It’s alive!

16. Hour of Twilight, Ringo's Tale | September 11th, 2012 | 3 Comments »

Darkness

“Ah’m alive …”

Darkness.

“Did he say something?”

“Him? No, he’s been laid up here for months, ever since they pulled him out of the sea. He’s a dead man — he just isn’t smart enough to stop breathing yet.”

“Ah’m alive …”

“Doctor, his lips moved that time! I think he’s waking up!”

The voices moved nearer.

“Impossible! The height they saw him fall — and he landed on his head! Even if he’s not dead, he should be a vegetable.”

“Ah could murder a wee pint. Me throat’s parched …”

“Quickly, lad! Run to the inn and get him a pint — several!”

Now there was the sound of water sloshing, which made him flinch.

“Easy there, my friend. Just getting a cool cloth to wash your face — you’re sweating something fierce.”

“What happened ta me? Why cannae Ah open me eyes?”

“You don’t remember the battle? We saw the final battle with Deathwing. All those warriors on their back — the crew of the Lady Mehley saw you fall off. They were as shocked as anything to find you alive, floating in the water.”

“Did Ah kill him?”

“Who, Deathwing?”

“Oh, aye. Ah were there fer the death o’ tha Lich King an’ th’ discovery o’ the Draenei an’ fought in Quel’Danas.”

“Hold still, I’m going to unwrap your bandages. You clearly suffered a serious blow to the head if you think every great moment in modern history somehow had you at the center. You’re not Varian Wrynn, after all.”

Ringo Flinthammer blinked his eyes, wincing painfully at the dim torchlight.

“There’s a bear outside that will be happy to see you awake. He almost tore our heads off when we first brought you in, until a Druid of the Claw was able to explain we were trying to help you.”

Ringo sniffed.

“Smells like salt, like th’ sea. Where am Ah?”

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Meanwhile, in Ashenvale …

16. Hour of Twilight, Ringo's Tale | December 26th, 2011 | 2 Comments »

((A guest post over at A Druid’s Doodling, as part of Blog Azeroth’s Furtive Father Winter 2011: Forest Song.))

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Hope for the people

16. Hour of Twilight, Ringo's Tale | December 25th, 2011 | No Comments »

The Feast of Winters Veil in Kharanos

I heard the bells on Winters Veil
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to dwarves.

I thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Dwarvendom
Had rolled along the unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to dwarves.

And in despair I bowed my head:
“There is no peace on earth,” I said,
“For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to dwarves.”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“Khaz is not dead, nor doth he sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on earth, good will to dwarves.”

Till, ringing singing, on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime,
Of peace on earth, good will to dwarves!

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The stranger in the inn

16. Hour of Twilight, Guest post | December 24th, 2011 | 2 Comments »

Your normal high quality dwarven RP is briefly being interrupted by Morrighan of Caer Morrighan. Sorry. As part of Blog Azreoth’s Furtive Father Winter 2011, I was assigned Ringo as my ‘secret santa’ recipient. Having read his blog, I wanted to write something that fitted in, but didn’t directly make use of characters that are not mine to write. Perhaps Ringo or Beli were in the Stoutlager Inn that night. Perhaps not. Either way I hope you enjoy a little Winter Veil vignette. A special thanks to my dashing model, Tindal.

The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, driving away both cold and darkness, and leaving only a faintly smoky smell. Local legend claimed a gnome had once offered to build a machine that would better extract the smoke from the Stoutlager Inn, keeping the air clearer. The offer had been turned down.

In one corner sat a stranger. Unusual enough, on the eve of the feast, he was an odd looking dwarf. He wore robes rarely seen these days, and a faint aura of darkness seemed to surround him. Knowing whispers suggested he was a priest.

“Have ye trav’lled far?” asked Innkeeper Hearthstove, attempting engage him in conversation. There was a great deal of curiosity as to what brought a priest to inn this night, the evening before Winter Veil.

“A ways,” was the reply.

“’ere to visit family?” Hearthstove tried again.

“No.”

The Innkeeper paused for a moment, before trying a different tack. “Picked up any news on yer travels?”

The stranger looked at him for a moment, and took a measured sip from his mug before responding. “Have ye heard ‘bout the Dragon Soul?” he asked. When the murmurs nearby suggested a negative, he continued. “That Thrall an’ the Dragon Aspects all got together an’ worked some magic. They’re gonna go up against Deathwing and finally put an end to him. Got a whole load of heroes flocking to help out.”

The patrons of the inn had been furtively listening from the start. At the news they stopped all pretence and all turned to stare. The only other sounds were the thunks and slurps of beer being drunk.

“Maybe then the earth will be able ta sleep in peace this Winter Veil.” He paused to look around again, but whatever he thought about what he saw, he kept it firmly locked away. “Tonight, of all nights, we would do well ta remember ta welcome Great-Father Winter an’ hope ta receive his bounty in the coming year. For only through the darkness can the light be renewed.”

The audience nodded in agreement. Perhaps the dark times of the Cataclysm might come to an end soon. And happier times might follow.

Despite the fact that all eyes were on him, the stranger said no more. Gradually, the patrons went back to their own conversations. Reminded of the feast tomorrow, the smoky air was pierced with descriptions of food and drink and family plans.

Hearthstove shook his head and went to check the casks weren’t getting low. ’twas an odd priest that turned down the chance to yammer to an eager audience, he thought.

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Capturing memories

16. Hour of Twilight, Ringo's Tale | December 22nd, 2011 | 1 Comment »

Ringo pours his heart out to Vidra Hearthstove

“Ah’m gonna make this th’ best Feast o’ Winters Veil ever,” Mountaineer Ringo Flinthammer thundered, slamming his mug down on the counter at the Stoutlager Inn.

Deathwing’s second pass over Thelsamar had been much less destructive than his first, and the residents had managed to prevent the worst of the damage with a quickly organized bucket brigade and Hodir’s blessing, in the form of an early snowfall. And if everything still had a bit of a smoky air to it, the dwarves just chalked that up to being festive.

“Oh, aye?” Vidra Hearthstove asked, polishing a glass. “What do ye have planned, then?”

“Me brothers want to have us all dress up in holiday sweaters — which Ah’m sure will be horrible, given that Ely’s pickin’ them out — and pose fer a portrait. The wee one wants Greatfather Winter to bring him his first ram, so we’ll be takin’ him to Amberstill and seein’ if there’s a kid gentle enough fer him to ride. Me, Ah’m just hopin’ fer a few quiet nights around the fire before … Well, a few quiet nights around th’ fire.”

“Sounds like ye’ll be makin’ a lot of great memories.”

“That’s the idea.” Ringo stared into his mug a moment. “Years ago, me friend Widge and Ah discovered the Caverns of Time and went back to visit me father on the eve of the Battle of Mount Hyjal. There was another dwarf there, another traveler …

“Well, we’ll see, Ah reckon,” Ringo said, raising his mug in a toast. “Here’s ta makin’ holiday memories.”

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