My story

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Vandic
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My story

Postby Vandic » Fri Jun 22, 2001 2:36 am

After digging through some old files I managed to come across the story I wrote for Vandic on soj2....well, the first 2 chapters anyway. Chapter 3 would no longer make any sense, since I have a different clan name now than I did then. I'll have to work up a new conclusion to this. In the meantime, here are the first two parts.

-VHF

Chapter 1 - Foundations

"Vandic! Get yer plump butt in here, lad! Tend to me bedpan!"

I was approaching my 60th birthday, and as the youngest of the Stonehammer household, I had been coerced into the responsibility of tending to my grandfather while my older siblings tended to the farm and worked in the forge. Grandpa had been injured in an orc raid long before I was born, and had been poisioned by a rogue's dagger. None of Berronar's priests could drive the poison out, and it left him sterile and unable to move both of his legs. He had only one son at the time, my father Kyldrin, and thus my siblings and I were his only grandchildren. When Grandma Kanza died, we took Grandpa into our home and looked after him.

"Where's ye papa, Vandic? He ought te be getting' home shortly."

"I dunno, Grandpa...ye know how Bruenor's pushin fer the new altarpiece for the temple to be done afore the next full moon."

"Aye, I know...but still, with all these younguns runnin' around the farm, ye'd think he'd take more interest in mindin his family first. Moradin knows what a time I had with him by hisself!"

At that moment I heard the front door to the cottage open. Dalor, my oldest brother, walked in covered in sweat and grime.

"Ha! Lookit the baby Vandic mindin' the old feller's bed! Ye'd think he was learnin' te be a housewife!"

Dalor and I had never agreed on much. He was 30 years my elder, and a whole 2 inches taller. Sometimes I think he needed the extra room in his body to store up the extra cruelty that seemed to dominate his personality. From the time we were old enough to lift a sword, Father had had us sparring in the fields behind the cottage, hoping to send some of us to the king's guard. It was the highest honor any warrior in the hall could receive, and the few chosen were given the mark of Forgefire on their right arm as a mark of their status. The image of Clangeddin's mighty battleaxe commanded respect among the commoners, and many passed around the rumor that these elite could speak directly to the mighty dwarven war god. Being the youngest, though, I often found myself at the losing end of the sparring battles, and had had my skull rattled by the thunk of a wooden training sword.

Dalor approached the bed, still brandishing his smithy's hammer.

"How are ye farin' today, Grandpa?"

"Fine, lad...now don' give yer brother trouble, he's doin' a fine job takin' care o' me."

Dalor chuckled and smirked at me. Many of the blows I'd taken to the head in sparring came by his hand.

"Aye, fine for a woman anyway! C'mon boy, let's see if ye've learned anything since the last time I got te whoop on yer fat butt!" He stepped back from the bed and held his hammer at the ready.

I felt the fire in my veins starting to build with every insult my brother threw at me. Looking around, I found an old wooden training shield and sword propped against the wall. Arming them both, I stood and turned to face Dalor.

"Ye boys stop this! Yer papa said no fightin' in the house!"

I ignored the old man and lunged at my brother, but he quickly shifted to the left and I found myself tumbling across the dirt floor of the cottage, collapsing in a heap by the door.

Dalor walked towards me, cackling all the while.

"Aye, that was a fine move, runt! C'mon, let's see if ye can hit something this time!"
I scrambled to my feet and raised my shield just in time to keep Dalor's hammer from landing right into my gut. The impact of the blow caused the wood to crack and splinter and made my left arm begin to burn with pain. I let out a yelp and charged forward again. My sword connected with his hammer, keeping either blow from connecting. We stood there, weapons crossed in a contest of brute strength, which I knew I would eventually lose.

"C'mon, runt! Ye can do better'n that!"

I had taken about all I cared to take from Dalor for the day. I quickly feinted left and swung out with my left arm, shield still firmly attached. It landed on the side of Dalor's head with a sickening crack and split in two. Dalor staggered backwards into a corner, blood streaming down the side of his head.

I looked at the broken half of the shield still attached to my arm, my eyes wide and my jaw on the floor. After staring dumbly for a moment, I looked up to see Dalor standing and staring at me with his cold black eyes.

"You runt...yer gonna pay for that one."

He threw down his hammer and pulled a glistening mithril longsword out of a scabbard strapped to his back. Wielding it with both hands, he let out a crazed battle cry and charged towards me.

"I said that's ENOUGH!"

Dalor stopped just short of his target - most likely my skull - and turned to face Grandpa, who had a loaded crossbow pointed straight at him.

"Now ye back away from Vandic, boy...Moradin mighta seen it fit to take me legs, but me trigger finger works just fine."

Dalor sheathed his sword and threw me another cold stare.

"I'll be at the forge," he muttered. "Papa needs help finishin' the altarpiece." He put his hand up to his face and wiped off the blood, then staggered out the door and up the path towards the center of town.

Grandpa looked out the door for a moment to make sure Dalor wasn't returning, then lowered his crossbow and turned to me.

"Vandic, where'd ye learn to use a shield like that?"

"I dunno, Grandpa...it...it was just reflex I guess."

"Reflex me baldin' head! That's a fighter's move lad...and a fine one at that. Ye walloped 'im good!"

I blushed, my face red enough that it could be noticed even through my thin blonde beard.

"When ye father gets home he needs to hear of this...he might have him a member of the king's guard yet! Now, in all that mess, ye never got me bedpan! C'mere and get me a fresh one!"

"Aye, Grandpa..."

(To be continued...)
Vandic
Sojourner
Posts: 280
Joined: Wed May 02, 2001 5:01 am
Location: Nashville, TN USA
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Postby Vandic » Fri Jun 22, 2001 2:53 am

Chapter 2 - Transformations

That night my father came home and found Grandpa sitting up in bed grinning and half of a broken training shield still strapped to my arm. The following morning, he took me to meet Drannex, his foreman and the master weaponsmith in the Hall. Drannex had been serving as an instructor in the warrior's guild my whole life, and my father told me all the lessons of battle he'd learned from him. My duties of tending to Grandpa had been passed to my sister Kelga, and I now spent sunup to sundown every day learning the art of armed combat.

"The first thing we need te do is get ye into shape, lad. Ye been stuck in yer house too long. Ye see that shield in the corner?" He pointed to a massive crest-shaped shield of polished obsidian. "Strap that on yer arm and c'mere."

I went over to the shield and slid my arm into the straps on the back and gave it a heave. I might as well have tried to lift a solid iron anvil, because the shield refused to move. I tugged until I had worked my face red with exertion, but all I could manage was to drag it across the floor.

"Ach! Ye have more to work on than I thought! Come, we'll start on something a bit less strenuous, eh?"

I followed Drannex out of the massive wooden doors of the hall and up to the base of the stone staircase that led up the side of the mountain. "Ye see them steps? I want ye to run up and down 'em a hundred times. If ye don' get to a hundred afore ye think ye've had enough, that'll be an hour ye owe me workin at ye daddy's forge for every trip ye don't make!"

I stared at him, befuddled. "How's runnin' stairs gonna teach me to swing a sword?"

"Swingin' a sword will come with time, lad...and once ye have that learned, there ain't much else te know. But what good is me teachin' ye the technique if ye ain't got the stamina to last out the length of battle?"

"Aye, sir...I'll do me best."

I made it up and down that steep staircase 61 times the first day before I collapsed from exhaustion at the gates. Drannex frowned at my crumpled form, then helped me to my feet and handed me a skin of water.

"Not bad, better'n I figgered ye'd do the first day. Ye go home and get some rest, ye have a long day tomorrow, and a few after that."

I nodded as I regained my breath and started for home, my legs aching with every step along the cobblestone streets.


Over the next week I made up the balance of the hours I owed at my father's forge. He taught me the basics of hammering out swords and molding various metals. I found I had a particular prowess at working with gold and adamantium, which my father found surprising considering how tough a time he had with them.

I made more and more trips up and down the stairs as the weeks passed, but still kept falling short of the goal Drannex had set for me. Even though I owed less and less hours at the forge, I still went over every evening to help my father out with whatever project he was working on. I soon felt comfortable with larger and larger hammers, and I began to see the outlines of muscles forming on my forearms and legs. My beard had begun to fill in nicely, and had turned a nice dark shade of blonde, much like all my brothers'. All except Dalor, who had inherited my mother's jet black hair.

Dalor. It had been almost a year now since the night he and I had our last skirmish, when he left the house bleeding and swearing. We didn't see him again until the next morning, when a lieutenant in the guard came to the cottage and informed us that his body had been found in a back alley. Apparently after leaving the forge that night he had stepped into a tavern and downed 4 bottles of whiskey. After leaving the tavern to head home, he had staggered into the alley and met the business end of a rogue's dagger. He had been found with all of his money missing, his throat slit, and his body so badly battered that he was barely recognizable. My father stayed home for almost a week mourning the loss of his oldest boy, the one he had planned to hand the forge over to when his hands became too feeble to work. Now, as my training both in weaponry and smithing slowly improved, it seemed the honor might one day be mine instead.

-----------------------------------------

Several years later, during the month of Kythorn, Bruenor had decreed that a new temple to Clangeddin was to be built on the north end of town. My father was among the many smiths chosen to assist in its construction, and the job had earned him over 200 platinum coins. He was ecstatic when he came home with the news.

"Vandic!" he shouted, bursting through the door. "Grab yer hammer lad, we've got a job to set to!"

"Kyldrin, what's the ruckus?" asked Grandpa, grumpy after being awakened from his afternoon nap.

"We're on the temple crew, pap! Bruenor set me te makin' the Forgefire axe that's goin' te hang at the gates of the temple."

I hugged my father at the sound of the news and ran to my loft, where I kept my hammer tucked at the end of my loft. I clambered up to grab it, then headed off with my father to the forge.

The work proceeded slowly. Father put me in charge of drawing out the mithril in the forge and blasting it to drive off the gasses and other impurities in the ore, while he crafted the axe head and handle. It took us over a week to finish the model. When my father finally felt comfortable with the design and the runic inscriptions, he set the axe on a wooden rack and stood back to admire his handiwork. He was glowing with pride as we transported the axe up the street to the construction site.

The temple was nearing completion when we arrived. Three walls had already been erected, and the altar was already in place. My father directed me to rig ropes around the axe while he assembled the hoist that would lift it to its place over the doorway across its companion axe, Giantslayer. Drannex had been in charge of the other replica of Clangeddin's mighty axes, and was still at the site directing the stonemasons while we worked.

"Ah Kyldrin, I see ye brought yer prodigy along, eh?" Drannex winked at me and gave me a playful punch on the shoulder. "This'n ought te carry the Stonehammer name far!"

I blushed at the compliment and kept to my work.

"LOOK OUT!!"

The cry came from outside the west wall of the temple, which was still only half complete and being supported by wooden beams inside the main structure. I looked up to see one of the beams starting to splinter and buckle. Workers inside were panicking and bolting towards the door...right where my father was working with the riggings. He looked up in confusion, but before he could stand to make his way out, he was overcome by the frantic mob making its way out of the temple.

"Father, get up!" I screamed, but he just lay there unconscious. I started towards the door, but Drannex grabbed my arm and held me back.

"No, lad, don't! That wall's about to give!"

"I don't care!" I shouted, and wrestled my arm free of his grasp. I turned back towards the door as the sounds of splintering wood gave way to rumbling stones collapsing into the temple. I turned away as a cloud of dust rose up from the site, choking me and burning my eyes. When the dust had settled, I turned back to see my father's arm extending out from beneath a pile of rubble, limp and lifeless.

-----------------------------------------

I stood over my father's gravesite, stern-faced and shivering. Grandpa refused to come, saying he could not bear the thought of seeing his only son in such a horrible state. Nearly everyone in the Hall had come, even King Bruenor and his court. I stood at the front with my siblings and my mother, and Drannex close behind us. I paid little attention to the priest's benediction.

"Moradin alone knows the days and years he blesses us with. May ye all keep this kind one in yer hearts, and may his light shine on us wherever our paths travel. Travel ye all in peace."

As the crowd dispersed, Drannex came up and put a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry, lad...ye father was me finest student, and one of me best friends. I know ye will..."

His words tailed off as I tuned out all the sounds around me and walked quietly away from the graveyard. My walk quickly turned into a full-speed dash, and by the time I stopped running I was in tears, curled up in a wheat field and sobbing uncontrollably. I quietly prayed for sleep as I cried, hoping it would let the pain out of my heart, but knowing that it wouldn't.

(To be concluded...)
Altan
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Postby Altan » Fri Jun 22, 2001 10:04 am

Hey! Nice story V. Looking forward to reading the rest of it. Image

Altan
kwirl
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Postby kwirl » Mon Jul 16, 2001 10:38 pm

indeed! excellent story!

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