Günther

Born to a family of iron miners, Günther never felt at home with the family business and sought something quieter, maybe with less people around to bother him, so he chose the life of a craftsman. With so many potential crafts to master, it was difficult to choose a speciality and nothing matched his desire to create items that balance form and function, works of art with practical application.     After a very brief, unsuccessful stint with the Dvannarak’s builders and then runesmiths, nothing seemed to satisfy until merchants from High Helm arrived with a shipment of new firearms, the latest and greatest technological advancements to date. Enamoured with the devices, Günther found the hold’s single, reclusive gunsmith and begged for an apprenticeship. After previous failures, his reputation was lacking, and it was only after dogged persistence and his willingness to perform any task, however menial, in return for scraps of knowledge that he was accepted as an apprentice.     Following several years of learning it seemed Günther had found his calling, and it was only the mandatory service in the Dvannarak’s militia that distracted him from his work. He was indifferent to the training and occasional fighting; the survival of the hold was everyone’s business and a fact of life, so he did what was necessary. Surprisingly he found himself more comfortable around people during active service that he ever did in the mines with his family, but could never bring himself to allow his real work to lapse, always returning to learning and developing his skill in crafting firearms.     It was the Slythernak invasion that put an end to Günther’s aspirations. After an initial skirmish within the hold itself, it was found that the enemy had prepared multiple entry points at key locations, and not all could be sealed before the invasion came. The majority of the Dvannarak’s forces were engaged at the gates, the brutal assaults slowly pushing back the defenders, one choke point after another being overwhelmed.     Günther was on the front line, part of the shield wall. The ground was indented at intervals for tower shields to slot together, swords and axes at the ready with pikemen behind, wave after wave of Slythernak broke themselves against the wall. He felt a swell of pride at each volley from the gun line to the rear, he had helped to build many of the guns and crossbows that thinned out the enemy ranks as they approached.     As the days wore on however, little was achieved. For every assault pushed back, more ground and lives were lost, each time a retreat being called as the line began to waver. At one point Günther became separated in the melee. Tired, hands shaking, right eye twitching, with his breath coming hard and heavy as his limbs became like lead weights, his training took over. Raise shield. Shove enemy off balance. Stab exposed neck. Parry claws. Block axe with shield. Slash and stab and stab and stab…     Eventually, there were no more enemies, all had fallen or retreated. Bleeding and dazed, Günther found himself alone, his comrades calling him to join the retreat, exhaustedly praising him and slapping his back as he reached them, thinking he was buying them time to retreat rather than simply fighting through sheer terror and fatigue, all tactics forgotten.     As the line reformed, one of the Dvannarak’s elders approached, asking the line officers who had distinguished themselves. Ignoring the officers’ protests, the elder took Günther and one other from the line, swiftly informing them that they were being assigned to protect a ritual that would protect the hold from the invaders.     Given little else in terms of details, Günther and eleven others were taken to the depths of the hold, past the dusty archives, through long empty halls and rooms now gathering dust. Finding one of the old vaults, the elders sealed the antechamber, instructing the guards to hold it at all costs, before sealing themselves into the vault.     It was a long time before anyone spoke. Eventually the guards each spoke of their experiences, of endless waves of Slythernak, fanatics bent on killing or dying. Others had been in the search parties, desperately fighting in dark tunnels as they tried to seal as many as they could. It painted a grim picture. Each of the guards had fought long and hard, but having nothing else to do, they settled into a resting watch, reasoning that if the strongest fighters had been taken from the line for this, then it must be something worth defending.     Hours turned into days, with no sounds from the hold to be heard, and no news from the vault, a sense of unease settled on the group. No one spoke of it, but their rations were running out, and there was no water. With no supplies, they had expected to be relieved within two days at most, but it seemed they had been forgotten.     The first deaths were caused by madness and desperation. The next were out of necessity. Those too weak to fight back were picked off by the rest, the shame and grief of their actions forgotten in the name of survival. They were all reduced to little more than carrion, and as each corpse was picked clean, suspicious eyes turned on one another, truces and alliances quickly made and as quickly forgotten.     In the end, the last two survivors, Günther and Hrom, taken from the same company, faced each other in the dark. In the long silence they watched and waited for the other to strike, the stalemate ending when Hrom took his own life, stating that being alone in this sealed chamber was worse than any death. Prepared now for the inevitable, Günther resolved to survive as long as he could, but he found that after Hrom’s death, hunger and thirst were no longer gnawing at him. There was nothing but time and he waited for a death that would not come.     Without knowledge of how long had passed, the antechamber door opened, seemingly by itself. Bitter and resentful, Günther had no interest in the ritual and simply left to see what had become of his home.     Passing through seemingly abandoned passage ways around the ritual chamber, bodies of fallen warriors, dust covered about the way.     There were few survivors, but the Dvannarak endured. Time had passed, and repairs were underway. Saddened, but emboldened, Günther approached his kin, only to find them horrified and hostile. Confused, he withdrew, and seeing his reflection in a broken window, was confronted with his withered form and empty, lifeless eyes.     Distraught, but understanding, Günther quickly decided to leave. Taking the abandoned passageways still yet to be blocked after the attack, he took pieces of armour and clothing from his fallen kin that might better hide his dreadful appearance, making sure to put down any wandering undead that had risen from the battlefield.     During the journey to the surface Günther developed an insight into how the attack had gone so badly wrong for his people. Without the infiltration tunnels, they might have pushed back the enemy in good order, but in places where the Slythernak found their way behind the defences, the lines crumbled. Rigidly trusting to the shield wall again and again proved disastrous until sheer stubbornness and attrition had apparently won the day.     Günther reached the outer gates and looked back one last time. He had a home and a family that he hoped he could return to, one day. Until then, he resolved to aid them from afar and find new ways to defend against another invasion, starting with some varied battle tactics.     Now, with the long road ahead and a growing suspicion that the optimum build for a fighter might not include a tower shield, Günther set off to find a new place to call home.     New Wayford     But where to go? No dwarven hold, surely, especially High Helm. East over the mountains? Not if the old bedtime stories of Darkhans eating Dwarf children who stray too far from the hold were true.     Woodside was the nearest trade town, still a bad choice, but it might help to know how the town had fared against the Slythernak invasion. Keeping to the forested hills overlooking Woodside, it was strangely well kept. Either there had been no attack, or they had recovered very quickly although there was very little traffic on the road that apparently led to the great Port Kolin.     Investigating closer, Günther approached a trade caravan by night and heard muttered conversations about Dvannarak, his home, and how repairs were still ongoing even several years after the attack, and how it almost suffered the same fate as Wayford, which fell the next year. He heard hushed rumours about the Risen gathering in the ruins that some call “Grave Town”.     His time in the chamber had been weeks, perhaps months, but years? How long had gone by? Certainly the maddening hunger and thirst, not to mention the horror of what he had done to survive, had made time seem oddly distant, that had been the least of his concerns. Something had happened in the chamber, but there was no way to find out just yet.     For now, Grave Town sounded like the only option, and the empty road promised hidden dangers, so Günter headed to the river to follow the old logging route to Wayford.     Seeing a river above ground was a novelty, but it quickly wore off, becoming an endless trudge, Gunther’s mood alternating between purposeful optimism and crushing despair, walking for no other reason than to keep moving. Eventually the town, or what was left of it, came into view, and it was not a pleasing sight.     The outskirts of Wayford were all but destroyed, but towards the town centre were buildings in need of repair, but still standing. Even further in was the sound of activity. Approaching with caution, Gunther was hailed by what could technically be called sentries and was brought into the town and shown to The Church of Dalphus as a new arrival.     The tour was brief and apologetic. The community was growing but in desperate need of equipment, resources and skilled labour, all of which was hampered by a lack of available security and most new arrivals still coming to terms with their new existence. But Gunther saw potential, and therefore purpose.     Lodgings were an easy choice. The Thane’s Head was a place of debauchery that his old mum was always warning him about, full of people “letting off steam”, as she would say, which Gunther took to mean wasting energy on unproductive endeavours. Back home, that was for people who hadn’t yet found a proper job. The Three Shoes was even more un-dwarfish, all whispered gossip and no one saying what they meant. So far everyone in town was polite but not friendly, a strange trait among surface dwellers, but Elyse in The Griffon was a welcome change.     Friendly but not polite was much better. Trading gruff words and the odd insult was much more like home, and after a few days of manual labour, Gunther had secured lodgings. In the meantime, he’d quickly found Tollk, who was in need of extra help and paid well. The work wasn’t particularly skilled but between jobs he was able to get back to some real crafting. First he made some proper tools and then got to work on some crossbows, just for practice, and then his first firearm in what felt like a lifetime.     Unfortunately, black powder took time to make and the materials were not easy to find, so it went into storage for now. The problem of resources was still keenly felt by the whole community, and Rivven, hearing from Tollk about Gunther’s abilities, requested that he help with the rebuilding efforts. Using his skill as an engineer, he was able to guide the repairs on suitable buildings, and the safe demolition of others.     It was slow but satisfying work, but eventually the problem of security loomed. The restless dead were always roaming the wider area, and a nearby enclave of Slythernak could not be ignored forever.