Ar dtús, BC 0000, Year of Judgment
*Distant shouting echos in the mind of the fallen
Plop.
Sire! Stand back!
Plop.
Bastard! Come at me!
Plop.
Water meanders down the shattered cliff. Crawling along the juts of rock, the cracks in the surface. Nothing perturbs it to its eventual resting place.
Plop.
A battered warrior lays wedged within a stony maul. Earthen teeth pierce through the warrior's runic protections. The jaws shake as if with anticipation to devour, to feed.
Plop.
The warrior comes to and howls in pain. Bloodshot eyes scan left and right. Smells of fresh earth and spring water remind him where and, most importantly, why he's in this predicament. He moves a finger, a toe, then he tries an arm. Another howl escapes his lips.
He thinks, "Blast it all! I'm stuck! I have to get out of here! The Árd rígh needs me! Those Ogres will…"
Plop.
"Dyorr's anvil! Of course! Tumble down a freckin cliff and end up in the one…"
Plop.
"Blast it all!"
The warrior takes a breath when another quake shakes the crevasse. He lets out another howl as his wounds tear a little more. He looks up in vain to spot the entrance, searching for anyone or thing. The maul opens, releasing the warrior, deciding it would rather swallow its captive whole.
Splash!
The warrior plummets into the underground stream below and collides with the bottom. His head slams against fallen debris and floats to the surface where the icy water carries him along like a funeral procession. At this depth, not even the Domhainn clan would discover his corpse on their expeditions to the deep.
"Unconscious, defeated, and bleeding out, a quite bitter end to this royal guardsman's story," a voice speaks out, "but no, my dear son, I have different plans than what lady fate has dealt you."
The current begins to shift as it rounds a bend and deposits the warrior onto a smooth stone like beach. A figure approaches and grabs hold of him. The warrior is dragged away from his fate and into deeper shadows.
#
Ding!
The warrior groans.
Ding!
"Ugh, for the love of," he says under his breath.
Ding!
Rubbing his eyes, he sits up and straightens his beard. A familiar smell of coal dust and molten iron pervades his nostrils. Unease begins to settle on him as his memory and present situation don't match up.
Ding!
"Ah Böb, you're awake, good to have you among the living," a figure says.
As his eyes adjust, Böb stands posed to engage in hand-to-hand. With a glance, Böb finds himself in a small workshop gently warmed by a furnace. The walls are a mixture of stone and wood with a low ceiling. Among the tools and piles of materials are incomplete projects and finished weapons of master craftsmanship.
"No need for alarm, my son," the figure says. He lays down his hammer on the anvil and walks over to a barrel and quenches the hot metal in his hand.
"O? should I assume you're my savior then, cause you're certainly not me dad, stranger." The figure before Böb is completely covered in soot with the only distinguishing clothing being a leather apron and goggles over his eyes. "Who are you and where am I?"
"I hope you don't mind; I took some liberty with maintenance and repairing your hammer." The stranger turns around and lifts up a longhammer from a workbench. "The head was still in good shape, but I gave it a new haft with fresh wrappings. I even added a few decorative engravings to give it a little spice."
"You still haven't answered me, stranger. Who are you? I appreciate what you've done, but we're not friends"
"Friends? No, but you are familiar with me. Why else would you have my insignia tattooed on your chest, hmm?" The stranger winks at Böb over his shoulder.
"Tattoo?" Böb thinks to himself.
"Dyorr," Böb says in a whisper upon realization.
"You can call me Wu Jen," he says as he walks around the anvil holding up the weapon.
Dumbstruck, Böb then looks at his hands and realizes that his body isn't covered by any bandages.
"It's like I was never injured, as if the events prior have seemingly been erased?" Böb thinks.
"Dyorr…Wu Jen, why? A'chiad Dachaigh has fallen. Our home was raided, and the walls began to shake then the ceiling collapsed on top of us. Everyone: the women, the children, my kinsmen. They're all gone, they're all dead! Tell me! Why did you forsake us?!"
Wu Jen stops in place and lowers the ornate weapon. His eyes cast down. "There are things in this world that even we gods have to abide by, my son. Above, on the surface, the human Isbalians threw off the balance, and we gods aided them in that venture. We believed that a world could exist without evil, malice, or hatred. Instead, all we did was create our own monster in the light," Wu Jen moves to a nearby chair and sits, "We were charged to right our wrongs, to rebuke the Kingpriest and the people of Isbalia. After today, we—the gods—can no longer interact with you mortals as we once did. You'll be left to fend for yourselves with only a select few who'll be our beacons carrying the blessing."
"So those quakes that brought down A'chiad Dachaigh, those came from…"
"Yes, that was the aftershock of their judgment."
"But how's all this have to do with us, the Itheadair Fala, your own children."
"My hands were tied, Böb, as much as it saddens me to say so. My children are on their own."
"Then why am I alive! Why didn't you let me die in those waters? Did you save me just so you could ease your own heart!?"
"No, my son. In my last actions on this world, I want to impart a mission: find the Árd rígh, complete what is unfinished, and bring stability to my children. This new age will be a time of trouble, bloodshed, and despair for you all," Wu Jen then looks up as if noticing something, "it seems our time is up. May your hammer strike true and your drink never spill, my son."
Wu Jen stands and tosses a small object toward Böb. Böb instinctually catches it and finds himself suddenly surrounded by darkness. Flowing water, behind him, fills his ears as his eyes adjust to the absence of light. Böb looks at the object tossed to him.
"It's my flask…son of a bitch," he takes a deep swig before storing it in his pouch.