Kormak

Kormak rose to his feet, tears gliding down his cheek. He walked into his village of Creighton a few moments ago. He tilted his head, searching for the familiar pitch of a roof line that had been swallowed by the gray horizon. He stared down, where his home used to be and saw a charred remnant of a doll. He touched her lovingly, wiped the ash from the cloth face. His embrace of the lifeless soot covered doll was deep, and he pocketed her as a stowed memory. A faint hint of smoke still lingered in the air but the ash was cold. He knelt down and wiped away soot to uncover a tribal dagger, and a leather helm. Goblins? A glint of red rage fired behind the tears in his eyes, the vein in his neck pulsed wildly. He clenched the helm and dagger tightly and looked up at the sky. Zarok the Law Giver, his deity, a beacon of Protection and War, was out there somewhere. Kormak’s eyes pierced the sky like a laser focused beacon straight to his god. His teeth clenched tight, and his fist clenched the dagger tighter. There was a red hue flushing his stony dwarven face behind his thick beard and braids. Suddenly a giant splash of water thudded into the ash in front of him, and he jerked his gaze downward. A second drop hit the ash, and a third. Rain! Zarok couldn’t let this happen, whatever clues were left here would be washed out. He ran toward the inlet of the cave at the back of the village with the dagger and helm, found a stone bench and propped himself against the wall. He stared out into the rain, with streams running down his face until his eyes succumbed to his exhaustion.

Kormak turned around and knelt in front of his daughter Dahlia. Her bright face and beaming smile shone up at him as she presented him a fresh bouquet of flowers. He knelt to smell the bouquet taking in the bountiful colors and began to reach for an embrace. The smell of wet soot filled his nostrils, his hands touched cold drenched stone. The day peaked through the entrance to the cave and Kormak was thrust back into reality. Today was fresh, but not the flowery scent he had hoped for, and Dahlia was nowhere in sight. He moved his boot on the ground and felt the muddy ashen mixture at his feet. The rain had stopped, but its remnants were present. The village was cleaner now, but soot, char and ash were still covering most surfaces. Kormak needed to start his journey to find whoever did this to his village, and before he did that he needed his hammer. Whether he would be rebuilding, or acting out vengeance, his smith’s hammer would come in handy in the days to come. He stepped out of the cave entrance and scanned the ruins of Creighton. He saw a half erect chimney made of stone in the distance. The wall and window attached to the half chimney were all that was left of this place. He started spreading the ash near the anvil, and his fingers find the leather ropes tightly wound on a grainy hickory handle. He picked up the weighty tool and saw the two rings intertwined in the engraving on the top of his father’s hammer. He slid it into the loop on his belt. It was as heavy as his heart and the engravings all carried the deep black of the soot filled memory of Creighton’s fate.

Broadhurst is about 35 miles south east of Creighton. Kormak had been there before, but would be a stranger. This journey would take a while to walk, and while he did he remembered that this time last week he was on his last forced march across Vasloria defending places like this, like Creighton for the Bedegar Barony. He gripped the hilt of the hammer on his belt, remorseful that he could not be there to defend Creighton. The gate he took in his march, the ease at which he could maneuver the heavy hammer all with distinct precision that only comes from years of training at the Bedegar keep. These skills may have been put to use fighting someone else’s war while his wife and daughter died to the attack on Creigthon but never again would Kormak stand idly by while evil doers have their way with the weak and timid. The time in prayer during his march had given Kormak a divine sense of the powers that Zorak holds. He’d taken a vow to his god never to allow the evils of this world to triumph against those that cannot protect themselves. Kormak himself would stand in between them, he’d suffer if need be so that children like Dahlia don’t have to. He spent his evenings while on this trek etching the Dahlia flower into his armor, the golden hue of the fire bringing his flower to life. His wrath will have no limits when he finds the next evil doe knowing who he’s fighting for.