Jarom's Tale

[Guest Brute3]

(ooc: I tried to login as Jarom but it seems I've forgotten the pw. Big suprise. I'm too lazy to make another account, so...Brute shows up as the author, but it's the cranky old dwarf who does all the work. Anyway..this was supposed to be the first part of my entry story in Wyvern's contest, but I got started on it and wanted to go ahead and post the first bit now. This story was concieved a long time ago, but I never knew how to get it started, then it hit me today after a delicious turkey sandwich. Funny how inspiration works. Enjoy!)

 

The Toymaker

 

The chill of night slowly vanished from the air as the first rays of warm sunlight crept up the steep hills at the base of the Balma Mountains, dancing among the tree trunks and brightening muted colors of green among the leaves. Ever higher the light climbed up the hills, warming plant and animal alike as the sun inched along it's ascent in the eastern sky. The rays eventually fell upon a small vale, nestled among the hills. At the northwest end of the valley, a clear and fast-moving stream fell from a high stone ledge before bubbling along the length of the small valley and heading south and a bit east for many miles, eventually connecting to a larger river. It was upon the grassy western slope of the vale, set back on a rocky ledge, that a small and sturdily-built house rested. Smoke curled out of a short chimney that thrust up from the thatch roof and disappeared as a gentle breeze caught it.

 

The wooden door stood open as did the shutters to the single window set into the eastern wall of the house. Near the open door, a white-haired dwarf sat upon a large, flat rock and turned a block of wood over and over in his gnarled hands as he used a small knife to carefully remove bits of the wood. Shavings of the block fell into his long beard unnoticed. Creases lined the leathery face around his hazel eyes like spiderwebs, shadowed by a heavy brow. His calloused hands knew the work well, expertly taking minute portions off with the knife and slowly transforming the wood into a remarkable likeness of a man in heavy plate armor holding a shield and a sword. Carefully inspecting the wooden figure, the dwarf slowly turned it over in his hands and set the knife down. With a satisfied snort, he stood. His knees creaked and popped as he did so, eliciting a grimace and soft mutterings.

 

Looking up, he saw that the sun had risen far above the eastern rim of the valley. As he turned away, a brief glint of light caught his eye among the thick trees of the far slope. Squinting, he peered at the trees for several moments before bending down to retrieve the knife. He absently brushed at the wood shavings tangled in his beard as his eyes once more scanned the slope across the valley. He saw no signs of movement among the trees, but instinct would not allow him to dismiss any possibility.

 

Inside the house, a low shelf built into the wall next to the door held many other carvings. Animals, dolls, and other knights, all in various sizes but each masterfully carved were tucked away on the shelf. An occasional clay pot filled with paint and a few brushes were placed among the toys. A sturdy wooden chair sat beside a simple table, set with a polished metal plate, a few wooden utensils, and a thick tallow candle stub. A large pewter mug stood empty near the plate. Along the wall opposite the door, a small fire crackled in the hearth. The wooden floor was swept clean and the corners of the walls held no cobwebs or dust. An alcove along the western wall held a low cot with bright, thick blankets atop it. A heavy brass-bound chest sat mutely at the foot of the cot. Beyond the cot stood an open doorway leading into a darkened room that held the dwarf's forge.

 

Jarom spent much time making the wooden toys and found that his old hands knew the craft well, but his real passion, and his talent, was at the forge. Like many of his kind, Jarom loved to work with metal. He held a great amount of knowledge of the workings of a blacksmith, but few could match his abilities as an armorer and weaponsmith, and no one alive could exceed them. Light reflected dully from an axe propped up beside a large black anvil and from a suit of chain just beyond that. Tools lined the wall of the forge like silent guardians. The forge had sat cold and untouched, a ghost of his past, for well over a year now.

 

The last piece Jarom had worked had been a suit of plate armor for Teristan Goald, an old friend from his days of adventuring. The armor was Jarom's masterpiece; flawless and beautiful, it was a veritable shield from any harm, yet it weighed almost half that of any other suit of plate. The armor was given to Teristan as a gift for his coronation day, the day when the former knight became the new king of Morbihan. Teristan's rule did not last long, for even before he had accepted the throne, a plague of orc and goblin tribes had been ravaging the lands for months. Teristan had won the throne because of his part in fighting the hordes that plagued Mobihan. At the coronation ceremony, he had told Jarom that he suspected that some force had united the tribes of orc and goblins.

 

The old dwarf had refused his friend's request to help uncover the reason behind the wave of recent attacks. Shortly after Jarom had left and gone back to his quiet vale, Teristan confirmed his suspicions and discovered the source of the unrelenting attacks: an ancient and powerful dragon. Jarom had recieved word some time later that Teristan's armies had met the orc and goblin host on a great battlefield and had all but destroyed them when the dragon appeared in the sky, breathing gouts of flame upon Morbihan's legions. Wearing the armor Jarom had crafted for him, Teristan fearlessly challenged the dragon. The new king of Morbihan had died almost instantly as the dragon pierced the armor and his heart with it's cruel talons. Hundreds of arrows from the archers on the field that day answered the dragon's blow to their king, but the dragon escaped. Bitter with the thought that his armor failed his friend, Jarom had not touched the forge since that heart-breaking day he had recieved the news of Teristan's death.

 

Morbihan buried King Teristan Goald as a hero. Poets and minstrels wreathed him in words of honor and bravery, but for every song Jarom heard, for every poem spoken of Teristan's bravery, Jarom felt only shame and sorrow. After the burial, Jarom once more returned to the quiet vale and had not left since. From time to time, he would meet a merchant who came to sell goods. It was only recently that the dwarf had begun to sell the toys he crafted, for the merchant had eagerly realized the potentail value of such craftsmanship and Jarom's depleted savings could not continue to buy the goods he needed.

 

The old dwarf set the wooden knight among the others and quickly went into the forge to retrieve a crossbow that hung on a peg. He picked up a case of bolts and then went to the window. Peering out across the slope below and above the stream that divided the vale, he waited. The merchant who delivered the supplies he needed wasn't due for weeks yet. Jarom had made it clear to the last visitor that company wasn't welcome within his valley.

 

Jarom Stormbrow

 

Awaken from your sleep children, for life holds the only adventures worth dreaming of.

 

Edited by: Brute3 at: 12/28/02 3:01:43 pm

Edited April 29, 2004 by Alaeha

[Guest Brute3]

A Visitor

 

Jarom stood waiting there at the window, the crossbow cocked and ready at his feet, for more than thirty minutes before he saw a rider move slowly into a small clearing. Squinting, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening as he did so, Jarom identified the rider as a woman. Tall and slender, she wore a light dress of grey that fit snugly over her waist and bosom. Long black hair swept over her shoulders and framed a thin and delicate face. The woman held the tall bay at the edge of the clearing for just a moment, then urged it slowly across, her eyes watching the lonely house nestled upon the opposite slope. The dwarf's brow knit together as he studied the rider's approach. Jarom followed the woman's progrees as she slipped quietly back into the cover of a stand of ash trees. He felt a sense of dread that seemed to grow from some dark corner of his mind as the rider approached. That same portenous feeling had overtaken him when a rider entered the vale, a year ago last spring, to deliver tidings of sorrow. Struggling with the memory that thought evoked, he lost sight of the woman.

 

Sitting near the warm hearth, he had been thinking of Teristan's plead to the dwarf to take up arms once more and stand with him against the troubles had fallen upon Morbihan. As his mind wandered and sought to justify his excuse, his hands idly uncovered a man in armor from a block of oakwood. Teristan had always been like a son to Jarom and the dwarf had always been silently proud of every noble act and each heroic accomplishment the knight had done. In those younger days, when Teristan had been under Jarom's tutelage, the dwarf had always been eager to seek out adventure, knowing that each experience would help to shape the young man's spirit and temper his noble soul.

 

Something else was troubling his mind, but Jarom could not quite put a name on it. He finally admitted to himself that he felt guilty for leaving Teristan for the comfort of his home. "The lad doesn't need me. Oh, he thinks he does, but he'll manage fine," Jarom muttered aloud to the carving. "Besides, it's time he learned to trust his own decisions and stand by them." Jarom looked down at his carving and realized that it bore an uncanny resemblence to Teristan. The sound of a rider approaching brought his head up. Setting his knife down at the table, Jarom stood and went to the door. "News from Teristan," Jarom thought to himself as he stuck his bearded head out the door. The rider had stopped his mount and was sliding off. He wore a red coat with simple yellow scrollwork along the sleeves. The crest of Morbihan was embroidered on the left breast of his coat, a golden shield bearing two white stars in it. A small, embroidered scroll appeared on his right breast in white. The garb of a messenger. Jarom caught the eyes of the messenger and dropped the wooden knight. Somehow he knew the man brought terrible news.

 

The old dwarf stood staring at the letter long after the rider had left, streaks of moisture lining his wrinkled and craggy face. Crumpling the letter in a fist, he threw it down in rage and shame. Jarom dashed inside the house and slammed the door, trying to shut out the world and his overwhelming emotions in the effort. On a large, flat rock beside the crumpled letter, lay the broken pieces of a wooden knight.

 

Startled out of his revery, he chided himself for not paying attention. The woman was now crossing the stream that divided the vale. She was much closer now, and his old eyes were able to pick out details of her. Small braids woven in her glossy, black hair hung around a beautiful face. Piercing green eyes looked up at the dwarf and held his own dark eyes, recognition passing quickly between them. Jarom's jaw dropped and he released his grip on the crossbow, nearly discharging the weapon as it clattered to the floor. "Damn her!" he said vehemently. "I told her to leave me alone. Let her meddle with another's life, but not mine!" he said as he strode to the open door. Planting his fists on his square hips, Jarom stood at the corner of his house, his heavy white brows drawn together above his eyes like stormclouds. Reining the tall bay to a stop, she looked down at the resolute dwarf calmy before sliding out of the saddle.

 

"Jarom Stormbrow," she said, a hint of a smile showed on her full lips, "you look angry as ever."

 

His eyes narrowing, he replied," Kasandre, if you've come to pay a visit and nothing more, then you are welcome to stay for a day or two. But mark my words, if you've come seeking some stone-brained fool to lead around like cattle to market, then you can turn around and look elsewhere. Sorceress or no, I'll haul you out of my vale myself, if that's it." Jarom stood , crossing his burly arms over his thick chest. He met her gaze with stubborn determination.

 

Kasandre's face filed with weariness and her eyes fell as she whispered to the dwarf, "I am sorry, my friend, but I have no choice. The Scrolls of Baaz have been found." She lifted her eyes, measuring the dwarf's response.

 

Jarom stood mutely, his hazel eyes widening in fear and astonishment. He did not notice the slight nod Kasandre made, satisfied with his reaction.

 

Jarom Stormbrow

 

Awaken from your sleep children, for life holds the only adventures worth dreaming of.

 

Edited by: Brute3 at: 1/1/03 2:02:00 pm

Edited April 29, 2004 by Alaeha