11-30-2004, 06:32 PM
(This post was last modified: 11-30-2004, 06:33 PM by 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 . . .
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 . . .
Cry 'Havoc' and let slip the Men 'O War!
In War, the outcome is never final. --Carl von Clausewitz--
Igitur qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum
John 11:35 - consider why.
In Memory of Pete
In War, the outcome is never final. --Carl von Clausewitz--
Igitur qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum
John 11:35 - consider why.
In Memory of Pete