Post by Doomy on Apr 2, 2008 14:32:33 GMT -5
Counting mountains, thought the young dwarf. It’s not like they go anywhere.
Doomy Steelgrinder was utterly bored as he looked out over the northern peaks of the Great Bor Range. While he was just as patriotic as the next dwarf, he’d seen more than enough mountains to last him a while.
When he’d graduated basic training as a section leader two years previously, he’d been eagerly anticipating the chance to put his skills into use, finally getting the chance to fire his beloved musket in anger.
But no. Instead he had been assigned bodyguard duties, in charge of a unit of gunners charged with protecting the personage of one Gringut Tallowforge, Royal Cartographer of Bor, as he painstakingly documented the condition of internal trade routes and fortifications of the Kingdom, and also recording the exact position and height of every one of the dwarven homeland’s innumerable summits.
The work was slow, laborious and felt as though the gods were mocking the young trooper’s ambitions to “see the world”.
“Boy!” Gringut yelled, even although he was standing next to Doomy. It often seemed as though the ancient dwarf thought everyone else as deaf as himself. “Don’t look so depressed. We’ll be back in Boradon by sundown tomorrow.”
Indeed, it would feel good to be back in the capital, especially with the prospect of a week’s leave before yet more months of trudging around mountains. Doomy had taken to wishing for anything to break the tedium- even a bandit attack.
It was indeed a miserable assignment for a young dwarf eager to prove his worth in battle, and Doomy sometimes suspected his father had tracked him down and used his influence to ensure his wayward son was kept out of harm’s way.
For Doomy was the youngest son of Paktal Steelgrinder, founder of one of Bor’s wealthiest and most respected weapons factories, based at Don-Nok Till on Mount Kerug. He had expected all three of his sons to take over the family empire after his death, but Doomy, who as the youngest would inherit the least share of the family’s wealth, had developed notions of his own.
He knew he would not be missed by the family business. While he had inherited his father’s love of weapons and especially firearms, Doomy was no businessman. He lacked any head for figures, being too easily distracted by youthful wanderlust.
Instead, he had enlisted in the local garrison, where his natural talents shone and he had risen to the top of his year’s intake of recruits.
However, this current assignment had turned him against the all-too-ordered lifestyle offered by the militia, and the untried gunner had resolved to buy himself out of the service and instead sign up for guard duty with one of the merchant caravans leaving Bor. He was going to Sommerlund.
Doomy Steelgrinder was utterly bored as he looked out over the northern peaks of the Great Bor Range. While he was just as patriotic as the next dwarf, he’d seen more than enough mountains to last him a while.
When he’d graduated basic training as a section leader two years previously, he’d been eagerly anticipating the chance to put his skills into use, finally getting the chance to fire his beloved musket in anger.
But no. Instead he had been assigned bodyguard duties, in charge of a unit of gunners charged with protecting the personage of one Gringut Tallowforge, Royal Cartographer of Bor, as he painstakingly documented the condition of internal trade routes and fortifications of the Kingdom, and also recording the exact position and height of every one of the dwarven homeland’s innumerable summits.
The work was slow, laborious and felt as though the gods were mocking the young trooper’s ambitions to “see the world”.
“Boy!” Gringut yelled, even although he was standing next to Doomy. It often seemed as though the ancient dwarf thought everyone else as deaf as himself. “Don’t look so depressed. We’ll be back in Boradon by sundown tomorrow.”
Indeed, it would feel good to be back in the capital, especially with the prospect of a week’s leave before yet more months of trudging around mountains. Doomy had taken to wishing for anything to break the tedium- even a bandit attack.
It was indeed a miserable assignment for a young dwarf eager to prove his worth in battle, and Doomy sometimes suspected his father had tracked him down and used his influence to ensure his wayward son was kept out of harm’s way.
For Doomy was the youngest son of Paktal Steelgrinder, founder of one of Bor’s wealthiest and most respected weapons factories, based at Don-Nok Till on Mount Kerug. He had expected all three of his sons to take over the family empire after his death, but Doomy, who as the youngest would inherit the least share of the family’s wealth, had developed notions of his own.
He knew he would not be missed by the family business. While he had inherited his father’s love of weapons and especially firearms, Doomy was no businessman. He lacked any head for figures, being too easily distracted by youthful wanderlust.
Instead, he had enlisted in the local garrison, where his natural talents shone and he had risen to the top of his year’s intake of recruits.
However, this current assignment had turned him against the all-too-ordered lifestyle offered by the militia, and the untried gunner had resolved to buy himself out of the service and instead sign up for guard duty with one of the merchant caravans leaving Bor. He was going to Sommerlund.
