Changing times

Started by Fangedwolf, December 23, 2006, 02:31:47 AM

Previous topic - Next topic

Fangedwolf

Sitting on the stool in his table, the leftovers of the christmas decorations sitting his bag beside him, Dune's gaze wanders out the open door to the large forge outside and its brightly coloured lanterns and wreathes hanging around it.  There was a time when he would been truely joyful at this time of year, but now he sat, wondering where life was taking him.

It had all started with a book.

He had always been a miner with a sword at his side, helping protect him from the beasts that wandered in the forests.  It had been a struggle, always a struggle to survive, and he had once taken the words of the knight of chivalry and used them to help protect himself.  But his heart was never truely in it.  The words seemed hollow coming from his dwarven lips, for to him, asking the gods for help in such meanial things was insulting to them.  So he used it less and less, unsure how to survive in the world as the beasts seemed to grow stronger as each month progressed.

So it continued, him going out less and less, only when he could stand being cooped up no longer.  That was until one day, when he had ventured into the war-torn land of Umbra, he happened to pass by a building populated by those knowlegable of magic, something his heart and mind had never taken to.  It was there that a man had come up to him, concern in his dark gaze.  Into his hand he had pressed a small book, the dark gaze compelling 'Take this' the man had said, those eyes seeming to see into his very soul 'its power will help you'.  And he, feeling confused and compelled, left without questioninag what he was doing, the book clutched in his hand, not realising what he held until he had got back to his home once more.

He had sat, staring at the small book, horrified at what he had taken.  Its cover had an image of a skull on it, and from its very presence in his hands, he felt its power whispering to him, like a chill of the dead of winter up his spine.  And yet, as much as it horrified him, he couldnt help but feel that throwing it away would be a great insult to whatever deity had guided it into his hands.  He hadnt known there was a dwarven God of the afterlife, but this book clearly was proof that there was. 

And so, unwilling to use it at first, he had hidden it away in the depths of his pack and tried to get on with life as normal.  However, one of the days he was out mining the monsters in the forest seemed to be so much stronger, and he found himself having to run from the fight.  This would not do!  He was a dwarf!  So he stood and turned, his sword and shield raised knowing they were too great in strength for him.  One, two he took down, the ettin's dying cry seeming to rouse something in the air.  Like the cry of his own soul, childish and selfish enough to want to live past this day.  The magic whispered in his mind from that cry, the knowlege kept in the book seeming to seed into his very thoughts until he knew what to do, even as his sword fought off more of the beasts he called out the words that demanded to spill from his lips, and it was an almost tortured sound the effort of speaking them, wrenched from his very soul.

But it was not his own soul from which life sank away, but from others, for by those very words, the very power inherant in that book, the dead rose from the ground on whick they lay, different yes, certainly horrific, but they were there, and they helped kill his attackers, before, as if nothing had happened, they crumbled back to the earth, their life-force spent, leaving him standing there, corpses surrounding him.. him, who was very much alive. 

Gathering up the loot, he had hurried away, feeling in his heart that something was going to change.  The Gods had helped him, by their own will, not by a command from him, a demand for their recognition and help.  He hadnt asked for this to happen, it had come to him, he who was unknowing of the skills of magery.

Long nights he had sat and contemplated the book, his fingers trembling as he traced over the words and symbols on those few pages.  For there were few, only a couple that existed, the rest.. missing.  Clearly, he should be searching for the missing pages, for it was not right that a Gods gift to him be incomplete.  Perhaps that was his task for the granting of this new power to him?  He did not know, but it was something..something he could do, something he could give back to the Gods for their aid to him in his time of need.

But where would one look for such scrolls?  He was no scribe, nor did he see the local mages stocking them.  He had browsed over their wares generally, pretending he was looking to buy more runes, but none of the scrolls were right.  They wernt the right size.. nor did they feel right when he looked at them.  Full of fire and promise they were, and these spells.. they would be darker.

So he searched more vendors, going from one teleporter to the next, worrying over what people would say, what they would think when they saw him.  Would they know what he was looking for?  Would they condemn him as he had seen his friend being cast down?  So he browsed long and hard, generally looking over everything the vendors had and finding very little.  There was one he had found where, to his surprise he had found books like the one he held deep inside his pack.  Sitting there, they seemed new and fresh, while his own one seemed ancient and worn, memories and history clinging to it.  It would be sacrilidge to exchange something so precious, something the Gods had sent to his hands for one of these. 

And yet no scrolls turned up.  Nothing could be found until one day he was talking to Dalos in Magincia and he was looking over the wares he had.  So many and so varied that few ever took the time to check over what he sold.  But there..  there they were.  Sitting between arrows and gems, leather clothing and weapons, some green scrolls.  He knew, without having to read what the wax seal said, what they were.  His hands shook as he took ahold of a couple, feeling the weight of their power fixed on the pages.  Dalos was watching him with a knowing eye.  "We get more of those in sometimes.  Some of the hunters bring them in, palm them off to me.  Come back another day, there might be more"  He had quickly passed over the coins and thanked the man before hurrying off home.

And so his jourey had started, one scroll found and placed into the binding of the book.  It was so strange, how as those pages neared it, they seemed to find their place, almost as if they had always been there.  There was no seam where there should have been and they sat, their power inherant in the words that were written though they craved special substances to work.  He had found himself gathering things he had never thought to care for before.. daemon blood.. grave dust, even bats wings.  It was distasteful, but he did it, knowing in his heart that if the spells didnt have these things, not only would they not work, but there might be a price put on him for the trying.

However, he was afeared of what society would think.  His trips to Dalos over time dwindled, for there were far too many people around to make his searching inconspicous.  He feared being ostracised from society, shunned or even hunted as had happened to others.  And so he had joined a group of his fellow dwarves, even set up a stall of his own selling the resources he found.  Being around his own race, or even just being affiliated with them gave him more credability, more safety, for everyone knew there was no God of the Dwarven afterlife.. or not until now.

Now he sat in his house, staring at the remains of his decorations and wondering what fate was going to bring him.  His search continued with each passing day, and still the book was not complete.  Still pages missing, still hiding.  Often he kept his helm on these days, for a couple had mentioned he had appeared different of late, his skin paler, his eyes having a glint under certain lights.  Best that he remain hidden then, away from general population.  He had never had much time with them anyway.  His love had always been mining, of making armour and weapons, of being out in the wilds of the land.  That he would do, had always done before, and would continue to do, he decided.  He would only hope that his God-given gift was not discovered, for if it was, surely it would bring downfall upon his life from those that didnt, couldnt understand.