Post by balin on Apr 23, 2021 18:45:16 GMT 1
Balin’s Fire
The ring of village bells echoed through the dense fog hanging thick on the early morning air. The townsfolk peered out of their windows, few stepping from their homes to see what it was about...for when the bell tolled, it was never anything good.
A lone traveller entered the village square, not but a child, she panted and heaved as she struggled to catch her breath. A man, the keeper of the town, rushed out to meet her, placing his hand on her shoulder to help her balance while others trickled out of their homes to assist. The girl’s face was pale, she was clearly frightened, but she had no marks on her save a few slight bumps and scrapes from the foliage in the woodlands she had run through to get there.
The villagers soon came to realize she was not a little girl, simply a young lightfoot from the northern reaches who had spent some time around the capitol in the recent months, and the news she came to deliver was grim indeed.
She had witnessed the brutal of murder one of her kinfolk.
She did not know the name of the killer, but she recalled in vivid detail what he had done, on occasion describing the assailant in enough detail that a rough description could be pieced together. It was not long before the correspondence was written and the ravens dispatched to warn the capitol that there was a killer roaming their homeland, one who might not be a foreign invader, but instead one of their very own.
——
The leaves crumpled and crackled beneath the heavy tread of Balin’s boot as he strode down the familiar forest pathways. He hated the forest. He had travelled long, and it had felt like an age since he last bathed. The flies and other winged critters buzzing around him were feeding off of the coagulated blood that clung to his armor, his once shining breastplate that was now so dark that it seemed to absorb all sunlight that met it.
Balin was of warrior stock, through and through. His father and his father before him were all of the mountains, long lost kingdoms that Balin had only ever heard of in stories growing up on the newly discovered shores of Agonia. He had never known his mountain home, the great halls of old, the forges of legend, the glorious battles fought in lands far away, in times of yore long faded from memory. Despite being raised in foreign lands far removed from those of his kinfolk, he had the same heart beating in his chest, a heart that called him forth to battle.
It was this hunger for battle that drove him to hone his skills in combat, something he did with tireless passion. Even as a young dwarf he was determined to carve his way into the world, and that he did. From battlefield to battlefield, from the frozen tundras of the north, to the shimmering dunes and barren bone-covered wastelands of the far east, he carved his name.
From the majestic peaks of the midlands that stretched high into stormy skies, to the ancient forests laden with terrifying beasts, he carved his name.
——
The Order.
Those to whom he pledged his blade in war, leading raid after raid into foreign lands for not but the sake of glory and riches. Balin became widely respected and equally feared name among both friend and foe. Never did he shy from a fight, always pushing the envelope, a thing that earned him the ire of those around him. His stubborn, hot-headed nature often putting him at odds with his brothers and sisters, but that was how he had always been.
Balin found himself trekking across the great Agonian wilderness now, coated in the blood of those he had once ardently defended. He had no remorse for what he had done, for he would make it known why he had done it. Once he found his bearings, he would send the ravens far and wide to deliver his declaration, to lay bare his intent.
He would tell of his hearts passions; the life of a warrior, born with fire in his belly and iron in his hand. He would tell of a world that wallowed in the muck of inaction and politics. A world whose once fierce warriors had lost pride in the strength of arms, in the way of warfare, something that was once fervently displayed in the only place that mattered, the battlefield.
Balin had witnessed this happening not only with his own people, but across the land. A comfortable seclusion, an age of ease where the warrior toiled with craft, where peace and prosperity held supreme. An age where one no longer had to keep watch over their shoulder lest their back be met by the blade of an invader.
Perhaps he was a relic of times past? A relic of the warriors age; to be discarded and forgotten in the name of progress, in the name of peace.
Peace....
Balin scoffed at the notion. He spat into the dirt beside him as his pace quickened, the beat of his heart pounding like a drum in his chest to the impassioned thoughts racing through his mind.
Balin knew what he had to do even before his first victim lay a mangled mess beneath his boot. He had to see if he was right, if the warriors heart was truly lost in this world. If that were the case, then he would meet his fate and stand in the afterlife among his ancestors....but, he knew there was a chance that there were others out there like him, there had to be.
Warriors.
Warriors who were not content in an age of peace, warriors who sought to wage war for the sake of it, for any myriad of reasons that drove them to it, those that answered to the sirens song of steel meeting steel. Those who lived for the thrill of battle joined, the euphoria of a life lived on the edge of death.
He did not care from where they hailed; what tribe, what region, what faction. He would call upon all who sought to ignite the flames of war once again. He would see both factions fall beneath the banner of an independent guild, the Fighters Guild.
—-
Balin came out of his trance-like thoughts having arrived at his destination. A home if ever there was one for someone like him. It was a place he would often come to contemplate, stepping away from the nagging responsibilities of mayorship, or simply a respite from the politics of leadership he had grown to hate more and more in recent times. He hadn’t been to the place in ages, so long that it had fallen to disrepair, though in this moment that fact was of little import.
Balin made his way inside. He cleared the cobwebs and dust from over the desk in the corner and pulled a stack of parchment from the drawer. He slid a small crusted bowl of ink closer to him, and drew a quill from the cracked mason jar at the tables corner.
“Now we will see what this world is made of.”
The quill slid across the page, a message to the world, the song of Balin’s fire.
Within a stack of papers Balin had carried his whole life but never looked at, he found a family tree. Dating back to his oldest ancestors, he found that his name, wasn’t Balin at all.
The tree indicated he was Oblong. So from this day forward in his new way of life. He would carry the name that was originally chosen for him before coming to this new world.
The ring of village bells echoed through the dense fog hanging thick on the early morning air. The townsfolk peered out of their windows, few stepping from their homes to see what it was about...for when the bell tolled, it was never anything good.
A lone traveller entered the village square, not but a child, she panted and heaved as she struggled to catch her breath. A man, the keeper of the town, rushed out to meet her, placing his hand on her shoulder to help her balance while others trickled out of their homes to assist. The girl’s face was pale, she was clearly frightened, but she had no marks on her save a few slight bumps and scrapes from the foliage in the woodlands she had run through to get there.
The villagers soon came to realize she was not a little girl, simply a young lightfoot from the northern reaches who had spent some time around the capitol in the recent months, and the news she came to deliver was grim indeed.
She had witnessed the brutal of murder one of her kinfolk.
She did not know the name of the killer, but she recalled in vivid detail what he had done, on occasion describing the assailant in enough detail that a rough description could be pieced together. It was not long before the correspondence was written and the ravens dispatched to warn the capitol that there was a killer roaming their homeland, one who might not be a foreign invader, but instead one of their very own.
——
The leaves crumpled and crackled beneath the heavy tread of Balin’s boot as he strode down the familiar forest pathways. He hated the forest. He had travelled long, and it had felt like an age since he last bathed. The flies and other winged critters buzzing around him were feeding off of the coagulated blood that clung to his armor, his once shining breastplate that was now so dark that it seemed to absorb all sunlight that met it.
Balin was of warrior stock, through and through. His father and his father before him were all of the mountains, long lost kingdoms that Balin had only ever heard of in stories growing up on the newly discovered shores of Agonia. He had never known his mountain home, the great halls of old, the forges of legend, the glorious battles fought in lands far away, in times of yore long faded from memory. Despite being raised in foreign lands far removed from those of his kinfolk, he had the same heart beating in his chest, a heart that called him forth to battle.
It was this hunger for battle that drove him to hone his skills in combat, something he did with tireless passion. Even as a young dwarf he was determined to carve his way into the world, and that he did. From battlefield to battlefield, from the frozen tundras of the north, to the shimmering dunes and barren bone-covered wastelands of the far east, he carved his name.
From the majestic peaks of the midlands that stretched high into stormy skies, to the ancient forests laden with terrifying beasts, he carved his name.
——
The Order.
Those to whom he pledged his blade in war, leading raid after raid into foreign lands for not but the sake of glory and riches. Balin became widely respected and equally feared name among both friend and foe. Never did he shy from a fight, always pushing the envelope, a thing that earned him the ire of those around him. His stubborn, hot-headed nature often putting him at odds with his brothers and sisters, but that was how he had always been.
Balin found himself trekking across the great Agonian wilderness now, coated in the blood of those he had once ardently defended. He had no remorse for what he had done, for he would make it known why he had done it. Once he found his bearings, he would send the ravens far and wide to deliver his declaration, to lay bare his intent.
He would tell of his hearts passions; the life of a warrior, born with fire in his belly and iron in his hand. He would tell of a world that wallowed in the muck of inaction and politics. A world whose once fierce warriors had lost pride in the strength of arms, in the way of warfare, something that was once fervently displayed in the only place that mattered, the battlefield.
Balin had witnessed this happening not only with his own people, but across the land. A comfortable seclusion, an age of ease where the warrior toiled with craft, where peace and prosperity held supreme. An age where one no longer had to keep watch over their shoulder lest their back be met by the blade of an invader.
Perhaps he was a relic of times past? A relic of the warriors age; to be discarded and forgotten in the name of progress, in the name of peace.
Peace....
Balin scoffed at the notion. He spat into the dirt beside him as his pace quickened, the beat of his heart pounding like a drum in his chest to the impassioned thoughts racing through his mind.
Balin knew what he had to do even before his first victim lay a mangled mess beneath his boot. He had to see if he was right, if the warriors heart was truly lost in this world. If that were the case, then he would meet his fate and stand in the afterlife among his ancestors....but, he knew there was a chance that there were others out there like him, there had to be.
Warriors.
Warriors who were not content in an age of peace, warriors who sought to wage war for the sake of it, for any myriad of reasons that drove them to it, those that answered to the sirens song of steel meeting steel. Those who lived for the thrill of battle joined, the euphoria of a life lived on the edge of death.
He did not care from where they hailed; what tribe, what region, what faction. He would call upon all who sought to ignite the flames of war once again. He would see both factions fall beneath the banner of an independent guild, the Fighters Guild.
—-
Balin came out of his trance-like thoughts having arrived at his destination. A home if ever there was one for someone like him. It was a place he would often come to contemplate, stepping away from the nagging responsibilities of mayorship, or simply a respite from the politics of leadership he had grown to hate more and more in recent times. He hadn’t been to the place in ages, so long that it had fallen to disrepair, though in this moment that fact was of little import.
Balin made his way inside. He cleared the cobwebs and dust from over the desk in the corner and pulled a stack of parchment from the drawer. He slid a small crusted bowl of ink closer to him, and drew a quill from the cracked mason jar at the tables corner.
“Now we will see what this world is made of.”
The quill slid across the page, a message to the world, the song of Balin’s fire.
Within a stack of papers Balin had carried his whole life but never looked at, he found a family tree. Dating back to his oldest ancestors, he found that his name, wasn’t Balin at all.
The tree indicated he was Oblong. So from this day forward in his new way of life. He would carry the name that was originally chosen for him before coming to this new world.
