War in Norwik (Meade's View from Under a Hat)
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Meade van Wolfschaduven, a local, middle-aged hunter who mostly keeps to himself, hobbles through the Boarshead Inn door with a more severe limp than his usual one, dragging his right foot across the floor, and dried blood on his forehead from a still-red gash, dirt and grim covering every part of him; his wide-brimmed, black hat is sopping, brim limp, and his fur-lined cloak has a large tear along the back. Exhausted, he waves Misty over as he takes a chair nearest to one of the fires and carefully lowers himself down, groaning, his voice ragged. Leaning back, he grunts and produces a handful of gold coins, "Ale, darlin', an' a'keep it comin' 'til ah pass out."
The winds of the recent storm have died down, though the rain is still collecting in the barrels outside the houses of Norwick and running down the roofs, a grey, overcast sky rumbling with the lingering malcontent, chaos and turmoil of war. Jandor's guards are working to remove the bloody, tattered remains of the two large bugbears and the handful of goblins that litter the roads of the town, grim faces smeared with dirt and soot. A stench hangs over the entire barbarian village–blood, death, rot, fire, cooked flesh, smoke, fear--and inside the tiny hovels where black, fragrant clouds roll out the chimneys, families with worried faces huddle for warmth by their stew pots and eat their meals in morose silence, dread.
"Ah dun'na e'en know 'ow it got start'd, but ah wake up from noddin' by de communal firepit an' der's warriors an' 'ventur'rs all crowdin' at de gates." Meade slams down his first mug of ale as his tired body is comforted by the warmth of the alcohol and the crackling, indoor fires. He continues to tell his story, his usual rural accent deepened by fatigue, "An' dey bust open de gate! GOBBERS! An' some a'dem hobbies, ta! Ah get'ta ma' feet a'quick as ah kin an' grab ma' bow." The commoners--farmers, artisans, millers, all breed of workers who all had taken up arm in the case of the need to protect their property, their livelihood--nod as the foreigner speaks, some murmuring amongst themselves with worried or awe-stricken faces, some quietly pondering the grief of loss and war, some too far gone on ale to know where they were.
Adventurers, militiamen, and locals stand about the ruins of the southern gate, the entrance into the Rawlinswood from where the attack had come, the ground littered with the debris of the battle: splinters of wood and metal, cloth, leather, scattered weapons, and armors--bent, bloodied, burnt--singed hay, ash, body parts, and swaths of blood painting the snowy terrain crimson, brown, and black. Embedded into the walls, dirt, and stockades are a slew of arrows, bolts, and bullets, loosed by either side of the fight, having missed their intended targets, perhaps strayed wide due to a shaking hand, or deflected by the armor or tough skin of their targets.
"Fer de first few waves a' de attack, ah took ta de stockades ta fire through de gates . . . Som'time, the gobbers and hobbies woul' push de gate open an e'er'one wen' aht it, som'time, we let 'em in sa we coul' slaug--" Meade hiccups, then swallows and pounds on his chest before taking a sip of ale and going on. "Slaught'r 'em. De big'uns, buggers, dey st'rt c'm'n' an' de gates did'n' last much long'r den dat," he pushs his now-empty mug away from himself and Misty comes back by with another round of ale. "Shoul'a buil' ah barric'de a'som' sor', or ah block'de, bu' e'er'ne jus' seem'd int'nt ta fight an' fight, bloodth'rsty. Ah mov'd ta de hill ta de wes' ah de gate ta get a'bett'r shots, an' de gobbers kept comin' an' comin'. T'was four nights ago."
At the ground of the southern gates themselves, it smolders with trodden, dying embers and piles of grey, sparkling ash; temporary, wooden structures had been erected to keep the onslaught at bay, and they are stained with layers of blood, drying in the evening sun, dripping into widening pools that collected everywhere, reflecting the sunlight and glittering like murky, sickening, eerie, red mud puddles--unidentifiable shapes lay in the tiny lakes. Men and some women are working diligently on removing the hundreds of corpses of the dead monsters from the area, hardly able to work in the odiferant stench, which is concentrated most densely at the gates. A small boy, who had climbed the stockade to watch unseen, hides behind a pole and peeks out in a quiet stupor at the sight of all the blackened bones and pieces of mangled flesh everywhere.
"De battle ebb'd an' flow'd like'a tide, de gobbers woul' stop com'n' fer aw'ile, den der'd be buggers, sudd'nly, an' dey came from de eas' an' west, but mos'ly from de west." Meade pauses and smiles very faintly, placing his mug down, an expression of pride crossing his face. "Ah got'ta qui'ta few a'em, ah on'y took a' short nap fer de whole thin', but ah still got ma' shots off. Gwaeron blest mah" He frowns, abruptly changing faces, and picks the mug back up. "Den der t'were de Black'ards, de evil buggers wit' axes an' magic . . . Dey kep' breakin' de lines, gettin' t'rough inta de town. Ah tried ta fin' a'militiaman or two ta buil' a blockade, bu' dey were busy sec'rin' de town, an' e'er'body t'was ta busy ta thin' ta pull'a wagon or somethin' to block 'em out. Fort'nat'ly, only two got far inside town." Rubbing the back of his neck, Meade winces with pain and lets out a small groan, finishing off his fourth mug of ale with a slurp and smack of the lips. He sighs, content with the ale and the warmth of the Boarshead, the indoor fires slowly drying out his sopping clothes.
The carnage had spread quite a ways outside of the gates, reaching to the shore of the lake and into the trees at the edge of the woods, splays of gore and blood decorating the trunks of trees and leaves of bushs, bodies of goblins that never made it close to Norwick--punctured with numerous arrows--hidden in the brush, were left to be picked clean by carrion scavangers in the night. Hours had passed since the last bugbear or goblin had been spotted rushing toward the city, doe and fawns were beginning to reemerge to find grass underneath the red snow to eat before finding shelter to sleep, surviving one more day; a bird collects all the shards of arrow and weapon hafts he can find and carry to build a nest for his mate and upcoming family; a bolt had managed to fly astray into the forest and split open the skull of a newborn, sleeping badger that was curled up beside his mother. Despite the movement of a few animals, a heavy quiet clenchs the Rawlinwoods, for now.
Holding his head up off the table with an arm, Meade squinted at nothing in particular, grimacing before finishing his tale. "Two days an' three nigh's went by, de gobbers an' buggers ne'er stop'd pourin' out de Rawlins, few on aur side fell . . . At on' poin', som'body got'ta brillian' idear ta stack hay a' de gate an' light't on fire." His chuckles are very hoarse and almost come out as wheezes, his face falling downward for a moment, then Meade lifts his head back up to take a long sip of his ale. "Kin'a work'd, ta, 'cause it confus'd de Hells out'ta next wave o' gobbers--den, dey threw bodies awn de fire. De smell!" He wrinkles his nose at the thought and takes a slug from his ale.
"Der w're many, many, many buggers, in de las' few waves, but dey all fell . . . Den, it stopp'd." Seeming more alert and awake, Meade opens his bleary eyes wide and stares upward at a nondescript joist in the ceiling, his mouth hanging agape as he collects his foggy thoughts. "T'was a voice, loud an' clear, comin' from s'mewh'r' south in de woods, screamin' fer . . . Fer 'Sucotrix'"--he struggles with the name, clearly trying to wrap his tongue around the syllables in his tired, inebriated state--"Some . . . Guardian o' de Nars? Den . . . De loudest damn roar ah kin 'member. All de buggers an' gobbers ran away! Hells, de whole woods went quiet . . . Ah almos' ran 'way, ta. Dunno what de Hells t'was, bu' I was scar'd an' tir'd, an' de gobbers seem'd ta retreat--scout'd 'bout a bit--so I came 'ere ta drink."
Meade drains the last of his current, seventh mug of ale with a flourish, and hands the drinking vessel to Misty, who smiles warmly at him before patting him on the shoulder. He pulls himself to his feet, falls back into his chair and grunts, then tries again, falls back into the chair with a thud and groans, then tries a third time and attains a successful, wobbly stand. Making his way very carefully to the door that leads upstairs, Meade doesn't say anything more, grimacing and lowering the now-stiff brim of his hat down over his eyes as he limps up to Innkeeper Brane for a room key. The commoners in the room that had been listening turn back to their own conversations, seeming both more worried and vaguely relieved to hear that the monsters had, at the very least, temporary stopped attacking.
The twilight sun winks over the western mountaintops, filtered through the dissipating stormclouds, casting long shadows over the Rawlinwoods, the militia and workers still continuing to clear the southern gates of the reminders of the ongoing war. Echoes of the memories of war drums ring through the minds of those who fought during those three days, as they recuperate and prepare for further bloodshed, loss, victory, tragedy, and, in general, life on Toril.
((This is just a repost of an event report/war story I put up, originally, in the Norwick forum and thought that it'd also be appropriate to stick up here, for posterity.))
