Ocoma
06-10-2006, 11:07 AM
I wrote up a story on my characters background for our guild boards/lore and thought I'd post it here as well. I hope any who read it enjoy, its the first piece of creative writing I've done in quite some time and it felt good to get the old noggin working again. Feel free to post any critiques, comments, compliments I'm always looking for ways to better my writing style.
Edit: Text is too long so I'll break it into 2 parts. :D
Ocoma's Tale:
Silvery shafts of moonlight gently fell through the darkened canopy of the trees over Ocoma's head providing just the barest minimum of illumination. Not that he really needed the moon's light to find his way. These forests had been his playground for all of his fifteen years of age. He know them and when required he knew how to move through them with a grace and silence that would make even an elf envious. From a clearing in the trees ahead he began to hear the muffled whispers of a conversation. Being as careful as possible to make no sound and betray his presence, he crept up behind some brush on the very outskirts and peered into the clearing.
About twenty feet infront of him he could see four individuals faintly outlined by the light of two small lanterns set on the ground in the middle of them. Directly ahead with his broad muscular back toward him, Ocoma recognized the grey streaked black hair of his father. His mother stood beside him hand in hand as they talked to two other dwarves Ocoma had never seen before. These strange dwarves stood slightly shorter then either of his parents. They also didn't have the same stockiness of build to them. Instead of the bulging muscles so prononced and defined in his parents these dwarves had a sinewy hardness to their bodies which made them look almost malnurished in comparison. They wore simple short sleeved leather tunics and pants held up by leather belts with silver buckles in the form of a sigil Ocoma was not familiar with. Every inch of exposed flesh from their hands to their face was covered in black markings and runes, though from his place of concealment he couldn't tell if they were merely drawn on with charcoal or were of some sort of permenant tattoo. He'd seen tattoos before dwarves of various clans were known to get one or two from time to time. Of all the dwarves he knew of only the despicable Svartdvergir were known to cover their bodies in such a fashion as these had though. He could hardly believe his eyes Svartdvergir here in this part of the country and his parents were talking to them! Ocoma practically held his breath as he stained to listen to the conversation his parents were having with these abominations.
"....so we are in agreement then?" It was one of the Svartdvergir speaking. "We shall supply you with a small fortune in mithril and raudstaal. You and your families will get safely outta town before we hit it."
Ocoma's father answered, "Aye and afterward we shall be able to return to our homes and continue our trade with your people as well as act as intermediaries for the sale of your own goods to the humans correct?"
"Aye that is correct. We have our deal then. You must remember to slip the sleeping agent into the ale of the front gate's guards, toast with them to your safe journey as you leave the city and make absolutely certain the front gate remains open after you leave. Our scouts will be waiting just outside. Once they see you leave and that the gates remain open they shall secure the front gate and we'll procede from there."
"All is in agreeance then, tomorrow night when the moon reaches the height of its nightly climb we will do as you say. Ofcourse if your plan should fail we'll deny any knowledge or involvement of any kind."
"Hahaha of course you will. We would expect no less. Just do what you are told and let us worry about the rest our plan will not fail." This from the second Svartdvergir.
With that Ocoma's father reached forward and clasped the extended forearm of the Svartdvergir whom Ocoma had originally heard speaking. The Svartdvergir returned the gesture clasping onto his father's forearm in the traditional dwarven shake of greeting and farewell. Ocoma's mother picked up one of the lanterns and hand in hand she and his father walked outta the clearing back toward their home. The two Svartdvergir took the other latern and walked away in the opposite direction. Ocoma stayed rooted in his place of hiding as the light from the lantern carried by the Svartdvergir slowly dwindled away and quickly disippeared altogether swallowed up by the darkness of the surrounding forest. Even then he still didn't move for some time completely in shook by what he had just witnessed. His parents were not only Svartdvergir sympathizers they were going to help those scum take over the town! It was just to much for him to believe.
Eventually when he found he could move again, Ocoma started making his way back home. His mind was screaming for him to just wake up this had to be some kind of horrible nightmare and if he could just wake up he'd find himself safely home in bed, everything ok, the whole thing just a figment of his imagination. As much as he may have wished it was so he knew this was no nightmare and he knew what he had to do.
Ocoma opened the entrance of his darkened home and quietly entered. He had taken enough time returning home that he could already hear the course snoring of his father asleep in the next room. Walking over to the door to his parent's room he stared at the mighty battle axe his father kept hanging on the wall just beside. The polished head reflected what little light entered the house through the windows sending tiny fragments of irridenscence danceing across Ocoma's face. As he lifted the axe off its resting place he touched each of the three button-like embossments of mythril, raudstaal, and ymirsmerke that were worked into its mighty head. A brief payer to ask for guidance and forgiveness for what he was about to do accompanied each reverent touch of the three holy emblems. Surely the great dwarven god Ymir whom the symbols represented would understand why he was about to do what he was.
Slowly pushing in the door, Ocoma peered into the softly light bedchambers of his parents. He was grateful he didn't have to worry about squeeky hinges as he timidly opened the door further till he could see fully inside. No dwarf worth a salt would allow such blatant neglegence as to permit the hinges of their homes doors to squeek. The light of a small oil burning latern on the table beside his parent's bed provided the room with a bare illumination, enough for him to just make out the form of his parents. He crept up to the edge of the bed and stared down at his sleeping parents. His father lay closest, a slight frown etched onto his faced showed that whatever he was dreaming of it wasn't the most pleasant. Standing this close his fathers snoring had the quality of thunder. As he had in the past Ocoma wondered how his mother was able to sleep at all beside such noise. She rested beside his father breathing softly with a tranquil expression on her face. Standing over them looking down on their resting forms, he almost lost the courage to do what he knew he had to. He simply couldn't go through with it and turned halfway about to leave the room. A quick flashback to the meeting in the forest and yet another prayer to Ymir steadied and reinforced his resolve. He could do and would do this. There was no other choice.
Setting himself in a solid stance, he lifted the axe high over head. His father would have to be the first. There was no doubt whomever wasn't the first target would awake the instant he brought the axe crashing down into the bed. While his mother was as fearsome an opponent as any dwarf when cornered, she wasn't the battle hardened warrior his father was. The axe wavered in the air for just a second as another bout of guilt passed through him. Then with a scream of defiance and self-loathing, he brought the massive head of the axe down into the exposed neck of his father. The sleeping warrior's eyes snapped open as the first sounds escaped Ocoma's mouth and fixed themselves upon his son. He didn't have time to move though for even as they did so the razor sharp edge of the axe bit down into his neck and continued until it had neatly severed his head from the rest of his body. A crimson spray spewed forth covering everything in a small radius. Even in death the eyes remained fixed on him as he tore the axe free of the bed and raised it over head again. His mother sat bolt upright in the bed when he bellowed and mouthed something as she watched the head of her husband freed from its body. What it was she said Ocoma didn't know unable to hear it over his own screams. She sat there for the breifest of moments in apparent shock covered as he was himself in the hot blood of of his father then began to incoherently wail and struggled to free herself of the bedcovers and get to her feet. He gave her no time to do so though and with a second swing brought the axe down. Abruptly cutting off her screams, it swung down into her skull. Cleaving her nearly in two the axe embedded itself in her torso sending bits of flesh, bone and brain matter to rain down all around.
Releasing the handle of the axe, Ocoma stared at the ruined mess that was his parents. Multicolored gore covered him and dripped down onto the floor with a sickening plop. He then turned and ran screaming from his home into the darkness of the night. The town guard would never believe his story and he had no doubt the Svartdvergir would have set up similar meetings with others of the town incase his parents had refused their offer. The town of his birth would fall tomorrow night and there was nothing he could do but run. As he ran the shrieks of his mother followed him echoing in his head and he could still feel his fathers eyes fixed upon him staring accusingly....
Edit: Text is too long so I'll break it into 2 parts. :D
Ocoma's Tale:
Silvery shafts of moonlight gently fell through the darkened canopy of the trees over Ocoma's head providing just the barest minimum of illumination. Not that he really needed the moon's light to find his way. These forests had been his playground for all of his fifteen years of age. He know them and when required he knew how to move through them with a grace and silence that would make even an elf envious. From a clearing in the trees ahead he began to hear the muffled whispers of a conversation. Being as careful as possible to make no sound and betray his presence, he crept up behind some brush on the very outskirts and peered into the clearing.
About twenty feet infront of him he could see four individuals faintly outlined by the light of two small lanterns set on the ground in the middle of them. Directly ahead with his broad muscular back toward him, Ocoma recognized the grey streaked black hair of his father. His mother stood beside him hand in hand as they talked to two other dwarves Ocoma had never seen before. These strange dwarves stood slightly shorter then either of his parents. They also didn't have the same stockiness of build to them. Instead of the bulging muscles so prononced and defined in his parents these dwarves had a sinewy hardness to their bodies which made them look almost malnurished in comparison. They wore simple short sleeved leather tunics and pants held up by leather belts with silver buckles in the form of a sigil Ocoma was not familiar with. Every inch of exposed flesh from their hands to their face was covered in black markings and runes, though from his place of concealment he couldn't tell if they were merely drawn on with charcoal or were of some sort of permenant tattoo. He'd seen tattoos before dwarves of various clans were known to get one or two from time to time. Of all the dwarves he knew of only the despicable Svartdvergir were known to cover their bodies in such a fashion as these had though. He could hardly believe his eyes Svartdvergir here in this part of the country and his parents were talking to them! Ocoma practically held his breath as he stained to listen to the conversation his parents were having with these abominations.
"....so we are in agreement then?" It was one of the Svartdvergir speaking. "We shall supply you with a small fortune in mithril and raudstaal. You and your families will get safely outta town before we hit it."
Ocoma's father answered, "Aye and afterward we shall be able to return to our homes and continue our trade with your people as well as act as intermediaries for the sale of your own goods to the humans correct?"
"Aye that is correct. We have our deal then. You must remember to slip the sleeping agent into the ale of the front gate's guards, toast with them to your safe journey as you leave the city and make absolutely certain the front gate remains open after you leave. Our scouts will be waiting just outside. Once they see you leave and that the gates remain open they shall secure the front gate and we'll procede from there."
"All is in agreeance then, tomorrow night when the moon reaches the height of its nightly climb we will do as you say. Ofcourse if your plan should fail we'll deny any knowledge or involvement of any kind."
"Hahaha of course you will. We would expect no less. Just do what you are told and let us worry about the rest our plan will not fail." This from the second Svartdvergir.
With that Ocoma's father reached forward and clasped the extended forearm of the Svartdvergir whom Ocoma had originally heard speaking. The Svartdvergir returned the gesture clasping onto his father's forearm in the traditional dwarven shake of greeting and farewell. Ocoma's mother picked up one of the lanterns and hand in hand she and his father walked outta the clearing back toward their home. The two Svartdvergir took the other latern and walked away in the opposite direction. Ocoma stayed rooted in his place of hiding as the light from the lantern carried by the Svartdvergir slowly dwindled away and quickly disippeared altogether swallowed up by the darkness of the surrounding forest. Even then he still didn't move for some time completely in shook by what he had just witnessed. His parents were not only Svartdvergir sympathizers they were going to help those scum take over the town! It was just to much for him to believe.
Eventually when he found he could move again, Ocoma started making his way back home. His mind was screaming for him to just wake up this had to be some kind of horrible nightmare and if he could just wake up he'd find himself safely home in bed, everything ok, the whole thing just a figment of his imagination. As much as he may have wished it was so he knew this was no nightmare and he knew what he had to do.
Ocoma opened the entrance of his darkened home and quietly entered. He had taken enough time returning home that he could already hear the course snoring of his father asleep in the next room. Walking over to the door to his parent's room he stared at the mighty battle axe his father kept hanging on the wall just beside. The polished head reflected what little light entered the house through the windows sending tiny fragments of irridenscence danceing across Ocoma's face. As he lifted the axe off its resting place he touched each of the three button-like embossments of mythril, raudstaal, and ymirsmerke that were worked into its mighty head. A brief payer to ask for guidance and forgiveness for what he was about to do accompanied each reverent touch of the three holy emblems. Surely the great dwarven god Ymir whom the symbols represented would understand why he was about to do what he was.
Slowly pushing in the door, Ocoma peered into the softly light bedchambers of his parents. He was grateful he didn't have to worry about squeeky hinges as he timidly opened the door further till he could see fully inside. No dwarf worth a salt would allow such blatant neglegence as to permit the hinges of their homes doors to squeek. The light of a small oil burning latern on the table beside his parent's bed provided the room with a bare illumination, enough for him to just make out the form of his parents. He crept up to the edge of the bed and stared down at his sleeping parents. His father lay closest, a slight frown etched onto his faced showed that whatever he was dreaming of it wasn't the most pleasant. Standing this close his fathers snoring had the quality of thunder. As he had in the past Ocoma wondered how his mother was able to sleep at all beside such noise. She rested beside his father breathing softly with a tranquil expression on her face. Standing over them looking down on their resting forms, he almost lost the courage to do what he knew he had to. He simply couldn't go through with it and turned halfway about to leave the room. A quick flashback to the meeting in the forest and yet another prayer to Ymir steadied and reinforced his resolve. He could do and would do this. There was no other choice.
Setting himself in a solid stance, he lifted the axe high over head. His father would have to be the first. There was no doubt whomever wasn't the first target would awake the instant he brought the axe crashing down into the bed. While his mother was as fearsome an opponent as any dwarf when cornered, she wasn't the battle hardened warrior his father was. The axe wavered in the air for just a second as another bout of guilt passed through him. Then with a scream of defiance and self-loathing, he brought the massive head of the axe down into the exposed neck of his father. The sleeping warrior's eyes snapped open as the first sounds escaped Ocoma's mouth and fixed themselves upon his son. He didn't have time to move though for even as they did so the razor sharp edge of the axe bit down into his neck and continued until it had neatly severed his head from the rest of his body. A crimson spray spewed forth covering everything in a small radius. Even in death the eyes remained fixed on him as he tore the axe free of the bed and raised it over head again. His mother sat bolt upright in the bed when he bellowed and mouthed something as she watched the head of her husband freed from its body. What it was she said Ocoma didn't know unable to hear it over his own screams. She sat there for the breifest of moments in apparent shock covered as he was himself in the hot blood of of his father then began to incoherently wail and struggled to free herself of the bedcovers and get to her feet. He gave her no time to do so though and with a second swing brought the axe down. Abruptly cutting off her screams, it swung down into her skull. Cleaving her nearly in two the axe embedded itself in her torso sending bits of flesh, bone and brain matter to rain down all around.
Releasing the handle of the axe, Ocoma stared at the ruined mess that was his parents. Multicolored gore covered him and dripped down onto the floor with a sickening plop. He then turned and ran screaming from his home into the darkness of the night. The town guard would never believe his story and he had no doubt the Svartdvergir would have set up similar meetings with others of the town incase his parents had refused their offer. The town of his birth would fall tomorrow night and there was nothing he could do but run. As he ran the shrieks of his mother followed him echoing in his head and he could still feel his fathers eyes fixed upon him staring accusingly....