Snow of Steel, Rain of Blood Ch. 01

Chapter 1 "The Children of War"

He stood in the doorway; the unruly, raven mane barely cleared the frame and flowed down between his shoulders. A half done attempt to hold it back with a leather strap threatened to tear loose and give in to the midnight wave of his curly locks.

A giant's hand, rough and gnarled from year's of hard labor swatted back the long bangs, revealing emerald eyes bordered by thick heavy brows. A nose protruded from his face, crooked and broken, its slight downward hook added a grimmer edge to the hard lined mouth. An old scar pulled up the left corner of his lips, giving the eerie visage of a perpetual snarl. Broad, axe handle shoulders showed from under the dirt darkened traveling cloak, that no amount of washing could ever reveal its original red merlot coloring.

The shoulders lead to gorilla arms, ending in gargantuan ham sized fists with knuckles sunken from countless half remembered fights. This massive frame was in turn supported by tree trunk legs established on enormous feet, wrapped in broken, travel stained boots.

"My name is of no consequence, good master," The stranger responded to the innkeeper's timid questioning. The behemoth's voice rumbled like a landslide in the northern mountains, cutting through the crowded inn. "I merely want a room." Like his voice drew everyone's ears, the glint of gold from his purse drew everyone's eyes, following the coin's glinting arc through the air, until the innkeeper's pale pudgy hand stopped it's descent like a sparrow hawk and hid the coin inside one of his many pockets.

"Of course good sir, of course. Only the finest sir, right this way." The innkeeper quickly turned away from the newcomer, shaking his head slightly to rid himself of the chills those hard cold eyes caused. The innkeeper quickly waddled out from behind his bar, eager to get this unsettling man out of the common room and up to his room for the night. As he swept by one of his regular patrons, the town drunk, the man stuck out his arm, beseeching his host for yet another ale. The traveler cleared his throat loudly, reminding the innkeeper of his duties and the two make their way past the now rudely ignored patron. The man drunkenly yelled, "Now who do you t'ink you are, eh? Gettin' old Marun 'ere to brush me off? You bette' buy me a drink before I decide to cutchu open."

Even the mice stopped moving as the air thickened with murderous intent. The stranger slowly turned on the drunkard, and steely gaze met with watery eyes – daring him to follow through. Quicker than thought was the glint of steel flashing through the air, and the stranger casually leaned away from each wild slash, not even trying to defend himself. Finally, as if bored, his right hand darted up, catching the flailing blade in his fist. The entire room froze as they watched the knife fighter tug futilely, trying to draw his dagger out of the mountain man's grasp. A sharp crack sent the bar crowd running for the door and as the stranger opened his burly grip to walk away, the man's broken blade dropped into the dirt.

"My room innkeeper. And a platter of whatever your freshest meat is."

The traveler sedately took the stairs to his room, listening to the innkeeper rush into the kitchen, and the drunk mumble over his tankard and knife hilt. "The finest steel in Carned, snapped like a shren bone..."

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Drerin Rockarmour asil Huron Steelfist asil Jorgun the Wise forced himself to his feet, cursing Marendaw and Blaywer and every other god he could think of for the steadily falling snow. Shaking himself free of the snow drift, the gargantuan dwarf flexed and twisted, making sure his minsel ring coat wasn't frozen together, and that the massive plate armor over it still moved with him. With a groan of frustration, Drerin grabbed the steelwood haft of his battle spear, checked the harnesses of his other weapons, and began forging his way through the mounting snow, concentrating his desires on the faint lights of what he hoped was humanity.

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Furen locked the frail little door behind him listening closely to the muffled sounds from the tavern. he nodded to himself and muttered a few words while he began stripping off his cloak and boots. With a few more mumbled curses, the hulking man quickly took off the remainder of his outer clothing, revealing his burnished, rune covered armor to the solitary candle on the mantle.

"For a drunk, that man had better reflexes than most. And good steel too... At this rate I'm going to have to visit the smithies in Hagabor earlier than I thought."

The warrior continued mumbling to himself as he piece by piece removed the mystical armor, lightly buffing the minsel plates and rings with a soft rag and rubbing some strange tincture into the leather bits of his armor. After he was finished preening his armor, he slid his blade out of it's sheath, the whisper of sound reminding him of the inane ramblings of Darfug, the old god of Death. He quickly checked it's sharpness and made sure there were no rust stains on it. Furen knelt before the fire which suddenly leapt in the hearth, and placed his ancient blade across his knees. Placing both his hands on the flat of the blade, he began rocking back and forth, whispering a dirge as old as time, his face lit in the steady pulsing of power from the steel itself.

Margun, Jakred, Yutdaw

Ancestors, Warriors, DeiShun

Listen to a follower

A man of your sacred path

Suglop, Ferdil, Wergbin

Instill this blade

With your awesome strength

Give us your power

Margun, Jakred, Yutdaw

Suglop, Ferdil, Werbin

I am of you

We are your children

Through us let the Drahen flourish

Furen's final words caused the blade to flare brighter than the fire, absorbing the flames themselves. In the following darkness, Furen sheathed the mysterious blade slowly, almost as if he feared hiding its inner strength. As the blade slipped gently into its sheath the man breathed a sigh of relief, and reverently laid to tool of destruction on his armor, then covered the lot with his old cloak. He strode out of his room, and nearly ran over the fat innkeeper on his way to the dining room in the tavern.

"I want my food served down here, and whatever furl piss you call wine in this godsforsaken pit."

The innkeeper merely bobbed his head, almost running down the stairs to keep up. The uproarious laughter floating out of the common room pulled at half forgotten memories in Furen's mind, directing him to a crowded corner of the room. The crowd parted without even knowing, allowing Furen's massive bulk through easily, and revealing a newly relinquished seat at the rough planed table.

Furen's chair groaned in angry protest as he settled into it, it's shaking legs firming up finally after Furen adjusted himself with some curses.

"So wha' half we 'ere then? A muntai'n man by te look of ye. And do ye half a name then ye boulder wit' feet?" Drerin's rough speech in the merchant tongue earned him as many guffaws as his playful gibes earned Furen, but all laughter ceased when the mountain man grunted a swift stream of some guttural language across at the dwarf. Drerin's eyes lit up at hearing his native language, and he swiftly stood upon his chair and issued a rather curious bow and salute replying "Dre nuc refintha bau ithyer jalok." I am sorry DeiShun, I was jesting. Furen nodded amiably to his companion, waving his hand in a sign of dismissal, and the Dwarf returned to his seat, soberly regarding the man across from him.

"Ah am Drerin Rockarmour asil Huron Steelfist asil Jorgun the Wise, Goreya DeiFil to the fallen Goreya DeiShun Fogrin Thunderfoot asil -"

"Drerin, Fogrin is dead. He doesn't care if you don't give him his titles."

"Ah, then ye nevah knewe ma DeiShun. 'E was a shtickle' fur te roules 'e was."

"And he was more drunk than sober. I knew Fogrin, even fought beside him when I was a DeiFil to my master, Loth Rinsar. We slew many a Ocgren and fery that day, and the old dwarven bastard helped my master drink the camp dry afterwards too."

"If you are Loth Rinsar's pupil as you say, then you must be Furen Sindaro Teleri, Drahen DeiShun and the Bane of Soocraj." Drerin spoke, reverting to Dwarven, "I am truly honored to meet such a mighty warrior."

"Thank you Drerin Rockarmour, I am honored. Now, if your master is about, I would like to dice against him, and make some inquiries as to the state of the paths to Hagabor."

The sudden changes in Drerin's face were almost imperceptible; the Dwarf's granite features giving away few hints. Furen caught the last look though, and he had his small boot knife in his hand before he thought of it. Furen relaxed his grip on the blade, setting it on the table in plain view, as he watched Drerin flex and stretch himself, working out the sudden emotions that had flooded his system.

"Be not so quick to attack me DeiShun," Drerin whispered in Dwarven, "I may still be DeiFil, but I am Goreya DeiFil and of a noble line. Your blade would have a tough time piercing my flesh, let alone my armor. Let us take this somewhere else, for I fear the story I tell will make me water my beard, and I wouldn't want innocents to die for seeing such a forbidden sight."