[Completed] Orrin's Tale - Finger of Doom/April 27, 1 VC

[Keehnelf]

April 27, 1 VC - 6:20am

Orrin dreams for a long time, uneasy dreams of swords clanging against shields, the dim and blurry vision of massing armies before him causing him to stir. He cannot see the faces of the soldiers, or the design of the banner beneath which they march. Their destination is unclear. All this makes him unhappy, restless as he tosses and turns, feverish and near death for an eternity.

The dreams of war give way to dreams of sunny days lying on a broad flat stone, interrupted periodically by suddenly-gathering stormclouds that bring hail and lightning, driving him back below ground where he belongs. He finds comfort by a low, warm fire deep in his hold's hearthhalls, and waits there until the storms pass, hoping to remain hidden as well from the things that are stalking under cloud cover, seeking out all of his kind for unknown ends.

---

After a universe of hiding and running, Orrin breaks free from his fears into the faint glow of a fireplace, his heart racing with the sudden sensation of breaking out of water after nearly drowning, or of finding firm earth unexpectedly beneath your feet after unknown lengths of falling.

He casts about himself, turning head left and right, and finds his entire head filled with torment at the motion. The lines of the ceiling above him spin wildly around and he is forced to close his eyes again, drifting back into more natural sleep for a time, and then waking again.

This time he is more careful, slowly turning his head to the side to find the source of light and heat. A fireplace is built into one wall of the small chamber in which he lies--dwarven construction, all of it: walls, floor, fireplace, even the post of the bed he can see from the corner of his eye. A single manacle is attached to his left ankle, with a chain running to the corner of the room immediately opposite from the only visible exit--a heavy wooden door stained with ages of use and inscribed with the motif of a curled-up dragon in a circle, as though seen from above. The image shakes something in the back of his mind, but it is too loose and fragmentary to grab hold of.

His body is drenched with sweat, but not cold--the fire has seen to that--and he has been stripped down to his underclothes, with no sign of his weapons, armor or other supplies in sight in the room.

For now, at least, it seems he is alone.

Orrin currently has 1 HP.

[Zorroroaster]

Awesome writing, K. Really great. I'll ultimately want that reposted for all once we are (if ever) out of this pickle. I'd love other to see that too. The fact that you write volumes for things that very few actually see is pretty inspiring.

Orrin gradually sits up as the fog in his mind clears. He's never been this groggy before, not even the booze up at Harrowing compares to the way his brain is currently sloshing around behind his eyes. What's more, it feels like he's been dunked in a trough and the water won't clear from one of his ears.

He reaches up to stick a stubby finger in his ear canal and relieve the blockage, but is met with intense pain as he touches the side of his head. His fingers come away sticky with congealed blood and mucous. No wonder I'm not hearing so good, he thinks. He works his jaw a few times to try and relax the muscles around his neck and face, but to no avail. You really took a beating, bud. Deserved most of it too, arsehole.

He sits for a time on the edge of the bed staring at the dragon motif, trying to place where he's seen it before. Once his head has cleared, he stands up and begins poking around the room. He recognizes the craftsmanship in the construction of the walls and furniture, and wonders exactly where he might be. He searches carefully for any signs of hidden stonework or other features. Orcs might have overlooked a secret passage in here. Doubt I'll get that lucky though, he thinks.

He tests the strength of the chain shackling him, not expecting anything unusual but more out of a sense of completeness as he gets accustomed to his new surroundings.

Having completed his circuit of the cell, he sits back down heavily. His head is swimming and he works to fight off the nausea. He lets out a sigh of frustration.

"Well done, shithead. Got yerself collared by orcs. Real smart. So, now what?"

[Keehnelf]

Thanks! I find I write my most interesting stuff when it's only one or two people because I can engage a bit more with the subjective aspect of things, which disappears when you have eight or ten sets of eyes on an event.

April 27, 1 VC - 6:30am

Orrin finds that the chain allows him free reign of the room, more or less, just short enough to keep him from reaching the door handle. If he were six inches taller, he'd be able to turn the knob--a foot taller, and he'd be able to peep out in the hallway. Clearly this residence was designed for a dwarf. Optimistic at least for a moment, he runs his hands over the walls, feeling for telltale whispers of air or looking for well-disguised seams in the stone, but to no avail. Either nothing is there, or he's just too out of sorts to recognize it--a believable thought, given his condition.

He turns with a grunt back toward the bulk of the room and takes stock again--it's not unpleasant, for a prison of unknown location. No food or water, no tools or even a table, but it's warm, dry, and the bed is somewhat soft. Better than most of his nights in the past six months or so.

As he considers his options, there is motion in the hall outside and the sound of a key clattering in the door's lock. A low, guttural voice rises barely enough for Orrin to hear through the door--whether because it's a whisper or because of his "improved" hearing, he's not sure: "You awake in there? I heard some movement."

[Zorroroaster]

Orrin starts a little at the sound of the voice, and then regains his composure. He turns his heads from side to side a few times, listening. The movement verifies what he was starting to fear: his hearing on the one side isn't much more than a watery muffle. The other side seems perfectly fine, but it's an alarming realization for him.

He leans forward on bed frame slightly and speaks in a voice he thinks is just loud enough to carry, but is likely louder than he desires.

"Hunh? Whosshat? Are you fhriend, foe, or my jhailerr? Damn. I shound like a bhlloody halffwhhit."

[Keehnelf]

There is a low chuckle from beyond the door. "I'm your doctor. If you're up and about, I'd like to speak with you a bit about your condition."

[Zorroroaster]

"A shhawbonesh? Here?" Orrin pauses. What is this madness? Orcs have doctors?

He speaks a little louder. "Alhhright, come in if you musshht. I'll not bite."

[Keehnelf]

The door opens and a goblin--of sorts--enters. He is slightly taller than Orrin, slender and long-limbed, dressed in a long linen robe dyed dark blue. He wears a soft cap over the top of his head that hangs down in the back almost like a hood, and his eyes are large and almond-shaped, almost elfin. The goblin smiles, an uncomfortable expression, and closes the door behind him, then clasps his hands together.

He looks around the room, as if determining if anything is out of place, and then fixes his gaze on Orrin directly. "So--" he begins, "how are you feeling?"

[Zorroroaster]

Orrin gapes at the goblin, slack jawed. After an uncomfortable silence, he closes his mouth. And laughs. A loud, hearty guffaw.

"Seriously, this just takes the cake. I don't know what I expected to walk through the door, but a goblin doc with proper bedside manner? Not one will ever believe this."

"How do I feel? Great! Just peachy, for having been beaten half dead and dragged to who knows where. I feel nauseous and light headed. My noggin feels like the Duke himself rode over it with his destrier. I'm not dead, but maybe I should be. How do I look?"

He may be half dead and taken prisoner, but its obvious from the glint in his eye that there's a spark in Orrin still.

[Keehnelf]

The goblin laughs, exposing his wicked-looking teeth once again. "Well, I admit to being unusual, especially among your people--but goblins don't tend to survive long around dwarves anyway. As for your condition, you look surprisingly good. For a day or two I was convinced we'd lose you altogether, and the Master would have been extremely unhappy in that eventuality so I was forced to employ some unusual measures. I stitched your face back together with some enchanted thread, so at least you can eat and speak after a fashion, though the Vangeezi that captured you didn't bother to go looking for your ear. For that, I apologize. But an ugly dwarf is better than no dwarf at all. Tell me, do you have any dizziness in addition to your nausea?" He arches his eyebrows and keeps his hands folded behind his back.

[Zorroroaster]

Orrin shrugs. "I washh ugly before, even by dwarf shtandardsh. A little uglier won't bother me none." He stands up and shakes his head from side to side gingerly, testing how he feels. "Yeah, shtill a little dizzhy and lightheaded, but it sheemsh to be clearing the longer I remain upright. I guessh I wash nearly down for the count, and I've got you to thank for it. For what it's worth, thanksh. I'd rather be alive than dead, although I may want to eat thoshe wordsh shoon enough, eh? What'sh thish 'Mashter' want with the likesh of me, anyway?"

Orrin sits back down and exhales a little roughly. It's obvious to him that he's a long way from being back on his feet. He finds it frustrating.

[Keehnelf]

"The Master is a collector of sorts. He is especially interested in dwarves, given the history of this place, and those he has acquired in the past have proven quite useful subjects for him." He puts his hands around the front and clasps them together again in front of his mouth. "From the look of you, you're a soldier by trade, yes? Do you know anything of crafting, or construction in addition to your skills with a blade?"

[Zorroroaster]

Orrin keeps the tone conversational. "Indeed, my family had little use for more stonemasons after my mother sired three boys before me. I know what any self-respecting delver learns as young'un of crafting and masonry. I spent some time apprenticing with an uncle one summer, but that's pretty much it."

Orrin becomes uneasy, trying to choose his words carefully. "Listen, I'm cordial with you, you saved my life and I was brought up to show respect. But this Master of
yours, I can't see myself settling in to be a willing part of his collection. I know this means it'll go poorly for me, and I can't help that. I ain't no slave. Likely you're going to be stitching me up regular like, as he takes out frustration on my lack of cooperation. Just sayin'."

[Keehnelf]

The goblin chuckles softly. "The Master has no interest in damaging his tools, any more than you would willingly set your blade in a millstone because it failed to slay your enemy at the first stroke. It seems you are well on your way to recovery. I will arrange for an audience with the Master soon. In the meantime, is there anything that you require for your contenment during your stay here?"

[Zorroroaster]

Orrin grunts. "Nothing you'd be allowed to provide, I'm sure. No, that's not quite true. An extra blanket would be helpful. Some of the injuries I've suffered in recent years leave me creaky in the damp. A little more warmth will help keep limber, thanks."

[Keehnelf]

The goblin bows, and murmurs, "I will see what I can do. I, or someone else, will return to escort you to the Master once the appropriate time arrives."

[Keehnelf]

April 28, 1 VC - 11:40am

The goblin departs, and a silent and solitary time of indeterminate length passes before the door opens abruptly and a hobgoblin in a suit of immaculate banded mail over which is belted a white tabard with a sinuous red dragon printed across the front enters with a wool blanket balled up under one arm. "The Master sends this, with his regards," says the creature, tossing it toward Orrin. While it is still in the air, he retreats back out the door, closing it behind him.

Orrin notes the absence of sound from a lock operating either before or after the hobgoblin's appearance, but is unable to reach the handle to test whether it is unlocked or simply silent.

After another interminable feeling time, the door again opens swiftly and the hobgoblin re-enters with a silver tray laden with cooked meat, potatoes and a thick slice of bread, along with a steel flacon. He sets it down on the floor just past the sweep of the door before retreating. This time, Orrin gets a good view out into the hall, and sees a pair of gnolls in similar attire standing watch with short spears and shields out in the passage. The hall stretches off to the left and right, and the detailing he can spot makes it clear that these chambers were dwarf-made.

The hobgoblin retreats without a word, and Orrin is left to enjoy his meal in silence once again, a fancy silver fork and short-bladed steak knife also on the tray to facilitate this, along with a pristine white napkin.

Eventually, the need for recovery and boredom make Orrin ready to sleep, and he curls up under the blankets to bring whatever will come on the morrow, expecting that it will not be immediate death at least, based on his conversation with the goblin.

In the morning, a burly, grim-faced Orc in the same white tabard brings a bowl of sweet gruel with a spoon and takes away the dishes of the day before. If anything is missing, he takes no notice, and does not speak, though he keeps a wary eye on Orrin as he enters and exits.

Finally, perhaps a few hours after breakfast, there is a knock on the door and it opens, revealing a young-looking dwarf, a bit on the skinny side, with a braided and ringed beard and long hair pulled back into a single braid. He is solemn-looking, and wearing the same white tabard as the others, though has no armor and no weapons. His hands are folded formally together in front of his belt.

He hesitates a moment and his right eye twitches a few times before he speaks in dwarven. "Welcome, honored guest. The Master is ready to meet with you."

[Zorroroaster]

I'll write more when I get time later...but it almost goes without saying that Orrin would make some kind of strap from one of the blankets and secure that little steak knife somewhere on his hairy person.

[Keehnelf]

I figured--and that's why I mentioned the orc taking no notice if anything was missing

[Zorroroaster]

I know that you know that I know....did you know that?

[Zorroroaster]

After the hobgoblin leaves, Orrin tests the point of the knife on his finger. Finding it acceptable, he uses it to slash a band of fabric from the hem of the extra blanket he had asked for. He uses the strap to bind the knife to one of his calves, just under his pant leg.

You had mentioned underclothes. Not being super familiar with Dwarven longerie, I thought he might be wearing something long legged. If not, and he's in fact in something more...revealing...he will fashion a belt of the strap and hide the knife in it under his shirt at his waist.

When the dwarf arrives, Orrin looks him over with thinly disguised contempt. "Master? Hey may be yours, but he isn't mine. Jailer, yes. Master? Never. Still, I'm dead bored sitting here in this cell. Might as well take me to meet him. Say, can you tell me anything of my fellows? We were involved in a fracas of sorts with your...people. Was anyone else taken prisoner recently? If so, how do they fare?"