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Subject: [BLOOD TIES] Chapter 1...(Completed)
Date: Thu, 02 Mar 95 12:09:04 CST
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[Blood Ties] Chapter 1, Dwarves, Elves and Humans?
(Copyright 1994, All Rights Reserved)
~Date: 01.05.95 - 03.2.95
 
Scene: The main room of The Dragons' Inn
Time: Evening, Late Winter
 
The story thus far:  Ciaran Falon of Flotsam, the dwarf scholar and
map maker, has returned to his place of origin (The Dragons' Inn)
after finally completing his life's task, to map the entire known
world.  Halgorn Ereyiel, half-elven ranger of The High Elven House
of Ereyiel, has also found his way to The 'Inn, seeking word of his
lost twin brother from the well-travelled dwarf, Ciaran, in order
to further his search for him.
     Meanwhile, a stranger has come to Generica, (and possibly
Nexus as well) a dwarf by the name of Norg Hammerhelm, who
consequently finds his way to the 'Inn, despite his confusion.
While drinking and chatting casually to Serene, the barmaid, Norg's
attention is drawn to a unusual-looking dwarf and his 'companion',
an elfish-looking man, across the room; Norg moves to investigate.
     Ciaran tells his story to Halgorn, and is offered a high price
by the half-elf to join in his quest.  When Ciaran doesn't answer
right away, another character, a strange, sharp-featured half-elf
named A'in approaches Halgorn, offering his services as a mage.
These services come with a high price, however, as Halgorn
discovers when the curious, robed elf names his price as an
acknowledged debt by the House of Ereyiel...
 
(for the whole story, see [Blood Ties], 'Prologue', or mail a
request to 'Brannon Hollingsworth' at: zu01986@uabdpo.dpo.uab.edu)
==================================================================
 
                         Chapter 1
 
     Halgorn Ereyiel arched his eyebrows ever so slightly, studying
the one before him.  Another half-breed, he decided.  Part high
elven, like himself, no doubt, and, like so many others of his
caste, wanting an entre into the royal house.
 
     The ranger had been more fortunate than most who shared his
lot.  He and his twin brother were bastards, born to Gelerina
Ereyiel, the crown princess.  For six and two score years, he had
lived among his mother's people.  He had not needed the
acknowledgement of a father who had died in battle before his sons
were born.  Instead, Halgorn carried the badge of the House of
Ereyiel and its name.
 
     A decade ago, his brother, Halborn had disappeared.  He was
sent as an emissary to the halls of the aquatic elves.  To the
surprise of all, he had not returned.  Like his twin, Halborn was
a ranger, but more than that, he was also of the druidic orders.
The brotherhood had searched for him, turning up little more than
a badly worn trail.
 
     Halgorn had followed it, for his lord, for his mother, and for
himself.  That search had brought him to The Dragons' Inn.  And
now, a sorcerer and a powerful one, no doubt, offered him service
in exchange for an acknowledged debt.  He could not help but feel
a certain kinship to the man.  But for the grace of others, his
plight would have been similar.  In the mysterious A'in, Halgorn
Ereyiel saw the unmistakable, though valiantly hidden, pain of one
cast aside.  The half-elven ranger saw something else.  Here was a
lean and hungry wolf, whose very features could slice his prey.
Such animals were dangerous.  Nonetheless, he had little other
option.
 
     Finally, Halgorn spoke, nodding his head in a bow, "Should we
succeed, the King, my lord, will acknowledge the debt himself.  Any
equipment, magical components or provisions you require, I shall
provide."  Turning slowly to Ciaran of Flotsam, he asked, "And you,
Sir, would you be willing to accompany us as a guide?  My offer
stands, if you are not adverse to the companionship of elves..." he
continued, offering A'in a barely perceptible wink.
 
     The dwarf, who had remained seated, took a thoughtful sip from
his mug, holding the two half-elves with his gaze as surely as he
could with his two bare hands.  His bearded lips came away from the
mug smiling lightly.  "As you said yourself, I am a world
traveller...I have stomached the company of those much more
offensive than elves.  I accept your offer, although I can only
promise my services as a guide and scholar, for a lover of battle
I am not."
 
     At this point Halgorn was visibly suprised, somewhat jarred by
the sturdy-looking dwarf's announcement.  Once again, an eyebrow
arched in wonder.
 
     "Make no mistake, Halgorn of the House of Ereyiel, I shall
fight beside you if pressed, and will not abandon you in the thick
of battle.  But--," the dwarf accentuated his last word by
politely, yet purposefully thumping his mug upon the oaken table,
letting the solid, thick sound fill the silence of his pause.
"...know also that I am a lover of knowledge and the arts, not a
herald of war."
 
     Shaking his head in acknowledgement, Halgorn silently accepted
the dwarf's terms.  'So be it, then,' he thought, 'let it be my
sword alone that leads into the din and roar of conflict.'  Despite
himself, the half-elf sighed audibly, his thin shoulders stooping
slightly.  He had found more than he had bargained for here at the
'Inn, in more than one sense.  He had unexpectedly discovered a
mage, and a powerful one at that, to aid him on his blood quest,
and then, upon seeing the battle-hardened dwarf, Ciaran, he thought
that all of his prayers had been answered.  For Halgorn had hoped
that he could also find a warrior-companion in this sturdy, quiet
dwarf, apparently, this was not to be.  Suddenly, a startled cry
caught his attention, tearing him from his thoughts.  It was then
that the half-elf noticed that there was a commotion in the 'Inn,
and further, that it was steadily moving towards him like a tide.
 
     A tide of angry, shouting voices and turtly displaced bodies
that was Norg Hammerhelm.  The brash dwarf's opinion of the
situation before him had not improved when he saw, in glimpses
caught between tossed bodies, the strange-looking, sharp-faced elf
appear, stepping in front of the sitting dwarf.  'Damn elfs' 'ave
probably bewitched him, keepin' him from fightin' back!' huffed the
red-faced, angry dwarf, pushing his way roughly through the crowded
bodies.  Norg had decided to handle this situation in a manner
which most often produced favorable results for him: up-front
confrontation.  The burly dwarf marched right up to the dark-haired
elf who had called out earlier, drawing his attention to begin
with, and placed his gnarled hands on his hips.
 
     "What ye fer?" growled the dwarf, his voice grating like
boulders in an avalanche.
 
     Halgorn, both eyebrows shooting up this time, in astonishment
and disbelief, could not find the words to answer.  He stifled a
grin.  Had it not been for his obvious underlying toughness, this
second dwarf would be a rather comic figure.
 
     "What ye fer, elf?" growled the dwarf again, now recognizing
the half-elf for what he truly was.  This time, Norg raised his
voice slightly and used one stubby finger to poke the half-elf's
belt, accentuating every word.
 
     The physical contact made by the strange, seemingly suicidal
dwarf brought Halgorn out of his shock.  He could not believe his
eyes, nor his good fortune.  How the gods had favored him, sending
the this apparently fearless (or insane) warrior, almost as if he
had asked!
 
     Finally finding his tongue and stifling a chuckle at the
ludicrousness of the whole predicament, Halgorn stepped back and
eyed the dwarf as he spoke.  "Well met, good dwarf," said the half-
elf, not wanting to offend his gruff 'acquaintance', despite the
situation.  "Are you, too, interested in a business proposition?"
 
     Now it was Norg's turn to be confused.  He had come prepared
for a confrontation and perhaps a minor skirmish, and now this
crazy half-elf was offering him a job!  The dwarf shuffled a few
steps back from the half-elf, his brow furrowing in confusion.
This time a not-quite-so-confident Norg offered his hand instead of
an accusing finger.  "Me name's Norg Hammerhelm, what ye fer?" he
said, the softened tone of his voice, the lively spark in his eyes,
and the almost apologetic scowl on his face telling more than a
thousand fire-side tales.
 
          *          *          *          *          *          *
 
     The band sat waiting for Ciaran Falon who still stat silently
on his stool, emptying his mug with a final sip, sighing heavily.
He looked around, seemingly reading the faces of the adventurers
next to him, and finally, he nodded. "Alright," he said, "count me
in."
 
     He was about to get up when Norg Hammerhelm laid a heavy hand
on his shoulder, and he looked around in surprise. "Any problems
with it, brother?" he asked, trying to break the grip but having a
hard time with it.  Norg grinned. "Aye," he said, "ye still haven't
named yer price, and considerin' all the trouble we're bound to be
headin' for, ye might want to stay here."
 
     Ciaran's eyes narrowed. "Considering that I'm probably the
only one to have travelled along the Blood Sea, I don't think you
would like to leave me back."  He finally managed to shake off the
other dwarf's iron grip on his arm. "As for my price, I think it is
acceptable - even to you."  He glanced around, and, catching the
suspicious eyes of Halgorn Ereyiel on him, nodded to him. "Yes,
sire, the price will be acceptable."
 
     "I do not want anything from you."
 
     The companions stood surprised. A dwarf, not asking for
payment for his services?  Halgorn Ereyiel cleared his throat. "I
beg your pardon, traveller", he sharply asked, "but, I've never
known a dwarf whose loyalty was not made faster by gold and gems.
Do you not want at least some reward for this journey?"
 
     Ciaran Falon lowered his eyes.  "I did not say that I did not
want any reward", he softly spoke.  "I merely said that I do not
want any reward from you.  As I might have told you, I've just
finished my life's quest and can consider myself to be a happy one
who has seen the world and mapped every inch of it.  But there is
one thing missing, and this journey allows me to fill the last gap
in my maps.  "I have not yet mapped the Blood Sea.  No one has ever
even attempted to map the Blood Sea.  Since the Cataclysm, it is a
place of great evil, and I have not been able to find a group of
adventurers daring to explore it.  Now there is one: you, and with
you by my side, I will finally finish my lifequest.  No danger is
great enough to prevent me from joining you.  Believe me, there is
no greater reward than to see my name in the libraries of Astinus,
as the first being ever to explore the whole world.  Let the glory
be my payment."
 
     "Well, then, may the bards sing of your quest," Halgorn told
him.  "I too have some skill with maps.  I admire your task and the
vastness of your labors.  You are most welcome to join us."
 
     Ciaran Falon nodded, as Norg Hammerhelm slapped him on the
back.  Halgorn looked on in bemused silence, while A'in's visage
was unreadable.  Finally, the half-elven ranger spoke, "Gentlemen,
let us ride hard on the morrow.  There are many miles between this
inn and the Blood Sea.  Dwarven folk are perhaps the best judge of
comfortable lodging, I'm told.  Meanwhile, A'in and I will see to
provisions.  I am no lover of cities," he told the sorcerer.  "Your
assistance?"
 
     A'in bowed slightly in assent.
 
     Halgorn slipped Ciaran a purse filled with silver and gold.
"We'll see to the rest.  Purchase anything you and Norg may
require.  Sharpen your weapons, repair your cloaks, and see to the
chinks in your armor.  We are tasked with the remainder."
 
          *          *          *          *          *          *
 
        As the two dwarves left the inn to purchase the needed
supplies for their journey, yet another figure approached the
ranger's table.  "I couldn't help but overhear," the man said, "you
were heading towards Blood Sea."
 
        A'in began to turn, wondering how the newcomer had
approached so closely without his notice.  A quick glance to
Halgorn, who was now facing the stranger, showed an amount of
surprise equaling his own.  A'in chuckled humorlessly to himself.
 
        "No, please, don't get up on my account," the newcomer
said, "I'll just join you."
 
        He pulled up the chair vacated by Ciaran.  He was a human,
a few inches shorter either A'in or Halgorn, and looked no
different than the multitude of male humans either Halgorn or A'in
had seen and forgotten in their travels.  If he excelled at
anything, it was looking average.  His hair and eyes were a
dark brown.  His clothes were loose fitting and also either brown
or tan.  Only the long knife he wore on his lower leg distinguished
him from the laborers in the streets.  That and the fact he had
suddenly invited himself to share a table with two obviously
experienced adventurers.  "My name is Richard Cooper, call me
Rick," he said.  "You see, I have some personal business to attend
to in Skypoint and was hoping you were seeking traveling
companions, Mr. ... Ereyiel ... is it?"
 
     "Halgorn," the ranger answered stiffly.  "That will do."  The
half-elf's demeanor changed markedly.  This Richard Cooper looked
like a thief, and he had no love for such men.  "What sort of
service could you render?"
 
     "Halgorn," Cooper replied with a nod, "a pleasure.  A pleasure
to meet you as well, sir," he continued, nodding in A'in's
direction.  A'in seemed to flip his wrist in response, and left
both the other men wondering if he had waved back slightly, or only
swatted at an insect.  "I heard some argument about fighting,"
Cooper answered.  "Do you need additional men-at-arms?"
 
     Halgorn nodded, appraising him with one swift look, "Is our
companionship sufficient, or do you also have a 'price?'"  This
time, he spoke the word with some rancor.
 
     "I appear to have offended you, sir," Cooper responded, a look
of concern on his face.  "I merely did not wish to travel from
Generica to my sister's wedding in Skypoint alone.  I wanted
nothing else from you."  Cooper rose.  "Good luck on your journey,
-gentlemen-."  Cooper turned icily to walk away...
 
          *          *          *          *          *          *
 
     The market, as always, was noisy, overcrowded and smelly, but
the two companions-to-be did not mind.  Both had seen a lot of
market-places in their lives, and they were all basically the same.
This special market, however, seemed to be enormously well-stocked
with all kinds of goods, and both Ciaran Falon and Norg
Hammerhelm knew they would be able to find what they were searching
for.
 
     Standing close to the first tents, Norg nudged his elbow into
Ciaran's side.  "Well, feller," he asked, "anything special yer
looking for?  If not, I'd say we'd best buy whatever we need for
those bloody islands in this damned Blood-Sea, aye?"
 
     Ciaran smiled.  "There's not much I need for myself," he
answered, "so I think we could meet again here in an hour and look
at what I have and decide what we still need, alright?"
 
     Norg grinned, slapping his companion on his shoulder.
"Alright with me.  Me armor might be needin' some work, and I might
be needin' a new cloak, since me old one's gone.  We'll meet again
here, feller."  And then he was off, pushing his small body
powerfully through the crowd.  Ciaran smiled after him, shaking his
head in amusement, and then he went himself.
 
          *          *          *          *          *          *
 
     Norg tromped along the Bazaar of Generica, wondering to
himself just why he was here.  To the extent of his knowledge, a
mere few hours ago, he had been with his fine troupe of companions
in a place that now seemed very far away from and foreign to, this
place.  Now he was pushing himself through this crowd, looking to
buy new equipment so that he could go gallivanting off over a Sea
that he had never even heard of!  The dwarf shook his bushy, brown,
shoulder-length hair away from his face.  "Durned stuff never
behaves itself," he grumbled to himself, literally grappling with
his disobedient mane.
 
     Several individuals, including many of the strange, unknown
races that he had seen earlier, moved quickly from the path of this
crazed-acting dwarf.  Norg couldn't understand why all of these
people were still out and about at this late hour anyway.  'Most
normal folk should be in dreams by now,' the gruff dwarf thought to
himself, stroking his greenish-brown beard.  His beard was another
reason that many people stepped from the path of this unusual
dwarf.  Upon closer inspection of his thick, brown beard, one found
a mass of various, tiny plants and herbs growing there, lending it
a roughly greenish tinge.  Norg used these plants and mosses in the
making of poultices and healing draughts, a skill that he had
learned from his father, who had been a healer, long ago.
 
     Thoughts of his father brought the gruff dwarf from the far
distant past to the future.  Norg's hand absently went to his
double-headed warhammer, his fingers tracing the angular dwarven
runes etched into the mighty head, his only physical reminder of
his father.  "Need to get it a cover, suren," he grumped to
himself, "to keep the damned salt water from rustin' it..."
 
          *          *          *          *          *          *
 
     The hour had passed all too quickly, and Norg had returned to
the place where he and Ciaran had planned to meet again.  But five
minutes passed, then ten minutes, and the warrior had still not
seen a sign of his companion. "Where in the 'Hells did...", he
started to grumble, when finally he got a glimpse of Ciaran's black
coat.  A satisfied smile appeared on his lips, and he huffed aloud,
waiting for the traveller to approach him. "Now, ye got what ye
need?" he asked, acting perturbed.
 
     "I guess I'm finished", Ciaran answered, lowering the large
sack he was carrying with him.  "However, I might have forgotten
something of importance...there was so much to think of.  Maybe you
would like to have a look?"
 
     Norg Hammerhelm nodded. "Suren, let's get on with it.  Come
over here and we'll unpack yer bags."
 
     Both dwarves sat down at the end of the market, and Ciaran
opened the sack.  He pulled two long ropes from it, several
torches, flasks of oil, whetstones, iron and flintstone, two boxes
of tinder, four pairs of boots...
 
     "Waitaminit!" Norg interrupted his companion.  "Boots?  Boots
that size?  What in the 'Hells are ye planning to do with these?"
Ciaran's eyes widened in surprise.
 
     "Have you never heard of dryboots...No?  They are meant to be
worn over your own boots, and they keep them dry during a storm.
Most sailors I know..."
 
     "Storm?!?" Norg thundered.  "Did ye say 'storm'?  As if bein'
on a ship isn't bad enough... Now we've got to deal with water
below and above our heads!  Suren dwarves wern't made for the
sea..."  The dwarf's speech deteriorated into a string of dwarven
phrases and curses.
 
     Ciaran shrugged his shoulders, grinning sheepishly, "I
thought, just in case..."
 
     Norg growled. "Yer right, suren...Alright, let's get on with
it."
 
     Ciaran continued to unpack the sack.  Two lamps followed, a
bunch of quills, a small pot of ink, several bags of spices and
salt, a strange metal instrument the shape of a cross and a large
pack of parchment.  Ciaran moved his hand over the ink, the quills,
the metal instrument and the parchment.  "And these are for my
private supply," he explained.  Norg glanced suspiciously at the
writing tools. "Magick," the suspicious dwarf grumbled to himself,
scowling distastefully.  "How much did ye pay for 'em?" he
questioned.
 
     Ciaran's face hardened. "None of your business", he snapped.
"Anyway, I bought them with my own money, and they will help us all
in our journey." Norg's face screwed up in confusion and mistrust,
one brown, tremendously bushy eyebrow raising.  Ciaran sighed,
wondering to himself how he was even considered to be a member of
the same race as this dense dwarf.  He lifted the small metal
instrument. "Do you know what this is?  It is called a tricross,
and you use it if you want to find out your position without any
landmarks.  It is one of the few gnomish inventions known to work,
and a sailor who knows how to use it will never get lost."
 
     Norg sighed. "This is all ye bought?  Damned gnomish toys?" he
asked.  Ciaran nodded, and the warrior shook his head sadly.
"Ciaran, we'll be needing something to eat on the trip.  Ye hadn't
thought of that?"  The traveller snorted.  "Of course I have. But
I did not want to decide for the rest of our group and wanted to do
this part of our trading with them..."
 
     "Ah, bah!  Ye'll know better'n they what to get for this
damned boat trip.  After all, yer the only one who's been on the
Blood Sea, aye?" Norg said, waving his hand towards the docks.
"I'm sure the elfs'll trust yer judgement on this matter...besides,
this way we'll get some decent brew, suren, not some fancy fairy
drink!"  Norg rose, chuckling to himself, hefting his trusty pack,
now bulging with new found equipment, and stomped off.  Ciaran
followed him, sighing deeply.
 
          *          *          *          *          *          *
 
     As soon as the man's back had turned, Halgorn Ereyiel looked
to A'in, whispering in High Elven, "Your judgement?"
 
     "Use him and watch him.  He stinks of death," the laconic
sorcerer replied.
 
     'And you don't?' Halgorn wondered.  A'in's skills more than
likely extended to necromancy.  Turning away, he called to Cooper,
"Sir, perhaps we've gotten off to a rocky start.  My apologies.
Should you wish to reconsider, we would be honored by your
company."
 
     Cooper stopped a few steps from the stairs and turned back
towards the pair's table.  "Why do I suspect your sudden change in
attitude, Halgorn?" he asked, walking slowly back to the elves.
 
     Halgorn Ereyiel, the Ranger Lord, who was entirely unused to
the ways of men, fingered his purse.  His initial inclination was
to offer Cooper some gold.  In his experience, humans, especially
mercenaries and men-at-arms, were more than happy to take it.
 
     Cooper sat across from the two.  "Look," he said,"I want to be
perfectly clear on our traveling arrangements.  First, I don't
travel with strangers," he said, "so let's start over."  Cooper
nodded to the ranger.  "Hello Halgorn, it is indeed a pleasure to
see you again," he said.  "Who's your friend?" he queried, turning
to face A'in.
 
     The mage's gaze could have cut diamonds, but Cooper met it
without blinking.  "A'in," he said, returning his attention to a
point in the air before him.
 
     "As you wish," Cooper responded with a smile.  "Second," he
said, turning back to Halgorn, "you need not provide a single penny
for me."  "In fact," he continued, "I would prefer you stop
gesturing with your purse, that is, unless you want every
cutthroat, hoodlum, and thug in the city to try and make off with
it."
 
     A'in brought his goblet to his lips, hiding a trace of a
smile.
 
     "My apologies, Mister Cooper," Halgorn said, inclining his
head.  It was best not to make an issue of the obvious, and the
ranger realized reluctantly that this man's point was well taken.
 
     "Third," Cooper continued, "If you desire my aid, I am
proficient in at least half a dozen languages, several of which are
used between here and Skypoint."  "I'm also an experienced rider,
having served several of the local trading houses as a messenger,"
he said.  "If you wish my aid along the way, simply ask for it," he
said.  "When do you expect to leave, gentlemen?" he asked.
 
     "On the morrow," Halgorn replied.  "We're seeing to provisions
presently."
 
     "Very good, I'll meet with you then," Cooper said as he rose.
"Oh, one more thing," he said casually.  "If we are to ride
together, please don't assume I'm stupid or ignorant," he remarked.
 
     Halgorn and A'in watched in silence as Rick climbed the stairs
towards his room.  It took them both a heartbeat to realize he had
just addressed them in High Elven.
 
          *          *          *          *          *          *
 
     Halgorn shook his head wistfully, draining the last of his
wine as he stood at his and A'in's table.  Cooper had left them,
presumably retiring to his room for the night.  Halgorn placed the
wine glass down lightly, speaking quietly to A'in in a more archaic
form of High Elven.  "These humans often baffle me, always caught
up in their own little powerplays, never grasping the larger
struggle."
 
     "Yes," A'in repiled, letting a slight sliver of icyness trail
his voice.  "They often pretend to be what they are not, or try to
hide knowledge that they are fully aware of."  His gaze settled on
the noble-son with an almost accusatory glare.
 
     Halgorn quickly dismissed the strange stare as one of the
mage's curious quirks, shrugging his shoulders.  "Who could figure
them," he said, switching back to the common tongue.  "Come, my
elven companion, let us forsake the confines of these walls, if
only for a few moments.  My heart aches for the open glade, and the
stars upon my face."
 
     A'in almost thought about sarcastically, but subtly, mocking
the ranger's sentiments, but he quickly dismissed the notion,
relying on that which he knew and trusted most.  "Yes, let's." he
said, his face an impassable mask of stone.  The mysterious mage
led the way from the 'Inn, his dark robes flowing about him as he
stepped into the cold, wintery night air.
 
          *          *          *          *          *          *
 
     The door of Dragon's Inn flew open, kicked powerfully by the
right boot of Norg Hammerhelm.  In his strong hands, the dwarf
carried a huge pile of packages smelling strongly of cheese, bread
and smoked meat.  He groaned under the weight of the rations, but
he managed to stand strong, as he lowered the pile onto a table.
Ciaran Falon followed him, his burden consisting of the sack
of supplies and even more food.  With a relieved sigh, the
traveller also set down his load, breathing heavily.
 
     "Alright," he said after having caught his breath, "I guess
that will be enough 'til the next time.  Have you seen the others,
that ranger and that mage?"
 
     Norg grunted.  "Nay, wonder where they are.  I should've known
they'd send US to buy this damned food, suren.  Leave the heaviest
work to the ones that don't object."  Norg scanned the room for the
nearest serving wench as he mumbled something distasteful under his
breath about elves and spellthrowers in general.  Finally, catching
one's attention, he snapped his fingers to the barmaid.  "Eh, lass,
two mugs of yer best!"  Then he turned to Ciaran.  "And what do ye
drink?"
 
     The wanderer smiled.  "I guess I will have a mug of mead.  But
on my room, Norg.  I'll be at my maps and see which paths lead to
the next harbor."  He scratched his neck.  "When our fellows
arrive, tell them that THEY can care about storing our rations.  We
did our work, now it's their turn."
 
     The warrior grinned.  "Aye, sounds good to me.  I'll stay here
and guard our food until the elfs show up."  The barmaid, hastening
to please the gruff, but well tipping dwarves, brought the mugs to
the table, and Norg smiled in satisfaction.  "And maybe we will
have something to pour down the throat tonight.  Suren it'll be a
bit a'fore there'll be dry ground under me boots again!  I'll tell
ye when the elfs arrive, and I'll guard the food, suren!"
 
     Nodding to the fighter, Ciaran walked up the stairs and
entered his room.  Searching through his scrolls, he quickly
discovered several maps of the area, some large, some smaller.  The
traveller opened them, placed them on the small table before him,
lit a lamp and sat down to study the safest route.
 
          *          *          *          *          *          *
 
     Across the room, a large ogre-like man sat, eyeing the
strange, greenish-brown bearded dwarf.  The large man-creature
growled deeply in his chest, his thick, heavy brow furrowing and
his bulky lips curling in distaste.  He had seen two dwarves enter
the door of the 'Inn several moments earlier, but had lost the
other dwarf somewhere between his snail-paced thoughts and the
continual rabble in the room.  At the mere thought of his
'condition', he growled again in his massive chest, recalling it's
cause.
 
     He had once been a normal man, just like many in the room
around him.  Normal, non-descript, and totally unworthy of notice.
This he used in his favor for people usually persecuted that which
they did not understand.  He had once been a dark mage, with stores
of knowledge that would wither a normal man.  In a rare time of
weakness, however, he had been outwitted and deceived by a none
other than a loathsome dwarf.  The guiley dwarf had tricked him
into wearing a cursed armband that supposedly, would have increased
his defensive powers; it had, instead, slowly began turning him
into a beast, a large, clumsy, slow-witted beast whose form he
utterly despised.  With all of his powers ebbing away, he had
turned upon those that had, as he thought, killed his true self; he
would use his new form to rid the world of dwarves, or he would die
trying.
 
     He bided his time, using what little patience and lessons of
strategy he held within him from days long past, waiting for the
vile half-man to drink himself into a stupor.  He would then rise
and mash him into the earthen floor, riding the world of yet
another of the little vermin.  The name Bok, the Dwarf-Slayer would
soon strike fear into dwarves everywhere, he thought grimly...
 
          *          *          *          *          *          *
 
     Norg was blissfully well on his way to a solid, dwarven state
of drunkenness when suddenly, out of nowhere, an anvil fell on his
head.  At least that was what he later, when he picked himself from
the dirt floor, equated the white-hot pain that arced across the
ridge of his skull with.  He looked up from the dirt, thinking to
himself that this was becoming a much too frequent occurrence since
he had 'landed' in Generica.  He growled through his herb-infested
beard as he saw what could only be the origin of his headache, an
ugly-as-hell, smelly, ogre-like man who was holding a large wooden
club, bellowing something about being the 'Slayer of all Dwarves'.
 
     Norg saw red.
 
          *          *          *          *          *          *
 
     He had been working on the best track for about two hours,
when he suddenly heard odd sounds coming out of the bar room below.
It sounded like heavy pieces of furniture being thrown around, clay
mugs shattering, and between the noise, Ciaran heard a well-known
voice bellow curses which were not very tasteful.  He shook his
head to himself, rose and quickly strode down the stairs to see
what had happened.
 
     The bar room was a battlefield.
 
          *          *          *          *          *          *
 
     Norg silently rose, hoping to retain the element of surprise
as much as possible.  His hammer, which he had set beside him while
he was drinking, was still there, about five feet away on the far
side of the table.  The 'Dwarf-slayer' stood between the wounded
dwarf and the table, his back to Norg, one arm raised in 'victory'
and the other holding a recently chewed dried mutton leg.  'Between
me and me hammer AND it's eatin' me damn food,' Norg thought
grimly, his black eyes aflame and gritting his teeth at the pain
that mere thinking conjured.  Norg scanned his immediate area,
looking for something that he could use as a quick diversion, his
coal-dark eyes sparkled and he smiled his characteristic half-smile
as he promptly found one.
 
          *          *          *          *          *          *
 
     Bok, the Dwarf-Slayer's smile lessened a tiny bit as he heard
a short, high-pitched, startled cry issue forth from behind him,
his slow-witted brain trying to discern what it could possibly be.
The dwarf he had just smashed hadn't made any noise either before
or after he had mashed him.  His smile now gone, Bok turned his
massive body just in time to catch a spindly, robed form hard in
the face.  Loosing his balance, he stumbled backwards, crashing
into a party of gnomes' table, nearly squashing them all.
 
     Norg dashed past the huge, now-prone form, giving him a quick
but powerful kick with one of his boots as he passed, drawing a
groan from the 'Slayer'.  "I always knew mages were good fer
somethin'!" Norg yelled, snatching up his hammer and grinning
wildly.
 
     The unsuspecting mage was now tossed again, this time landing
into one of the dark, unusual corners of the 'Inn with a loud
'umph!'  The 'Slayer' rose from the tangle of gnomes, chairs,
plates, and mutton, cursing and spitting, setting a recently
vacated table on its end in the process, shattering glassware and
tankards.
 
     "Yer makin' a mess, ye big igit!  Didn't yer orc-kissin'
mother teach ye not to do such!"  Norg taunted, spreading his feet
wide apart for the suspected oncoming rush and tossing his hammer
easily between his gnarled hands.
 
     This drew another bellow from the man-beast, and he hefted his
club, an arm as thick as Norg flushing beneath the strain.  "Me
Bok, Slayer of Dwarves!" he screamed, his other ham-like fist
pounding on his chest, accentuating each word.  "You."  Bok said,
pointing a thick finger at Norg.  "Dead." He grinned at his
statement, obviously thinking it tremendously insightful and
informative.
 
     "Oooo, and yer pretty smart, too," teased Norg, smiling his
half-smile.
 
     Bok growled, and charged, his club arcing high over his head.
 
     Norg stood his ground, legs tensed for the spring.
 
     They both vanished.
 
          *          *          *          *          *          *
 
     Cooper opened the door to his room as the disturbance
downstairs reached its crescendo.  "What in Shade's name is going
on," Cooper muttered to himself, quickly closing the door and
turning the key in the lock.  He was just preparing to venture
outside to secure provisions for himself for his upcoming journey.
In addition to his normal attire, he had donned a heavy
woolen cloak with a hood to stave off the night's chill.  The cloak
also helped conceal the half-dozen small throwing darts he had
added to his arsenal.
 
     That was when he saw another figure in a cloak standing on the
stairway, his face buried in his hands and groaning painfully.  "I
knew I shouldn't have left him alone with his mug," he sighed, "but
he was supposed to wait for Halgorn to return and care for the
supplies.  Seems as if 'twas my fault."  The dwarf looked up
smiling wryly, "Look at the mess!"
 
     They turned around for another look at the bar room, but in
fact, it was much as they remembered it.  The only signs of a
scuffle were a few shards of broken crockery from a few shattered
beer steins, and the murmur of the witnessing crowd.
 
     "So you're traveling with Halgorn and A'in, I see," Cooper
said.
 
     The dwarf looked at the thin man appraisingly.  "Yes, and who
may I ask are you, sir?" he questioned.
 
     "Rick Cooper, I'll be joining you as far as Skypoint," Cooper
replied bending over and grasping one of the rapidly disappearing
fragments of earthenware.  "Apparently, our other dwarven companion
has gotten himself in a bit of a mess... Let's find out with
whom..."  Cooper's voice faded out as if he were lost in
concentration.
 
     Ciaran's eyes widened in surprise.  Another magic-user?  How
was he supposed to deduce what happened while all of the evidence
was rapidly being repaired by the powerful magick of the 'Inn.  For
just a fraction of a second, the dwarf thought the thin man's eyes
flashed with light.  Then it was gone.
 
     "A big man, no, an ogre," said Cooper, his features calm and
eyes slightly unfocused, "a full head taller than me, and three
times as broad."  Cooper's eyes suddenly snapped back into focus,
"He called himself, 'Bok the Dwarfslayer."  Cooper looked at
Ciaran.  "We've got to find them," he said, "the 'Inn's magick has
teleported them away somewhere."  Cooper swallowed hard, "If the
Guard catches them first, there's no way we'll be out of here by
morning."
 
     The small traveller sighed. "I have heard many tales about the
'Inn," he narrated, "and amongst the many rumors I have also heard
stories of it's magical defenses.  If they are correct, our friend
Norg and this 'Dwarfslayer' should not be too far away.  If we
hurry, we can still reach them before they do any permanent damage
to the town."  He looked at the pile of supplies on the table, then
at his companion.  "Who takes care of our food?"
 
     "Hey kid," Cooper called out to the youth cleaning the final
remnants of sawdust and earthenware that the 'Inn's spells missed.
He put a small pile of silver atop the supplies Norg and Ciaran had
purchased, "can you see to it that this stuff gets stored in the
basement until morning?"
 
     Before the youth could reply, the pair of adventurers had
vanished into the night.
 
          *          *          *          *          *          *
 
     A bright light assailed his eyes, and a loud, rushing wind
forcibly drew the breath from his lungs.  He winced as acidic,
stinging smoke-like haze engulfed him and every hair on his body
stood on end from the energy that crackled and sizzled around his
body.  Norg felt a violent sickness in the pit of his stomach and
saw a brief spurt of blackness and suddenly, it all ended as
abruptly as it had began.
 
     "Magick..." the dwarf literally spit the word, a deep scowl
appearing on his face, every herb-encrusted hair on his beard and
his head smoking slightly and standing out in different directions.
The dwarf shook his burly head, trying to clear his addled
thoughts, and he crackled with static electricity.
 
     Luckily for Norg, he had fared better in the magical transport
than had his opponent, which he quickly assessed by the unusual
rolling of Bok's eyes.  The ogre-man stood weakly on his tree-trunk
like legs, and had dropped his heavy warclub.  One stone-sized fist
cradled his swooning head while the other clutched at his reeling
stomach.  A low moan escaped his lips as he, too, began
instinctively shaking his aching head to clear the swirling fogs.
 
     Screams from the all around brought Norg back to the present,
he scanned the area, attempting to discern what had happened.  They
were no longer in the Dragon's Inn, just why, he had no idea, but
they seemed to be somewhere near, because it seemed as if he and
Ciaran had passed this way on their visit to the Bazaar.  Suddenly,
everything clicked back into perspective.  'Ciaran!,' he thought,
'...and I was guarding the food, and then this 'thing' had cracked
me on me nog...and now...they were here...' Norg gritted his teeth,
eyeing Bok and snarling fiercely as he set his hammer into a slow,
easy twirl parallel to his body.  He ground his mithril-reinforced
boots into the cobblestones beneath him and let out a bestial,
incoherent roar that belied the capacity of his small frame.  With
that, and the hammer of his father's father leading the way, Norg
Hammerhelm charged into battle.
 
          *          *          *          *          *          *
 
     Cooper and Ciaran Falon had just stepped into the street when
their ears were pelted by a lion-like roar that reverberated from
the walls and stones around them.  A tide of people rushed past
them both, nearly knocking them from their feet as they charged by,
various looks ranging from delight to fear plastered on their
faces.
 
     "Was that...?" Cooper began, a look of utter surprise on his
face, pointing in the general direction that the crowd was hurling
towards.
 
     Ciaran shrugged his stocky shoulders, "Could be him, although,
it sounded more like a storm giant with a headache.  It could be
that 'Dwarfslayer' fellow, though."
 
     "We'd better get there, quick." Cooper said, a hurried
anxiousness in his voice that Ciaran could not quite place.  "I'll
meet you there, my friend, follow my lead, if you can."  Cooper
shot the black-bearded, scar-faced dwarf a quick wink and patted
him on the back as he dashed into the crowd, disappearing in the
throng of gathering people and darkness.
 
     Ciaran smiled wryly, sighing slightly.  The traveller knew
that he would be hard pressed to make his way through that mass of
bodies, short of hacking his way through with his axe.  'Let this
Cooper fellow do it the hard way,' he thought, shaking his head.
The dwarf chuckled to himself as he jogged down a narrow, deserted
side street that he knew would lead to their desired destination.
'After all,' Ciaran thought to himself, smiling, 'being the only
fellow to have mapped the whole world DOES have its benefits.'
 
          *          *          *          *          *          *
 
     Halgorn stopped abruptly, throwing up a hand to quell A'in's
questioning look, his curved, sensitive ears picking up a sound on
the cool, winter evening breeze.  "Did you hear that?" he asked
A'in, knowing the answer to be negative by the confused look on the
mage's sharp features.  "It sounded...bestial and yet,..."
Halgorn's face screwed up in slight distress, his keen ears now
relaying the sounds of distant screams that were definitely
humanoid.  "It's coming from back towards the 'Inn," the ranger
said, one hand dropping to the hilt of his sword, "our companions
may be in danger."  Without another word, the ranger sprinted down
the dirty streets of Generica, cursing the controlling confinement
of human cities.  A'in followed, mentally cataloguing his
components as he ran.
 
          *          *          *          *          *          *
 
     Bok's head quickly stopped spinning and instantly focused
itself on a much more pressing matter when Norg's warhammer
connected solidly with his kneecap.  Luckily for the man-ogre, what
little armor and padding that he had managed to piece together
throughout the years held beneath the vicious force of the blow.
Even through the slow-witted haze that served Bok as thought, he
knew that his armor couldn't take many more of those blows.  A roar
of pain equalling Norg's roar of fury issued from his maw, nearly
bowling the dwarf over from its sheer force.
 
     Norg rocked back on his heels, somewhat confused.  That blow
would have felled a normal man, no matter his size.  In fact, that
blow should have shattered Bok's kneecap, crippling him.  Norg's
honed battle sense told him to shift tactics, and play the fool for
what he was.
 
     "There's more o' that fer ye, if ye think ye can take it!"
Norg yelled, cupping his hands to his mouth to be sure that the
behemoth heard him.
 
     Bok bellowed, and charged forward, bringing his club in a
high, arcing swing.  Norg pivoted on his right foot, easily dodging
the clumsy, but powerful blow and brought his hammer down on Bok's
left hand; the hand he was using for leverage.  Norg let out a
triumphant yell that was quickly lost in the scream of pain issued
by Bok as the hammer slammed home, smashing bones in the
Dwarfslayer's hand.
 
     Bok tumbled to the left, burying the unsuspecting dwarf
beneath him as he fell.  Norg felt hot air being forced out of his
lungs as the huge man-beast fell on him.  Then he screamed as he
felt Bok's large, flat teeth clamp onto his thigh, slicing right
through his tough, tanned leathers.
 
     Norg dropped his hammer, knowing that it would provide no aid
in tight quarters such as these, and began lashing out with both
fists, slamming them into the creature's eyes and nose.  Both his
and Bok's blood covered Norg's hands and forearms before the Bok
let go, finally finding his footing and balance through the red
haze of anger and blood.  The ogre creature shook his head fiercely
as he rose, shaking Norg to and fro like a helpless ragdoll.
 
     Jolts of pain shot up the dwarf's leg as the blackness of
unconsciousness began to surround him.  Norg landed with an audible
popping sound, and the pain increased tenfold, jarring him back
into consciousness.
 
     Somehow, the sturdy dwarf managed to stand, holding his
warhammer steady as he eyed Bok with newfound respect.  Bok stood,
his large nose splayed across his face in a grotesque bloody mask,
large bubbles forming and popping with each breath.  He chuckled
hoarsely, the sound coming out as a strained gurgle as it passed
his bloody maw.  He pointed a mangled finger at the dwarf, smiling
a wicked smile.
 
     "You." he said, spiting dwarf blood from his mouth, "dead."
 
          *          *          *          *          *          *
 
     Cooper finally managed to slip past the last onlooker just as
Norg hit the ground.  Cooper could see that his original estimate
of the ogre-man's size was near the mark, a low whistle escaped his
thin lips.  "Man, I've seen teams of cattle smaller than this guy!"
he said to himself, shaking his head slightly in disbelief.
 
     From his vantage point, behind the huge ogre-man, Cooper could
only see that Norg had hit the ground and that he didn't look like
he was faring well.  That was enough to propel the man into action;
a dark, fanatical gleam appeared in his eyes, and his face became
shadowed with an almost rapturous, yet frightening air.  With a
quick, fluid movement, he launched two of his throwing darts, and
followed their flight into the fray.
 
          *          *          *          *          *          *
 
     Norg stood, eyeing the beast, challenging him to attack with
his mere presence.  The very fact that he was still standing after
Bok's attack was enough to drive the huge beast into a rage,
without Norg's usual taunting cries.  Norg's knuckles grew white
from the strain of gripping the haft of his warhammer, but that
sensation was the only thing keeping him standing.  As long as he
had the strength to hold that hammer, Norg Hammerhelm would stand
and fight.
 
     Bok sensed the change in the dwarf, but he could not care.
His simple mind had long since melted away into a bright, searing
wash of pure pain and anger.  All Bok saw before him now was his
most hated enemy, and a member of the race that he had sworn to
utterly destroy.  He gurgled, a vain attempt at a laugh as he set
his warclub into a few lazy swings in Norg's direction, testing the
dwarf's reaction while providing a makeshift defense as he moved
towards him.  When he saw no movement from his weakened opponent,
Bok made his move. The ogre-man swung his club back towards Norg in
an incredibly fast arc before him, hoping to shatter the dwarf's
skull.
 
     Norg saw the attack coming, and dove with the direction of the
swing, launching his hammer simultaneously.  The warhammer blasted
into Bok's throat at the same moment that Cooper's darts hit him in
the back of the neck, quickly followed by an remarkably powerful
kick to the small of the creature's back.  Bok, sensing this new
attack from behind and reacting instinctively, swung his huge,
mangled left hand around to meet his new attacker.  Cooper easily
dodged the clumsy blow, rolling beneath the creature's arm,
grabbing Norg's hammer midroll.  Cooper, snatching the nearly
unconscious dwarf from his precarious position, began pulling the
injured warrior from the fray.
 
     Bok, now totally beyond all confines of reason, saw only that
his prey was escaping and shambled brokenly after the injured
dwarf, dropping his weapon in blind pursuit.  The ogre-creature was
upon Norg and Cooper when he felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his
back and all of the feeling began draining from his legs.  Bok
staggered around, the quickly ebbing light in his eyes flaring
temporarily in hatred as he saw his slayer.  Before him stood a
thin, black bearded dwarf with a large scar across his face, a
tight grimace on his features and bloody battleaxe in his hands.
Bok snarled a final time from his shattered throat before he fell.
 
          *          *          *          *          *          *
 
     A huge crowd quickly gathered around the fallen body of the
defeated half-ogre, the heavily wounded Norg and his four
companions.  A'in kneeled at the ground, hastily examining the
dwarf who was barely alive, dark blood flowing all over his
battered body.  Ciaran Falon eyed the warrior with a worried
expression, then turned towards the mage who was desperately trying
to gage the injuries.
 
     "Will he live?," the traveller asked, but the mage bit his
lips in concentration.  "Hard to say," he answered.  "The wounds
themselves are not severe, but he bleeds within.  Three ribs
broken, and his chances of survival scant if they pierced some
of..."
 
     "Maybe I can ..." began Cooper.
 
     "Away, you ignorant fools," a loud voice suddenly interrupted
A'in's concentration, and the companions turned in surprise.  A
tall, slender figure was pushing through the crowd of spectators
around them, a white cloak flowing around his body.  Cooper was the
first to recognize him.  "Let the cleric pass!" he called to the
crowd and, pressing into them, opened a path for the healer to
reach the injured Norg.
 
     The cleric immediately knelt down, his skillful hands touching
the dwarven body searching for the source of pain.  The companions
stepped back, leaving him some space while the man placed both of
his hands on the warrior's chest and flung his head back in
concentration.  Strange words flowed out of his lips, an unknown
melody of worship, and a second later, his fingers glowed with blue
and yellow light.  Norg shivered under the powerful spell, his
bones knitting, his flesh restoring, his wounds slowly closing
under the influence of the healing magic.
 
     Halgorn stood staring at the cleric, having never seen power
that strong within a healer.  A'in slowly raised himself from
Norg's broken body, eyeing the man's power respectfully, but
inwardly wondering how a man of that potential could squander his
potential in the art of healing.  Cooper felt the surge of the
life-magick as it was summoned and sensed a strange familiarity in
him; and even Ciaran, who had seen healers of some skill, was
impressed with the power this man could summon.
 
     Half a minute later, it was all over, the tall cleric clumsily
staggered to his feet and wiped sweat from his forehead.  "He shall
live," he announced, "but it was a near thing.  You should be happy
I was around."  Ciaran thankfully smiled.  "Sure we are, good sir,
and deeply in your debt we are as well.  Is there anything we can
offer you except your payment?"  The cleric turned towards the
dwarf, and a strange expression appeared on his face, but remained
only for a split-second before it was gone.  "No, I don't think
so," he answered then, "and of payment, just donate whatever you
think is appropriate to the nearest temple of Mishakal the Healer."
 
     Cooper recognized the veiled expression of the cleric.  It was
the same one he had used to convince Halgorn to trust him enough to
let him join this crew of adventurers.  However, Cooper had not let
his deceit show before lying to the man.  "You're a cleric of
Mishakal?" Cooper questioned.  "The nearest temple of her
followers is at least a week's journey on horseback from here, and
it's barely the size of a respectable tool shed.  Your power
appears a far cry from anything it has to offer, you must be one of
the elders," Cooper stated, staring suspiciously at the man in
white.  "So tell me, what's an elder of Mishakal's order doing
slumming in the back streets of ..."
 
     "Oh, stop it, Cooper," Halgorn interrupted him.  Cooper looked
far too comfortable drenched in Norg's blood and Bok's bile than
Halgorn liked to think about.  "I guess it is not important
where this man is from or why he is here, he hath saved our
companion's life, and we all should be grateful for this."  He
turned to the cleric, pulling out his purse.
 
     Cooper rolled his eyes.
 
     "Sir," he politely said, "I know you don't want to accept a
payment for your duties as it was Mishakal whose kindness has aided
our friend.  But will you accept at least a small gift to let us
show our thankfulness?"  The cleric softly shook his head.  "Please
don't, Sire," he replied.  "I may not accept it.  Donate it to
Mishakal herself, and all will be right."
 
     He bowed shortly and turned to leave, but Ciaran Falon called
after him.  "Good sir, what is your name," he asked, and the cleric
turned around a last time.
 
     "Malcolm Ebron," he answered, "but it is unlikely that we will
meet again.  I will meet here with a group of other clerics and
hold council for the next month, and will have little time.
Farewell, and may Mishakal bless your journeys."
 
     Norg's eyes opened, a low, painful-sounding moan escaping his
bearded lips.  "Damn ogres eatin' me food...crackin' me
nog...damned...," he mumbled, one bloody hand weakly reaching
upward to sooth his aching head.  His companions instantly turned
towards him, and Malcolm Ebron disappeared into the thickening
crowds.
 
          *          *          *          *          *          *
 
     A dark, twisted look invaded the man's eyes as he left the
scene, an almost maniacal grin passing swiftly over his lips.  He
jerked his white hood over his head, snarling at a group of
straggling commoners as they passed before him.
 
     'Yes,' he thought.  'This was the dwarf he had met.  The short
beard, the slender frame and the unusually polite behavior.  He was
lucky.  Now he could finally have his revenge.  Ciaran Falon would
die.  Die for having saved his life.'
 
     The cleric smiled evilly as he strode away from the
companions, feeling as if Mishakal had indeed smiled upon him this
day.  He encountered a tense, anxious group of the Generican Guard,
and purposefully directed them in the wrong direction, saying that
the battle still waged a few blocks off.  It would not do at all
for his vengeance to be enacted by any other than him.  It would
not do at all...