It had been a good week by the Silver River. The weirs Wyvrae had set snared a goodly amount of fish, allowing her to smoke and salt several casks of yellow pans, red trout and quipper. Hunting along the shallows of the banksides had also been successful as well, rewarding her with nightly meals of mudsuckers and crawfish as she tended the weirs and prepared the catches which would prove invaluable that coming winter. Her kin would not go hungry when the snows returned.
Her kin.
There were so few of them anymore, and what reminded were all nestled in the hills at the edge of the Whispering Wood. The territory was originally lands claimed by the Rusthollow Gnomes, but those small folk had allowed Wyvrae’s kin to live there for several generations now, at least since Rheyghar the Savage had been banished from Egrin’s Forge, stripping the entire clan of their status in the Forgehold. Stripping them of their honor and forcing all of the clan to accept exile.
All this had happened many years ago, long before Wyvrae was born certainly. Before the Goblin Wars which had made Rheyghar famous. Yet it was this which defined so much of Wyvrae and her kin’s existence. She was still considered young by the standards of her fellow Hill Dwarf kin. Still a few years shy of her fiftieth birthday. Even though she was young, many of her family had come to rely upon her and her skills. She had a reputation for being one of the best among the hunters, fishers, and foragers in the valley and her labors were known for feeding many families and households dwelling there. She was proud of that, though she carried herself with a practical sense of humility.
She smiled and hummed to herself, pulling the barrier stakes he had placed in the shallows of the river, sticking to the hillside bank of the waterway and staying away from the human claimed lands on the opposite shore. As she gathered her guide cloths and basket traps one last time she was very pleased that her efforts this season had been so well rewarded. Her rams, Tarry and Toil, would be hauling back one of the largest river harvests she had ever caught. Wyvrae rewarded herself by roasting one of the red trout that night for her supper. In the morn it would be time to take her catch back home. She made sure the rams were secured then camped against her wagon one last night. She slept well, until the rain.
The dawn brought a soft and steady rain. It was unexpected but not so heavy it would prevent travel. Wyvrae quickly hitched Tarry and Toil to the small wagon loaded with casks of salted fish and headed for home at a leisurely pace. The valley was only about four miles from the her camp by the Silver River so there seemed no need to hurry. She did not expect the rain to make the path too difficult provided she was careful. If the rain got heavier however, it might maker her heavy load difficult to pull should the path become muddy. Normally the journey took about an hour, but the wet conditions and her concerns for the Rams caused this trip home to take twice as long, the fog and the damp growing heavier the closer she got to her destination.
Wyvrae’s first clue something was wrong was the tang of heavy acrid smoke which lingered within the fog about a mile outside her village. She urged the rams to pull with as much haste as she could risk, the path squelching and splashing as the small cart bounced swiftly along. The smoky haze thickened the fog, clinging to the ground in the wet weather, its acrid stench growing stronger as she traveled. Her worry increased with each turn of the wagon wheel as she drew closer to her destination.
When Wyvrae arrived at the valley where her kin lived, she was greeted by a devastating scene of destruction. Each small farmstead was a shouldering ruin. There was an eerie silence. Nothing had been spared, be it dwarf or beast. The fields which had not been burnt were trampled apart and the late season crops smashed into the mud. Nothing survived. She found herself alone amid the ruin of her ransacked home.
Immediately she began to search for what might remain.
The rain and ensuing mud had obscured some facts of the raid any had preserved others. Wyvrae had the impression the attack had occurred roughly about midnight the night before. The tracks scattered all about were deep and resembled an animals paw more than it did a booted figure, so she felt this was not the work of goblins or Langre barbarians. These were larger, heavier predators, hunting in a sizable pack. Gnolls, she guessed, maybe a many as twenty or more. They had slipped out of the Whispering Wood, sacked the valley, and slunk back into the forest all before dawn.
They left nothing living behind them. Wyvrae was alone, the last of her clan.
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Wyvrae’s Tale
It had been a good week by the Silver River. The weirs Wyvrae had set snared a goodly amount of fish, allowing her to smoke and salt several casks of yellow pans, red trout and quipper. Hunting along the shallows of the banksides had also been successful as well, rewarding her with nightly meals of mudsuckers and crawfish as she tended the weirs and prepared the catches which would prove invaluable that coming winter. Her kin would not go hungry when the snows returned.
Her kin.
There were so few of them anymore, and what reminded were all nestled in the hills at the edge of the Whispering Wood. The territory was originally lands claimed by the Rusthollow Gnomes, but those small folk had allowed Wyvrae’s kin to live there for several generations now, at least since Rheyghar the Savage had been banished from Egrin’s Forge, stripping the entire clan of their status in the Forgehold. Stripping them of their honor and forcing all of the clan to accept exile.
All this had happened many years ago, long before Wyvrae was born certainly. Before the Goblin Wars which had made Rheyghar famous. Yet it was this which defined so much of Wyvrae and her kin’s existence. She was still considered young by the standards of her fellow Hill Dwarf kin. Still a few years shy of her fiftieth birthday. Even though she was young, many of her family had come to rely upon her and her skills. She had a reputation for being one of the best among the hunters, fishers, and foragers in the valley and her labors were known for feeding many families and households dwelling there. She was proud of that, though she carried herself with a practical sense of humility.
She smiled and hummed to herself, pulling the barrier stakes he had placed in the shallows of the river, sticking to the hillside bank of the waterway and staying away from the human claimed lands on the opposite shore. As she gathered her guide cloths and basket traps one last time she was very pleased that her efforts this season had been so well rewarded. Her rams, Tarry and Toil, would be hauling back one of the largest river harvests she had ever caught. Wyvrae rewarded herself by roasting one of the red trout that night for her supper. In the morn it would be time to take her catch back home. She made sure the rams were secured then camped against her wagon one last night. She slept well, until the rain.
The dawn brought a soft and steady rain. It was unexpected but not so heavy it would prevent travel. Wyvrae quickly hitched Tarry and Toil to the small wagon loaded with casks of salted fish and headed for home at a leisurely pace. The valley was only about four miles from the her camp by the Silver River so there seemed no need to hurry. She did not expect the rain to make the path too difficult provided she was careful. If the rain got heavier however, it might maker her heavy load difficult to pull should the path become muddy. Normally the journey took about an hour, but the wet conditions and her concerns for the Rams caused this trip home to take twice as long, the fog and the damp growing heavier the closer she got to her destination.
Wyvrae’s first clue something was wrong was the tang of heavy acrid smoke which lingered within the fog about a mile outside her village. She urged the rams to pull with as much haste as she could risk, the path squelching and splashing as the small cart bounced swiftly along. The smoky haze thickened the fog, clinging to the ground in the wet weather, its acrid stench growing stronger as she traveled. Her worry increased with each turn of the wagon wheel as she drew closer to her destination.
When Wyvrae arrived at the valley where her kin lived, she was greeted by a devastating scene of destruction. Each small farmstead was a shouldering ruin. There was an eerie silence. Nothing had been spared, be it dwarf or beast. The fields which had not been burnt were trampled apart and the late season crops smashed into the mud. Nothing survived. She found herself alone amid the ruin of her ransacked home.
Immediately she began to search for what might remain.
The rain and ensuing mud had obscured some facts of the raid any had preserved others. Wyvrae had the impression the attack had occurred roughly about midnight the night before. The tracks scattered all about were deep and resembled an animals paw more than it did a booted figure, so she felt this was not the work of goblins or Langre barbarians. These were larger, heavier predators, hunting in a sizable pack. Gnolls, she guessed, maybe a many as twenty or more. They had slipped out of the Whispering Wood, sacked the valley, and slunk back into the forest all before dawn.
They left nothing living behind them. Wyvrae was alone, the last of her clan.