The Birth of a Berserker. Part 1

This is the first portion of a story that I started to right for Achaea.com, before my world was upended and I began to swirl in circles. It tells the story of the beginning of a Clan of Dwarves that were created by the Achaean God, Phaestus.

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The air whistles in protest as the large metal head of the axe parts it aside and continues forward until smashing into the tree trunk with a shower of splintered bark. A simple grunt and the blade is yanked back out of the tree and the process begins again. The tree puts up a valiant fight, striving to stay upright but ultimately falling to the blows of the axe and joining its brethren strewn upon the ground. A quick shuffle of feet, another grunt, and the downed tree is shoved into position and the axe begins to separate the tree into individual logs. The forest backdrop has faded into silence, no sounds exist except for intermittent grunts and some growled expletives when a blow does not fall precisely as intended.

So intently is the work proceeding, that the heavy footfalls of the dwarf foreman are completely unnoticed until his gruff voice breaks into my consciousness. "Ho, Gladur, we only need a certain number of logs this month." The foreman stops at the edge of the clearing that I have created and surveys the scene of destruction spreading out from my axe. "Why are you punishing the trees this time?" He asks while a look of puzzlement comes across his features. "You know that the SoulForger only condones using what is required, no need to kill trees if we will not use them before they spoil."

His comments only add to the exertion in my strikes, heavily muscled arms straining in an attempt to cut right through the tree in a single blow. "Grrghph" is my only response, straining its way through gritted teeth. Even though the foreman is two centuries older than me, he seems to be completely confused and at a loss of what to do. "Gladur, please stop" he mutters, "We don't need the wood, we have everything we need." A final growl escapes me as I smash through the tree trunk and reach the end of the logs. Turning quickly to face the foreman, I give him a look that can only be considered a glower. "What would ye have me do, Biven?" My question is sarcastic as I quickly give him possibilities. "Should I carve a statue? With these massive hands that can't fit around a chisel without breaking them? Perhaps I can paint, or carve gemstones?" The color fades from his face as he considers the results when I last attempted the delicate arts that the Clan enjoys. "How about I go mining again? I am sure Brumbletock would enjoy another cave-in". I did not mean to continue, but suddenly the words just keep coming and I can't stop "What if I tried my hand at pottery, or I could try to put together another mural. I am sure we can keep building walls for me to break apart. Want me to go back around the animals and try to milk a goat or cow? Last time I tried, they quit producing for over two cycles."

My words suddenly choke off and I just stand there, staring at Biven from across the clearing while my chest heaves and my eyes bore into him. Even though we are over a hundred paces away, I still look down at him. His mouth opens and closes a few times as he tries to muster a response. Rage fills me at the delay and I snarl "What is my purpose, Biven. Why am I here?" He looks to the side, swallowing rapidly as I cross the clearing in just a few strides and stand glaring down at him and demanding answers "I am too tall to properly fit in the mines, and even when we widened out the tunnels every time I struck a blow, the mines nearly collapsed. My arms and legs are too big for me to do anything but the largest of tasks. My hands will crush every delicate thing that is ever placed in them." At this, my heart beats even harder as I remember something else. "And you know what else, Biven, I can't even have love!"

At this exclamation he quickly jerks his head up to glance at me, his expression once again marred with confusion. "What do you mean?" he stammers out. My anger slowly pours out of me as I turn away from him to stare out into the distance. “I can’t have love. Who would have someone as rough as I am, as large as I am? The Chieftain is the largest dwarf of the Clan, and he only makes it to my chest. How can I romance someone with these large arms and thick legs. I cannot swoon them with dance, nor with song. I cannot cup their cheek or give them a soft caress. These arms and hands are rough and powerful, knowing only destruction and not love.” My thoughts turn to Jemma and our last conversation. How she laughed and looked me in the eyes, but then I went to hug her and she winced and the fun faded.

Bitterness creeps into my voice as I turn back to face Biven. “The trees are the only task that I can handle without hurting others. You and I both know that this is the only thing that I can do for the Clan.” I can see the agreement in his eyes and the way that he avoids mentioning anything else that I might possibly do. This frustrates me, as Biven is considered one of the wisest of the Clans and yet he has no idea what to do with me. “Tell me, Biven, tell me why the God would do this. He claims to love all of us, to treasure us. He claims that we are His children and that He watches over us. Then tell me why He made me. Tell me why I am so different. Why can’t I be a normal dwarf and have a normal life? Tell me!” This last statement becomes a scream thrown towards the heavens, and then I am running. Running away from the village, from the pain, from my troubles. Running from my life.

My flight is both furious and frantic, tearing down the mountain and crashing through the trees and brush. My large shoulders smash into minor obstacles and send them flying, as my powerful feet grinds everything beneath my tread. Animals scatter before me in a cacophony of alarming cries, and yet I do not care. Emotions rage through me, and the very fact that I am feeling emotions upsets me even further. Growing up in the village, one of the constant ways that I was marked as different is the fact that I have such strong emotions. Most of the Clan are very mellow and unemotional. They feel joy and pride, they must if they are to be the master artisans that our clan produces. However, their emotions are rooted and calm which is completely unlike mine. The sight of the beauty of the smallest fluttering butterfly can make my heart melt, and the slightest insult will cause my muscles to bulge and prepare for a fight. I have tried so hard, but the emotions just flood over me despite all that I do. This pushes me further into my scrambled flight, but my legs suddenly begin to falter and I hit a tree root and flip completely end over end. Landing hard upon the ground, I twist to get my bearings but my large body becomes my enemy and suddenly I am rolling down the mountain in a series of bumps and jolts. Smashing into and through limbs and underbrush and tearing roots apart with my flailing arms, nothing halts my fall until I smash headlong into a large rock formation at the base of the mountain. I can barely summon a true dwarven grumble before the spinning stars clouding my vision mercifully fade into blackness.

Only after a very great amount of time has passed do I finally stir again, yet the throbbing in my head seems at an all time high. Moaning, I struggle to push myself to a sitting position and nearly pass out again as the world seems to spin around me. Muttering and complaining to myself, I slowly force myself upwards along the trunk of a nearby tree until I once again standing straight. Realizing that I have reached an unfamiliar part of the mountain, I slowly start to explore and search for familiar landmarks. My hands reach down to brush the sheath attached to my hip and relief floods me as I feel my axe still firmly attached.

The ground here is different, even my stinted dwarven senses can tell that much. Much harder and starched than what I am used to, and the vegetation is stripped to indicate a scarcity of food in this region. Wary now, I am moving slowly through the trees when I hear a faint sound upon the wind. As I am completely lost, I decide that finding any sign of life is better than mindlessly roaming around and so I turn and head that direction. My pace quickens as I hear the sound of screaming and then make out the clash of weapons. Breaking through the brush, I happen upon a family of dwarves under attack by creatures that I recognize as goblins. I have never seen one before, but old Grimlo tells stories around the campfire some nights and the gruesomely twisted bodies before can only match his description of goblins.

Stunned, I come to a halt and gape in horror at the violence spreading out before me. A cry for help comes from one of the dwarves, and I slowly piece together the scene to see that this must be a dwarven family of farmers. I can tell because of the ages of the dwarves, the familial resemblances and the fact that they are using farm tools to defend themselves against real weapons. Another cry for help grasps my attention and I stumble forward, trying to get my weapon from my sheath. A pair of goblins turns towards my entrance and instantly snap alert. "Issha byg un" snarls one of the goblins to the other and two more goblins turn to face me as well.

Having never been in a fight, I hesitate too long and they surround me while pointing weapons directly at my throat. Immobilized, I stand there in shock and one of the goblins quickly darts in and grabs my axe from my trembling hands. "Idiot!" screams one of the dwarves in a strained feminine voice that quickly twists into a pained scream. My eyes dart over to the dwarves and I realize that while I distracted the goblins, I had also distracted the dwarven man and he was now on the ground bleeding to death. A dwarven lass screams in fury and lashes out at the goblins but then is quickly swarmed as two of the goblins guarding me hurry to join the fight. I can only stare in horror as the dwarves are bound and drug over to the fire pit. While my mind is frozen in shock, the goblins have knocked me to my knees and tied my arms tight to the side of my body. Uncomprehendingly, I stutter something about being a peaceful explorer, but the goblins just laugh in mocking tones and one reaches out and slices some skin off my arm. As I recoil from the pain, he gleefully chews on my skin while prancing around my bleeding body. His gruesome face and bulging eyes are highlighted by the flickering flames, and he seems to have quickly recovered from his initial fear at seeing a dwarf as tall as himself. Before more of my flesh can become a snack, a sharp guttural order rings out from the goblin that I suspect is the leader and the goblins move in and drag one of the young dwarven lads over to the fire and then quickly slit his throat.

My world seems to explode in horror as the two dwarves left, both female, scream out in mixtures of sorrow and horror. The goblins move to the oldest female dwarf, but they seem intent on another form of brutality than slaughter. As the dwarf realizes this, she screams and wiggles free from the hands of the goblin pawing at her. Seeing that all escape is cut off, she flinches back from the slobbering jaws of the goblins around her and then throws herself unto the fire pit. Taken back, the goblins do not react in time and the screams of the last remaining dwarf are drowned out by the sizzling pop and acrid smell that floods the small meadow as the flames engulf the willing victim. A momentary pause enters the scene as all of us struggle to adjust to the rapidly changing situation. By now the goblins have deemed me to be a complete non threat and all of them are circling the last remaining dwarf and arguing over who gets first dibs. No longer screaming, the dwarven lass raises her head and pure grey eyes meet mine as a tear slow tracks down her soiled face. A slow whisper escapes her lips and time stands still as I strain to hear it. "Save me."

A Vanished Memory

An Achaean post. Most of the activities here are descriptions of actions and attacks that happen in the game of Achaea. 


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Gales of icy rain pelt the landscape with fury, while magic lightning arcs down to draw screams of pain. Flickering flames linger to trace the arc of fiery meteors, as terrible destruction falls upon the city like rain.

The steady thrum of arrow flights fill the background noise, as fear begins a radiance within the mind. Massive maws suddenly open to swallow men whole, as demons devour souls and leave the bodies behind.

Steely gray eyes sternly pierce the darkness like rapiers, as the captain of the guard steadfastly stands his ground. Strictly barking orders as he marshals fearful troops, the captain still prays for the solution not yet found.

Gathering his remaining courage and his men, the captain sets forth to join in the heightening fray. Rallying every soul that can hear his shouted call, the captain leads the last fateful charge to seize the day.

The clatter of moving armor mingles with coarse yells, as excited and anxious feet pound hard upon the road. Strangled men fall while others are ripped away with laughter, still the captain charges towards the path destiny showed.

A large stone wall suddenly rises up from the ground, breaking the charge as bodies collide in disgrace. Furiously the captain begins to scream new commands, which fade to silence as he succumbs to Death's embrace.

With a valiant shout, one knight continues ever onward, pushing his mount forward just enough to leap the wall. Blades scything downwards shredding enemies to either side , the knight struggles just to stay astride and to not fall.

Summoning all of his fury and silent prayers, desperate inspiration from on high fills this knight. Divine strength and stamina ripples through his muscles, as his God heeds his prayers and responds to his plight.

Gathering his weapons the knight gallops through the streets, hastily dodging traps and shrugging off many attacks. Clashing metal blades echo eerily in the night, as the enemy's once hardened resolve quietly cracks.

Bleeding profusely from every small cut and deep wound, the valiant knight staggers forward and refuses to fail. Exhaustion and utter pain seeping from his pores, he barely dodges the wildly slashing dragon tail.

Eyes locked together in the deadliest of struggles, single knight circles gleaming dragon with a weary pace. Frightening flames burst around his shield's hard edges, and a ferocious jaw closes just before his face.

The avatar of Death looms close with mocking laughter, as puny limbs shatter uselessly between gnawing teeth. A solitary prayer slips out in desperation, heeded with a startling reflection off the knight's sheath.

As scaled fury is briefly paused in blind confusion, a trumpet sounds in the distance to call a quick retreat. Hissing fills the air as the dragon lifts off in flight, responding to the pull of the commanding beat.

Tears of useless rage stream down the weathered face, as the knight surveys the heavily torn and damaged city. Wondering just what purpose could this destruction have, as whatever is left is now filled with only pity.

Grimly gathering his reigns gently with a now broken hand, the knight lingers one last time to gather goods and feed. Sorrow bends his back as he ventures into the mountains

That was the last that was seen of my hero and his steed.

The Battle of Oldstone Pass

Warning. Achaea related. A story by Goryllin.


The Battle of Oldstone Pass.

A gentle breeze drifted down the mountain slope, wafting slowly through
the valley, leaving soft caresses on all it touched in the settlement.
In one of the largest sleeping chambers, strong brown eyes snapped
alert. To this bearded and grizzled dwarf, the breeze held no comfort.
It held only mystery and warning.

Dropping stumpy legs over the edge of the bed, Dolon went through the
morning routine of stretching and yawning all while his senses strained
to find what woke him. Stumbling forth to open land, he gazed forth at
the beautiful scenery before him. As the rays of the sun slowly
straggled forth to light the horizon, those brown eyes drank deeply of
the natural beauty of the valley. "Such grace", this dwarf did think
with equal parts amazement and awe, "for the Lord Smith to guide us
here- to perfection". As if in response, another breeze took hold just
then and rippled the leaves of the graceful trees. On cue, the woods
came alive with the noise of various animals awakening and taking on the
day. The entire earth seemed to beam peaceful joy, as the dwarf took in
the well built and successful settlement that rose up around him. Almost
forgetting his alarm, Dolon took a moment to stretch again while letting
the sun warm the paving stones and alight upon the flowers carefully
cultured along the paths.

All seemed well, and Dolon turned towards the sound of his rousing wife
just inside. But amongst the clamor of pots and pans preparing the
morning meal, Dolon still felt that something was off. As his
grandfather once told him, a Chieftain just learns to know these things.
And so with a muffled grunt, he sadly walked away from his hearth and
all of the delights that it offered and strode to the quarters of his
second in command. A few muttered words, an exasperated shrug, and
patronizing nod later: and a scout was heading out to the borders to
investigate some mysterious inkling that raised the hairs on the back of
the Chief's neck.

Breakfast never really registered to Dolon that day, his mind kept
returning to his odd awakening and the pressure in his chest. Reminding
himself that Chieftain's did not show fear, he calmly went about the
day's routine and began discussing the weather patterns and the upcoming
harvest all while struggling to ignore the sense of unease that had
settled over his soul.


Having known Dolon for over two decades, Drognar the second in command
decided to broach the subject. As he opened his mouth to question just
what troubled the Chief, he noticed that where his friend's eyes were
gazing. "Oh do not be silly", he quipped, "the orcs have been burning
and pillaging for many moons now." "Aye." Answered Dolon, "but something
is different today, I just know it!". Trying to inject some reason into
what seemed like panic in such a normally calm man, Drognar tried again.
"Chief, the orcs have never made it through the mountains. They have
never found the way." After a pregnant pause he added "They do not care
enough to even look for the way!" and then snorted with great humour.

With little else to do besides worry, Dolon smoothed his face and
quieted his inner doubts. Trying hard to simulate cheerfulness, Dolon
passed through the settlement doling out wisdom and answering
complaints, administering to his people as if nothing had woken up him
that morning besides the normal need to be productive.

Suddenly the calm of that peaceful setting was broken by the mad clatter
of a dashing dwarf, earnestly racing to the settlement with all that he
had. Strident alarms rose within the hearts of all present as they
recognized the scout sent out earlier that day. "Orcs! Orcs! Or.." The
fellow yelled, or at least attempted to yell. A very large hubbub broke
out then, as most crowded around the exhausted and wheezing dwarf and
demanded answers or explanations. But Dolon knew better and Dolon knew
he had been a cautious fool. With a bellow that would outdo even the
fiercest mountain bear on the continent, he brought his people to
attention and to arms. Frenetic activity overcame the settlement as
dwarves bounded from one end to the next, weapons being passed,
provisions packed, wives and children kissed.

Dolon ran to oversee equipping the men, pointedly exchanging looks with
Drognar and indicating to handle the women and children. Drognar snapped
into action, following the old and now rarely used guidelines and
rounding up the women and children and heading for a secret cave
entrance. Families acted as a whole, elder children marshaling the
younger ones. Wives stealing kisses around the armor of their hastily
equipping husbands and then sneaking a last personal item before they
were marched away to safety. At the other end of the village, the
outlook was not so bright or sure. Dolon swore as he realized just how
much the decades of peace had harmed the warrior mentality of his
people. There was no lack of courage, he was sure of that as he watched
ancient Frelug struggle to clasp the straps of a light breastplate that
had not seen light in over thirty years. But combat readiness was
something else, again an example appeared before his eyes as eager Jadin
nearly lopped his own ear off hastily grasping a pike.

Licking his lips in sudden anticipation and perhaps a twinge of fear
(but we will never tell!), Dolon surveyed his men. Muttering under his
breath, he counted only twenty-five dwarves that he could really call
combat able. A dozen that stand in a line, but were too ill or infirm to
do any noticeable damage to a turtledove much less a trained and
bloodthirsty orc. Even as he made that assessment, the scout had caught
his breath and was able to alert the entire Clan to the fact that over a
thousand Orcs were heading for the entrance through the mountains to the
valley in which the village was hidden.

Just as Dolon lifted the battlehorn to his lips and prepared to blow
quite possibly the last call to march that he would ever know, he heard
the crunch of angry footsteps behind him. Whirling in surprise, he
yanked his sword free only to hastily drop it a moment later. Even more
surprised than before, he stared at the glowering face of his beloved
wife. In a voice that only an enraged dwarven wife could muster, she
berated him. "Dolon, you thick-skulled excuse for a dwarf, what do you
think you're doing this time? Do you think you're going to hold that
pass with nothing but twenty-five men? And look at us, we women are just
as strong as you are from wrestling the children and working in the
fields. We'll fight and die right alongside our husbands, and may the
Smith be ashamed of us if we won't!"

It is not certain that Dolon was ever able to retrieve his jaw from the
ground after it dropped so far and fast. What is certain is that not
even a chieftain can stand up to a determined dwarven wife. And so as
the ravening Orcs came charging through the gap, bloodthirst gleaming in
their eyes, they met a fortified band of sixty something dwarves of Clan
Orcsplitter. Male and female alike wielded weapons, determination written
across each feature of every brow. As the Orcs paused for a moment,
either in confusion to meet any resistance, or to laugh at such a small
and pitiful band thinking of resistance, the dwarves made one last move.
Working quickly as a team, as a family, they gathered enough rocks to
build a small cairn and then stuck a blacksmith's hammer in it. And then
they turned and beseeched their beloved God, Lord Phaestus, to guide
their battleaxes and lead them through the battle. Being stout Clan
Orcsplitter dwarves, they did not pray for a way to avoid battle, or
that someone else fight it, or even that the Lord make it go away.
Instead they request that He guide their blades and show them where to
strike.


When the Orcs finally made up their minds that this sham had gone on
long enough and began to charge, Dolon felt a sudden peace come over his
soul. Every worry, every tension, everything that was distracting or
bothering him suddenly melted away. He turned to his right side, where
Drognar might normally stand, and met the warm and understanding eyes of
his beloved. Serenity filled her features as they exchanged vows of
everlasting love, knowing that they were in the arms of their God. And
then just as the crest of the Orc charge came barreling into their
perimeter, Dolon and his wife shouted out each other's names and lept
into the battle. Tearing through the enemy, the became dual wielded
weapons. One striking while the other parried, one going low as the
other went high, one to the left if the other went right. As Dolon
danced his deadly dance, he felt the blood streaming down his body. As
his leg landed on raw bone instead of his foot, he knew that this pace
could not last. But even as he began to stumble, even as an arrow carved
its way through his body, his eyes were locked on those of his wife. And
so Dolon danced even harder, swung his blades ever more. No fear, no
worry, no distractions entered his mind. Just dancing to the love
mirrored in those eyes.

The children here huddled deep in some secret caverns, as the horrific
sounds of battle played out above them. Screams of dying or wounded men
were pitched so that the whole valley trembled in sympathy. The clang of
clashing weapons and sound of ripping sinews could not be mistaken or
explained away. And yet, after a horrible and seemingly endless period
of time, the sounds slowly begin to fade. Still the children waited with
bated breath, fearful yet a trap was laid. Only when the air was filled
with the croaking calls of the craven feathered residents of all
battlefields did the children dare to peek outside of those cave walls.

Shouts of joy and relief rang out as they saw a good forty dwarves
making their labored way back to the village. The dwarves had shields
carried between them, upon which lay the bodies of Dolon and his wife
and eighteen of their brethren. As gasps of joy quietly turned to sobs;
rays of light reached down to reflect from the shields, seeming to
caress the fallen warriors and tend to passing.

A gentle breeze drifted down the mountain slope, wafting slowly through
the valley, gently driving away the smoke from the funeral pyres. As it
carried away the smoke, so went the worst of the mourning. And that is
when the clan was able to see just what their sacrifice had gained. In
their wake all they left behind was a mountain of orcs almost as tall as
the pass itself, and a rabble of terrified orcs that stretched from the
mountains to the sea, and ever after the orcs told tales of that pass to
their spawn as bedtime stories."

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Though that valley has been lost to the twisting tides of time, its
memory remains strong in the mind of the Orcsplitter Dwarves. Forever
shall the Clan draw strength from those before it, and forever shall
they oppose the bloodthirsty Orcs- no matter where they might be found.