The Road to Zuraldi

Dulint and Balin trudged along the winding mountain path, their packs heavy with supplies and the weight of their secret. The sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple.

“How much further, Uncle?” Balin asked, adjusting the straps on his shoulders.

Dulint squinted at the distant peaks. “We’ll make camp soon, lad. No point risking our necks on these trails after dark.”

They found a small clearing nestled between towering pines. As Balin gathered firewood, Dulint unpacked their meager rations.

The fire crackled to life, casting dancing shadows on the tree trunks. Dulint leaned back, his bones creaking in protest.

“Tell me again about the Zuraldi,” Balin said, his eyes reflecting the flames. “What are they like?”

Dulint stroked his beard, a faraway look in his eyes. “Strong folk, the Zuraldi. Built like the mountains they call home. They value strength, aye, but there’s a wisdom to them too. Ancient knowledge, passed down through generations.”

“And they’ll help us?” Balin’s voice held a note of uncertainty.

“If anyone can make sense of what we’ve found, it’s them,” Dulint nodded. “Now get some sleep. We’ve a long road ahead.”

Shadows in the Night

The night air bit into Dulint’s skin as he stood watch. His eyes strained against the darkness, searching for threats in the shadows of the towering pines. A twig snapped. His hand flew to his axe.

“Balin,” he hissed. “Wake up, lad.”

His nephew stirred, grumbling. “What now, old man? Another raccoon got you jumpy?”

A guttural cry split the air. Not a raccoon.

Balin bolted upright, sleep forgotten. “What in the name of-”

“Bandits,” Dulint spat the word like a curse.

They emerged from the underbrush, a writhing mass of green skin and yellowed teeth. Six, no, seven of the creatures. Curved blades glinted in the moonlight.

Dulint’s muscles tensed, muscle memory from decades past taking over. He hefted his axe, its weight familiar and comforting.

“Stay close, boy. And don’t do anything stupid.”

Balin fumbled for his pickaxe, knuckles white around the handle. “Bit late for that, isn’t it?”

The first goblin appeared across the river, rushed towards Dulint. Dulint dodged and swung his axe in a merciless arc. The creature collapsed and dark blood stained the forest floor.

Another charged at Balin. The young dwarf swung wildly, his pickaxe whistling through empty air. The goblin’s blade sliced across his arm, drawing a pained cry.

“Balin!” Dulint roared, cleaving through another attacker. “Behind you!”

His nephew spun, driving the point of his pickaxe into a goblin’s chest. The creature’s shriek cut off abruptly.

Blood pounded in Dulint’s ears. Two down, but more kept coming. Too many. He grabbed Balin’s uninjured arm.

“Run!”

A Desperate Escape

They plunged into the forest, branches whipping at their faces. Roots threatened to trip them with every step.

“This way!” Dulint veered left, towards a steep incline. His legs burned as they scrambled upwards, loose rocks clattering down the slope.

Balin’s breath came in ragged gasps. “Uncle… I can’t…”

“You can and you will,” Dulint growled. “Unless you fancy becoming goblin stew.”

They crested the hill, only to find a sheer drop on the other side. Dulint’s heart sank. A dead end.

Balin peered over the edge, his face pale in the moonlight. “Now what?”

The sound of pursuit grew closer. Dulint’s mind raced, weighing their options. Each one worse than the last.

“We climb down,” he said grimly. “Slow and steady. Like scaling the mine shafts back home.”

Balin nodded, swallowing hard. They began their descent, fingers searching for purchase on the rocky face.

A pebble skittered past Dulint’s ear. He looked up to see goblin faces leering down at them.

“Faster!” he barked.

They half-climbed, half-slid down the cliff face. Dulint’s arms screamed in protest. Almost there. Just a few more-

His foot slipped. The world tilted. He fell, taking Balin with him.

They hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from Dulint’s lungs. Stars danced in his vision. Above them, goblin cries of triumph echoed off the rocks.

“Uncle?” Balin’s voice sounded far away. “Uncle, get up!”

Dulint forced himself to his feet, ignoring the pain that lanced through his body. The goblins were already halfway down the cliff.

“Run,” he wheezed. “Run!”

Unexpected Friends

They stumbled forward, each step an agony. Dulint’s thoughts fragmented. How long had they been running? Minutes? Hours?

A root caught his foot. He pitched forward, hitting the ground face-first. Dirt filled his mouth, the taste of defeat.

“Uncle!” Balin’s hands grasped his shoulders, trying to pull him up. “Please, we have to-”

A whistling sound cut through the air. Something struck the tree beside them with a solid thunk. An arrow?

More followed, a hail of projectiles raining down around them. But not at them. At their pursuers.

Goblin screams echoed through the forest, this time in pain and fear. Dulint raised his head, squinting into the darkness.

Shapes moved on the ridge above. Tall, muscular figures hurling stones with deadly accuracy. The Zuraldi.

The goblins broke, fleeing back the way they had come. Dulint sagged with relief, his forehead pressing against the cool earth.

“Kaizur!” a voice called out. “Are you harmed, friends?”

Balin answered, his voice shaky. “We’ll live, thanks to you.”

Dulint struggled to his feet as their rescuers approached. He recognized one of the Zuraldi - a burly man with a thick beard and kind eyes.

“Jokin?” Dulint squinted, hardly daring to believe their luck. “Is that you, old friend?”

The man’s face split into a wide grin. “Dulint, you old rock-biter! What trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?”

Balin looked between them, confusion plain on his face. “Uncle, you know him?”

“Aye,” Dulint nodded. “This is Jokin Xeberria. We’ve traded more times than I can count. His wife makes the best talo this side of the mountains.”

Jokin clapped Dulint on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over. “Come, friends. You look like you could use a warm fire and a cold drink. We’ll talk more once you’re rested.”

A New Challenge Emerges

As they made their way to the Zuraldi village, Balin leaned in close to Dulint. “Uncle, what were those things? I’ve never seen bandits fight like that before.”

Dulint’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know, lad. But I aim to find out.”

The Zuraldi village bustled with activity despite the late hour. News of the attack spread quickly, and curious faces peered out of windows as they passed.

Jokin led them to a large communal building, its walls adorned with intricate carvings. Inside, a fire crackled merrily, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

“Sit, sit,” Jokin gestured to a pair of sturdy chairs. “Maiarí will bring food and drink.”

As if summoned by her name, a plump woman with a kind face appeared, bearing a tray laden with bread and steaming bowls of soup.

“Many thanks,” Dulint said, his pronunciation clumsy but sincere. The woman beamed at him.

As they ate, Dulint recounted their harrowing escape. Jokin listened intently, his expression growing more serious with each word.

“Creatures like that, here?” he shook his head. “It’s unheard of. The last sighting of such beasts was decades ago, and even then, they never came this far north.”

Balin spoke up, his mouth full of bread. “We need to speak with Xandor. It’s urgent.”

Jokin’s eyebrows rose. “Xandor? I’m afraid you’ve missed him. He left for Rivendale to meet with some old friends. Said he’d be gone for a few weeks on important business.”

Dulint and Balin exchanged glances. Rivendale - the shining jewel of Lumeshire’s crown. A far cry from the mountain homes they were used to.

“How long would it take us to reach Rivendale?” Dulint asked, already dreading the answer.

Jokin stroked his beard thoughtfully. “For you dwarves? About five days, if the weather holds. But the roads aren’t safe these days, especially with those creatures about.”

Balin’s face lit up. “Five days? That’s not so bad, Uncle. We could-”

Dulint kicked him under the table, shooting him a warning look. “We appreciate the information, Jokin. We’ll have to consider our options.”

Jokin nodded, his eyes twinkling with curiosity. “Of course, of course. You’re welcome to rest here as long as you need. But tell me, old friend, what brings you so far from home? Surely not just to chase after our wayward druid?”

Dulint shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “It’s… complicated. Let’s just say we’ve found something that needs Xandor’s expertise.”

“Ah,” Jokin smiled knowingly. “One of those situations. Well, your secrets are safe with us. Now, finish your soup before it gets cold. We can talk more in the morning.”

As Jokin left them to their meal, Balin leaned in close to Dulint. “What do we do now, Uncle? We can’t wait weeks for Xandor to return, but the roads…”

Dulint sighed, suddenly feeling every one of his years. “We rest tonight, lad. Tomorrow, we decide if we’re fool enough to chase this adventure all the way to Rivendale.”

Prophecy in Firelight

As night fell over Zuraldi, an air of anticipation swept through the village. Dulint and Balin, still weary from their journey, found themselves caught up in a stream of people heading towards the outskirts of the settlement.

“What’s going on?” Balin whispered to his uncle.

Dulint shrugged, his eyes narrowed with curiosity. “Let’s find out, lad.”

They emerged into a large clearing, where hundreds of villagers had gathered in a wide circle. Torches and bonfires cast a flickering glow over the assembled crowd. At the center stood a lone figure, her presence commanding attention.

The witch cut an imposing figure, draped in a dark cloak that seemed to absorb the firelight. Atop her head sat a crown of gnarled branches, silhouetted against the starry sky like the antlers of some primordial beast. Embers danced in the air around her, lending an otherworldly aura to the scene.

Silence fell as she raised her arms. When she spoke, her voice carried to every ear despite its low, melodic tone.

“Children of Zuraldi, heed my words. Dark clouds gather on the horizon. I have seen visions of troubled times ahead - of conflict, of struggle, of choices that will shape the fate of our land.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Dulint felt Balin tense beside him.

“We must prepare,” the witch continued. “Sharpen your axes, reinforce your walls, and above all, strengthen the bonds between you. For it is in unity that we will find our greatest strength against the coming storm.”

As she spoke, the fires seemed to burn brighter, casting long shadows that danced at the edges of the gathering. The witch’s eyes, gleaming in the firelight, swept across the assembled villagers.

“But take heart,” she said, her voice softening. “For I have also seen hope - a light in the darkness, carried by unexpected hands. Watch for it, nurture it, for it may be our salvation.”

With those words, she lowered her arms. A shower of sparks erupted from the central bonfire, momentarily illuminating the night sky like a cascade of stars.

As the gathering began to disperse, Dulint and Balin exchanged worried glances.

“Uncle,” Balin whispered, “do you think she knows about-”

Dulint shook his head sharply. “Not here, lad. But I think our journey to Rivendale just became a lot more urgent.”

They made their way back to Jokin’s house, the witch’s words echoing in their minds. The artifact in Balin’s pack seemed to weigh heavier than ever, a tangible reminder of the responsibility they now carried.

As they prepared for bed, Dulint’s earlier words came back to him with new meaning. Tomorrow, they would indeed have to decide if they were fool enough to chase this adventure all the way to Rivendale. But now, it seemed, the stakes were higher than ever.

“In times of impending darkness, even the smallest spark of hope can ignite the courage needed to face the unknown.”