Rogue's Report and Reflection

[Occhidiangela]

The travels, trials, travails, and reflections of LeeVanCleef. VanCleef denotes that he hails from Cleef, the mountain village perched atop the Cliffs of Cleef. (Note: I just noticed, after I had named the character a few days ago, that there is or was an adventure in or near Van Cleef in this game. Funny coincidence.)

Chapter 1: Not a Dwarf's Best Friend

He wants me to kill wolves for meat. A queer harvest, wolves, and thick with irony for me, friend.

All a wolf ever did to me was be me best friend when I was a wee bairn and he was a pup, and -- from no fault of his -- get me the worst beatin' of me youth. Takin' that tanning out on the hungry packs aroamin' the valley south o' Anvilmar 'tis a cruel irony indeed. The deer herds have been hunted to extinction, and the rabbits now disappear into Gnomish pots or wolfish gullets. Mayhap I be cuttin' out the middleman -- with me dagger -- and we'll be eatin' more rabbit when all the wolves have been made into jerky.

I'll take their hearts, take their hides, take their fangs and claws, take their lives, just as everthin' o' mine has been took from me. As Pa used to say, "'tis the Takers the only folk who get anywhere in the world, not the Makers."

Take me Pa -- please. Too late, even if ye had a mind to. Ye cannae do that, friend, even though ye buy me this flagon of ale. Nae, the drink took Pa, then the blade. He were took from us long before I got wise to the why, and the how.

Pa was a leatherworker, and a few other bits and pieces when his yarn be full told. Harness, saddles, belts, boots: were it made o' hide or leather, he was its master. Some called him an artist with punch, awl, blade and fid. Queer enough, for him the wars were a good thing, there in Cleef, made him a prosperous dwarf, a personage of substance. . . and some 'reputation' it seems.

I was a wee lad when the Great War begun. That green filth came through some black hole from nowhere, no thanks to those thrice be damned wyzards, and it weren't long that it took the weakling elves and humans to come a whinin' to us for help.

The King took our young men and some older men like Uncle Tukratt, a few at a time. By and by, the sappers who worked the coal and tin mines went south. Then the smiths, including old Cousin Klint. The miners followed. Cleef became a village of old men, women, children and cripples. Cripples like Pa. Aye, the war was a fine time for a cripple in Cleef, both in the makin' of 'em and for their employment. His peg leg never stopped him from throwing a rock at a young thief, nor from givin' me a whippin' from time to time, though I tried to make meself scarce.

We lads learned how to hunt and trap early on. The herdsmen reckoned how to find the last bit o' green up in the high mounts for their sheep, goats, asses and ponies. And we learnt quick how to skin anything, which is where Pa got his hides.

Good leather needs good hide, and makes for war saddles, belts, jerkins, ballista fittings, harnesses, tack -- all manner of war goods. And "curiosity items" for them jaded young noblemen. Ach, noble be a queer term for those leeches, 'tis a poor match twen man and title to my eyes. What they want, they take or buy, but never make. Useless as teats on a sow.

Then the war ended, the Green filth cleaned from our land and left for the humans to handle. Our mines opened again. Ironmongery stopped being so popular, so Pa went back to making simple tack for simple merchants. Oh, and them cursed "curiosities" the jades demanded now and again. Cousin Klint and Uncle Tukratt came back from the war, so ye'd expect us to be livin' happily ever after, wouldn't ye?

Not by a damned sight.

That'll be enough cryin' into me flagon, friend, 'tis as empty as me purse. The dwarf wants wolf meat, so wolf meat he'll be gettin', and I'll get a few more mugs fer me trouble. Mayhap they'll do what they do best, and keep the dreams and screams away.

What did a wolf ever do to me? Naught ill, I'll warrant, but that won't matter. The Takers get by in this world, so I'll take what I can get.

To be continued . . .

[LochnarITB]

Careful Occhi. First it's building a story line behind your character. Then it's pushing back bed time to play through "just one more quest". Then the vacation time suddenly gets used up. Then you suddenly start coming down with the flu and all your sick time gets burned. Not long after that you'll be standing on the corner, "Hey mister, got $14.95 to spare to buy a fellow a game card?" B)

To be continued . . .
[right][snapback]61608[/snapback][/right]

I look forward to it. Good stuff. Thanks.

[Occhidiangela]

Chapter 2: Takin' it to the Troggs

Who'll carry the mail?
-I'll carry the mail!
Through the cave?
-Through anything.
What about the Troggs?
-Bugger the Troggs!
You'd bugger a Trogg?
-I'd bugger a chicken!
You no good dirty rotten scoundrel, they ought to lock you up and throw away the key!
-Then who'll carry the mail?

Enough, friend, 'tis a fine drinking game and good for a laugh or two, but I'll carry the bloody mail. An' of course himself wants me to be killin' troggs while I am at it -- though not for the meat, I'll warrant. The Troggs have taken the Gnomes' home, and the gnomes want me to take them out. Fair enough, 'twill earn me a few more mugs of ale, and friend, I'll be buyin' the next round. Take what ye can get, when ye can get yer hand on it -- a lesson from the Demon War, what we Dwarves call the Great Betrayal.

Betrayal. Don't I know that one, from the sharp end.

Ma stopped smilin' much as the Great War boom went all quiet. Pa had work, but there never seemed to be any money, not like aforetimes. Maybe the money kept fallin' into the Void. The granite and limestone quarries reopened. Rebuilding after a war takes a pile o' rocks and wood, mule teams, harnesses. But money was scarce. Repaired tack was more popular and cheaper than new bought, so Pa taught me the ways of repair. No fun that, not like huntin' and trappin'.

Ye does yer share to keep the family a goin' concern, that's the rule. Uncle Tukratt worked with the wheelwright and lived in our loft. While the Great War was on, he'd been scarce. After, Pa and he tolerated one another, een if it was plain to a bairn that they shared no love for one another. In-laws can be ducks and geese in the same pond, some say. Pa got all hot when Nuncle gave to me me first cold forged dagger, though Ma put her foot down about gifts given; that time. See, 'twas Cousin Klint what made me this dagger, an' he's family. Ye see the runes there? He told me that when I could read 'em, I'd understand what they meant. I learnt swift, I did.

Don't be blanchin' like that, friend, this dag cannae be drawn without a sip o' the sanguine. 'Tis my blood will drip, not your'n, as you've been all too kind to me.

The blunderbus was another story, two years and a rain of hard tears later. Every young dwarf dreams of gettin' a blunderbus, don't he? Pa confiscated that, straight away, all of Mom's and Nuncle's arguments fallin' on his deaf ears. No mattter to him that Cousin Klint had etched me name into the butt plate.

"Ye'll ne'er be content to work leather and raise a sept o' the clan, Lee, if ye be fallin' in love with a blunderbus. Fall in that trap, boy, and ye'll be fodder for the King's captains, mark my words. Ain't that right, Tuk? Fodder for the King's captains!"

Pa's crystal ball musta been a workin' on that day. All the village lads what hunted with a blunderbus were called to arms when the Demon War broke out and chaos reigned.

Would I have lived through that war? I dunno, friend, I'd learnt how to be quiet and careful enough, but who can slip past unnoticed when the sergeant calls the company to march? The King's captains count noses and beards just fine, says Nuncle, so maybe 'twas for the best.

Then the quarry shut down with no one left to cut stone, for they was off makin’ cannon towers for the King’s army, for his forts. And this time, payment for war goods came by way of a promise as often as by silver. Ye can’t buy food with promises, nor with “the King Bronzebeard’s gratitude” as them young “nobles” used for payment when they needed some ought or other.

Those days brought the clouds to Pa’s brow to stay. The whippin’s got to be my daily treat. That’s when the wolf, growed up now, got his throat cut. Pa made me do it with my own hands, with him a watchin’, and all over – bah, it don’t matter why, poor pup’s dead.

Ma stopped smilin’ in those days. The older lads went off for sappers and muleskinners, my older sister Emara married off as quick as she found that old man who’d take the dowry Cousin Klint offered as a favor to Ma – Pa would not budge on that affair. Then Uncle Tukrat was shown the outside of the door.

I cannae drink away all of the shouting matches that came of an evening, every evening. The three of them bellowed words no man, nor woman, nor brother should ever say to kin. Straw in the ears only keeps out soft spoken words, and there was little o’ that.

I reckon ‘twas Cousin Klint solved that problem. He was over to take me blunderbuss huntin’, and then learned at last of the confiscation. Ye don’t cross a fella like that one, not if ye have half a wit.

As a rule, Cousin Klint was a dwarf of few words, that lump o' chawbakky in his cheek bein,’ I had guessed, the root of his reserve. That night, he spat his chaw into the fire an’ spoke up right eloquent, he did.

“Tuk, me cousin,” sez he, “yer the flint gonna set fire to the vapor fillin' this house if ye stay. Leah cannae raise her little ones with her brother and husband catterwaulin’ night and day. A war at the hearth kills a lad’s and a lassie's spirit. Me two coppers sez ye’ll be happier scoutin’ fer yer old regiment, and Leah will be happier with one gnarly old cuss to deal with at a time. She can keep the hearth warm for Lee and the little lassie without ye, until this old soppin' cloth dries up. That’s how I see it.”

‘Twas the longest piece o’ speakin’ he ever did, near as I can reckon, more than the usual “nice feed, Leah” or “yer bairns are a growin’ up plump and pink, cousin” that we’d here on the rare day he came for dinner.

The next dawn, Uncle Tukratt left for the 13th King’s Fusiliers, ye’ve heard of them I reckon. It took a few weeks to dawn on me that he’d been Ma’s guardian angel. 'Twas he that kept the rakes and ‘noblemen’ away with their appetites for curiosities and their high handed manners. And the other threats to her person.

He’d taught me to throw a knife and an axe for huntin’ -- the blunderbuss weren’t comin’ back -- for which our bellies ended up bein’ grateful. Never took nuthin’ from me, me Nuncle, ‘cept peace of mind and any dream to stay in Cleef and raise bairns.

Pa and Ma needed me, as did little Megant. Pa kept “lookin’ for extra work” and comin’ home less, almost livin’ at the taverns. They took his money alright, and Ma just took it hard.

Come sunup, those Troggs will take it hard, and sharp, when the meet with me. They’ll not soon forget the lesson I’ll teach ‘em about takin’. They’ll get took for takin’ the gnomes plunder, and I’ll take me ale at dusk. If I wash me mug with a salt tear or two, friend, who’ll take that grief from me? None within my blade’s reach, I reckon.

G'night, friend, and I'll be buyin' the next round.

To be continued . . . When Trolls can read.
Occhi

[Grimjack]

To be continued . . . When Trolls can read

I hope a little faster than that.... We all know how thick a troll can be..

Good story, thanks for sharing it.

Grimjack

[Occhidiangela]

Part III in the travels, trials, travails, and reflections of LeeVanCleef, dwarf rogue and beer lover.

Chapter 3: When Trolls Read

Sit back down, friend, I'll get this round. A gnome will buy a round o' beer when trolls read, I reckon. Don't let that overeducated gopher rile ye: he's a gnome, in love with machines but at a loss for what to do with folk. The real opposite of a troll, mind ye: short, funny, intelligent, nimble and scatterbrained, where yer troll is illiterate, clumsy, tall, focused on feeding his maw and without a trace o' wit.

"Ye be seein' yer brother under this roof when trolls read, woman."
"Ye be huntin' with a musket, Lee, when trolls can read."

That's how Pa said it, a sneer in his voice, whenever he'd opine ye'd as well wish to breath water as try whatever fancy he saw askance. I'd hae ne'er figured a troll could read, which is why me mission to the ice caves was so curious.

Stolen a dwarf's messages and books, did a troll? What fer? Like as not to start a fire, or the mission would nae call for haste. Mayhap books makes tasty bait. Trolls have a powerful hunger fer fish, they say, and be master fishermen. Mind ye, I prefer me fish cooked, not raw like trolls eats 'em. Anyways, off I scurries to the caves. Me bein' a dwarf I figured I'd have an advantage, as I near grew up in caves. Ye might say caves were me second home.

After Uncle Tukratt left, things got better for a while, then worse. Ma and Pa could nae pass a civil word, vittles was gettin' scarce, so I hunted more and slept at home less. I learned how to get me hands on things that folk weren't careful about tyin' down, which helped make me huntin' caves comfortable enough. Caves is quiet, mostly out o' the rain, and usually full o' interestin' things miners leave behind. Were I a gnome I coulda made a fine machine, but that aint me gift. Caves is a good place to smoke boar meat, or varmint.

I'd haul home such smoked meat as I could carry, and arrive no sooner than I had cured it: sleep's easier when there's little screamin'. Pa and Ma seems to have thought it good that I was out on me own, both for me future and so I'd not see the donnybrooks.

But timin' is all, the wizun's say, and I fell into a fine mess. 'Twas all about them young nobles and "curiosities" made of fine leather. And Ma.

When I got to the house with a pile o' smoked boar, there were horses out front with the rams. Big folks, like yersel, and dwarfs o' high standin', to judge by the harness and tack. Hearin' laughter, I figgered 'twere better to come in 'round the back. Drinks and laughs with Pa's tavern mates would oft turn to tears, and I had no stomach for spare bile.

I come in the back and musta dropped the load o' meat loud in me shock. A dozen sets o' eyes were a starin' at me, to include Ma turnin to look at me with red, red cheeks and red, red eyes.

I'm not sure what that man said about "the buxom model" nor what in tarnation that halter and harness lookin' rig with it's straps and rings was for, but I knew it weren't right for me Ma to be standin' atop her own dinin' table with naught on but that passle o' leather and them strangers drinkin' and laughin'. Pa was starin' at me strange like, twixt guilt and hate I'd guess. 'Twas a bag held frim in his hand, heavy with coin from the look of it. A few more piles o' leather was on the table at Ma's feet.

Samples of curiosities, I'm guessin', for I'll know what they were when trolls read. It seemed for ever I looked at this sight, tho' it musta been a moment in truth, then I was on him with dagger an' fist. His forearm and the coin bag blocked me first two thrust 'n slash. Gold and silver flew around me head, then me arm were grabbed, and then the rest o' me. I dinnae stop a cursin' and kickin' til they had me tied up, stuck in the corner: it took all twelve, and they each bled. Dad's blood on the floor, and on the coin, showed the wound he'd earned. His arm were bein' bound by some "noble" dwarf, Ma had disappeared. Of a sudden, everyone was gone.

Pa looks at me, all tied and fumin', and slowly he picks up the coins.

"Ye'll be mindin' yer tongue, lad, or there will be trouble. A father an' husband must make ends meet." Then he looked away and lit his pipe.

Arguin' with Pa had rarely been thought clever, I reckoned, then the heat in me blood went cold. Where were Megant? Were she wearin' harness too? All the words I were gonna say to Pa died, to be spoke when trolls can read. I yelled fer Ma to come untie me, as Pa weren't budgin': understandable, seein' blood puddle on the floor.

Ma untied me, now wearing her house coat. She picked up me knife, with a harsh look at Pa, and gave it back to me. Megant I heard weepin' upstairs. I asked Ma "Why-?" and she just looked at me with those red rimmed eyes and shook here head.

"Not fit to be talkin' o that, Lee, best put it outta yer head."

When trolls can read, thinks I.

I spent the next two weeks at home. Food got short with me not huntin', Pa drinkin' up every cent of an evenin', not to mention his gamblin'. Ma would nae speak to me, but she seemed glad I were home with me blade out each night. No more nobles, nor bigfolk, nor "curiosities."

At the end of the fortnight Pa dinnae make it home. After a couple o' more days, I went lookin' fer him. The taverns had nae seen him for some days. It took a while, but I found him. He were trussed up outside me rabbit huntin' cave, though I be glad Ma dinnae see. Someone did him professional like, fer certes, and left him to me as a gift.

His throat were sliced neat as you please. His heart were cut out and stuffed in his mouth. His hands were cut off and his feet, and stacked up afront his body, which were trussed up in a piece o' fancy leather harness. The runes on his forehead, cut straight and clean, spelt "Drunken Scum" as clear as dawn. What's queer is that no trace o' beast nor scavenger were within a hundred paces o' the cave. Unnatural it were, though I found sign that someone had been about.

I'm guessin' 'twere me Nuncle: he's handy with a dagger, but I'll know when Trolls can read. I left the body there and came home to tell Ma. She took it hard, she did, and I knew what had to be done. I sent word to Cousin Klint that she'd need o' him, and I took the week to sell the place and pack up what could be fit on a wagon, then took Ma and Megant off to his place.

I tried tellin' him what happened but he'd hear no word of it.

"Talkin' won't fix the hurt, boy, I don't need particulars. Leah needs me, and bonnie Megant. Ye needs to be far from Cleef, I reckon." He spat, as were his habit. "Sherriff o' Cleef told me they'll not press charges if ye stay clear o' town."

Struck near dumb, I was! "But I dinnae kill him, Cousin Klint," sez I, "I found him!"

"We dwarf's frown on patricide, and fratricide," sez Klint, with a hard look at me and emphasis on the last, "so I'll give ye me blessin' and look after Leah." I dinnae reckon he was up for an argument. I was off with the next sunrise.

Yer lookin' dry, shall I buy another? Good, then 'twill be yer turn for a tale, when ye've moistened that dry throat. From the desert, are ye?

Funny thing, this life. When I took that book back from the Ice troll chief, there in his cave, I carved "Illiterate" in runes on his forehead afore I left him. Ya figger them other trolls will get the joke?

Sure they will, when trolls can read.

To be continued

Occhi