::text:: = narration
Prologue: Deep Winter
"To Gerath Stoneburner and those it may concern;
Imagine a procession like no other; immense and unending in its length, penetrating and wide as a mountain in its girth, led by the most powerful tool on earth. Good warlords are hard to come by this far to the north but when you find them, they do their job.
I write to you now, good sirs, to petition for our humble village an army to combat this procession from the north. It is so terribly wicked a procession, and the Dwarven stronghold has already been sacked, with only Morin Adelbrecht's battlements standing between them and us. Survivors have fled to the Hall, but the last hero of the Dale has fallen, and only their descendants remain, and they can't measure up to their namesakes in the slightest.
We offer to pay what we can, for our soldiers are few. Please, save the Dormanthon and those who reside here!
Sincerely, Boggin son of Degol son of Regis"
::Two weeks later::
"To Boggin and the residents of Dormanthon;
We have heard your request and convened, and approved of the march of the Iron Legion. They should arrive within a day of this letter's arrival, weather permitting.
Tempus give you strength, hold out for us.
Sincerely, Gerath Stoneburner, Lord of the Iron Legion, First of the Mayfair Knights"
Boggin crumpled the letter in his small hand, savoring the tears running to his mouth. Craven's tears, he thought, Regis would never cry at this news, but then again, had Regis ever seen this? He surveyed the area, buildings smoldering and babes crying before being silenced by a wet smack. In the distance he could still hear the fighting as farmers battled for everything they held dear, could still hear the rapes. Two hundred paces to his right, the closest rape occurred. An orc plunged himself again and again into the last surviving Do'urden, before cutting her head off. I'm it, he mused, and with that he drew his short sword and bolted for the orc, screaming the whole way.
He might have hurt the beast, if he hadn't been shot with an arrow ten paces away.
Snow fell on bloodied ground, silent screams, and dreams crushed beneath the boot of the procession. It was finally deep winter, the time of the Dormanthon festival, but children weren't giggling happily, they were to be sold to slavers, and thus, we meet our hero.
::The procession walked south for one week, slaughtering all who opposed.::
Pushing his way to the front, and killing a few minions right and left, the warlord was a sight to behold. His heritage never hid, his eyes burned red with a rage not unlike that of a Balor. The Demon-Orc Gord Brawfist never stopped for anyone. Never. He laid eyes on a lone knight clad in a mix of chain and plate mail. The man's long raven-dark hair was braided, his steel gray eyes pierced the hearts of the orcs, goblins, and trolls that stood before him. Kobolds cowered, and even giants averted their gaze. If only they knew the truth of what stood before them.
The knight knew he could slaughter them all, but played his trump card instead. He unveiled a dark-skinned babe, and Gord knew the meaning.
"WASSAIL!" Gord bellowed, "Make for castle! Return home! Enough slaughter for now!" One lone orc defied him.
"Durgo want kill! You promise we reach Thypsdown! My clan move on!" The young orc, having inherited his clan after back stabbing his father in a previous battle, lead all of his one hundred and twenty riders to the figure. They all cried in unison "FOR DURGOOOOOO!"
Gracefully the man tossed the babe high in the air so none could reach, drew his bastard sword, and made an arcing cut across the chest of the chieftain, catching the babe as the sword returned to his scabbard. The entire clan exploded before him in a shower of gore. Gord nodded and waved for retreat, leading his frightened army back where the came from. He had not the power to change the situation, but he could not travel further south than a living descendant of the Dale heroes stood. And so the knight continued north until he met up with his squire, bearing another babe, a human.
The human babe was a gift to the tribes of the north, last of the blood of an illegitimate child of Hrothgar and Catt-brie, prophesized to lead them against the procession. In three years he is murdered in his sleep, but Gord was late hearing of this.
The dark-skinned child was born of a half-drow sired when Zaknafein traveled to the surface before Drizzt's birth. He is instead taken south. In three years, he begins his training, and the knight watches with great interest.
*Note: Well I found a really funny line, and changed it, plus edited a reference or two (including the Cyric thing. I had an idea that was kind of shaky, and coupled with the comment, I decided to abandon it). Yes, the son of, son of is a Tolkien influenced thing, just a little hint that the descendents of the heroes of Icewind Dale carry little more than their ancestors' glory. Props to anyone who tells me who the knight is. quite possibly the only male in the 3rd Edition Faiths & Pantheons D&D book with chain/plate and black braided hair wielding a bastard sword. And Gord Brawfist is supposed to be Gord Brawlfist, but I guess spell check screwed that up. oh well. Brawfist works, eh? Changed the ten years for each child to three. works much better for what I continued writing after posting this. Anyone confused? GOOD! I write confusing stuff sometimes, and you could very well be confused for a while. I might be confused along with ya. Oh yeah I did away with the ( ) formatting, and just so you know, there will be a letter at the beginning of every chapter, whether it is actually read by any of the characters or is just for reader's happiness/displeasure is still in the works. Chapter 1 - Quick as Death maybe up on Thursday? Computer permitting, of course, that's the day I move in to college.
Prologue: Deep Winter
"To Gerath Stoneburner and those it may concern;
Imagine a procession like no other; immense and unending in its length, penetrating and wide as a mountain in its girth, led by the most powerful tool on earth. Good warlords are hard to come by this far to the north but when you find them, they do their job.
I write to you now, good sirs, to petition for our humble village an army to combat this procession from the north. It is so terribly wicked a procession, and the Dwarven stronghold has already been sacked, with only Morin Adelbrecht's battlements standing between them and us. Survivors have fled to the Hall, but the last hero of the Dale has fallen, and only their descendants remain, and they can't measure up to their namesakes in the slightest.
We offer to pay what we can, for our soldiers are few. Please, save the Dormanthon and those who reside here!
Sincerely, Boggin son of Degol son of Regis"
::Two weeks later::
"To Boggin and the residents of Dormanthon;
We have heard your request and convened, and approved of the march of the Iron Legion. They should arrive within a day of this letter's arrival, weather permitting.
Tempus give you strength, hold out for us.
Sincerely, Gerath Stoneburner, Lord of the Iron Legion, First of the Mayfair Knights"
Boggin crumpled the letter in his small hand, savoring the tears running to his mouth. Craven's tears, he thought, Regis would never cry at this news, but then again, had Regis ever seen this? He surveyed the area, buildings smoldering and babes crying before being silenced by a wet smack. In the distance he could still hear the fighting as farmers battled for everything they held dear, could still hear the rapes. Two hundred paces to his right, the closest rape occurred. An orc plunged himself again and again into the last surviving Do'urden, before cutting her head off. I'm it, he mused, and with that he drew his short sword and bolted for the orc, screaming the whole way.
He might have hurt the beast, if he hadn't been shot with an arrow ten paces away.
Snow fell on bloodied ground, silent screams, and dreams crushed beneath the boot of the procession. It was finally deep winter, the time of the Dormanthon festival, but children weren't giggling happily, they were to be sold to slavers, and thus, we meet our hero.
::The procession walked south for one week, slaughtering all who opposed.::
Pushing his way to the front, and killing a few minions right and left, the warlord was a sight to behold. His heritage never hid, his eyes burned red with a rage not unlike that of a Balor. The Demon-Orc Gord Brawfist never stopped for anyone. Never. He laid eyes on a lone knight clad in a mix of chain and plate mail. The man's long raven-dark hair was braided, his steel gray eyes pierced the hearts of the orcs, goblins, and trolls that stood before him. Kobolds cowered, and even giants averted their gaze. If only they knew the truth of what stood before them.
The knight knew he could slaughter them all, but played his trump card instead. He unveiled a dark-skinned babe, and Gord knew the meaning.
"WASSAIL!" Gord bellowed, "Make for castle! Return home! Enough slaughter for now!" One lone orc defied him.
"Durgo want kill! You promise we reach Thypsdown! My clan move on!" The young orc, having inherited his clan after back stabbing his father in a previous battle, lead all of his one hundred and twenty riders to the figure. They all cried in unison "FOR DURGOOOOOO!"
Gracefully the man tossed the babe high in the air so none could reach, drew his bastard sword, and made an arcing cut across the chest of the chieftain, catching the babe as the sword returned to his scabbard. The entire clan exploded before him in a shower of gore. Gord nodded and waved for retreat, leading his frightened army back where the came from. He had not the power to change the situation, but he could not travel further south than a living descendant of the Dale heroes stood. And so the knight continued north until he met up with his squire, bearing another babe, a human.
The human babe was a gift to the tribes of the north, last of the blood of an illegitimate child of Hrothgar and Catt-brie, prophesized to lead them against the procession. In three years he is murdered in his sleep, but Gord was late hearing of this.
The dark-skinned child was born of a half-drow sired when Zaknafein traveled to the surface before Drizzt's birth. He is instead taken south. In three years, he begins his training, and the knight watches with great interest.
*Note: Well I found a really funny line, and changed it, plus edited a reference or two (including the Cyric thing. I had an idea that was kind of shaky, and coupled with the comment, I decided to abandon it). Yes, the son of, son of is a Tolkien influenced thing, just a little hint that the descendents of the heroes of Icewind Dale carry little more than their ancestors' glory. Props to anyone who tells me who the knight is. quite possibly the only male in the 3rd Edition Faiths & Pantheons D&D book with chain/plate and black braided hair wielding a bastard sword. And Gord Brawfist is supposed to be Gord Brawlfist, but I guess spell check screwed that up. oh well. Brawfist works, eh? Changed the ten years for each child to three. works much better for what I continued writing after posting this. Anyone confused? GOOD! I write confusing stuff sometimes, and you could very well be confused for a while. I might be confused along with ya. Oh yeah I did away with the ( ) formatting, and just so you know, there will be a letter at the beginning of every chapter, whether it is actually read by any of the characters or is just for reader's happiness/displeasure is still in the works. Chapter 1 - Quick as Death maybe up on Thursday? Computer permitting, of course, that's the day I move in to college.