Chipped brick

Located in the South Exhibit Room of the River's Rest Museum, this brick shares a tale of creation and destruction.

Description

This is very clearly an ancient brick.  It was made from a yellowish clay that has faded over time into a soft beige.

Attached to the chipped brick is a tag, which reads "This is one of the few remaining bricks from the Saffron Bridge, one of the four magnificent bridges that linked River's Rest with the mainland during the glorious days of the Kannalan Empire.  After the fall of the empire, when marauding orcs and trolls and barbarians threatened the security of the island, the townsfolk didn't have enough warriors to defend all four bridges.  Three of them, including the Saffron Bridge, were destroyed."

"The Saffron Bridge took its name from the brilliant yellow-gold color of its bricks.  It was said to be the highest and most ornate of the four bridges."

Loresong

A syncopated wet slapping sound informs the rhythm of your song.  As you sing to the brick you find yourself drawn to a field of yellow clay.  Workers, mostly dwarves, work the clay and pile large moist daubs into wheelbarrows.  The barrows are wheeled to a yard filled with brick molds.  Other workers mix minerals into the clay, giving it an orange tint.  Another group of workers scoop the clay into the molds and level them off.  At the far end of the yard the bright southern sun bakes older molds into saffron-colored bricks.

A young, bulbous-nosed dwarf with an abnormally short beard sits on the fence surrounding the brickyard, watching the operation with poorly concealed pride.  One of the workers, an old dwarf with a beard long enough to tuck in his belt, saunters up to him and says, "Beggin' yer pardon, master Torfnod, but is it true what we're a-hearin'?"

The young dwarf's eyes twinkle as he nods.  "Aye, gaffer, 'tis true, right enough.  The Imperial Engineers hae chosen our brickworks fer to provide the bricks for the new bridge o'er the Tempest River.  We're gaen tae be rich, gaffer.  Yer bairn's bairns will own shops and gae ta work in fine linen."

Your song falters for a moment as a loud, rhythmic squeaking sound seems to fill the room.  As you focus on the sound, you observe it comes from the wheels of a long line of wagons, wains and carts slowly leaving the brickworks.  Sitting on the lead wain is the dwarf Torfnod and the old gaffer.

The older dwarf turns stiffly in his seat and gazes behind him at the line of wagons.  "That be a powerful lot o' bricks," he says.  Torfnod smiles, saying "Tis only the first load.  We'll hae to haul dozens...mayhap even hundreds of loads like this."

The old gaffer shakes his head in wonder.  "Aye, sir, it'll be the yellowest bridge anybody ever did see."

As you continue your song to the chipped brick you're suddenly surrounded by noise...shouted orders, friendly insults, yells of warning, the orderly call of men pulling a heavy load.  You find yourself on the shore of the Tempest River.  The span of the bridge is very nearly complete.  It's a tall, gently arcing bridge with balustrades of blue riverstone that contrast pleasantly with the orange-yellow bricks.

Torfnod, his beard grown thicker and more full, shakes his head in wonder at the sight.  The old gaffer at his side leans on a walking stick and chuckles.  "The Saffron Bridge, they be a-callin' it.  A wee shift in the minerals and they'd be a-callin' it the dirty diaper bridge.  But it be a fine name for a' that, and that's a fact."

Torfnod takes a deep breath.  "I ne'er thought tae see the like," he says.  "It were a muckle lot o' bricks, and nae mistake.  And here's me, rich now as I'd e'er wanted, and I'd be willin' to gie it all back just to be the first to walk across it."  The old gaffer looks up at his master and snorts.  "Ah, yer a terrible liar, ye are.  Ye wouldna gie back the half of it."

As you resume your song you're once again inundated with noise.  This time, however, there is little organization to the shouts and commands and curses.  You concentrate on the noise and allow yourself to be pulled to a scene of near chaos.  Ordinary folk of River's Rest are racing about crazily, packing their goods in carts and wagons, hurrying toward the Saffron Bridge.  Warriors guard the mainland side of the bridge.

To the south you see the ruins of a bridge, collapsed into the river.  A mounted warrior shouts to the common people, "If you wish to leave the island, you must do so now!  The Saffron Bridge will soon be off limits!"

A light cart carrying Torfnod and the old gaffer arrives with a military escort.  Torfnod is now middle-aged, his beard tinged with white.  The gaffer is so old and wizened that it's nearly impossible to recognize him as a dwarf.  The mounted warrior rides up to Torfnod and asks, "You're certain this will work?"

"Oh, aye, it'll work sure enough," Torfnod says.  "If ye're sairtan ye want tae destroy tha' bridge, aye...it'll work."  The warrior smiles grimly.  "It's not that we want to destroy the bridge.  It's that we need to."

Still more shouting surrounds you as you resume your song.  This time much of the shouting is done in the harsh tongues of orcs and trolls.  The shouting is nearly drowned out by the violent clashing of weapons and the tumult of powerful magics.  You find yourself standing on the center span of the Saffron Bridge.  On the mainland side warriors ferociously battle orcs and trolls and barbarian hordes, protecting those standing weaponless in the center of the bridge.

Torfnod, with calm efficiency, is directing wizards and sorcerers to alternately assault the center span with water and fire-based magics.  The bricks appear to be slowly crumbling.  The old gaffer stands with his bowed legs spread, whanging away at the bridge with a large pickaxe.

Torfnod shouts at the gaffer.  "Away wi' ye now, old man.  Leave this tae younger and more blaitherskite heads.  Ye've muir than enough, and that's a fact."  The old dwarf lowers his pickaxe and leans on it.  Sweat runs down his balding head as he shakes it.  "Nae, I dinna think so.  I helped ye wind the clock, and I'll be here wi' ye when it strikes midnight."

The center span begins to crumble, stranding the warriors on the mainland.  The wizards and sorcerers scurry to the island side.  The old gaffer sits down and looks up at Torfnod.  A grin splits his aged face.  "Ah, weel...it were a big yellow bugger, was it no'?  They'll no' see the like o' this again."

Torfnod's reply, if any, is lost in the roar of the collapsing bridge.