Garanth couldn't help but smile.
"You shouldn't have worried, we Dwarves are of rock and stone, sons and daughters of the earth, a few cuts don't bother me"
At the news of Torkost he grimaced.
“That saddens my heart, he is a great man, and his axe work would impress Gorug himself”
At her angry words he could not help but feel a pang of guilt.
Their last meeting had indeed ended badly, and he had never been good at saying goodbye.
With a grunt he shifted so that he could better see her.
“You have my thanks and eternal gratitude…not that you didn’t before-Ah! Vkarshdan! My back!”
He slumped back onto the soft pillows, growling in frustration.
“How long until I can walk? No doubt half of the damned city will have news on how their wonderous Paragon slumped through the bloody gates!”
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The distant sound of voices was what brought Garanth from the depths of sleep. The mumbling noises causing him to frown and groan slightly. After a few moments the fuzziness cleared and he saw the rather pleasant form of Ves sitting next to him. He was in a large bed and was covered in bandages, which made him feel like an old corpse from the crypts far below.
With a groan he tried to sit up, but sagged from the wave of pain.
After a few moments he raised a hand in an awkward greeting gesture.
"Well isn't this a strange reunion" He scowled as another blast of pain hit him.
"Damn this back! One strike from some backstabbing grunt and I'm bed ridden like some sickly old man"
He tried to sit up again but failed. So instead he looked up at Ves helplessly.
"You look nice...Not that that is relevant. Where are my men? Are they alright?"
With a groan he tried to sit up, but sagged from the wave of pain.
After a few moments he raised a hand in an awkward greeting gesture.
"Well isn't this a strange reunion" He scowled as another blast of pain hit him.
"Damn this back! One strike from some backstabbing grunt and I'm bed ridden like some sickly old man"
He tried to sit up again but failed. So instead he looked up at Ves helplessly.
"You look nice...Not that that is relevant. Where are my men? Are they alright?"
The early morning sun shone from the gap in the clouds, illuminating the carnage commencing in the deep set mountain valley.
Four hundred Dwarven warriors were desperately fighting for their lives, the sigil of House Dragan (An armoured fist clenched before the golden stairs of their King’s throne) was emblazoned on their banners. The small force consisted of two hundred Iron Hands, the standard soldiers of , one hundred lightly armoured archers and scout skirmishers, and one hundred warriors of the Steel Legion. The elite soldiers were clad head to foot in heavy plate mail, and each on wielded a huge war axe in their right hand, and hefted a large bronze shield in the other.
Normally an army like this would have formed a shield wall or armoured line, but in this unfortunate turn of events they were surrounded, outnumbered and had been ambushed in the first place.
Their attackers had peppered them with arrows from the hills above before sending hundreds of infantry down the valleys sides to come crashing into the smaller Dwarven force.
Only the soldiers of the steel legion and The Paragon were holding against the attackers. The Dwarf Lord was wielding his great sword and slicing through all attackers who charged him as if they were butter. His axe wielding warriors had formed into several densely packed groups, hacking down all unfortunate enemies who came close.
There were many humans in the enemy force, and even a few Half Orc berserkers, but the majority was made up of steel clad Dwarf warriors, unmistakably Garanir folk.
After barely ten minutes all the Iron Hands had fallen, and the scouts and archers had lost their war with the enemy light troops.
It was now just The Paragon and the remaining eighty odd Steel Warriors holding against the still quite strong enemy force.
Garanth himself had taken little to dent his pride, one shallow scratch from a sword spanned across his shoulder plate, and a cut across his cheek was all that ailed him.
With a grunt he pushed the fresh corpse off of the blade of his sword, letting it collapse onto the ever growing pile.
He had lost count of how many men he had felled…a lot judging by the pile at his feet.
It was a lot more before the battle was over too. He and his men stood there for the best part of an hour, fending off attacks from all sides, fighting like the gods of war. Losing one man for every twenty or thirty odd of theirs (Look I like being OP).
As they fought, Garanth and his men slowly retreated backwards, making their way to the end of the valley, where the valley sides became vertical and were only about thirty feet away from each other, forming a river less gorge.
Eventually, after what seemed like an age they reached it, and they could finally all turn to face their attackers without the danger of being flanked.
By now however they were battered and broken, barely twenty men still stood, and the few who had got away with injuries had been pulled behind the line.
By now Garanth had sustained enough injuries to make him look like a walking corpse. His right arm was bleeding profusely from a number of deep gashes, the small of his back had been struck by a backhanding mace, and an arrow had slashed through the mail of his torso and had skimmed his chest, leaving a long scratch which was constantly being rubbed and scraped by his armour.
After another ten minutes of fighting the enemy finally receded.
And to the broken defender’s disbelief they saw them fleeing back up the valley, barely a hundred strong the flagless Dwarf infantry soon disappeared over the brow of the valley rise.
It seemed unreal at first, another battle won, and another tale to be told amongst the masses.
It was all Garanth could do to remain standing however. His whole body was plagued with pain, and every movement brought with it a fresh wave of agony.
But he could not let what remained of his men see his weakness; they were all men he knew and trusted with his lives…and the few who had retained them.
With a heave he swung his sword one last time and let it fall with a thunk into the blood sodden earth.
“Alright men, in a situation like this there is little to do but retreat to safety as fast as we are able. Heal up as best you can and then we’re off, and we do not stop until the gates of Garnir have closed behind us!”
Like a following of loyal wolves they patched themselves up as best as they could before following him down the gorge…
It took four days to get back to Garnir. Normally they could have covered the distance in half the time, but they were wounded and tired, and the pace was agonisingly slow.
Eventually however, just as the sun was setting below the distant horizon, they reached the Outer Watchtower.
It was a small keep manned by about fifty dwarven guardsmen, and was more a look out point than fortress. It was built right over the road and limited access to Garnir for those who were not welcome.
Garanth knew the captain there, he had been passing through this watch for hundreds of years, and the two had developed a working friendship.
When Daregon saw the state his friend was in, he had called for a healer immediately. But Garanth refused, all he wanted was to go home.
As he and his men were ferried to Garnir, he could not help but let his mind wander to that of the battle.
Who had sent those dwarves? And why?
He and his small force had set out to deal with an ogre incursion on the North Eastern border, it had been while they were making their way back that they had been attacked.
He had set out with four hundred strong warriors…he returned with thirteen. All of them he knew, they had fought at his side for varying amounts of decades. Gron was his oldest and most trusted of them all. He was one of the Steel Warriors and was built like a bear. His hair was a fiery red and was always put back in a neat plait down his back. His beard was larger and brighter than most, and was used both to frighten green human soldiers and set a group of Dwarven ladies giggling.
He wasn’t looking so good now however. His hair was matted with blood, and his chest was open and bleeding from two arrow wounds. The scabs had kept cracking open as they walked.
His wounds were a sign to Garanth. This would be a story that would be told for centuries, and would probably one say become a legend that was told to ambitious small beards before bedtime.
But to him this was another failure to his people and to his men. They had trusted him with their lives, and had paid that price. And all he was left with was shame and wounds.
An hour later and the band of near dead warriors stood outside the one place that Garanth felt truly safe.
He had not spoken to Ves in months, seeing as their last meeting had ended with a heated argument. But all he wanted now was the smell of his beloved as she held him to her, like a loving mother cradles her child.
Sounding as if every word was a struggle for him, Garanth bashed his fist into the large House door three times.
Four hundred Dwarven warriors were desperately fighting for their lives, the sigil of House Dragan (An armoured fist clenched before the golden stairs of their King’s throne) was emblazoned on their banners. The small force consisted of two hundred Iron Hands, the standard soldiers of , one hundred lightly armoured archers and scout skirmishers, and one hundred warriors of the Steel Legion. The elite soldiers were clad head to foot in heavy plate mail, and each on wielded a huge war axe in their right hand, and hefted a large bronze shield in the other.
Normally an army like this would have formed a shield wall or armoured line, but in this unfortunate turn of events they were surrounded, outnumbered and had been ambushed in the first place.
Their attackers had peppered them with arrows from the hills above before sending hundreds of infantry down the valleys sides to come crashing into the smaller Dwarven force.
Only the soldiers of the steel legion and The Paragon were holding against the attackers. The Dwarf Lord was wielding his great sword and slicing through all attackers who charged him as if they were butter. His axe wielding warriors had formed into several densely packed groups, hacking down all unfortunate enemies who came close.
There were many humans in the enemy force, and even a few Half Orc berserkers, but the majority was made up of steel clad Dwarf warriors, unmistakably Garanir folk.
After barely ten minutes all the Iron Hands had fallen, and the scouts and archers had lost their war with the enemy light troops.
It was now just The Paragon and the remaining eighty odd Steel Warriors holding against the still quite strong enemy force.
Garanth himself had taken little to dent his pride, one shallow scratch from a sword spanned across his shoulder plate, and a cut across his cheek was all that ailed him.
With a grunt he pushed the fresh corpse off of the blade of his sword, letting it collapse onto the ever growing pile.
He had lost count of how many men he had felled…a lot judging by the pile at his feet.
It was a lot more before the battle was over too. He and his men stood there for the best part of an hour, fending off attacks from all sides, fighting like the gods of war. Losing one man for every twenty or thirty odd of theirs (Look I like being OP).
As they fought, Garanth and his men slowly retreated backwards, making their way to the end of the valley, where the valley sides became vertical and were only about thirty feet away from each other, forming a river less gorge.
Eventually, after what seemed like an age they reached it, and they could finally all turn to face their attackers without the danger of being flanked.
By now however they were battered and broken, barely twenty men still stood, and the few who had got away with injuries had been pulled behind the line.
By now Garanth had sustained enough injuries to make him look like a walking corpse. His right arm was bleeding profusely from a number of deep gashes, the small of his back had been struck by a backhanding mace, and an arrow had slashed through the mail of his torso and had skimmed his chest, leaving a long scratch which was constantly being rubbed and scraped by his armour.
After another ten minutes of fighting the enemy finally receded.
And to the broken defender’s disbelief they saw them fleeing back up the valley, barely a hundred strong the flagless Dwarf infantry soon disappeared over the brow of the valley rise.
It seemed unreal at first, another battle won, and another tale to be told amongst the masses.
It was all Garanth could do to remain standing however. His whole body was plagued with pain, and every movement brought with it a fresh wave of agony.
But he could not let what remained of his men see his weakness; they were all men he knew and trusted with his lives…and the few who had retained them.
With a heave he swung his sword one last time and let it fall with a thunk into the blood sodden earth.
“Alright men, in a situation like this there is little to do but retreat to safety as fast as we are able. Heal up as best you can and then we’re off, and we do not stop until the gates of Garnir have closed behind us!”
Like a following of loyal wolves they patched themselves up as best as they could before following him down the gorge…
It took four days to get back to Garnir. Normally they could have covered the distance in half the time, but they were wounded and tired, and the pace was agonisingly slow.
Eventually however, just as the sun was setting below the distant horizon, they reached the Outer Watchtower.
It was a small keep manned by about fifty dwarven guardsmen, and was more a look out point than fortress. It was built right over the road and limited access to Garnir for those who were not welcome.
Garanth knew the captain there, he had been passing through this watch for hundreds of years, and the two had developed a working friendship.
When Daregon saw the state his friend was in, he had called for a healer immediately. But Garanth refused, all he wanted was to go home.
As he and his men were ferried to Garnir, he could not help but let his mind wander to that of the battle.
Who had sent those dwarves? And why?
He and his small force had set out to deal with an ogre incursion on the North Eastern border, it had been while they were making their way back that they had been attacked.
He had set out with four hundred strong warriors…he returned with thirteen. All of them he knew, they had fought at his side for varying amounts of decades. Gron was his oldest and most trusted of them all. He was one of the Steel Warriors and was built like a bear. His hair was a fiery red and was always put back in a neat plait down his back. His beard was larger and brighter than most, and was used both to frighten green human soldiers and set a group of Dwarven ladies giggling.
He wasn’t looking so good now however. His hair was matted with blood, and his chest was open and bleeding from two arrow wounds. The scabs had kept cracking open as they walked.
His wounds were a sign to Garanth. This would be a story that would be told for centuries, and would probably one say become a legend that was told to ambitious small beards before bedtime.
But to him this was another failure to his people and to his men. They had trusted him with their lives, and had paid that price. And all he was left with was shame and wounds.
An hour later and the band of near dead warriors stood outside the one place that Garanth felt truly safe.
He had not spoken to Ves in months, seeing as their last meeting had ended with a heated argument. But all he wanted now was the smell of his beloved as she held him to her, like a loving mother cradles her child.
Sounding as if every word was a struggle for him, Garanth bashed his fist into the large House door three times.
WIP!
[21:45:26] Erranruin:
Name: Garath Dragan
Age: 399 (His birthday is in 4 months, he wants to have a massive banquet!
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Bisexual (He keeps his interest in men a secret)
Personality:
Garath is one for efficiency and getting the job done. Once given order he will drive himself to the ground to get it done. He has a desperate need to do his duty and uphold
his family name.
History:
The Noble House of Dragan has always been essential to the safety of the Dwarven Realm. All excellent warriors – the Dragans supply the King with their fair share of Iron Hands. But their specialty is the development and training of The Steel Legion, the hardest and toughest of dwarven warriors.
Garath was born to Granth Dragan, lord of the House and personal advisor to the King. Granth’s farther, Garnth, had been the Commander of the Steel Legion. So Garanth started his life under the tutelage of a very well respected Lord and warrior. But it was his mother who proved essential in the early years of his life. Dris was a Lady of the court and skilled politician, but also in her youth had been a Warden, one of the elite guards of the realm.
She tutored her son in not only reading and writing, but also on drawing, and even acting at one point, though the dwarf youth showed next to no interest in this. What he really loved as a boy, was exploring. He would wander the corridors and chambers of their palace for hours on end, talking to the servants, helping the cooks, once he was found hanging from the bell of the bell tower, laughing all the while.
On his eleventh birthday his father began to give him four hour training sessions every day. His mother protested to this, but Granth ignored her, telling her that these were matters for a man to decide, not a woman. An argument ensued, which soon became heated. And the young dwarf could only watch from the doorway as his enraged father roared in his mother’s face.
Amongst the Dwarves it was just short of unheard of for a husband and wife to break up. So instead the once lovers took to living on either of the palace and avoiding each other entirely. Dwarf grudges die hard. All Garanth could do was learn what he could from the two of them.
His father was sullen and spoke little, yet still he drove his son to the ground in training, acting like more of a commanding officer than a father. His mother on the other hand seemed more delicate than she had been previously, yet she still taught him the best she could in the political and analytical arts. But come his fifteenth name day, his time with his mother had been limited to barely twice a week, owing to the iron fist rule of his father. Previously his mother would have stood up to him, but years of arguments and abuse seemed to have withered her beyond her years. And all she could do was watch as her son became a killing machine.
Come the age of twenty and Garanth was a well known and gossiped about youth amongst the locals. His prowess with a sword was yet to be matched by his aptitude for command. He had a talent for it though, but this was not enough for his father, who wanted his son to be better than he ever was.
Garanth himself enjoyed life little, his beloved mother had receded into the depths of her chambers and refused to speak to anyone save for a few trusted servants and himself when he was allowed.
It was on his thirtieth birthday banquet that everything changed.
He and all his friends were drinking themselves to the ground (unfortunately his father was present, who was also very drunk). Having the time of their lives and generally being happy young boys, it was then that his father chose to ruin everything, including himself.
With a roar he seemed to come out of nowhere and shake his fist at his son, babbling on about something he had said about him to Dris. Garanth had barely enough time to protest before his own father had smacked him across the face with his goblet. Stunned, Garanth stumbled back, only to be hit again, and again, and again, and again. Finally, when he lay upon the floor weeping, his father stopped and spat on his son before striding away.
Word spread fast of Lord Dragan’s drunken attack, and soon the whispering had reached the King’s ears, who was most displeased that one of his subjects was bludgeoning his own son in such a manner.
Dishonour and foul talk was brought to the House of Dragan after that, and they lost many servants and warriors who had served in the house since their birth. Proof of the attack was clear by Garanth’s face, the young boy, almost a grown dwarf, was dotted with purple bruises, and his left eye had swollen shut.
Abilities/Skills: Garath has been spoken of as a legend owing to his excellent aptitude for command. Able to hold a line from routing against all odds, Garath has been given the legendary title of Paragon, 16th in line he is often spoken of as nearly as almighty as Thurum, the 4th and most communally spoken of Paragon.
In hand to hand combat Garath is all but invincible. Before battle he dons his White Flame Plate mail, and equips the ancient great helm of Varanharr. As a weapon he chooses his personally crafted Broadsword. Nearly as long he is, the weapon is said to have cleaved a giant in two whilst in the hands of the Paragon. When asked if this tale is true Garath merely chuckles and replies – “You should have been there”
Social Status:
[21:45:26] Erranruin:
Name: Garath Dragan
Age: 399 (His birthday is in 4 months, he wants to have a massive banquet!
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Bisexual (He keeps his interest in men a secret)
Personality:
Garath is one for efficiency and getting the job done. Once given order he will drive himself to the ground to get it done. He has a desperate need to do his duty and uphold
his family name.
History:
The Noble House of Dragan has always been essential to the safety of the Dwarven Realm. All excellent warriors – the Dragans supply the King with their fair share of Iron Hands. But their specialty is the development and training of The Steel Legion, the hardest and toughest of dwarven warriors.
Garath was born to Granth Dragan, lord of the House and personal advisor to the King. Granth’s farther, Garnth, had been the Commander of the Steel Legion. So Garanth started his life under the tutelage of a very well respected Lord and warrior. But it was his mother who proved essential in the early years of his life. Dris was a Lady of the court and skilled politician, but also in her youth had been a Warden, one of the elite guards of the realm.
She tutored her son in not only reading and writing, but also on drawing, and even acting at one point, though the dwarf youth showed next to no interest in this. What he really loved as a boy, was exploring. He would wander the corridors and chambers of their palace for hours on end, talking to the servants, helping the cooks, once he was found hanging from the bell of the bell tower, laughing all the while.
On his eleventh birthday his father began to give him four hour training sessions every day. His mother protested to this, but Granth ignored her, telling her that these were matters for a man to decide, not a woman. An argument ensued, which soon became heated. And the young dwarf could only watch from the doorway as his enraged father roared in his mother’s face.
Amongst the Dwarves it was just short of unheard of for a husband and wife to break up. So instead the once lovers took to living on either of the palace and avoiding each other entirely. Dwarf grudges die hard. All Garanth could do was learn what he could from the two of them.
His father was sullen and spoke little, yet still he drove his son to the ground in training, acting like more of a commanding officer than a father. His mother on the other hand seemed more delicate than she had been previously, yet she still taught him the best she could in the political and analytical arts. But come his fifteenth name day, his time with his mother had been limited to barely twice a week, owing to the iron fist rule of his father. Previously his mother would have stood up to him, but years of arguments and abuse seemed to have withered her beyond her years. And all she could do was watch as her son became a killing machine.
Come the age of twenty and Garanth was a well known and gossiped about youth amongst the locals. His prowess with a sword was yet to be matched by his aptitude for command. He had a talent for it though, but this was not enough for his father, who wanted his son to be better than he ever was.
Garanth himself enjoyed life little, his beloved mother had receded into the depths of her chambers and refused to speak to anyone save for a few trusted servants and himself when he was allowed.
It was on his thirtieth birthday banquet that everything changed.
He and all his friends were drinking themselves to the ground (unfortunately his father was present, who was also very drunk). Having the time of their lives and generally being happy young boys, it was then that his father chose to ruin everything, including himself.
With a roar he seemed to come out of nowhere and shake his fist at his son, babbling on about something he had said about him to Dris. Garanth had barely enough time to protest before his own father had smacked him across the face with his goblet. Stunned, Garanth stumbled back, only to be hit again, and again, and again, and again. Finally, when he lay upon the floor weeping, his father stopped and spat on his son before striding away.
Word spread fast of Lord Dragan’s drunken attack, and soon the whispering had reached the King’s ears, who was most displeased that one of his subjects was bludgeoning his own son in such a manner.
Dishonour and foul talk was brought to the House of Dragan after that, and they lost many servants and warriors who had served in the house since their birth. Proof of the attack was clear by Garanth’s face, the young boy, almost a grown dwarf, was dotted with purple bruises, and his left eye had swollen shut.
Abilities/Skills: Garath has been spoken of as a legend owing to his excellent aptitude for command. Able to hold a line from routing against all odds, Garath has been given the legendary title of Paragon, 16th in line he is often spoken of as nearly as almighty as Thurum, the 4th and most communally spoken of Paragon.
In hand to hand combat Garath is all but invincible. Before battle he dons his White Flame Plate mail, and equips the ancient great helm of Varanharr. As a weapon he chooses his personally crafted Broadsword. Nearly as long he is, the weapon is said to have cleaved a giant in two whilst in the hands of the Paragon. When asked if this tale is true Garath merely chuckles and replies – “You should have been there”
Social Status:
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