This is me. Howdy.

So I finally decided to do this blogging thing (I'm crazy, I know) to have something to keep kicking myself back to, when it comes to writing (And probably ranting :I). Hopefully I'll get a few followers who will read (and enjoy?) my content. Anyway, rambling done, let's delve into the mind of Zorach the griffon-keeper.


The wind howled around him. Drops of water struck with the force of great hammers on anvils. His eyes were narrow, scanning the horizon for the lost rider. The world turned to the left as a cow came hurling past with a dull look, still chewing on grass. Shortly, the world righted and Zorach gripped the reigns tighter. His goggles, what he wouldn't give for his goggles. Far below, a bird's cry echoed up through the gale. He kicked the sides of the feathered creature he was sat upon, and the two dove straight down through the pounding rain, towards the shrill cries of their companions. Little Ronin, so eager to fly with his new best friend. And the griffon, equally young and foolish. Zorach had flown for over eighty years. The powerful muscles and rough feathers he felt below the saddle, belonging to his oldest friend and life-companion, had followed him for as long. Sirah twisted her beaked head to the side and change direction mid-drop, her powerful wings launching the two through the brutal downpour. A flash of feathers and the horrified expression of a young dwarf, his beard still only a small patch on his chin. The gut-wrenching sound of bones shattering and flesh tearing.

"Zorach! Wake up ye idgit! Ye've been dreamin' egain!" The world was rustled violently, and the ageing dwarf dared open an eye to peer upon his assailant. As usual, Grot was glaring down at him. "Come on! Ye dinna want ta be late for the ceremoneh, do ye now?" A growl in dwarfish followed as Grot stomped out of the room and out the front-door.
"Good ol' Grot," Zorach chuckled, "Ey, let's git these 'ere ol' bones movin'..." With a groan the dwarf stood, stumbling for a moment and gripping the bedside table. "Eh... Gettin' ol', 'bout time." His beard twitched, a gesture that normally would be accompanied by a smile, but it had grown to mostly conceal his mouth. Moving slowly, the ageing dwarf ventured outside of his home and into the bustling streets of Firestone. Mounted guards on their rams walked in pairs around the streets at this time, ensuring the populace would not trample one another on the way to the Anvil. Zorach gripped his walking stick and started following a group of younger dwarves, talking loudly about which of them would surely be named Grand Artisan one day. "I see you have awakened for the ceremony, old friend," a soft voice interrupted from beside him. In earlier years, the Highborn elf would have caused the dwarf to jump out of his skin. Now, he merely smiled and glanced at the man. "Witty, long-ears." The two shared a chuckle and kept on in silence for a while. Passing through the gateway to the Iron Forge, the wave of heat from the metal-works hit them like a wall. "I do not understand why you linger here still, Zorach. The hippogriffs have shown great interest in your caring for their lesser brethren. You would be welcomed on Darkay," the Highborn said, nodding politely at a passing Moon elf. "An' a woman in ye life woul' do ye good, Sarai!" Zorach grinned and nudged the elf. "So you keep claiming. I am barely past my fifth millennia, that is too young to settle. Though I must admit, the young Moon elf was quite pleasing to the eye," finally the elf's lips twitched, revealing the slightest smile. Zorach burst out laughing, "Pleasin' ta the eye? She was a looker if ah ever saw aneh! Bah, ye'll have ah wife an' child before me anvil runs dry, friend!" The dwarf, satisfied with his statement, passed through the gargantuan doors to the Triumvirate's quarters. The sound was deafening. A multitude of races were gathered here, though most being dwarfs. Sarai rose far above the rest, like an ancient oak in a forest of young trees. A hammer struck an anvil with force, and the sound died instantly.

"Friends, famileh, guests," a booming voice spoke, "Ah welcome ye to the Council of Three. Ta'night, the Grand Artisan 'imself will pass the title ta ah successor." Immediately the talk started again, many of the younger dwarves calling out there names.

From the tallest seat of the three at the very back of the room, an ancient dwarf rose. The room silenced to the point where a rat could be heard eating stolen cheese. "I name Zorach Ironshield Grand Artisan."
Zorach's calm expression turned to one of horror.




Yay! The very first part of Zorach's story. Next, we do something different! I have no clue what yet. Perhaps the Magi? A dragon? What about... A peasant! Hm... We'll see. Comment, like and subscribe. Or whatever the fancy YouTube folks say these days. Peace! <3