Survivors

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Eilíf

Flames!  Flames and smoke!  Screaming!  Oh Gods, the screaming!  Fear and panic, the smell of blood and death all around her and yet she cannot move, cannot lift her sword, can do nothing but stare helplessly and watch her family, her community, her  home.. die.  With a start, Eilif awakes gasping, panting with panic.  The dream.  It was the dream again, she realizes.  Yet, unlike the night terrors of childhood this dream does not end upon waking.  It had been real.  It is real.  How long has it been now?  A day? Two? How long has it been since fiery death had walked the halls of Gamilfûn in the form of those creatures of legend and childhood stories; a balrog and a dragon?

Gingerly, not wanting to stir the pain in her head to more than a persistent throb, Eilif turns her head to look towards the pantry.  No longer just a pantry but now an impromptu infirmary, where others less fortunate than herself lay.  Some are sleeping and some unconscious still, such is the extent of their injuries. So few, so pitifully few remain of what had once been a bustling, thriving community.  She envies them their peaceful sleep, for there is  no peace in sleep for her.  She had thought if she would stay sitting on the rough wooden bench here at the long table in the kitchen that she can resist sleep, can escape the dreams.  But they have found her.  Pain, exhaustion and suffering takes their toll and sleep has crept stealthily upon her, dragging her back into the dream that is memory, dragging her back again to that day.

Adelsteinn

When in his beer cellar, Adelsteinn is in his own world. His brews age slowly in oaken and apple wood barrels over time. He carefully samples each drink before making sure it is fit for the goblets of Ulreg, Lord of Gamilfûn, in the southern Blue Mountains. The art of brewing, as Adelsteinn practices, is divine in his mind. Through his reverence of beer and a position passed through his generations in this ancient city, Adelsteinn is counted among the great brewers of the small folk. For his influence, he has been granted a position on the King's royal council.

That day had been a day quite like any other to Adelsteinn, for when he is in his brewery he is oblivious to the rest of the city around him. His cellar is deep and tucked away in small corridors, and few knew the paths to it as well as he did. But when he came from his workroom at the end of that day, he was not prepared for what he saw.

As he entered the upper halls, he saw the very stonework was smashed. Among the rubble had lain the bodies of his friends and folk, many of whom sampled his fine brews.  He had searched for survivors, and now they gathered in the kitchen, wounded and some unconscious. Shaking his head, disturbed by the sights and tormented moans of those in the kitchen, he wished to bring a little joy to their faces again.  With this in mind, he had returned to his stores, fetching the finest of beer and brought it back to his surviving kin. Bent on his thought that beer solves the worlds problems, he now passes the brew around.

Fafnir

The warm, rich aroma of meat cooking upon an open fire mingles with the salty lemon smell of grilling fish, as Fafnir raises the tankard of warmish ale to his lips and takes a long pull, the yeasty taste not quite to his liking, but in these spare days, it will do, yes, it will do.  He casts a measuring glance over at the oxen slowly cooking.  Yestereve, a young stonemason unknown to Fafnir and another, older dwarf -- also a stonemason, from the look of his expansive chest and hammy arms-- had ventured timidly out and found two cows too thick in the head to realize that grazing contentedly in the fields hard by a place where a dragon AND a balrog but lately supped was not conducive to a long and dull life. Rangy beasts they were, but what could one expect in the aftershock of an attack such as they have weathered. One could scarcely expect the more intelligent cows to stand around and wait to see if the dratted dragon would return for an entree. 

He sighs and takes another drink. Then again, he thinks, remember the stout and rather boorish dwarf who owned the swaybacked beasts. He claimed to produce the best beef this side of the Blue Mountains. Ah, Fafnir thinks, and with a two pronged fork, he deftly flips the meat and fish over to cook on the other side.  But that is an easy claim to make when the nearest competition is on the other side of the Blue Mountains. A hard journey from Gamilfûn to make just to sample a bit of cow.

Another sigh escapes him, and he bends at the waist to refill his tank. At least they had the good fortune to fall in with esteemed master brewer of their little community. Adelsteinn is the best, and an elder to boot.  As he straightens back up, he sees the brewer enter the great kitchen.  Sharp amber eyes watch the way the brewer carries himself.  He looks as though the mountain rides upon his back, Fafnir thinks, noting how Adelsteinin's eyes seem so haunted.  Then again, Fafnir tells himself, his gaze landing upon the back of the dwarven maid at the table, how many of us can claim that our dreams are not shadowed by the cracking of a fire whip, and the crunching of our kindred's bones as they are sliding down the maw of a dragon.

Eilif  smiles gratefully at Adelstienn for his thoughtfulness and reaches for the goblet of beer.  Her smile turns swiftly to a grimace as pain shoots up her right arm and she clutches it to her, nursing it until the sharpness of it settles to a dull throb.  She looks down at the arm, splinted and bandaged heavily.  Another reminder of that day.  Another reminder of her weakness and failure.  At last, awkwardly, she reaches for the beer with her left hand, her fingers fumbling against it clumsily as she frowns in concentration.  Such a simple task that she had done a hundred times in her lifetime was now rendered so difficult.  It wasn't just the fact she has to use her off hand to reach for the beer that made it so difficult.  She could barely SEE the goblet. 

Setting it back down with an awkward clunk upon the wooden table, she raises her hand to her face.  Delicately her fingertips trace the outline of the wound that slashed from her forehead, across her nose to run closely under her eye down to her cheek.  Her eyes watered at the pain of even her gentle touch.  Hating herself for such weakness she hastily drops her hand and reaches again for the mug, hoping none of the other occupants of the room had noticed. 

Adelsteinn goes over and stands by the fire to warm himself after the cool air of the corridors. He wonders how much of the city survived the attack. He is an elder of the great city, but are those in this room all that survive?

Aztryd freezes for a moment, hearing what sounds like whispered voices down the corridor.  Whispered voices, not sounds of added destruction.  With a quick glance back over her shoulder at Elwing, she creeps along the corridor, toward the kitchens.  Her progress cannot be described as stealthy, with  Nizl's squalls echoing off the close-set walls.

Fafnir raises the mug up to his mouth automatically, but stops as a motion from the woman at the table catches his eye.  Poised there, between placing lips upon the lip of the mug, the kiss of a man who needs ale more than water at this point in the course of things, he watches as she raises a hand and gingerly touches the healing slash to her face.  She had been passing fair...before. But now, now, with the wound looking ever so much like a second pair of blood red lips stretched from her forehead, over her nose and down a cheek, now her prospects for husband and family has seriously been diminished, if that could be a concern now. There are other matters more pressing than social standing he realizes, but he knows what it is like to be that  little bit different.  Slowly he lowers the goblet from his mouth, and he crosses the room, toward her.

Coming nearer, her back to him, he catches sight of a glass goblet before her. Adelsteinn, no doubt, undermining Fafnir's swell of compassion and commiseration unwittingly, must have pulled a spot of ale for the lass. His eyes narrow for a moment, before he gives a slight shrug of the shoulders and lifts the tankard up to his own mouth, taking a large swallow and going, "Ahhhh!" He has watched her over the two days since the attack. She is not one he would like to come up on, unannounced, from behind, that much and no more of her he knows.   He comes around and stands at the end of table where she can see him, pointing with his chin at the goblet before her. "Good, eh?" he asks, trying to give a lightness to his voice. "It will go perfect with the meal, I think."  He looks over her shoulder to the little stove in time to see a funnel of gray smoke rising from the food, even as the smell reaches him, promising charred and over cooked meat if he does not move fast enough.  "Maker's hammer," he curses, and slamming down the tankard quickly, he hurries back across the room to rescue their supper.

Deep in thought, Adelsteinn is quite worried about his kin. The council members and his friends. His focus was always on making sure his folk were happy. It seems his brew is being enjoyed by the maid at the table now, and he is about to ask a question when he hears the squalls coming down the broken corridor "What is that?" he turns to the doorway.

"What is what?" Fafnir asks idly, as he spears the meat and drops it upon a platter above him on the counter of the stove.  Soft moans mingle with loud cries of pain and anguish both day and night, it seems to him.  And after two days of people dying, and living, noisily, at first there is no difference to him between the sounds that he has grown accustomed to, and the sound that got the Elder's attention. He pokes at another steak and then gives a quick glance back over at the large cookfire, where Aidelstein was standing, listening. Seeing the expression on the other's face, he lays the fork upon the meat and moves toward the elder, his voice much lower. "What do you hear?" he asks.

Aztryd

 Aztryd pokes her head around the end of the corridor.  The kitchens appear undamaged -- and occupied!  A fire burns in the hearth.  Dwarves are scattered at benches pulled up to tables.  The smell of cooking fills the air.  Quickly, she ducks back to excitedly inform Elwing, "Yes, there are people here!  We have found them!"

Adelsteinn holds up his hand as if trying to listen. But as quickly as it arises, the sound seems to diminish. "I don't hear anything now., but I thought I heard a squeal..." But then he hears it again "There, could it be another survivor?"



Fafnir cocks his head to listen. Above the moans and groans coming from the pantry, how could he possibly tell? As he strains to hear, he watches the dwarven maid wobble on leaden feet to join the others sleeping or hurting in the pantry.  "Hear? Hear what, and over the wailing and moaning just a few feet away?" He looks over at the other, and then remembers. This is Adelsteinn, an Elder. Mayhap the last Elder. He softens his tone. "Truly, Elder, I have not so keen an ear as you. But do you think one of our kin has made it to find us?"  He cannot, dare not, challenge Adelsteinn. The future is uncertain, and the Elder needs a dwarf who supports him not make his job harder.  At least not TOO much harder. Just hard enough to share.

Aztryd pokes her head back into the kitchen.  The warmth and the smell of food draw her irresistibly, and the presence of other dwarves indicate that there is no immediate danger.  "Hallo," she says to the room at large.  "What has happened here?  Is there any supper to spare for a couple of weary travelers?"  Her eyes move across the room, looking for someone in charge.

Fafnir's eyes widen. So the Elder was right! There IS another survivor, and the wailing is coming from her pack. His gaze sweeps over the dwarven female, taking in her red hair, her traveling gear upon her back, the blush upon her cheeks that comes from the cold, maybe? Certainly no honeyed words.  He looks around past her shoulder and thinks he catches sight of something behind her, but it can be shadows cast upon the wall.  He looks over at the Elder, for once stunned into silence.

Adelsteinn looks to the source of the greeting and recognizes her in the poor lighting. "Aztryd?" he asks in a confirming voice. "Is that you? Everyone has been worried sick. I sent word to your hometown since I heard you disappeared. Where have you been?" he asks cheerfully.

Fafnir looks from Adelsteinn back to Aztryd. THIS is Aztryd? He frowns a little as he hears the Elder greet this newcomer. That was not what he heard whispered amongst the gossiping magpies who prepare the meals here in the communal kitchen. No, nor those in the market or those sitting around, watching their younglings playing.  She...she had a husband, didn't she? Didn't he throw her out or something? He regards her carefully.  There was something about her.  And there was that altercation where some foreign party of dwarves came to the gate and started making some foolish demands. So, this is Aztryd.  He watches carefully the Elder and continues his silence.

"Did you now, sir?" asks Aztryd skeptically.  "I would be much surprised if that old goat LORD Ugerbog hadn't already told the story to the whole world."  She speaks his title with a venemous emphasis.  "Though, knowing him, he wouldn't tell the whole story.  But surely you have seen the letter I wrote to Azagak, and so you would know the truth of the matter.

"I returned home, as I said I was intending to do.  When my letter was delivered, all appeared well here in Gamilfûn. But,"  she sweeps a hand around the room, "what has happened?"

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