Naive Youth

A heavy, sulphur-laden mist permeates the air, spraying rampantly from a tall, volcano rumbling with thunderous force admist the mountain peaks. Far above the Eastern Redhorne, perched perilously upon a protruding ledge sits a young Dwarf, his gaze staring distractedly into the dark, cloud fettered distant horizon. Locked in the past, he is oblivious to the cacophony of opposing forces locked in eternal combat far below. An iron-shod boot scrapes absently at the rocky outcropping, hands clenched and unclenched into massive balled fists that continue to curl and uncurl with the regularity of breathing, or a slowly beating heart. Deep reflections within the mind of this creature begin to paint a vivid picture, colorful images of crowded city markets emerging from the deep, nearly opaque shadows of memory. Sights and sounds slowly coalesce into the daily routine of a typical New Solace market, stalls and tents placed in a generally haphazard yet somehow seemingly organized fashion about the central fountain. In this memory, it does not take long to observe the visceral theme that vaults from the congested surroundings. Amidst the busybodies attempting to glean an easy fortune emerges from the crowd a company of men-at-arms, heavily armored and dragging with them the salient form of the condemned. This desperate fugitive digs in with heel, tooth and claw, grinding, scraping and screaming with defiance, using every inch of his body and iota of his being to circumscribe an inevitable fate. The young Dwarf quietly observes the proceedings, admiring the confidence and readily evident competence and power exuded by the men-at-arms as they drag their prey towards the vacant gallows. He greedily eyes the foot soldiers wares, envying their very stations and assets, even as he clasps hands together in anticipation of the forthcoming spectacle. The accused continues to battle valiantly, both physically as he tries in vain to forcefully turn his captors away from his fate, and verbally as a litany of pathetic excuses and rationalizations escape with the high-pitched wail of the damned. Yet he continues to lose ground in the face of his stone-faced captors. Despite the fearless and gallant proclamations of the condemned, unyielding in his futile claims of innocence, the peacekeepers, in their complete lawful authority and resplendent in their shining armors, carry him to the platform to exact the finality of Justice. Jealousy of such force and power nearly overwhelms the stout observer, an indescribable desire to draw his blade and illuminate his own power, blessed by the virtuous and holy, in the face of those who might try to subjugate him in a similar fashion. The urge to become involved quickly passes as the young observer recognizes the value inherent to the position the law-keepers have provided for themselves. Certainly there exists little hope, outside of the dominion of the Knight's Castle, to garner such power as these Justiciars have displayed. They have demonstrated their strength, drawn his envy, and piqued the greed for wealthy garb and financial gain inherent in all beings. More than this, however, they have set forth a course of action, a lead for naive dwarf to follow. You see, Durak was always thought to be humble and serve others with humility, use his divine training for righteous deeds, ready to sacrifice himself for the greater good. This exposed an urge for something else, a void in his soul that can only be satisfied by self-importance and greed. He longs to put his training and divine fury into practice, smacking the wicked out of the evils who dare to cross paths with him. He longs to gain respect and to be feared by those who dare to defy him. As he mulls over his past, he descends the mountain to seek a pen and paper from town with an utmost determination to let his presence to be known to the Halls of Justice.

Reaching for Power

Despite the late hour, an oppressively hot, dust-laden wind blows haphazardly through myriad openings of a Solace marketplace, growing exponentially as tendrils disseminate among each small opening like miniature tornadoes. Each freshly promulgated eddy kicks up additional whirling dervishes of sand and grit from the smoothly worn city streets. A low, steady moan of protest echoes throughout the bustling city, the eerie, uncanny accompaniment a steady protest incessantly threatening to unleash the true furies of nature upon the unwelcome obstruction the city epitomizes. A mature, barrel-sized dwarf rests nonchalantly against the wooden beam of a nearby stall, seemingly oblivious to the mercantile dealings transpiring around him: whispered, shouted, argued and agreed upon. Large, heavily hooded eyes discretely but consistently survey his surroundings, a large, gauntleted hand persistently fingers the haft of the battle mace slung across his hip. His true intentions, despite the relaxed posture, are further belied by the two armored guards who continually glance in his direction, fear and awe etched upon their faces. The dwarf emits a muffled snort, his chin protruding in disgust as his youthful sentinels give themselves away with their anxious glances and unsettled mutterings. Distracted by his own sentries, the dwarf misses the fleeting shadow skirting the edge of his vision, coming to attention only in time to surmise the events that would inevitably unfold in the next few seconds. As the shadowy form coalesces, emerging from hiding with a blood-curdling scream and drawn dagger, it launches itself upon an unsuspecting wizard attempting to barter for wares in a nearby stall. Too late to intercede on behalf of the sorcerer, the dwarf barks nearly unintelligible orders to his guards, who immediately back away and begin circling in from opposite directions upon the assailant. The dwarf moves in, greedily eyeing the perpetrators wares even as his brandishes his mace, raising it over his head to deliver a quick, decisive blow. Vagrants and vultures alike scramble to the fresh corpses like flies to fresh carrion, squabbling amongst themselves even as the dwarfs mace begins to fall upon them, as well. A sinister grin has pulled back bovine lips, revealing plated teeth fixed in a grin of pure enjoyment and satisfaction. As his guards move in to handle the fallout, the dwarf fastens his mace to his harness, all the while observing his surroundings. With another indignant snort, he observes the wary gazes of the commoners bearing witness to the righteous brutality of the law. The murmurs and whispers, incoherent and muddled from a distance still reveal the impact of the events that have just unfolded. Slowly, the gathered crowd begins to disperse, their eyes darting frequently in his direction as they back away, clearly to unnerved to try to make eye contact. He returns to his wooden post, resuming his nonchalant lean and fixing his expression to one of boredom, once more. Even so, he is barely able to suppress the cackle building within him as he notes the very wide space now afforded to him. He is feared.