A Knight's Wyrd: The Tales of Alyra Ashedown

[MaskedIllusion]

Very well done. A great and interesting story.

[SwordSaintMusashi]

Duma. She had never thought to ask the meaning in its name. Was it short for “Dumathoin”? Was it the name of the one who forged it? Or was it just a name, carefully selected by some criteria ages ago when forged for Clan Ironbeard? She idly wondered how she could not ask about such a weapon, having seen it at its best for over two years now. The red iron, sharpened to a point that no mundane blade could ever hope to hold; and the multitude of dwarven runes, heralding its praises and its sigil of the clan. Surely, she could ask her dwarven grandparents of its origins, but it would not hold the same power in the tale that it would have coming from her Father. Another question, among a multitude of others, that would never be answered by him in this life.

Alyra sat in her room in Silverguard Fortress, hunched forward with her elbows on her knees, looking over the dwarven war axe laying on her table. She had been polishing it for hours by now, yet it never seemed to attain that shine it bore when in the hands of Garlus. Or perhaps it was the alcohol dimming her eyes and thereby the shine of the axe? A thought she only came to ponder as she reached for the glass of wine and downed in without hesitation, pausing only a moment to consider this before pouring the last remnants of the nearby bottle into it.

She felt selfish. She had something so few people had with parted loved ones: A chance to say goodbye. She had seen his spirit called back to the realms, if only for a brief moment, and had the opportunity to bask in that glow of praise that only a father could give a daughter. She knew that he was now with his ancestors, standing by Dumathoin’s side to serve those that made the journey from this life to the next. She spent days hearing words of praise and honor showered down upon him; the Wall of Barakor, the Talhund, the warrior, the friend. She was lucky to have had even a modicum of time with him, and for the gods to grant her that last good bye? She was blessed beyond words. And yet, she wanted more.

It took all her will power not to lash out, throw her furniture about and scream at the top of her lungs in a tantrum that perhaps only a child could really throw. Oh, what her fellows would think of her breaking down and cursing at the world for taking away such a hero, such a parent. It was selfish of her, childish even. But it was her selfish thought, her childish mindset. Of course, she would never do such. What good would it do? It would not be fair to him, or to his memory. But she held that selfish little desire to her heart and coveted it like some foul wyrm that dreamt of the treasures it would have one day and clutched a single gold coin to its breast.

Her own snort broke her from such darker thoughts. The light pouring in through her window showed that it was now day. She fished through her things, producing her little astrolabe to open and check the time. Nearly noon. She did not even remember falling asleep. There was a slight ringing in her head from drinks past, but nothing she couldn’t focus through. On the table still lay Duma. After days of wandering Silverymoon in a daze, she allowed herself a smile at the memory of the first time her Father had put it in her hands. Miles below the surface of Toril, she had been a squire of the Knights in Silver then. Yet when she held the axe, the dwarf managed to make her feel like a little girl holding her father’s weapon: something too big, too unwieldy.

But over the course of their time together, Garlus had taught her there was nothing too big to obtain, and nothing to unwieldy to bear. It was one of the many reasons the old dwarf took her as his own kin. Slowly, she felt that selfish wyrm inside her start to uncoil the more she thought about him. In so many ways, he had made her better. She would not be the woman she was today if not for his kindness in accepting a wayward paladin from a faraway land. And because of his kindness, and because of his lessons, Talhund Garlus of Clan Ironbeard would live on through her. “From death, life.” as the Dawnbringers say.

Hesitantly, she once more picked up Duma from the table. It felt a little lighter now than it had being carried from Felbarr. The grip, though made for a much shorter, stouter fellow, seemed to fit her fingers perfectly. She was his kin, if not in blood, than in spirit and name. She looped the axe to her belt, smiling as one who had come to a decision, but wasn’t quite sure what that decision was yet, and left her room. There was no time to be in a daze. Alyra Ironbeard had work to do. And her Father would have it no other way.

[Blindhamsterman]

very moving Poor Alyra...

[NESchampion]

Very nice.