[Translator's Note: I came across this document whilst clearing space in the Jonstown Knowledge Temple. It is clearly the written word of Darkos Warkannon, and gives details of a period otherwise unrecorded in his life. For that reason it is a very valuable document. Dating wise, I would estimate it must record events that took place sometime after Starbrows Rebellion of 1613ST, since it is known that Darkos Warkannon, Grant McKielson and Cleombrotus were all serving Lunar soldiers at the time. The best dating evidence is the reference to Dwarf Run, and this leads me to tentatively date the events described to sometime in Earth or, more likely, Dark Season 1613ST. When it was written is hard to say. The parchment the document survives on is older than the actual events. Linguistic analysis suggests it was written shortly after the event. The tale itself comprises several parchment sheets and details a descent into the well-known Snakepipe Hollow of northern Sartar. Whether it is part of a much fuller prose narrative is hard to say, since all that exists is a description of the actual climb down into the Hollow. As I translate the other parchments I will provide them for your perusal. For thos interested in consulting the actual text itself I have filed it in the Jonstown Knowledge Temple under catalogue DW177P-776]
The morning air was fresh. Not biting, but fresh. The kind of morning only made cooler by the expectation of a hot, dry day to come.
Yelm was still an hour or so from gracing the world. The time of day when sleepiness and half-light toy with the mind of the weary last watchman. The time when the darkest shadows beyond the firelight begin slowly to take form and prove themselves to be no more than a fallen tree or rocky outcrop.
I love this time between night and day. Since a boy I have risen early and enjoyed walking in the new air of the new day.
The darkness turns almost imperceptibly to charcoal and then to grey. The light is coming fast, it will be a clear day. A morning mist lays thick on the ground and masks the lip of The Hollow, fifty metres away.
I rise and stretch stiff limbs, keeping my fur about my shoulders.
Sasha, from her tether nearby, bellows a welcome to the coming dawn, but nobody wakes. We have travelled far together and my friends have become familiar with her daily greeting.
Many were the times in the early days that her call would shake Cleombrotus from his slumber with such violence that he would stumble upwards, sword already in hand, cursing loudly. This in turn would wake the others, rising to one elbow and laughing at his continued rude awakenings. As realisation dawned he would return to his blankets, grumbling under his breath of Sable steaks and horn handled daggers. He would smile though, before dropping back to sleep with a final proclamation of, “You’re all bastards!” or some such. I chuckle at the memory of it.
But nobody wakes now. Even Cleombrotus offers little more than to stir and turn over. We have come a long way.
I step over the prostrate figure of Grant, deep in the well-earned sleep of somebody unfortunate enough to have drawn the middle watch. Nobody wants that one.
Crouching at the remains of the fire I take up the unburned end of a branch and stir an orange glow from the ashes. A little gentle blowing and I have a small flame. I add a little fresh fuel and rise again, feeling the tightness in my lower back. One of many aches gained from a life in the saddle.
The warmth of the growing fire feels good on my face but I force myself away from it.
Around me I can see the faces of sturdy men framed by blankets drawn up against the cold morning air.
In addition to my friends Grant and Cleombrotus, there are ten Uroxi, Stormbullers out of Aldur Chur.
Most are unknown to me with the exception of Stomper and Oden. All are sturdy men, mostly bearded and carrying the scars of a life spent in the service of the Chaos Killer. All have the horned helms of their kind and have a tendency to favour large axes or hammers. These they sharpened or polished and oiled with great reverence the previous evening, telling stories and boasting of great deeds all the while. They are formidable. I am glad they will fight at my side and not facing me.
In spite of myself I admire their bluntness of purpose and unthinking devotion to their cause - the destruction of all Chaos. In the main they are uneducated and rough but this does not detract from their appeal. Indeed they are great company and their dark humour has had my sides aching on more than one occasion.
Walking from the camp I head towards The Hollow, Snakepipe Hollow. A place of legend, a place infamous in all Glorantha as a dwelling place for Chaos. Ogres, Broo, Giants and countless other filth call this place home. This is a place not to be entered lightly.
We arrived here after nightfall but I know from stories that The Hollow is massive, a crater in the ground fifteen miles wide, thirty miles long and nearly a mile deep. Sheer cliffs with only treacherous, craggy paths down prevent the unwary from venturing in accidentally. It needs no protection; nobody would come here by accident.
We have made our camp atop these cliffs and plan a descent only because the Dwarves have closed the Dwarf Run in an attempt to catch the thief of an ancient artefact. In so doing they have denied us the only easy access into Snakepipe Hollow.
As I walk towards the lip of the Hollow the morning mist that swirls at my feet noticeably thins, driven off by a gently morning breeze out of the North. As I come to the edge it is little more than ethereal whisps dancing in the predawn light.
Standing now on the very precipice, I swear I could walk out on to the clouds gathered below. The mist has retreated, only to regroup in the chasm before me, so thick as to appear tangible and substantive, coming right to the ground level on which I walk. It is surreal, unnatural and foreboding. I hoped to catch a glimpse of what was to come but the Snakepipe affords me no such indulgence.
As I stand, staring over this ghostly vista, time passes but I know not how long. I am dimly aware of the sounds of the camp waking and making ready behind me. The clanking of cooking pots, the muted scraping of leather on leather as armour is fastened in to place.
The mist has receded further now, like the turning of the tide. The sky is brighter too; Yelm is about to show.
Soft footfalls behind me but I do not turn. Grant joins me, handing me a clay mug of something hot and steaming in the still chilly air. From the corner of my eye I note that he is wrapped in his cloak and dressed for battle. Together we stand in silence looking unfocused into the middle-distance. There is nothing to look at. No birds fly here, no distant cry of eagles. The only sound is that of the gentle breeze in my ears, like breathing. Then this too stops, as if The Hollow is holding its breath, waiting for us.
“Come, my friend,” says Grant. “It is time”.
As we turn, the first rays of Yelms’ glory touch us.
Dawn at Snakepipe Hollow (an Addendum)
[Translator's Note: Much to my surprise, I found bundled up with the parchments written by Darkos Warkannon a single document written in another hand. It has clearly been written by Grant McKielson and focusses on the same events described by Darkos. This comes as a great welcome, since documents written by Grant are extremely rare. I say 'written'', but I should clarify that it is known that Grant was illiterate, or only barely literate at best. Therefore, these must be his transcribed words. Though valuable nonetheless. Readers will notice the difference in tone of the two pieces. Where Darkos' words are prosaic, those of Grant are more robust in their manner, as befits a Tarshite hillsman. I will say little more on them and present them for you to make of what you will. They have been filed in the Jonstown Knowledge Temple under index GM0003-TY004]
It’s nearly sunrise. I know because Sasha is mooing again. I wish Cleo would have followed through with his threats about chopping her up (would have made a nice breakfast). Oh for Orlanth’s sake, Darkos has just stepped over me and let one rip. What a swine. I know I will make him a mug of something special to drink. Hah! Now I can hear him moaning to himself about his bad back again. Well get yourself a horse instead of riding that oversized lolloping goat!
I had a terrible night’s sleep, I got the middle watch again and them filthy smelly Stormbulls were snoring so loud that even if a horde of ogres came up to us I wouldn’t have heard a bloody thing.
Ok, I am going to heat up some sauce from the stew last night. I deliberately drop a pot to wake the others up and I look over to where Darkos is. He is staring out across the hollow but does not turn. His long hair is blowing in the gentle breeze and he is wearing his skirt, (what a big girl). The stew is ready and I pour it into a clay mug, now for some of my special ingredient. I rip some leaves off from a nearby plant and make my way over to a large boulder avoiding the turds laid by my companions the night before. I cop a squat and tense. My buttocks part [Translator's Note: details of morning toilet rituals omitted for sake of decency] left no tracks. I delve into my pockets to find some parchments I purchased from a corner shop in Jonstown. Ahh yes, check the hooters out on this Pol Joni bitch. [Translator's Note: for sake of propriety I have deleted details of a practical joke. Suffice to say that it involves a particulary unsavoury trick of 'relieving' oneself into the drinking vessel of the intended victim] I go back to the camp and quickly dress for battle. I pull on my cloak and step softly over to Darkos.
I stand beside him and pass him the mug, steam is rising from it into the still chilly air. He takes the mug and stares out across the vista. Some time passes. Come on drink it, drink it. Bloody hell this is taking forever. "Come my friend" I say, "Its time". With that we turn to make our way back to the camp and as we do Yelm rises, blinds me and I fall arse over tit knocking the mug out of Darkos’ hand. Damn, I’ll get him back next time.