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 Post subject: The Grumpy Gripes of Grom Grimhand
PostPosted: Thu Aug 17, 2017 6:00 pm 
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Outside Misthome, Southern Fangwood Forest - Half a month after Scarvinus's defeat.

Grom stalked through the green-canopy of the Fangwood, two miles from the refugee's temporary grotto, the Troglodyte caves recently christened Misthome. Axe in hand, the surly dwarf was keeping an eye out for trouble.

He moved quietly, some might say, even stealthily, for a dwarf. No rumbling armor, no clanking boots. Just a careful, trackless glide through the undergrowth.

Grom was far more at home in the leafy green of the forest than a cavern, and used every opportunity he could to get out of the cave. This on its own was almost unheard of for a dwarf, but Grom considered himself a curious mix of uniqueness and typical sterotype dwarf. On the one hand, he was grumpy; a lot of dwarves were grumpy. He enjoyed fighting, ample ale and was deeply committed to his people, city and clan. Yet on the other, he was an outcast. Always looking to the green spaces of the world, longing to feel the grass on his feet and the sound of morning dew dripping off big, beautiful leaves. Of course, the fact that his beard gained streaks of green while within a forest certainly helped him feel like a freak.

The ranger stopped in mid-glide as he spotted movement. He instinctively went into a low crouch and stared through a bush ahead at a deer, taking a quiet sip of water from a nearby stream.

He watched it for a moment, considering the quickest, most humane kill for the distance. He drew his bow and an arrow. The refugees were well fed right now, but the winter was coming, and stalking up on provisions was one of his reasons to be in the forest. Another was to patrol, but still another was to simply enjoy the greenery around him.

It was that last thought that made the dwarf loose his concentration and gasp. The deer heard him and took off like a bolt of lighting, but the ranger was no longer caring about the animal. Instead, he had noticed something else...a massive, gnarled oak tree.

To anyone else, the tree would have been just that...a tree. But the dwarf saw something else. It was amazingly similar to the home of his dryad friend Amara. He knew it wasn't, but the resemblance was uncanny.

Forgetting the deer, Grom made his way to the base of the large tree and slowly ran his hand over the gnarled bark. He closed his eyes and remembered Amara, her beautiful form, amazing smile and soft voice. But that mental image soon changed to one of anger as the dwarf recalled she had been charming him during his two year stay in her grove. He growled a bit and removed his hand from the tree quite forcefully. The grumpy dwarf continued to question how much of his affection for the fey was real...and how much was magic. The fact he had no answer made him grumpier than ever.

Stowing his bow and gripping his axe, Grom decided to head back to Misthome. He had enough of the forest. For now.


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