The Lonely Road - Esra Oakheart

*This is a contribution by Matthew Bacon. For further information on contributions please read The Guide to Contributing.*

*The Road to Vol Thorim via Ravensden was never a kind one, a*
mixture of highland hills, sparse copses and muddy cart trails which meandered
steadily along the northern borders of Cannalt through what the locals called
the Northern Woods. To the North the Krandag Peaks spread as far as the eye
could see, the gateway to the lands of the Dwarves of Uzul Danar and the city
of Vol Thorim. To the south the hustle and bustle of the populated towns and
villages that made up what was known as the republic.

*Esra spat at the thought, he bawked at the prospect of*
calling Cannault a republic, his sullen features grew ever tired as he
remembered the faces of the brave men and women who died in countless battles
in the name of that thing that sat on the throne. It didn’t matter anymore, his
days of contributing to society were done and so too any link to that place. As
the faces of warriors past dissipated, one lingered, it felt different, it was
a face buried deep in the subconscious recesses of a life lived long ago. Just
as Esra pondered this image, he felt a stern nudge on the side of his chain
mail. He turned his head slowly under his damp cowl to see the stern eyes of a
dwarf looking directly at his own.

*“You know this journey would go a lot quicker laddy if you*
didn’t keep to yourself, I know the Dûrgrimst
aren’t famed for their way with understanding you humans, but I’ve met enough
of you Soldier types to know they at least talk common.”

*The dwarf huffed and turned his gaze back to manning the two*
horses that pushed the cart forward along the battered path ahead. A few
moments passed between the two travel companions.

*“Then you have never met a real soldier my friend, no man,” Esra*
paused a moment and said, “or Dwarf, would say a word after being made to see
and do the things it takes to win a war.”
He was met by a low grumble that sounded like a laugh trailing off into
the raspy wind.

*“well said, yet it ain’t the case for Dwarves, no… we understand*
what it takes to win a war, you see you humans lack honour, protecting the
halls of our ancestors guides our hammers, the only things you care for are
your damn flimsy castles.” The Dwarf noticed the hooded mans, gauntlets grip
tighten in response to his comment.

*“You know nothing of the honour that lies in my heart Dwarf!” snapped*
Esra at the surprised Dwarf. For a moment the Dwarf sensed a power not to be
crossed and readjusted himself in his wooden seat making sure to calm the
horses under his hand. The forest grew quiet as quickly as it had been
disturbed and a cold silence returned.

*Esra sighed, collected his thoughts and spoke the words “Nē warrev*
zeitmam, never forsake honour, those were the last words I ever heard come
from the lips of the father I chose, Throfer Oakheart.”

*“Ah so you can speak some Dwarvish, perhaps I underestimated ye,”*
the Dwarf still gave off the signs of someone put off by the man’s earlier outburst
yet continued perhaps pleased by the advent of conversation.

*“The Oakhearts, a fine clan they were, but I never heard of no*
survivors, let alone one by the name Throfer Oakheart,” said the Dwarven
cartmaster.

*Esra reached into his pocket and pulled out a small amulet bearing*
the Dwarven rune for clan Oakheart, “He kept to himself”. Esra held the pendant
out in his hand, the Dwarf eyed it curiously.

“Mithril, this sure was them alright, you don’t see these often. Not since the
war started.” Esra thought he detected a flicker of annoyance on his
companion’s face, however he decided not to press the issue and placed the
sigil back into his pocket.

*As the trail droned on, Esra peered into the dense pine woodland*
on his left, to many this would be an unnerving affair. It is the kind of place
local inns spoke of in hushed tones, where dark creatures and nightmarish
abominations prowled the unkept wilds, terrifying even the most grown up of
men. However, to Esra it represented a place of beauty, wild discovery and
above all, home. He felt his mind wandering, it was if he could see himself and
the figure of the burly dwarf Throfer hunting, almost as if it was a dance
between the pines, chasing the sun across the sky until it passed over into the
mountains heralding the end of the day’s activities. The images gradually felt
more and more tangible as Esra found himself going back and back into his mind his
first memories with his wayward father.