The Historian’s Pity
By Lichard Nixon
Based in the World of Faian
At the precipice of victory against the dwarves and their allies in the mountains, the victory drunk Roach Men and Kobolds revel in a conquered hold. A Kobold scribe seeks an audience with the elusive Roach King, who agrees to tell them the tragic tale of the Roakars
________________

Deep into the northern mountains west of the Roasam Marches, the last dwarf hold burns.

Once a mighty city of trade and commerce, now the central hold whose gates faced out into the hills of southern Rosarug burned brightly. Drakes flew overhead, circling and preying on any fool dwarf who tried to man their defensive turrets, while catapults on the outside battered at its gates. The orange flags of Roasam fluttered in across the fields beneath the hold, as the silent armies of the Roasarch awaited. They orange eyed men looked on from the safe distance of their camp, pulling out weapons and donning their armor, for soon their king would lead the charge personally into the last stronghold of the dwarves of their western domain. The dwarves couldn’t even man their walls to look down with scorn at the flesh-eating horrors which laid in wait, looking on with hungry eyes at the growing husk that was the dwarven fortifications. Two younger dragons circled above, a third far smaller and hapless ceature circled even higher as it bombarded the outer dwarven walls with acidic fire.

At the center of the army came the mounted king of Roasam, glistening in his orange armor and his pointed helm. He looked on with a bored expression, waiting for far too long for the gates to finally be brought down. The dwarves had hoped to keep him at bay, but nothing they did would have been enough to deny the Roach King his prize. The Roasam suddenly tensed up, their orange eye brightly looking onward, when finally, the large and burdensome gates gave way with a final breach.

Without uttering a word, the Roasam rushed forward, with dwarven crossbows waiting them in the darkness. Volleys scattered a few behind their shields, but the Roach King kept coming with a slow pace. Some of the dwarves were mortified to find their foe so casually striding forward as battle surged around him, as the Roach Men moved up through the breach. Dwarven pikes barred their way only temporarily as they were showered with arrows and javelins, as the once silent Roach Men let out a war shriek as they came into view. The dwarves were tired and broken, their commanders were charred bones above them, and the full might of the Roach King bore down upon them. Yet, the stubborn creatures fought on, contacting the warriors of Roasem. The orange eyed cannibals brought down large cleavers upon them; javelin throwers pelted the shieldless dwarves which clanged on their heavy armor. The frogmen, ever the loyal slaves of the Roachmen were encountered, but not in the usual manner. As the Roach King continued, armored frogmen appeared as if from the masses around him, carrying orange hued tridents and croaking with dark intent.

The dwarves stood little chance, as few could be spared to even defend the gate as a far worse threat laid deep behind them. The breaching of the gate resulted in an immediate rout as the Roachmen continued to surge through. One brave dwarven warrior charged out from some rubble, trying to earn a name for himself by slaying the Roach King as he arrogantly came through the broken gates. Yet, without even flinching or looking in his direction, the sword the king had glowed with unholy flame, and he waved it down at the warrior who was blown apart by a blast of magic.

The Roasarch paused as they beheld the last hold of the western mountains, more impressive and beautiful then all the others they had sieged in this campaign. This was the hold of Jazkuda, the Ruby Medallion of the mountains. It was a hold which churned up rubies, crafted jewelry, and smithed silver. The Roasarch led down a short and very large domed hall towards the entrance to the main slope which led down into the main square. On each side, in a circle, were endless array of houses and apartments built into the mountain. Dwarven elevators of rope were haphazardly all over, with a massive glowing mine in the central quarter which was lined with shops. The Roach King looked above him, seeing huge stairs ascended into a roof full of holes, likely hiding the stone palaces of Jazkuda’s upper class. Statues of dwarven monarches and heroes were perched on terraces across this circular chasm, adorned with paint and fine jewels. It was truly a wonderful hold to behold.

Yet, the horrifying screams were filling the air as the Roachmen approached, but it was not because they poured into the city. Burning houses could be seen farther off, a statue was toppled, and black spots were on the horizon. The Roach King motioned his soldiers forward, and without a single sound they began to move into the city.

The Roach King rode forward towards the central plaza, not caring as his soldier broke into home and dragged screaming dwarves out of their homes who did not make it to the upper roof in time. His soldiers, like a horde of ferocious wolves, laid into common folk and soldier alike. Blood lined the streets as the sounds of bones crunching could be heard. The Roach King was followed closely by his knights shortly thereafter, his nobles and entourage of royal guard made from Rivdari born to serve him moved up to meet with their stranger allies.

A large and imposing Kobold with a misshapen set of horns came forward, adorned in an armor made from lighter bronze. The Kobold was flanked by warriors equal his size, his head adorned with a crown made of teeth of dragons and carrying a blood-stained weapon which was charred black. The Kobold and his horde were swarming into the dwarven hold, spears shattered on dwarven armor, but what they couldn’t pierce they made up for in sheer numbers of weapons forged by the Roasarch. The ancient and imposing warrior gave a friendly nod to his ally, who smiled lightly and nodded back. The Roach King looked up, peering at the roof for which he could see a few figures dropping out of the holes above him. Screams were heard, as the Kobold seemed gleeful “Our warriors dug straight into their palaces. This battle is over, Urien.”

“Isn’t.” Urien retorted “Not till the city is fully yours. Come, we have a king to put down.” The command annoyed the kobold warrior, but he dared not oppose the orange eyed monarch. Urien Roakar, the Roach King of Roasam, dismounted his horse and handed the reigns off to one of his Rivdari guards. The Kobold looked to his subordinates behind him, growling at them “I want to see heads raised on pikes. The defilers will be punished.” The Kobold captains nodded and went to do their dark duties, as Urien and his warlord ally ascended upward towards the palaces above them.
____________________

“Where are the Rosari!?” Yelled King Dunthak, Last King of Jazkuda. The dwarf was old in face, gray in beard, and had a temper to pull down mountains. He was red in the face, angry as he watched his elite soldiers and guards rush across his manor to prepare for the worst. His hold was the last, and despite every assurance he had from his one and only ally, the Rosari had seemingly once again proven their treachery. Above the hold was a chasm, his grand palace, a place which was difficult to reach and built over the centuries by legendary masons and artists, and now it was becoming the king’s hated nightmare. The stairway down into the main hold led to a barrack section above the ground, a castle of sorts which protected the main holding’s nobles and priests. From this barracks, it fed into a small icey valley on top of the mountains which led into hollowed peaks which housed gardens, temples, and mansions. Dunthak had thought he did everything right, he knew what was coming years in advance, and he couldn’t help but scream in incoherent rage at his captains and advisors who followed him.

“Damn that muck sucker! Damn him! Cruel jests of my bleeding ancestors to curse me with such incompetence from my own kin! He leaves us last, to savor the moment of our defeat! Why did I ever trust that oversized, beardless, hack! Why!?”

The oversized, beardless hack turned a corner. King Dunthak looked angry, seeing the red toga of a bald and older man with his legionary bodyguard coming out from the corner. Dunthak regretted a lot of things, but his biggest one was making his deal with the red devil that was Rosarug. Promises were made, and in his foolishness, he had not heed the warnings given to him by his marsh dwelling neighbor. In his youth, he enjoyed the culture of Rosarug, and even used their architecture in the way he built his home, but now he couldn’t stand it.

“King Dunthak, I know now is not a good time, but---”

King Dunthank marched up to him, pointing down the halls as his soldiers took his furniture, struggling to rush out of the king’s sight “You see my lads, don’t you? They are barring my door, Rosari. The Roach King is here, he was here for three damned years, while your armies have not even moved!? You promised us support, where is it.”

“I—I don’t know.” The Rosari envoy was confused, his usually stoic attitude broken by the horrible events. Three years of hell was laid upon the dwarves and other mountain dwellers of the western mountains. It began as rumors, of a powerful Kobold warlord arising out of the north and having made his home in the court of the Roasam. Now the Kobolds, a race thought subservient to others, was now on the brink of total victory. Holds had fallen, tribes snuffed out, and all at the hands of the Roasarch who had taken such a sudden interest in the mountain realm. Dunthak angrily spat at him “Three years of betrayal, murder, and hopeless battle and that is your answer? You don’t bleeding know!? The Roach King himself is now beyond my gate, you promised us support, the might of Rosarug and even fellow dwarves would be at our beck and call. My brother is dead, you stupid fool. Now the damned beasts are tunneling into my home!”

“It—” The envoy was growing more speechless as Dunthak took one of the swords of his captain, angrily shoving it into his hands “Least you can do is use it, since this is all you are apparently good for.”

The bodyguard tried to interrupt “My lord, we can’t fight this battle, we—”

“If you finish that sentence, I will shove both of your heads to Urien myself as a peace offering. My honor won’t allow me to back from this deal. Now get out of my sight.” The envoy and bodyguard slowly went down the hall and rushed away from the king, with Dunthak pinching his head. He continued towards his throne room, where a softer voice called to him who rushed to his side.

“My lord, all the food stocks are prepared, as ordered.” A blue scaled and smaller kobold had come rushing around the corner with a tunic, with a pair of shaved horns on her head. She was young and attempted to sound optimistic, as Dunthak softened to see her. Yet, in doing so, he frowned. “Marthi, I am glad to hear this, but I have no time—”

“Oh, sorry my lord. I’m, well, you need anything?”

Marthi was a servant he had bought from a northern hold to give to his daughter. She was now locked in her room, inconsolable since the death of her husband a few battles before. Urien’s cruelty still wrung in Dunthak’s mind, of how the partially chewed heads of kin were paraded out of a burning hold recently conquered by the growing Kobold horde. It was almost absurd to him, the last of the Kobold tribes were supposed to be docile as Marthi was. Their dragon masters had long left Kevica, and their children chained in ancient burial grounds. Now three drakes circled the mountains, and a Kobold army marched alongside the Roach Men. Marthi was no child, but she had an innocence and optimism which made my awkward. “No need, Marthi. There is something I need you to do. Find Dorgus and help him if you can. Bother me not, this siege will not be pretty.”

Marthi quickly nodded and ran off as Dunthak continued down the hall. One of his captains whispered to him “You trust a kobold, my lord? Today of all days?”

“Aye. Be more worried about others, captain. The long and strong web of the Roach King ensnares all. I distrust my fellow dwarf before that lass. Come, we got a battle to fight.”

Dunthak entered his throne room, his personal armorer coming out along with his personal priest. A crystal magi, likely the last of his school, nervously sat in a corner as fighting was heard farther off. Dunthak was in a bad position, but his people suffered through worse. He would just have to take his city back piece by piece. An idea formed to collapse the roof onto the invading armies, but his thoughts were interrupted when he heard fighting down the hall.

“He is here!”

Dunthak was confused, not sure how or why Urien could be here so quickly, but he took up his axe and shield. There was fighting closeby, a bit too close for his likening until he saw a group of dwarves charge out of a hall and slam an axe onto his armorer. Dunthak was in shock, as he realized far too late what was happening. Groups of dwarves suddenly turned on one another, overpowering each other as Dunthak felt a harsh bash from behind. He turned, seeing one of his own captains try to slay him, but had brought down his hatchet too softly. Dunthak reacted thusly by headbutting his traitor captain and then continued to slam his foot down on his face till he stopped moving.

The fighting died down, which wasn’t a good sign for Dunthak as he heard marching coming his way. His loyalists, having reclaimed the throne room, were suddenly disheartened as Urien walked calmly into the room, flanked by a host of his vassals and knights. The orange eyes of the Roach King looked down on a surprised and horrified Dunthak who raised his shield.

“King Dunthak, you look tired.”

“Your plan didn’t work, Urien. I’m still alive. How many did ya bribe, hmm?”

Urien cringed a bit and took off his helm, shaking head as greasy black hair flowed out. The old and gaunt features of his face looked about the room. “I apologize for ignorance, but how do you figure?”

Dunthak was about to answer, when from out of the shadows of the hall, he saw his son come out. He expected a knife to his throat, yet he was free. It took a moment as Dunthak paused, looking horrified at the shamed expression on his heir’s face.

“Why.”

“Its for the realm, father. Ya wouldn’t listen, we had no chance or choice.” Dorgus tried to explain, but Dunthak would have none of it “You idiot boy, look at the creature beside you! He is a poisoner and murderer!? You think you’ll be spared because he offers you sweet nothing!? You shame me, an’ your family!”

Urien then smiled and came forward to the last vestige of resistance. The dwarven king was surrounded as Roasarch, traitors, and a few Kobolds all were now pointing their weapons at him. Urien and Dorgus came forward as Urien spoke in a dark tone “I told you before, King Dunthak. I will tolerate no friend of my enemy upon my border.”

“To the pits with you, Urien.”

Urien came ever closer as Dorgus stayed behind. Urien looked down on the dwarf king, his mood darkened, and his features curled into an angry scowl “As I warned you and the others. My cause. I will accept no vassalage to those who shake their hands with the Rosari. I will accept no peace with the friend of the Rosari.” At his word, Dunthak watched on and cried out as one of the Roasarch soldiers came forward and grabbed Dorgus, putting his sword into his neck. Danthuk paused and raised his hand, trying to get to his son in a mad dash, but the fighting was a one-sided slaughter even as the traitors realized they were duped. Danthuk’s last vision was Urien himself slashing his throat as the grief-stricken dwarf was slain by Urien himself.
____________

In the hold, Marthi sat in silence with the other prisoners who kept a distance from her. Shackled on her ankles, she looked out from a bone entrenched stockade as her own people began to move into the city in droves. The last of Dunthak’s line was now gone, and now she felt only she remained. The kobolds sang songs of their dragons, and the Roasarch hummed in unison as they marched together into the city, with the blue and purple banners of the new realm of Refugar furled over them all. Many of the captured dwarves looked on with a mix of dismay and curiosity, as the kobolds were soon joined by a large drake who curled itself up in the upper apartments, waiting its meal as priests adorned with bones made sacrifices of sheep and fungus to them. Piles of gold and valuables were heaped into piles. Marthi had never seen her people so jovial before, but she missed Dunthak and his kin. She curled up lightly till a voice called to her.

“Strange, yes?”

Marthi looked up to see a hooded kobold, with a big and bulky robe. It has a linear pattern to it, like a flame of purple and green. The hooded kobold led down his hood, with a dumb smiling face, a green scaled male with three long horns which wend down the middle of his head, with big gray eyes. The Kobold nodded to her “You are serving scale, yes?”

Marthi blinked as some of the dwarven prisoners looked at them. She felt pressured, trying to ignore him at first, but he persisted “Serving beast not speak to Horva? Why?”

“I don’t wish to speak to you, apologies.” She answered. The kobold blinked and frowned a bit, sitting down as he brought out a big tome nearly one third his size. Horva dipped one of his claws into a vial he had on his person, asking all manner of questions “You are blue scaled, blue scale rare. Yes, very rare, very blessed. You are blessed beast, by dragon blood, close to dragons of magic. Your kin magi? Must be.”

She growled lightly “No, I—well—” She paused and cringed a bit, because it was partly true. Her uncle was magically gifted she knew, but he was sold to a rune priest. Her mother she was certain was magically gifted, but never used or shown interest in it. “I mean, why do you ask?”

“Must know, Horva is scribe of dragonlands, lore maker and recorder. Dragons command we return to them all manner of information on all things. Fate of kobolds included lineages which survived. Dragons return one day, cannot be found wanting.”

One of the dwarves scoffed, much to Horva’s annoyance. One of the Kobold guards took offense to this, growling at him which made the dwarven prisoners swiftly silence themselves. Marthi was fearful, she had no idea what the kobolds would intend to do, to her or others. The dwarven prisoners whispered of slavery, some of the women caused a small riot when a dragon flew into the hold, believing they would be sacrificed to it. No one knew their intention. Marthi looked to Horva and frowned “You want information, maybe you can free me?”

Horva shrugged “Maybe, maybe not. Depends on cooperation.” Marthi frowned but nodded. Picking herself up and coming over to the hooded scribe, she was reminded of her terrible position from the clink of chain beneath her. Horva smiled even more widely and continued to write as he asked questions and Marthi answered.

“Blue scales, rare indeed, you know how your kin came into dwarf service, yes?”

“I do not. I was born in a northern hold.”

“You know much of dwarf society and politics then? You are well dressed for servile.”

“I was King Dunthak’s servant.” The answer saddened her “I was assigned to the care of his daughter.”

Horva scoffed “Why long face, hairy master is dead, now only dragons command us.” The scoffing made Marthi upset, giving him a dark look. Horva seemed to realize his mistake, quickly apologizing “Oh, apologies. I know the liberation is not well liked, even in reclaimed lands.”

“Reclaimed?” Marthi wanted to ask questions herself, for she did not know these kobolds well. Her people, for all she had known, were laborers who lived in mines and quarries in nearly all dwarven and goblin realms. She had met goblin serfs, tattooed and abused as they were, but the way the stranger before her spoke and dressed greatly intrigued her in a way. Her own wear was a simple tunic, her tail having a bracer of polished metal. Horva’s horns were polished and long, while hers were cut. Horva explained the best he could, but condescendingly spoke down to her.

“All mountain lands belong to kobold kind, as was during day when the great dragons ruled this land beside long ears. Long ears, in arrogance their cruel words pushed our masters from Kevica but told us they would return one day. We were entrusted with the guarding of egg an’ home. Many were lost, forever destroyed. Yet now through the great priests, we are returning, as was prophesized by our lord.” Horva seemed almost gitty when he looked up at the perched dragon, whose mood was more bored as he awaited his meal. Marthi had never even seen a dragon before till today, but she had heard of it. Kevica had only young drakes left, and the larger ones were said to be shackled beneath dwarven chasms. She felt a chill down her spine when its large head looked in her direction, sudden feelings of despair.

“They are our creators, serving thing. Our lords and true masters, not beard things or green things. Now, about all that terrible business, what was King Dunthak like?” The question was genuine as Marthi slowly sat down. Horva sat on the opposite side of the pen, writing as he listened to Marthi speak.
_________________

It had been a week as Marthi was getting used to her new robe, Horva calling back behind him with excited glee “Hurry up, Marthi! Today is big day for Horva!” He was excited as he pushed aside, or well attempted to, various kobold soldiers and Roasarch warriors who meandered around the city. Marthi had gained freedom, in a sense, as Horva’s new assistant after the dragon priest blessed her and confirmed her conversion. She had no clue she was even worshipping a new set of gods, not that it mattered to her much, but it did bother her that the dragon priest didn’t even check to see if she even spoke his language.

The city she had known was transforming in front of her eyes as more and more kobolds who were not soldiers moved in. She had witnessed a festival day where she watched the large drake perched on its cliff eat a great, prepared meal as it spoke in a loud, thundering voice to its followers. A festival was had around the creature as buildings were destroyed and rebuilt, with a once dwarven city being torn asunder much to the dismay and weeping of its former inhabitants. Marthi felt dirty in a sense for being a part of this, her first night of freedom was a sad one when the kobolds had dragged the armor and banners of her former master to the central pit of the hold and threw it into a pile of growing trophies.

She was no longer in a simple servant’s tunic, but a tightly fit blue robe with a rope clasped around her waist, with a scaled cloak. She carried Horva’s small things with him, mostly writing materials and a sack of bluish ink. Through the streets, she noticed the once squarish homes of the dwarves were now occupied by Kobolds, domed homes arose with stick and thin fungal leather plastered onto once glass windows. Some of the dwarves who had given into the Kobolds now worked in the streets, shoveling up rubble under strict eyes. Horva and Marthi climbed up the stairs the upper regions, stopped briefly by larger and bulky guards. Horva explained his case, as Marthi walked more slowly as they neared her former home.

The once glorious temples and palaces of the upper section were more transformed than the structures below her. Pillars were knocked down as teams of laborers arose new monuments on the peak of the mountain as the two trudged through snow towards the hollowed peaks. The gates were already open, but Marthi could see the two other drakes resting their heads upon stone slabs prepared for them, sleeping, and allowing their priests to get close to apply balms and salves. When they entered the main palace, Marthi was shocked to see the home of her former master, once a shining marble estate of stone surrounded by gardens, was still intact. The soldiers of both Refugar and Roasam marched.

Horva and Marthi went through the gates, passing a dried shallow moat for which once held water, overhearing some of the kobold engineers wanting to divert lava from a nearby volcanic well beneath them to refill it. Two of the soldiers who were not on duty threw rocks at a toppled over statue of one of Dunthak’s ancestors, although Marthi was not sure if this was out of boredom or out of spite.

“Approach, Scribe Horva.”

Marthi returned her attention forward as the gates of the estate opened when Horva was called, and they marched on in. Horva looked prideful as they marched into the hall, seated on a white throne was the conquering warlord whose bone hewed sword sat on his lap, and the banners of the nations he had conquered lined along his court. Marthi felt very small and out of place. To her left was powerful warlords and allies, powerful creatures who had now holds and titles to many other places. To her right was the arch priest of the cult for which the Refugarans adhered to. Horva bowed to the large and imposing creature before speaking.

“Oh mighty lord, Horva is nearly finished with his works, as ordered. The histories of the conquered peoples and the misery of our people is now all but complete, to be presented to the creators upon their return.”

Marthi learned it only recently, but Horva’s work was not for history alone. The kobold laid the massive tome he had been carrying carefully down as the legendary warrior in front of him looked down upon it. The others looked on impressed as Horva showed them his work, but Marthi saw something different as she stared at the warlord. He raised his claw up as the room silenced, stepping forward from the captured throne.

He spoke, his old voice echoed to give his peace to those he gathered to him. “Long ago, we were built, not created. Our gods gave us life and purpose, and they had treated us as their most favored servants, and did we not shepherd the races of old? As asked of them and us? Horva, you do great work, mighty work, but also sad work.” Horva frowned suddenly, as if expecting his patron to be displeased. Yet, the warlord took up the tome and flipped the page to the beginning. “Stolen, yes. Stolen is a word used to describe what the beard things did to us, what green things did to us. For years we have suffered and toiled, hoping one day the masters will return. They will, but I fear we will have nothing but tearful eyes to give them. Our histories, our faith even, was stolen from us. They tortured us, but now no longer.” The warlord closed the book and gently gave it back to Horva, the leader giving a wide smile to his followers.

“The Dragonlands sing in this land once more! The young masters grow, and we again shall return to our rightful duties! Our people, long divided, now stand united once again! Let the beard things sulk in middle Kevica, we’ll come for them next, the defilers!” Anger was in his voice, but a dark cheer was heard amongst the gathered creatures. Once it died down, Horva stepped forward, coughing to get his lord’s attention. “My lord, book is done, but I ask again for patronage.”

The warlord raised an eyebrow as Horva explained “Many crimes done, yes, but I wish to make new book. Wish to travel to the court of Roasam, where orange things are. To speak of their histories and what they did for us. The orange king is here, yes?” There was an awkward silence from the warlord, who eyed his priest. The powerful theologian stepped forward, bowing his head.

“Horva, your heart is in right place, the allies of our kind and the dragons must be told to them, so when they purge those who had harmed us and shepard this land again, it would be most prudent.”

“I will allow it, but I must speak to him first.” The warlord spoke with a caution. He nodded to Horva, as Marthi looked nervous. She hoped for the love of all her good ancestors, the Roach King would not know her.
___________________________

Horva and Marthi went down a dark hall towards the room where the Roach King stayed. It was a smaller palace farther off from the main grand estate, guarded by the Roasarch nobles who meandered in its halls. Marthi had to avert her eyes when she saw what they were doing to the dead dwarves. It was like a carnival of horrors to her in each room she passed, the stench of death of strong as the Roasarch knights and their minions moved about. One room, a near skeletal and rotting being was making a prayer to a sorcerous shrine, in another a group of Elf Slayers discussed topics of their homeland as they casually feasted on dwarven flesh. They were a strangely silent people, few words were made, as they gave either bored or curious expressions to Horva and Marthi. They had been given permission to make their audience with the Roach King himself, and both were nervous. Marthi recognized where they were she was, it was the clan home of Dunthak’s kin, where the families and relatives rested their heads. The memories here used to be happy but seeing the palace now in such a state terrified her. It was made worse knowing the last brother of Dunthak was dragged to a trash hole and thrown into the hold’s city from far up above by the invading army.

A sadness came over her as she walked down the familiar halls, she wondered why Dorgus betrayed them, but she was broken by the idea that none of whom she had once served and even loved survived. None of them. The two were escorted by one of the nobles of Roasam, whose tabard depicted a monstrous figure poking out from reeds in blue and brown. They came up to a door, guarded by stoic looking frogfolk, the Rivdari, who nodded to the noble and let the two in.

Horva and Marthi went inside, a large and beautiful room once with overturned tables and broken carved wood. Marthi had told Horva of the room’s history, it was Dorgus’s room, where he and his wife had their three kids. All three were slain in battle, and Dorgus’s wife remained missing. Horva had listened well to the story, for despite all his arrogance and eccentric flaws, Marthi was blessed to know that Horva did desire her knowledge. Both kobolds looked around, their eyes came upon abominable pile of wood and cloth. The furniture of the room was broken apart, pieced together by orange goop which glued this ‘thing’ together. Marthi only knew partly what it was, a burrow for which the Rosari slept in and healed their youth and wounds. They both turned to the opposite end of the room, and were nearly taken by surprise to see the Roach King standing before a mosaic he had been looking at. He didn’t turn his attention to them and stared on with a longing at it.

It was a bright and blocky art of Dunthak and his entire extended family. Dunthak stood in cartoonish armor, dwarfing his own dwarf kin. Dorgus, his eldest, was with his family, his daughter and her husband, Danthuk’s other kids, his wife, his brothers, sisters. All were together in one pristine picture of brief happiness. The Roach King was without helm, a frown on his face as he looked at Dunthak in particular, smiling back at him. Horva didn’t like being ignored, coughing to get his attention. The Roach King’s head slowly turned to him, and nodded to the scribe.

“Scribe Horva.”

“Yes, me Horva. Urien Roakar, you are. My lord tells you what I am here to do?”

The Roach King nodded, but his attention returned to the picture of the dead dwarven king. Horva got close, snapping at Marthi who brought him his quill as he opened up a new book. “Roach Men are old race, they say. They—”

“Roasarch.” He softly corrected. Horva looked confused as Urien explained. “Roach Men, that is what the elves called us. A fair slur. I’d prefer you write of us of our preferred name, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Horva profusely apologized “Oh, Horva didn’t know! Horva is very sorry, he—”

“Do not apologize, it isn’t needed.” Horva silenced himself, as the Roach King put his arms behind his back. Horva asked “Yes, sorry. May questions to ask, many things to say. You are mighty king, are you not? You have ruled Roasam for how long?”

Urien partly smiled and nodded “I was born when your dragons still danced across Roasam’s skies. I reigned since the elves tried to strike deep into our lands, our first war with them when the dragons left.”

The scribe nodded and wrote it all down “You are great king, yes. Oldest king they say, you made Roasam, yes?”

“Yes, many generations ago. My father was a wise and strong creature, but always too honorable. He relied on the whims of the gods, listened too much to his priests. He and I went to war for petty reasons, for lands which bore no fruit or gain. He died in battle, so when I inherited his realm I sought a new approach. The elves were coming, we all knew it. In the halls of my realm I gathered them, great and small to me. They came by many reasons, I had made sure of it, and they listened to my proposal. They would unite under me, forge a kingdom for which would have no borders. We would unite that day. None were allowed to leave till I had gotten what I wanted, whether they liked it or not.”

“The elves tried and failed. Beastfolk, dwarves, men. All of them came into my lands, seeking to subjugate us or kill us, but all were driven back. I met with the most powerful of wizards, the most ferocious of kings, all had their ambitions and none of them held the wisdom to obtain it. We lived in our marshes peacefully, as we always have, biding our time.” Urien began to frown, remembering something he wish he hadn’t. “Time ill spent.”

Horva looked up from his writing, as Urien looked back to Dunthak’s picture forever pasted onto the stone in its bright colors, faded into the darkness and ruin. He was silent, as Horva asked “You knew the king of this hold well?”

“I knew his ancestor as much as I knew him and his kin.” Horva and Marthi looked surprised. The Roach King’s face shifted into a sad one, filled with regret as he continued to look into the stony eyes of Dunthak.

“My son Uras once visited this hold, a very long time ago. He and some of my knights sought help against a dark and terrible threat which threatened us all. A group of strangers came into my swamp, they were seeking answers to riddles. Group of men, an elf, a kerk, and a small otterfolk. Strangers from a realm far off when men did not bother my marshes as they did. He went to fight an unsung battle against Gabool Tosh, the accursed magus, joining those adventurers with some of my knights. Many died in that fight, but there is nothing prouder for a father to know their son died for such a noble cause. It is something most dire and frightening, knowing that we could perish in any battle and for any reason. Yet my heart that day broke. He was wise, strong, and a great speaker as I raised him to be.”

Urien continued, looking at the pictures of Dunthak’s children. “I something think if perhaps I had done something to offend my gods. Perhaps it’s a cruel jest. Ever since the day of his death, all of my proud achievements were laid down in piles of ash. I have been on the defense since, fighting a fruitless and endless conflict with a people who seek my own’s demise. They did what even the elves could not do.”

“You mention the Rosari?” Horva asked. The Roach King was silent, his face curling with anger for a moment.

“Yes. The Rosari, no name I could curse more. They came to my lands, looking to conquer it as they did the lands of their own neighbors, but I resisted them. I have been resisting them for hundreds of years, fighting endless wars and battles. My son and daughter went beyond the lake to keep a hold on territory my brother held. Polien and Malxi. Polien died fighting on my behalf, I was not quick enough in time before that city was overrun.”

Marthi looked up at the Roach King and saw him softly touch the walls. “You kobolds, nor no being I know, can understand what we feel. To my kin and people, I feel their emotions, their pain, the lingering thoughts of doubt and intention. All lords such as myself feel this within our kin, we call it the Voice. I could feel the anxiety as my son fought bitterly for his life, I could feel the anguish, but nothing ever truly prepares you for the silence upon his passing. The nothingness. My second heir was slain, along with the family of my brother. For my daughters and nieces, only horror awaited. I never knew what happened to them, but I could feel their despair. I could not find them, but I and my wife could feel their haunting brokenness. In a way, I do not even wish to know what happened when their voice was gone from me.”

Urien’s eyes twitched with a father’s anguish, coming more clean and more comfortable with the two in his presence. “The Wendigo came, scribe. You know of it?”

“Y-yes.” Horva sounded uncomfortable to mention it, but he had known only parts of it. “Dead things, shadowed things, antlered things. They came to destroy your enemy of Rosarug.”

“You then know why Rosarug still survives?”

Horva was silent. This was not common information to him, as Urien turned his head to him and gave a sarcastic smirk. “I saved them.”

Horva stopped writing, confused “They kill sons and kidnap daughter, yes? Why then did you save them?”

“A good question.” Urien returned his attention back to the wall, explaining as much to the two kobolds as he was to the ghost of Dunthak. “He knew, King Dunthak. Of my reasons. His grandsire was there to learn much of what happened. If Rosarug was destroyed, the Wendigo would come for us next. Many nations did not wish to see Rosarug recover, neither did I at a certain point. Human kings would murder close friends and family of their rivals, but does not that king make friends of murderers to get what they want? I gathered my hosts and rode out in two directions. I gathered the Wildar who landed on the far shore, I showered them with gifts and reason to join me, to save the country who stole land and kin from me.”

“I fought him you know. In battle, the Silent King they call him. A wraith, an icy apparition of a promised prince who would conquer the whole of the north as the Black and White Trees of Anar had foreseen. Orange and blue clashed on that field, as the last legions of Rosarug held a desperate defense on a hill. My coming was a shock to that dark scion. My sons Ramien and Urnien joined me, my third heir and my youngest. My brother Ulyies joined me as we fought beside the red banner of my foe against the dark and indominable tide of the Wendigo. We drove him back, routed the dead itself as we put down the foe with great effort. It cost me much, but in the end the dark marches were turned back to their ships and returned to their cold prisons.”

Urien face twisted with anger, his hand touching the mosaic.

“My mercy for that country was quickly met with a reminder that treachery is not my domain alone. As friends of brief, we wiped out of the camps of the icy foe, but the Rosari captured the Wildar camp and then turned its attention on me. They betrayed me while I was away, sieging a fortress captured by the Wendigo. Ramien and my brother died, both executed by the Life Bringer himself, struck down with burning light. That cruel joke and his allies took my youngest south. I felt every moment of his despair, I felt every horrible pain he did, and I despised it. For saving them, they now hang the skull of my youngest boy in the arena was murdered in, far from his home. They murdered my people, and continued to war and enslave them, and I feel every atrocity committed on me, all due to an attempt at mercy to my foe.” His face continued to twist with hate, staring into the unmoving eyes of Dunthak’s image. It did not blink, as Urien hoped the old dwarf would have least understood.

“I have survived, as I always have. I lived, and continued to do so, with only one son left. My wife, driven mad with grief hides herself away from me, unable to even look at me. I’d have given into despair, kobold, had it not been for one overriding need.” Urien turned himself around fully to them, his blank look stared back as the Kobold who seemed quite saddened by the tale. “There can be no peace between me and the Rosari, their allies, their sympathizers. Not now nor till the end of time. Either I die, or they do.”

Marthi grew angry, rising up and speaking with a loud and angry shout at the Roach King “Why did you kill them, Dunthak and their kin!?” Horva gave Marthi a horrified stare, grabbing her and trying to shake some reason into her. Marthi realized her mistake, her eyes kept on the Roach King who didn’t seem surprised. He came over to her in a slow motion as Horva got in the way “M-my lord, forgive Marthi, fool girl, she—”

“There is nothing to forgive.” Urien spoke with a dark softness, his eyes looking down at the frightened blue kobold.

“You were the serving beast to Dunthak’s daughter.”

“Y-yes.” Marthi said frightened “H-how do you know?”

“I knew the entire household; it was known to me as I watched it the moment Dunthak invited that envoy into his midst.”

Horva looked confused as Urien smiled almost gleefully “Dunthak was a good king, we traded often. He even commissioned a toy for my youngest at the time. Perhaps it was weakness, perhaps it was greed, but the Rosari who haunted this hall was watched the moment he stepped foot into Garium. I knew then what Rosarug intended, so I struck first.”

“Struck first?” Horva blinked. Had not the Roach King joined his forces as the warlord had convinced him the dragons would return? He was the allies of the Kobolds after all, and they owed him much. Yet, the rebellion in the northern holds was what cascaded into Refugar’s march. The Roach Men had to be stirred, this wasn’t planned certainly?

“It took years, as it always does. The northern holds were strong, but not strong enough. Very few peoples know how much a society crumbles when you free the foundations from its shackles. They fell quickly as intended, and the southern holds were a bit trickier, but they fell all the same. Now my western borders has friends upon it, not foes.” Horva’s eyes widened in realization, his claws trembled. Was this creature the one who built Refugar? Was he and his lords nothing but pawns in some grander scheme? Did the dragons know, and would the Roach King allow him to leave with such information?

“You wonder why I tell you this.”

Horva slowly nodded. Urien gave a final look to Dunthak’s image as he sounded sorrowful again. “Perhaps for my own sanity, and knowing your lord already knows what he is and what this land will become. I intend no harm on you or your drakes, but debts will be made. Dunthak knew, and he still sided with my foes. He knew my children, he knew me, and he still sought out my enemies. They will sing no songs in these halls, no breath comes from Dunthak’s line, only old souls making regrets. Perhaps in another place and another time he would have listened, and I would not have fulfilled my eternal oath. Yet, such things are hard. It will serve as warning to the others, who will know my suffering, for when the time comes no banner of this wretched continent will come to Rosarug’s aid.”

Urien turned back to Horva and Marthi and made a bow of his head “We journey back to my home soon, scribe. We will speak more of history there, but I am tired and I must rest.”

Horva was speechless, taking up his tome with less certainty or pride but gave a bow back. Marthi followed closely, as silence once again fell upon the halls. He did not seek to return his gaze upon Dunthak, nor tried to ask for his ghostly forgiveness. He knew he did not deserve it.