Post by Ironside on Mar 15, 2012 12:52:50 GMT -6
Alastor Ioran was born the son of a farrier, as humble of beginnings as one can manage. His childhood consisted entirely of long hours at the forge, listening to the teachings of his drunkard father. From fetching ingots to stoking the coals, Alastor learned and worked. Long into the night, they would craft together, his father rabling on about The Smithy and the Church of the Forge. Alastor, while wide-eyed and curious, paid little mind to the teachings of the Forge. However, he took to the knowledge of crafting like a fish to the sea. While starting only with horseshoes, Alastor became self-taught in the ways of making armor and weapons.
It was in his teenage years, late 30s for a Dwarf, that him and his father parted ways. In anger, Alastor left his home, deciding to travel north to the lands of Khador. Dwarves always prefered to tavel on foot and every step he took he spit on the name of his father. Like all things in a Dwarf's life, Alastor was influenced heavily by a cask of ale.
He settled in a boomtown on the edges of the land of Khador. He took up his father's trade as the town's ferrier. In this town, he found a higher calling at the forge. The town was located in a bad place, though near a main trading route, it's position near the mountains made it a perfect spot for raids by monsters. The milita was horridly undertrained and under equipped, the sons of farmers taking up crude arms and armor to protect their city. The young Dwarf, from his own pocket and kindness of his heart, personally made superior weapons and armor for every able bodied man in the milita. Plate and chain armor, swords, shields and spears, the milita went from looking like armed presents to a proper fighting force.
The years passed. It was one faithful day when a raid hit the town. This was nothing new, raids would happen every month or two because of the town's location, but this was different.
This time, it was no simple raiding party. Goblyns, orcs, and three of the largest trolls eyes could lay eyes on thundered down the mountain side. Their numbers were well over a hundred. This was no raid. This was a warband.
The monsters ripped through the town like a swarm of locust. Alastor fought along side the milita, but it was a losing battle. Their forces were only twenty-nine strong. The monsters out numbered them two-to-one. Many good men died this day. Wounded, with a goblyn ready to strike the killing blow, Alastor's eyes closed as he welcomed the embrace of death. As the dagger entered his heart, he felt no pain, no cold and no darkness.
He felt fire.
The goblyn who had stabbed the young Dwarf was met by his hand. As easy as popping a grape, Alastor crushed the monster's skull. He roared. The fires of war burned in his pierced heart. His eyes glowed with divine power. The monsters, for a moment, were silenced. They watched in amazement as the armor and weapons ripped from the dead milita and attached itself to Alastor's body.
All went dark. Alastor was no longer Alastor. The Smithy, the God his father spoke of smiled upon the Dwarf and chose him to be the vassle for his might. Alastor had become a demi-god, the avatar of the Smithy. He had become the Smoldering Saint that his father spoke of. Over ten feet tall and fused with a half-ton of steel, he began his rampage.
The Smoldering Saint barreled through monsters like a landslide. The trolls were the first to fall, torn apart by steel-clad hands. The horde of goblyns and orcs soon fell. None were allowed to escape his wrath.
As soon as it had happened, it was over. Alastor, the Smoldering Saint, fell. As his body, twice the size as it was normally, encased in chain and plate hit the ground, the armor fell away. He lay there, like the defenseless chick after cracking from it's egg.
It was several hours later, in the town's pathetic little hospital where he awoke. He was told of what happened. As a smile came to Alastor's lips, the only words he spoke was "I'm sorry, father."
For a week, he rested. When his body was back to it's strength, he went out to a thankful town. They held a banquet in the honor of Alastor and The Smithy. They called Alastor "The Iron Bulwark By Our Side." This was difficult to say in the Dwarf tongue for many of the humans living there. They shortened it to 'Ironside'. It was fitting, as his experience left him with a memento. A fragment of shield, roughly the size of a fist, was embedded in his hip; fused with his very flesh.
That following morning, before the sun rose, Alastor looked out toward the horizion. The journey he had to take was going to be long and full of hazards. Over the great mountains lied the Forgechurch, the temple of The Smithy. Word would eventually reach that the Smoldering Saint had appeared. The Forgechuch would be expecting him.
Many years passes. Alastor had entered the service of the Forgechurch, following the Priesthood, the Ironsouls. He spent many a day at the forge, speaking the sacred prayed of the First Flame in his labor. He rose through the ranks swiftly. Having been touched by The Smithy himself, being the chosen Smoldering Saint, he soon became the Church's high priest. No longer was he the poor son of a farrier, Alastor Ioran.
He was Ironside; The Iron Priest of the Forge, Keeper of the First Flame, vassal of the Smoldering Saint.
It was in his teenage years, late 30s for a Dwarf, that him and his father parted ways. In anger, Alastor left his home, deciding to travel north to the lands of Khador. Dwarves always prefered to tavel on foot and every step he took he spit on the name of his father. Like all things in a Dwarf's life, Alastor was influenced heavily by a cask of ale.
He settled in a boomtown on the edges of the land of Khador. He took up his father's trade as the town's ferrier. In this town, he found a higher calling at the forge. The town was located in a bad place, though near a main trading route, it's position near the mountains made it a perfect spot for raids by monsters. The milita was horridly undertrained and under equipped, the sons of farmers taking up crude arms and armor to protect their city. The young Dwarf, from his own pocket and kindness of his heart, personally made superior weapons and armor for every able bodied man in the milita. Plate and chain armor, swords, shields and spears, the milita went from looking like armed presents to a proper fighting force.
The years passed. It was one faithful day when a raid hit the town. This was nothing new, raids would happen every month or two because of the town's location, but this was different.
This time, it was no simple raiding party. Goblyns, orcs, and three of the largest trolls eyes could lay eyes on thundered down the mountain side. Their numbers were well over a hundred. This was no raid. This was a warband.
The monsters ripped through the town like a swarm of locust. Alastor fought along side the milita, but it was a losing battle. Their forces were only twenty-nine strong. The monsters out numbered them two-to-one. Many good men died this day. Wounded, with a goblyn ready to strike the killing blow, Alastor's eyes closed as he welcomed the embrace of death. As the dagger entered his heart, he felt no pain, no cold and no darkness.
He felt fire.
The goblyn who had stabbed the young Dwarf was met by his hand. As easy as popping a grape, Alastor crushed the monster's skull. He roared. The fires of war burned in his pierced heart. His eyes glowed with divine power. The monsters, for a moment, were silenced. They watched in amazement as the armor and weapons ripped from the dead milita and attached itself to Alastor's body.
All went dark. Alastor was no longer Alastor. The Smithy, the God his father spoke of smiled upon the Dwarf and chose him to be the vassle for his might. Alastor had become a demi-god, the avatar of the Smithy. He had become the Smoldering Saint that his father spoke of. Over ten feet tall and fused with a half-ton of steel, he began his rampage.
The Smoldering Saint barreled through monsters like a landslide. The trolls were the first to fall, torn apart by steel-clad hands. The horde of goblyns and orcs soon fell. None were allowed to escape his wrath.
As soon as it had happened, it was over. Alastor, the Smoldering Saint, fell. As his body, twice the size as it was normally, encased in chain and plate hit the ground, the armor fell away. He lay there, like the defenseless chick after cracking from it's egg.
It was several hours later, in the town's pathetic little hospital where he awoke. He was told of what happened. As a smile came to Alastor's lips, the only words he spoke was "I'm sorry, father."
For a week, he rested. When his body was back to it's strength, he went out to a thankful town. They held a banquet in the honor of Alastor and The Smithy. They called Alastor "The Iron Bulwark By Our Side." This was difficult to say in the Dwarf tongue for many of the humans living there. They shortened it to 'Ironside'. It was fitting, as his experience left him with a memento. A fragment of shield, roughly the size of a fist, was embedded in his hip; fused with his very flesh.
That following morning, before the sun rose, Alastor looked out toward the horizion. The journey he had to take was going to be long and full of hazards. Over the great mountains lied the Forgechurch, the temple of The Smithy. Word would eventually reach that the Smoldering Saint had appeared. The Forgechuch would be expecting him.
Many years passes. Alastor had entered the service of the Forgechurch, following the Priesthood, the Ironsouls. He spent many a day at the forge, speaking the sacred prayed of the First Flame in his labor. He rose through the ranks swiftly. Having been touched by The Smithy himself, being the chosen Smoldering Saint, he soon became the Church's high priest. No longer was he the poor son of a farrier, Alastor Ioran.
He was Ironside; The Iron Priest of the Forge, Keeper of the First Flame, vassal of the Smoldering Saint.