I am Very Proud of This Story Because it Fills Three Purposes. Firstly, It Satisfies The Challenge of the Week. Secondly, its a Lovely Exercise in Atmosphere and Tone. And Thirdly, it is the Origin Story for my Latest Pathfinder Character. He is a Motherfuckin' Bad Ass.
The room was lit with a ruddy warm light. A fireplace threw patches and splashes of warmth and light over the assembled figures, Huddled over drinks and tables like candlewax statues melted to a state of earthward resignation over their various occupations. Two men diced quietly in one corner. Another chatted with the bartender in undertones. More than a few stared down trodden into their cups. Their eyes as bereft of feeling as the wooden stools they sat on. There was a low warm murmur that characterized the atmosphere of the tavern. One man remarked to another how surprised he was that a fight hadn't broken out. It was a Friday he said and that was typically a fighting day. His friend looked at him with lost eyes and murmured an aye or a maybe or some other noncommittal grunt of assent.
"Its just damn boring tonight." The first man said. More to himself than his disinterested drinking partner.
"Figure, its on account of the snow."
His friend cast his eyes to the window. The snow was piling higher every minute. Already the white drifts had touched the bottom of the window panes and within the hour it would join with the icicles already hanging from the eves.
It was the first hard snow of that winter. And all the men who had assembled for their customary night at the tavern had become trapped much more quickly than usual. Most here had had previous winters like this. Eventually they'd muster the strength to dig themselves out but for now each man was too warm and tired and resigned to do much about it.
"Damn boring." The first man said again draining his cup and casting an eye toward the bartender. "Hobb! Why don't you tell us all a story to pass the time."
Six Finger Hobb snapped to attention. He had been dozing on a bench near the door and at the mention of his name had awoken.
"Daren, what are you going on about." He called back, rising from his chair and making his way over to the bar.
" No. No. No. Not today. And besides that I won't tell a story unless I know three people at the least care enough to listen."
Immediately three men called out that they too wanted to hear one of his stories. Soon a few more had agreed. The whole bar was soon roused, men pushing chairs to form a rough half circle around the bar and around Hobb.
"Fine you louts. You'll get your story tonight. I've got a good one for you too. Its about one of the greatest hunters in all the land. But what he hunts."
Hobb paused for effect. Making sure his audience was listening. But the snow continued to fall and the men were rapt with attention.
"Are people."
Most of the men laughed. The few who considered themselves clever made blubbering ghost noises as the laughter died.
"You may scoff. But this story is entirely true. I heard it first hand from an old dwarven caravaner who came through a few weeks ago."
Some of the men chuckled. But more scooted their chairs closer in anticipation.
"No one know's this hunters real name. He'll tell you a name but that isn't the name he was born to. Oh no. They call him Doran Thai and I'll tell you exactly why by the end. But first we gotta know where this dwarf came from.
He was born to a pair of good harworking parents deep beneath one of the eastern mountains. And when I say deep I do mean deep. You see our young hunter was what the dwarves call "Unguraz" which means without merit. So his mother and his father were forced to live at the very heart of the mountain. It was always unbearable hot and sulfurous. And it was many years before our hero ever saw the true bright burning sun we all know and love."
Some of the more melancholy patrons looked towards the window and sighed heavily. Their fatalistic minds unraveling fantasies where in the sun would never emerge from behind the gray storm clouds that now shrouded it.
"But our Doran was adventurous. And one day. For who knows what reason. He struck off down an old forgotten mining tunnel, hoping he'd find his way out of the mountain. Up he climbed, hand over gnarled hand, up moldy ladders and sheer cliff faces for so long that the meals he had packed had just about run out. When finally he came to an old wooden hatch at the top of a long stone shelf. That slopped upward in the most promising manner. He pushed on the hatch and it wouldn't budge. He pushed again harder and the hatch lifted slightly. And just then Doran smelled something he never had before: Trees and sun and sky and fresh air such that he had never smelled before. So with a mighty heave he shoved the hatch open and climbed out into the noon day sun.
"On the side of the great mountain with the forest stretching far far down and the mountain behind him stretching high, high up. Down, deep in the forest he caught sight of a plume of smoke. Our hunter was delighted and he immediately struck off toward it. 'It can't be too far.' he said aloud to himself.
"But of course it was. And after seven days of nothing to eat and nothing to drink Doran stumbled into an Elven camp. He flopped down in front of the first elf he saw and begged and pleaded for some food and water. But we all know elves. They're fickle, proud, nasty creatures that would sooner starve a man than succor him. And there was something that Doran didn't know. The dwarfs that lived in Doran's mountain had been cutting down trees to make a path through the forest. What the elves considered their forest. So of course they were none to happy to see a dwarf this close to home. Even a starving one.
"So of course they turned poor Doran away. Three of them grabbed him and chucked him out of the camp like a sack of midden. And so our little hunter, barely even a full fledged dwarf wandered off into the forest and cried. Now here's where the story gets dodgy. Some people say that Doran was filled with a powerful rage, while some say that what he did next was out of desperation.
"But regardless. He lugged himself back to the elves camp and hid himself away in some bushes. And for the rest of the day he watched. He saw where the food was kept, where the weapons were hid, who led the raids. He watched them and he learned them. And most importantly he learned that while elves can see perfectly in the dusk, dwarves can see perfectly in the blackest night. So that night he found himself a sharp rock. He crept up to the elf doing his rounds, guarding the camp from ruffians or beasts. But anyway he crept up behind him, pulled him into the undergrowth and killed him.
"Now the story goes that Doran took his new bow and knife and roosted himself in a tree. And mind you this is against elves, the so called people of the forest. He concealed himself and he waited. And by that morning the village was empty. Seven days later he made his way out of the woods. His beard was down to his knees and full of acorns and leaves and his hair was matted with ivy and bark. He wore all green and brown though his clothes were a little ill fitting."
Some of the more cunning listeners chuckled. Some of the louder and more obtuse were hushed by their comrades.
"But the man I spoke too, swears that this dwarf loping out of the woods like a wolf was the god of the forest, Obad Thai reborn. He wouldn't tell anyone his name but he sold near twenty elf scalps and turned a tidy profit. The people of the town started calling him Doran, the most common dwarven name and the people he killed could of sworn that Obad Thai himself had shot an arrow into their neck."
The men clapped and whooped. Six Finger Hobb was always the best for a story. The whole atmosphere of the little village tavern had changed. From resigned sorrow to the kind of loud drinking, singing, dancing bar the villagers had come to expect. Six Finger Hobb basked for a moment before joining in the festivities. And outside, unheeded now, the snow stopped.
Some of the more melancholy patrons looked towards the window and sighed heavily. Their fatalistic minds unraveling fantasies where in the sun would never emerge from behind the gray storm clouds that now shrouded it.
"But our Doran was adventurous. And one day. For who knows what reason. He struck off down an old forgotten mining tunnel, hoping he'd find his way out of the mountain. Up he climbed, hand over gnarled hand, up moldy ladders and sheer cliff faces for so long that the meals he had packed had just about run out. When finally he came to an old wooden hatch at the top of a long stone shelf. That slopped upward in the most promising manner. He pushed on the hatch and it wouldn't budge. He pushed again harder and the hatch lifted slightly. And just then Doran smelled something he never had before: Trees and sun and sky and fresh air such that he had never smelled before. So with a mighty heave he shoved the hatch open and climbed out into the noon day sun.
"On the side of the great mountain with the forest stretching far far down and the mountain behind him stretching high, high up. Down, deep in the forest he caught sight of a plume of smoke. Our hunter was delighted and he immediately struck off toward it. 'It can't be too far.' he said aloud to himself.
"But of course it was. And after seven days of nothing to eat and nothing to drink Doran stumbled into an Elven camp. He flopped down in front of the first elf he saw and begged and pleaded for some food and water. But we all know elves. They're fickle, proud, nasty creatures that would sooner starve a man than succor him. And there was something that Doran didn't know. The dwarfs that lived in Doran's mountain had been cutting down trees to make a path through the forest. What the elves considered their forest. So of course they were none to happy to see a dwarf this close to home. Even a starving one.
"So of course they turned poor Doran away. Three of them grabbed him and chucked him out of the camp like a sack of midden. And so our little hunter, barely even a full fledged dwarf wandered off into the forest and cried. Now here's where the story gets dodgy. Some people say that Doran was filled with a powerful rage, while some say that what he did next was out of desperation.
"But regardless. He lugged himself back to the elves camp and hid himself away in some bushes. And for the rest of the day he watched. He saw where the food was kept, where the weapons were hid, who led the raids. He watched them and he learned them. And most importantly he learned that while elves can see perfectly in the dusk, dwarves can see perfectly in the blackest night. So that night he found himself a sharp rock. He crept up to the elf doing his rounds, guarding the camp from ruffians or beasts. But anyway he crept up behind him, pulled him into the undergrowth and killed him.
"Now the story goes that Doran took his new bow and knife and roosted himself in a tree. And mind you this is against elves, the so called people of the forest. He concealed himself and he waited. And by that morning the village was empty. Seven days later he made his way out of the woods. His beard was down to his knees and full of acorns and leaves and his hair was matted with ivy and bark. He wore all green and brown though his clothes were a little ill fitting."
Some of the more cunning listeners chuckled. Some of the louder and more obtuse were hushed by their comrades.
"But the man I spoke too, swears that this dwarf loping out of the woods like a wolf was the god of the forest, Obad Thai reborn. He wouldn't tell anyone his name but he sold near twenty elf scalps and turned a tidy profit. The people of the town started calling him Doran, the most common dwarven name and the people he killed could of sworn that Obad Thai himself had shot an arrow into their neck."
The men clapped and whooped. Six Finger Hobb was always the best for a story. The whole atmosphere of the little village tavern had changed. From resigned sorrow to the kind of loud drinking, singing, dancing bar the villagers had come to expect. Six Finger Hobb basked for a moment before joining in the festivities. And outside, unheeded now, the snow stopped.
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