The noble death of Chiero Aengrilor
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A full moon…..slaadi....Mintas......the Dark Enchantress. Doran, Jezerail, Elli.....the Wolves, especially images of Grivel......these were the thoughts that ran through the man's head during the week before the assault. He spent what time he could preparing for the coming battle, or at least wanting to....with every attempt he'd end up socializing and reminiscing of old times with his friends in and about the town of Jiyyd, or tracking down his twins for quick (ultimately winding) tales of knights and dragons and soldiers and devils, of glittering caves and of slaad hordes. His children would sit in his lap, enchanted by their fathers wild eyes as he recounted both myth and fact. He told of days he'd left behind, of a recounted Aglarond that perhaps existed anymore only in his mind, of the Yuirwood and the sidhe elves, of Jezerail's namesake.
He spent these nights with Doran, revelling in her touch and sweet breath, before a battle he couldn't seem to avoid, but could neither seem to prepare for. The open shutters allowed the moonlight fall to over their room, as Chiero lie there hoping tomorrow wouldn't come and he wouldn't feel compelled to follow some overgrown lizard into the territory of an army of overpowered toads. He'd stroke her red-hair and kiss her pale cheek, falling asleep in the early morning hours after a night of expectant worry and self-reflecting insomnia.
But the morning came.....Chiero woke early, and drowsy, sneaking out of his shared room, leaving a kiss on the cheeks of his wife and children, the touch of a ghost. He adjusted his worn armor, running his arms up and down its sleeves while he thought of the leather's former owner with a nostalgic longing. He walked towards the wolf camp, home, hoping to spend a few moments in reflection with Grivel's tree.
Arriving there he found the clang of metal. Arandor playing with a new toy, he thought to himself, a grin emerging. He joined his new brother slicing and jabbing at the cloth dummines as though they were small, bloated slaadi, switching to his bow once his head spun from the repeated clang. Othar'a would show himself soon.....the rubyheaired elf leaned on his staff, looking worn, watching the pair train. They'd soon talk of women and how much they didn't need them, and then of women and how much they did need them, and then of children and how thoroughly a father needed his children and a child needed his father. Chiero looked off into the bought of the Grivel tree once more, thinking of the father's he'd lost, and how much he needed them right now. He then thought of his own son and daughter, and of how much he needed them right now. Looking to Arandor and Othar'a he smiled, happy to have family here to share his pains with.
Their last trip to Norwick was punctuated by an encounter in the nars with a young elf Chiero came to know as Blue, and of days past and the bandits and their old hostilities and the current tense ceasefire. Happy that he likely didn't have to worry of a blade in his back anymore, he walked along proudly with his brothers, an aging pack. In Norwick, he chanced upon an encounter with an old and dear friend, one miss Ginger Tealeaf, as well as a chicken she had befriended Chiero deigned to name Buk Buk. With a playful toss in the air and a coy, impish and harmless kiss on the lips Chiero reminisced with friends old and new about times come and gone.
The time would come soon....midday approached, and Chiero made his way to Jiyyd to await the arrival of a dragon he couldnt stand to look up at without two empty bottles and a buckets worth of booze within him. Chiero sat in his old niche with Arandor, spotting his son in his own little shadowed niche peeping as the giant gathering. The hour came soon, too soon in the man's mind.....bucking up for his sons sake, he told the boy to eat his vegetables and head up into his room, that there was nothing further for him to see here. The group headed off, ready to clear a path for the dragon to close the portal.
The assault was long and deadly. The strike force fought orc and slaad alike, the dragon barely restrained for need to maintain the mystic balance required for the ritual. The dragon, ultimately unable to keep the balance, was caught in a rut. The full moon shone through a leafy canopy onto a ground littered with ruins, blood, grass and bodies. The ritual would require a Selunite.
"Shit". The next few drinks were down as a reflex. At least he could stand without shaking now. The next few moments, perhaps minutes, were all a blur....until he found himself standing alone in front of a large silver dragon, being asked whether or not he'd perform the ritual or not. Inhaling deeply, Chiero lay down the condition that his family be cared for properly, and that yes, he would do as was needed.
The battle in the great hall was a fierce one, with heavy casualty. The floor strewn as it was outside with slaad corpses and fetid blood, truer heros than he had been standing about heaving and weary, Chiero walked into the light, the portal that had supplied the Dark Enchantress with her minions. Kneeling to pray, the forces of a chaos he'd adhered to for all his life buffeted him, burning his flesh and churning his blood. With a final call for those about him to run, the great hall exploded, the portal sundered.
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Some weeks after the event an accquaintance from her college days sought out Doran.
His brothers and sisters do not own much and I even less than most but what we have, he shared and if you wish help with his ..natural..family, then his spiritual one will only be too happy to provide what we can.
For myself, I hope you will accept this as a small momento.S_aying this he pressed a scroll case into her hands.
After the puzzling enconter Doran opened the case to find a somewhat creased and stained parchment bearing a poem_
@507e0cc85e=The:
Here’s to us brother.
Let’s lift a glass to salute the pain
Life’s bitter dregs we have to drain
For when a death means more than life
A panacea, an end to your strife
Then we’ll toast the victory of your final breath
And celebrate your glorious death
Then we’ll think of you no more
And carry on as we did beforeHere’s to us brother.
We’ll drink to those ones that remain
To ponder your quenching again and again
Who’ll sift through the lees in search of a clue
Looking for answers, a distillation of you
Then they’ll quaff the dregs and stumble along
Appearing no different from the rest of the throng
They’ll raise a glass to mask the pain
But they’ll never be the same again.So here’s to us brother.
Raise a cheer for us, revellers all
Carousing in life’s vast drinking hall
Spending our days in stupor sublime
Till the innkeep calls for our time
Then we’ll rise from the table, drinks left behind
All thoughts of our comrades purged from our mind
Never knowing finally if answers were found
But content we could partake of your round
