Open Chronicles Stone Weighs Stone

[Urzak Iron-Hold]

Gravemark had learned how to live beside monsters.

Not by fighting them. By watching them first.

The town crouched beneath The Spine, its walls layered with repairs and older scars. Every stone set by hands that understood the cost of misjudgement. Snow packed the streets. Hard and gray with ash and foot traffic while torches burned low against the coming night.

Urzak entered through the eastern gate without ceremony.

He brought no warband. Only a handful of orcs were at his back. Enough to be seen but not enough to threaten.

Conversation shifted as he passed. Some voices lowered. Others fell quiet entirely. Guards watched from the walls but did not bar his way. They were content to let the town itself decide what to make of him.

Urzak moved slowly, deliberately, letting Gravemark reveal itself.

He listened to the rhythm of the place. Merchants arguing over tolls, mercenaries negotiating for rooms and travelers trading rumors for warmth. Fear was present but it was tempered. Shaped by experience rather than panic.

That mattered.

In the market square Urzak paused near a knot of armed travelers and hired blades gathered around a brazier. Different races, different armor and none of them new to the Spine. They noticed him immediately hands shifting but not drawing.

He did not challenge them. Instead he spoke plainly.

"Hard country. Hard work, guarding roads that don't care who dies on them."

A simple statement. Not a demand.

The fire cracked and hissed between them as the wind carried his words outward to nearby stalls, to listening guards and to anyone close enough to pretend they weren't paying attention.

"I'm here to understand how people survive places like this. Who they trust. What they'll endure and what they won't."

His gaze moved across the square, not lingering or pressing, open enough to invite response.

Those who wished could answer.
Those who didn't could listen.

Either way Gravemark had been given the chance to speak for itself.

And Urzak would hear what it said.

 

[Rovan Ravenhill]

"What do you mean this costs two silver?"

"I meant what I meant. Two silver pieces for two boots. Finest boots you'll ever find. Made from northern elk leather and wolf fur."

Rovan bit his lower lip. They were a nice set of boots, he couldn't lie. But that didn't mean he was going to let the merchant think he could rob him of the few silver he had.

"Listen, my good man, I'm a little strapped for coin now--"

"Uh-huh?"

"Yes, and as it is, I am on my way to my patron. Now once I get there, I could buy all your footwear, Master Cobbler. But as it is now, my exploits have, ah, drained my pouch, so to speak."

"Oh, aye, your dragon adventure and journey to some, what, rime mansion or another?"

"Ice Palace, my good man. The abode of the nefarious Ice Queen--"

"Aye, aye, all that. Well listen here, why don't you barter one of those silver rings of yours?"

Rovan retracted his hand, protecting his rings like a valuable keepsake. He gave the merchant an incredulous stare.

"These? I am not going to sell my rings! They are far too valuable for some measly boots and -- oy, come now, are you even listening?"

The man's face had turned slack-jawed, staring past Rovan's shoulder, boots forgotten in his hand. Rovan frowned and turned around, perturbed, until he shared the merchant's sight.

A pack of orcs in the middle of the market. And by the time they spotted them, their leader spoke:

"Hard country. Hard work, guarding roads that don't care who dies on them."

A simple statement. Not a demand.

The fire cracked and hissed between them as the wind carried his words outward to nearby stalls, to listening guards and to anyone close enough to pretend they weren't paying attention.

"I'm here to understand how people survive places like this. Who they trust. What they'll endure and what they won't."

"Well, I'll be damned," Rovan muttered, pine-green eyes taking in the rapture of attention the orcs garnered. They towered over everyone here, primal denizens and remnants of a bygone age -- an age where size and teeth ruled over civilisation, he knew. An idea was beginning to hatch in his mind, slowly, though he took a moment to assess the situation and gauge how violent they might be.

Urzak Iron-Hold

 

[Urzak Iron-Hold]

Urzak noticed the man because he didn't move. Most people did. A step back, a hand drifting, a shoulder turning away. This one only turned his head, slow and deliberate, eyes sharp rather than wide. He wasn't startled. He was assessing.

Urzak shifted his stance enough to face him without making a point of it. Snow creaked under his boots. He took int he details without hurry. The rings and the merchant's forgotten boots still dangling from limp fingers. The way the man's posture stayed loose despite the eyes on him.

Not a guard. Not a laborer. A simple observation.

His gaze flicked once to the cobbler and then back.

"Most people near The Spine haggle and those are fine boots but I think this man is listing a higher price based solely on your appearance."

He let that hang there almost smirking as the cobbler shifted and fidgeted somewhat uncomfortably with a towering Orc this close. Sometimes Urzak enjoyed how he unsettled people.

"So you are just passing through then? You don't appear the sort to settle in a town such as this."

It wasn't an accusation. It wasn't a test with a right answer. Just a question asked by someone who was quietly assessing Gravemark.

Rovan Ravenhill

 

[Rovan Ravenhill]

Rovan's eyes squinted a tad more, taking in the effect the orc had on the quivering merchant. The plan finally cracked through its shell; and Rovan mirrored the not-quite-a-smirk of Urzak, stroking his own goatee.

Previously, he had hoped tales of his exploits could net him some goodwill in Gravemark -- but its denizens had proven about as gloomy and unimpressed as its namesake. But should he be the one to converse peacefully with these orcs, ensuring the safety of the village? Now *that* might yield him some benefit. Or, at the very least, a discount.

"Mmm-yes . . . I think you may be right, my perspicacious friend." His gaze travelled side-long to the merchant, and his mouth finally bloomed into the unabashed smirk already underway. "Alas, I should have worn a sheepherder's mantle instead."

Shrewd eyes soon returned to Urzak at his question, measuring him from head to toe. A proper juggernaut, this one; what scraps of irregular armour he wore clung to his frame like sparse branches on a grand oak. Indeed, his ashen-grey hide seemed chiselled from rock already -- hardly needing any plates to protect it. Perhaps they served rather a decorative function, displaying his spoils of war from fallen warriors. Far as he recalled, that might be a custom among those of the orcish inclination.

"I see your eyes continue not to fail you. I am indeed not from here." He made a halfway gesticulation at his own attire: a black robe with a fur mantle and drawn-back hood, pouches fit for light travel, mittens tucked into his belt along with a quill of a colourful feather and chained book wrapped in a leather cover, nestled next to a sheathed dagger with a strange bone pommel and a multitude of silver rings glinting in the sun. All in all, gear befitting a travelling clerk or minor magistrate, perhaps, from less rural origins. "Necessity prompts me to pass through this quaint little town. But I am bound for Alliria."

He made a dramatic sigh, not entirely forced. All his grand adventures had yielded him were an archaic dagger, a cryptic book and a willful quill. If only he'd known that what he *really* needed were proper boots for this foot-weary journey.

"And yourself, Master . . ?"

The pause prompted Urzak to fill it with his name.

Urzak Iron-Hold

 

[Urzak Iron-Hold]

Urzak let the moment stretch after the question. It wasn't challenge or theater. It was because pauses usually told him more than answers ever did.

Then he inclined his head acknowledge the courtesy.

"Uzak." he said. "Iron-Hold."

No titles or embellishments offered.

His gaze followed the sweep of Rovan's gesture without staring. Robe, rings, book and dagger. The sort of kit chosen by someone who knew they could run into trouble but did not plan to meet it head-on. Words before steel. Coin before blood. That seemed to be the measure of the man.

"Alliria." Urzak repeated. "That's a long road."

He shifted his weight slightly, turning so that the fire sat more between them than beside them. An invitation others could share without stepping into either man's space. A few nearby listeners edged closer under the pretense of warmth.

"You're not dressed like a man chasing glory and not like one running from it either. That makes you different from many people who pass through here. The Spine is full of adventure and danger and many that pass through here go looking for such things."

Urzak glanced briefly toward the street leading out of the square toward the road that bent toward the Spine.

"You're bound south." He said matter of factly. Allira was after all south of the Spine. "You'll hear things worth knowing before you leave this town, this area."

He didn't say orcs.
He didn't say Azrakar.

Not yet.

"So..." Urzak finished. His tone open and inviting. "Are you listening for stories tonight... or just trying to keep your toes?"

Rovan Ravenhill

 

[Rovan Ravenhill]

Spoiler: Music

Rovan's practised grace froze, like a river snapfreezing on a wintry night. He gave Urzak Iron-Hold a closer look; specifically into his cold eyes.

You will hear things worth knowing before you leave this town. An ominous tingle in his spine sought to warn him, but of what exactly, he couldn't tell. Suddenly the purchase of overpriced boots seemed rather immaterial before this portent of things to pass. There was a quiet intensity about this one, a deadly calculation to his eyes. Slow. Inevitable. Experienced. A patience that might be considered admirable even for a gentleman; but coupled with the raw brutality of an orc?

Very dangerous, indeed.

The seeming civility of Urzak -- and short-term assurance of an intact skull -- belied a much more perilous and methodical intelligence. As Rovan looked into his eyes, he could see that plainly.

He wondered if Gravemark's days were numbered.

The freeze from those intrusive thoughts was brief, but plain to see. But soon enough, a ripple went through him, thawing his dread with his own personal brew of cunning. He conjured a pleasant smile to his lips, along with a dainty little tilt of his head and stroke of his own frost-assailed cheek.

"Well, I'll take that as a compliment. Never let it be said that Rovan Ravenhill doesn't enjoy a little certain something, a bit of panache perhaps, and a few other idiosyncrasies to set himself apart from his fellow man. But, I think I've had my fill of danger and adventure aplenty." A little, lazy wink followed that comment, veiling it with mischief, though to his own weary heart, it held plenty of truth.

At Urzak's question, he laughed. Rather forcefully.

"Both, if I can help it! I am always looking to keep my extended digits and catch a tale or two. My livelihood depends on it. Why . . ." Rovan leaned in conspiratorially, eyes darting briefly. "You reckon I should catch a tragedy or a comedy in these parts? Best make that clear, word travels fast with me."

Urzak Iron-Hold

 

[Urzak Iron-Hold]

Urzak watched the freeze happen. It was subtle, the sort of pause men thought they hid well, but Urzak had seen it before in commanders, scouts, priests... and liars. The moment when a mind ran faster than the body could follow. When calculation overtook charm.

He did not press it.

Instead he let let Rovan speak himself back into motion. Let the smile return. Let the laugh ring a little louder than it needed to. Urzak's expression did not change but something in his eyes eased.

"Tragedy and comedy share a road. Depends where you stop walking."

He shifted his stance turning slightly so Rovan was no longer alone in his attention. A guard near the well pretended not to listen. A mercenary by the fire absolutely was. The square breathed again, slow and cautious.

"You ask the right question. That tells me you don't collect stories for the ending. You collect them for what survives in the middle."

His gaze returned to Rovan, steady but no longer probing.

"In towns like this comedy belongs to those who arrive early. Tragedy belongs to those who arrive late... or stay too long pretending nothing changes."

He glanced toward the Spine, not dramatically, just as one might glance toward weather.

"Word does travel fast... but it travels crooked. Bent by fear. Bent by hope. Bent hardest by men who want others to decide for them. If you're listening you'll hear both kinds of stories before night ends. Some loud. Some whispered. None finished. Perhaps, at some point, I will share a story."

He left the choice hanging. Where to stand, who to listen to and whether Rovan would be a teller of stories... or one of the reasons they were told.

Rovan Ravenhill

 

[Rovan Ravenhill]

Rovan blinked. By all the Gods above, Urzak was beginning to remind him of Safleure Dellada -- the dusty philosopher monk of the Allirian reach, infamous for his mysterious allusions. An orc pontificating on the nature of stories -- conjuring up a great nebulous mist of insinuations and cryptic advice -- was probably the last thing Rovan had expected today.

"Right . . . yes, of course! Sharing stories never hurt anyone." *Or did it*? He glanced testingly at the shopkeep, who looked as engrossed and confused at their conversation as the quiet audience gathering about them. Endeavouring not to appear to share in their confusion, Rovan pressed on:

"And what might, ahh, coax you into sharing this tale of yours, Master Iron-Hold?"

Urzak Iron-Hold

 

[Urzak Iron-Hold]

Urzak did not answer right away. He looked past Rovan, past the fire, past the stalls to where Gravemark's walls met the darkening sky. The Spine loomed there, old and patient. When he finally spoke his voice carried differently. Lower, steadier, as though it had learned this shape long ago.

"There was a clan." He began. "No name worth giving now."

The square stilled.

"They lived on the move. They weren't raiders. They weren't kings or hunters or guards or pathfinders. They took contracts no one else would. The roads through ice, the valleys where sound died before it carried."

He spoke as if laying stones one at a time.

"They were strong enough to be useful... but not strong enough to be feared. That's where the trouble starts."

A pause. The fire cracked.

"One winter they were hired to hold a mountain approach. Not a city or a fortress. Just a stretch of stone where enemies had to pass. The kind of place where discipline matters more than numbers."

His eyes never left the horizon.

"The clan held it for three days. Drove back the first assault. Then the second. Each time few voices answered the horns. Each time the enemy learned."

Urzak's jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly.

"On the fourth night the storm came down off the peaks. Snow so thick you couldn't see your own blade. Sound died. Signals failed. And the enemy attacked again. Not from the front."

A murmur rippled faintly through the listeners.

"They came from above. From below. From places no one thought to guard because guarding them would have meant admitting fear."

His gaze flicked briefly to the crowd that had gathered and then back.

"The clan didn't break. They turned inward. Fought back-to-back. Covered the wounded until there was no one left to cover."

The wind pressed in, hard and cold.

"When dawn came the pass was held. But no one was left to claim it."

Another pause. Longer this time. The fire hissed spitting sparks.

"Travelers use that road now. They don't know the stones remember. They don't know why the wind sounds like screaming when it blows the wrong way."

He turned back to Rovan.

"That is the story. No names. No glory."

Only then did his eyes harden... just slightly.

"Just the cost of standing where everyone else walks away."

He fell silent then.

And for those listening closely enough it was impossible to tell whether he had told the story or survived it.

Rovan Ravenhill

 

[Rovan Ravenhill]

Rovan listened to the chilling tale of this unknown clan's last stand. Of Urzak's last stand, he was starting to figure. Perhaps he was the sole survivor of this ordeal? The orc shied away from mentioning any specifics or names; not even a named enemy of this clan. Why? Did he fear such information could be used against him? Or perhaps it would lessen the impact of his story.

In his experience, information was withheld as a tool. All the while Urzak told this story, Rovan speculated what he sought to gain by sharing it. Stories were always instrumental. They served a purpose for the narrator -- the simplest purpose being mere amusement for the teller and their audience. But this didn't feel like such an occasion. No names. No glory. The true, nameless face of war.

Slow dread. He concluded that this was what the orc sought to evoke. Setting a chill in this town that it couldn't banish with either flame or thatch.

Finally, as the final stone was laid upon Urzak's tale -- gathered like a pile of rocks for a great barrow -- Rovan folded his hands within the sleeves of his fur-rimmed robe, protecting them from the cold.

"Gund ersh ar'vrunlosh'gijak ((Stones weep with the blood of ancestors))," Rovan said quietly, summoning up a stock phrase he had once learned in Orcish as part of a drinking game in Alliria. Within the protected comfort of Alliria's walls, this sombre expression had served as a delightful joke when spilling wine on the stone floor. Now it had come back to haunt him. Materialised in the flesh as a story of doomed defence.

Now he might begin to understand why Alliria possessed such massive walls.

Urzak Iron-Hold

 

[Urzak Iron-Hold]

Urzak's attention sharpened at the sound of Orcish.

Not at the words themselves. He'd heard the saying spoken a hundred ways by a hundred mouths. He sharpened at where it came from. From a man who did not look like he belonged, there were humans in the Spine area that spoke Orcish with relative fluency, and yet had chosen it anyway.

He studied Rovan for a long breath, eyes unreadable.

Then Urzak nodded once.

"A true saying. Old. Older than most things. A saying for burials."

No correction on his dialect. That didn't matter.

"The old ones said it so the living wouldn't forget why they built cairns instead of roads. Stones don't weep on their own."

His gaze drifted briefly to the frozen street beneath their feet, to the walls patched and repatched over generations. Then he looked back to Rovan.

"Most who speak it learned the sound first. Few lean what it costs."

His voice remained even, unadorned. Not instructive, not testing.

"You didn't use it to impress or to soften what was said."

A pause followed. One long enough to matter.

"That is... uncommon."

Urzak inclined his head a second time, just slightly. Acknowledgement without invitation and let the moment rest there. The words given no more weight than they could already carry on their own.


Rovan Ravenhill

 

[Rovan Ravenhill]

"Well, what can I say? Not only orcs are privy to loss. Little sense in padding tragedy with more words."

A note of strange, earnest soberness struck a chord in Rovan's voice, his eyes downcast and half-lidded. He reflected on his recent perils. Frazil leaving him in the heart of the Spine . . . Tafna Gringhook, dragged into the midsts of umbral monsters . . . His dwarven compatriots of the Silverpick clan, screams competing with shattering ice; where giant, draconic maws in the waters claimed them . . . Thalos Mirecant, vanishing without a trace in the cursed halls of the Ice Queen.

Why had he survived when all these other adventurers had perished? What design did the Gods have in store for him?

It was a strange sort of guilt to carry, mixed with immeasurable relief. He had survived, against all odds. And he aimed to keep breathing for a good while longer.

Finally, his eyes raised and met Urzak's. He had near forgotten his previous gambit of impressing the town with his cunning diplomacy, nursing his quiet lament instead.

"May I ask, Master Iron-Hold, and perhaps on the behalf of all these townspeople here . . . why have you come here, in truth?" The directness of his question flashed from his eyes like brief, exposed steel -- not quite drawn, still an inch above the scabbard. Then it abated, adding a little witticism to blunt its edge: "For I doubt you're here to peruse the market for shoes."

Urzak Iron-Hold

 

[Urzak Iron-Hold]

Urzak let the weight of Rovan's question settle. His question deserved to be met without haste. Around them the square had grown quiet in the way of places that sensed a threshold approaching. Not fear. Attention. People saw Orcs and almost always immediately assumed raiders. Urzak had shown he was different.

At last he spoke.

"I did not come for coin or supplies. Or to take anything."

His eyes moved once across the gathered faces. Townsfolk, guards, travelers.

"I came to listen." A murmur stirred through the crowd and just as quickly stilled. "Towns like this sit at the edge of things. They hear what's coming before cities do. They feel it in trade routes, in missing caravans, in how often the same mercenaries pass through without taking new contracts."

He returned his gaze to Rovan, steady and open now.

"I wanted to know what kind of place this is. Who holds when pressure comes. Who bends. Who breaks... and who survives because they understand the difference."

He paused to glanced along the crowd. Deliberately, unmistakably. Then he went on.

"There is a change moving through the Spine." The words carried, simple and unembellished. "Orc clans that once fought each other now march together. Warbands that scattered after losses now answer to a single command. Discipline where there was none. Purpose where there was only hunger."

He did not raise his voice.

"There is a King of the mountains now. Forged by war that did not forgive weakness. A Lord who does not waste strength on chaos."

The crowd had gone so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. He spoke the name plainly.

"Azrakar."

The name landed like stone set carefully into place.

"I am here so this town hears it before it learns it. So they understand that what comes next is not a raid, not a season of bloodshed that burns itself out."

His jaw set.

"Those who live near the Spine should know whose shadow they now stand in. So they can decide how they will stand when it reaches them and, I suppose, I will recruit. You'd be standing besides Orcs but any who would join may come and see me."

He said no more.

The choice. What to believe, what to fear and what to prepare for was left where it belonged. Not in his hands, but in theirs.

Rovan Ravenhill Azrakar (so you can read it)

 

[Rovan Ravenhill]

Azrakar . . . now where had he heard that name before?

The name reverberated through him, but didn't quite find purchase in his memory. As a bit of a dilettante scholar, Rovan made a point of acquainting himself with as many significant names and figures as he could, past or present.

But this one? This one he might have read of in passing; a brief cinder in the churning brazier of history. He would need a library and ample time to reacquaint himself with him, however.

However, with the gravitas that Urzak spoke of him, he very much doubted him to be sone charitable saint or harmless hermit. The name along with Urzak's prediction held the ominous quality of a conqueror; perhaps some leader of orcs and other raiders of the Spine.

In turn, Rovan felt an increasing weight in his heart, as if the name itself pressed down upon him. He suspected many in this audience to feel the same.

Gravemark might come to have a disturbingly apt name, he realised. He definitely shouldn't linger too long.

But many here were tied to this place. They had families and roots here, and didn't have the same luxury of leaving. Perhaps to ask on their behalf, Rovan said:

"Are you asking this town to surrender, then, rather than resist? To bow before this Azrakar? And you serve this King of the Spine yourself?"

These questions might as well have been declarations; allegations, even. But Rovan found it more prudent to let the orc clarify himself. The orc whose purpose he now understood better. An envoy. A spy. Someone to soften resistance with fear and pry into the defences of the town.

If what he said was true, then the merchant lords of Alliria might well wish to know of this new threat in the north. Perhaps even the dwarves of Belgrath would desire these news -- if they didn't already know.

Urzak Iron-Hold

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

The Spine was home to many of a character.

Arnor, Son of Skuld, was one such. For years, he'd made the Spine his home- perhaps the bitter cold and mountains reminded him of his homeland. Or perhaps he just liked it.

Either way, the business was good. Mercenary work and monster-hunting a plenty. He'd been silent. Listening. A heavy wool cloak, well-traveled, covered his armor and weaponry. Just another passerby. Another trader, another sellsword. His physicality, often betrayed him, however. He was just much... bigger, taller than most in the Summer Lands.

"What comes next," He finally spoke. His voice was gravel, rock across steel in grit. "Is a lot of dead orcs if they march on the Spine." He said, raising his head. Ice-blue eyes and blonde hair fixated on the Orc, then to the others.

"We will see what comes of this horde you speak of. Dressing up raiding and plundering on innocent people with purpose and zealotry doesn't account for bad planning or obstacles." He looked up at the night sky, holding out his hands finally for warmth.

"Everyone's declaring themselves Kings nowadays..."

 

[Urzak Iron-Hold]

Urzak's gaze slid to the larger man in the cloak. He listened all the way through. Then he scoffed. Not loud, not theatrical. Just a short, dismissive breath through his tusks. The sound of a veteran recognizing a familiar pattern.

"You waited..." Urzak said, eyes fixed on the man now. "Listened from the back. Hidden. Decided it was safe to have an opinion... That tells me enough."

He didn't add anymore. The judgement had already landed.

Urzak turned his attention back to Rovan to answer the question that actually mattered.

"No. This isn't to ask for surrender. And this town isn't being told to kneel. Not by me, not now."

He spread his hands slightly, empty and open.

"I came to take its measure as I've said several times. To see whether the people here understand the difference between risisting noise and resisting pressure."

His eyes flicked briefly toward the walls, the gates, the gathered crowd.

"You asked if I serve him. I do. I serve Azrakar because I've seen what happens when strength has no spine of its own. I've watched clans bleed themselves dry fighting yesterday's war, fighting for scraps, while the mountains buried them without ceremony. I've watched villages, human villages, " His eyes darted to the big man now "fall to raids and squabbles. I've watched the Spine's citizens destroy each other time and again. Whether that be orcs against orcs, human against orc or human against human."

He shifted his stance, boots grinding stone.

"This isn't a horde. Hordes scream. Hordes starve. Hordes die."

His eyes cut back to the big man again.

"You're right that there will be dead orcs... there already are. From ambushes that worked. From giants that fell. From passes held until no one was left to hold them."

He stepped once placing himself where both men stood in his sight. He let his gaze sweep the square again.

"I'm not here to tell Gravemark to open its gates. I'm here so you know that when the Spine moves it will move with intent."

He was about fed up with this place. Rovan had at least been civil. The rest of the town had been reserved, which he had expected. This big man who hid in the back annoyed him. He hadn't come here to pick a fight.


Rovan Ravenhill Arnor Skuldsson