Shennaghys - Prologue
Once upon a time he was a jovial sort, happy in his place, working hard at the forge by day and drinking his fill at the rathskeller by night,
This all of course, was well before she became lost to him.
Afterwards, to say that he was devastated would have been a gross understatement, shattered as so many shards would have been a closer description, each one lost as well over the years until all that was left was a lode of dull bitterness propping up what once was whole.
Where she had gone to was a mystery; indeed no one knew whether she had simply left, been taken, or met a more tragic end. He refused to reckon in one way or the other, except when drunkenly, where he would entertain the vilest of notions. Usually these intemperate plays would close in their third act with a brawl.
These rounds continued for quite some time, perhaps not seeming so for the principle players, but it was in fact several years later that he was finally asked to take leave of his place, since he had long since taken leave of his senses. The cleric solaced him in the Maker, and yet he had already rejected his God in the name of grief and anger (although not completely). Naught could be done, and now he sought the cold comfort of his own self-destruction at the hands of others who do not suffer those of his kind.
And so it was that Doarn Caardagh left the mountains and put the mines behind him and traversed to the lowlands where strange peoples dwelt, in pursuit: of his own demise on the field of battle, perhaps some rotting dungeon; or of the fair Ingren Deyrsnagh, his beloved and lost to him so long ago.
This all of course, was well before she became lost to him.
Afterwards, to say that he was devastated would have been a gross understatement, shattered as so many shards would have been a closer description, each one lost as well over the years until all that was left was a lode of dull bitterness propping up what once was whole.
Where she had gone to was a mystery; indeed no one knew whether she had simply left, been taken, or met a more tragic end. He refused to reckon in one way or the other, except when drunkenly, where he would entertain the vilest of notions. Usually these intemperate plays would close in their third act with a brawl.
These rounds continued for quite some time, perhaps not seeming so for the principle players, but it was in fact several years later that he was finally asked to take leave of his place, since he had long since taken leave of his senses. The cleric solaced him in the Maker, and yet he had already rejected his God in the name of grief and anger (although not completely). Naught could be done, and now he sought the cold comfort of his own self-destruction at the hands of others who do not suffer those of his kind.
And so it was that Doarn Caardagh left the mountains and put the mines behind him and traversed to the lowlands where strange peoples dwelt, in pursuit: of his own demise on the field of battle, perhaps some rotting dungeon; or of the fair Ingren Deyrsnagh, his beloved and lost to him so long ago.
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