As usual, Rangor was drinking alone. He had four empty tankards on the
counter in front of him, and was quaffing his fifth. By dwarven standards,
he was drinking lightly.
He put the now empty tankard on the counter.
"This time I wanna short ale, Hanamaf. Be sure to give it a nice head."
Halflings were not a common sight in Kaladim, so when one came walking
through, looking at a rough drawn map, the guards were naturally dubious.
The halfling was oblivious to the attention he was getting, though. He
would walk a few steps, look confused, chant to himself to make himself
face North, then check his map again.
After walking back and forth a seemingly chaotic path, he found himself
standing outside Pub Kal. He opened the door and walked in.
The whole room lapsed into silence. Seeing as how the whole room consisted
of Rangor finishing his drink, Hanamaf Darkfoam serving another, and Dura
Darkfoam brewing some more, this did not take too much effort.
"Are... Are you Rangor, son of Rangar?" the youth asked. He
was hesitent with his question, almost apologising with his tone.
"Depends on who's asking, and what business you want of 'im."
Rangor replied, in his deep, gruff voice.
"I.. I've, umm, been sent by Hibbs Rootenpaw." This got Rangor's
attention. "You asked him to, err, keep you updated on the situation.
He sent me to tell you that the Lord has recovered from his injuries,
and has resurfaced."
Rangor looked into his latest empty tankard for a while. The halfling
thought he had not been heard, and was going to repeat himself, but was
interupted.
"Wos your name, halfling?"
"People who know me call me Melak. Those that don't know me don't
call me at all." He smiled, having gained confidence from his attempted
humour.
"Well, Melak, I know you've come a long way, so I dun suppose it'd
bother you ta go a bit further."
Melak looked crestfallen. Not only did his joke go unnoticed, but he wouldn't
get the chance to rest just yet.
"I need you to head ta Felwithe and find a cleric named Weeno Newfin.
Tell 'er what you told me, and bring 'er back here. Don't worry, you'll
be back in a few hours."
"Yessir. And what will you do?"
"I'll do what I do best. Hanamaf! A dwarven ale if you please."
Rangor had left the pub for a few hours, but had now returned, to see
if Melak and the others were around. Only Hanamaf and Dura were there,
and told him that Melak hadn't returned.
He shook his head. "Never send a halfling to do a dwarf's job."
He made his way out of Kaladim and headed to the Greater Feydark, cutting
down a few goblins on his way. As he passed the Crossroads in Butcherblock
Mountains, he saw a dark elf, just standing around, watching him as he
passed. Rangor shrugged it off. If the blue skin wanted to fight, he'd
make him sorry.
After a while, he entered Greater Fey. Near the pass from Butcherblock
to Greater Fey, a small band of blue skinned orcs were huddled. The came
from Crushbone, the home of most of the orcs on the continent of Faydwer.
Crushbone was North of here, past Kelethin. Rangor had no reason to be
going that way.
One of the smallest orcs tried to walk toward Rangor, without seeming
as if he had any intent. The rest of the orcs were sniggering. Suddenly,
the orc pulled an axe from out of nowhere and attacked Rangor. The orc
was so small, the only way he could hope to hurt him was if Rangor were
to get rust poisoning from the axe. With barely a glance, Rangor smashed
the orc on the top of it's head with his fist, and kept walking.
By now, the other orcs were beside themselves with laughter, although
this made them sound as if they were in a great deal of pain. If he were
not in such a rush, he would have seen to it that they were.
Felwithe. The home of the high-elves. They were the most intelligent of
all the elves, and made up most of Norrath's casters.
It was also where Weeno lived. She had journeyed with Rangor a few times,
and he liked to have her around. As fast as he could gain injuries in
battles, she could heal them. This made fights more enjoyable, and he
looked forward to bringing her along on his quest.
"Hello." She had a warm, friendly voice. Even the one word was
enough to make him smile.
From the very first moment he laid eyes on her, he had felt an attraction.
It may have been just concussion from the goblin fight, but it was there.
Granted, he only came to just above her belly, and true, she didn't have
a beard like a real woman should have, but their time together had made
that attraction grow. Then there was a time when things could have changed
for them. Weeno had a tough choice to make. To Rangor's mind, to this
day, she still made the wrong choice.
"It's been a while. What brings you to the home of elves?" she
asked, a smile on her lips.
"I sent a halfling messenger. He didn't get here?"
"No, definitely no halflings, he would have been noticed. Why, what's
happened?"
Rangor filled her in on his mission, and the part she played in it, and
how Melak was sent here to tell her.
She looked thoughtful for a moment. "I would guess he's been taken
prisoner by the orcs, if he is that young. He would have been taken to
Crushbone, the slavers pit."
"Tha's not good. I've seen what the pits can do to people."
"Don't worry, you'll be back in a few hours." Melak had tried
talking to his fellow prisoners. A wood elf female, high elf female, and
a dwarf. Dwarves always confused him, due to the fact that both genders
grew beards. He thought he would know this dwarf's gender when it spoke,
but it turns out all dwarves have deep voices.
He had been here, what, a day? Felt like a week. Everyone was hostile,
even the other slaves. Everytime he'd tried to engage them in conversation,
he was told to be quite. An orc overheard him, and Melak got a few whips.
Melak pretended not to notice, but the dwarf smirked when it happened.
He'd obviously been here a while, got his fair share of whippings, and
was glad to see someone else get the pain instead.
It didn't really bother him. When the orc wasn't looking, he placed his
hands on the wounds and Tunare's power flowed through his hands, healing
them. He hoped he wouldn't get whipped again anytime soon, as he wouldn't
be able to do that again for some time. Soon, he would be skilled enough
to learn how to cast real spells, and to heal himself more often. But,
sadly, he wasn't skilled enough yet.
A noise from outside made him pay attention. He saw a dwarf in the shadows,
who was not a prisoner. Melak's hope began to rise. The dwarf stepped
out of the shadows, red beard blowing in the draughty room. He raised
his sword, and screamed as he ran to the orc slaver nearest him.
The dwarf parried the orcs blows easily, but the orc managed to get a
few hits in. The orc was losing fast, but it was going to be close. The
orc had almost lost, when the unexpected happened.
The dwarf prisoner began to chant, and a blue aura surrounded his hands,
which then shot over to heal the orcs wounds. A second chant, and the
orc was back to full health, facing a rather battered dwarf.
Red Beard looked at the prisoners, one and all, with an expression of
betrayal, which soon gave way to confusion as a rusty sword was plunged
into his stomach. The orc dragged the body away, and there was a heavy
but quiet splash. The orcish slaver returned to his post, as if nothing
had happened.
From Felwithe, head north and you reach another elvish town, this one
based in trees, named Kelethin. It is the home of wood elves, and is the
place where most druids are born. Rangor had thought about going there
on his way past, but decided against it.
Further north is Crushbone, the lair of the Faydwer orcs. They had been
at war with the wood elves for a while. It used to be a full scale war,
but had turned to mere skirmishes when Emporer Crush realised the elves
were too strong. Crush now relied on his Teir'Dal ambassador to supply
reinforcments. Soon, D'Vinn promised. Always soon. The dark elf army would
march here and wipe out the wood elves. Soon.
Until then, it was elf versus orc. A few orcs were huddled by the tents
by a hill. A small orc was sent out to Rangor.
All orcs looked the same to Rangor, but then, all dwarves must look the
same to orcs. He assumed it was the same orcs, but the smaller orc must
be a different one. Even an orc wouldn't fall for the same trick twice.
The orc rushed him with his axe beared and slashed Rangor's stomach. Rangor
fell and was very still.
The other orcs were caught off guard, and approached Rangor, congratulating
the killer orc. They didn't see Rangor's dagger's until they were burried
in two of their friends. Within seconds, only the young orc was standing.
Well, running, anyway.
Enough fun. Crushbone is near, and Rangor had a duty to rescue the halfling.
The dwarf had indeed been a prisoner here for a while. He had seen many
adventurers barge into the slavers pit, and seen them all die. Once, he
had tried to heal one of the hero's himself, and got a lot of pain when
the hero died regardless. So, now, he took the approach that he would
never be rescued, and would prefer not to be whipped. If that meant healing
the orcs to curry favour, so be it.
Melak couldn't believe this corrupt cleric. Everytime he looked at him,
he could see that he was beyond hope. If he was rescued, he would probably
go straight to the warden and have his would-be rescuers caught. He really
pitied him.
"Shhhh."
Melak looked around. The other prisoners were working away, the slavers
were picking their noses. No one else was around.
"Where are the keys kept?"
Rangors tone meant he was hidden close by, but out of sight.
"The slavers keep them in their pockets." he whispered back
to the thin air. The shadows became somehow emptier, if that were possible.
Rangor had moved away.
A deep yell of pain came from behind him, and Rangor's dagger was sticking
out of an orc's back. The cleric would not be able to easily heal that
wound. Rangor pulled out his sword and sliced at the orc a few times.
The orc had no hope in blocking any of his thrusts. As it fell, a second
slaver took Rangor on. Rangor bloked the axe blow with his sword and jabbed
at the orc's face with his second dagger. Another jab saw the thing blinded.
A forceful thrust to the stomach made the orc stumble back far enough
for Rangor to bring his sword around in a powerful arc that caused the
orc's throat to spill it's blood. It collapsed.
A flash of pain and some bright colours accompanied a shard punch to the
back of Rangor's head. Momentarily stunned, he took a few more beatings
from the new attacker until he came to his senses. Millenia of working
in mines gave dwarves thick skulls to protect against falling rocks, so
there would be no lasting damage. But, for the moment, there was anger.
This orc was bigger than the slavers, with more keys. Rangor assumed this
was the warden. It laid into Rangor a few more times, causing pain where
it struck. Rangor got a few hits back on the warden, but the wounds were
healed soon after. He wasn't daft, he knew where the heals were coming
from, but he ignored them.
Rangor stood back, and made a few flashing moves with his dagger, and
twirled his sword around. The moves were done with precision, with speed.
They weren't meant to cause harm, but instead show the opponent that this
was a master of weapons, and is someone very dangerous. A moment of doubt
flashed in the warden's eyes while he weighed his odds. He then turned
and ran.
Rangor retrieved his dagger from the first orc, and searched both corpses.
There were a total of 3 keys. He freed Melak and the wood elf. He looked
at the high elf and the dwarf prisoners. The dwarf's eyes showed a glint
of hope, but was quickly dashed. Rangor used the key to free the elf,
leaving the dwarven cleric in the slaver pit. Even hero's can bear a grudge.
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