Quiet Frost Outpost
IC: Ocen Frostrain
The name of the main headquarters for the mining operation had been quite misleading, as Ocen had noticed. His father, Dacan, had contractors carve a makeshift base of operations for this business venture years ago. Where he had come up with the name, Ocen could not imagine. Perhaps it was quieter then, and perhaps colder.
It certainly wasn't quiet anymore.
In a typical fit of Dwarven ingenuity, a fully operational and efficient mine had been erected, and as time went on, a society built around it. It wasn't self sufficient, of course, still relying on trade with Corsaine, and, on occasion, further off and even foreign contracts, when public disputes or war brought about high demand for fine metals.
Ocen glanced around his office with his dark-purple eyes as he thought to himself. It was simple, but efficient. A desk, for paperwork, a few keepsakes on the walls, and other various things he needed to get his work done. Most of his possessions were in his personal quarters.
But not the bow and quiver of arrows that hung on the wall, nor the axe next to them. Corsaine-made, of course, as the smithies starting up through the outposts were fledgling (fledgling being a generous term) at best. He liked to keep these items of protection and defense in the same room as him while he was working or sleeping. Just in case. Raiders happened on occasion, but Ocen didn't have any inkling that they would be coming again.
Little did he know how wrong he would be until the alarm was struck.
Something odd hung about his cool-headedness under pressure. It had been this way most of his life, and it had certainly come in handy. The fact that the weapons were in his office at the time could be labeled as paranoia, however, for now, it worked out well enough. He strapped the axe to his belt and slung the quiver over his broad shoulder, holding the bow in his right hand.
He stepped out of his office into the open tunnel, looking around to assess the situation and apprehend whatever foe would foolishly threaten this stalwart group. He was hoping word from one of his miners, or one of the few hired guards (Corsaine refused to send protection, seeing as how Ocen's mines were not officially part of the city and therefore mined at their own risk).
TAG: Tiki
IC: Ocen Frostrain
The name of the main headquarters for the mining operation had been quite misleading, as Ocen had noticed. His father, Dacan, had contractors carve a makeshift base of operations for this business venture years ago. Where he had come up with the name, Ocen could not imagine. Perhaps it was quieter then, and perhaps colder.
It certainly wasn't quiet anymore.
In a typical fit of Dwarven ingenuity, a fully operational and efficient mine had been erected, and as time went on, a society built around it. It wasn't self sufficient, of course, still relying on trade with Corsaine, and, on occasion, further off and even foreign contracts, when public disputes or war brought about high demand for fine metals.
Ocen glanced around his office with his dark-purple eyes as he thought to himself. It was simple, but efficient. A desk, for paperwork, a few keepsakes on the walls, and other various things he needed to get his work done. Most of his possessions were in his personal quarters.
But not the bow and quiver of arrows that hung on the wall, nor the axe next to them. Corsaine-made, of course, as the smithies starting up through the outposts were fledgling (fledgling being a generous term) at best. He liked to keep these items of protection and defense in the same room as him while he was working or sleeping. Just in case. Raiders happened on occasion, but Ocen didn't have any inkling that they would be coming again.
Little did he know how wrong he would be until the alarm was struck.
Something odd hung about his cool-headedness under pressure. It had been this way most of his life, and it had certainly come in handy. The fact that the weapons were in his office at the time could be labeled as paranoia, however, for now, it worked out well enough. He strapped the axe to his belt and slung the quiver over his broad shoulder, holding the bow in his right hand.
He stepped out of his office into the open tunnel, looking around to assess the situation and apprehend whatever foe would foolishly threaten this stalwart group. He was hoping word from one of his miners, or one of the few hired guards (Corsaine refused to send protection, seeing as how Ocen's mines were not officially part of the city and therefore mined at their own risk).
TAG: Tiki
