Private And Midvinter Shall Answer

[Thurion Heavenshield]

Dwarrowdelf, Midvinter
Tags: Ragnar Ironhope ​

With the reins of his steed secured in one hand, he knelt down and grabbed a fistful of freshly fallen snow with the other. The white powder crunched and deformed against the leather-bound palm of his gauntlet until he was left with nothing. A snort and shrug from Morningstar bid him rise and turn towards the endless stream of soldiers and warriors marching past, taking a moment to look to the horizon; sprawling forests, vast mountains, and the great ocean beyond. There dwelt his city of Heavenheim, a mere twinkle in the far distance. Home. He needed to see it, one last time.

He led Morningstar down the slope towards the base of the mountain where thousands of steeds had already been stabled for the final trek on foot, removing the white stallion's bridle for comfort. "You be safe now," he said whilst pressing his forehead to the noble beast's, embracing his old friend as if it were the last chance he'd get. "If I should not return, you know the way home. You will be looked after 'til the end of your days, lord among horses." Morningstar neighed as he was left behind, watching his rider disappear into the mountain along with the rest of them.

During the final march towards Dwarrowdelf, the Duergar capital and last reminder of their once glorious Under-Realm, revealed the mighty hold under eternal siege. Cannons roared, solid stone walls were battered, and distant war chants of the cruellest tongue sounded in the deep. The reinforcing armies of the surface dwellers entered Dwarrowdelf from the southern gate under the constant scrutiny of a highly superstitious people, some of whom rejoiced whilst others hurled insults. Clerics of the One Divine held frantic masses on street corners, proclaiming that true believers ought to shun these heathen trespassers, for are the Duergar not His chosen? Are they not the designated masters of this world?

The behind-closed-doors war between church and state had reached a fever pitch since it was declared by royal decree that they could not win without intervention from the Above, and since the treaty had been signed High King Thurion had sent several hosts in defense of their newfound ally, some of whom were still engaged with the enemy. Reports suggest a huge build-up of Uruk since their last few assaults had been mere probing strikes, and so the Lion marched himself to join this one, desperate push to break the siege once and for all, and buy Dwarrowdelf some time to rebuild and rearm.

Arrowfire and siege weapons harassed them constantly, forcing defenders to dart between buildings as they made their way towards the frontline. The northernmost districts had been evacuated many months ago when the fighting first started, and much had been reduced to impassable rubble, delaying their advance further. Thurion arrived ahead of his army, navigating through the beleaguered streets with the help of a guide. When he finally reached the makeshift shelters for the countless wounded, those who were able rose or sat up in their cots and stretchers, hailing their long-awaited High King. Men, elves, dwarves, and bear-folk lay side by side, fellow soldiers treating each other's wounds. In the much and blood of war, they were all brothers.

"Be assured, brave heroes of Midvinter," said the Lion in tears, "your noble sacrifice will not have been in vain. We will finish what you started, and we will bring each and every one of you home. Alive or fallen, we will all go home together!" Whilst the honoured wounded cheered, Thurion turned to an officer and pulled him aside.

"Take me where the fighting is thickest."

The Lion would not sit idly by.

 

[Ragnar Ironhope]

Ragnar was facing an Uruk in single combat. The beast was red skinned, bulging grotesque muscles, huge two metre's tall a snarling bare chested warrior wielding a great sword, with only a helm for protection such as it was. An affectation to proudly wear the mark of his clan the traditional white hand. It's clothing or lack thereof meant berserker. A dangerous foe.

Ragnar had lost track of how long he'd been fighting, he hadn't eaten, hadn't slept, hadn't rested. Hardly the ideal state to being fighting an Urdr berserker. The waves of Uruks had been relentless. Normally the Urdr were happy to waste their lesser brethren as wall fodder while they waited for weaknesses in the line to exploit and send in their own troops. Lately though they'd been pressing hard, spending their own blood in a constant river rapid of blood.

The berserker swung his great two handed sword in a wide sweep. There was no where left in the crush of bodies for Ragner to manoeuvre too. Ragnar harnessed the Force to give him just a touch of extra strength.

Ragnar caught the berserkers greatsword on the blade of his axe, he grunted with the force of the blow, the two warriors strained against each other each trying to overpower the other. Ragnar harnessed the Force to him with a prayer to Helm god of war, his patron to not let his strength fail him now. Not for himself. Ragnar knew his destiny was to fall in battle. It would be a battle of his choosing, falling in defence of a peoples home was a worthy death. If only he could be assured he would not fall in vain and the people he fought for would be saved.

Ragnar decided this contest was not going to be worn by mere brutal strength. He sent a flash of the Force at the Urdr's eyes in a quick burst of Force Blinding. The Urdr recoiled in pain started swinging more wildly. Fortunately one of his brothers to his left fell allowing Ragnar to duck into a roll underneath the great sweeping arcs of the great sword. Ragnar came up on one knee channelling the Force through the sacred runes on the axe blade Ragnar swung his axe into the Urdr's ribs. The Axe entered and crushed with the combined might of a Force push and Ragnar's raw strength.

The berserker flew back into his brethren at the Force of the blow. The battlefield around them paused.

"Reform the line!" Ragnar shouted out to the wild melee of individual fights the battle had become.

Beside him his squad formed up around him the Beorni Ulric, the Aelvar Lauriel and the Deurgar Thrarim.

"They seem tired… maybe we should offer them a chance to surrender before we beat them like one of their war drums" Ragnar grinned and chuckled with cheer he did not quite feel.

Lauriel merely raised an eyebrow somewhere between amusement and bemusement it was difficult to say.

There was exhausted grumbled of agreement from Ulric.

Thrarim spat on the ground. "Foul fiends such as this do not deserve the chance to surrender"

Ragnar merely grunted. Thrarims hatred of the things was only natural, but he knew from personal experience how dark a path hatred could lead. He hoped that one day Thrarim could accept the fact that while they were evil and needed to be defeated, hating the Uruk's at best wasted ones strength at worst wasted ones soul.

Ragnar didn't have time for his friends inner turmoil however. The pause wouldn't last long. Ragnar just hoped reinforcements would come soon. He needed food, he needed rest. The Uruk's reformed their own line. Here they came again.

Thurion Heavenshield

 

[Thurion Heavenshield]

The roar of battle grew deafening as he climbed the winding stairs of the round tower just as a chunk of catapulted rock tore off its spire, sending debris tumbling down on the ruined structures below. Thurion used the dilapidated roof to his advantage, resorting to a well-aimed Force Jump to burst through its remains. While airborne, he hovered a moment through the use of his jump pack, the Wings of Glory, to get the lay of the land. From his vantage point, the red lenses of his winged helmet lit up with hostile silhouettes as far as his sensors could detect; a veritable sea of Uruk and their crude war machines. Catapults hammered the walls while slow-moving battering rams and siege towers crawled towards the city. Ladders docked against the battlements, sending unceasing waves of orcs and goblins over the top.

It became immediately clear where the fighting was thickest. A stretch of wall had been overrun, allowing more and more to scale the wall unassailed. From his quick counting, only a handful of brave souls still held their ground. They had stood alone long enough. No more.

The Wings of Glory adjusted their flight path and with a burst of energy sent the Lion charging into the next wave, the Celestial Aegis shattering bone and blunting their advance. He landed on his feet in front the quartet of heroes in all his splendour, his ornate panoply revealing his identity without the need for words, for it was emblazoned with lion iconography and from his shoulders there hung a pelt of Midvinter's fiercest predator.

The High King nodded to the four kindreds, each a representative of their people. He looked to Ragnar Ironhope and reached out, clutching the warrior's forearm in greeting. "Take heart, Sons and Daughters of Midvinter," his voice boomed over the noise of battle from behind the visor of his helmet. "You do not stand alone!"

And with that, Thurion turned and pulled the sword Anarion from its scabbard, its blade gleaming like gold. The next wave, stumbling their way over the broken corpses of their kin, was upon them. Anarion was unleashed, cleaving through flesh and armour alike whilst his shield bashed aside any who would think to land a blow, or served to blocked incoming projectiles.

"Forwards! Send their foul ilk scurrying back from whence they came!"

 

[Ragnar Ironhope]

Ragnar faced the horde of Uruks calmly. If this was to be his fall so be it. It was a better death than he had deserved for much of his life. To die in defence of a people instead of an active participant in it's slaughter or oppression. Yes Ragnar could do worse than to die here surrounded by friends, comrades in arms who shared in his cause, a true cause of honour and righteousness. There would be many things he would miss. He would miss singing by a roaring fire, he would miss the laughter of fine folk at rest and at play and he would miss never having seen the galaxy with something other than war on his mind. Finally he would regret that if he should fall it would likely mean the fall of the city should soon follow. He would regret the pain and suffering he would have been unable to prevent while he was called to the hall of the gods. Should they deem him worthy of that honour.

Regardless Ragnar prepared himself for the final charge, a wry grin spreading across his face. This was what he loved, a fine battle for the right reasons. Ragnar decided for the next charge he would use his blades for the small manoeuvrability and compression of bodies that was sure to follow. He put away his axe and brought his blades, serrated short swords to bare.

Just when all hope seemed lost a charging figure like the Choosers of the Slain themselves descended from on high, breaking the Uruk's charge. The King had arrived. Ragnar raised his blade in his right hand and roared in an act of violent cheer. Ulric was the first to join in his Beorni throttled roar shaking the very ground, then Lauriel her voice so suited to singing the soft songs of her people screaming like a wailing banshee, followed by Thrarim the steady rhythm of his peoples marching songs and war drums. They sounded as one all four of the free peoples of Midvinter and charged to fight along side the king.

There was a long enough break in the fighting for the King to grasp Ragnar's forearm in the symbol of warriors greeting each other throughout the ages.

"Hail! Well met King Heavenshield!" Ragnar greeted joyfully a relieved and satisfied smile on his face.

There wasn't any time for anymore than a brief greeting in the moments of blood and chaos surrounding them. It was enough. They could buy each other mead and toast to each other once the battle was won. For now there was work to be done. Ragnar charged in swinging, ducking, diving, thrusting, cutting, slicing left and right. The Uruks roared there defiance, Ragnar roared back.

The press of bodies reeked of their foul stench. Ragnar found himself so trapped by the swell of bodies, he could not move his arms. That did not mean however he could not fight. He headbutted a snarling slavering beast of an Uruk in the face, then launched himself at his ear, biting it and wrenching it from side to side while the Uruk screamed in pain, it recoiled in shock trying to get away. Ragnar could move his arms again. He channelled the Force through his blades, they lit up like they were being fuelled with the fires of the earth, launching a Force Blast into their ranks. The Force Blast was writhing in flames. One Uruk ran, then two, then it was a route.

"Drive them to the depths!" Ragnar yelled.

"Hold!" Lauriel insisted instead stepping in front of him.

Ragnar growled in rage. Lauriel raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"We'll overextend our lines and we're not prepared to engage their camps defences for a coordinated attack." Lauriel pointed out.

Ragnar growled, spat out a bit of Uruk flesh, he turned stormed back to the lines gathering about the walls. He looked for the King. Finding him he strolled over.

"We were glad to see your banner King Heavenshield" Ragnar greeted, putting away his blades, and inclined his head in a respectful gesture.

Thurion Heavenshield

 

[Thurion Heavenshield]

It did not take long for the Uruk to tuck tail and run, abandoning the last in a long line of assaults as the battle turned in the defenders' favour. Those that did not scurry back down their siege ladders were forced to jump from the high walls, and those that did not were savagely butchered by the rallied defenders. Duergar warriors, bloodied and battered, held their weapons aloft and proudly unleashed the battle cries of their ancestors, which were then echoed throughout the rest of Dwarrowdelf as news spread of their victory.

Thurion was stood wiping black bile from the Sunlight Blade when Ragnar Ironhope sought him out, sheathing it just as the berserker paid him homage. In return, the seals about the Lion's helmet released their air-tight grip as he proceeded to removed it, holding it under one arm. A long mane of ever-duller gold fell about his face, and their eyes met.

"You are Ironhope," he said and nodded approvingly. "Ragnar. I remember the day I marshalled the First Company in the courtyard of Heavenheim and sent you to your doom. I remember every last one of you. Four more such companies followed in the months and years since. To find even one of the First in the flesh after all this time, is nothing short of a miracle."

He clasped Ragnar's shoulder, his voice steeped in reverence. "You held the line, all this time. 'Tis I who ought offer obeisance to one such as thee."

Then sounded the clarion call of several Valkyri horns, as the long-awaited reinforcement army caught up with their liege, filtering through the war-torn streets in orderly lines stretching as far as the naked eye could see. Thurion stood upon the ramparts alongside Ragnar and his comrades, and turned towards the gathered host of the Four Kindreds; the Free Peoples of Midvinter. Whatever misgivings the entitled and religious zealot alike might have had for these Surfacers, the rank-and-file troops facing death every waking moment all shared a sigh of innermost relief.

The Above had come to the defense of the Below.

"Rise up, Sons and Daughters of Midvinter," the Lion's voice bellowed from atop the dwarf-built wall, the bodies of the slain still strewn about him, his words echoing those of his long-departed father. "Not since the dark days of the Great War, when we threw back and banished demonkind from our realm, have we seen such a mustering of heroes, drawn from the four corners of the world! Our foes know not what hell awaits them; they know not the power invoked in those that fight to defend that which they love, rather than to destroy that which they hate!"

The Lion saw then the Grand Cleric himself make an appearance, a procession of fanatical sycophants carrying him aloft on a vast golden throne. No doubt taking political advantage of the Archon's ill health to make a statement to the city by appearing in person as representative of an oppressive Church. Still, the High King did not acknowledge the man, but continued uninterrupted.

"Today marks the beginning of the end of this Secret War, waged for untold generations 'neath our very feet! Let the skalds cry aloud in the generations to follow how, on this day, the Above came to the defense of the Below! Let our written records detail for posterity how we fought this day, and that we chose to face the hordes of the Abyss in the unbreakable spirit of brotherhood! United We Stand — Divided We Fall!"

Those words became a battle cry, echoed by Man, Elf, Dwarf, and Bear-folk alike in a choir so deafening it shook the very foundations of the earth. His forces riled up, Thurion again turned to Ragnar and tapped him on the arm.

"Come, my friend! I would be honoured to have you join my war council. We are striking out against our enemy in force, and your knowledge and experience will be most invaluable."

 

[Ragnar Ironhope]

Ragnar shrugged.

"Many fell, many will. Myself amongst them someday" Ragnar grinned "Aye, but not today."

Despite the victory Ragnar saw the signs of weariness in the defenders. Soldiers were drooping exhausted, some had even collapsed completely resting their backs on whatever protrusion, rumble or wall they could find. The truly exhausted, the soul warey from battle fatigue were using bodies to rest their backs against, too far gone to care about normal taboos. Bodies were just another feature of the landscape in this endless battle of waste.

It was even different from the normal battle fatigue Ragnar was used to seeing in troops on long campaign. In those campaigns inevitably soldiers would start identifying a part of themselves in the enemy. Recognising that though they represented the worst of sentients they also represented a part of themselves. Warriors who fight on different sides. Most of them in all probability good men in peace time. Usually farmers, or labourers tending to the soil or building for their communities.

That could create problems for a commander if they weren't careful. It was hard to strike down a man who reminded you of yourself or worse of home.

Here there were no such considerations. No false sympathy for the Uruks, there way of life or of their hidden morality. There were no doubts attempts in the beginning. Some rationalisation. A part that wanted to believe they weren't so different. That perhaps peace was possible. However distantly.

No. Such false hope had long died. There was instead a different danger, of becoming ones enemy through pure savagery, utter hatred. After witness the Uruks perform such foul acts to make even the staunchest warriors blood run cold, it was easy to justify doing your best to do your worst to them in response. In doing so a warrior lost sight of what he was fighting for. He became the very enemy he was fighting. He forgot that there was a life of peace to return to after the fight.

Ragnar did what he could for them. Roused their hearts as best he might. Unfortunately however he was no general, no tactition to give them hope of a dashing victory against all odds. A sometime champion yes, but he had no grand or master strategies up his sleeve.

Hearing the King give his rousing speech however Ragnar felt hope in his breast once again. Not for himself, his fate had been sealed in one battle or another long ago. For the warriors who stood beside him. A good general knew that rousing morale was a crucial part of winning any victory. Perhaps the King knew enough of what he was doing to see them through.

"I'll do what I can King Heavenshield" Ragnar nodded turning back to his squad. "Ulric, Lauriel, Thrarim good work today."

Ragnar addressed the Beorni, Aelvar and Deurgar in turn.

"Dismissed, get some rest, but stay close." Ragnar instructed.

Ulric yawned and went somewhere to nap until it was time to fight again. Thrarim nodded and merely tended to his kit. Lauriel started tending to the wounded.

Ragnar began to follow the King to his war council.

Thurion Heavenshield

 

[Thurion Heavenshield]

Within the Glittering Hall, throne room of the royal palace, prominent Duergar nobles, generals, and commanders crowd around an enormous slab of stone. A map of what was once the splendorous Under-Realm is carved into its flat surface, with all its past holds and vast tunnel system, and at its centre a red jewel is embedded in the stone, representing the capital of Dwarrowdelf. A dozen or more figurines depicting the Uruk horde surrounds the red jewel, whilst those bearing the likenesses of the Four Kindreds crowd the city itself.

The Lion King and his entourage of Surface commanders threw the doors open and confidently strode on through, much to the chagrin of those that had prosecuted this war until now. None looked less pleased than the Grand Cleric, glaring at the outsiders whilst stroking his braided moustaches with meaty fingers, each wearing a more expensive ring than the last. Clearly, being the head of this religion came with no small set of perks.

"An impressive display out there, Your Grace," he spoke from atop his golden throne carried by four stout shieldbearers. "The Almighty surely shall bring us victory this day, in His blessed name." Thurion wordlessly dropped his helmet on the stone table, splattered with the black blood of his foes massacred atop the high walls. He looked to Ragnar Ironhope at his side whilst his commanders figuratively elbowed their way to huddle around the table, overtaking the locals with sheer numbers.

"Should we see victory on the field this day, Holy Father, it will be owed to the dead and dying. I see the rich and powerful among you, but I brought warriors. Warriors like Ragnar here, who's fought and bled on your walls for months on end. When the enemy is at long last driven from this city, I expect you to pay homage to the likes of this man."

The Grand Cleric's face turned several shades redder the longer he spoke, white-knuckling his armrests, when another set of doors rumbled open. There staggered the afflicted Archon towards the throne, supported by his only son and heir Beren Blackmane whilst leaning heavily on a cane. His face was deathly pale with dark rings beneath his tired eyes, yet he had managed to appear in his finest regalia for the occasion, crown and all.

Some of the Duergar were quicker to kneel than others, while the Grand Cleric and his sycophants offered the slightest tilt of their heads. They were stunned to see the Lion among the first to kneel, soon followed by his fellow Surfacers. This was his hall; his realm. The Archon groaned loudly as he threw himself on the throne, keeping his son at his side to hold his hand.

"This war council... is in session," he forced out of weak lungs and stabbed his cane against the floor.

 

[Ragnar Ironhope]

Ragnar looked around the Glittering Hall with undisguised interest, despite all his time spent underground defending them, he had yet to be invited into such a setting with as much lustre let alone pomp and circumstance. It amused the hell out of Ragnar, when just days before the few families who had been willing to shelter him during the few times he wasn't needed at the walls, had been regarded with suspicion for having done so. For having sheltered outsiders non Deurgar.

Even when their usefulness at the walls had been established there had been a sense of haughty superior mentality, as if yes they had been good enough to fight, kill and die for them, but they were still to be considered, other if not lesser. It tickled Ragnar pink to find the King was establishing that he at least wouldn't be treated with such contempt.

The Grand Cleric, looked like he swallowed one of his gaudy rings and was choking on it. Ragnar had to stop himself from laughing uproariously at his expression.Still he did nothing to hide the grin on his face.

If anything Ragnar's grin only got wider as the King singled him out for praise. It was a new experience for Ragnar, to be praised for doing something good and right, not just blood and destruction. Time was Ragnar would have dismissed such praise, but coming from a warrior king who knew the cost of battle, it meant a good deal more than some officer sop, just pinning a metal on his chest for the hollow purposes of morale and propaganda.

"I was just doing my duty my lords as have many Deurgar, Beorni and Aelvar"

Ragnar even dared to give the Grand Cleric a little cheeky wink. Which of course just prompted a further contortion of his face as he tried to settle on a shade of colour to settle on. Ragnar coughed to hide a chuckle and took a drink of whatever was in front of him. It was good mead. The people down below were living on rations, but apparently here at the top they still had the best of everything.

Ragnar follow his kings lead to kneel before the Archons entrance. Despite his needling of the Grand Cleric, Ragnar had no problem showing respect, he was a guest here as such he would behave with guest right.

As the Archon called the war council to session. Ragnar looked around wondering if food would be served to go with the mead. He'd been fighting all day and was a little peckish. Reluctantly he decided asking was a step too far, he sighed to himself, he'd just have to wait till the meeting was done.

Thurion Heavenshield