You awaken to the chittering of rats, and eyes that struggle to focus on anything watch as ratmen bicker about something, while others drag screaming and terrified humans to the other sections of the camp, where the sounds of crunching bone and even higher screams emanate.
Your head throbs in pain, but some instinct tells you that besides cuts on your arms and torso you are unharmed. Poison, some piece of you supplies.
No, the splitting headache, you are certain, is not physiological in nature.
Then you pass out.
—————
When you awaken again, the best armored ratman is brutally dispatching an underling. The sun is beginning to rise on the barren plains you are transported on in shoddy carts, your everything bound.
"Underway-Underpath here is filled with Hot-Flame stone ones, idiot-imbecile! Closer to Crookback we go, yes-yes!"
Tragically, his pontificating means the Chieftain dismisses the threat his underlings frantically chitter about, as orcs and goblins bearing fell runes that burn with baleful chaotic fire, their heads marred with jagged crown of metal thorns, burned into flesh..
Thralls of the fallen Dwarves.
Behind them, the more disciplined Hobgoblins force the slaves forwards under threat of blade.
Leading it all is but a single Dwarf with hateful gaze, locked onto you.
And, you suspect, the normal, wholesome dwarf next to you, along with the knight who glows with the most minor of touches of divinity-though deprived of his armor-and two human women who glow with Ghur and Chamon suffusing their souls, and bear resemblance enough you'd guess them to be siblings.
You look down at yourself, tall and lithe. You are an…
An…
Elf.
But something in you burns that there is more to it than that.
And yet, it simply won't come to you. About yourself, it feels, every trace simply doesn't exist. Like the shelf that knowledge ought to be stored on has been sold off and is no longer accessible to you.
This realization prompts another horrible flash of pain, and you pass out again.
—————
You are awake more often than not, now in the care of the fell dwarves. But around each of your necks is a collar that prevents you from disobeying them, and this means they allow you, in your now caged carts, to mingle amongst each other.
You are, after all, forbidden from harming the sole fell dwarf, not allowed to bring harm unto yourselves or the others unless ordered to do so, and are not allowed to act upon any plots to escape.
The wording was careful, however, to allow you to harm and possibly kill the greenskins amongst the camp. In fact, the fell dwarf seemed to take care to emphasize that it did without saying it.
You have since learned that the two humans are indeed sisters. Both on their Journeying, having sought to travel to Cathay and pry loose it's secrets for the Empire.
The one with the touch of faith is supposedly a Questing Knight of Bretonnia, but you are sceptical as 'he' is in fact a 'she', which you are given to understand, somehow, is considered to be impossible. She takes great care to impress, however, that many knights are women, though only one woman has ever been known to be a Grail Knight-Repanse de Lyonesse.
And the last, who suffers greatly under the care of the fell dwarves, is apparently a runesmith of some notability in Karak Kadrin.. And despite the fact he clearly hates you for being an elf, he does not object when you insist he take half of your meagre ration to supplement for his none.
The knight claims if she were able to, she would do the same. The wizards keep their peace.
But over the course of five days of travel, the dwarf seems to warm to you. Well, not warm, but become willing to speak to you. Though it is all filled with lamentations that his best conversational partner is an elgi, of all things.
And he tells you that from what he has overheard, these are out of favor, even amongst the lowest circles of the Dawi-Zharr. They hope to buy their way back into favor with this offering; he suspects they will simply become part of it.
Or, he gives a grim sort of smile, the Redbeards of Karak Vlag will notice how closely this circuitous route to Uzkulak takes them, and prepare an ambush.
And then the cart door is opened suddenly, and the hateful gaze bores into you as your chains are unclasped from the edge of the cage carriage.
A single word forces your limbs to march behind him. And your last glimpse of your companions is all of them grimly watching your departure.
The dwarf, however, seems to regard your captor with a thousandfold more hatred than he speaks of your race.
The personal carriage of the Chaos Dwarf is separate from the rest. A strange contraption that radiates daemonic taint, but drives itself.
As you disappear inside, you wonder what you are to be subjected to.
————
There is nothing but Pain.
Your will shatters under the weight of Tyranny.
You mind unfurls and Obeys.
This is what it is to be subject to the dwarf's sorceries. Perhaps, were you not weary and hungry, did not have the chink in your armor of not having more than meagre scraps of a self, you would have been able to resist.
But as he picks through your mind, you stay intact somehow. Despite such magics being almost invariably shattering to the mind performed on, you in fact feel…besides the pain, completely fine.
The dwarf seems to become angry as he attempts to find something, anything. "Bah!" He shouts. "The rats have already obliterated everything with their foul chemicals, nothing left in your head. Return to your cage, elgi."
Your legs march, and you struggle to keep pace as your skin bleeds from the preparations for the inspection of your mind.
You manage, of course, several greenskins seeming to contemplate if you would be good food.
When you assume your spot in the cage, you collapse. And…you dream.
You dream of a glorious warrior
a legendary loremaster
a great sailor
a cursed leader
a radiant queen
You Dream
of nobody.
And you also dream…
[ ] …of laughter who stole you away from a dark prince.
[ ] …of wisdom, who devised a way to save what the trickster reclaimed.
[ ] …of life, who kept what was stolen from perishing while a way was found.
[ ] …of the mists, which obscured the bounty from all others.
[ ] …of the forge, where it was girded against the world once more.
Your dream darkens, and it places thorns into your mind and your heart. A nightmare brews.
The terror resolves…
[ ] …into the savage wilds, tearing it into a new habitat and away from nurturing hands.
[ ] …into retribution, come to claim its due.
[ ] …into beguiling perfumes and sensual bliss, seeking to claim that which its mirror could not.
[ ] …into shifting dark eddies, seeking to try its hands at all new conjurations with the material.
[ ] …into a hand dripping with boiling blood, seeking to forge a new weapon.
The moon clears away the nightmare as lips kiss your forehead, and in the reflection of the moon, you see a person. Clearly recognizable, and you feel realization flutter unearned into your head: you must seek them.
[ ] A woman with arcane bow of shining green, an attendant to a greater will serving far afield.
[ ] A woman draped in rugged green clothing, tracking younger races as they encroach upon her forests.
[ ] A woman crackling with dark arcane power, who nonetheless makes a daring exodus to eastern climes where she may yet get away from her ancient mistress.
[ ] A dwarf, one who resides in the frozen north, who might yet listen to an elgi if they pass trials set before them.
[ ] A human who is girded in Hysh, yet stained deep by chaos, his duplicity hidden.
And after that glimpse…
…you wake to the sound of greenskins, fighting furiously. The camp is in chaos, and you watch in confusion as the camp as one falls upon those orcs who choose to use bows.
You finally find corpses, but they were not felled with arrows, but bolts. But as you watch, another swathe of greenskins at the back of the horde are scythed with bolts. And then, once more, and finally an orc bellows above his compatriots: "Oi! Gits, we'ze killin the wrong thing!"
And with inarticulate screams, you watch as twenty dwarves with crests of orange and trousers as their only clothing slam into the orcs from the side they aren't looking.
It's a bloody, terrible sight. Each dwarf takes ten orcs at least, but in the end, only one dwarf with a greataxe remains, and he alters himself to charge for the Chaos Dwarf's carriage…
…which reverses away, before turning and moving at a speed you hadn't seen it move before.
Only now do you notice cloaked dwarves, who pry open the wagon containing those inanimate things captured. Another two throw open your cage, and quickly-with a strange tiny pickaxe that seems to fizzle the collar and chains' runes-extricate your Dwarven companion.
Some piece of you prepares to be left here to die, for the crime of being an elf.
But the runesmith speaks in the language of the dwarves, and causes some amount of rumbling grumbles. But them the dwarves do the same, freeing you and the humans of your chains.
"There, that ought to mostly repay the elgi for sharing food. Right then-" he stops for a moment to hear the rangers, and nods. "-if you can keep up with us, you're free to travel with us as far as through High Pass. But you'll have to figure out provisions and the like yourself, the lads only brought enough for me and themselves." He stops to clamber out of the cart, showing none of the exhaustion he surely must feel.
"...of course, there's a whole cartload of things we won't touch that the coward left. Best get looking." Despite the gruffness, you don't think the dwarf means to be unkind.
But as the four of you descend upon the cart, the other three retrieve belongings, and you…
…well. You don't have belongings, as far as you remember.
But you avail yourself of a bag of the same rations you were fed before, terrible though they may be. And after a short consideration, dress yourself in ill fitting clothing…
…and examine yourself in a silver mirror that has somehow made it's way in here.
[ ] A haggard woman, broad shouldered with a warrior's build. Raven hair cascades down your shoulders, unkempt though it may be, and piercing grey eyes stare back at you. You possess a more savage beauty than most elves. You also seem to be older, more scarred and worn.
[ ] A haggard woman, who…well, by human standards, you would be old. But by elven ones, you are a teenager. Your auburn curls could definitely use brushing, and you can feel the hellish tangle they're in. You are, however, possessed of a delicate beauty. Like porcelain. Unfortunately, it is the sort of beauty that's still deciding if it wants to become mature curves or stay demure cuteness.
[ ] A haggard woman, who is neither tall nor short, neither slim nor broad. You are the definition of 'average looking.' For an elf, at least. Brown hair, cut short, frames your face. Even in apparent physical age, you are perfectly middling.
And suddenly, you spot something that burns inside of you. That you simply must have. It is, without question, something that is yours:
[ ] A weapon, of finest quality, undoubtedly made by elves due to the fine Eltharin script which tell the saga of an elf who, in ancient times, taught a Norsan Tribe of the Elven Gods, and turned them from the path of Chaos.
[ ] A tome, titled
An Immodest Treatise on The Path to Qhaysh. The human wizards seem to have yet to notice it.
[ ] A staff, which to you carries overt enchantments that to the humans must be subtle, minorly stained with Dark Magic.
[ ] A suit of ithilmar chain with a breastplate, which seems to bear some sort of subtle enchantment.
–———
Author's Note:
The references to elven gods are largely metaphor, but they do carry the implication of that god's touches, be they minor or major, upon your protagonist. Or maybe they aren't metaphor. Sometimes I don't even know if I know what my plans for things are.
Generally speaking, this update serves as setup and light character creation. The choice of who you're seeking out serves as a goal for your first arc, and they are ordered by difficulty, more or less.
But the true purpose of this prologue is that you are, for all intents and purposes, still a blank slate. You will have the opportunity to form a personality throughout the journey back to civilization. Don't expect to do more to make these Dwarves tolerate you, though. They may be able to easily recognize that you're a damn weird Elgi, but you are still an Elgi to them. Just one their intended target is indebted to.
Also, this probably won't ever see the light of day. So if I do post it, hurrah! You're looking at an effort I made with spare thoughts and duct tape.
