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[Heavy Flak]

The Trial of Aryn Estetar, 28^th of Hematite
First Meeting

Owneddrum sat at the end of the mess hall behind a hastily set up table.  A crystal goblet lay befor him, filled with cool water.  During his time at the fortress he had become accustomed to the smell of stones, and dust, and sweat, and begrudgingly went without his kerchief.  To his left sat Duke Bomrek in all his pompous glory, great walrus mustache flapping with his exhales.  Beside the Duke sat Glacies, who looked worried and bewildered, the mug of ale set in his place already drained.  The seat to the right of Owneddrum was left ominously empty. 

Aryn sat before them, the seats at the table of the accused left empty.  In front of him was a single notebook, travel worn and sweat stained. 

Behind him, the mess hall was packed with bodies.  Some, like Rice and Lucy, were witnesses.  The others were just watchers, Dwarves who were shirking their duties to see the public admonishment and potential punishment of their cosntant whip-cracker and mandate holder. 

Owneddrum cleared his throat, and clanked the binding of his ring against the crystal goblet.  As the din subsided, he gave a curt nod to the room as a whole and said in a high, lispy voice, "This session will come to order.  As grievous as the actions that brought me here have been, more travesty has hit that must be addressed.  Aryn, your calluous indifference to the safety of this fortress has lead to the deaths of five Dwarves - Two children, a stone worker, your own philosopher, and your own judge in this trial Boatssafety.  If you think that this- why are you smirking?"

At the mention of Bertrand's demise, a wide smile played over Aryn's lips.  He surpressed the laugh outright, trying to cover it up with a cough.  "I'm sorry, please continue with this farce."

Owneddrum spoke over the murmer of the crowd.  "If you think her death will stall your judgment, you're sorely mistaken.  In her absense I'll take the place of arbitrator.  If anything, these deaths mere days after my arrival are as damning evidence as the tales and logs of our merchant corp.
"First to speak are the members of the council, a Ms. Crowpages, and a Duke Galleychasms.  Ms. Crowpages, you may speak first."

Tax Collector Rovod cleared her throat and took a small sip of ale.  "Yes.  Mr. Snarledsalves logs, secreted away and terribly kept as they are, show a large discrepancy in earnings.  There are barrels of gems missing, goblin-wrought armor and arms that can not be found in bins or bars, and the amount of crafts that are occasionally claim are just preposterous.  The taxes levied on the goods of this fortress, and tithed towards the remainder of the dwarven royalty are far from accurate.  I understand that this is not a matter that concerns this trial, but this should act as a witness of character for Mr. Estetar."

"Thank you, Ms. Crowpages.  And as for you, Duke Galleychasm?"
"Ahem, yes.  My damned flutes have been sold to your damned merchants, and to those filthy tree-fucking elves!"

Diplomat Owneddrum looked perpluxed.  "What?  What does that have to do with anything."
His mustache billowing, his face turning purple, The Duke slammed his fist down on the table.  "I instructed these Dwarves to NOT sell ANY flutes to anyone!  These are state treasures, damn it all, and my last remaining child, my only daughter, needs the pick of the litter, and what do I have happen?  Aryn orders them sold, all of them!  Without fail!  And who has been brought to punishment, hmm?  Who?  No one, that's who!"

"If I may speak?" 
Owneddrum stared at Aryn as he rose from his seat.  He started to open his mouth, but the blond dwarf spoke first, cutting him off.  "The Duke is right, I have done that.  So is Crowpages for that matter.  Why?  To further help this fortress and the people in it.  Your humans have profited so much from our trade these years, but I'm not thanked for that?  I'm instead put on this farce of a trial - under who's authority?  Yours?  Ha!  Want to see authority?  Here.

"I'm filling the position myself, since it has been left vacant with the death of Ineth Orbsbarb.  With the increase of duties, I'm much too busy to sit through this trial any longer.  But by all means, continue to have it."  Aryn smiled and stepped away from his chair.  "But don't expect anything to come from it - depending on your decision, dear Diplomat, I may decide that it is no longer profitable to our fortress to trade with you all.  Keep that in mind.  RICE.  When you're done besmirching my name, take the last of the damned flutes to the depot for trade, you have my word as mayor not a hair on your head will be touched for it."

[Jim Groovester]

I suggest imagining a Law & Order DUN DUN before reading this update to set the mood. It almost immediately becomes more dramatic.

[Zako]

The recent posts had me going up and down in mood.

I read the death list: sad cause Zako is dead and unavenged!

Read the trial of Aryn: Estastic cause he just verbally bitchslapped the nobility! Chew on that!

[Maggarg - Eater of chicke]

Diary of maggarg
I saw the Duke stomping around somewhere today.
His face was as purple as his robes.
He was shouting about flutes or something.

[sonerohi]

God I hope Aryn gets punched in the jaw.

[Heavy Flak]

The trial of Aryn Estetar, 5^th of Malachite, 1068
Session 2

After the explosive end to the last session, and Aryn's kept promise of not returning, the mess hall was much less crowded.  Owneddrum still proceeded over the event, with Glacies and Crowpages beside him.  Duke Bomrek was absent - no where to be seen - and in the spot Aryn had occupied sat Rice, serving out his summons as a witness.

Owneddrum drummed his fingers on the table top impatiently.  "I've heard tell of shoddy workmanship.  Of the disarray of this fortress.  Of the unsafe building materials employed.  As the leader of the masons union, I would like your take on the matter."

Rice frowned, and looked down at the small sheet of notes he had brought.  After a tense moment of internal struggle, he said, "As much as I dislike Aryn, he... has never skimped on the quality of construction.  He has been known to have inferior worked pitched into the magma rather than send them out for sale, and he has been quite a, ah, thorn in the side of the masons, forcing us to rebuild that which he deems shoddy."
"But the crumbled tower!"
"Was built by my own hands," Rice said.  "From my own designs.  That was sabotage - goblin dealt, most likely.  If you were to come back here in three hundred years, these walls will not have shifted at all, they'd only be buried deeper in the sands.  That tower was destroyed from within."

Owneddrum scowled and jotted down a few notes with his quill.  "And of that... hideous poison blot being built outside the walls?"
"Well, ah," Rice tugged at his collar.  "Aryn can't... really be held accountable for that, either.  That's the doings of Stravitch Fillwhip."
"Aryn should have the temerity to stand up to obviously bad ideas," sniffed Owneddrum.  "Why does he not exercise his authority as leader - and now mayor - and have it shut down."
"With all due respect, perhaps you should meet Stravitch before you cast these aspersions.  You can't stop the old goat, trying to do so will just get you a blackened eye."

"RICE!  YOU SCOUNDRAL!"

Rice winced at the drunken screaming coming from the door.  Duke Bomrek entered the mess hall, livid, sauced.  He stumbled towards the judges bench and fell heavily into his seat, glowering at the mason.  "You did it, you scoundrel!  The merchants, they were playing them!  Our flutes!  Our entire cache of flutes!  I'll have your head for this, I will, you'll be in the black cells until your eyes rot from disuse!"
"...Uh, no.  Sir."
"...what!"


Rice cleared his throat, and stood quickly.  "I... ah, have been given immunity over these things.  I'm sorry, sir.  Diplomat Owneddrum?  If you don't mind?"
"Yes, yes, go," he waved a hand dismissively.  "Send up... who's next?  A Mister Anvilquiet."

The seat was quickly occupied by Wilber, grinning from ear to ear.  The Diplomat and the Soldier stared at each other for a few moments in silence, until Owneddrum said with exasperation, "What?  You requested this seat, what do you have to tell?"
"I hear it's amazing when the famous giant purple stuffed worm in flapjaw space, with a tuning fork, does a raw blink on Hairi Kairi Rock!"
"Oh god..." Owneddrum covered his face with his hands, silently cursing himself for traveling to this hellpit of a fortress.

[sonerohi]

And then Wilber was a zombie.

[CanadianWolverine]

Stories are sometimes whispered by those who travel out on the red sands that when the wind begins to blow and it begins to turn their vision red, the laughter of a female dwarf can be heard. Those too sober for their own good even claim they thought they saw a form running about with a pair of breeches in one hand and a axe in the other...

- Migrursut Ghost Stories: An excerpt found in the notes of late Bertrand the Philospher.

OOC - I would like to adopt the personality of a dwarf again. No specifics, so any suggestions on some menial worker of any particular trade would be cool, other than military. No need to have to wait for a immigrant on this one, please. 

[Heavy Flak]

The events of the 12^th of Malachite, 1068

Dojango and Akroma slowly made their way down the hallway, carrying between them a large bundle wrapped in an old cloak.  Resting his end of the bundle against a raised-up knee, Dojango flung a hand behind it, slapping it against the door.  After a few blind gropes he found the handle and pushed it down, swinging the stone door into the dark workshop. 

The bundle was hefted up, and gently settled down onto the large work bench that stretched across the center of the room.  Akroma gave a few tugs to the cloak and it came away, fluttering to the floor.  Bertrand lay there, the single torch throwing shadows across his face.  He looked even more frail in death, his eyes - eye, the one that hadn't exploded from the shock - stared upwards with dull glassiness, like a bead attached to a doll. 

Akroma gave a shake of his head and sighed deeply.  "Well this is quite a drag."
"Such a drag," Dojango concurred.  "There was much left to do."
"That doesn't mean we can't keep going."
"I don't think we can."

Akroma frowned.  He scratched at the side of his neck, eyes dropping once more to the corpse on the slab.  "There are two drums left, that's enough to complete the zoos, re-do the magma vent, and still have a drum left over for when the sphere's are completed."
"Yes, but, what if we mess up?"  Dojango said with a frown.
"We don't, it'll be fine.  We haven't yet..."

They stared at his body in silence, and Dojango sighed and placed a hand on the old philospher's burned chest.  "Could we raise him?  He could continue his work, he could aid in-"
"Dojango... no.  He wouldn't want that.  No, we must continue on."
"I suppose your right.... wait."
"What?"

Dojango looked up, and towards the matress that had been set up in the corner.  Crumbs were scattered around the floor, and empty jugs of water had rolled under the desk.  "Where did that merchant-guard go?"
"Uhhh..."
"Well," Dojango said, with forced good humor.  "I can't imagine how that could end badly.  Just let him go.  We should see to Bertrand before he's to be buried, I suppose."

[Zako]

Well thats a recipe for catastrophy...

[Maggarg - Eater of chicke]

I personally suspect that Bertrand was already dead some time ago.
I don't doubt he'll be banging on the coffin lid before long.

[Heavy Flak]

The Trial of Aryn Estetar, 15^th of Malachite, 1068
Session 3

The depot was a bustling hive of activity as the merchants loaded barrels, strapped goods to wagons, tried to sweep the ever present sand off of the tiles.  Though he was here for a trial, Oweddrum's primary duty was to oversee the sale and purchase of items; the last day of the trial took place in front of the Depot, a group of Dwarves standing witness to the proceedings.

"Our time is almost up, and I'm sure you're as eager to find solution in this as I," the diplomat called.  "Our trial was inconclusive for much of it, as you seem to find this Aryn distasteful, but you are quite prideful of your own workmanship, as shoddy as it may appear.  However, we have received one bit of information that has tipped the scales, so to speak.  Please, step forward."

The steps coming out were slow and unsteady.  A human emerged from the back, his beard long, his eyes glowering.  Hinges squeeked at approxamitely the area of his knees as he moved forward in herky-jerky motions.  His left arm was missing completely, his right stiff and ungainly. 

"This is one of the merchants from LAST years caravan.  I'm sure you all recognize him."

The diplomat's eyes widdened at the blank faces looking out at him from the crowd. 

"This is a merchant-guard.  He was mauled here last year!"

More blank stares; a few Dwarves scratched at their beards.

"It's Tal Boarddressed you filthy savages!  You watched him get nearly cut down and ignored him for months on end!" 
"I told you they wouldn't remember," The merchant-guard rasped out.  "They're uncaring."
"Fine.  You don't remember?  Well perhaps you will.  Aryn's attitude towards our guards is a slap in the face to our nation as a whole.  His punishment will be enacted onto this fortress as a whole in the form of a fine to be paid in tribute to our glorious leader.  Try and remember that in the times to come."

A single clap sounded from the back of the crowd.  It was followed by a few others, a smattering of slow applause, that built to a mocking crescendo.  Straining to see, the Diplomat called out, "Who is that, Huh?  Which one of you?"

The crowd of dwarves parted some, leaving room for Aryn to move through the crowd.  He continued his mocking clap, smirking at the Diplomat's growing rage.  "Excellent choice, excellent indeed.  Perfect resolution - imposing your laws upon MY people.  I put up with your little tantrum as good naturedly as I could, assuming you'd grow bored with it and be happy lining your pockets with riches.  I'm dissapointed you didn't.
"So it's time that you here my verdict.  You're guilty, Owneddrum, of pride, of greed, and of insolence.  I expect a new liaison, you're new longer welcome here.  You'll pay tribute - I assume the goods left in your wagons will suffice in appeasing us.  You and your men may leave with your lives, though it's up to you to explain to your guild-master why you return empty handed.  Owneddrum?  Do not attempt to screw with us as if we are your vassals.  Now go."

The humans left, their heads down as they trudged from the fortress on their pack mules alone.  Owneddrum's screams and curses were heard long after they had left, carrying through the desert, promising vengeance, retribution. 

[Heavy Flak]

The events of the 23^rd of Malachite, 1068

"Come on love, this way!  There's another over here!"

Luke and Crispin waded across the river at the northern section of the territory, making their way towards the heard of camels milling about.  There was blood nearby, and chunks of flesh littered the sands.  It had been bleached out by the sun, and it was impossible to tell just what it had come from. 

Luke's sword flashed out, cutting a chunk from one of the camel's spines.  He blocked a headbutt with his shield, stepping back with a laugh.  "Perhaps you should try, dear."
"Thank you love!  Have at you!" 

Crispin dropped to her knees to dodge under a hoof, slashing through the thin ankle bone.  The camel tottered but didn't topple, it's gait now ungainly and awkward as it charged towards them.

Maggarg stood with his face covered by his hands, rubbing his palms hard into his eyes.  He groaned low.  "Are they still trying to finesee it?"
"Aye," Adol said quietly.  He stood with his arms crossed, watching the scene with mild amusement.
"Hoy!  You idiots!  Stop doing that!"

"Stop doing what, sir?"
"Yes, stop doing WHAT, sir?" Adol said with a grin.
"Stuff it," Maggarg growled.  He stalked towards the pair, unsheathing his sword, dulled and dented from heavy use.  "Stop dancing around, doing fancy moves.  What is that?  That impresses kings in tournaments!  Just watch me.  You use your back, just throw all your weight forward as you swing the sword blindly.  Don't use finesee, that's for tossers, just put all your muscle behind it, like this."

Maggarg let out a war cry and swung his sword in a heavy overhead arc.  It snapped through the camels spine, shattered ribs, and buried itself into the sands.  He fought for a second before tugging it out, ignoring the smattering of applause from Adol.  "See how that worked?  Just do THAT."

The couple exchanged a glance, and a shrug, and set to the uncomfortable work of trying to unlearn all that had been ingrained in their mind.  Maggarg stepped back with a smug grin. 
"There.  Much better."
"Oh, yes, very good.  They'll be taking after you in no time."

[Heavy Flak]

The events of the 2^nd of Galena, 1068

"Why the hell do you want to meet out HERE, Glacies."
"Why do you think?" he said, his voice barely a whisper.  "It ain't safe inside, not anymore, and I don't trust your dog not to go sniffin' round where he don't belong."

Aryn folded his arms and glared at the book keep.  In the distance, his great war-bear rumbled about, splashing through the stream, and generally making his presence known.  Glacies just rolled his eyes.
"You're really actin' out of line.  I'm here to warn you that this kind of shit won't fly, ya' know?  You're a good boss, I guess, I get my pay on time, but seriously, man, act like a professional."

"You're giving ME advice!"  Aryn took a step towards the bookkeep, and was surprised to see that Glacies stepped forward as well, his fists bunched up at his sides, a smirk on his face.  Aryn began to mentally prepare for a brawl out on the sands.  His ears pricked up at the sound of the silence, and he lifted his hand to stay the book keep.

"Where's my bear?"
"Screw you're bear, it's not gunna maul me."
"No you ass, where is it?"

They listened to the sounds of the night, the rush of the river.  There was a splash, a faint thump, a wet squelching sound. 


Pinpoints of red came out of the heat haze; the head of one of the dread camels.  More followed behind it, capering, leering from their skulls - the hooves stained blood red.  Aryn blanched and took a step back; Glacies started looking around for somewhere to bolt.  The camels advanced, dust misting up around their hooves as they tromped after them. 

A flash of movement and one of the camel's heads exploded, showering the pair of dwarves with bits of bone fragment and a spray of sand.  They saw a cape swirl, a black-clad fist shoot out, popping another head off a camel, and the figure was buried under a jumble of clattering bones. 

In moments two Camel's fell, their magic dispelled as their heads were thrown from their necks.  The last of the heard charged at the dwarf in black, a quick kick shattering a knee, a followup bunch shattering it's head.  The dwarf turned to look at them, a black outline against the setting sun.

"Head back inside now, citizens," the dwarf commanded.  "It's not safe in these sands."

Before Aryn could speak, the dwarf had vanished - scaling the retaining wall with the use of a grappling hook. 

Glacies broke the silence with a quiet, "Well that's it.  I need a drink... come on, I'll buy ya' one."

[Heavy Flak]

The events of the 21^st of Galena, 1068

It seemed as if even the air around them was oppressive.  It hung heavy, thick, and the breathing of the Dwarves in attendance was labored.  Many fanned their faces with folded up propaganda posters.  Rice and his crew stood at one side of the wide, empty hall in their leather smocks and rebreathers; Likot and her troop stood at the other, joking and jostling with one another. 

Hard light washed in from the stained glass window - a blood red sun partially covered by a mailed dwarven fist holding up a large mace.  The front doors opened, and Stravitch Fillwhip strode into his poison temple.  His suit, a missmatch of leather apron, rough spun jeancloth and tattered work shirt, was blood and dust stained, but his hair and beard were freshly washed, both pulled into tight queues. 

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

He mounted the steps up to the pedestal in the center of the room, towering above the assembled crowd.  Stravitch lifted his arms, stretching them out to his sides, and loosed a laugh that reverberated through the temple.

"BROTHERS!  O, Brothers!  Welcome to the finest tribute to Lenod this world has ever seen!"

For a brief moment, he seemed perplexed by the lack of shock in the crowd.  But he rallied spectacularly, continuing on.

"I feel as if Lenod himself, the god of the Bloody Sun, has spoken with me personally.  He speaks to me.  From the drink, and in my dreams.  He tells me how we, as Lenodites should live our lives.  I am here to pass that on, to... ah, to bestow his fiery orders to you personally.
"We will not be oppressed.  Our enemies shall be smote.  Our dues shall be given; our debts shall be paid back in full.  Go forth, you witnesses, and tell your Lenodist neighbors and family that church is in session.  And those of you who feel shafted by the fools in charge of this place?  Come to my temple, and listen to the word of Vengence, from on high."

A murmer ran through the assembled crowd.  Rice nudged Lucy, Erith, and Pawnzer, and the foursome slipped out, the rest of his crew following suit, their rebreathers pulled from their face once free of the cinnabar temple.  Likot, Valania and Sgt. Pepper gave a smattering of mocking claps, but were silenced by the heavy-browed glare that came from high upon the pedestal. 

The rest of the dwarves looked on with a mixture of amusement or agreement.  All except Vatek, who stood near the back.  He had been roused from his normal day-time nap for this opening.  He shook his head slowly, and chewed his lower lip, quite worried.