Post by Dobian on Sept 27, 2011 15:12:26 GMT -5
Part One
It was late afternoon on a windy day when Rolf stepped up to the grave marker, his hair blown back by the strong breeze. Khol Thunderstone, 26 Ukatar 1276 – 10 Eleint 1360, the headstone read. Rolf looked down, his blue eyes hard and glassy, and bent to lay Khol’s beloved dwarven axe on the grave, half expecting a bony hand to come shooting out from the ground and grab him. But nothing happened as he laid the axe on its master’s final resting place, eyes still cast downward. When he straightened back up, Khol was standing behind the marker.
“That was kind of ya te bring me axe, brotha,” Khol said.
Rolf just stared at the visage, which looked fully alive and without the horrible head wound delivered by his fatal blow. “Khol,” was all he could manage.
“Aye, it’s me, brotha,” he said, smiling.
“I…,” Rolf stammered, and Khol let out a hearty laugh.
“So yer gonna spend yer whole life blamin’ yerself for winnin’ our little duel?,” Khol went on. “Ye won, an’ now I get te live forever in the grand halls o’ Moradin a little bit sooner. One day ye’ll join me, brotha, an’ we’ll raise a mug t’gether in honor of our kin.”
“I’m sorry, Khol…”
“Aye, ye been sorry fer fifteen years, lad! Not get on wit’ it!,” Khol responded, clapping Rolf on the shoulder. “Go make me proud o’ ye by kickin’ in a drow’s head in me honor, can ye do that?”
“Aye…,” Rolf said, uncertain.
“Then do it, brotha.” Khol smiled, then turned and walked away, disappearing when he passed a nearby pine tree.
Rolf woke up. He had been dozing next to the merchant he was riding with to Sundabar. The elf wizard Alora had kindly teleported him as far as Silverymoon, and from there he had hitched a ride the rest of the way.
“We’re almost there,” the driver said. “You had a good long nap.”
Rolf barely recognized where he was, it had been so long, but then the city gates rose before him, and he knew he was home. Rolf paid the merchant after they rode through the gates, gathered his bag, and set foot. Going by memory, he followed the streets and alleys until he stood before a modest cottage with chickens in the front yard and smoke pluming from the chimney. The door was ajar, and Rolf stepped over the mantle and called out.
“Who’s in me home?,” replied the dwarf who appeared from around the corner. Standing a bit shorter than Rolf, with a round belly and graying whiskers, Olaf Firefist took in the sight of his uninvited guest and his eyes twinkled with recognition. “ROLF, LAD!,” he boomed, pulling Rolf into a bear hug, nearly crushing him in his powerful grip.
Rolf returned the hug, his own eyes glassy and moist. “Aye, I came home.”
“Have a seat, an’ let me get ye a beer,” Olaf said. “Are ye back fer good?”
“Nay,” Rolf said, sitting down in a wooden chair. “I jus’ need te settle some things, then I’m headin’ back te Cormyr where I be helpin’ the Oghrann clan.”
Olaf brought the beers and sat across from Rolf, looking at him appraisingly. “We all wondered what became o’ ye after ye stormed off that day. I guess yer back on account o’ that.”
“Aye,” Rolf looked off to the kitchen, as if looking back across fifteen years.
“Ye remember those?.” Olaf asked, pointing to a narrow table along the back wall of the cottage. Sitting there, cleaned and polished, were his hammer and shield.
Rolf got up from his chair and walked over to the table, tracing his fingers along the curve of the shield and the shaft of the hammer. No trace of Khol remained on the hammer head, which now gleamed in the light of a nearby candle. Rolf stared at it, remembering.
“Thank ye fer takin’ care of em, Olaf, but I don’t need em no more,” he said. “Give em to someone who does.”
Olaf looked at him and frowned. “Seems like we have some things te talk about, startin’ wit’ those funny robes yer wearin’.”
Rolf spent the rest of the afternoon and evening telling Olaf all about what happened after he left Sundabar on the day of the ill-fated duel. He spoke of his aimless wanderings, his arrival at the Council Hills, meeting Devlin Beestinger and Toto Padfoot, being accepted into the Hin Fist order, his years of service in the monastery, his departure and long journey north to Cormyr, his acceptance into clan Oghrann. And at the end, he told Olaf about the dreams, and the guilt, and why he could never lift a hammer again. Olaf remained quiet through most of it, merely nodding and smiling occasionally.
“Rolf,” he finally said, as moonlight poured through the window above their small table. “Ever since I knew ye as a wee lad, I knew ye was gonna grow up into an honorable stout. Ye didn’ let me down. We both know that ye’ve beat yerself up enuff o’er this. Now do what ye gotta do, an’ put an’ end te this once an’ fer all so ye can get back to yer life. Now go get some sleep.”
Rolf nodded heavily and lied down on the bearskin in the main room, quickly falling into a blissfully dreamless sleep from the exhaustion of a long day. The next morning he woke up long after the sun had already risen. Grabbing a slice of bread and an apple off the kitchen table he went out front where Olaf was tending to his chickens.
“Thanks fer takin’ me in, Olaf,” he said. “I better get te me business now.”
Olaf clapped Rolf on the shoulder and smiled. “Ye go ahead, lad, an’ while yer off doin’ that I’m gonna pass the word along that yer home.”
Rolf smiled grimly at Olaf, then turned and headed for the city gates, to a place that had been waiting for him for fifteen years.
It was late afternoon on a windy day when Rolf stepped up to the grave marker, his hair blown back by the strong breeze. Khol Thunderstone, 26 Ukatar 1276 – 10 Eleint 1360, the headstone read. Rolf looked down, his blue eyes hard and glassy, and bent to lay Khol’s beloved dwarven axe on the grave, half expecting a bony hand to come shooting out from the ground and grab him. But nothing happened as he laid the axe on its master’s final resting place, eyes still cast downward. When he straightened back up, Khol was standing behind the marker.
“That was kind of ya te bring me axe, brotha,” Khol said.
Rolf just stared at the visage, which looked fully alive and without the horrible head wound delivered by his fatal blow. “Khol,” was all he could manage.
“Aye, it’s me, brotha,” he said, smiling.
“I…,” Rolf stammered, and Khol let out a hearty laugh.
“So yer gonna spend yer whole life blamin’ yerself for winnin’ our little duel?,” Khol went on. “Ye won, an’ now I get te live forever in the grand halls o’ Moradin a little bit sooner. One day ye’ll join me, brotha, an’ we’ll raise a mug t’gether in honor of our kin.”
“I’m sorry, Khol…”
“Aye, ye been sorry fer fifteen years, lad! Not get on wit’ it!,” Khol responded, clapping Rolf on the shoulder. “Go make me proud o’ ye by kickin’ in a drow’s head in me honor, can ye do that?”
“Aye…,” Rolf said, uncertain.
“Then do it, brotha.” Khol smiled, then turned and walked away, disappearing when he passed a nearby pine tree.
Rolf woke up. He had been dozing next to the merchant he was riding with to Sundabar. The elf wizard Alora had kindly teleported him as far as Silverymoon, and from there he had hitched a ride the rest of the way.
“We’re almost there,” the driver said. “You had a good long nap.”
Rolf barely recognized where he was, it had been so long, but then the city gates rose before him, and he knew he was home. Rolf paid the merchant after they rode through the gates, gathered his bag, and set foot. Going by memory, he followed the streets and alleys until he stood before a modest cottage with chickens in the front yard and smoke pluming from the chimney. The door was ajar, and Rolf stepped over the mantle and called out.
“Who’s in me home?,” replied the dwarf who appeared from around the corner. Standing a bit shorter than Rolf, with a round belly and graying whiskers, Olaf Firefist took in the sight of his uninvited guest and his eyes twinkled with recognition. “ROLF, LAD!,” he boomed, pulling Rolf into a bear hug, nearly crushing him in his powerful grip.
Rolf returned the hug, his own eyes glassy and moist. “Aye, I came home.”
“Have a seat, an’ let me get ye a beer,” Olaf said. “Are ye back fer good?”
“Nay,” Rolf said, sitting down in a wooden chair. “I jus’ need te settle some things, then I’m headin’ back te Cormyr where I be helpin’ the Oghrann clan.”
Olaf brought the beers and sat across from Rolf, looking at him appraisingly. “We all wondered what became o’ ye after ye stormed off that day. I guess yer back on account o’ that.”
“Aye,” Rolf looked off to the kitchen, as if looking back across fifteen years.
“Ye remember those?.” Olaf asked, pointing to a narrow table along the back wall of the cottage. Sitting there, cleaned and polished, were his hammer and shield.
Rolf got up from his chair and walked over to the table, tracing his fingers along the curve of the shield and the shaft of the hammer. No trace of Khol remained on the hammer head, which now gleamed in the light of a nearby candle. Rolf stared at it, remembering.
“Thank ye fer takin’ care of em, Olaf, but I don’t need em no more,” he said. “Give em to someone who does.”
Olaf looked at him and frowned. “Seems like we have some things te talk about, startin’ wit’ those funny robes yer wearin’.”
Rolf spent the rest of the afternoon and evening telling Olaf all about what happened after he left Sundabar on the day of the ill-fated duel. He spoke of his aimless wanderings, his arrival at the Council Hills, meeting Devlin Beestinger and Toto Padfoot, being accepted into the Hin Fist order, his years of service in the monastery, his departure and long journey north to Cormyr, his acceptance into clan Oghrann. And at the end, he told Olaf about the dreams, and the guilt, and why he could never lift a hammer again. Olaf remained quiet through most of it, merely nodding and smiling occasionally.
“Rolf,” he finally said, as moonlight poured through the window above their small table. “Ever since I knew ye as a wee lad, I knew ye was gonna grow up into an honorable stout. Ye didn’ let me down. We both know that ye’ve beat yerself up enuff o’er this. Now do what ye gotta do, an’ put an’ end te this once an’ fer all so ye can get back to yer life. Now go get some sleep.”
Rolf nodded heavily and lied down on the bearskin in the main room, quickly falling into a blissfully dreamless sleep from the exhaustion of a long day. The next morning he woke up long after the sun had already risen. Grabbing a slice of bread and an apple off the kitchen table he went out front where Olaf was tending to his chickens.
“Thanks fer takin’ me in, Olaf,” he said. “I better get te me business now.”
Olaf clapped Rolf on the shoulder and smiled. “Ye go ahead, lad, an’ while yer off doin’ that I’m gonna pass the word along that yer home.”
Rolf smiled grimly at Olaf, then turned and headed for the city gates, to a place that had been waiting for him for fifteen years.