Blood. Leaf. Stone. Part 1.

Chip was a strange dwarf. Internally and externally. Unlike his kin, he was clean-cut and near pristine. His dress was not like that of his kin. Where they preferred chain mail and armors -of the light, medium, and heavy verity- he was more likely to be found draped in the finest of silks and satin.

His beard was set with rare Deep Sea shells and gleaming stones, all intertwined into several long braids that he kept neatly tucked into his belt. His boots were custom-tailored and polished, not the leather-bound, steel-plated variety that most dwarfs favored. And over it all, he wore a cloak of what appeared to be moss.

Chippy Oakenmaul or "Chip" as he had been called for as far back as he could recall.

-the last century at least.- was far from your standard dwarf, yet his bloodline was every bit as tough and true.

Chip was a Forest Dwarf.

Among their kin, they were considered the lesser, second to neither their Sand, Sea, or Mountain brethren. Forest Dwarfs were much more magically inclined than their sooty, salty, or sandy kin. A fact that left them ostracized and avoided by the others more often than not. Magic was not something the average dwarf cared much for outside of its occasional use at the forge. Their minds and hearts were more for metals and stones.

Iron.

Silver.

Steel.

Gold.

Aetherite.

Things they could mine. Not things of the mind.

Magic was the opposite of good old-fashioned hard work to them. Something that the dwarfs cherished above all else. But the Forest Dwarfs of Oakenhall were a class of their own.

Their Druid-like ways were so very far south of what most people would expect of a Dwarven clan, but in the wilderness of the North-eastern forest and mountains that spanned the length of coastline between Heuwel Hall and Port Mense far to the south, one would be hard-pressed to find a more knowledgeable band of folk.

Chip Oakenmaul was named so for the wooden, hammer-like club that was his choice of weapon. It was the same for his father and his father's father. And his father's father's father. It had been as such for the past four generations. A variable span of roughly 3700 years. In fact, Oaken Hall was named for Chip's very ancestral line.

Even his Great-great-great-grandfather was an oddity for his time. So much so that he was very likely the first of the self-proclaimed (and now historically cemented) Forest Dwarfs.

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The past. 

15 years before the current day.

Roary Oakenhill IV was his name.

"Roary" being more of a cherished moniker than anything, and "Oakenhill" an accurate description of the North from which he and his kin hailed. Roary, in his youth, had stumbled across a deep, strange cave. Or what he had thought to be such. In all actuality, it had been much, much more than that.

Firstly it was home to a rather large and brutish Boer goat. A foul-tempered beast colloquially known as "Great Horn". As one could guess, due to its massive and arching horns. Bigger still was the animal itself. Covered from head to tail in muscle, and atop that was shimmering silver, bristle-like fur. Great Horn stood an awe-inspiring 6'5, and it was nearly half that length from shoulder to shoulder. The ancient goat had found the talus a long, long time ago. The cave-like structure was formed after a massive rock slide that was triggered by a pair of feuding Hill Giant clans in a time long past.

Great Horn had no notion or knowledge of the amount of wealth that was buried deeper within the hillside in which it made its home. He only wanted shelter from the elements, and a place of peace detached enough from all of the other species.

And so the talus was.

But he would have company that day. A rare yet not unheard of occurrence. It seemed that the Boer hadn't in fact picked the most secluded of places as it had thought, for several times a year it found itself fighting off random humans and humanoids alike for the rights to and pleasure of the cave. It was one of the very few places where one could take shelter in this heavily wooded region. And needless to say, one such place would not be surrendered easily.

Great Horn had seen many a battle in its 200-year life.

Humans.

Goblins.

Wolves.

Great Hill Cats, and even the occasional wandering Ogre.

All thus far had been bested in fair, and unfair combat by the goat, or had simply been too intimidated to even bother the attempt.

And in that, Great Horn was always alone. As he liked it. Until this day.

This would be his final day as "king of the hill" so to speak. For in all of its long 200 years, it had yet to face a Dwarf.

Roary was on a mission. He had one task and one task only.

Settlement.

With this one lone goal in mind, Roary had marched headlong out of the seclusion and relative safety of Kopstad, the Northernmost town of the Northern cape, with 10 of his best and brightest of Clan Hammermoss at his back. Kopstad was a frontier town to the Forest Dwarfs. While villages and dorpies were far from uncommon, seemingly popping up across the continent in mass since the last of the Dragons had been driven from their strongholds. Dwarven settlements were a much, much less common site.

The Dwarven folk that had lived alongside the goodly human kind of Kopstad, and had done so for the last 100 years. Surviving, farming, hunting, and even celebrating as the humans would, but never foregoing or forgetting their very own and very potent traditions and culture. The "Forest Dwarfs" were an entirely new species of Dwarf. Having lived alongside their human counterparts for at least two of their much shorter generations (by Dwarven standards) they had not only picked up a few tricks and skills when it came to agriculture and ranching on the surface, but they had in turn shared just as much of their knowledge in exchange for such information.

Both Humans and Dwarf had benefited greatly from the evolution that came with such an exchange. The humans learned to be more efficient at combat arts. To build sturdy and lasting walls and the art of the forge. In truth, they had been sufficient at such things before the arrival of the 120 Dwarf strong caravans, but the tutelage they had at the hands of their diminutive friends had made them great.

Conversely, the Dwarfs had learned to work the soil, to take a pair of cattle of nearly any sort from two to two dozen in a year's time, and lastly the study of not only Forestry but Botany as well. All had been well in Kopstad, and even as Roary had left in search of a home for his kin to call their own, it was with high hopes and an equally heavy heart.

But alas!

Today would be the day!

"Settlement!"

Roary shouted, his deep and booming voice echoing among the thick oak trees and deeper still into rolling crags and valleys. He would find a nice deep hole in some mountain, hill, or valley. He would clear the land around it of obstacles and dangers with his own hands, then he would summon forth his clan.

Clan Hammermoss by name, to help him build a hall.

Nay, a kingdom. The very first of its kind.

A kingdom for and of the Forest Dwarfs.

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The sun was high in the sky. The weather, a balmy, yet comfortable temp. The massive Boer lay lazily sprawled across the large, flat bluff that was his watch tower. To his rear was the narrow mouth of his talus. His home. A home that had his for the past century, and one that he was sure would remain his for at the least another.

"....Greeeeat...Hooorn..."

He mused to himself in his booming, gravelly voice. The pet name that the humans and humanoids alike had given him did indeed fit.

"Yeeeeeessssssss..."

The words rolled from his tongue like falling pebbles.

"Weeee ARE truuuuly GREEEEAT!"

Humility was not the mighty goat's strong suit. He was twice the size of any of his living kin... by far. And three times as heavy. His horns, Nay, his "Great" horns were a hulking mass atop his head, curving up and over his ears and coming full circle to their deadly, points, one jutting menacingly from just below his jawline on either side of his mouth.

A more than fitting crown.

Just as a long, low yawn escaped his lungs, the wind shifted, and with it came a cooling breeze from the North and West. As the chilled air rolled over his resting form, the goat's mind and muscles both tensed, snapping him wide awake. His eyes opened lazily. His nostrils flared.

One.

Twice.

A third time. And the goat knew at once that the scent he had caught was not something that belonged in HIS territory... Whatever it was, it was also not very far away. Yet just far away enough to be outside of his considerably good sight.

"A challenger."

He mumbled, considering going back to his rest. But alas, it had been some time since he had been gifted with any real form of entertainment. To be the strongest, biggest, and greatest, oft meant one was destined to be just as lonely. In the wilds, power was key to survival. The weak tended to avoid those with ample amounts of said power. And those with it kept it to themselves so that those without, or even those with MORE, would have a hard time taking it.

A balance that seemed to keep itself.

The great, lumbering beast yawned once more then rose to its feet and shook the wariness from its frame.

"Come!"

It bellowed out into the expansive forest and hills that surrounded its metaphoric throne.

"Come, and fall as all the rest have. As all that follow will!"

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Roary had left Kopstad in a group of eleven, including himself. With each passing tenday or two, a pair of hardy Dwarfs had been left behind to secure the area and hold the path behind the troop. A camp was always set, a perimeter fence built, and a hole for a flagpole dug. Roary and his troop had set off from the safety of the walls of Kopstad some three months ago. The path that they had chosen would take them far to the South and East of Kopstad, and further still into thus uncharted lands. The thick swaths of forest, steep ledges leading into sheer canyons, and towering mountains of the Northern regions of Naeri were unforgiving. On a good run, and with favorable weather, it took the average group a tenday or less to make the trip from Kopstad to Heuwel Hall. In his eagerness, Roary and his band had made that first leg in just six days time. A record by any account, for the land and newborn trails between the two settlements was yet still wild and teaming with animals and far more menacing creatures of every known size and species.

That first push had given Roary hope. And with that hope came a notion of ease for the remainder of the journey. He would soon find out how very wrong that notion had been. If the initial trek had been "easy" the next several tendays would be more comparable to hell... On the morning of the ninety ninth day Roary awoke with a start, his hand shooting reflexively to the steel-headed tomahawk he kept tucked into his belt on his right hip. He had heard something...nay, someone...

A voice. Gruff and rumbling.

"Come."

It had said, this single word echoing softly up to his ears from somewhere not so far off into the distance. In his limbo-like state of half wake, half sleep he hadn't caught the last part of what had been said, but a part of him knew who and what it was. With a huff, he rolled to his feet and set to work undoing his little camp. Today was the day. HIS day. He would face whatever he must and lay it low. For his people. For his kingdom. Roary was well studied and equally attentive to detail. He was a Dwarf after all, he had not left out on this journey without having firstly done his due research.

From his count, he was twice the distance South of Heuwel Hall as Heuwel Hall was South of Kopstad. Within another tenday he would arrive in Netsud if he kept this course, but Netsud was not his destination. With his pack on his back, his throwing ax in hand, and the little hairs on the back of his neck still on end from the imposing summoning that had awoken him, Roary started off back towards the trail that would lead him to this days greatest challenge.

The inevitable battle with the Boer goat: Great horn.

The legend of the massive goat had traveled a great distance since Roary's first sanctioned expedition party had stumbled upon it's territory some five years ago. (a very small increment of time for a Dwarf.) The rough location of it's "cave" had been noted and staked out by the team of six who had found it. Before they could make any further advances, the Boer had emerged from within. The Dwarfs were wary of it, and soon noted, even from a quarter miles distance, that they would be better off to not engage it, as they were but am expedition party, and although combat was not something they would typically shy away from, they were well over one hundred days out from Kopstad, a return journey that would be made that much more tedious should they lose a Dwarf to this creature. Nay, they had concluded that more numbers would be needed. Unfortunately for them, Great Horn had not come to such a conclusion.

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Although the great and terrible goat had not had the chance to fight the group hairy, half-sized men that day, he so did enjoy chasing them from the boarders of his territory, and right into the arms of a sleeping Forest Troll that lived near-by.

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In the chaotic battle that ensued with the Forest Troll, three of the six Dwarfs were killed, and the last three had just barely managed to escape the wraith of the slumbering monstrosity and return to Heuwel Hall with tales of what had transpired.

From that day onward, Roary had swore not only to avenge his fallen kin, but to claim the cave as his peoples own. Clan Hammermoss was only counted at one hundred and twenty. Although they had only lost three on that dark day, to the already small, and fiercely family oriented Clan, it may as well have been thirty. Roary and his kin had only existed on this continent for a little over one hundred years, having lived in and braved the hostel wilds of the Northern cape for several years before their ceremonious merging with Kopstad. At that point in time when they had toughed out each day, and ground through each night, Clan Hammermoss had numbered nearly two hundred. But alas, the foreign land, varying new weather patterns, and newly encountered regional creatures had swiftly whittled them down to the one hundred and twenty, nay, now one hundred and seventeen that currently lived. Roary refused to loose another Dwarf.

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Great Horn tilted his large head and opened again a single apple-sized eye.

The pupil grew and shrank rapidly to adjust it's focus.

Off in the distance... hundred yards... give or take.

He saw movement.

With a sigh he rose to his feet for the second time that day.

"A Challenger."

He said into the chill breeze for the second time that day.

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