Vrastor
Vrastor, son of Ulstor
| Name | Vrastor |
|---|---|
| Occupation | Traveller |
| Age | Middle aged, around the age of one-hundred and forty-eight years. |
| Race | Dwarf |
|---|---|
| Residence | The road |
| Kinship |
| Outward Appearance |
The moon glimmers high above the sky, stars shine brightly upon Middle-Earth. There is no sign of a cloud nearby. A cold mountain breeze floats past the skin of a middle aged Dwarf. His pale white skin doesn't even shudder. The wrinkles on his forehead show a sign of aging, the scar on his chin he bears with pride. For every warrior is not completed without a battle scar. He sniffs loudly, the clean, fresh mountain air enter his nose and he exhales in relief. His azure blue eyes shimmer in the dim moonlight as he furrows his scruffy eyebrows. He narrows his eyes as he spots the footprints further on the hill. With head held high, he approaches the footprints. The soft, white snow cricks and cracks under the weight of his heavy steel boots, not to mention his own body weight.
The howl of wolves is heard beyond the outter gate. He perks his ears, catching the ominous howling from a distance."Wolves usually do not roam this close to the outter gate.. Something's amiss." He kneels down in front of the footprints. His heavy Dwarven steel armour shackles quietly as he goes to one knee. A gloved hand trails around one of the footprints. His gloves are pitch-black just as the rest of his heavy attire. The wristguards have spiky ends, most likely to deliver a painfull punch on his opponents. His eye's widen at the somewhat small footprints."Goblins.." He muttered in vile distaste. A rummaging sound is heard behind him in a shrub. With a loud pull he turns around and draws his hammer, having his sturdy shield in his left hand. His short, yet imposing figurine stands ready. The moonshine reflects upon his dark armour. The chestpiece is broad and sturdy. A heavy steel plate covers almost his entire torso. Besides that there is leather paddings with a thin mail shirt beneath it. His shoulderguards are of the same material as the plate on his chestpiece. It looks sturdy and reinforced in a traditional Dwarven manner. The legguards and boots are less reinforced than the armour on his upper body. The dark armoured Dwarf sneers at the shrub."Reveal yourself, coward!" He shouted ferociously at the shrub as he bashes his one-handed hammer to his reinforced wooden shield. A dirty giggle emerges from the shrub and it stops moving. Vrastor's patience has run out and he charges forth at the shrub, swinging wildly among the branches. After a brief silence, he takes a peek in the shrubs, only to see that there is no one there. Bewildered he takes a step back, shaking his head firmly."By my father's axe.. What is this nonsense?" He sighs calmly as narrows his eyes, gazing towards the sheets of snow, spotting the same foot prints once more. An agressive look takes place for the bewildered one."By Durin's beard! Enough games, stranger! Show yourself!" He grunts loudly. With careful steps he approaches the corner the which the footsteps lead to."Show yourself, strang-.." With a gasp he closes his eyes, the stranger threw snow in his face! With recoiled steps his wipes the snow out of his face. A strand of his greyishly black hair dwindles down on his cheek, dangling in the wind. The remainder of the snow melts in his well-braided black longbeard. He squints his eyes and looks in front of him. Just as he thought, a filthy Goblin scout raises his spear for a lethal strike on him! With lightning reflexes he raises his shield and blocks the incoming again."Filth! You shall die!" He said ferociously. The Goblins sneered and giggled in crazed bloodrage as he went for another swing with the crude spear. Vrastor bashes the spear out of the Goblin's meager hands with brute strength. He smirks devilishly as he slings his hammer towards the side of the Goblin's head. The creature screams in agony as the hammer bashes into the side of it's skull. The gruesoming cracking of bones shattering can be heard and Vrastor smiles contently as the creature tumbles down into the snow. A dark coloured stream of blood streams around the head of the crippled Goblin."Let this be a warning to the rest of your kind, filth!" He sneered at the Goblin. The cowardly creature screams and squaels in it's own blood. Vrastor had enough of the façade and slammed his hammer once more on the skull of the Goblin. With a disgruntled sigh, the body of his devious foe stopped moving on the ground, laying now completely still. Vrastor sighs in relief as he wipes some sweat from his forehead. He goes down to a knee and searches the corpse of the Goblin. In the pouch of the creature was nothing more than some copper coins, a raw slice of meat and a pendant. He quirks a brow as he takes the pendant from the pouch of the dead one. He holds it high in the air and watches it's details in the moonlight. His eyes widen upon what he had found now."By Durin's beard!" He said in disbelief. The pendant had an ominous red rose painted on it. He knew all to well what kind of rose that was. His expectations and fears have become reality. He climbs back to his feet and turns around, not even paying heed to the corpse anymore. With haste he ran over the hill towards the inner gate. His finding must be shared with the Chief-Watcher and soon! |
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Background
The campfire kreaches quietly underneath the night sky. The smoke rises up in the sky and disperses in thin air. On one of the three wooden log near the campfire sits a Dwarf. He is clad in dark armour and wears a sturdy helmet. His shield and hammer rest beside himself. The Dwarf carries a book in his hand. It looks old and isn't too big. He opens the book and starts on the first page. What you are about to see is the history of this very Dwarf. Vrastor, son of Ulstor.--November 19 T.A. 2941.
It was a cold autumn morning in the slopes of the Iron Hills. Several dozens of tents are set all across the wide plains to the mountainside. A roaring bonfire is set in the middle of the camp, enlightening the tables and chairs that are circled around it. A few Dwarven soldiers wander through the narrow lanes between the tents, patrolling around to ensure no intruders can sabotage them. A tent flap flies open and out walks a Dwarf in a heraldic haubark. He carries a shield and a hammer in each hand. His long, greasy black hair waves in the wind along with his neatly braided beard. His wary gaze trails along the mountainside, admiring the fine slopes of the Iron Hills."Vrastor, with me now boy." A gruff voice is heard beside himself. He turns his head towards him and nods a time. In front of him stands an elder Dwarf. He too wears a heraldic haubark but instead of having a hammer and shield. He wields a long two-handed axe in one hand, leaning on it. The old Dwarf's beard is grey and his face shows signs of aging. Vrastor smiles warmly at the old Dwarf and bows his head respectfully."Very well, father. I shall follow you." The elder Dwarf nods a time and walks past Vrastor who follows his pursuit. The sun slowly rises on the horizon. The dim red glow reflects on their pale faces."Where are we heading?" Vrastor asks his father questioningly."King Dáin has ordered all commanders to gather their forces in the middle of camp. He has news for us." The old Dwarf replied. The snow beneath their feet is soggy and almost completely melted. Many Dwarves join them on the way towards their location. Arbalists, guardians, warriors, medics and siege engineers all together meet up at the giant bonfire. In front of the bonfire stands a Dwarf on a podium. He wears a thick, long coat with fur encircling he neck. A gem-encrusted helmet rests on his head and an armour suit made out of the finest metals complete his attire. In his hand, he holds a long axe, the axe too is a masterpiece of Dwarven craft."Fellow Dwarves! We have received a message from Erebor!" The Dwarf shouted over the many Dwarven heads."We are changing our course to the slopes of Erebor! Thorin Oakenshield has called for our aid in battle!" Many Dwarves muttered in confusion. Erebor had been lost to the dragon Smaug for a long time now. Had it been reclaimed without them knowing? Vrastor stood together with his father in the middle of the crowd. He was stroking his beard thoughtfully as he looks over to his father."Could the dragon be gone, father?" He asks quietly. The old Dwarf shrugs a time."We'll see soon enough, boy." He replied in a lowered voice. King Dáin continued his speech briefly and then commanded the Dwarves to pack their stuff and head south west towards Erebor.
--November 21 T.A. 2941.
Long has the hike been but finally, Dáin's army was just a hill away from the battlefield. The army stood on the hills and peered across the valley. Large armies of Elves and Lake-men were spotted. Both armies haven't engaged in combat yet. Vrastor stood on the frontline in the second row along with the rest of his battalion. King Dáin stands in front of the army with his honour-guard around him. Vrastor gave a quick look at his father."I, Vrastor, son of Ulstor, am proud to fight beside you." He said towards him. His father gave him a jesting bonk on the head."Quit the yappering, boy. We are about to die in the name of King Dáin! No need for formalities!" Ulstor chuckles quietly as he looks ahead once more. Vrastor smiles amused as he adjusts his helmet and stares to the battle ahead once more. A horn sounds through the valley and the army of King Dáin charges down the hill with heads held high. Vrastor cries forth with the rest of the Dwarves."Baruk Khazâd, Khazâd ai-mênu!" The loud battle roar was heard throughout the valley as every single Dwarf charge ferociously engage the other two armies. Before the first axe could strike down upon an Elf or Lake-man, all three armies stood still. Vrastor couldn't see what happend but remained in place, obeying the commands of his superior. All three armies stood still, none of them attacked one other."What is this nonsense?" Ulstor grunts quietly. Vrastor shrugs a time and turns to the west as he hears a horn shout through the valley."What is-.. That is not a Dwarven horn, nor an Elven or Man one!" He said bewildered. Loud shackling sounds are heard and many high-pitched screams and grunts echo over the valley. The Goblins are upon them!
--November 25 T.A. 2941.
Heavy rain is showering over the heads of the small group of scouts. They are following the river Celduin in search for routing Goblins. Among them is Vrastor, he walks with shield in hand and hammer buckled to his belt. His facial expression is more grim compared to those of the other four Dwarves. In his free hand his a necklace with a pendant on it. The pendant has a sign of a boar on it and runic initials are engraved on it. He takes a look at the necklace and shakes his head sorrowfully."Vrastor. What's that you have there?" A young Dwarf with a red beard and a bald head walks over to Vrastor and looks at the necklace questioningly. Vrastor shakes his head with a sigh."It is nothing, just a family trinket." He murmurred quietly enough for him to hear. The young Dwarf however, wasn't satisfied with just that answer."Is it yours?" He asks curiously. Vrastor shakes his head once more."It is my father's. He fell to Goblin arrow in the recent war." He said grimly while tightening the grip on the necklace. Vrastor sighs quietly and looks up at the Dwarf."Tell me your name." He says bluntly. The Dwarf arched a brow and coughs a time."Thrandí, son of Throní." He says shortly."Well then, Thrandí, son of Throní. Will you leave me be for now?" Vrastor waves dismissevely at the young Dwarf and looks away towards the river Celduin. Thrandí frowns annoyed and wanders back to the bulge of the group of ten. Vrastor snorts a time and spits the phelgm on the cold soil. Deep inside he regrets his unfriendly words. Thrandí didn't deserve such treatment. He was acting like a bitter old Dwarf. Dwarf up, Vrastor! You are a son of Ulstor and shall behave like one!
--December 15 T.A. 2941.
Winter is coming. The leaves have started to dwindle down the tree's. Most of them or nothing else but barren branches now."Blast and damnation!" Loud cursing can be heard from beneath a tree in the middle of a valley near Esgaroth. Thirty armed Dwarves have made a small encampment. Apparently one of them is having trouble with kindling the campfire."Why is this useless thing-.. Urgh.." A Dwarf clad in blue grunts annoyed as he continues trying to ignite the campfire to no avail. Next to him, stood Vrastor with a big smile on his face."You are as good with that tinder and flint as you are with an axe." He said teasingly. The Dwarf sneered at Vrastor."Hold your tongue, Vrastor. I am an arbalist, not a damn warrior!" The Dwarf drops the kindling material down in the snow. Vrastor chuckles amused as he shakes his head. He perks his ears as he hears a stampede like sound over the hill."Did you hear that?" He asked the disgruntled Dwarf in blue. The Dwarf looks up and shakes his head."What are you talking of?" He said with eyebrows risen. He points towards the hill nearby and beckons the Dwarf in blue over to follow him. Together they went to the top of the hill and hid behind a rock, peeking over it curiously. Vrastor was correct, there was something over the hill and it is charging towards their encampment at high speed."Warg riders!" The Dwarf in blue who carries the name Fínli, widens his eyes at the pack of warg riders that are ferociously charging towards their encampment."Quick we must warn the others befo-.." Vrastor grabs the arm of Fínli and shakes his head."It is too late for that, they will run us down if we run back now." He peers over the rock again and sneers bemused."They're coming, keep low." He ducks behind the rock and keeps the angered Fínli at bay."This isn't right, Vrastor." Fínli said with his teeth grinding together. Vrastor merely wove his hand dismissevely at Fínli and grabs a smoke signal from his satchel. He nods a time and hears the warg pack storm past them at full speed. After the last rider passed, he ignites the smoke signal and slings it in the air."I'm afraid the warg riders will taste Dwarven pikes!" He said amused. Fínli blinks and gave him an approving nod."Let's help them out!" the Dwarf in blue said and both of them stand up."With haste!" Vrastor shouts as both of them open the chase after the warg pack.
--June 9 T.A. 3016.
Times have passed. Erebor is under the control of King Dáin II Ironfoot. Long may he live. Vrastor has travelled over the Misty Mountains and beyond, into the Blue Mountains. Dourhand ruling reigns in Thorin's Hall. Vrastor was never keen on this but played along with these rules and things. The downside however was, he wasn't allowed to join the guard for being a Longbeard."Out of my way, Longbeard." A sturdy Dwarf shoves him aside, Vrastor grunts bemused and shakes his head."Keep it down, Dourhand. Or you'll regret it." He sneers back at the Dwarf. The Dourhand blatantly drops his sack and turns around with a stern face."What was that, Longbeard? Have you forgotten your place around here?" The Dourhand angerily approaches Vrastor who stands there, showing no fear."I know my place, Dourhand. Now go back to your business." He replies calmly. The Dourhand sniffs ferociously as he shoves him backwards."You would no better then to speak to me like that!" Vrastor stumbles backwards and frowns in anger."Leave. Now." He grunts at the Dourhand Dwarf. The tension between the two grows and grows by the minute. The Dourhand had about enough and takes his blackjack in hand."I'll beat you in your place then, Longbeard!" The Dourhand slings the blackjack across the face of Vrastor. The hit lands straight on his temple and he falls over, doozling away into the veil of dreams in an un-natural way.
--June 10 T.A. 3016.
A single drip of water falls on his cheek. The sound echoes throughout the room. He squints his eyes together and slowly starts to regain concious. He has been dressed in shoddy clothings and iron shackles are slapped around his wrists. Slowly he climbs back to a vertical base. He know very well where he was. The iron bars, the smelly scent. This was one of Thorin's Hall's holding cells. With a painfull grunt he holds his head and walks over towards the bars. His head is feeling like a group of Trolls had been having a dance party ontop of it. He peers through the iron bars with a glassy look on his face. Many Dourhands are walking around the square, all of them are attending to their own business it seems. Vrastor shook his head bemused and grunts afterwards. Upon grunting an axe hit the iron bars with force. In shock, the Longbeard immediately recoiled, falling down on his behind warily."Keep it quiet, prisoner. Your trial will be tomorrow. Untill then you will shut up and do as your told. Don't even think of shouting for help or I will personally cut your beard off and stuff it down your throat." The voice of this Dwarf sounds rather crooked, not particulary low pitched or high pitched but more like a strange inbetween version of it. Vrastor stands back up and shakes his hand in anger."Strike me down? Hah! Like a meager Dourhand could ever singlehandedly kill a Longbeard!" With stubborn pride, Vrastor cocks his head up and awaits the reaction of his guard. To his surprise there was no reaction to be heard afterwards. Could he have left? Or is he just ignoring him?
--June 11 T.A. 3016.
My throat is parched, my stomach is growling, but my pride they will never take. Not while I am alive, by Durin's beard! Vrastor sits down in the corner of his prison cell, multiple strands of his wet, dark hair hang in front of his face. He had been silent the entire time, he refused to eat the disgusting prison food and didn't get anything to drink. Oh how I long for a mug filled with dark beer and a bottle of brandywine afterwards, he thought to himself as he releases a sigh. With a slam, the iron door slings open and two guards enter his cell."Your trial is now, Longbeard." One of the two said. Before Vrastor could even stand up, he got grabbed by the two guards and dragged along over the stone tiles. The feeling of his knee's grinding over the steps and stones are like a venomous wasp sting. It burns and it hurts properly, yet he does not show any sign of intimidation, fear or pain. After a long drag he gets dumped down in front of a guard in lamellar armour. His beard is grey and his helmet is pointy. In his hand he holds his two-handed battle axe and his face is set on bad weather as always. Vrastor squints his eyes and looks up at the Dwarf, sneering angrily as he recognises the silhouette of the Dourhand."Gormr.." He uttered exhaustedly. Gormr Doursmith towered above Vrastor with an evil grin on his face."Vrastor, son of Ulstor. Been in a little accident, have we?" The facial expression of Gormr did not change for one moment. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying this moment. Vrastor merely stands back to face Gormr, who is but an inch shorter than he is. Gormr continued his speech with a stern frown on his face."You have deified the orders of a Dourhand watcher, Longbeard." He said scornfully."That can be seen as an act of treason and the penalty on that is well known to you, I take it?" Vrastor did not reply to the Dourhand, he sniffs furiously and exhales in a frustrated sigh."Lost your tongue, did you now Longbeard?" Gormr smiled devilishly as he slaps him across the face."Well?" He continued in a mocking tone. Vrastor's eyes were burning with rage, he lunges forward to go for Gormr's throat but is held back by the two guards who kick him down once more."And now an assault on the acting ruler of these halls?" Gormr lightens up, enough games."Vrastor, son of Ulstor. I hereby exile you from these Halls and the lands around it. You are to be cuffed and marked, after that we'll dump you in the wilds with what you have." Gormr waves his hand dismissely and the guards take the weakened Longbeard once more and drag him away to the forges. Vrastor is having a hard time to remain concious. Upon arriving at the forge he is seated down in a chair with force. His cuffs get tightened and bound together as a Dourhand smithy grabs a poker and dips it in the smoldering forge. Vrastor sneers at the three with a disrespectful snort."You are filth! Goblin bred harlots, may Durin burn your souls in the unforgiven furnance!" He shouts at them with vile hate and unrelenting fury. The Dourhands do not really seem to be affected by his curses. The smith beholds the poker to the two guards and nods a time. Vrastor's shirt is torn open by one of the guards and the smithy proceeds to plant the burning hot marking poker on Vrastor's bare chest. With sneering pain, his flesh is being marked by the treacherous Dourhand. Vrastor's eyes widen and he yells loudly in pain. It felt like a sword that is being struck right through his chest. With an evil chuckle, the smithy pulls the poker away and watches burning mark on the chest of the prisoner."Marked a traitor, what a shame, Longbeard." The smithy said in his rather high pitched voice. The guards pull him out of the chair and guide him towards the exit of the Halls. The gates swing open and out he is tossed, rolling down the staircase with painful force."Farewell, traitor! Let's hope the lynxes won't like themselves a Longbeard for dinner! Haha!" The guards chuckled mockingly at him and turn around once more, heading back to their posts. Slowly the gates of Thorin's Hall close and he is left behind on the plateau in the cold, spring mountain wind. What perils lie ahead? Am I going to survive or will I return to the stone from whence I came?
--June 20 T.A. 3016
It's been nine days since my exile, I've been living off lynx meat and river water. I'm currently resided outside of Orodost on an isle in the middle of the river. All I got for a weapon is a sharpened stick and a sharp stone. I traded some lynx pelts for proper clothing at some trader caravan. I had to hide my marking from them but they didn't seem to notice. It's good to get rid of these rags. I will update this diary once I reach the dale of Ered Luin.
| Friends | Several Dwarves that serve under the banner of Lord Dwalin. |
|---|---|
| Relatives | |
| Rivals/Enemies | Dourhands Dwarves, Orc-filth and other miscreants from the shadow. |
| Loves | The sound of fire and steel, forging in unity. His alcoholic drinks. The heat of battle |
|---|---|
| Hates | Pompous Elves. Treachery of any kind. |
| Motivation | To preserve and reclaim the dwellings of Dwarven kind. |
| Quotes | If it hits you, hit it back and hit it back hard. |
Vrastor's Adventures
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