Howdy folks! I'm new around here, but I've been playing DF off and on for several years. Just for fun, I recently started writing a short story set in the DF universe, roughly based on something that happened in a game of mine. I'd love to get a bit of feedback, so if anyone is interested, feel free to tear it apart
Temen was annoyed. For going on nine days now he'd been camped out, waiting for this damn dwarven caravan. His hunger was making him short tempered. His employer hadn’t known how long it would take them to reach this narrow valley, only that they would have to pass through it. The waiting wouldn't otherwise be a problem for him, but his rumbling stomach wouldn't stop reminding him of his mistake. He hadn’t brought enough supplies. Of course, he'd had to travel light in case his target made good time. Evidently they hadn't, and after nearly a week of hard travel, rough weather, and nine days of camping in unfamiliar terrain, he was ready to turn back. Or rather he would be, if he felt it was an option. Without exceptional luck he'd never make it back before he starved. Not to mention he'd already spent most of his advance money on the supplies to get here. The odd man who'd hired him didn't strike him as the forgiving sort. And if Temen was ever going to reach the northern Elven kingdoms, he needed the money this job would provide; few humans would give work to an elf.
The real mistake had been assuming he'd be able to hunt and forage as well as he had in his homeland, but the unfamiliar flora and fauna here left him bewildered. Master Velek had always pushed him to practice his more mundane field craft. He hadn’t seen much point when he was such a skilled Willshaper. The snide old bastard would be smiling that damn half-smirk if he could see Temen now. Velek would never say a word about it if course, that’d be beneath him, but that grin always said everything anyways. Temen had had little but leftover crumbs and a handful of overripe berries in two days; even for an elf, he'd always been thin. Now he was quickly becoming painfully gaunt.
Transient sunlight filtered through the leaves in which he was concealed, perched in ambush twenty feet above the overgrown forest path. The upside was that the dappled shadows helped his brown-green hunters' leathers fade from sight. The downside… Another stray beam flickered into his eyes, momentarily blinding. Reflexively, he slapped his hand against the rough bark of the tree again, exerting his Will. Nothing happened. Temen started to grumble under his breath, and tugged the brim of his hat down until it tickled at his pointed ears.
This place felt wrong. The trees here didn't speak, didn't reply. They were Hollow, without Will. Were he back home, he wouldn't need to rely on this disgusting man-crafted bow he'd scrounged up back in Sedston. He'd have grown his own. Hell, if he were back home, he wouldn't need to do this job at all. He grimaced down at the bow in his hands, wood twisted and carved and bent unnaturally. Temen offered a silent apology to the forest, feeling tainted, and hoped the stench of dead wood wood wash from him. Damned thing had cost him a good chunk of his advance, too.
He shifted position, restless, as his legs started to cramp again. Gods, he'd love to lie down, stretch out, but he didn't dare climb back down; he honestly wasn't sure if he had the strength to climb back up again. Something flitted by in his peripheral vision, flickering purple, red, and gold as it reflected the light, before landing on his arm. Without thinking he raised his hand to swat at it, but caught himself before he struck. A small iridescent butterfly he didn't recognize fluttered gently against his upper arm. He brushed it away slowly, careful not to crush it in the process.
Temen couldn't help but laugh at himself. Since when had he been such a zealot? He never used to worry so much about the Laws of the Emerald Accord. Though considering that was part of why he was banished in the first place, he guessed the punishment was working as intended.
The momentary grin faded at the sharp clang of metal in the distance. Gruff voices drifted through the trees. He'd had over two weeks to plan and prepare, but suddenly he found himself floundering. His heart jumped into his throat, and he had to force himself to take deep breaths. Dwarves were commonly known to be fearsome warriors, and despite the coolness of the glade, Temen found himself sweating.
Unlike many of his brethren, Temen had never hated the dwarves. He regarded them more as ignorant children. One can't blame a fly for buzzing, one doesn't curse a dog for barking, and one couldn't condemn a dwarf for being an uncivilized savage. It's simply what they were. Truth be told, Temen found some of the dwarven constructs utterly fascinating. As a child, he'd heard tales of metal contraptions that could reroute entire rivers, launch massive bolts as large as a man, or spray liquid fire upon their enemies. Incredible as such things were, it didn't raise them much in his estimation. A spider builds webs of complex beauty, yes, but you still wouldn't invite one to tea.
Temen waited as the noise steadily increased, his heart rate ratcheting upward. Several minutes later the caravan rounded a bend in the path and came into view. The information his employer provided seemed to be accurate. The huge covered wagon rolled along, pulled by two oxen. Metal wheels, hooves, and booted feet tore up the ground as they wound their way along the trail. The group held to dwarven superstition, there were only seven of them, though most would guess many more, given the sheer amount of noise they made. Birds took flight, screeching sounds of alarm as the boisterous caravan trundled by. Good-natured argument and laughter drowned out the sounds of the forest. He couldn't make out what they were saying in the cacophony, but given what he knew of dwarves, he presumed it was something about booze or beard hair. Temen almost wondered why he was bothering with stealth at all. Then again, seven on one was poor odds, even with the element of surprise. Of course, that's what the traps were for.
The first dwarf in line, leading the oxen, was older, red beard shot through with silver. He was dressed for travel, the bottom edge of his brown, hooded cloak trimmed with mud where it had dragged on the ground. A sour grimace painted his face, and every few moments he glanced back towards his noisy companions with clear exasperation.
The next three, where most of the noise was coming from, walked in a group next to the wagon. Each was red-faced, tankard in hand. Two were obviously twins, and as such, dressed as differently as possible; both in the colorful finery of nobles or merchants, but one bright crimson, the other in cerulean blue. The third wore commoners’ clothes and carried an axe. Between jokes he'd occasionally glance towards the expedition leader, clearly nervous. Blue noticed his discomfort, nudged his brother with his elbow, and sauntered up to the expedition leader. Red shouted encouragement as Blue threw his arm around the leader’s shoulder and started waving his flagon in the older man's face. Frothy ale splattered to the ground as the leader swatted the tankard out of Blue's hand, his grimace twisting into a snarl as he yelled profanity. The axe man looked mortified, but Blue and Red seemed only to become more amused by the outburst. Temen moved on. The distraction would only help.
Bringing up the rear was the real threat. Only one of the dwarves was armored, a male carrying a massive warhammer with a head as large as a smith’s anvil. He wore armor of rounded metal plates, and Temen doubted his arrows could pierce through. Luckily they wouldn't need to, as the dwarf wasn't wearing a helmet. Any elf worth the name could make that shot.
Compared to that hulk, the woman next to him looked positively petite. Of course, she was still about as wide as three elves would be. Her dirty blonde hair was pulled back into a rough braid, and she wore leathers remarkably similar to Temen's. She was also the only one carrying a crossbow, and according to what he'd been told, she was quite skilled with it. She would need to die first.
Temen fought down the sick feeling in his stomach. Contrary to what he'd told his employer, he'd never killed a Willed creature before. Of course he'd hunted animals, and every elf was trained to protect their lands, but training was different. For a moment, he debated calling it all off, going down, and warning the dwarves. Maybe they could spare him enough supplies to get back to town. But he knew that was fantasy. They would have no reason to trust or help him, what's more, they would have every reason to kill him. He swallowed his disgust and set one of his arrows to his bowstring. As he'd been trained, he mentally walled off his doubt, his exhaustion, his emotion. He set his Will to work on his own mind. Temen's world narrowed to him, the arrow, and the target. The decision was made for him as the leader stepped into the first trap.
The dignified old dwarf let out a yelp as the ground gave way underneath him, and he tumbled gracelessly into the pit Temen had spent painful hours digging. It had been a particularly rainy few days, and water had drained into the hole, softening the earth into sticky mud. Still, the dwarf hit the bottom with a heavy thud and sickening crack. Sharp shards of bone stuck out at his elbow, straining against his soiled shirt.
Precisely as the leader stepped into the trap, Temen released his first arrow. The marksdwarf's throat erupted in a sudden spray of gore; she went down choking on blood, hands clawing at the fletching buried halfway into her neck. Nearly before the first arrow hit, Temen loosed a second. The hammerdwarf's face registered only shock as he turned his bulbous head toward the dying woman next to him. The second arrow slammed into his temple, the impact jerking his head to the side. A surprisingly small rivulet of blood trickled from the wound as the dwarf toppled heavily into the dust. There was a brief second of stunned silence, confusion bleeding to realization, bleeding to panic in a span of a breath.
The oxen, sensing the shift, smelling the blood in the air, went berserk. The cart lurched erratically as they tried to charge, to escape. The wet earth at the edge of the pit trap slid and crumbled under their hooves as they passed, leaving them scrabbling for traction. The oxen made it past the corner, but the wagon bounced up at an odd angle as the front wheel dropped into the pit and stuck.
The remaining four dwarves leapt for cover, but unfortunately for them, they hadn't seen from where Temen was firing. The closest was a girl he hadn't seen before, the seventh. She was in her early teens at most, with blonde hair and a rough homespun dress. Cracking through his focus, Temen felt a pang of pity for the girl, pressed up against the wrong side of the wagon, completely exposed to him. He paused a moment, then two, bow drawn, arrow poised to fire. The tension began to strain his weakening shoulder. His arm shook, his aim wavered, and with a huff of frustration he tracked to the next dwarf, solidifying his focus again.
Temen's pity vanished behind his Will. The nervous lumbrerjack huddled behind the rear of the wagon, clutching his woodsman’s axe in both hands. Part of his short, bulky leg was exposed, and Temen took the shot. The arrow whistled as it slipped between the spokes of the rear wagon wheel and tore into the lumberjack's leg with a meaty thunk, snapping his femur bone. His leg buckled under him, and with a cry, he sprawled out into the open. Temen took a moment to plant two more arrows into the axeman, one in each arm. He probably wouldn't survive, but if he did, Temen made damn sure he'd never chop down another tree.
The twins saw this and bolted, crashing side by side through the thick undergrowth. Temen sighted up on Red, the one on the right, and released the shot. The arrow bit into the sprinting dwarf’s lower back, clipping his spine, and his legs immediately went limp. Momentum carried him forward and he fell into a tumbling, cartwheeling tangle of limbs, coming to an abrupt stop as he smashed into a huge grey stone. He hit with a loud crunch and didn't move again.
Temen watched, patient, as Blue kept running. In the distance, the dwarf howled as his legs were swept out from under him and he was dragged, upside down, thirty feet into the air. One of the snare traps had done it’s job perfectly. A grim smile formed on Temen's face. He and his sister had played an innocent game as children, cutting a rope from a hundred paces with a single arrow. She seldom beat him. The arrow streaked, the rope snapped, and Blue fell to his death.
For a moment, Temen didn't move. Those dwarves had been helpless to stop him; it was a slaughter more than a battle. Whatever his employer wanted out of that wagon, Temen had made himself a butcher, a killer for hire, to get it for him. Ugly silence stretched heavy over the battlefield. With haunted eyes, Temen looked over the carnage he had wrought, committing it all to memory. He didn't deserve to forget this. He lingered on each body, a splash of crimson here and there, soaking the mud.
Then a bird chirped. Something rustled in a distant bush. Life started again, less several participants. Temen felt nauseous. If he had anything in his stomach he was certain he'd be puking it up, but the job wasn't done yet. He spat to clear the taste of bile. He'd lost track of her during the skirmish. He honestly hoped she'd gotten away, unsure if he had it in him to kill the girl, too.
Temen felt more then heard the thunk of arrow hitting bone; his concentration shattered as his world went white with pain. His shoulder drooped and the bow tumbled from his limp fingers, clattering against the trunk. Looking down, he saw a small metal bolt sticking out from his chest. From the angle, it looked as if it had cracked his collarbone. He swayed, suddenly off balance, his mind going hazy as it tried to assemble details. Before he'd even thought to steady himself, he'd fallen, crashing wildly through branches all the way to the ground.
Moments later, Temen lay at the base of the tree, covered in scratches and bruises. Pain had reduced his vision to a narrow tunnel, and he darted his eyes around looking for the shooter. The dwarf girl walked into sight, woolen dress spattered with blood, tears and snot mixing and dribbling down her face. She held the marksdwarf’s crossbow across her chest protectively, and stared down at Temen with an odd mix of fury, terror, confusion, and fascination. Temen hadn’t noticed before, dwarves pretty much all looked the same, of course, but this one was the splitting image of the woman he'd shot first.
This was his justice, then. Temen didn't try to move. Despite everything he felt some semblance of peace. The world made sense to him again. He'd murdered the girl’s mother, now she'd end him. The circle would be complete. He closed his eyes, chuckled softly, and mumbled out “Hell of a shot, kid.” Then darkness swallowed him.
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Topic: Temen and the Dwarven Caravan (Read 1337 times)