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Hearth's Fall (RP Intro)

By: Gellor

[This is an RP intro for the second character I have planned to create in Rift]

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The dust was the worst of it.

The shaking and rumbling of the caverns was a distraction, but the deep caverns and holds of Earthmarrow were not strangers to these. No dwarf worth his hammer or her axe dreaded quakes for their own sake. It was an ancient point of honor to build and carve one’s home to be immune to the worst of the effects, and every shaking of the world brought with it the potential for new lodes. Yet the shocks they now felt were not natural, but rather were potent reminders of the siege machines and foul magics that doggedly tore at their home.

The stench of the air, for certain, tugged at the soul with acrid hooks. Every waft carried reminders of the sacrifices of the clan: the metallic tang of blood, the putrescence of corpses, the pungent smell of pitch-fueled torches, and the musky stench of goblins. It had been a pestilence of goblin-reek for weeks, falling heavily through airshafts, pooling in corners where rent flesh laid upon bare rock, and suffusing chambers that had once been warm, cheerful homes.

Even the darkness was no threat in comparison. The dwarves were hungry and dry, and longed for the comforts of a lit hearth, but a lack of light alone was no means to worry. They could see and fight in darkness even better than the filthy horde which filled their caverns.

No, none of these were as much a reminder of despair as was the lingering dust in the air. They were covered in it, choking in it, almost swimming in it. This was not simply powdered rock – the dust was the very essence of their home being shaken apart, beaten down, loosed from ceilings almost as old as the world. The very air was a reminder that all seemed lost.

Five dwarf women wiped the dust from bare arms, feeling the grit between their fingertips. Cliowyn, the youngest, tasted the granite floating around them.

They had taken a final stand here in the very temple of Mariel-Taun, fulfilling to the last their sworn oaths. Herein was an artifact of the Vigil, the Hearth Vessel, which could only be handled by the women of the clan, as it would bring an instant but blissful slumber to any male who touched it. Fulfilling the oath had been a heart-tearing duty, for they could not venture forth to lend healing, aid or protection to any of their kin or families, lest the artifact go unguarded. That the point was now moot – no dwarves remained alive in earshot – simply made it their hearts heavier. There was nothing left but to bar the doors, bolster them with a few large stones knocked loose from the ceiling by the rampaging magics above, and wait.

“By th’ black blood, they’ll be breakin’ through any moment now,” Her mother, Lydi, growled. The seasoned dwarf woman crouched with her three nieces, all grim-faced, and Cliowyn herself. All five wielded dinged maces, notched by hours of fighting, and were garbed in their ceremonial green-tinged plate armor.

Cliowyn absent-mindedly pinched the medallion around her neck, the one that her mother and three cousins also wore. It was bronze, and in the shape of a chalice, a representation of the Hearth Vessel. Cliowyn has eschewed the sanctimony of the clerical calling and had focused on learning soldier’s skills, which in times past had left her practically estranged from her mother.

But here, half-choked in dust and awaiting a final charge from goblins within the ruins of their shrine, kin were kin, and devotion was devotion. A reverberating thump on the thick wood of the shrine’s doors seemed times to remind them of those very thoughts. The dust on the floor shifted with the impact.

“Mother, stay back! This is ‘zactly what I been trainin’ for!” Cliowyn rose from her crouch, spun her mace with a flourish, and glared at the door, the thumping of which turned into an erratic beat of metal on wood, accompanied by shrill chittering on the other side.

“Stand down!” The elder dwarf woman shrieked. “Y’ ain’t an army! We fight together!” The three younger priestesses at her side nodded grimly, their sweaty hands clasping the maces loosely.

A rusty axe blade broke through the door, sending splinters and goblin-stench into the room.

“Protect the Vessel!” One of the young priestesses squealed. Lydi bellowed and leaped towards her daughter, who was preparing a double-handed mace swing. The elder dwarf seized Cliowyn’s shoulder. “Get back n’ shield yer cousins!”

A chunk of timber flew at them from the beleaguered door, which made them flinch, and the room echoed with the chitters and battle cries of goblins. Torchlight invaded the room.

A challenging shriek came unbidden from Cliowyn’s throat, and the flickering firelight coming through the breached door blended with a soft green glow that arose from the wildly gesticulating hands of the dwarven priestesses, illuminating the backs of their cousin and aunt.

Lydi and Cliowyn stepped back, weapons lifted, as arrows flew at them from the last remains of the door, which now was alight and falling under the kicks of detestable feet.
A shrill cry behind them squeezed their hearts as they realized one of their kinswomen had taken an arrow to the chest, and her mace clattered to the stone floor as it dropped from a lifeless hand, the soft glow fading.

“The Heart save us…” Lydi whispered.

“Get down, mother!” Cliowyn snatched up her cousin’s mace in her left hand, and her charging steps were as a drumbeat to accompany the shriek of her battle cry.

If Mauriel-Taun heard the final shouts of her faithful, or felt the despair and pain in their hearts, or suffered from the loss of the Hearth Vessel, she did not respond that day. However, the Vigil has a long memory.

[0.1137]