The demon in the cave
-
_No one knew who inhabited the cave near the cursed mine, but they all knew the best thing to do was to stay far away from it.
The ground around the entrance was burned, odd runes etched into the ground. Where there was grass, odd circular burn marks in straight lines prevented new grass from growing. They were occasionally found near deep footprints, as if they were made by a staff who's base was on fire.
The door was uncommon. Various dark metals woven together covered the thick planks of wood behind it. It was circular and surrounded by a frame with old and mysterious markings.
What appeared to be wind chimes, where spaced evenly on the burned ground hanging off inverted 'V's made from strange and exotic spears. As one got closer, it became clear that they served as a warning for trespassers not for the relaxing sounds they made while blown about by the wind.
They were made from the bleached bones of various creatures: bugbears, goblins, the skulls of giants, and various large animals.
That was enough to keep the dwellers from the towns that littered the base of the mountain away. It also helped create the rumors and legend of what lived in that cave, which only made the curious and fool hearty more nervous about finding out the truth.
But regardless of what one did to ensure their privacy or the stories that surrounded the inhabitant of the cave, it never stopped everyone.
Not the demonic sounds of the hound that filled the forest, or the drunken singing that went along with a heavy hammer working metal on an anvil, or the drunken screams of rage in strange guttural dwarven.
The inhabitant himself had spread a few of the stories, well hidden under a cloak in some of the taverns.
He missed the company of the living now and again, but seeked it only on his terms and did not tolerate trespassing.
But with time, some legends and stories fade and young warriors wanting to prove their worth would travel up the mountain to the cave to challenge what lived within.
And that is where the legend grew.
The young elf told of his journey up the mountain, with a group of his peers. He was going to kill its occupant with a spear through its black heart and hang the bones in a wind chime of his own. So up he went, full of elven wine and bravado, egged on by the other young warrior's taunts. It was his lucky day, as the cave door was open and some dwarven war songs could be heard. After muttering to his god, he challenged what lived within to come face him. A dwarf naked as when he was born strolled out, holding a full ale. Rings on all his fingers and braided and decorated beard where his only clothes. The dwarf continued to sing and laugh, holding his ale high. The fear of the elf now turned to anger, interpreting the drunken song and dance as a taunt. The elf's eyes narrowed as he took two strides and fired as true a strike with his spear as he has ever thrown. It cut the air with a sharp noise as it flew towards its black hearted target. But just as it was about to strike, the dead seemed to rise straight out of the ground to catch the spear with its chest. And down it fell, dead once more. The dwarf laughed heartily, as the look of confidence left the young elves eyes and was replaced by fear.
What was in that cave was unholy. And protected by the dead.
So the rumors grew and more young warriors made their way up the mountain. It became harder and harder to keep them away.
A group of young humans, children, made their way up during some sort of pagan festival. They wanted to see the witch. What they found was a dwarf with an ale, not very terrifying. Not until he motioned for them to turn around with a hand gesture. They all ran down the mountain when they saw the red eyes of the growling dog. All except one. The dwarf muttered, the demon sniffed at the young boy and lifted his leg, covering him in its urine. This seemed to finally shake the boy out of his shock, make his own piss join the hound's on his clothes, then run down the mountain after his friends.
It was harder to keep the curious away.
It was for their own protection, as those that did know who he was and visited him, were the type you did not want to meet without an army at your back._
[end part I]
-
_Foilir had never felt better about himself. He had come up with the perfect solution. His planning had been meticulous and the persons he selected to carry it out was trustworthy.
It wasn't ideal, that he knew, but the girl would live and maybe after enough time had passed, she could return to her family.
The plan? He kidnapped the girl and had her kept in a farmhouse on the other side of the mountain. She was heavily guarded, and her custodians had strict instructions to tend to her every whim and make sure she needed nothing or wanted for nothing. Other than her family. That last request could not be satisfied, not without time passing.
Kidnapping her had been fairly simple. The mere thought of how he carried it out brought a smile to his lips.
Poison. His expertise in less than lethal poisons made selecting the appropriate one easy. A simple poison that would cause no harm other than a "temporary" blackout. A sudden nap.
All he had to do to get the older elf to visit his stand was to send word to him that someone had visited his stand asking about his daughter.
That brought him the very next day.
Foilir, disguised as the old man, was very demonstrative as he spoke, showing how agitated and upset he was about the whole business. An "honest" merchant, he was! This was "bad for business"!
He was truly worries about the girl, that part was honest! So he started gifting and handing out weapons to the girl's father and his posse. If they were wearing gloves, he told them to take them off and asked them to hold the weapon, while he found them better ones.
Those who wouldn't cooperate, he pretended to be dizzy from his agitated talking and grabbed their arm for stability, a ring piercing leather and scratching skin, delivering toxins quickly and stealthily.
One by one they started to fall, dizzy and a bit confused. Complaining about the sun and asking for water. All but the girl.
He couldn't do it to her. She was too light, too young. He didn't want her harmed, so he just looked right at her as she got more frightened.
He feigned fear as well, muttering in gutteral dwarven, approaching her. They were the last two standing. She never saw the undead approach her from behind and grab her from behind.
Foilir struggled with the undead, freeing the girl and telling her to run and get help as more undead rose from around the cart._
"RUN LASS! GITS HELP!"
_The undead allowed himself to me moved by Foilir in a mummer's choreography, being moved about like a marionette.
The girl ran, just as Foilir commanded, right towards his employees camped down the road waiting to take her to her new, safe haven.
Once she was out of sight, he ordered the undead to hit him over the head with his staff. It did so faithfully, leaving a nice bump and drawing the slightest amount of blood.
He muttered once again, ordering the undead to overturn the cart and carry as much as they could, while wandering away.
Then he just allowed himself to fall backwards on the ground, where he stared at the sky until the poison wore off and he was roused by her father, who slapped him a few times until he blinked and "came to".
He sat outside his cave, pondering how it had all gone according to plan, drinking and signing, wondering if the inner bard in him had been awakened.
For what is a thief and one who hid in the shadows, but a bard. Assuming new names and lives, with details and facts taken from all those he had encountered while wandering through mountains, towns, cities and tribes.
He had found a solution that made him feel at peace and he sang and frank heartily with the undead that he summoned to celebrate with him._
"March we happy, off we go
Heel for heel and toe for toe,
Swinging axe to and fro,
All for Mairi's wedding…"_Deep into the night he sang and drank and danced. His mind happy at escaping the dark deed and end that seemed inevitable.
How many days ago was it? A fortnight? If they had not found her by now, she was safe.
So he sang stronger, louder… then stopped.
The sight of one of his hires stumbling up the mountain, holding a wound with a blade still sticking out of it stopping him mid word and freezing his soul._
-
_It was a fortnight or so later, as he manned his stand that trouble headed his way.
At first it was just a few shapes and horses in the distance. He hoped that it was the elf and his daughter. He had not felt right without his storytelling, which acted as a confessional for his tortured soul.
He stopped talking to his Gods long ago, as he thought a prayer now would just invite their wrath instead of mercy.
His hopeful smile, faded as he saw the shapes of armor adorning figures that were too large for elves and in a bit too much of a hurry. As they approached, he adopted his familiar hunch and harmless expression of old age, but his grip on his cursed staff grew tighter.
Two rode their horse until they were behind him, and dismounted. The others stayed in sight, all but their leader getting off their horses, panting gratefully at the break from the hard riding._
"Hello, master dwarf! We are looking for a friend and are having trouble finding his homestead. Are you familiar with these parts and its residents?"
The falsetto of kindness in his voice was enough to tell Foilir nothing good would come from providing them the information that they wanted. As the elf on horseback spoke, some of his muscle began to look over his goods, examining his spoils of war and hand made goods.
"Watch yeh hands! Things be in a certain order aye?! Nae un buys from un merchant who have un cart with weapons arranged like dey been shite out of an anvil!!!!"
_With exaggerated difficulty and looking very put off, he limped purposefully toward the cart, batting at a half orc turning over one of his hand made axes.
The halfer grunted in protest at this and started to move towards the dwarf until the elf on horseback spoke._
"Settle down Krag, we aren't looking for trouble, just information."
_Foilir's eyebrow raised as he misheard the halfer's name and was reminding of a name from the past, whom he fondly had nicknamed "General Incompetence".
He turned away from them all, focusing on his goods, purposely re-arranging them and doing his best to start a fight. As he focused on ordering the weapons by material and price, he answered the elf, mixing in some curses in dwarven for good measure._
"Aye, me knows these parts! [D]Tree humper![/D] Everyun knows teh buy frumma me if dey wants a quality blade! Dey come frumma all towns to visit me cart. The tallies, the halfers, wine sippers.. They comes frumma all around deh mountain, aye! [D]Dress wearing, pointed ear sister kisser![/D]"
The elf chuckled at the fuss. If he understood dwarven, it wasn't clear to Foilir. He rarely sweat, but here he was, outnumbered in light armor without his trusted axe.
"If'n yeh want teh buy somethin it may make me remember better. Nuthin makes me mind werk better than the sound of gold coins fightin inside of a gold purse!"
_The elf laughed again, and snapped his fingers. One of the posse moved quickly to a saddle bag and brought him a bag of gold. The elf took it and jiggled it in his hand, weighing it and causing the coins to make the sound of golden rain that made every dwarf smile. He tossed it on the ground between himself and the dwarf.
At the sound of the coins hitting the ground, Foilir turned his head, his ear twitching at the glorious, shiver inducing amount. After all these years, the sound of gold still elicited that natural and wonderful feeling.
Without turning he first picked up an axe, weighed it in his hands, turned to look at the elf, then put it down. Then dropped it back on the pile. He reached and pulled out a serrated long sword by the hilt. As he turned towards the elf, the orc growled at him, eliciting a glare through a forced smile from the dwarf.
He quickly flicked the blade in the air, grabbing it by the blade and approaching the elf slowly offering him the hilt._
"Nae mithril, but it be a special blend me can nae describe. There be poison as part of dis blade, the jagged side of the blade ensure dat yeh cut the vital bits and get them infected. If yeh nae kill yeh foe on deh first cut, he wills die on his own, in his own home, ane nae un can blame yeh fer it."
What followed was silence as the elf held the sword and swung it a few times. He took it in his gloved hands and carefully turned it over, looking at the mark on the hilt. An evil smile formed on his lips before he spoke.
"This mark. Do you know the dwarf that made this blade? If so, maybe we can hire him for a job that fits him. That is, if the stories about him are true.."
_Foilir stroked his beard, seemingly deep in thought as he looked the elf in the face, committing every detail to memory. He turned and looked at the posse counting: Un, two, dree, fours, shite, six..
He leaned on his staff and started to nod repeatedly._
"Aye, fumma time to time, the maker of dat blade comes teh me teh sells his goods. Nae un is sure where he live, he always comes tah me."
_He could feel the urge to kill rising. The demon he was bound too wanted blood, souls and it could sense the fight so close.
But Foilir controlled it, smiling feebly, doing everything to make himself look old, small and harmless.
The elf spoke._
"Someone owes us a great deal of money. It is too late to be repaid. Now, its time to make a point. If we don't, others that owe us will start thinking its acceptable to leave debts unpaid…"
_The elf went on, and Foilir nodded to show he understood everything he was saying. Until the elf described his target, the girl's father. Now he understood the regular visits and the large purchases of weapons and armor.
Then the color drained from his face and his strength failed him for a moment as he heard what the elf wanted as compensation._
"…he has a daughter and I want her killed. Whether she is never found or is of no importance to me. He will rethink....."
_The elf went on but Foilir did not hear a word. He was no longer acting old and feeble, he truly felt it. Was this the demon toying with his soul again? Was it a curse?
He could not kill the girl, but if he didn't, she would die anyway.
Without realizing it, he spoke._
"Aye, he will do it. Nae ask anymore. The girl wills never be seen by her father agains."
_As the elf smiled, laughed and slapped his leg at the quick agreement, Foilir seemed to become as unfeeling as the undead he could raise and converse with.
His hearing, seemed dulled and his eyes unfocused. The very thought of what he had agreed to disgusted him.
He couldn't move from the spot where he was rooted, and weakly raised a hand and smiled as the elf commanded his posse to mount their horses and be off.
Foilir watched them disappear in the distance. Once they were out of sight, his remaining strength was gone, and he fell flat on his back on some of coins scattered on the road.
He simply stared at the clouds, grey and menacing coming in. It started to rain, each drop hitting his staff made a sizzling sound.
He muttered a few words in gutteral dwarven and his strength seemed to come back.
He got to his feet, and packed up his cart as quickly as possible.
He muttered to himself as he briskly led the cart back up to the cave._
"[D] I will nae kill that girl. I will nae do it![/D]"
All that was left at the crossroads was a bag of coins, some spilled over the road as random as the falling raindrops. Coins that Foilir would never touch, the price was too high.
-
_His favorite and most regular disguise was that of the old dwarf trading his wares. It was somewhat easy to look old and weary these days. All it took was to take off the heavy armor and done his old leather and chain mail under a worn and battered black cloak.
He could be seen leading an oxen drawn cart full to the brim with raw materials that he either mined himself or was looking to trade to those in the villages dotting the base of the mountain.
On occasion, he would stop at the busiest crossroad and set up a small stand at the open end of the cart. Here he would sell or trade some of the weapons he crafted himself or those his alter ego took from whatever he had killed. The two categories of goods we easy to identify as he segregated them on each side of the cart, with armor, shields, boots, gloves and cloaks in the middle.
The crafted goods all had the Dolvak seal on the hilt, the same one he had started to mark all his goods so many years ago in the forges of Norwick.
The war goods were marked with blood and occasionally still had the hand of the half orc or bugbear that used to wield it still attached.
In his experience, it was best to appear harmless and eccentric. People seemed to be more amused by the stories or the rambling old dwarf puffing away at a pipe. At any moment he could fall due to sheer amount of ale he seemed to consume or by the shaking of the hand that held the odd old staff that seemed to be the only thing not trembling and trying to succumb to years of fighting gravity. But he never did.
It was here that he interacted with the village folk, especially the young ones. They never tired of the tales he told. Whether they were true or not, it was hard to say. Not even Foilir was sure at this point.
He had mixed fact with fiction over the years to help cope with the tortuous memories. Had he really bonded his soul to a demon? Had he killed his own son? How he really killed at least one of everything that walked on this earth?
Maybe he altered his memories so that with time they would become truths, at least to him, and make his existence a bit more bearable. Being alone with these endless memories of death was torture, but turning them into stories and speaking them out loud made them much more bearable.
No amount of ore or coal he had dragged out of the woods had ever seemed as heavy as the thoughts that filled his mind.
The children were his salvation. They would come by his stand at the crossroads and, if business was slow, he would regale them with a tale of the wandering dwarf with no home, no throne, and no clan nearby to live with. The tales of a dwarf and his dog. The fact it was a demon hound was an obvious omission. As were a few more details about the battles and its characters, ensuring that the just, not the good or self righteous, won.
But he always imparted the dwarven truths that he believed in each story:
"There is a reason half orc and half assed start with the same word. In fact, you can use the terms half orced and half assed interchangeably"
"Never wear a uniform if you don't believe in the leaders. Don't be afraid of coloring your own armor and taking pride in free thought."
"I never met a book thumper that wasn't more corrupt that those he was judging."
"Never trust a halfling more than you can throw one. And I can throw one over a 50 foot wall."It was here that he met the young female elf. She always came with her father, who was constantly perusing his weapons and armor. He was always concerned about protecting himself and his family and was constantly purchasing weapons and armor for the hires that protected his hamlet in the village.
While he selected the items he wanted to purchase, his daughter would pester the old, frail looking dwarf for more stories. "Do you know any stories about elven princesses?" "Surely, your hero had an elf friend?" "What was the dog's name?"
But her questions always stopped once the story started and she hung on his every word.
The truth was that this was her only interaction outside of her father's home. He kept her guarded all the time and rarely was she allowed to leave the grounds.
Every now and again, the father would interrupt the story to finalize the purchase and the story was interrupted. It was not a problem, as the girl would remember exactly where it ended and so did he, picking it up at the exact spot without a moment's hesitation.
The innocence of youth and the guilty memories of age stood in stark contrast and make Foilir smile. He grew fond of the girl and looked forward to her visits. Telling the tales made him feel alive and less burdened. He even allowed a full smile to form on his face a few times.
The canines and gold around a shattered tooth showing.
He gifted the girl a ring, a trinket really, Vergadain be damned! If she whispered a few words to it, it would glow a soft warming light. They hid this from her father, who didn't mind the stories from the aged merchant, but didn't want his daughter corrupted by the world.
He told her that the ring kept away the dark dwarf who was full of terror. He was afraid of the light and would run if she muttered the words. At least this is what he told her and she believed him.
Her elven father always had a disdainful eye and was short with his words when dealing with him, but in his disguise he had no choice but to tolerate it. A smile and a courteous bow. The customer was always right. What a keen eye this elf had for dwarven made weapons and their quality. The offer made was more than fair.
Nothing would make the dwarf happier than to slap the elf back into his place. But not in front of his daughter. She kept the balance.
He would always smile as they left his stand, watching them disappear down the road. After this last visit, the girl turned to smile and wave at him and he returned it. But as she turned away, his eyes narrowed as he stared at her father's back.
Something was bothering him. He couldn't help but shiver as an ominous feeling that trouble was heading his way travelled up his spine.
He muttered a few words in gutteral dwarven and his staff glowed red, its energy coursing up his arm and giving him a warm feeling of strength.
The clouds of a fast moving storm started to darken the sky and the first drops of rain hitting the metal shields displayed on his cart woke him from his thoughts. Nature is a terrible bard, its thunder never on time with the lightning and the sound of rain was a terrible song.
He quickly packed up his cart and headed to the cave. His mind elsewhere, he began muttering to himself. His words causing the dead nearby to dig themselves out of the ground. The murdered, the shallow buried orcs, those killed by disease and left by the road, joined him in his trek back up the mountain.
As they reached the cave, he ordered them to remove their armor, rings or any other things they were wearing. Some he motioned to the boiling kettle, which they entered without a sound. Their fate to become more macabre wind chimes decorating the mountain top. Others he dispatched with a tap of his staff.
He removed the femur of an orc and tossed it to the demon hound watching him as he grabbed an ale and walked back to the entrance of the cave.
Something was wrong, but he didn't know what it was. He sensed evil coming._