((These are Dundale?s writings. These posts provide the background to most all the Gardian's stories.))
Scrolls of the Scribe
Here upon these weathered pages, loosely bound and fast showing their wear, lie what is known of the stranger who walks the paths of Valley Atrebla, naming himself Dundale and calling himself the Scribe to the Guardians of Truth. Judge not too harshly as you read of his deeds and the circumstances that have landed him in your midst, for what he has done, hath been done in a sense of fairness and what is right, though some would surely be quick to disagree.
Between the ancient fatherland of Radurdan, and the western valleys founded by the upstart Tharumaine, that some now call Agaelon, lies a long, hard spine of the world known only as the Shadowrange. In ever diminishing heights its spires march to the South from the Great Northern Rim, where those towering peaks reach so high into the night sky some say the very stars come there to rest. Down sheer, icebound precipeces and pinnacles of stone, long ages of hard weather have laid bare the bones of the
mighty beast, wearing them smooth while adorning them with thick forests of evergreen and fir. And from their last high walls, they spill forth a myriad of swelling rivers that cut broad paths down through the northern buttresses of the Iron Mountains, feeding those lush vales below, yet always seeking a path to the sea.
For ages untold those peaks that lay just below the eternal snowline have been held as home by clans of skilled hunters and craftsmen. And though they grow little of their own need, their women have long been wise in the ways of keeping the yearly plunder from the lowlands fresh and wholesome for their use. But by nature, and in part due to the harsh hand beneath which they survive, they have long ago hardened themselves to the realities of war, and seasoned their spirits to sacrifice. For their
existence depends upon the bounty of others, and the strength of their own hand to seize it.
Akin closely to the old blood that still flows strong in Radurdan, the tribes have warred with the land of their origins for generations, seeking always to hold what lands they do have from the yoke of the Black Throne. And though they plunder the ripe fields of their new neighbor to the West, and on occasion bring their women bound and gagged from the fertile fields where the rivers spill forth, they have often allied themselves to the sons of Tharumaine, for they too make war on the ancient
Kingdom to the East. It is of one such incident, and the misfortune of one Agaelon shepherd's unwary daughter that the tale I am to tell was born. For when Glarius, brash, young and mountain-born, took the lass who was called Jaelith by her folk, she was a'ready with child. A child that was to be born to her in strife, though she named him Dundale, which meant 'light of the evening star' in the valley of her home.
Jaelith struggled against both the harshness of her new world, and a consuming heartsickness for the lost lands of her father, to raise the child she had borne. Her struggle to protect him from the hard hand of her captor, and now husband, was neverending. For Glarius despised the boy, being not of the same blood and a strong rival for his bride's favor.
Despite his deprivement and his mother's intense sheltering, Dundale found his own niche within the clan. It soon became apparent to all that he was sharp of eye and skilled with the bow, his aim true and consistant. At the young age of ten, while wandering above the village in hopes of bringing home some small offering for the cookpots, he came to a ledge overlooking a narrow ravine. Deep in the cleft below, cutting the meat from a small, freshly slain hornbuck, Glarius sat unaware of the
crouching snowpanther just above, or the boy in the shadows higher still.
The sleek white streak of death fell screaming and writhing to the ground at his lodgefather's heel, causing him to bolt in fear from the sudden danger. But the sharp-fanged beast would harm no other living thing, for Dundale had pierced its heart with a hawk-feathered shaft, even as it had sprung murderously for its unwitting prey. Then, before he could be seen, he vanished back the way he had come, following the trail quickly around the village and coming unseen to his mother's lodge. And
though he was questioned harshly, and Glarius was never to be sure who had saved his life that day, the boy held his tongue and would not say it was he who had sped the killing arrow. From that day forth, a measure of fearful suspicion seasoned the glare of the older man's eye, and a closer heed was paid to the lad's comings and goings.
The second winter following Jaelith's abduction saw the birth of the next of the three boys she would breathe life into before her death. Caleb, sired by Glarius and favored by him before the very warmth of the sun, came ripping into the world, nearly killing his mother in the bargain. Now, the days Dundale had spent listening to her wisdom, receiving instruction him in the ways of the world to which he might someday return, were filled with her pain and the screams of the dangerously ill child.
He became truly alone in that dark time, for he was now both the source of his mother's growing sense of guilt and the deep depression that it brought, as well as the object of her husband's hateful scorn.
It was such for the next four years of his life. He tried to avoid the stiff treatment his mother was no longer in any condition to shield him from by pledging himself and his bow to a band of foragers and hunters led by his one true friend within the clan. At DaFaar's side, he learned to track the great Swordpaw bears through the wilds of the Shadowrange. And when there was water needed on the high trails, he was a most adept pupil in the skills of its finding. But the talent which the old and
grisled warrior unleashed in him that was to be his greatest joy, was the swift-fingered rendering of music from the taut-stringed Mandobar the old one held so dear. It was not long before Dundale was held in regard for his new talent, for he was a clever and creative songsmith, and the tales of their past that he had learned as a child, he now gave back to them in rhythm and rhyme.
Scrolls of the Scribe
Here upon these weathered pages, loosely bound and fast showing their wear, lie what is known of the stranger who walks the paths of Valley Atrebla, naming himself Dundale and calling himself the Scribe to the Guardians of Truth. Judge not too harshly as you read of his deeds and the circumstances that have landed him in your midst, for what he has done, hath been done in a sense of fairness and what is right, though some would surely be quick to disagree.
Between the ancient fatherland of Radurdan, and the western valleys founded by the upstart Tharumaine, that some now call Agaelon, lies a long, hard spine of the world known only as the Shadowrange. In ever diminishing heights its spires march to the South from the Great Northern Rim, where those towering peaks reach so high into the night sky some say the very stars come there to rest. Down sheer, icebound precipeces and pinnacles of stone, long ages of hard weather have laid bare the bones of the
mighty beast, wearing them smooth while adorning them with thick forests of evergreen and fir. And from their last high walls, they spill forth a myriad of swelling rivers that cut broad paths down through the northern buttresses of the Iron Mountains, feeding those lush vales below, yet always seeking a path to the sea.
For ages untold those peaks that lay just below the eternal snowline have been held as home by clans of skilled hunters and craftsmen. And though they grow little of their own need, their women have long been wise in the ways of keeping the yearly plunder from the lowlands fresh and wholesome for their use. But by nature, and in part due to the harsh hand beneath which they survive, they have long ago hardened themselves to the realities of war, and seasoned their spirits to sacrifice. For their
existence depends upon the bounty of others, and the strength of their own hand to seize it.
Akin closely to the old blood that still flows strong in Radurdan, the tribes have warred with the land of their origins for generations, seeking always to hold what lands they do have from the yoke of the Black Throne. And though they plunder the ripe fields of their new neighbor to the West, and on occasion bring their women bound and gagged from the fertile fields where the rivers spill forth, they have often allied themselves to the sons of Tharumaine, for they too make war on the ancient
Kingdom to the East. It is of one such incident, and the misfortune of one Agaelon shepherd's unwary daughter that the tale I am to tell was born. For when Glarius, brash, young and mountain-born, took the lass who was called Jaelith by her folk, she was a'ready with child. A child that was to be born to her in strife, though she named him Dundale, which meant 'light of the evening star' in the valley of her home.
Jaelith struggled against both the harshness of her new world, and a consuming heartsickness for the lost lands of her father, to raise the child she had borne. Her struggle to protect him from the hard hand of her captor, and now husband, was neverending. For Glarius despised the boy, being not of the same blood and a strong rival for his bride's favor.
Despite his deprivement and his mother's intense sheltering, Dundale found his own niche within the clan. It soon became apparent to all that he was sharp of eye and skilled with the bow, his aim true and consistant. At the young age of ten, while wandering above the village in hopes of bringing home some small offering for the cookpots, he came to a ledge overlooking a narrow ravine. Deep in the cleft below, cutting the meat from a small, freshly slain hornbuck, Glarius sat unaware of the
crouching snowpanther just above, or the boy in the shadows higher still.
The sleek white streak of death fell screaming and writhing to the ground at his lodgefather's heel, causing him to bolt in fear from the sudden danger. But the sharp-fanged beast would harm no other living thing, for Dundale had pierced its heart with a hawk-feathered shaft, even as it had sprung murderously for its unwitting prey. Then, before he could be seen, he vanished back the way he had come, following the trail quickly around the village and coming unseen to his mother's lodge. And
though he was questioned harshly, and Glarius was never to be sure who had saved his life that day, the boy held his tongue and would not say it was he who had sped the killing arrow. From that day forth, a measure of fearful suspicion seasoned the glare of the older man's eye, and a closer heed was paid to the lad's comings and goings.
The second winter following Jaelith's abduction saw the birth of the next of the three boys she would breathe life into before her death. Caleb, sired by Glarius and favored by him before the very warmth of the sun, came ripping into the world, nearly killing his mother in the bargain. Now, the days Dundale had spent listening to her wisdom, receiving instruction him in the ways of the world to which he might someday return, were filled with her pain and the screams of the dangerously ill child.
He became truly alone in that dark time, for he was now both the source of his mother's growing sense of guilt and the deep depression that it brought, as well as the object of her husband's hateful scorn.
It was such for the next four years of his life. He tried to avoid the stiff treatment his mother was no longer in any condition to shield him from by pledging himself and his bow to a band of foragers and hunters led by his one true friend within the clan. At DaFaar's side, he learned to track the great Swordpaw bears through the wilds of the Shadowrange. And when there was water needed on the high trails, he was a most adept pupil in the skills of its finding. But the talent which the old and
grisled warrior unleashed in him that was to be his greatest joy, was the swift-fingered rendering of music from the taut-stringed Mandobar the old one held so dear. It was not long before Dundale was held in regard for his new talent, for he was a clever and creative songsmith, and the tales of their past that he had learned as a child, he now gave back to them in rhythm and rhyme.