Dunsi Backstory

Dunsi Ironcloak - Before the Party Met

It was close to her 70th birthday when they came. As was custom her clan lived in a series of gnome-made, underground dwellings which joined at a large central meeting point. The Ironcloaks were a formidable bunch: deep in lore and always well-armed. They had lived through dark times for centuries. They had only been at Yarlug for nearly 70 years – the first of the 7th Age as the elves reckoned time. Before that they lived much further south, though Dunsi knew nothing of that time and the Lore Giver had not yet availed her of the past. In all the clan, Dunsi had showed the most promise: she was hand picked to be schooled in dweomer with the opportunity to be sent to learn from Orodruin in a few years.

Then it happened. The horns announced their coming from the depths. Others knew what this meant. They armed themselves quickly, even Enrik swapped apron for armour – though he was never suited to it. Dunsi recalls how lop-sided his helm was and ill-fitting his chain. The clan marshalled itself in the Hall and Goringarm stood before them. “We have not invested our time, energy and our very souls into this place to watch it fall. Here we make our last stand! You know what we face – the terror that ascends in these chaotic times – we know not all will stand again in this Hall. We accept that as Ironcloaks and we will meet our end nonetheless. Come! To victory or death!” His speech was met with a determined yell… well, grunt of acceptance now Dunsi thinks on it. What more could they do? The scenes that followed still plague her mind. The upsiders had brought this terror upon them. They had beseeched their Gods to intervene where they had no right to be.

Dunsi understood that the wars raged across the Prime and, such is the nature of war, there were no winners. The journey north had been perilous, though she remembers none of it. Few of their folk made it to their cousins’ house at Yarlug. She was born on the road north – as were many of that generation. Looking back, those years in Yarlug seem to be spent in a different world. Her parents were lost in that battle, as were many of her friends and relatives. She was too young to fight and was imprisoned, along with others of similar age. They were put to work, mining the rich seems that Yarlug still possessed. They brought out all sorts of precious minerals, but it was Brightbane that the Devils from below prized the most.

The work was backbreaking, monotonous and – to her mind – pointless. She would much rather be using what they bought out – manipulating it to make it useful. So many of her fellow captives died in those mines. They were driven hard and with no concern for their safety. Mal-nourished, exhausted and weak from constant chiselling, Dunsi fell. That’s when something odd happened. Instead of crashing to her death in moments, she managed to slow her fall – indeed, control it! That was not all, she felt flooded with energy her bruises clearing and cuts binding, quickly forming scabs before disappearing altogether. She realised that she had a power – something her mind controlled.

At the bottom of a shaft in which she landed, she found bodies – skeletons very old and some more recent but all decayed. The lighting strung across the seam above barely reached the bottom of the pit but there, amongst the dead, something caught her eye. It was warm in the dark. Not light brightbane which was cold in the stone, no, this was warm. She tripped as she moved quickly, drawn to the tiny glow. The clatter rang out, echoing up the shaft. Dunsi waited, holding her breath. The Devils would look for her now – nothing got out of the mines alive. Desperate, Dunsi looked around, scrabbling through the bones trying to arm herself. She would not die without a fight. She quickly found weapons and some bits of armour. Her hand finally rested on a long-extinguished torch. Hastening her search, she found a small box, which she hoped contained a flint and steel. A screech from above announced that she was missed. A second came from the top of the shaft into which she had tumbled. They knew this place… Success! A tinderbox. She thumbed what she presumed was a flint and struck its sharp age against the flat two-inch strip of cold steel. Sparks flew, illuminating her immediate surroundings and momentarily blinding her. In that instance, she saw the small warm item. It was - even now -imprinted on her mind.

Lying amongst the many skeletons at the bottom of the pit was the body of a dwarf or gnome who had once been an important figure. Whilst his armour was ancient and broken, it was clearly once of quality. Nothing much was left of his clothes except for a robe which seemed untouched by age. But it was what was on one of the fingers of the skeleton’s outstretched hand that captivated her. She saw its warmth now that the sparks died. Another screech focussed her mind. Striking again and again she managed to ignite a piece of age-dried cloth. It gave enough light for her to pull together more combustibles and wrap them around the metal shaft of a mace. She quickly gathered other items to her, expertly assessing quality, size and durability. Astounded by how many lay here, she found what she needed – armour, a long knife and a staff. She replaced her ripped and torn boots and her stained clothes with things that had lasted the years at the bottom of this cold dark place. Then it struck her: there was no water. Yarlug had many underground streams which permeated all the rock – indeed, the water erosion had revealed brightbane. But there was not a drop here. Things had begun to disintegrate but not rotted, no, not even mildewed or covered in mould. Nothing grew here.

Something told her to take the ring; her thoughts were that a glowing ring should not fall into the hands of the Devils, now above. They would see its warmth, as she had. No, she must hide it. Quickly she stole it from its long-dead owner and popped it in the pocket of his cloak, that she now draped over her shoulders. Then it struck. Claws ripped at her from above, trying to lift her. The screech was unbearably loud and piercing. Dunsi remembers how the cloak denied its grip, not feeling the stabbing pain those talons could have inflicted. Indeed, even its sharp-ended, poison-tipped tail failed to penetrate the magical weave. Wingless it floated above her, bemused, hissing and screeching. Dunsi was not idle. She smashed it with the staff, knocking it to the floor. It was confused – from where did this enemy hail. She did not give it time to collect itself, striking again and again, pouring out all her anger and misery. Finally, she plunged the knife into the nape of its long, green-black neck. Its eyes bulged in pain and shock, piercing the gloaming with a pale orange light before it collapsed, taking up home with its fellow dead.

There would be more. Dunsi desperately looked around for an escape. She could not go up – certainly not unnoticed. Using the light of her make-shift torch and scrabbing across the bodies she found it. A small fissure in the dry rock opened to her torch light. She crawled through, pushing the torch forward as she went, staff between her knees, knife in a deep pocket. After what felt like hours of a slow ascent, she emerged into a lager chamber. Her torch was spluttering and her back breaking, her knees scuffed and bruised. The room – for it was clearly an old entrance to Yarlug – was again littered with skeletons. They had fallen when the devils came and here, she realised, may lie her kin.

She knew this way to the surface – for she had to get out into the light and away from these devil-held mines – and was glad to be able to pass without looking at her surroundings. Eyes shut for the most part, she edged along the walls, turning and twisting her way up. Another screech echoed through the caverns below – they had discovered what had happened in the pit. Every instinct told her to run, but she controlled herself – to fall here might spell her end. Yarlug was full of hidden traps and pits, she had to be careful. She finally climbed a shaft that few knew was more than a source of light. As she begun, she felt – for the first time – the dampness associated with the porous rocks of gnome hall. The dampness increased until water dripped down the dark grey surface up which she climbed. Forcing her legs straight and pushing her back to the opposite wall shat paused, breathing heavily from the exertion. A few years ago, before they came, she could have climbed this in less than an hour. Now, she was weak. She cupped her hands beneath a tiny stream on water and let them fill slowly, drinking before the liquid of life overflowed, leaving her grasp.

Her head emerged into a pale darkness, the fresh air breathing new life into her. She was free! The stars were so bright above – like the shining ribbon of party lights her mother had strung up for her 14 years ago. She shook her head and took another deep, calming breath before hauling herself out onto the rock-strewn, uneven grassland of what was once Amorsland.

She recalled stories of a great castle to the north that may have weathered the storm brought about by the ‘surfacers’. Her legs were wobbly as she set off, tired from pushing against the wall, they were not ready to lift and stride. She heard and felt the rage of hundreds of evil voices fill the complex beneath her, reverberating against the stone making the rocks over which she walked tremble in fear. She picked up her pace, willing her legs to get into a more natural stride. It was cold here on the surface. There were puddles and patches of dark mud which she instinctively avoided. Dawn confirmed her direction. Pale orange the sun rose to her right. She must have been walking for most of the night. The terrain had not changed much from that she remembered as a child; however, there were low mounds of earth raised near one another in clumps of five or six and covered with purple-red heather. In other parts the earth was torn and rent, filled with water or churned up into some muddy gloop. Foul odours rose from some parts, making her gag or feel dizzy. Nothing now lived here and she dare not drink from the puddles. Her mind drove her forward, overcoming all need for food, sleep or water…

Eventually she saw the partial ruins. It had withstood Ragnorak – Fontainver lived. The river was drained, and the bridge thrown down, so she could easily walk across its ruin. The many breaches in the walls were patched up, but she knew it could not withstand a determined assault for long. The temple which once shone out high on the keep was no more. The wharf were broken and thrown into the tumultuous sea. The once-proud race of sea elves that made this their home were long dead. But Dunsi was drawn here…Was this the salvation she had sought? Would there be any here willing to help free her people?