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PerennialRook wrote:

Adopted from Thukad's idea for a family (sans lumberjacking), I present to you...Residents of the Dragonbane Redoubt Show

From left to right: Levi & Eli (human children), Hathor, Anhur Fletchaft,
Horus, Sekani (gnoll pup), Aloli (minotaur calf), and an unnamed sprite.

The dwarves are making long expeditions to find ancient dwarven ruins and reclaim them as they start to renew their former glory. The Dragonbane Redoubt was one such discovery, cataloged by Bofbin himself, though ultimately considered not worth the trouble of the dwarven host and all but forgotten for a decade or so.

Enter Anhur Fletchaft, an old, battle-hardened, dwarven bolter in an advanced dwarven mercenary unit that is sent to the redoubt, though for reasons that Anhur himself can only guess. The newest residents of the redoubt, a small herd of minotaurs who liked the place for its winding natural caverns, seemed none too thrilled to be ousted from their home and a bloody siege ensued. The minotaurs savagely defended but ultimately fell, though not before decimating the dwarven unit down to the last soldier.

Anhur, now completely alone, his own shots having felled the mighty savage minotaur guardian of the tribe, hears a faint lowing. Entering the cloister, he turned to the north tower from which the sound emanated. The action on his repeating crossbow was as smooth as ever as he loaded another bolt for the surviving offender.

Of all the things he could have expected as he entered the ruins of the north watchtower, two wobbly calves cradled in the still arms of a slumped heifer was not one of them. He considered for a moment ending them, and had they been goblins he would not have hesitated, but they were so young, each with a pair of glistening doe-eyes.

There were no options. Anhur did not have hubris enough to make the journey to his homelands alone, let alone with two minotaur calves in tow. Anhur stayed.

One calf, the female, creamy brown with big, doe eyes, he gave the name Hathor, an old clan word for the portion of the night sky so thick with stars it looked like cascading milk. He named the other calf, the jet black male, Horus, an old clan name for the golden sun as it sets before the night the sky.

* * *

The two calves grew quickly into full grown 'taurs. Horus, feeling the call of his warrior blood, begged Anhur, whom he considered his own father, to teach him and instruct him in the ways of war. What Horus did not know, was that he had been taught all along in his daily tasks and legends of the Fletchaft Clan.

Hauling buckets at each end of a makeshift yoke up the long switchbacks leading to the redoubt had prepared Horus to heft the mighty dire flail that his progenitors had left to his inheritance. Stories of the struggles of the dwarven race cemented the values of honor and tenacity, which carried over well to combat. A game of colored stones that the 'taur had played from early in his youth was a tactics lesson in disguise. All that was left was for Horus to master his weapon, something he would have to do on his own, as Anhur had no experience with chained weapons.

In the forest, as the dwarf hunted and fell wood, Horus smashed and swirled about with his newfound joy, the large dire flail, leaving his crushing mark indented in the bark of the trees.

Hathor seemed inspired to another path, adopting the heifer maiden garb that Anhur had gifted out to her over the years. Trinkets, small bells, exotic scarves, and most recently a harp. It was out of tune, and Anhur was most apologetic for not knowing how to play or fix the instrument, but it was the last gift he had saved from the fateful day he had decided to stay in this place.

* * *

Anhur realized that the two 'taurs were old enough and experienced enough now to travel safely, and with Thorast Kax not so far distant, he began to ponder returning to civilization. What would civilization think of his adopted children? He could live in a dwarven burrow, but what of them? They had never known jeers or hatred.

While Anhur pondered, Hathor was taking to the harp like a fish to water. It seemed a natural part of her, and combined with her low, ghostly lowing, she could pluck wonderful tunes that none of the unlikely trio had never heard. It was this lowing that caused Horus to see Hathor in a new light.

Not long after, Hathor began to swell with child, and after a long cold winter, bitter as any they had known, a new calf was born to the young parents. Hathor named the young 'taur Aloli, after the clan name for the wild grapes that grew in the valley below.

The time of bliss was short lived, as the birth of the child had called to the senses of a small wandering gnoll tribe. The battle was short and bloody, but superior dwarven tactics, a few well placed traps, and a well placed portcullis prevailed. When they had turned the tide of battle, Horus pressed the advantage, lost to the cunning of instinct, decimating the rest of the tribe as it scrambled down the switchbacks. Anhur would have followed, but felt compelled to remain with Hathor and his new grandchild, though he would scold Horus like he hadn't since the young bull was still a calf.

It was night when Horus returned, approaching the large fire with his fur wet with blood and tears. Over one shoulder was slung the shaft of his dire flail, and in his other hand, a young gnoll cub.

"I...," started Horus, his low voice cracking.

"I know," said Anhur, "you couldn't."

They named the small cub Sekani, for the haunting laughter of the hyena. With Hathor giving milk, raising the cub was little problem logistically, though it did seal the fate of Anhur's dreams of returning to civilization. But Anhur's concerns ran deeper.

Months passed. The cub and calf were playing like brothers, toddling about together, wrestling, fighting. Anhur watched in amazement as two blood enemies became as one blood.

* * *

It was a late autumn day when Anhur began to suspect a rat. Their provisions, which they had been collecting for oncoming winter seemed to be disappearing. One day there were a few less mushrooms, the next day some wild onion root had been nibbled at, and later that week Anhur could not find a clay pot he had been attempting to ferment some of the grapes in (though admittedly he had no idea what he was doing).

Anhur, now well versed in snares, a trick he had taught himself in the long solitude of parenthood, prepared a small snare in the room, though small enough not to hurt either the cub or the calf, were they the clever culprits.

It was not a day before he heard the howling in the tunnel. In more than a few quick strides he was in the root cellar staring down the thief. The dirty, bloody face of a small boy lay on the floor of the room, one of its feet was strung up high in the air, and a small collection of carrots lay scattered about.

The small child grew suddenly still and quiet as Anhur entered the room. As he approached the young lad, he drew his skinning knife from his belt, though before he could reach the rope he was suddenly pelted with small fists. It seemed that another boy, even smaller than the first, had hidden itself when the trap first sprung.

Anhur easily pulled the child from him, holding it by the scruff of its neck, though not much of a handhold on such a scrawny thing as this was. The two boys were in rags, starved to the bone, and shivering with the fear of death.

"Who are you?" asked the old, gruff dwarf.

The two boys, one not yet twelve and the other barely nine, just stared right back, each one ghost white except for the filth and dirt that covered them. It was then that Hathor burst into the room, a large pestle raised in her hand. When she saw the intruders, she rushed to them.

"Let him down at once," she demanded, snatching the smaller one to her bosom.

Anhur's family had grown again.

Are we making these the current inhabitants of the redoubt? I, for one, like the background and how it meshes with the story. The built in conflict could prove interesting too. I'll make my vote yes. But, I think that should do it for people for the time being.