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A Tulnars life in short stories.
Solvryn
Member, Alpha One, Adventurer
A Tulnars life in short stories. Original works written by Solvryn
Special thanks to @Diura of the Syndicate for Scottish syntax.
Pretext: I haven't creatively wrote in years, as a Tulnar diehard and enthusiast I decided to write some Tulnar tales and refer to the wiki so I do not metagame (or avoid it as much as I can). Will update this Tulnars journey on this page. Enjoy.
The crystalline light cascades hues of magnificence across the black surface. Gazing upon his handiwork with a smile, the gargantuan Tulnar rest his maul to the side the table. What once was a stalagmite became a work of brilliance and practicality, art refined while still retaining its raw and natural properties.
Untying a bundle of leathers he drapes them across his seat, a massive obsidian chair, outlined with plate-work, pictured art of flora and animal a like, a memento and remembrance to his fore bearers who survived.
Sitting down, he begins to sift through the contents of a leather bag. From which he pulls out a flint, many candles, a stand, a teapot. Carefully he places the teapot onto the stand and shortly after he manages to finally light a candle with his flint.
Placing the candles under the stand and teapot, he pulls more contents from his bag, a smaller leather bag. Earthy and pungent, a cocktail of mushrooms and other floral ingredients, he opens the lid of the teapot and pours in small amount from the bag.
Smiling, he closes his eyes and takes in a deep breathe, meditating upon his proximity to the earth; as if he was one with the very pulse of Verra. He begins to root through another bag and pulls out what appears to be a dusty journal and inscribed on the cover it reads, Magnus Stonewise.
His finger on Entry 3, line 12 he reads, “When buildin' anythin', ma Granda always telt me, tae use the hammer tae strike wae precision, nae meaningful material gains can be made wae tae much material loss. Always dae things wae time n energy in mind.”
Grinning he thinks to himself, “if only my forefather knew that his very book was being read by one of his descendants today”. Continuing reading the page, “Yer work can never be true, if yur body and mind arenae true. Thus anythin' ye build, sculpt, forge or otherwise create wae yer own hans' n fingers will nae be true. They will only be a tainted fragment o'a fabrication of yer bein'”.
Sliding a piece of strap into the pages, he closes the journal and slides it back into the leather bag while removing one last object from the side of the bag, his precious mug. A large animal skull with horns, finished and polished with two gems in the sockets where the eyes would be, and bore in the middle which would cradle the now warm liquid.
Carefully, he moves the sacred teapot and pours into his equally sacred mug. Being sure not to damage the vessel or spill its components. Deliberate and approximate, he fills the vessels with a brew with contents. The aroma now envelope his nostrils, what was just earthy and pungent; now a variety with heavy hints of flora now active.
Placing the teapot back onto its stand, he begins sipping from his mug. Closing his eyes and inhaling again, he feels the entirety of Verra pulse through him, ever expanding roots of the Essence from his body traveling deep into ground below him. He achieving a sense of serenity, he leans back and takes the time to relax a bit in his seat.
As he lumbers along the trail, he takes in the scenery of the idyllic flora and fungi around him. Soon he reaches his home. Making his way to the back until he reaches a perfectly square stepping stone. Lifting the stone, he reaches for an ancient and well kept trunk.
The trunk appears to be an ancient wood, perfectly and carefully preserved in black finish with a cherry hue. Aged framing adorns the entire outer parameter of the wood. In the front, a large metallic in lay of a stag majestically entrances anyone who looks at it. This trunk was a finding of his from a young age, perfect for preserving his most prized possession, knowledge.
Opening the trunk, he reaches in and grabs scrolls wrapped in cloth, the scrolls have a very orcish distinction. This precious trove weaves the very threads that bind the past to the present most of all, they were his past and present, the knowledge of his ancestors. Putting the trunk away and the stepping stone on top, he makes his way inside his home. He places his bags on their rightful hook and he looks around with peace on his mind.
His home was simple, there was shelves on all four walls, there was a small stove for small meals and tea. A mountain of leathers and bedding in the corner, a stand next to it for his maul. A few crude hooks hang off the shelves for his traveling gear.
After hanging the rest of his belonging, it was time to carefully study the scrolls again. For that’s what his personal mission was, to extrapolate every bit of knowledge from his ancestors. Removing the first scroll from it’s protective coverings of animal hide, the scroll reads, “Herb drying techniques by Mika”.
Before he could even open the scroll, he caught a small creature out of the corner of his eye. It was winged partially feathered but with wings of sinews. Along the crown of it’s head and down it’s back, small arrangements of feathers the rest of the creature was covered in fur.
The Tulnar reached for the creature, but the creature would soon jump and fly through the air and dissipate. Puzzled he proceeded to unravel the scroll on herb drying techniques, exited for the teas the future holds.
Picking up his maul he tests the sharpness of the bladed side, reflecting on a current passage written by his orc fore-mother,
“My father used to send me out into the wilderness to gather herbs, one day I wandered into the bog, armed with a harvesting sickle and small blade. My instructions where to bring herbs back before the rains finally reached us. We were within half a days time before the storm, I could hear the distant thundering of clouded equestrian hooves race across the sky.
I hurried my way through the swamp, slicing, pruning, and picking my way through the desired stock. Before I knew it, night fell and I found myself staring at a scintillating bloom, graced by the moon and refracting its light. The moon was at a crescent that night, after my momentary distraction I realized the time.
As I returned my father admonished me for being late, rightfully concerned for a grizzled veteran who has made their dragons share of the clans enemies. I quickly explained to him my dilemma, my tools were dull and using both of them for the same task had proven to be wildly ineffective. Remembering the moon, I asked if it was possible to combine the harvesting sickle with the blade.
He took both of them from hand and would lead us to clan smith, “My daughter would like to combine a sickle and a blade. The smith then turned to me and asked, “What would you use this for?” I looked at the smith slightly puzzled and half-shy, I replied “To harvest with a swiftness”.
The old smith wasn’t just a smith, he was also brother to the Chieftan, he smirked at my father then looked at me, “I will forge this blade knowing your rites are coming up and your purpose to the clan draws near, but you have to earn this blade once finished.”"
Finishing the scroll, he unravels another, wondering more about his fore-mother he finds the scroll that continues the account of the final rite and how she received her name, Mika of the Storming Lotus.
“Many suns and moons have passed since my fathers commission of that blade and here I am about to take my final rite of passage as a Shaman of my clan. I was about to change into ceremonial garb when I could hear a commotion and calamity from the outside.
I can hear the echoed howls of a clan warrior, “We have been besieged, humans! To arms!”. Quickly I dawned the garb and rushed outside. My father was surrounded and I could see a human was shouting, “Your time has come orc, there will be thousands of scars upon your skin for the debts you owe and the lives you took, that will be the payment paid and the pain you will receive before you die.”
My father dawned his polearm and without saying a word dispatched three of the company of humans surrounding him within a single stroke. “Kill him, kill the orc!”
Many humans fell within minutes, but those minutes felt like eons when they finally felled my father. Battle raged on in my village, my clansmen finding death all around me. Thunder and rain, the riders in the sky have finally come.
I rushed to my dying father, I did not have enough medical supplies to even bring him relief of his wounds. Turning him over I discovered my blade, the blade my father had commissioned for me. Upon grasping my blade I have realized my failure, failure to remain calm and collected, I could no longer hold back my lament.
My lament turned to praying to my ancestors, seeing further seeing my fathers blood stain the ground and my clan die around me, my prayer went from a whisper to a lions roar. Then it became the thunder itself, from the galloping skies I could see the spirits of my ancestors, shooting arrows of lightning from horseback onto the earth.
And the wet ground was struck with infinite lotus blossoms, stunning the enemy. Looking around me my father and my clan rose and their eyes filled with the torrent of ten thousand tsunamis. No human attacking our village would speak another word that day.
The rains would continue and the ancestors have yet to part and with a final bolt, they blessed my crescent blade and a row rumbling would exclaim, “Mika of the Storming Lotus”."
Entry 4 line 32
“I remember ma first instruction from Forgemaster Severin Svarogsson, his lectures molded ma very mind at a young age.
“First off, always listen tae your Forgemaster. Never think for a second ye know where the coals are n the Forgemaster does not.”
“Second, a hammer n a ram are one in the same, stupidity n carelessness will hurt either way.”
“Pay attention Magnus, I will only say this third one once. If ye don’t have a plan, ye don’t have a copper, n if ye don’t have a copper, ye don’t have a care.”
“And finally Magnus, yer results could be the mountains weight in coin, but a brilliant dwarven mind will never be found in the dragons hoard.”"
The Tulnar picks up his maul, inspecting the strike-end, he sets it down. Obsessively, he continues to learn every finite detail of his ancestors.
"The old Forgemaster taught me valuable lessons, but ma hardest lesson tae learn wis about the anvil itself.
The anvil n the hearth should be the other two most important tools tae a dwarfs life, they control the fire, they are great place tae talk wae yur friends n family, n most importantly they do not give a damn about a bad day.
Wae respects tae Severin teachins, I never had a many of bad days because I always made sure to know where ma fingers n toes where at all times."
The Tulnar broke eye contact with the journal, setting it down. He twirled a small runestone in his hand. He contemplated his ancestors words and the lessons from the forgemaster.
Special thanks to @Diura of the Syndicate for Scottish syntax.
Pretext: I haven't creatively wrote in years, as a Tulnar diehard and enthusiast I decided to write some Tulnar tales and refer to the wiki so I do not metagame (or avoid it as much as I can). Will update this Tulnars journey on this page. Enjoy.
Tea at the Table
The crystalline light cascades hues of magnificence across the black surface. Gazing upon his handiwork with a smile, the gargantuan Tulnar rest his maul to the side the table. What once was a stalagmite became a work of brilliance and practicality, art refined while still retaining its raw and natural properties.
Untying a bundle of leathers he drapes them across his seat, a massive obsidian chair, outlined with plate-work, pictured art of flora and animal a like, a memento and remembrance to his fore bearers who survived.
Sitting down, he begins to sift through the contents of a leather bag. From which he pulls out a flint, many candles, a stand, a teapot. Carefully he places the teapot onto the stand and shortly after he manages to finally light a candle with his flint.
Placing the candles under the stand and teapot, he pulls more contents from his bag, a smaller leather bag. Earthy and pungent, a cocktail of mushrooms and other floral ingredients, he opens the lid of the teapot and pours in small amount from the bag.
Smiling, he closes his eyes and takes in a deep breathe, meditating upon his proximity to the earth; as if he was one with the very pulse of Verra. He begins to root through another bag and pulls out what appears to be a dusty journal and inscribed on the cover it reads, Magnus Stonewise.
His finger on Entry 3, line 12 he reads, “When buildin' anythin', ma Granda always telt me, tae use the hammer tae strike wae precision, nae meaningful material gains can be made wae tae much material loss. Always dae things wae time n energy in mind.”
Grinning he thinks to himself, “if only my forefather knew that his very book was being read by one of his descendants today”. Continuing reading the page, “Yer work can never be true, if yur body and mind arenae true. Thus anythin' ye build, sculpt, forge or otherwise create wae yer own hans' n fingers will nae be true. They will only be a tainted fragment o'a fabrication of yer bein'”.
Sliding a piece of strap into the pages, he closes the journal and slides it back into the leather bag while removing one last object from the side of the bag, his precious mug. A large animal skull with horns, finished and polished with two gems in the sockets where the eyes would be, and bore in the middle which would cradle the now warm liquid.
Carefully, he moves the sacred teapot and pours into his equally sacred mug. Being sure not to damage the vessel or spill its components. Deliberate and approximate, he fills the vessels with a brew with contents. The aroma now envelope his nostrils, what was just earthy and pungent; now a variety with heavy hints of flora now active.
Placing the teapot back onto its stand, he begins sipping from his mug. Closing his eyes and inhaling again, he feels the entirety of Verra pulse through him, ever expanding roots of the Essence from his body traveling deep into ground below him. He achieving a sense of serenity, he leans back and takes the time to relax a bit in his seat.
There is no knowledge without Tea
As he lumbers along the trail, he takes in the scenery of the idyllic flora and fungi around him. Soon he reaches his home. Making his way to the back until he reaches a perfectly square stepping stone. Lifting the stone, he reaches for an ancient and well kept trunk.
The trunk appears to be an ancient wood, perfectly and carefully preserved in black finish with a cherry hue. Aged framing adorns the entire outer parameter of the wood. In the front, a large metallic in lay of a stag majestically entrances anyone who looks at it. This trunk was a finding of his from a young age, perfect for preserving his most prized possession, knowledge.
Opening the trunk, he reaches in and grabs scrolls wrapped in cloth, the scrolls have a very orcish distinction. This precious trove weaves the very threads that bind the past to the present most of all, they were his past and present, the knowledge of his ancestors. Putting the trunk away and the stepping stone on top, he makes his way inside his home. He places his bags on their rightful hook and he looks around with peace on his mind.
His home was simple, there was shelves on all four walls, there was a small stove for small meals and tea. A mountain of leathers and bedding in the corner, a stand next to it for his maul. A few crude hooks hang off the shelves for his traveling gear.
After hanging the rest of his belonging, it was time to carefully study the scrolls again. For that’s what his personal mission was, to extrapolate every bit of knowledge from his ancestors. Removing the first scroll from it’s protective coverings of animal hide, the scroll reads, “Herb drying techniques by Mika”.
Before he could even open the scroll, he caught a small creature out of the corner of his eye. It was winged partially feathered but with wings of sinews. Along the crown of it’s head and down it’s back, small arrangements of feathers the rest of the creature was covered in fur.
The Tulnar reached for the creature, but the creature would soon jump and fly through the air and dissipate. Puzzled he proceeded to unravel the scroll on herb drying techniques, exited for the teas the future holds.
Mika of the Storming Lotus
Picking up his maul he tests the sharpness of the bladed side, reflecting on a current passage written by his orc fore-mother,
“My father used to send me out into the wilderness to gather herbs, one day I wandered into the bog, armed with a harvesting sickle and small blade. My instructions where to bring herbs back before the rains finally reached us. We were within half a days time before the storm, I could hear the distant thundering of clouded equestrian hooves race across the sky.
I hurried my way through the swamp, slicing, pruning, and picking my way through the desired stock. Before I knew it, night fell and I found myself staring at a scintillating bloom, graced by the moon and refracting its light. The moon was at a crescent that night, after my momentary distraction I realized the time.
As I returned my father admonished me for being late, rightfully concerned for a grizzled veteran who has made their dragons share of the clans enemies. I quickly explained to him my dilemma, my tools were dull and using both of them for the same task had proven to be wildly ineffective. Remembering the moon, I asked if it was possible to combine the harvesting sickle with the blade.
He took both of them from hand and would lead us to clan smith, “My daughter would like to combine a sickle and a blade. The smith then turned to me and asked, “What would you use this for?” I looked at the smith slightly puzzled and half-shy, I replied “To harvest with a swiftness”.
The old smith wasn’t just a smith, he was also brother to the Chieftan, he smirked at my father then looked at me, “I will forge this blade knowing your rites are coming up and your purpose to the clan draws near, but you have to earn this blade once finished.”"
Finishing the scroll, he unravels another, wondering more about his fore-mother he finds the scroll that continues the account of the final rite and how she received her name, Mika of the Storming Lotus.
“Many suns and moons have passed since my fathers commission of that blade and here I am about to take my final rite of passage as a Shaman of my clan. I was about to change into ceremonial garb when I could hear a commotion and calamity from the outside.
I can hear the echoed howls of a clan warrior, “We have been besieged, humans! To arms!”. Quickly I dawned the garb and rushed outside. My father was surrounded and I could see a human was shouting, “Your time has come orc, there will be thousands of scars upon your skin for the debts you owe and the lives you took, that will be the payment paid and the pain you will receive before you die.”
My father dawned his polearm and without saying a word dispatched three of the company of humans surrounding him within a single stroke. “Kill him, kill the orc!”
Many humans fell within minutes, but those minutes felt like eons when they finally felled my father. Battle raged on in my village, my clansmen finding death all around me. Thunder and rain, the riders in the sky have finally come.
I rushed to my dying father, I did not have enough medical supplies to even bring him relief of his wounds. Turning him over I discovered my blade, the blade my father had commissioned for me. Upon grasping my blade I have realized my failure, failure to remain calm and collected, I could no longer hold back my lament.
My lament turned to praying to my ancestors, seeing further seeing my fathers blood stain the ground and my clan die around me, my prayer went from a whisper to a lions roar. Then it became the thunder itself, from the galloping skies I could see the spirits of my ancestors, shooting arrows of lightning from horseback onto the earth.
And the wet ground was struck with infinite lotus blossoms, stunning the enemy. Looking around me my father and my clan rose and their eyes filled with the torrent of ten thousand tsunamis. No human attacking our village would speak another word that day.
The rains would continue and the ancestors have yet to part and with a final bolt, they blessed my crescent blade and a row rumbling would exclaim, “Mika of the Storming Lotus”."
Lessons from the Forgemaster
Entry 4 line 32
“I remember ma first instruction from Forgemaster Severin Svarogsson, his lectures molded ma very mind at a young age.
“First off, always listen tae your Forgemaster. Never think for a second ye know where the coals are n the Forgemaster does not.”
“Second, a hammer n a ram are one in the same, stupidity n carelessness will hurt either way.”
“Pay attention Magnus, I will only say this third one once. If ye don’t have a plan, ye don’t have a copper, n if ye don’t have a copper, ye don’t have a care.”
“And finally Magnus, yer results could be the mountains weight in coin, but a brilliant dwarven mind will never be found in the dragons hoard.”"
The Tulnar picks up his maul, inspecting the strike-end, he sets it down. Obsessively, he continues to learn every finite detail of his ancestors.
"The old Forgemaster taught me valuable lessons, but ma hardest lesson tae learn wis about the anvil itself.
The anvil n the hearth should be the other two most important tools tae a dwarfs life, they control the fire, they are great place tae talk wae yur friends n family, n most importantly they do not give a damn about a bad day.
Wae respects tae Severin teachins, I never had a many of bad days because I always made sure to know where ma fingers n toes where at all times."
The Tulnar broke eye contact with the journal, setting it down. He twirled a small runestone in his hand. He contemplated his ancestors words and the lessons from the forgemaster.
7
Comments
Look forward to reading more in future!
Wow! Did you do this as a hobby or for work in the past? After looking at these, I got the impression these aren't your first short stories
I was thinking the same thing!
After another careful strike, the metal began to smooth. His desire for perfection draws nearer, careful he quenches the metal. Removing it, on his one thousand eleven fold the blade cracks. With a drawn out sigh, he tosses the metal into the scrap.
A younger Tulnar looks at him in confusion. To a regular Tulnar his blades where pristine, to him, his craftsmanship had years left to perfect. The younger Tulnar then asks, “Why did you throw it away?”. He looks at the young Tulnar and with a reply, “Perfection is impossible and practice makes perfect.”
The young Tulnar even more bewildered than ever retorts, “Your blades have cut through the toughest and aeromatic of foods, will you forge something else?”
“No, I will only smelt them down and try again.” The young Tulnar then looks at the older Tulnar, “Okay. I will see you tomorrow.” The young Tulnar needing to make it home, disappears into the shadow of the caverns.
Walking over to the piles of scrap, he picks up one of his imperfections. He brings it over to what appears to be a make shift anvil and splits it in half with ease. Upon inspecting the breaks, his begins a hypothesis to account for his errors.
In his mind, he can hear echoes of his ancestor Magnus, “A Forgemaster always has unfinished business, themselves.”
He pulls out a small, flawless quartz, closer he begins to examine the breakage. He notices disparities within the metal itself.
“Ye can forge hundreds of blades in a year, but becomin’ the best version of yourself will be a lifetimes work of fire n hammer.”
Moving towards the rest of the scrap, he picks it all up. Placing it all into the crucible.
“Ye don’t light the perfect flame wae flint, you light it wae your spirit.”
Walking over to the corner of the room, he picks up an obsidian shard. Breaking off a few pieces, he walks backs towards the crucible, placing the shards within it.
“Once ye have the perfect flame, ye ground yur mind for the perfect strike, remember tae mind yur toes.”
Capping off the crucible, he places it back into the blazing furnace.
“If yur heart n yer ingot are one in the same, ye become the steel.”
After creating another ingot, he cracks the crucible. He poises himself for a strike.
“N’ when those strikes land straight n true, yur mind becomes the blade.”
She walks down to where the waterfall meets the rocks, coming at the end of her life cycle. She manages to find the perfect spot to sit and submerge her feet beneath the crystal clear, prismatic hued liquid.
Her feet disturbs the peace of the water for only a few seconds and in her hand a single seed. She mulls over where she will plant the seed for a few seconds. She knows that she must give back to same soil from where she borrowed the staff she uses to get around.
Spotting a large shadow with maul in hand in the distance, she notices him. He who has come to her for council many times in his life.
“Hejo Elder”, he greets her.
“Ah, have you come to seek? You’re very good at seeking and finding.” she replies with a smile.
“Not today, today I have come for the waters.” he insists, sitting down on a rock across from her.
“Today I plant this seed, today I prepare to give back what I have taken before I myself return, a lesson passed down in my family for generations.” The elder gets up, slowly she kneels down to where the soil is nourished the most.
“Ah there.” She looks at him, “About where your feet are, is where I found my walking staff.” She then takes her staff and pokes a hole in the soil, placing the seed inside using her foot to close the opening.
“These old limbs will soon become part of the soil too. So before I passed, I wanted to make sure the child of my staff would grow. As in the coming years, my own children may also need something to walk with as well.” he could tell by her slow and deliberate movements, that the Elder would soon pass.
“Elder, would you not leave your own staff to your children?” he asks her cautiously.
“No, no.” she laughs. “This staff doesn’t belong to me, it has grown with me. For my descendants, it’ll mark my last breathe with blossoms of the cycle.”
“Before I part, know this. I have been here from the time you were a babe till now. I have counseled you while you have sought, watched your triumphs when you found. One day, you will have to be certain in what you know, you display that certainty in all that you teach. Let your own journeys become the wisdom that guides others, before you take your final quest to your grave.”
That was her final lesson, to him.
Hobby, never thought about doing it for work.
Walking up the path, he notices the luminescent picture in the distance. Continuing he sees the young artist.
Two stone slabs, one for the picture the other for the colors. The young artist with his variety of dye, deftly working the details on his mural, his understanding of a distant past. A terrible and gloomy look filled his face, an expression that read of heartbreak and defeat. For a child, his work was impeccable, but it called back to a doom in his very being that he could not shake.
Two figures fighting, with death all around them. One appeared to be human, the other elf. In their hands the others destruction, with eyes of hatred; they warred.
“Young one, why the sadness on your face?” He asks.
“Ancestors”, he replies.
“Ah”, the older Tulnar remembered the words of the Elder and it was his turn to succeed her. He sat down to the young Tulnar.
“If they did not accept each other, how could they have ever accepted me?” the young Tulnar posed a question that the older Tulnar was not prepared to answer that day.
The older Tulnar grins, “Do you paint?”
“Yes, I am right now.”, the younger Tulnar looking perplexed at simple rhetoric.
“Why do you paint?”, the older Tulnar asked.
“To see the whole picture!” the young artist replies.
With a chuckle the older Tulnar asks the younger more questions, “Do you think they saw anything at all with blood and hate in their eyes? Do you think their tongues and noses would know fruit and flora when surrounded by the dead and decaying? Could they hear the songs of the creatures around them when all that angry and baneful steel is singing hymns of madness in their ears?
The young Tulnar not wanting to get any of the questions wrong, “No?”
The older Tulnar places his gargantuan hand on the young Tulnars shoulder, “Keep painting young one, your brushstrokes know more life than a fool does.”
Breathing in, breathing out. As the chilling falls pour onto his head and shoulders and wash over him, faint echoes of the Elder since passed entered his mind, “Let your own journeys become the wisdom that guides others”. The wise womans words, permeated through him and into the water itself.
When his eyes opened, he noticed a sprout give way to the soil, right where she returned such life before she continued on into the next life. He knew that to succeed her he must have the ability to judge well.
He was still partially shaken from the young artist, never did he want to be the people in the picture. For in his mind he must forge another, discernment. A way to see all things as they are and not how he wants to perceive them. That was the key, to have skills like the Elder and have a minds eye that pierced the darkest and hopeless of places.
He could see, that they could not see. It would not take much effort knowing. The most basic details of that battle, a story passed down describing the banes afflicting of Elves and Men. It posed many questions in his mind, “Why war?”, “Whats the true reason for this conflict?”, “How would I teach the young to manifest their own destiny?”, his mind taking many roads, his thoughts lead to one thing only, adaptation.
Closing his eyes again, he could feel the creeping cold begin to take root. As his mind began to bloom, he keeps a singular focus, being. The echoing sounds of a broken stream bellow softly into the shadows, casting a still wave of health and splendor.
The only audibility within earshot of the massive Tulnar was simple ripples in the waters and the new spring in the cycle, if anyone was close enough to listen and there was only he in sight.
Time would pass and finally his eyes would open, this time standing up and removing himself from the waters, he gathered himself. He began his slow and deliberate walk home. No thoughts would invade his mind, his sight now brimming with the lens of eternal waters.
Entry 7 line 42:
“One of ma greatest accomplishments wis that o’one of ma greatest students, Joerg “The Mad Tinkerer” Goldsage, he wis one of the finest dwarven gentlemen I have ever met. Always well dressed, even when gettin’ his hands dirty. Always ready for business and most importantly he carried himself with a dignity n swagger that nae one else could ever help tae replicate.”
“When I met him, he wis but a simple jewelers apprentice. Hard working, smart, n determined; he always gave his jewelry his best efforts, but his life was changed when he had tae come work under me.”
“He had just reported tae me, I needed a helper as I wis commissioned by the military tae start trainin’ them some young dwarves. On the first day of his arrival, he came bearin’ his orders stamped with the military insignia of Captain Braun Coalbeard. His request was simple, “Forgemaster, please train this find young lad into a Warsmith, those ugly knife-ears keep attackin' our outposts and destroyin’ our supplies. Yur Cousin, Braun.” I wis always tickled by the endearment of ma cousin. So makin’ sure this young lad doesn’t get ma own family killed, we went tae work.”
“As we kept on trainin’, a few weeks would pass. Joergs progress tae becoming a warsmith wis bein’ made in ale kegs n ram runs, what great feats this young lad has accomplished. He even came tae me with a schematic, “The Lancer” he called it.”
“Now he said tae me, “Forgemaster Stonewise, this is how I plan tae build ma weapon, it’s the guts, gears, n the ratios that matter more than the machine. I’m buildin’ it so it scales, I would really like tae report to Captain Coalbeard complete with proof that I can dae anything asked of me.” n all I could dae is smile n reply, “Great, let’s get a hammerin'.””
“We began configurin’ his prototype straight away, mostly progress, some hitches. I’d start tae give ma instruction, “First, we take the arms n we turn them into coils, but we have tae be careful n temper them perfectly or else they will not provide the missile with enough kinetic energy.” “Second, we have tae shave down the receiver n run a rail.” “Third, we have tae carefully rivet the rail down tae the receiver.” “Then, we bolt n fasten the coils tae the rail.” “Fourth, we add the bolt cradle n the crank arm, we must be careful tae get this part perfect, because if you fire the weapon n you shoot an elf in the ear, the bolt will just whistle through their head, lets make it accurate for their big skulls. So careful where ye aim” After four months of configurin’ n confabbin’, the weapon wis complete.”
“Here Joerg, I wrote me two letters tae Captain Coalbeard. Ones a personal correspondence n the other is a military correspondence, naturally you don’t know either one and you don’t have the very ring on my finger tae reseal it, so don’t try tae be wry about it. I didn’t see him for twos years after that.”
“But I did receive more letters from ma cousin, stories of Joerg accomplishments on the battlefields, the critical success of his works, n most o’all he earned himself his nickname, “The Mad Tinkerer”, apparently his inventions and ingenuity got him promoted n sent on an expeditionary mission across the sea.”
“My cousin would soon lose count of Joerg as he had transferred tae another dwarven unit. One day, I wis minding ma forge n couldn’t you know it if you spotted him, Joerg walks in! What a sight it was, his combat experienced eyes, his shoulders broad, he had a few new nicks n dings on his face. Some nice looking gold in his ears and wow, what a magnificent wolf-hide coat.”
“He looks at me n says, “Master Forgemaster, how are ye’?”, “I’m doing well, Joerg!, how have been yur travels?” I responded. “I’ve been promoted tae Master Warsmith of the Dwarven 19th Expeditionary Forces n it’s all thanks tae you sir!” n boy did he exclaim that with a pride n valor deservin' of his title. “Good lad, I never heard what ye did after you left Coalbeards unit.” I said. He looked at me with a cheeky grin, “Kept tabs on me did ye, I never did open those letters.” “Aye, Coalbeards ma cousin.”, I retorted with a snort, holding back a belly laugh.”
“Joerg would proceed tae tell me, “When I arrive at Captain Coalbeards post, I wis debriefed on how some wine belchin’ thieves were hecklin' our farmers. With “The Lancer”, in hand the good Captain wanted tae measure my ability tae be a warsmith. Originally, he wanted tae send another soldier out with my machine, but I wanted tae be the one who demonstrated its capabilities. So we would find the leader of the raiders and in the bushes we waited.”
“Joerg would account his memory of he n ma cousin in vivid detail in his best voice of ma cousin, “Agh, you can always tell where these lanky vineshanks are by the smell of the nasty wine they brew. Lets give these dumb bastards a memory they soon wont forget. Now, you see that big smelly tall blonde donkey over there? Center mass, one shot, one kill lets see what this “Lancer” o’ yours does.”
“I couldn’t help but drop ma tongs in a stupor, I have never in ma life of me heard someone imitate my cousin in such perfect form, but the curiosity o’a dwarf is always natural, so I asked Joerg tae continue.”
“I kid ya not, Forgemaster. The first time I squeezed the lever, the “Lancer” wis so damn silent that the only thing you could hear was the singin' of the bolt for a split second. It passed through the leader of the raiders, continued on and shot another thief square in the eyes. The Captain would turn tae me and say, “Two of those twit brained scavengin' buzzards for the price o’one?” With a deep breathe he would blow his battle horn.”
“After that battle Forgemaster, I wis would soon be tasked with machines tae cull the wyverns.”
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Thank you, recharging my batteries so I can stay in good works.
“Keep your mind steady”, the faint echo whispered as it rippled through the Tulnars mind. His breathing was in sync with his hearts rhythm, in quiet contemplation he focused on a single drop of water in the palm of his hand. His goal was absolute stillness of the soul, removing unnecessary doubt, strife, and anxiety from his being.
Mastery comes when clarity and quintessence conjoin, prowess comes to fruition in the minds eye when one waters the roots of vigor. For every day practicing for precision and a caution not to miss the mark, everyday a practice to near perfection and a caution to take care to the most delicate of details.
Opening his eyes, he would shift his attention towards the flora that have begun to grow around the pool since the Elders death, blooms formed all around. His meditation for the day complete and his mind clear he began to notice patterns across the petals.
He stand up, feeling a sharp pain in his leg. He did notice see it at first, but a coiled creature no longer rests underneath the rock on which he was meditating. Carefully he inspects the creature, its fangs drawn ready to drawn like daggers in endless night.
Freshly hatched, he laughs and is bemused by the young beasts effort to intimidate him. He out stretches his hand, another strike lands on his finger. Patiently he waits for the young serpent to realize that he is friend and certainly not wanting to eat it.
The young serpent makes its way to the palm of the Tulnars hand, still in strike pose, still adhering to the chaotic forces of nature. Walking away from the pool and to a larger rock several meters away, the Tulnar places his hand on the dirt and the young beast jets away to safety.
He makes his strides in yards and time passes, he reaches his home. Hanging up his belongings, he glances towards the scrolls where he learned how to meditate. He cannot help but think to himself it is time to indulge of more of his foremothers wisdom.
He sits quietly focused on his craft, looking down at his bag of stones. Carefully picking one up and starting to slowly chip away at it, with the goal of making it spherical. Pondering the Gods his ancestors spoke of he often wondered who these gods were and if they were worth praying to. He kept working diligently and carefully obsessively possessed on making them perfect.
Wisdom and knowledge were always at the forefront of his endeavors, he often wondered if there is a God or Goddesses wise, filled with knowledge and should there be, he would have so many questions that he felt needed answers. Still he kept slowly and carefully chip away the green and cloudy stone, as time passed he completed his objective, now to repeat the process.
Placing his first stone down, he picks up another. Wondering about how his ancestors thought about honor and valor. He wanted another spherical stone, so he began the same process as the first one. Carefully chipping, carefully shaping a time consuming task that only the most resolute could continue on doing.
Eventually the colors come clear, with reds, yellows and blacks swirling around in this spherical stone. He looks at the stone once more, with a fated grin proud of his work so far, but his days goal not nearly complete.
Out of the bag again, he keeps focused on his quest to turn his recent of collection of stones into spherical works and no better way to do that while pondering the Gods. He has read scrolls of Mikas adventures into the wild and often he’s wondered if there is a God of the wild. One who keeps the balance of all things.
Another stone complete, another deity pondered. Though the stone beads take a while to craft, his musings of the Gods do not. As he keeps them short due to his lack of connection or knowledge to them.
As time and stones pass, he reaches the end of his stones. Now for the hardest part, drilling a perfect space in the center for his beads. He reaches for his make shift instrument, setting up his jig he begins to labor again, carefully etching out a hole in every bead.
Times passes and his beads are complete and ready for stringing, one by one he completes his necklace. Placing it around his neck, he will start to always make time for the musings of the divine.
I miss this very activity and Excitement to write such cool RP-Posts in Forums of times past where i was, where the Activity of the RP-writing People has gone down since a good Decade and above.
Be it Role Play Forums of World of Warcraft - OR all other Roleplay Forums i was visiting back then.
Nice to know that Roleplayers are still up and about in creating nice Stories.
The Tulnar kept removing vines from the stone pile, but it seemed as though every time he succeeded in removing one vine, two more took its place. There was a glint within the tangled mass that caught his attention. He became to labor even more to this new found of his focus, but these vines were stubborn and darker than the void.
The vines reminded him of a harder time, in his childhood. He recalled to a time when his people struggled against the beasts deep within the caverns. Expedition encampments would be frequent targets and some how managed to earn their ire, but mostly they were just hungry.
He recounts the day he and everyone around him heard a roar that carried like rushing water from the cavern depths, a sound none ever heard before, it’d send the smaller beasts into a frenzy and fear never seen before.
The beast attacked the Elders in the encampment. It’s face feline in nature, its fur a black-purple with strands of long-bladed fur and parts spear like barbs woven in between. It’s body large and muscled, but also shaggy like cave ursine. It’s tail massive long and strong like the very vines he was trying to get rid of and at the tip, strange tufts that emitted thick pollen like cloud.
The Elders frantically tried to fight the beast, but they couldn’t manage to get remotely close because they would soon find out that the cloud coming off the beast is a poison that would render its prey with extreme weakness and a calming bliss.
With one swipe of the beasts mighty paw an Elder flew thirty two stones lengths and then would crash into the cavern wall. Turning around, it began charging the shadows at the encampment, this massive titan of a creature would lunge at another missing, but would soon would come crashing into the camps fire.
A pained and fear laced yowl-howl would echo through everyones ears, the beast would soon catch fire. As as furious and fast as it came, it would retreat back into the depths of the caverns. Presumably to rid itself of the flame.
He walked over to his forge, with a shovel he would remove some burning embers. Looking down at the mass of vines, he lowers the embers on top of them. Immediately they started to smolder, emitting a strange smoke.
Suddenly, the vines set ablaze though on fire. It would take some time before the vines burn away, just like his memories grasping at his mind.