Baldur's Gate : The Sword Coast Chronicles : NWN2 Persistent World

The finest hours of dwarvenkind come in the thrusts and feints of war. Seize the opportunity to defend your kin and ensure their victory wherever conflict erupts. Revel in the challenge of a good fight, and never waver in the face of adversity, no matter how ominous. Lives should never be thrown away foolishly, but the greatest honour is to sacrifice oneself for the cause on the field of battle in service to a righteous cause. When not fighting prepare for next conflict physically, tactically, and by acquiring resources. Attack hill giants whenever possible and other evil giants whenever necessary.

Un-like the rest of dwarven kin Frekis birth was not greeted by great adulation and pride. His was a quite affair with only his Mother, Father and a single Faenor whom took pity on his parents and offered her skill.

“Ya doing ‘ight love… ya” The frantic stemmer of Thonars voice echoed through the chamber as he stands by his wife’s side his hand slowly being crushed under her vice grip “Keep breathing… and… push.. That’s the one… keep it going” Thonars
crystal blue eyes look down the sweating form of his beloved. The Faenor’s skills aiding in the birthing, her warm words soothing out his first born into the stone. “Can ya make it go fasta?” He stammers with a frantic tone as he begins to worry about the rapidly fading feeling in his hand “It takes time, be steady as the rock and keep your wife focused” was the only comfort the soon to be father received.

Unlike the other dwarves in Citadel Adbar Thonar was visibly different, for a hold mainly consisting of Shield Dwarves he looked amiss. He begun balding at young age which coupled with his more earthy skin and thin beard meant he was often the end of the crude jokes by other clan’s and castes. It had never helped that his clan was unknown, for only when he was only a small boy. A band of Moradins Hammers found him half staved in the mountains alone, they took pity on him and took him with them to the Citadel.

Life for the young dwarf was tough, his physical appearance resulted in him being shunned from most places. How ever he had found comfort in the heat and smoke of the upper quarter among the steel forges. It was there when an elder Dwarven man came on the boy. His name was Graymer Ironheart and he took the lad under his family forge. For a considerable time Thonar was content with life in the Ironheart forge, his ability to stand the intense heat and his love and skill with molding the steel brought great honour to the Ironheart name.

How ever as he grew older so did Thonars lust for a family of his own. Having had grown with out a true clan and shunned by the general populace of Citadel Adbar he begun to dream of the lands out side the mountains. Graymer caught wind of his thoughts of leaving, it was one thing the elder of the Ironhearts would not have. So he began to devise of a way to keep his best smith in the forge. It didn’t take long as he realized he could kill two rats with one stone as he offered the hand of his youngest Ovilia to Thonar.

Now you need to understand that despite her family's standing within the Smith Caste Ovilia had no luck in finding a willing partner, for when she was younger she suffered a deforming accident at her father’s forge, the same one Thonar works. So Graymer in an attempt to keep both the coin and adulation that Thonars wares wrote him, came to a decision.

He granted Thonar his daughters hand to bind him to the forges and quell the whispers about how the craft of Ironheart forge where not produced by an Ironheart clansman. For even the dwarves are prone to rumors if not fueled from jealously of anothers wealth or skill or even from a old grudge held many generations ago.

But all that mattered little to the man, for now after what seems hours. With the feeling long gone from his hand. Thonar finally seemed happy, with a slow bend he kisses Ovilia on her forehead and whispers into the new mothers ear “It’s a boy, ma love… a little right boy” In the bend of his muscular arm rests the little dwarven baby. Holding him with a loving gaze the new father utters one word “Freki”

Graymer, Frekis grandfather had never expected his daughter’s conception less so on her birthing successfully. Through a bitter resentment he had been given no choice but to accept the boy as kin and in doing such hiding the shame of his daughter.

He removed the infant from his parents, telling them that the child would have a better life as the adopted son of a respected clan, than to that of a boy born clanless. Reluctantly both Thonar and Ovilia agreed, opting to let their child have a chance at a better life with his grandfather.

Graymer had been known to take in other dwarven children under his own name. Moradin seldom struck his anvil in these dark times so each new child would only add to his own clan’s size and fame. So those knowing Graymer found it no surprise to see him with a new addition, a burly youth with dark mangled red hair. Freki Ironheart was the given name, at least Graymer had been kind enough to allow the child the name which his parents gave him.

So it was that Freki grew under the watchful eye of the Ironheart elder, the man parting the knowledge so he would reflect the clans glory onto dwarven society. It was not till Freki had turned forty that he begun to be more eager in learning the clans trade. By this time he’d grown into a muscular dwarf of supreme health demonstrating on notiable occasions both his strength and analytical thought patterns. Yet unlike the other shield dwarves in Mithral Hall his skin seemed to be a darker hew though not quite the holding as bronze as a gold dwarf. Though through his youthful arrogance Freki never paid much heed to these small differences how ever his foster father noticed it daily and had slowly grown to resent his adopted son.

“I be 'ight ready fo’ it! I damned knows I am” Frekis voice hangs in the air as he fights his case with a stubborn conviction to Graymer, the elder dwarf regarding him with a steely gaze “Ah com’ on, I know I’ll be good an I promises I ain’ gunna get ta close tad a heat o’ da forge. Ya ‘ave let da others go!! An dey say ya ‘ave a smith who be more akin ta fire than stone” Slowly Graymers jeweled hand lowers atop of the young Frekis shoulder, his thin lips slowly curling upwards in a wise grin “Well now young Freki Ironheart, I sense this means a great deal to you” Graymers grip tightens around then shoulder. The elder dwarf noding his head “Very well, I’ll take you up to the forge, so long as you don’t disrupt the work.”

So it was that Graymer agreed to take the youth up to the surface where the forge’s where all situated. The heavy smoke hung high in the sky leaving it a grim place. The smell of heat, fuel and metals clung to air with a unrelenting grip yet something about it seemed familiar to Freki, as if he’d been there before. Of course he had been there, though it was where he was birthed yet he didn’t know that…. just yet.

Frekis eyes where wide as the Graymer lead him through the winding streets and passages, various forges spring up at every turn. Each with sweating dwarves working the metals under hammer and heat. The bellowing sounds of metallic clangs echoed around him, something for ever constant in this place.

“Its not far now Freki” Graymers voice is barely audible over the nose as he points out the large forge stacks, pouring out the thick black smoke “Ironheart Forge, one of the best in all of the Mithral Halls.” With a planted hand on the youths shoulder he leads him to the door where two guards stand idly by. On sight of the clan elder they both snap to attention, Mithral axes brought up as the veteran guard greets the pair with a respectful tone “Graymer we wasn’t expecting to see you today.”The elders reply was calm and polite to the guard “Aye, well I wasn’t expecting to come, yet my son wished to see the family forge” The veterans eyes land on Freki, slowly recognizing the features all to well. He was about to speak when Graymer interrupted him “Well are you going to stand there or open the door, by Moradins hammer I don’t know why I pay you sometimes!” The guard quickly snaps back to reality as he dutifully opens the Ironbound door of the forge.

The inside of the forge was more impressive than its exterior, along the racks restes fine Iron, Steel, Cold Iron, Silver and even a few gleaming master works of Mithral. The number of dwarves moving around, all working on individual pieces of masterwork seemed incredible to the youth. With a careful gaze he hunted around for the so mentioned strange golden dwarf that could withstand the molten heat of the forges “Follow me” Graymers voice seemed distant as Freki simply nodded half listening to the elder as he explains the processes of smelting and forging.

Then he saw what he was looking for, behind a half bald dwarven lady with mangled scars covering the side of her face he was. The one the others had spoken off, the almost bronzed skinned dwarf stands right in the heat of the forge, the glowing flames almost lashing at his body as he hammers at his work. His head is completely bald as is glimmers with sweat.

Slowly the smith turns from his work to spot the youth staring him, the mans eyes almost seem sad as he places the hammer down. His thick arm running over his forehead as he mouths to the scared woman. Who now looks over at Freki her good eye shimmering a tear as she stops her work. “Quit staring!” the thick hand of Graymer slaps the youth over his head “If you aren’t going to listen then you aren’t going to stay” and with that he was lead back out of the forge at great pace, Greymer muttering about his foolishness that allowed him cave into the boys demands.

It had seemed so strange, the encounter. Yet for some reason Freki found comfort in the mismatching pair. On that day he swore he would find out why they had looked at him in that manner. He would get to the truth.

The throng of goblins scattered in retreat from the hobgoblin formation who broke their phalanx to engage the pursuit. As the uniformed hobgoblins broke their defenses, a rival formation of hobgoblin archers across the clearing loosed a volley of arrows and bolts into the charging ranks. A single stone catapulted from a half-ogre's chest rattled against the hard ground, tumbling over four of the startled hobgoblins and laying them to waste.

"CHARGE!"

As the second volley flew through their number, the hobgoblins broke their pursuit and fled in panic from the now rallied goblins. Some cower behind their shields and desperately band together under their screaming captain only to be torn down by the now rallied goblin skirmishers and their cruel war-dogs.

Overseeing the small battle from afar with a vanguard of war-painted orcs, Khan Galar was unimpressed with the performance of his troop. He turns his back to the blood scene and gripped his minotaur captain by the shoulder, lowering his growling voice into his ear, "Kill it all."

"Slaver?" inquired the bull-lord hopefully.

"No." The ogre commanded, his black and yellow goat like glare laid heavy on the captain. "All do death. Too late for dis tribe - learn da rest; no resist da Galar."

The minotaur's glossy chocolate eyes wept mucus as it blinked twice rapidly, looking on the ogre in his platemail armour before dipping his horned head in submission.

From the minotaur's horn a low blast resounded throughout the forest clearing. It was low and monotonous; preaching doom.

The many colourful faces of Khan's bannerless fellowship turned toward the sound then to the fleeing enemy who staggered back into their fortified natural rock cave.

Goblins, orcs, hobgoblins, even a few hopeless human souls who had thrown their lot in with the mighty Khan disapear into the shadows of the cave to execute the merciless coup de grace to the hobgoblin tribe, their women and children. When they had finished, they emerged with treasures through the black smoke of a burned out interior.

Back on the hill, Khan's greedy eyes were already on the tall tribal mountains in the distance.

The minotaur stopped out of arms reach behind his general and snorted, following his gaze to the mountain summit knowingly, "Oracle?"

Khan's thick upper lip peeled back over his dry tusks, "Soon..."

As that night fell, warm forest air smelling of smoke and blood had drenched the area in an obscuring fog of war. Goblinoid and humanoid figures moved through its concealment returning in an unorganised mob to the temporary warcamp they had put together, each burdened with his takings. Behind them, the bodies of mascaraed hobgoblins lay strewn and robbed where they fell.

While these mismatched creatures celebrated with drunken revelry, their brooding overlord sat enthroned at the campsite, lost in his insatiable ambitions, the bonfire magnifying the malevolence of his cold and golden glare...

It’s been about a month now since that chance encounter with the youth in forge,

Thonar had known the moment he’d seen him that it was his Son, Ovilia also agreeing to the fact. Giving up their only child seemed to have put a rift between the paired dwarfs for Thonar never had been able to forgive Ovilia’s father, though conflicted by knowing it was what was best for the child.

He paced around the small furnaces shack, in the corner seated on the hard stone bed is Ovilia her gaze following Thonar as she slowly stitches together another hole burnt in his working leathers. The smell of molten metal hangs in the air like a lingering reminder of their place in the world. “Bu’ I jus’ can’a understands it!" Thonar stammers aloud "Why would he brin’ him up lik’ dat! I swear ya damnable father jus’ wishish’s ta ‘old ova our head’s… I mean isn’t it enough da we work in dis skickin’ hole fo’ him?!” The slow burning rage that’s been building in the man vents like the steam of a hot blade in oil. The ferocity showing in his muscular arms as they bulge in an attempt to maintain composure.

Feeling sympathetic for her beloved Ovilia attempts to sooth him “Thonar, my rock take a seat.. Remember what my father does is out of the kindness of his heart.” With her words the smith explodes “Out’a kindness o’ his heart?! Is dat why he’s left ya
forgotten up ‘ere! Is dat why he force’s ya ta work da forge!!" His anger quickly boils over as spittle fly's from his mouth. "Is dat why he refuses our pleas ta see our own son our blood! Damnable hells may his beard rot an’ fall off! If dat be out’a kindness of his heart”

Ovilia is visibly shaken from his words, her eyes dropping. A profound silence hangs in the air as she scrambles for words in her head, how ever before she could think of what to say the silence is broken by a heavy knock on the door. Still brooding Thonar moves to open up.

Ovilia had not known that since that chance meeting a month earlier Thonar had begun arrangements with his old friend, you may remember the Veteran Guard out side the Ironheart Forge. His name was Geradlien Oldenton and where he to know the events that would transpire he properly wouldn’t have agreed to aid Thonar.

The door swings open quickly as Geradlien’s hand is left hanging for another knock, inside the shack stands the smoldering form of Thonar his thick hands around the frame of the door. Yet on sight of the veteran guard the smith seems to relax “Geradlien ya do ma home honor wid ya visit.” Thonars voice is still tinged with the bitterness of his outburst. He steps back to allow Geradlien to enter through the door, as Ovilia looks up from her work she's still shaken from the argument and can only muster a nod for the veteran guard.

“Why thank thee old friend, but first may I have a ale. The forge air always leaves my throat dry” Geradlien asks as he enters the small home, the Mithral axe forged by Thonar himself hanging proudly on his belt.

Knowing he had little to offer his friend but not wishing to deny him Thonar looked over to Ovilia. She gives him a nod of understanding as she lays down her work to go fetch the liquid, a foul substance which could hardly be called ale but it was all they could afford.

Taking a seat Geradlien makes him self as comfortable as he could in the harsh living conditions, his hand running down his thick brown beard before he breaks the silence “It has been arranged Thonar, and your son will receive the letter in the next
ten day” The words of the old friend silenced Thonar as Ovilia enters with a basic steel mug of dark broth, gingerly she rests it down in front of Geradlien. He thanks her with a smile before carrying on "It’d been harder than I thought and I had to call in a few
favours. It seem Graymer holds the child under close watch.” He raises the steel mug to his lips taking in a small sip before he setting it back down, his eyes locking on the contents with disgust “I can never understand why your living in such squallier, such a skilled
smith and the daughter of the clans elder” He shakes his head slowly as he takes a pity on the enforced circumstance of his friends.

Freki would be coming close adult hood now, turning 39 this year. Thonar had promised himself that he would, regardless of the cost or the risk get in touch with his son. He didn’t wish for him to grow older with out meeting his true blood. This is why he asked Geradlien to pass a letter on to his son, it now all he had to do was wait and pray to Moradin that his boy would follow the letters instruction.

Having completed a long day in the halls of study Freki begun his travel home. Though not a long walk it was one of some trouble. For as he grew older the physical differences became more apparent between him self and the other dwarfs. This had begun to draw unwanted attention in the form of taunting and often fights with fellow youths. Some making crude remarks about his tanner skin oft taunting him about being a surface dweller. While others focused more the lack of family, while he had a foster father they knew that it was only in name. Freki hurried through this ritual daily but refused to speak up. Being one to proud and feeling pity on those taunting him.

So tired from the days reading, the last thing he wanted to see was a letter in his private quarters. How ever something about it seemed strange and it compelled him to read it, the letter wrote.

Freki,

Your going to have to forgive me for my writing. Is not the best and my words not the easiest to read but you must read them and understand.

As you know your not Graymers son, how ever you are his blood. He wont tell you but he has a daughter, your mother. I write to you because dispite being removed from us at a young age I can see you’ve inherited a measure of my blood, you must understand its not something I’d wished to happen but I fear the worst may happen as you grow older. I don’t wish my life on you nor on any other dwarf.

My words are limited so I ask you please seek me out so I may explain in full detail to you, tell no one of this and burn the letter when done if Graymer finds out only the Brothers Up High will know what he will do.

I’ll be waiting for you out the back of Ironheart Forge every Midnight from now till the turning of the seasons.

Moradin be with you my child,
Your Father THONAR

He’d battled with the information he’d received for a while before deciding that it’ll be the best to make he most of chance he had been granted. So he’d waited for the later eve till he departed up to the forge area.

With a gentle hand the young dwarf Freki pushed open his chamber door, the steel moving noisily over the stone floor. Gritting his teeth for stealth had never been a strong suit for burly dwarf, his broad shoulders and stunted legs moving more like a rhino than a mountain lion. “Guurmm” He lets out a low grunt whilst he squeezed through the narrow space he’d make for him self.

So with a quick step and sweated brow he paced through the halls up toward the Forge quarter. He knew that the time was not on his side yet he had hoped that the man whom had written the letter was still there.

“I thought I had told you” The muffled voice echoed through the tight passages in the smoke filled night, a fog had settled in heavily obscuring the stars from sight. Freki slowed his half jog to a stalking walk as he realized the sound came from where he was going.

A grimace lined the face of the stout dwarf as the wet sound steel on flesh slithers from just ahead, it is shortly followed by another and then another. Not sure what to make of it Freki holds his breath slowly crawling closer whilst the fear begins to rise. With a careful leer he looks around the corner to spot a man being held by two armored guards, with a another obscured from sight save his bloodied fist.

“After all the help I'd given you, you go and do this?” Frekis eyes flash as recognizes the sound of Graymers voice "I gave you a place when no other would, I gave food when no other would. I gave you LOVE when no other would!" an unfamiliar voice breaks back through a splatter of blood and pain "He be ma son... ya ain' guna be changin' dat"

Freki sat silenced for a long time in the darkness of the forges. The night providing cover for the youth as the beating continued. Suddenly there was silence, afraid to do anything Freki stayed still. Immersed in the shadows as the sound of the feet echoed away from him. After a while of waiting he spurned the courage, so with a face wet with tears he bolted toward the battered and blooded figure on the ground. "Are you alright?" Frekis voice battles through his emotions as he recognizes the man as the smith from the foundry. Through his blooded face the mortally wounded man offers the youth a smile as he gargles out through blooded breath "Ya came...ma...lad..."

From there on, Freki grew more and more recluse in Graymers hold. Spending more time with face in book that would make even some of the most stout dwarven Archivists feel a manor of shame. His mind was made up, the memories of that night haunted him yet he knew he had to bide his time.