Meanwhile, in Ashenvale …
((A guest post over at A Druid’s Doodling, as part of Blog Azeroth’s Furtive Father Winter 2011: Forest Song.))
Hope for the people
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!
The stranger in the inn
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.
Capturing memories
“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.”
End Time
The air screamed as it passed through the demonic portals and the air stank with fel energy. Mountaineer Ringo Flinthammer put one hand to his nose and jerked it away in shock.
“My hand!” He stared in horror at his purple skin. “My voice!”
He whirled around, staring upward. The purple foliage, the greens so deep and rich that it hurt them to look at them — this wasn’t Loch Modan. This was … where was this?
He had been in Dragonblight, he thought, but it was a dead place now, far deader than even the frozen plains normally seemed. There had been the corpse of a great dragon draped over Wyrmrest Temple. But when was he there? How could he have been?
“Ringo!” A voice burst in on his reverie as the world jerked and shifted beneath his feet. He stared into the eyes of a night elf priestess, her gossamer white dress more of a nightgown than what a proper dwarf woman would wear out in public. “Ringo! Wake up!”
He opened his mouth to reply and spat as dirt and dust flew into it. He sat forward, coughing out a piece of plaster that had fallen from the roof of Flinthammer Hall.
“Beli?” Even in the darkness, his wife’s wide eyes shone with reflected moonlight. “Ah had th’ strangest dream …”
There was another thump, and this one bounced him from the bed onto the stone floor. Somewhere in the darkness, Frostmaw was whining — a pitiful sound to come from a bear of his size — and Bael was calling out for his parents in confusion, although not in pain or fear, praise Khaz’goroth.
Beli jerked open the curtains as she passed by the window on the way to retrieve their child. The room filled with orange light.
“‘s Deathwing,” she barked, “He’s done ano’er flyby o’er Thelsamar. Th’ town’s burnin’!”
Ringo jumped to his feet, doffing his nightshirt and grabbing for his mountaineer’s uniform.
“Someone should put an end ta that beastie once and fer all — and soon,” he snarled, jerking on his boots.
“Ah donnae reckon that’s possible,” Beli muttered, returning to the room with Bael in her arms.
“Nay, it is,” Ringo said. “Now. … How in blazes do Ah know that?”