Dentrumm once he died, and at the same time the renowned Frostbeard Clan Father Rhewen had also ascended. Once the Brathmordakin were gathered Dungrimm sent for Rhewen Frostbeard to be let in, but forgot about the other Frostbeard, for his servants closed the hall, leaving him out, from where he heard the Clan Father’s cheerful reception of celebration, music, and songs. When all was silent, Dungrimm’s servants returned to the gate and sent the dwed in, who hoped that when he returned, the songs and music would be heard again, but everything remained silent. They received him with great joy, yes, and the souls of his ancestors went out to meet him, worse no one sang nor celebrated. Then he asked Urguan the ancestor of all dwed why there was no celebration for the humble dwed as for the Clan Father, and if there were the same differences in the realms of the Brathmordakin as there were in the Mortal realm. "No," replied the Paragon, Father of all dwed. You deserve the same appreciation for each other as dwed, and you will get the same share as the one who has just entered the delights of the Brathmordakin; but look, average dwed like you come here in the hundreds every day, while dwed like the one who just came in, hardly one comes from century to century. This tale is meant to be considered as a cautionary tale against mediocrity. A dwed must remember that at the end of their day the Brathmordakin will place a bid on them. Their ability to stand out among their fellow dwed will be imperative to receive a high bid by the Brathmordakin. Mediocrity is not bad, but if you follow the traveled path do not expect the same reward as the one who adventured and made their own. Eventually, these Frostbeards who could not leave their mark on the world will vanish to obscurity, with even the stories that talk of them forgetting their names. -Inkbeard [!] Depiction of Belka personally coming to take the Soul of a brave dwed to Kaz’A’Dentrumm
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The Clock is Ticking, the ball is in your court. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The streets were unbearably cold that night, the pounding of feet and crackling of flames accenting the darkened night sky as the orange glow illuminated their faces. Dressed in black, plating pressed against their chest as they heaved beneath the plumes of drifting smoke. Men, women, young and old, standing side by side as the marker of injustice burned fervently before their eyes. They had come inside under a cloak of darkness, fulfilling the oath they had taken alongside their comrades at arms to purge the holy city of all that stood in the day of true freedom. And as the mockery went up in flames, the passion in their hearts spiraled into an elation. "Alexsei, my friend, we did it." One muttered beneath the rag obscuring the lower half of his face, trying not to cough as the thick smoke whirled around them. One Simon Roberts stood among the enflamed structure, his eyes widened with awe as the flamed licked and danced their way up the walls. Sparkling displays of ember stricken wood came tumbling to the ground in splashes of splintered fragments, shattering upon impact with thunderous noise. When they gathered together in that room, all seemed to now be worth it. "Of course Simon, of course we made it." The taller of the pair speaking said in the same muffled tone, clasping a tough callused hand upon his fellow militiaman's shoulder. As they spoke the others began to erupt in cheers, staggering backwards from the increasingly violent fury bubbling up from the once stagnant and sturdy flooring of the Ministry of Justice. To them, it held an almost catharsis. It had all been building up to this, a valiant declaration of war and escalation of their conflict wrapped in secrecy. No nobody would call them, petty vandals, miscreants, or misguided, they were a threat. And they expected to be dealt with like one, what was once a joyous organization of dutifully dedicated detectives had turned against the blade that had struck them down. A product of Tyranny, a product of injustice. "The time for celebration comes later, brothers, for now we must go. Our message has been sent, and the pigs shall soon hear our voice." The one called Alexsei shouted out over the amassed band of terrorists, rallying them around his command and to the sound of his booming speech. The footsteps started once more, clattering to escape what was rapidly becoming a hellish inferno as the same men in black came streaming from the front of the building and across the streets of Oren. They all ran in the same step, trailing behind one another as they flew from the fire they sparked. And as screams erupted around them, calling for soldiers, calling for water, the perpetrators were already gone. Into the forest, out the back gate they ran, satisfaction plastered across each and every one of their usually grim and solemn faces. Simon had simply done as he was told, the book he scribbled in and the etchings in the rubble left by their knives making their voice heard. And as the dust settled, and the fire died, all that was left was their reminders. Their message. On a large stone brick, engraved carefully into its front facing side, in broad scratched in lettering it read, K "The Clock Strikes Six, and we march one step closer to freedom. The Nightmare will come to a close, a new dawn will rise. Viva Mercatore, may God Save Oren for nobody else can." The same message, plastered upon nearby walls, under benches, and in the stumps of trees. A war had begun, a quiet war. Only time will tell of it's conclusion. For now, the secret was revealed, the game could begin.
