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Live to Work
Posted: 08 May 2007 06:44 PM |
And as he stood there hammering out weapons, he got himself to anticipating his latest trick: that of superheating a single ingot of titanium to the point of liquid metal and feeding it to the tip of an iron weapon. Never did take much to make this one happy, no sir. He sat there, ritualistically hammering the metal, wearing his armor and helm, to keep the metal cinders from burning his body, most specifically his eyes. His cloak was folded away to keep those same cinders from singeing it.
This rough hewn gentleman wasn't above letting anyone know that he sold his wares. Hey, everyone needs to eat. Still, his entire purpose was to make sure that nobody went without. Lot of fighting going on, and no matter who says what about it, the world is small and all-inclusive. Wherever you are, the danger touches you, it matters not.
And so, the world continues to turn, and people fight. The enemies are numerous, but they're there, and they will all need to be fought. Seems that nobody's safe. But the weapons are plentiful. Anyone can go out to the local merchant and find him- or herself a weapon. Regular weapon grade steel, that's just fine. Maybe, if you're lucky, you can find yourself a weapon of a purer grade steel, something that keeps a better edge. And that's fine and alright; Provided you haven't acquainted yourself with Dorian Alltos.
He stood there and remembered back to the dim and barely remembered days of his early childhood. He would remember his father's proud grin as he shaped himself a new farming tool, or maybe a sword, something to give to a friend as a gift, or maybe to sell at market. He'd known long since that this is where he found his love of craft.
In the seconds that passed, he wondered how many more weapons he'd be priviledged to make. More than anything else, he just wanted to do his part in ensuring that he did his part in keeping everyone as best equipped as he possibly could, henceforth increasing the likelihood of keeping them alive. And when those short seconds were gone, and his brief reverie passed, a dulcet voice spoke from behind him.
"Are you finished?" She asked him. He looked over his shoulder at the elven woman behind him in her Asashian crafted robes, her blonde hair partially tied back and hanging to her shoulder in an orderly manner, her bright blue eyes looking almost directly into his soul. Or so it may or may not seem.
There was no impatience in her tone, and no betrayal of any sort of emotion in her voice. She had simply noted the cease in his activities. He grinned and removed his helm as he responded. "I think so, darlin'. Just lemme count m'blades here, then w'can git."
And so he gathered up his new products and wondered just what new development may or may not be coming to pass. He'd given up trying to avoid the news long ago. If he didn't actively seek it, it managed to find him, surely and quickly.
"Goona hafta go'n visit th'Artio, angel. Ain't got th'quipment I need here." She nodded and stood as he put his cloak back on. "Where to after that?" She asked him. "Well, I ain't sure I rightly know, darlin', but I reckon we'll fig'rit out, eh? Let's git gone." |
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Re: Live to Work
Posted: 16 May 2007 08:40 AM |
He sighed to himself as he wandered alone through the Hardknott. 'Seige'n Breg'dim....' The thought rattled disconsolately through his head. He shook his head hard, trying to rid himself of the idea for the time being, to set himself to his original purpose, but it was an idea that shook him to the very core. He still shuddered, even felt a bit faint every time he remembered the words coming out of Talion's mouth.
He thought back to his short time as a soldier. Learning the rudimentary uses and handling of the broad scope of weapons, and even the short lessons in tactics that he'd received through his basic training didn't do him as much benefit as the practical application of simply living in and wandering through Vives. In fact, if he were to have given it some honest thought, he just might allow himself to believe that he'd come a long way since he'd hit the road and become a full time craftsman. Beyond that, though, one of the things he'd learned was who he could and could not challenge, alone or with company, and alone was where he found himself more often than not.
He got to thinking back to One of his first forays to the Midor Mine in search of iron. Instead of going straight to the mine, however, he decided to wander a bit, and he found himself a cave. He walked in, and having the presence of mind to tread as slowly and quietly as he could, he found himself peering through a small hole in a gated wall, looking at a pair of Atalan and an extremely vicious looking Duergar. He promptly left that cave, informed later on that he had found himself at the mouth of the Halls of Bregodim.
With his last and most recent foray into that cave, the Atalan manning that gate didn't seem quite as intimidating, but that same Duergar who was posted as a guard seemed just as vicious. All in all, raiding the Halls didn't quite feel like something that Dorian would want to do on a normal day. On any day, really....
He got past that thought and went back about his trek. He already knew what he was going to do. 'Talion's goin', I'm goin' too.' At least he might try to find some comfort in resolution. For whatever reason, Talion took to Dorian. Dorian wouldn't dare question it. Dorian took right back, viewing Talion as a student of Asashi views a sensei. Talion had given and taught Dorian too much to even consider not going, and so Dorian would go, whether or not he was needed, no matter if it led him to his end. |
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Re: Live to Work
Posted: 22 May 2007 11:41 AM |
He stoked the meagre flame that he had built. In a little bit, it would be alright, but by the time he was done with it, it would be serving a two more purposes; First, to keep him warm, and second, to ward off the smaller creatures of the Kobai. It got cold at night out there, and the smaller creatures of the Kobai were no less hostile for their size. He'd dug himself a lot of sand today, and he knew that he wouldn't drag all of it back to civilization until late tomorrow afternoon. He could make it there by morning if he left right at the moment, but he was just too sore.
He sat down as he spitted the pair of sand vipser that he had killed, scaled, and beheaded. 'Dang good eatin',' he thought to himself. The meat began to sizzle, and then the grease brought forth by his cooking flame began to drip from the snake meat, feeding his flame even further. He thought, 'That'll git'er nice'n hot, then I can make'er big.' He looked at the pile of wood that he had scrounged, glad that he'd decided to scavenge the ruins on his way into the desert.
More just luck than actual pre-consideration, he'd sat himself near his woodpile. He winced as he leaned forward and pulled his snakemeat from the makeshift spit. He kept one snake in one hand and planted the other upright in the sand. Then he tossed more wood onto his fire, the flame slowly begining to feed on the fresh logs. He sat back and tried to rub his ribs through his armor, then sighed and let his hand drop. The cause of his fugue was result of the battle at the Halls of Bregodim.
'I just wern't strong 'nuff. Din't serve n'real purpose there.' He was glad to be alive, and not a single doubt about it, but after watching the Durzagon keep coming and coming, well, the only word in his head was 'futility'. 'Even Talion'n Tristian had'em a tough'n there...' He tossed another log onto the fire, feeling a chill with this thought.
'N'h'bout them dang At'lan? H'bout'n if they's that tough?' His line of thought certainly wasn't getting any more uplifted. He wasn't, by any means, about to post himself as a leader. He was happier to let the people who'd been doing these things longer fill that role. He had excelled in tactics training as a soldier, but he had had very little practical application. "Let the man with the stronger sword arm take the fore," his Mother Dearest had instructed him. "He'll more than likely cut you down if you question his orders. A simple question can often times be misconstrued as a dissent, and he'd more than likely feel better about losing your blade as a resource than allowing you to stay and possibly jeopardize the mission by not doing as you're told."
But beyond all of that, Dorian was worried about the effect that he might start having on people. He was naturally a happy man, and he liked to think that he encouraged that type of thing in other people. He may not all that smart, and by no means could he be considered sage, but at least he had the mental faculty to realize that happiness was infectious, just as misery loved company, aside from the most dire of cases. However, the thought of what Lucifer had said when it was all over brought him a lot closer to the gentle despair that lingered at the edges of his emotions.
"I doubt they'll be back. And if they do come back, we'll slaughter them again." Never one to call a man a liar, Dorian had to think to himself, 'H'bout'n if'e's wrong? If'n th'come back'n d'cide they wan'em th'Halls?' They would slaughter them again, yes, but would it really be as easy as all of that?
He shook his head disconsolately as he layed himself down. 'Gotta find m'self sum'thin' stronger t'fight. Time t'get m'self stronger...' And with that, in a purely soldierly fashion, he quickly and surely passed into sleep |
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