Monday, February 9, 2009

Fal's version

Apparently my friend and road companion for these last years of my life, Graimerin, has taken to story telling in his old age. Now Dwarfs and Humans get along well in most regards but there are a few things that dwarfs just do better than humans. Drink, craft the ore's of the earth and last but not least, tell tales. Now I read his and to be honest he left a few blank spots, if ya take me meanin'. I have seen much of this world and many a person in Lordaeron, but never one named Graimerin. The gray man seems to be a name he choose after what he calls his cowardice. I fought side by side with the man and have never seen a moment of cowardice in him.

He touched quickly on the night we meet in Dun Morogh. I also remember it well, if differently than him, I had just settled into my camp and heard this sound like troggs mating coming from the west side of my camp. I jump up and grab my throwing axe and threw it towards the sound. I chase after it with my mace ready to cave in another trogg head and continue cleansing my land of their filth. Well to my surprise I hear the sound of it bouncing off metal and wonderin' if I be battlin' a worthy foe ,an orc.

I let loose with my battle cry and swing my mace in hopes of either disarming or injuring my opponent enough for a quick kill. To my surprise my mace slammed into a shield. The blow bein' stopped cold. I quickly settled into my battle rotation consistently looking for an opening to land at least a blow that would give some advantage. The dark and the skill of the opponent only in my mind confirmed an orc was my opponent. Heh, ya can imagine my surprise when I hear a bull like bellow claiming that this interloper to my camp is not only human but on the king's business.

With the certainty that I could get my mace back to a suitable position to defend myself, I step back into the dim glow of the camp fire and allowed him to speak. Guardedly, he began tellin' me his tale of how he had abandoned his vows to the Silver Hand after the traitor showed his true colors and was tryin' to redeem himself by helpin' when and where he could in the southern lands. My first reaction was horror that one could break a vow, freely given, but these have been odd times of late in Azeroth. My people, the dwarfs of Ironforge have felt the bite of the traitor deeply with the loss of the King's brother with the traitor in the cold forsaken north.

I offered him what hospitality is to be found on the road. Warm fire, a bit of ale, and a fine meal if I do say so me self. During this time it appeared a weight had been removed from his shoulders, simply seeming to be able to accept a kindness started to change him. We settled into a uncomfortable comfortable kind o' silence that any warrior of the road knows these days and made our plans to sleep for the night.

The morning found me alive and ready to continue my cleansing of the kings land of the foul troggs that had sprung up like weeds, during these last few season of battling orcs and plague crazed undead. I started breakin' down me camp and finally took a long look at this stranger who came out of the dark last night, noticing that while only of middle years for a human his hair and beard where completely gray. Feelin' a bit of the wise ass in me creep out, I asked him what a youngster by dwarven standards was doing with all that wrongly colored hair and sorry attempt at a beard. Now friendship can be based on many things but to me, ours will always be based upon his reply. He calmy stated “ I have seen the gates of hell, my young 'Ramord and I am searching for the way back.”

Now I don't take too well to being referred to as young, espically by one of the short lived races. Although that twinkle in his eyes when he said it made me wonder what this man had truly seen. I tossed back over me shoulder a simple claim that I'm out to hunt some troggs and if he is still looking to fill out his bounty, mayhap we can kill twice as many, twice as fast.

I'm a warrior trained from the days when I could barely hold the mace that me father crafted for me, and have seen many a fine warrior take to the field. Still seeing how this man would run into a pack of this vermin and the call upon the power of the light and simply hold them there while I wadded through their ranks decamating them. There are trully many ways to gauge the measure of a man but for me tis simple, can he hold his drink, can he hold his own in battle and most importantly can he turn a phrase and make a joke. While his ability to hold a drink had yet to be determined he made me laugh and was impressive in battle. So after we had our share of trogg killing I offer the chance for him to return to Ironforge with me.

We returned to my beloved mountain home, which I am away from to much to suit me those and these days. We managed to close a tavern or two together, and while he cant drink like a true dwarf he is close for a human. After this I knew that I couldnt let hin return to his war with the armor and weapons he carried into my camp. So I took him offer to the great forge and set about a task that nowdays seems to be me lifes work. Crafting him the best weapons and armor that my small skill in smithing allows me to create.

Many battles have we waged on this world and distant others, we even manged to gather a few others into our group, but seeing as how he wants to be the story teller I let him continue this tale as my small part in correcting his mistakes is done.

3 comments:

Shrinn said...

You are "almost" inspiring me to start tellin' me own tales of blood & death & battle!


Well met, Sir!


Lurve U, me silly Man!

joe said...

Very nice sir, very nice. And yeah, you totally should shrinn

Nighthawque said...

Very nice! I have had the general "story" of my 2 mains floating around my brain for a quite a while. Maybe, just maybe their story will be written one day.