#orocarni

Sending out some sketches into to void!

King Mae of clan ironfist ,pre coronation (L) and after slightly older after a long battle (R)

The herald’s foot barely made it from the threshold before the door was slammed shut in his face. Rain like needles dampened the collar of his rich cloak and stung the exposed flesh of his cheeks, and his feet had frozen into numb blocks of ice. Already his presence was starting to turn heads. The Men of Esgaroth were a wary folk: anyone out of the ordinary was immediately noticed, and he had been questioned enough on his passage into this forgotten little town on the Lake. He caught the eye of a fish-peddler and quickly averted his gaze, at a loss for what to do. He cleared his throat and tried once more. “Your— Prin— my Lord…” he said loudly, gritting his teeth and glancing over his shoulder. It wouldn’t do to bring attention to his mission. “Ignig!” He was still waiting, then. The voice that had told him to leave was cold and commanding, roughened perhaps with lack of sleep. When the herald had caught a momentary glimpse of the prince’s face, his hair was dishevelled and he was dressed simply in an unbuttoned shirt, loose trousers and his eyes were glassy. Despite the inclement weather, it was, however, midday. What was he doing here? “Then take my missive, my Lord,” he called back, “and then I can at least leave you in peace. Do what you will, but read the message. Your decision is… yours.” He could do no more. The door opened slightly and a hand darted out. In one quick motion, the parchment, sealed tightly with a stamp of royal wax, was ripped from his hand before he had time to think, and once more he was left on the doorstep. Sighing in resignation, he turned to leave, signalling the member of the Royal Household bodyguard who was waiting carefully out of sight to follow him. “How long do we wait?” the guard asked tentatively once they were out of earshot. “A week,” replied the herald, “and if he doesn’t come… then we return to the East.”

—

Steam rose from their bodies as they huddled around the table in the corner of the pub. The scent of rotting, damp wood permeated the close air, mixed with stale beer and the whiff of cattle. A few broken lanterns provided light to see by, and visible through the press of bodies around the bar were the bright flames of a roaring hearth. They were out of the rain at least. The young prince’s dwelling, if you could call it such, had a hole in the roof and a bucket on the floor. Four Men and the dwarf slept in two rooms, and it was bitterly cold. “Why live like this, my Lord?” he questioned gently, peering at Prince Fara, the heir to the throne of Nazbukhrin. The dwarf had his late father’s bearing — a stern expression, square shoulders, intense, dark eyes and skin, and a full beard that fell down to his mid-chest, plaited and tied. His mouth twisted in indignation. “It is better than living in Nazbukhrin. Anywhere, even here, is better than living under the corruption that my father has brought to our kingdom.” “But,” said the herald, choosing his words delicately, “the Iron Hills is not so far away. Surely you could have lodged with Lord Dáin? It would be… ah…” What could he say? It would be better than living like a pig in a pen? Slumming with Men who had not even a bronze coin to their name, where in the East, Prince Fara had untold riches waiting for him? The dwarf’s eyes softened in the candlelight. The anger had drained out of them, leaving them bereft of any emotion. “Lodge with dwarves who would look down on me for leaving my homeland? And what would they then say about the runaway prince, who forsook everything? Weakness—” Prince Fara drew in a shuddering breath, gnashing his teeth together. “It was weakness, they would assume. But they didn’t know… you do not know… what it was like to live in that palace. To know what my father was truly like. Imprisoning. Exploiting. Threatening. Frittering away the kingdom’s wealth. Oh yes— I know Nazbukhrin is breaking apart, its grand facade falling away to expose the decay within. He’s left the people with nothing.” The herald was silent. His loyalty had always lain with the Crown, but couldn’t argue with the Prince when he was so obviously right. “So you came here instead. Why Esgaroth?” he asked. Fara shrugged, fixing the herald with a measured gaze. “I just… came here. Fell in with some of the Men who were causing upset to the Master’s injustice, and I stayed. A few dwarves still work in these parts, but most are transient. Passing through. Nobody knows who I am or where I come from. No tainted gold from my father’s vaults to weigh on me. That is how I wanted it.” He couldn’t help but laugh. “Causing upset? Have you dedicated your life to causing trouble for the past fifty years, then?” The young prince smiled wryly. “Injustice isn’t just a plague that Nazbukhrin has. It is everywhere, ground into every town and city and village like dirt. Here, the nobles exploit the workers, who have barely enough means to survive. Like somewhere I left a long time ago.”

PALISOR REGIONS MOODBOARDS - [XV] Lurs Vorganis

Covering much of the northeastern part of Endor's East-plain, Lurs Vorganís was the homeland of the Vorgani, a Tyran-speaking tribal confederation renowned for their ability to exploit and slaughter vast numbers of large game. Huge herds of grazing beasts lived throughout the region.

For more information about the Vorgani folk, check this post.

“What is East, d’you think? Of East, I mean.”

It was not a busy watch for the two Guards of the High Tower in Ghomal. The sun glinted pallidly beneath a web of spidery cloud-threads, shadows dappling the valley that flanked the great Azuladun river. It led away from the Red Mountains and into the Eastern Sea, which was a calm, flat grey, with barely a breeze rippling its surface today.

Manir wrinkled their nose and adjusted the strap underneath their helmet. “What do you mean, East of East?” they replied, turning to Zairab. “I mean,” said Zairab heavily, with the air of a dwarf trying to find anything to talk about to pass the time crawling slowly by, “what’s out there?” They raised their pike vaguely in front of them, indicating the scenery outside the arched window of the High Tower, past the great brass telescope that pointed towards the coastline. “That’s the sea.” “No,” Zairab said again, “I mean beyond the sea.”

The other guard considered this for a moment. Had they even pondered what could possibly be out there? Manir had been a Guard of the High Tower for sixty years, eyes scanning the lands outside of the Red Mountains. The threat of pirates in these days of peace were minimal, but there were always meant to be two guards on watch here at all times. Smugglers were eager to find any chink in dwarven armour, and though the Western threat from Mordor had been dealt with many years ago, the dwarven memory remained long. But out there… out there…

“Well… more sea?” Manir offered tentatively. They didn’t think that would satisfy Zairab, whose active imagination Manir had become accustomed to. “No,” the other dwarf said sternly, “can’t be. What — you think the sea just continues forever? It would… well, it would run out of water, for a start.” Manir shrugged and checked the chronometer on the wall that told of the position of the tide and the celestial bodies. The sun was in the fourth house, and they still had another three hours to go until they were relieved. “I think—” Oh, here we go… “I think that there must be something else. A new land, undiscovered. I’ve heard tell of somewhere called the Dark Lands — but I remember reading that those were destroyed long ago in some upheaval before the Third Age.” Manir hummed thoughtfully. “Aye, probably,” they mumbled. The awkward silence between the guards returned. Manir fiddled with the high, purple collar of their tunic that peeked out of their gilded scale mail, inspected the star point of their helm in the reflection from the telescope, and brushed away some dust that had gathered on the face of the Ghomali banner that stood in the corner of the room, a white star in a circle of gold. “Or sea monsters.” “Really, Zairab?” Manir couldn’t help themself. They had spent half of their lives looking at the water, and the most action they had ever seen was a bloated, dead whale carcass being ripped apart by a pack of sharks. “Why not?” Zairab retorted, turning to Manir defiantly. “Who do you know who’s seen one?” Manir knew they were just indulging their companion, even though getting into a nonsensical argument this early in the day wasn’t high on their list of priorities. “Some of the sailors at Port Nazbukhrin have said they’ve seen many-tentacled beasties before, with bodies like squids large enough to sink whole cargo ships!” Zairab said emphatically. “Right.” “Don’t see you coming up with a better idea.” “I don’t need a better idea,” Manir said softly, every syllable forcing patience, “because I don’t care. We’re Guards of the High Tower. Not explorers. Not soldiers. Not travellers. We don’t have to know.”

Manir glanced over at Zairab. She looked dejected, and Manir felt a pang of guilt. She was younger than they were, and probably had her own ideals of stepping foot outside the Orocarni one day. “Just because we don’t have to know, doesn’t mean we can’t still ask questions or learn new things,” Zairab replied huffily. “True,” said Manir. They sighed and decided for Zairab’s sake, they would entertain her this once. “Perhaps… it’s just the edge.” “The edge?” replied Zairab skeptically. “Like a cliff edge?” “Maybe. Maybe there’s just nothing else beyond the sea and it… just drops away into the sky. Or nothingness. A big, black hole in the ground.” Manir could tell that Zairab was seriously considering this. She looked wistfully out towards the sea. A few fishing boats were silhouetted against the rising sun, and the heat was growing more intense as the day drew on. “I’ve heard that the Elves believe there’s a land to the West. Their land, the one that they came from in the Elder Days, filled with gods. Maybe there’s some gods over there, in that hole of yours.” An absurd image of Mahal’s gigantic, bearded face popping over the rim of the earth to blink like a dazed mole at the Red Mountains flashed across Manir’s mind. “I can’t imagine a god living in a hole,” Manir smirked. “No, neither can I.”

Somewhere far below them, a bell rang to signify the changing of the guard. They both looked at each other, realisation about how preposterous their conversation had been slowly dawning on them. “You’re right,” said Zairab with a yawn. “It’s none of our business, at the end of the day. Some workings of the world are beyond our understanding.” Manir stretched, feeling their back click into place. They hefted their heavy, diamond-shaped shield onto their arm and turned to the door of the tower, opening it slightly. As they did so, a waft of deliciousness spiralled up from the guard’s rest house: roasting meat and strong coffee, the two things that were guaranteed to chase away the their remaining tiredness. “Glad to see you got there in the end,” they said dryly, as the pair trudged down to join the rest of the dwarves in the mess-hall.

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