It would be the 80th year of his Majesty today. Just thinking about what the world would be like under his reign infuriates me. How can the evil that sits upon his throne not evoke a violent, righteously furious response from the noble people of this land? My parents who died upon that mamelle so long ago would be ashamed of the progress I've made. So I resolve to do better. I have already promised my life to these people, but I know deep down it won't be enough. What can a single person do alone? An army must be raised, like that of the past. I will scour the Southern lands on komatik-mount to find the mighty dwarves who would still have the heart to fight! I will climb over root and river just to acquire the xiphoid tools of the ancient fair-folk! I will walk deftly through the streets and halls of man, seeking those who tire of the wasms of the aberrant overloads who reside there! I will crawl through the wasteland, uniting the dragon-kin and my own flesh and blood.
If I do not raise an army, then let the spirit of an army be raised! I will relinquish every drop of blood that runs through my veins just to create a world that bites back against the cruel valientons who think they can rule over us! Indeed, may the earth be stained umber by my lifeblood before a hopeless world is born. It isn't too late.
Enough writing. I have work to do.
It has been a good week. My warriors have laid siege to a small outpost held by the enemy North of the lumbermill. It didn't stand a chance- before any alarms could be raised, we brought the oculiform mass that floated above its central tower to the ground. They became mind-blind, easy pickings for the archers who hid in trees. Brilliant. The steps of that encampment were painted red that day, and none of my followers succumbed to the unguiculate grasp of the fiends stationed there.
This victory has given me hope. Hope that my cause isn't as far-fetched as I thought. Surely, if we can achieve victory with so few numbers, we could accomplish so much more once others rally to the cause.
The rangers have word that there is a caravan of shackled lapideous people travelling Northward. I trust them- these people can listen to the speech carried by the trees. If we set out at dawn, we can meet them as they begin to cross the river. Perhaps a repeat of today's victory will yield us a harvest of new allies...
Finally, I can lay down my weapon and pick up my quill once more. Tonight, my men feast and revel in victory- and with us, the towering goliath prisoners that were being shuttled towards the capital. Strong folk- I am glad they've agreed to join us.
The air tonight is filled with the smoke of cooking fires and the sound of song and dance. But it's not enough to cover the stench of death. Although we remain victorious, we lost the lives of many good rangers- including Davis, who was once a paladin of the old world. It isn't fair, but I will not let their deaths be in vain.
The leader of these mountain-men is a lovable but gaumless jester. It's quite obvious he's a balbutient who thinks with his fists, rather than his head. However, he's told me that there are still dwarves to the South that forge weapons in secret at the base of the mountains. After speaking with the others, we've agreed that our next step will be to make contact with them. We're running low on ammunition, our armour is poor, and allies remain in short supply.
I must go now. They have extinguished the fire. Something moves through the earth like an eagre.
Twenety-seven days of travel have passed, and we have finally arrived at the ancient, secret forges of Daldalin. For twenty-seven days we have been harried by the camisades of whatever foul monstrosity crawls through the ground. The rangers told me that whatever the creature was, it didn't come closer than a hundred feet ever- and yet, at least 6 of our compatriots disappeared before our very eyes. A flash of vermillion smoke and they're gone. No trace. Gruumsh rest their souls- they had the warrior spirits of battle-hardened orcs.
We somehow managed to lose the beast once we crossed the lake. The rangers thought that the beast would follow us. It didn't.
Our surviving members were welcomed into Daldalin's forges quickly- their clerics cast a truth-binding spell upon us, which prompted us to speak the truth: we were not thralls. After this, the dwarves holed up there granted us a feast to replenish our weary souls. After this, I spoke my mind to the dwarves. They had no reason to join us- they could simply remain safe within their secret hideout. This they told me- "why should we leave the safety of our forges and join you in battle when we could simply wait for Gilsdottir to return and cleanse the land?" I retorted: "Are you dwarves? Or are you groundhogs? Hiding in the rock while the rest of the world burns? Is this what your brothers who died at Charmote's Egg would want? What if Gilsdottir never comes?"
After a few minutes of bickering, I seem to have struck a chord with the dwarves. They descended into an uneasy silence. I swear for a moment that their minds were thinking so hard that I could sense their thoughts much like the enemy could. At long last, they vowed in the name of the Morndinsamman that they would join us.
Since then, they have gifted us fine axes, armour, and other finely-crafted tools. I believe that they may have distrusted me because of my demisang nature. This has been allayed, as I have shown as much of my character as I could. Within hours, these dwarves have been whipped into a frenzy that would rival the Drikmire lizardfolk's furor.
I am more optimistic than ever now. This was the army I had looked for. We were still small, but we had strength unlike anything that these otherworldly usurpers had ever seen. We could strike harder than ever before- we could attack more targets at once. Surely we would inspire more and more people to our cause with every victory we accumulate.
This was where it began.
This was where we lit the flame.
This was where our rebellion was birthed.
This was where Thauzuassk died, and Merope was reborn.
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