I'd like to express interest.
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3 yrs ago
LUV GOIN 2 A RENNASANZ FAIR. LOTTA FAGET NERDBOYS BUT GAWTDAMM I LUV THEM TURKYLEGS. COULD BOUTA DOZZEN OF THEM TASTY LIL FUCKS. LEMME GET A HELL YEAH BRUTHER
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MY PAPAW TOLLD ME 1 THING: SON WHEN UR MY AGE, UR GONA APPRESHIATE TAKIN A GOOD SHIT. AND BRUTHER, HE WUZ RITE! KEN I GETTA FUCKEN HELL YEAH?
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GONNA HAVE 2 DO SUM COMONITY SERVISE BC I GOT A FUKKIN DUI. I ASKED THE JUDGE IF HITTIN ON FAT-ASSED MEXICAN GIRLS CULD BE A SERVISE 2 THA CUMUNITY! LEMME GET A GOTTDAM HELL YEA BRUTTHER!!
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I like a man that knows what he wants. And I love when what he wants is to wear a pirate’s hat and poop on my chest whilst saying “Arr! Swab the poopdeck ye scurvy hedgepig!” Aye aye, daddy! 🥵😫🏴☠️
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MY UNCLE DONALD TAUGHT ME 1 THING: NEVER ITCH UR BUTTHOLE AFTER EATIN SUM HOT ASS CHICKEN WINGS! CAN I GET A HELL YEAH BRUTHER??
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Black Sun (A Warhammer/ Game of Thrones /Crusader Kings Hybrid)
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9 yrs ago
Forum: Nation Interest Checks
This is a pretty cool concept. Count me in.
Throwing my hat into the ring.
A brilliant flash of white light and Hawking radiation momentarily punctuated the blackness of space, heralding another arrival from Earth. In an instant, the blinding effulgence vanished, and in its place drifted the starship Vanguardia. As the vessel basked in Theia's warming glow, any first impressions of the Vanguardia's grandeur or majesty were quickly dispelled. A conical shield of burnished vanadium-titanium alloy at the front of the vessel was pitted and pocked with a dozen craters - the aftermath of the Vanguardia crashing into microscopic dust motes at relativistic speed - was all that protected the vessel's delicate body from the rigors of the void. An open skeleton of metal scaffolding painted in white insulative foam comprised most of the vessel's shape, and a circulatory system of wiring, tethers, and ducts was webbed over this framework. Pressurized modules and interconnected tunnels coursed through the Vanguardia's frame like inflatable hamster tubes. An exposed void drive was interwoven with a network of wires and tubing to fuel nacelles and thrusters at the rear of the craft. The only parts of this awkward contraption that might survive a landing on any solid planet were two large glideships docked with the pressurized nodules at the center of the vessel. Vanguardia was by no means an impressive vessel. It was a rushed, flimsy contraption built in orbit by a people desperate to flee their doomed homeland and sow the seeds of a new nation in the stars.
The Chileans understood that their nation's time on Earth - and perhaps humanity's - was nearing its end. Antarctica was melting into slush, threatening to drown the nation within the space of a decade or so. Having nearly been destroyed by their equally-desperate neighbors, Chile was in no position to fend off her enemies when the Argentines decided to finish the job. Caught between the rising Pacific and a resource-starved dictatorship, the Chilean people had nowhere to go but up.
Trying times to be sure. But Captain Javier Faustino was no stranger to trying times.
Captain Faustino sipped on a microwaved pouch of yerba mate as he settled into the command seat of the Vanguardia's bridge. Bridge was perhaps an overstatement for this cramped space; the command and control center of the Vanguardia was merely another pressurized module positioned behind the vessel's nose shield. Dozens of display screens were mounted at the front of the bridge, each displaying a multitude of data points, ship system statuses, and external camera feeds of various points on the spacecraft. But in the middle of all these glowing screens there was a plexiglass viewing cupola pointed out ahead of the ship in order to provide the bridge with a spectacular view of whatever lay in front of the Vanguardia. At least, it would if the huge vanadium shield at the front of the starship were not in the way.
"Go ahead and fire the shield separator charges," Faustino asked of the flight crew at their terminals. "Let's open the blinds."
((Suggested listening))
The ensigns nodded in silent accord before rapping away at their keypads. A series of dull thuds resounded through the Vanguardia as the locking mechanisms holding the shield in place disengaged, followed by a abrupt roar of a pyrotechnic device pushing the vanadium shield up and away from the nose of the Chilean starship. The viewing cupola filled with Theia's golden light as the grayish-yellow shield tumbled slowly out of view. And squarely in the center of the newly-unobstructed windshield, Gaia Secundus was framed in the blackness of space. As the planet came into view, the flight officers craned their heads over their terminals to look out the cupola and the Captain leaned forward to get a better look of this ripe virgin world.
At this distance, the planet was roughly a third of the Moon's size as seen from Earth's surface. A marvelous, multicolored gibbous of azure seas, wispy white cloud formations, orange and yellow ergs, and pinkish salt deserts. But most astounding to Captain Faustino and the flight crew was the abundance of green on Gaia's surface. A hundred shades and hues of brilliant green bespoke a quantity and diversity of life that had not existed on Earth for ten thousand years. The Chileans thought back to their last glimpses of their own dying continent - the vast Amazon rainforests withering into a brown tumor of defoliated plantlife creeping across the equatorial zones of South America - and they could not help but to be astounded by Gaia's unspoiled beauty.
"We're going to have to do better on this planet," Faustino said to no one in particular between sips of yerba. "This is our species' last shot at survival, so let's not blow this."
"Captain, we have four hours until atmospheric entry after these last course corrections," a swarthy Brasilian-looking ensign called out.
"Right on schedule," Faustino acknowledged with an approving clap. "Wake the non-flight crew for landing procedures, and see that all cargo is secured and stowed; those glideships are going to be a bumpy-enough ride as it is without 300 tons of gear jostling about."
"Yes, captain," A pair of ensigns declared.
"Now, my understanding is that we're not going to be alone down there. There are some outposts and early settlements on the surface as it stands. Do we have any idea where those might be located?"
"None yet, captain," the communications officer reported. "I am in the process of contacting the surface on several frequencies."
"Please do. And figure out who, if anyone, is going to be under our flight path. Glideships this size entering the atmosphere at this speed are going to make a hell of a sonicboom. You might advise them to plug their ears."
The Chileans understood that their nation's time on Earth - and perhaps humanity's - was nearing its end. Antarctica was melting into slush, threatening to drown the nation within the space of a decade or so. Having nearly been destroyed by their equally-desperate neighbors, Chile was in no position to fend off her enemies when the Argentines decided to finish the job. Caught between the rising Pacific and a resource-starved dictatorship, the Chilean people had nowhere to go but up.
Trying times to be sure. But Captain Javier Faustino was no stranger to trying times.
Captain Faustino sipped on a microwaved pouch of yerba mate as he settled into the command seat of the Vanguardia's bridge. Bridge was perhaps an overstatement for this cramped space; the command and control center of the Vanguardia was merely another pressurized module positioned behind the vessel's nose shield. Dozens of display screens were mounted at the front of the bridge, each displaying a multitude of data points, ship system statuses, and external camera feeds of various points on the spacecraft. But in the middle of all these glowing screens there was a plexiglass viewing cupola pointed out ahead of the ship in order to provide the bridge with a spectacular view of whatever lay in front of the Vanguardia. At least, it would if the huge vanadium shield at the front of the starship were not in the way.
"Go ahead and fire the shield separator charges," Faustino asked of the flight crew at their terminals. "Let's open the blinds."
((Suggested listening))
The ensigns nodded in silent accord before rapping away at their keypads. A series of dull thuds resounded through the Vanguardia as the locking mechanisms holding the shield in place disengaged, followed by a abrupt roar of a pyrotechnic device pushing the vanadium shield up and away from the nose of the Chilean starship. The viewing cupola filled with Theia's golden light as the grayish-yellow shield tumbled slowly out of view. And squarely in the center of the newly-unobstructed windshield, Gaia Secundus was framed in the blackness of space. As the planet came into view, the flight officers craned their heads over their terminals to look out the cupola and the Captain leaned forward to get a better look of this ripe virgin world.
At this distance, the planet was roughly a third of the Moon's size as seen from Earth's surface. A marvelous, multicolored gibbous of azure seas, wispy white cloud formations, orange and yellow ergs, and pinkish salt deserts. But most astounding to Captain Faustino and the flight crew was the abundance of green on Gaia's surface. A hundred shades and hues of brilliant green bespoke a quantity and diversity of life that had not existed on Earth for ten thousand years. The Chileans thought back to their last glimpses of their own dying continent - the vast Amazon rainforests withering into a brown tumor of defoliated plantlife creeping across the equatorial zones of South America - and they could not help but to be astounded by Gaia's unspoiled beauty.
"We're going to have to do better on this planet," Faustino said to no one in particular between sips of yerba. "This is our species' last shot at survival, so let's not blow this."
"Captain, we have four hours until atmospheric entry after these last course corrections," a swarthy Brasilian-looking ensign called out.
"Right on schedule," Faustino acknowledged with an approving clap. "Wake the non-flight crew for landing procedures, and see that all cargo is secured and stowed; those glideships are going to be a bumpy-enough ride as it is without 300 tons of gear jostling about."
"Yes, captain," A pair of ensigns declared.
"Now, my understanding is that we're not going to be alone down there. There are some outposts and early settlements on the surface as it stands. Do we have any idea where those might be located?"
"None yet, captain," the communications officer reported. "I am in the process of contacting the surface on several frequencies."
"Please do. And figure out who, if anyone, is going to be under our flight path. Glideships this size entering the atmosphere at this speed are going to make a hell of a sonicboom. You might advise them to plug their ears."
Name: Nuevo Arauco
Type: Settlement colony
Base on Earth: Santiago, Chile
Philosophy: La directiva, the governing protocol of the Chilean Expedition, demands ethical treatment of all extraterrestrial organisms found in the Gaia Secundus system and provides for xenobiological study in order to become better acquainted with the new home of the Chilean people. However, colonial safety and well-being take precedent over the alien biota. Activities detrimental to the native wildlife such as clearing undesired brush and destroying hostile predators posing a clear threat to colonists are permitted.
Leadership: Due to the communications delay between Earth and Gaia Secundus, it was apparent from the beginning that the day-to-day decision making of the Gaia colony would have to occur onworld. The Chilean government selected a temporary administrator to act on behalf of the government on Earth. Javier Faustino, esteemed hero of the Antarctic War, was chosen for this critical post.
Religion: Although most of the colonists are Roman Catholic, the Chilean Expedition is an expressly secular enterprise.
Background: As Earth's lower latitudes baked under a soupy, carbon dioxide-rich atmosphere, humanity retreated to the colder reaches of the planet. Russian Siberia was trampled underfoot by a billion Chinese and Indians fleeing the intolerable heat, famine, and erratic weather patterns in their countries. Subsaharan Africa drained into South Africa and Namibia. In South America, the people of Brazil, Venezuela, Colombia, and others poured into the relatively-mild Southern Cone: the southern tip of Chile and Argentina. As both the southernmost South American nations staggered under the weight of millions of refugees, the Chileans and Argentines began to look across the Strait of Magellan for solutions. Antarctica - particularly the northern reaches of Graham Land - had become rather mild due to the intensifying climatic shift. Both Chile and Argentina established settlements and research outposts in overlapping claims in the Antarctic. Competition quickly escalated into military conflict when Chilean and Argentine aircraft attacked one another over Antarctica, and the confrontation snowballed from there. Chile was soundly beaten and would have been utterly vanquished if not for the daring efforts of Captain Faustino. Bloodied and deprived of her antarctic lebensraum, Chile looks to the stars for a new homeland.
Type: Settlement colony
Base on Earth: Santiago, Chile
Philosophy: La directiva, the governing protocol of the Chilean Expedition, demands ethical treatment of all extraterrestrial organisms found in the Gaia Secundus system and provides for xenobiological study in order to become better acquainted with the new home of the Chilean people. However, colonial safety and well-being take precedent over the alien biota. Activities detrimental to the native wildlife such as clearing undesired brush and destroying hostile predators posing a clear threat to colonists are permitted.
Leadership: Due to the communications delay between Earth and Gaia Secundus, it was apparent from the beginning that the day-to-day decision making of the Gaia colony would have to occur onworld. The Chilean government selected a temporary administrator to act on behalf of the government on Earth. Javier Faustino, esteemed hero of the Antarctic War, was chosen for this critical post.
Religion: Although most of the colonists are Roman Catholic, the Chilean Expedition is an expressly secular enterprise.
Background: As Earth's lower latitudes baked under a soupy, carbon dioxide-rich atmosphere, humanity retreated to the colder reaches of the planet. Russian Siberia was trampled underfoot by a billion Chinese and Indians fleeing the intolerable heat, famine, and erratic weather patterns in their countries. Subsaharan Africa drained into South Africa and Namibia. In South America, the people of Brazil, Venezuela, Colombia, and others poured into the relatively-mild Southern Cone: the southern tip of Chile and Argentina. As both the southernmost South American nations staggered under the weight of millions of refugees, the Chileans and Argentines began to look across the Strait of Magellan for solutions. Antarctica - particularly the northern reaches of Graham Land - had become rather mild due to the intensifying climatic shift. Both Chile and Argentina established settlements and research outposts in overlapping claims in the Antarctic. Competition quickly escalated into military conflict when Chilean and Argentine aircraft attacked one another over Antarctica, and the confrontation snowballed from there. Chile was soundly beaten and would have been utterly vanquished if not for the daring efforts of Captain Faustino. Bloodied and deprived of her antarctic lebensraum, Chile looks to the stars for a new homeland.
Name: Nuevo Arauco
Type: Settlement colony
Base on Earth: Santiago, Chile
Philosophy: La directiva, the governing protocol of the Chilean Expedition, demands ethical treatment of all extraterrestrial organisms found in the Gaia Secundus system and provides for xenobiological study in order to become better acquainted with the new home of the Chilean people. However, colonial safety and well-being take precedent over the alien biota. Activities detrimental to the native wildlife such as clearing undesired brush and destroying hostile predators posing a clear threat to colonists are permitted.
Leadership: Due to the communications delay between Earth and Gaia Secundus, it was apparent from the beginning that the day-to-day decision making of the Gaia colony would have to occur onworld. The Chilean government selected a temporary administrator to act on behalf of the government on Earth. Javier Faustino, esteemed hero of the Antarctic War, was chosen for this critical post.
Religion: Although most of the colonists are Roman Catholic, the Chilean Expedition is an expressly secular enterprise.
Background: As Earth's lower latitudes baked under a soupy, carbon dioxide-rich atmosphere, humanity retreated to the colder reaches of the planet. Russian Siberia was trampled underfoot by a billion Chinese and Indians fleeing the intolerable heat, famine, and erratic weather patterns in their countries. Subsaharan Africa drained into South Africa and Namibia. In South America, the people of Brazil, Venezuela, Colombia, and others poured into the relatively-mild Southern Cone: the southern tip of Chile and Argentina. As both the southernmost South American nations staggered under the weight of millions of refugees, the Chileans and Argentines began to look across the Strait of Magellan for solutions. Antarctica - particularly the northern reaches of Graham Land - had become rather mild due to the intensifying climatic shift. Both Chile and Argentina established settlements and research outposts in overlapping claims in the Antarctic. Competition quickly escalated into military conflict when Chilean and Argentine aircraft attacked one another over Antarctica, and the confrontation snowballed from there. Chile was soundly beaten and would have been utterly vanquished if not for the daring efforts of Captain Faustino. Bloodied and deprived of her antarctic lebensraum, Chile looks to the stars for a new homeland.
Type: Settlement colony
Base on Earth: Santiago, Chile
Philosophy: La directiva, the governing protocol of the Chilean Expedition, demands ethical treatment of all extraterrestrial organisms found in the Gaia Secundus system and provides for xenobiological study in order to become better acquainted with the new home of the Chilean people. However, colonial safety and well-being take precedent over the alien biota. Activities detrimental to the native wildlife such as clearing undesired brush and destroying hostile predators posing a clear threat to colonists are permitted.
Leadership: Due to the communications delay between Earth and Gaia Secundus, it was apparent from the beginning that the day-to-day decision making of the Gaia colony would have to occur onworld. The Chilean government selected a temporary administrator to act on behalf of the government on Earth. Javier Faustino, esteemed hero of the Antarctic War, was chosen for this critical post.
Religion: Although most of the colonists are Roman Catholic, the Chilean Expedition is an expressly secular enterprise.
Background: As Earth's lower latitudes baked under a soupy, carbon dioxide-rich atmosphere, humanity retreated to the colder reaches of the planet. Russian Siberia was trampled underfoot by a billion Chinese and Indians fleeing the intolerable heat, famine, and erratic weather patterns in their countries. Subsaharan Africa drained into South Africa and Namibia. In South America, the people of Brazil, Venezuela, Colombia, and others poured into the relatively-mild Southern Cone: the southern tip of Chile and Argentina. As both the southernmost South American nations staggered under the weight of millions of refugees, the Chileans and Argentines began to look across the Strait of Magellan for solutions. Antarctica - particularly the northern reaches of Graham Land - had become rather mild due to the intensifying climatic shift. Both Chile and Argentina established settlements and research outposts in overlapping claims in the Antarctic. Competition quickly escalated into military conflict when Chilean and Argentine aircraft attacked one another over Antarctica, and the confrontation snowballed from there. Chile was soundly beaten and would have been utterly vanquished if not for the daring efforts of Captain Faustino. Bloodied and deprived of her antarctic lebensraum, Chile looks to the stars for a new homeland.
You are correct. Making posts is at the very bottom of my to-do list during Christmas vacation. I am still committed this RP. Merry Christmas to everyone, see you guys in a day or so.
Nice post, @Wernher. This is turning out to be a quality roleplay. Good posts from everyone.
@Famigliolabuona, roughly how large would you say the Valley of Muin is? I'm wondering how long it would take a dwarf to travel from one part of the realm to the other.
@Famigliolabuona, roughly how large would you say the Valley of Muin is? I'm wondering how long it would take a dwarf to travel from one part of the realm to the other.
The dinner banquet at Bladeborn’s Keep was coming to a close at long last. An iron cauldron brimming with mutton stew had been nearly drained by Muin Bladeborn and his court of voracious dwarves. Platters that had been neatly arranged with sorghum-roasted acorn squash, sautéed fennel and skirret, and braids of sweet-smelling cardamom bread were now strewn across the long dining table in utter disarray. The dwarves were renowned across the realms for their insatiable appetites and the court of Muin Bladeborn was no exception to that rule. But for the time being, the Hoarfrost dwarves seemed to have eaten their fill. One of the cook’s maidens went around the table to collect the plates and bowls from the diners.
“Have you any dessert made up, lass?” Dolmur Goutfoot – captain of Clan Hoarfrost’s dwarves-at-arms and perhaps the most voracious eater in the entire valley – asked, sopping up the remaining stew from his bowl with a handful of bread as the maiden retrieved his bowl.
“Dessert!?” She repeated incredulously. “Where do you put it all, Captain? By the Gods, one could spend all the riches of Malzhador feeding you. And you would still be liable to ask for seconds!”
“The girl raises a valid point. I will confess that I enjoy these banquets as much as Captain Goutfoot. But as frequently as we have them, they are becoming rather expensive,” Velmor Cragbuckle chimed in.
“They are a justified expense,” Fogrin Greyspine said over the Captain’s incomprehensible grumbling. “In my experience, the dinner table is a more agreeable meeting place than the court. We are all in better spirits after a good meal, and more inclined to agree with one another.
“Any thoughts on the matter, Master Bladeborn?” Cragbuckle asked across the table. Seated at the head of the table before the roaring fireplace at the far end of the dining hall, Bladeborn took a hearty swig from his ale horn and shook his head in disagreement.
“I had a feeling that would be an unpopular idea,” Cragbuckle sighed.
“Well then,” Greyspine began, allowing the cook’s maiden to clear the plates in front of him before he spoke up again, “I have heard that we have a foreign visitor in the valley; a dwarf of distinction from the old realms. They say he is Zigild Seventeeth.”
“I have never heard of him,” Bladeborn said dismissively. “What is his business in the Valley of Muin?”
“Nobody seems to know, Master Bladeborn. I have heard of him previously, and if memory serves correctly, Seventeeth is a bard or loremaster of some sort. What I do know is that he is joined by a caravan of great opulence and splendor. He has wealthy dwarves in his company. Nobledwarves or merchants, perhaps,” Greyspine reported.
“Suspicious timing if you ask me,” Goutfoot concluded. “The Lord Master dies without naming an heir and now moneyed dwarves are making their way to the valley with a loremaster to boot. This has all the earmarks of a fabricated claim of inheritance if you ask me.”
“I don’t find that particularly likely, Captain. Even if that was their intent, none of the clans would ever stand for it.”
“Keep an eye on them in any case,” Bladeborn ordered. “We have enough pretenders to my father’s throne as it currently stands. The last thing I need is a band of foreign charlatans trying to cheat me out of my birthright.”
“Seventeeth’s entourage may not be here to fabricate a claim over the entire valley. Perhaps they wish to issue a claim over a small portion of the valley.” Goutfoot added.
“How do you mean?” Greyspine asked.
“It has been well over a year since anyone has heard from Muin Orin, and I can’t recall the last time anyone returned from High Mountain Keep.”
“Indeed,” Cragbuckle added. “The couriers responsible for delivering an invoice I sent to Clan Orin could not gain passage into the Keep. The drawbridge is pulled shut, and the couriers reported that they could not see any guards across the chasm. They camped outside the drawbridge for three nights before giving up and returning home.”
“Something awful has likely befallen Orin and his kin. Perhaps these foreigners assume the worst as well, and have come to exercise their right to the Orin holdings.”
“Preposterous,” Greyspine dismissed. “Firstly, Muin Orin has no kin outside the valley. Secondly, fabricating a claim is a costly and timely endeavor. No one with the time and money to dedicate to fabricating a claim is going to waste their efforts on Clan Orin.”
“Does anyone have any idea what may have become of Orin and his folk?” Cragbuckle asked of Greyspine. “Is there any clue as to what happened?”
“Nothing is known, but it is safe to assume the worst.”
“Then why don’t we send a party to ascertain the fate of Orin and his clan?”
“I will not give any such endeavor my blessing,” Bladeborn snarled. “I have no love for my brother Orin, and I have no desire to ever hear from him again. Whatever happened to him is no concern of mine; let him rot in his mountain.” The dwarves exchanged uncomfortable glances upon hearing their master’s cold-hearted outburst.
“My concern is not for your brother and his kin,” Cragbuckle added, breaking the uncomfortable silence at last. “But High Mountain Keep had productive mines beneath the earth. I cannot help but imagine the coffers of Clan Orin. Piles of golden bullion sitting there in silent darkness, unguarded and ripe for the taking.”
“Unguarded by dwarves, perhaps. Make no mistake, something horrible almost certainly happened within that mountain. The miners may have struck a pocket of poisoned air, or their picks breached a pool of magma that engulfed their underground citadel. A pack of goblins may have found crags and caves that reached down into their mines, bypassing the keep’s defenses. For all we know, Cragbuckle, High Mountain Keep could be a goblin stronghold now.” Goutfoot explained.
“Master Bladeborn, we should send an armed expedition to High Mountain Keep to investigate the possibility of recovering some of Clan Orin’s wealth. Present it as an attempt to re-establish contact with High Mountain.”
“The other clans will never tolerate such an endeavor!” Goutfoot exclaimed. “If we had any genuine concern for Clan Orin, we should have tried to reach out to them a year ago. The clans will see this ‘expedition’ for what it truly is: grave robbery!”
“Perhaps not, so long as we present it correctly to a select few of the other clans… and offer a cut of the booty.” Greyspine suggested.
“Why should we share any bounty recovered from High Mountain?” Cragbuckle contested.
“High Mountain Keep is a redoubtable citadel, even without defenders.” Greyspine reminded. “If we have any hope of breaching the mountain’s stone gates, we will need many strong dwarves to punch through the walls.”
Bladeborn took one last gulp of his ale horn before speaking up again. The sound of the vessel slamming against the table commanded silence over the Hoarfrost court as readily a judge’s gavel. A dozen pairs of expectant eyes fell upon Master Bladeborn, waiting for his decision to be heard.
“Draft correspondence to Hornfel and Uncle Karolus. Let them know of my intention to send an expedition to High Mountain Keep to ascertain the fate of Orin, and that I would request some of their dwarves to accompany our party.”
“And what of the booty?” Greyspine asked.
“Make no mention of any of that.”
Without another word, Bladeborn pushed himself out of his seat and left his retinue to themselves.
“Have you any dessert made up, lass?” Dolmur Goutfoot – captain of Clan Hoarfrost’s dwarves-at-arms and perhaps the most voracious eater in the entire valley – asked, sopping up the remaining stew from his bowl with a handful of bread as the maiden retrieved his bowl.
“Dessert!?” She repeated incredulously. “Where do you put it all, Captain? By the Gods, one could spend all the riches of Malzhador feeding you. And you would still be liable to ask for seconds!”
“The girl raises a valid point. I will confess that I enjoy these banquets as much as Captain Goutfoot. But as frequently as we have them, they are becoming rather expensive,” Velmor Cragbuckle chimed in.
“They are a justified expense,” Fogrin Greyspine said over the Captain’s incomprehensible grumbling. “In my experience, the dinner table is a more agreeable meeting place than the court. We are all in better spirits after a good meal, and more inclined to agree with one another.
“Any thoughts on the matter, Master Bladeborn?” Cragbuckle asked across the table. Seated at the head of the table before the roaring fireplace at the far end of the dining hall, Bladeborn took a hearty swig from his ale horn and shook his head in disagreement.
“I had a feeling that would be an unpopular idea,” Cragbuckle sighed.
“Well then,” Greyspine began, allowing the cook’s maiden to clear the plates in front of him before he spoke up again, “I have heard that we have a foreign visitor in the valley; a dwarf of distinction from the old realms. They say he is Zigild Seventeeth.”
“I have never heard of him,” Bladeborn said dismissively. “What is his business in the Valley of Muin?”
“Nobody seems to know, Master Bladeborn. I have heard of him previously, and if memory serves correctly, Seventeeth is a bard or loremaster of some sort. What I do know is that he is joined by a caravan of great opulence and splendor. He has wealthy dwarves in his company. Nobledwarves or merchants, perhaps,” Greyspine reported.
“Suspicious timing if you ask me,” Goutfoot concluded. “The Lord Master dies without naming an heir and now moneyed dwarves are making their way to the valley with a loremaster to boot. This has all the earmarks of a fabricated claim of inheritance if you ask me.”
“I don’t find that particularly likely, Captain. Even if that was their intent, none of the clans would ever stand for it.”
“Keep an eye on them in any case,” Bladeborn ordered. “We have enough pretenders to my father’s throne as it currently stands. The last thing I need is a band of foreign charlatans trying to cheat me out of my birthright.”
“Seventeeth’s entourage may not be here to fabricate a claim over the entire valley. Perhaps they wish to issue a claim over a small portion of the valley.” Goutfoot added.
“How do you mean?” Greyspine asked.
“It has been well over a year since anyone has heard from Muin Orin, and I can’t recall the last time anyone returned from High Mountain Keep.”
“Indeed,” Cragbuckle added. “The couriers responsible for delivering an invoice I sent to Clan Orin could not gain passage into the Keep. The drawbridge is pulled shut, and the couriers reported that they could not see any guards across the chasm. They camped outside the drawbridge for three nights before giving up and returning home.”
“Something awful has likely befallen Orin and his kin. Perhaps these foreigners assume the worst as well, and have come to exercise their right to the Orin holdings.”
“Preposterous,” Greyspine dismissed. “Firstly, Muin Orin has no kin outside the valley. Secondly, fabricating a claim is a costly and timely endeavor. No one with the time and money to dedicate to fabricating a claim is going to waste their efforts on Clan Orin.”
“Does anyone have any idea what may have become of Orin and his folk?” Cragbuckle asked of Greyspine. “Is there any clue as to what happened?”
“Nothing is known, but it is safe to assume the worst.”
“Then why don’t we send a party to ascertain the fate of Orin and his clan?”
“I will not give any such endeavor my blessing,” Bladeborn snarled. “I have no love for my brother Orin, and I have no desire to ever hear from him again. Whatever happened to him is no concern of mine; let him rot in his mountain.” The dwarves exchanged uncomfortable glances upon hearing their master’s cold-hearted outburst.
“My concern is not for your brother and his kin,” Cragbuckle added, breaking the uncomfortable silence at last. “But High Mountain Keep had productive mines beneath the earth. I cannot help but imagine the coffers of Clan Orin. Piles of golden bullion sitting there in silent darkness, unguarded and ripe for the taking.”
“Unguarded by dwarves, perhaps. Make no mistake, something horrible almost certainly happened within that mountain. The miners may have struck a pocket of poisoned air, or their picks breached a pool of magma that engulfed their underground citadel. A pack of goblins may have found crags and caves that reached down into their mines, bypassing the keep’s defenses. For all we know, Cragbuckle, High Mountain Keep could be a goblin stronghold now.” Goutfoot explained.
“Master Bladeborn, we should send an armed expedition to High Mountain Keep to investigate the possibility of recovering some of Clan Orin’s wealth. Present it as an attempt to re-establish contact with High Mountain.”
“The other clans will never tolerate such an endeavor!” Goutfoot exclaimed. “If we had any genuine concern for Clan Orin, we should have tried to reach out to them a year ago. The clans will see this ‘expedition’ for what it truly is: grave robbery!”
“Perhaps not, so long as we present it correctly to a select few of the other clans… and offer a cut of the booty.” Greyspine suggested.
“Why should we share any bounty recovered from High Mountain?” Cragbuckle contested.
“High Mountain Keep is a redoubtable citadel, even without defenders.” Greyspine reminded. “If we have any hope of breaching the mountain’s stone gates, we will need many strong dwarves to punch through the walls.”
Bladeborn took one last gulp of his ale horn before speaking up again. The sound of the vessel slamming against the table commanded silence over the Hoarfrost court as readily a judge’s gavel. A dozen pairs of expectant eyes fell upon Master Bladeborn, waiting for his decision to be heard.
“Draft correspondence to Hornfel and Uncle Karolus. Let them know of my intention to send an expedition to High Mountain Keep to ascertain the fate of Orin, and that I would request some of their dwarves to accompany our party.”
“And what of the booty?” Greyspine asked.
“Make no mention of any of that.”
Without another word, Bladeborn pushed himself out of his seat and left his retinue to themselves.
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