Legends of Belariath

Mozenwrathe

Minotaur Bones

One thing I have realized during my short and blood-weary life is that no matter what I may do or say, people will always judge me for what I appear to be.I could have been the most intelligent dwarven scholar in the realm, or an eloquent speaker on matters of state and diplomacy, but while there is blood on my cleats and furs upon my back, am I no more than a "berserker dwarf."

In some ways, this can be a downfall.I have been banned outright from rather favored gambling halls due to my "penchant for violence," even if I have never been there before.At least once a week does some human fool of an adventurer insist on calling me "stubby stubble man" and gets himself hurt for his cares.Elven archers and dancers look down upon me with scorn and outright disregard, going so far as to insult my demeanor as "worthless gutter trash with no more sense in his head than a rock troll."

Hitting them is not even worth the effort with a hammer, for normally a rock troll is around to take offense and they do such a better job at thrashing those pompous asses than I do.Almost like clockwork, every new moon grants me another challenge of might or bloodwork from some random Wolven warrior who wishes to prove himself in battle to all his little bitches... and then there are the Minotaur bones.

Minotaur bones, one might ask?Well, I have made a collection of different bones from various races I have slain.Morbid, yes, but useful in its own way.Some rune casters of barbarian tribes will offer much to a random traveler who has rare and hard to acquire bones.Not just those who spit and curse have I gained the bones of, but plenty of more basic creatures as well.I am sure there is a necromancer out there who would love my collection, but the last one that tried to steal it wound up beheaded by my axe... when I was not even holding it.

(That story will cost your little purse two rubies AND a flagon or three of ale.I do not like remembering that night, nor the four days that came after it.Some things no matter of man or beast should have to endure, and ghosts are one of them.Yet, I ramble on without aim again, like a sylvan archer with his captain's hard staff in his rear end.)

Those bones have defined my life from the day I first hefted an axe.Sure, I was but a whelp and unable to carry it properly, so I downed myself to handaxes and those suited me well for decades.My father's father's father's grandmother forged the family seal those handaxes wore, and as such they have been used for training by my entire line back to her day.Sure, they are not the same handaxes, but the seal itself has never been altered - such is the nature of perfection.I only wish I had the talent she had with the forge, but my hands were made for holding tools of vengeance, not making them.

When I got my first set of bones, it was from a giant puff adder that was going to make a meal of my sister.(She still has the fangs from the bastard to this day.)I kept all the bones of the ragged beasty, skinning it like I had seen the tanners do.It was a badly done job, and the blood coating me from nose to toes stank of rot, but it was my first kill, and I was proud of it.My sister screamed bloody murder the entire walk home, mainly as her new dress had been ruined.Did I mention my sister does not understand what fear is?Either she is too stupid, too crazy, or too selfish to accept the fact something may try to kill her.Given her penchant for hunting down boars with no more than a blunt stick and a prim dress, I would say all three.

Still, I knew from that point that the life of the forge would never be for me.It was too boring, too stilted and almost choking for one such as I.My father would have wept at the shame of it all, for there was always a Nevrawd to take up the craft, and his only son was going to abandon tradition for a life of swordcraft and chaos.As I said, he WOULD have wept if it had not been for the fact my two elder sisters were already accomplished smiths in their own right, while the youngest (that being the crazy one) was planning on marrying a smith as well (which she did by raping him repeatedly until he said yes).

Anyway, I got the Minotaur bones the old fashioned way: I tripped over them on my way to a battle in the far eastern reaches of Belariath.Until that day, I had never seen a Minotaur - living or dead.The moment I stumbled and fell face first and looked that mammoth skull in the empty eye sockets, I knew it had to be mine.Covering my find with small rocks and shrubs, I hurried on to the battle, for I was supposed to be defending the caravan which was being picked apart by bandits.Lucky to leave THAT fight with my life, I came back to my small bundle of stones to collect my prize and rejoin the caravan (or what was left of it) soon after.Ever since, I have marked on the long thighbones of the dead bastard every time I have slain someone.

Those bones are really long, but the markings go up and down along the sides of one of the leg bones already.I am no assassin, nor do I stalk the shadows of demise and war.I just happen to attract those who obviously wish to give their lives to their sworn lieges of Ultimate Judgment.Not that I care, for while my axe may still swing and my hammer eagerly awaits to plant itself in a chest, I will be more than happy to send them straight to wherever they need to go!

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