Narratives

"What would Uncle Perrin think?"
Perrin hated it when it was quiet and dark, too much time to think. Sitting watch at night, those awkward quiet times when the conversation had run out but the drinks had not, and especially out in the wilderness at night under the stars just like when he and Uncle Perrin would go camping. He tried not to think and just enjoy the company of Shadow, as he absently scratched the great Newfoundland behind the ears. Sometimes his company was the only thing that kept Perrin sane.

"What would Uncle Perrin think?"
Would that plague of a thought never leave his head? Perrin doubted it, not as long as the image of the last time he saw his uncle's face was burned into his memory. Uncle Perrin the great hero, the savior of his people, the greatest hero in a clan full of heroes, and young Perrin's hero too. His mother had named Perrin after her brother since he had no children of his own, to honor his name. Named after the greatest hero his clan had ever known, they considered it a gift but had they ever thought how hard it would be to live up to such a name?

"What would Uncle Perrin think?"
Perrin was a wild young halfling, spending a great deal of time out cavorting in the wilderness, and Uncle Perrin was a frequent companion. The good old days, the days of innocence, the days of carefree joy, and the days of plenty. Uncle Perrin had doted on his nephew, some would say that he indulged him too much, but he was mentor, teacher, confidant and Perrin was the son he never had. Perrin had gone to Rel Mord seeking excitement, the big city, capitol of the ancient kingdom, wild eyed and naive it's no wonder he fell in with the wrong crowd. He had an aptitude for the work though and did well, he was respected and accepted until...

"What would Uncle Perrin think?"
Those eyes those terrible haunting eyes... Uncle Perrin had come all the way to Rel Mord for the trial, and here was his namesake, the son he never had, brought before the court in chains. Perrin could hardly remember the trial, the torture of having uncle Perrin there watching everything had been too much. The judge pronounced sentence "guilty of thievery". Perrin looked over at his uncle as he was lead away, and as long as he lived he would remember his face. The pain, the grief, the disappointment, Uncle Perrin had survived a hundred battles but they had only scarred his body Perrin had wounded his soul.

"What would Uncle Perrin think?"
There was nothing worse you could do to a free spirited young halfling who was used to roaming the wilderness, than lock him away in a dark iron and stone cell with nothing to do but think and remember the look on his Uncle Perrin's face as he was lead away in chains. Perrin rolled over, closed his eyes, and pressed up against Shadow hoping the dog's rhythmic breathing would lull him off to sleep.

"Hopefully Uncle Perrin will forgive me."

It is still a few hours until dawn and a light snow falls in the streets of Rel Mord. A bulky dwarven figure wrapped in a strange fur cloak walks through the streets leading a stout war pony with large saddlebags. The clacking of hooves and the soft clanking of equipment are the only sounds on the streets.

He quietly walks to the front of an Inn with a sign boldly proclaiming it the "Three Creeks Inn", and carefully ties his mount to the post out front and relieves it of it's heavy burden. He climbs the few steps to the front door with confidence, despite the snow, as if these steps would be familiar in any kind of weather. As he opens the door a gruff looking dwarf starts to alertness near the door.

"Morning Salem, hows business?" the new arrival greets him in dwarven.

"Hey Barok, It's been awhile. Been up to any mischief?"

"Nothing unusual, demons, undead, other planner creatures, oh and I ended up going swimming again... or should I say sinking. No dragons this time out though."

He tosses the other dwarf a sterling. "Have one of the boys take Anvil out to the stable when they get a chance, would you. Mmmm... fresh bread, Lora or Issta must be up already. Hey Liallin, bring me an ale to the Deep Water will you?"

The halfling at the bar snidely asks "You want that Borneven style?"

Barok gives him a practiced glare that had made more than one opponent take a second thought about pressing an attack (and had even given a few unruly mobs reason to pause). He often wished that the whole running joke about a squeeze of lime in your ale had never gotten started.

As he enters the private room with a wrought iron sign above the door proclaiming it "The Deep Water" he begins relieving himself of his heavy adventuring gear. He tosses the heavy saddlebags on the table as he hangs his cloak on the wall behind an ornate wooden chair (really more of a throne among the other simple bar chairs). His backpack, shell shield, and elaborate weapon harness (with enough axes to outfit a small armed guard) go on the floor next to the chair. Shortly followed by his breastplate bearing a small royal crest over the heart and his helmet.

He then fishes around in the saddlebags until he comes out with a large strange looking metal ball that has black stripes running through it. He takes it to a locked back room with a couch and some comfortable sitting chairs, on the walls are innumerable adventuring trophies gathered by an entire brotherhood of adventurers. Books, bones, scrolls, teeth, weapons, and almost anything else that an adventurer might think an appropriate memento for a close brush with death, adorn the walls and the shelves.

On his way back to the Deep Water, he bumps into Liallin and thanks him for the ale (while half jokingly checking it for any lime juice). Sitting alone in the quiet dark Deep Water with the enticing smells of breakfast wafting through the room, Barok thinks how the one thing that he has never gotten used to since coming down out of the Rakers and into Nyrond during the Greyhawk wars, is all of the light. Summers were the worst, the heat and the sun and the days that seemed to last forever. Maybe that's why he was always annoyed by that priest of Pelor and the missionary of Pholtus more than he had a right to be.

It almost felt like home as he sat listening to the distant noises from the kitchen, and massaging the sore lance wound in his side from his most recent adventure. He would have to learn how to use one of those properly one day if was going to be a knight. Speaking of which, he would have to go find Sir Domin tomorrow for more lessons in courtly graces. Human customs confused him with all of it's double meaning and innuendo, things were much simpler in the dwarven courts. Maybe he would look up Sir Cameron while he was in town, he had heard of how he was knighted for his valor at the battle of Mowbrenn but he hadn't seen him since that adventure in the swamps, where Barok probably hadn't made much of an impression except as another dwarf who sinks when you drop him in water.

He would have to check the usual haunts tomorrow to see who was in town. He never seemed to see Mathio around much lately, but maybe Enan, Kerris, Dart, Thren, Rhadam, Eleri, Avrien, Deblin, or Damion were in town and would be interested in having a drink and blowing off some steam. He'd always meant to go to one of Vazentar's performances and he had heard that he was in town. Finishing off the last of his ale he carefully hauled his gear up into the roost to get some rest, as he did so he offered a prayer to Clangeddin to guide those of his comrades who would be engaging in mortal combat this day and for all of those to be joined in battle for the safety and well being of their kingdom and their people.