3. Sy'wyn Blackwood

Sy'wyn Blackwood


  • The elf sat on the ridge watching the orcs move below. His cloak hugged tight round him, his hood low to keep the wind from biting at his face. He had sat motionless now for days, watching the motions of the orcs as the snow fell down upon them both, dusting his cloak and hood in white. The few times he rested was to slip into a quiet reverie, not moving, his eyes open still.. just lost in far off memories.

    His teachings had been going well. Arith'lenar had been telling him for days of how well he was doing learning the ways of Fenmarel, and though Sy'wyn was not convinced he truly had the god's favor, he continued to nod, continued to learn.

    "e: Tonight, Sy'wyn. Tonight, we shall see how you do, and how much you have learned of the faith."

    Sy'wyn nodded, few on words, but ready to prove himself. After their prayers at dusk, Arith produced two bows from a cache of weapons he had hidden in the boughs of an oak tree, and giving one to Sy'wyn he strung the other himself, and making sure they both had a quiver of arrows, and a spare one as well, they set off silent through the trees.

    The night held little shadows to the elves eyes and they found their prey easily enough. Finding themselves a perch high in a tree they looked down upon five orcs. Arith leaned in close to Sy'wyn barely whispering, "e: they are scouts i have been watching for a few days now. A few more days of travel, and they will find your village. We will stop them long before then." Arith then motioned Sy'wyn down from the tree and the two glided up a nearby ravine, the more experienced Arith laying traps as they moved along. Finding a rock overlooking the ravine and the traps, Sy'wyn set himself on the rock and finally strung the longbow, laying a few arrows out before him. Reaching into a belt pouch he removed a small jar and began dipping the arrowheads into the jar's contents, carefully keeping his fingers away from the tips. Arith nodded once to Sy'wyn from the ravine as he finished his trapping before hopping to the rock, and whispering, "e: I will lead them here, and then hide. You get their attention, and get them to charge up the ravine. The traps will not stop them all, but as soon as they have tripped them all, i will come in to them from behind." Sy'wyn nodded, his face set, as he lightly knocked one of the arrows to the string of the bow, and crouched low, looking at the ground. Arith faded off into the shadows.

    A short while later, there was a shout, followed by the sounds of feet running towards the ravine. Sy'wyn glanced up just long enough to see a slim form run straight into the pass, before turning and swiftly ducking behind a tree. The five orcs came immediately after him. Sy'wyn raised from his crouched position and took a deep breath in, thinking to himself, "e: patience, Sy'wyn, drop the first and the others will not come in."

    The five orcs were sniffing carefully around, until they sighted the dark form on the rock at the end of the ravine, and they took up the chase again, rushing the single elf. Once they were all commited to their charge, Sy'wyn looked up drawing the arrow back in the same motion and dropped the orc last in line, with an arrow to the leg. A flesh wound, but he knew the poisin on the tip would finish the job. He set another arrow to the string and waited patiently as the other four continued to rush up, finding entangling traps the entire way up. Another arrow from his bow, dropped a second orc, and then the orcs broke the vines holding them, and made a final rush, giving Sy'wyn only enough time to let loose one more arrow luckily finding one of the orcs eyes and dropping it to the ground.

    The other two leaped to the top of the rock, and Sy'wyn dropped his bow, pulling a short blade out, not worried there were two orcs, confident of his ally still hidden. He fended off the first strikes from the orc clubs in a wide swipe from his blade, and certain he had their attention now shouted, "e: NOW!! ARITH!!" … Silence. No arrows came from the dark. No shine from the silver blade Arith carried. Nothing.

    The orcs split, one moving behind Sy'wyn the other still to the front, laughing, "Yousis hass nos friendss!" He made a feint at the orc to the front, before spinning around to the one behind him, knowing his only chance for escape was further up the ravine, a path blocked only by this one orc. His short blade spinning a soft sheen below the moonlight, the orc stepping back, and Sy'wyn stepped forward smoothly, the dagger in his left hand, darkened, not reflecting the light at all, and not seen by the orc until to late and then darker still as he plunged it deep into the orc's throat, and it became soaked in blood, spraying back and half blinding him. But this was his only chance, as he ran up the falling orc's body and making a leap past him.... Only to get smacked out of the air by the remaining orcs club.

    Falling to the ground, trying to get up, the dagger lost in an orc's throat, the short blade beyond his reach, he had to move... he had to... where was ARITH!! He heard more then felt the club hitting his head, saw the flash of red as it bounced off the rock below him, but still he struggled to get up, to move, to flee. His eyes opened up... looked up to the Orc as it raised the club one final time. His body would not respond to him, would not move. It twiched in insult as if saying it could move, but chose not to. And the club raised higher, and.. a flash of silver, a gush of crimson, a metal point extending out through the orcs chest, and then drawing back in. The orc fell on top of Sy'wyn, knocking his breath from him.

    "e: Arith..." he gasped. Arith calmly wiped his blade off on the orc's tunic, and then leaned down to where Sy'wyn lay bleeding, a cynical smile on his face. "e: Sy'wyn... i will teach this once... and once only.. do not trust others... for it will only lead to betrayal. Embrace this, and trust only in yourself. Fenmarel... teaches that a lone path has... hardships.. for those who walk it.. but that is the only path... self reliance.." A final smile and Arith stood back up straight. "e: if you live... count your training at an end... i have nothing more for you."

    The snow covered elf blinked. He had not thought of Arith for a long time now. He raised up to his feet, shaking the snow from his cloak. Arith had left him there to die, and his only regret.. was not having ever gotten the chance to thank him. With a final glance down to where the orcs were now being slaughtered by one of the many hunting parties, he set off north for Jiyyd.


  • _The words held truth, even if not the truth he had wished to hear. Nor deep inside did he find himself wishing to spend longer on those words then he must, but… he must. If the nature of the wolf is to be a wolf, how much can it be such, if it knows not what a wolf is. It is still one inside perhaps, but it will forever find itself doing things and not knowing why, thinking things and not knowing why, desiring something other then what it was, and forever not knowing why.

    The words held truth, but brought little comfort.

    The world was a harsh and unforgiving place, and what comfort was there to find? Family no longer. Home no longer. Elf no longer. How many times had the last shredded thing he clung to been taken from him now? And every little tear, every little pull, every time his last breath was given... it was but layers peeling from the core. That core was strong. That core was hardened. That core was what said when all else fails, you can stand alone. When all else is taken, you find yourself. Home, friends, family. In exile you find the Lone Wolf, and the Lone Wolf has what it needs to survive this existence.

    The words held truth, but for once in the old elf's long life... they brought no solace.

    Deep within the forest of Lethyr, an elf wrapped in a tattered cloak that seemed to flutter in no wind, longsword strapped to his back next to a bowcase holding an unstrung bow, stepped from nothing in to a small ravine that held a pool of water. Following him was a red-headed half elf, his hair pulled back in a ponytail and dressed in leathers. While the half elf's eyes were drawn to almost everything of the ancient forest, the elf's was drawn first and foremost to a rock up slightly in the wall.

    "What we seek... we will not find.. here. We will.. be moving west and quickly. Do not.. call a guardian.. do not open a path.. only point out if one is close... or rough direction. I will move us as quickly as.. possible."

    The half elf seemingly more amused then anything, nods with at least a somewhat serious look to his face, "Honestly, Sy'wyn, you only pique my curiosity more and more. Will you be mapping then?"

    The only response was a soft grunt, and a light tap of one finger to the elf's temple, as he immediately set out through the far end of the ravine and into the more open woodlands, following the stream with a light and quick step, the leather clad half elf moving swiftly behind him at a light trot. So the day passed, the elf pausing now and then following some path that only he seemed able to see, and motioning to the red head, who would close his eyes in concentration, then sometimes nod and point a direction, sometimes shake his head and always to a blank and neutral expression from the elf.

    Further out, and silence falls for awhile, before a light prayer from the elf opens a doorway in front of the two. With a long look at the door, the elf says softly, "We have.. crossed as much as the path.. as I know so far... from here... I will be moving us outwards in a circle... direction will be more important.. then actual location in this..." Ducking his head slightly, the elf steps through the doorway in to another part of the woodlands, the druid behind him again. A moment of pause, then another doorway, another leaf strewn woodland scene, another doorway, a glade with the sunlight coming down in slashes of light, another doorway, a thin stream of water working its way across deep rocks silent and still, another doorway, and another. A flicker of woodland scenes, elf and half elf, and no staying in one place for longer then it took for a pointing finger to be raised, or a negative response to anything.

    In a woodland clearing, with a small cave opening hidden well by underbrush, the two appear finally, the elf looking more worn then he cares to admit. The elf motions to the barely seen cave, "There are.. blankets.. bedding."A faint smile touches his lips a moment, "check the cabinet.. within for food perhaps. I will.. return you to your home in the morning.." with a soft step, he turns and heads off aways from the clearing, before settling down in to a sitting position, looking off at nothing, and leaving a heavily confused Jerrick to ponder on what may have been the point of this excursion._


  • The elf jogged lightly in leathers, a longsword and bow stave strapped to his back, cutting a straight path under the trees, and clear determination in his eyes. Pausing and changing direction at small landmarks that only he seems to know, a tree here. An uprooted stump. A split in a stream.

    <e>It was long long ago, Sy'wyn. Let it go, let it rest like it should be. Focus on the here and now.

    His stride slows as he comes across a somewhat wider stream then he has passed so far. His eyes narrowing as he follows it's path up to where it comes from a slight gully, that works towards a deep ravine. His pace now slower, more reserved he starts following the bank of the stream up.

    <e>You must believe me when I tell you, I did not know them for more then what they appeared at first as I shadowed them. Ruffians, bandits, outlaws perhaps, but passing through and not heading anywhere near the village. The same as bands before them, and since I thought.

    He passed through the ravine, the narrow passage opening into a small circular opening in the ridge line, steep walls on three sides. The only easy entrance through the ravine he'd come up with its steep walls. A small spring was the source of the stream in the center of this peacful haven.

    <e>They came across them late one night. The other two I'd not know were in the area. Two elves, the female carrying a bundle. How they arrived, what they were doing there, to this day I am still unsure.

    Skirting the edge of the spring, he let slip the sword and bow from his back, laying it down and moved even slower then he'd entered this place, as if dreading something, though it showed not in his expression. Reflex seemed to lead him to sniff at the air lightly, but whatever scents lingered in the place did not seem to be what he wished, his expression growing dark.

    <e>The men caught the scent of the elves, and they collapsed upon themselves. What seemed a normal band of wayward wanderers snapped at each other, drew blood, shed clothes, and then fell to the ground, but not for long enough. They arose howling, their fingers stretched and ending in claws. Their faces elongated into muzzles full of teeth and fangs. I'd never seen them before, but I knew now that they were lycans and cursed.

    He stops, staring at the cliff face in front of him, the spring making a cheery noise behind him that he ignores. Dark green eyes go to the crest of the cliff above him, the trees clinging there as if imagining something, his head tipped as he regards the space in front of him again, then looks behind him slowly judging the angle of view.

    <e>The hunt was on shortly, their howls tearing through the night, and their prey the elves that they'd come across. I tried to keep pace with them. I tried to help, but I could only trail behind, only catching glimpses of them fleeing before the pack that was at their heels. They were cornered just on the other side of a ravine, in a small depression with steep walls. I could not get in before it was blocked by the pack of lycans, so I took to the ridge top, and sought to help from above.

    In a sudden motion, the elf grabbed a root and pulled himself a foot or two up the cliff, holding on and then reaching farther up with his right hand, feeling along for something. With a sudden intake of breath, he seems to find what he is looking for as his reaching hand slips into a small hole in the cliff lined in rock of some sort.

    <e>My arrows did nothing to them, but annoy them. The female had fled to the back of the trap… for that is what it was. She looked up in desperation and then climber a few feet up, tucking the bundle in to some hole I could not see. The male was holding the pack at the end of the ravine, and she fled back to him, and as she came up close to him, I watched as they too changed forms, though it seemed so much easier for them.

    He holds himself there as the sun begins to set, his eyes closed as if he's not wanting to see something, before finally, slowly he lowers himself back down, till kneeling on the ground, facing the cliff, his head bowing and hands lightly touching the wall in front of him.

    <e>They had no chance, outnumbered as they were. Though they did manage to break through and lead them elsewhere, but not before she turned back and locked eyes with me. They had to have known, Sy'wyn. After they left, I tied a rope off and lowered myself as swiftly as I could.

    Eventually the elf raises to his feet, turning to the spring and dipping his hands into it, rubbing at his face. Repeating the motion, then taking a long drink, before setting down crosslegged to the ground, and looking up to the now starlit sky.

    <e>You were the bundle tucked into the hole, of course. Awake and looking around in the dark that night, wrapped in furs. You didn't cry for your parents. You didn't fuss. It may have been what kept them coming back for you, I am unsure. They didn't return, nor did your parents. I kept watch that night, and the next day, and the next night. It was my failure.

    Amin diloa lle, Arith'lenar.</e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e>


  • ((from an old PM, thought it nice to move it somewhere more viewable))

    @28406ff070=Katebush:

    Sy’wyn Blackwood ((Harp music, mellow and pastoral, reminiscent of a woodland camp))

    Stars above and trees around,
    Fire crackling the only sound.
    Dog barks, distant. Baby cries
    Cloaked man, shifts, gently sighs.

    Across the rough tree bark, scraping
    Shifting shoulders. Gypsy camp raking
    With elven eyes, see night as day
    Stillness noted, looks away.

    Firelight in eyes reflected
    Elven ears a sound detected
    Chittering comes from afar
    From where he knows the Drow pets are.

    Elven Priest, Family Scion
    The one the others all rely on
    A lone wolf who exiled himself
    Fenmarel’s faithful, outcast elf.

    Glittering eyes, starlight lit
    Cynical and sharp of wit
    Slow of speech, quick of thought
    Cares for those he thinks he ought

    Unsung hero, in the night
    Goes to protect, again to fight
    The camp sleeps peaceful, as it should
    Watched over by Sy’wyn Blackwood.


  • _The strength of a tree was in its roots. How far it reached to the sky was dependent on how far down and how sure those reached into the ground. How so, could it be different for an elf? The years ahead were so very many, and so based on where those early years were spent and how good of a grip they had. That foundation was what said what we are, how we'll behave, how we interpert what comes at us, and how far to the sky we set our goals. The lesser lived races grow, sputter, and reach in such a short time they look at us sometimes, like the grass looks to the leaves above. But when you have so much time to adapt, to grow, to change it becomes so easy to forget and you become wrapped in the differences, like the trees seeming so unchanged in comparison to the seasons of the grass below. But the similarities are more common then not when you ignore the passage of time. After all, do we not both sway in the same breezes? Do we not both go through times of growth and times of rest? Do we not both reach towards the sun? But more telling… do we not both need that strong base from which to reach from?

    He'd hidden his gear in a safe place, taking only what was needed with him. Nose to ground, four paws padding swiftly, tongue lolling now and then, he'd been after his scent for two days now. He enjoyed the feeling, four paws to the ground, nose to the wind, the solitude of the woods, the simplicity of solitude and singular purpose. Where were you hiding Arith'lenar? The Elders had nothing for me, only saying you'd brought me in all those years and years ago, a found bundle. Why would you not have told me? Stopping by a stream to lap water, a faint rustle of leaves in the distance perks his ears. In a flash he's off towards it, weaving amongst the trees covering ground with long bounds, resisting the urge to howl as he picks up the scent of an elf, and as he turns a final few twists and sees him. Arith, though from the lounging and unsurprised look he obviously knew he was coming. He was about to drop the wolf form so as to talk when suddenly the ground beneath him collapsed, and everything went to darkness as he fell before slamming into the bottom of a well covered pit.

    Much later in the day a small and bruised elf pulls himself from the pit, settling down on the edge of the pit and rubbing his head. He should not have thought it would be that easy. Arith was always reclusive, never coming to the village except in the most dire of circumstances. It had led to him wondering why his parents had chosen him to train him when he was young, but he supposed now he had a better idea of why. Sliding his waterskin out he took a long drink, and then an even longer breath in, holding it awhile, before letting it out slowly. At least this time he had seen him and it would be swifter to chase him with his scent still fresh. Changing back to a wolf helped with the lingering pain from hitting the bottom of the pit at least. His nose to the ground again he waited till he had the scent again and the chase began again.

    He moved slowly towards the small fire. The sun barely was just barely lighting the woods now, and he didn't want to startle Arith into something violent. The elf had always been a little feral, and if his first encounter was any means to judge by, he'd become even worse with the passage of years. There was a bundle of blanket next to the fire, but he was beginning to get uneasy. Something about this seemed wrong, setup. "Arith..?" He said softly, as he reached a hand out towards the blanket, he could smell the elf close, but something still struck him as so wrong. His eyes narrowed. "Arith?" Something dropped from above him, landing lightly behind him, as he turned, whatever it was swept his feet out from under him, and he hit the ground hard, rolling immediately back and away across the blankets, which flattened with his weight, and then with sickening pull to the stomach, he felt the blanket wrap tight around him and yank up into the air, bouncing a few times. A low growl escaped him, as he heard a light voice and soft chuckle, " <e>You've grown soft, Sy'wyn." He pulled himself into a ball, and drew dagger, slicing into the blanket until there was a slit, and for the second time he fell to the ground, this time landing on his feet though. Arith was gone, and he shifted again to wolf placing his nose against the ground... immediately sneezing and changing back to an elf, his eyes watering as much as his nose, and trying to choke a breath in. Around him on the ground, he could see the faint dusting of the choking powder left by his former teacher.

    This time he came with gear. Moving at a trot, blessings guiding his path pointing him in the right direction. No longer bothering with the form of a wolf for speed, he relied on his own two feet. No longer worried that his quarry might not recognize him. No longer wondering if he was being avoided. Now he knew. Eyes narrowed and sweeping the branches above, the ground below, occasional light sniffs of the wind. He was gaining on him, and then... the traps began. But he was ready for this, and even though he couldn't avoid every one of the trip wires the ones he did met spells. Spikes hit boots but were blunted, fire raged over and around him, even the one gas trap he was able to pass, breathing the fumes as if clear air, though it did cover his teacher's scent. The first arrow hit and bounced from his armor. The second from his shield. The third the back of his hand, and though he wore gloves and had linen strips wrapped tight it still managed to slice through the edge and he felt a small burn as it pierced into his hand. Eyes blazing green, he snapped the arrow in half noting the dark stain on the silver tip, and knowing it not from blood. A quick prayer and it sealed shut, though he still felt it burning.

    " <e>Just want to talk to you, Arith... it doesn't need to be like this."

    " <e>You're soft, Sy'wyn. Soft like you never should have been."

    " <e>I want to know about my parents, Arith"

    " <e>You'd certainly disappoint them if they saw you like this. Pupil, student."

    This time he did not hide the growl that came from his throat as another arrow flashed out from the trees, and he summoned Stripe, sending him in the direction the arrow had came from, the first muttered oath of surprise from Arith. Again a blessing and he shifted etheral, taking the most direct path to where he had placed the voice. Quick motions, dismissing Stripe, for that was a distraction, he wasn't out to kill, and ending the etheral spell, slipping his dagger out to cut Arith's bowstring as he turned to the suddenly appearing Sy. Not missing a motion Arith whipped the bow around like a staff, aiming for Sy's head. Instinctively he ducked, and Arith let the bowshaft go, slipping dagger and sword out. Sy dropped low, tripping Arith who sprung back up like a cat, but bought enough time for scimitar to flash out and across, cutting a bare scratch across Arith's armor as he backpedaled on tip toes arms windmilling for balance. But again it was a ruse, and one of the windmilling arms came whipping down breaking something on the ground, as smoke came billowing up.

    Holding his breath and shifting forward, his eyes darting in the smoke, things beginning to water at the edges of his vision. The flash of a silver blade stabbed out, slipping past Sy's shield, and slicing along his ribs. He pulled his shield close, trying to pin the sword, but Arith pulled it back, slicing a long cut along Sy'wyns arm as the smoke finally blew away and Arith struck out again though this time Sy was able to block, and bring the flat of his scimitar down on Arith's free hand, knocking the dagger out of his hand. " <e>Stop this, Arith!" Again the sword flashed out, slashing across his other arm and Sy'wyn dropped his scimitar smoothly, and holding his hand out commandingly, "<e>STOP!" and Arith froze in mid-motion the spell taking hold. Shaking the shield off his other arm, he looked at the free running blood where Arith had now slipped past his armor multiple times.

    "<e>This is not the way I thought it would be, Arith. You were my teacher, my mentor. What affliction is causing this anger and rage?" He shakes his arms, blood dripping off true anger for once starting to show on his face. " <e>Testing me? Seeing if I am soft still? That is long and gone, Arith. Long and gone times... I want to know about my parents. My real parents. They say you brought me to the village." With a flick of his hand he released the spell. Arith seemed relaxed.

    " <e>This is not rage, Sy'wyn. This is cold hate for seeing one of my best students, my only student who has forgotten everything. I stalked you for -days- before you came across me. Even with your nose. I taught you because I knew how hard it would be for you. I see nothing of the young elf that took a tantrum and stomped off years ago with his family, standing in front of me like a child. Where is that elf? Where is the one I taught to face the harshness of the world? You'll learn nothing till I see him, except how bad silver can burn!" Another slash from his sword out at Sy, but a sheer frustrated growl and a cracking of skin and bones and the sword was smacked aside, flying into the woods and a large fur covered and clawed hand grasps Arith's throat lifting him off the ground and into the air, slamming him against a tree, leaning forward it's fanged mouth in Arith's face, golden eyes glowing.

    " <e>There is the Sy'wyn I used to know.." he gasped out.</e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e>_


  • Community and others. His training told him others were a weakness, a liability. A Lone Wolf does not need others to hunt, does not need others to survive. A Lone Wolf is a pack unto itself. But to survive alone proves what? Only that you were right, but it's a cold and a lonely right, that does little to comfort you at the end of the day. Is survival all that is needed as existence through the long long years that you will have as an elf? Is it a fulfilling existence? Is it?

    The old elf looks down the hillside, laying in the grass and motionless, watching quietly the group moving through the pass. Even from this distance he could recognize the colors of the Children of Hoar. What a silly name to give themselves, vengeance and anger and death for a cause that should have ended so long ago. He often wondered if they kept a list of those they considered responsible for that war… whether his name was on that list. Or Grag's, or Nicahh's.. Anakore's, Arandor's.. Lily.. Alvar.. Scutum. Pete and Lyte.. Olsen.. Azrael.. Ting.. Maythor. The list was so very long, and so many were gone or dead now, long before these children were even born. Do they truly know those responsible anymore..?

    What is the alternative? He can not argue that his teachings were wrong. He can not look back over his long life and say anywhere where being self-sufficent was wrong. Was detrimental. And yet… he sees the flicker in the eyes of others when he mentions Fenmarel, that flicker of recognition of something that when he hears it from them seems so skewed and different to what he knows. So akin to something told him long ago about apples and artists.

    What were they doing? It almost seemed a routine patrol for the most part… but the numbers were slightly more then normal, and.. ah. A few of the Children carried parchment and charcoal. Some carried strings and other tools, it appeared they were making or at least updating maps. Nothing as unusual as he had feared. They moved slowly up the pass making notations as they went along, but he never moved from his lonely vigil as they passed. Laying low in the grass, and covered by his cloak, there was no profile against the setting sun, or shine from metal that would give him away.

    Take an apple. Place it on a stand. Take five artists, and tell each to paint the apple. Then take the apple away, and compare the paintings… none of the five would look exactly the same, but there was only one apple. He'd scoffed at the notion years ago, but perhaps it was closer to truth then one might think. The core of faith... was more then just belief in a diety, for that was more a surety then not... faith then would have to be centered instead around the core beliefs of what that diety allows and disallows..

    The Children were setting up equipment now, and he watched them with a close eye, but it all appeared to be cartographer equipment. The odd scales and tripods that would give the same measurements as anyone with a decent mind could walk in half the time, but humans had their odd ways, no matter it seemed the background or place they came from. They set guards and a skirmish line further up the pass in case of patrols from Peltarch, which vaguely amused him since they seemed to be lacking scouts, but truthfully they were not far north from their own lands as it was. Likely considered already well scouted, it was more a sign of good training that they went through the motions of a proper unit even when not expecting trouble.

    So does the Lone Wolf only allow the lone? Should you withdraw from family, friends, and companions at the slightest sign of issues… and how far to withdraw? Should he go the way that so many of his family had gone, so many of his cousins, so much of his kin. A hermit of sorts amongst the trees, withdrawn as much from the affairs of the world as you can possibly become. Hidden amongst the boughs of the oldest trees and ancient lands as one could go? Forgoing contact with others since they will only make you soft, since they will only break your trust, since they will only take until there is nothing else to give. Or was he correct... was it not solely about the betrayal of trust as so many seemed to point out with Fenmarel. Fenmarel would teach that stealth and subterfuge, deception and survival were the skills one needed to face the world in its hardness.

    They were very well trained, and moving with obvious skill. The cartographers already had their measurements, and flashing mirrors set the skirmish line to pulling back to the main group as the equipment was packed onto pack horses. The sun was setting quickly and it was already dark in the lower part of the valley now. Curiousity peaked his interest now, and as they finished packing and began moving south, he paralled their movements further up along the ridge line. The group seemed peaceful enough if well armed, but much of knowing a group was knowing its reactions… settling into a light jog he outpaced them, the bottom of the valley almost completely dark now, his own eyes picking out only their basic movements. Further south, almost to their lands, he slips an arrow from his quiver and strings his bow, calmly taking a dark but light cloth and folding it near at hand. Waiting, quietly in the night now...

    Stealth does not always mean hiding. Subterfuge does not always mean underhanded. Deception does not always mean evil intent. Self-sufficient does not mean always alone.

    Holding the arrow in his hand, he pulls his cloak tight around him with his free hand, hiding the arrow below it as he casts a light spell on the arrow itself. Quickly taking the folded loose cloth, he lighty wraps the arrow and then setting it to bowstring he draws back and lets the arrow fly high and out over where the Children of Hoar should be now in the pass. Nothing at first, all dark… and then halfway out in its arc the cloth comes loose and slips free, the arrow blazing with light as it falls harmlessly into the path of the Hoarrans, ruining their night vision.

    Wary of trusting others did not mean you may never trust.

    He settles down to watch their response… but it was more worrisome then comforting. There was no confusion, they drew a quick circle around the pack horses, swordsmen to the outside, archers behind, and then somewhere in the centere there was a soft singing he could just barely hear from the distance and a little shimmer and they all disappeared from sight. A few moments later and dirt was kicked over the still glowing arrow until darkness returned to the pass. He'd have to have a talk with Aelthas about how he trained them... no panic, and it was over in moments.


  • _Volunteer. He felt almost wrong inside, knowing he had volunteered. He disliked this place, there were far to many people, far too little clothing. His nose bothered him, which is why kept the wine so close at hand, and as for what he heard… he shuddered. Why a grown man would be asking the price of swaddling from a woman half his age in an inn he'd prefer not to know. He slid another coin across the darkened table to the edge where its glint immediately caught the eye of a waitress and another glass of wine. From where he sat, he had a decent view of the front door, a close ear to the back of the room, and a rather unobstructed view of his current quarry.

    For that is what she was, quarry.

    He had volunteered because of the four listed, she was the only one who seemed odd and out of place to him. The only one who was not an adventurer like the others were. It intrigued him. He took another fake sip of wine, watching her and not being subtle about it. Assertive and almost masculine in her behavior, bald and apparently one of the seniors of the women here. But she had a soft spot for animals which you wouldn't have thought from her otherwise aggressive demeanor. He'd already seen her put out food for stray cats and dogs by the back door. Interesting really, but again not something he would have suspected from first glance.

    He was pressed for time though, things were getting worse by the day already and not likely to get better. She was quarry and a confusing one at that. A few days more of patience...

    Again at the table, his quarry now owner, but little changed. She was either hiding something from him... possible, a dual life perhaps, but the unexpected kindness towards strays not hidden but plainly shown made him think otherwise. Something else here then. This time two coins he slid across the table, but when the waitress came over he held one of the coins down with a single finger. He motioned towards Sand and asked quietly if she'd spare a moment.

    Sand herself came over soon after. Idly turning another coin in his fingers he started in with the small talk, the banter. It wasn't about what was said, it was about the ebb and flow of the conversation. Nudging it in the proper direction, towards the answers he knew was needed. Was this someone who was to be protected and used. Was this someone who would nudge the scales towards saving Peltarch. Idly turning the coin, watching the room for undue interest. He nudges the conversation towards all the planar troubles lately, but gets back nothing of interest from her. No one watching from the rest of the tables, normal conversations. She didn't have a nervous smell, if anything still confident, still forward.

    He asks if she knew her name had come up as a person of interest in the recent problems, but she seems surprised. Patience, Sy'wyn. Patience. Nudging the conversation towards Justy's remarkable resemblance to Just'ene, but he only gets back she'd never met her and didn't know. He knew, he'd met both... twins identical in appearance. She mentions how she'll miss Justy, since she was a good boss, she wonders why the old boss and Justy might have left so soon. He asks about the old boss. She describes a gnome, known as Miss Slateside but as they were leaving the name Miranda instead. Interesting... he asks about some of the back rooms, if Justy maybe stayed in the city somewhere, where they might have gone. Small talk, fishing. Fishing is patience, waiting with rod and bait, waiting because the fish has to make the mistake, not you.

    The fish nibbled. Justy had stayed upstairs? Oh yes, she gives, a large suite. Let your face show it, Sy'wyn, mild interest in how it must have taken forever to empty such a large set of rooms. She replies it was never emptied, and a key wasn't left. The fish had bit, he could feel this was important and he twitched back and started to reel line in. A shame, I'd have like to have seen a suite so magnificent. She laughingly mentions that if she comes across the key he could help her break it in. He risked a heavy pull, because he needed in that room, if only to see if anything remained that could point to where the gnome and Justy had gone. Not subtly he mentions that he'll help her break in and cover the locksmith himself if she's interested in it now. He had no time for warrants, nor lengthy explanations. She considers the offer, it is bait.. he offers it since she's out nothing.. he offers it because he can gain much from it. He asks her usual rate to show even more interest.. she tells him and he agrees. She agrees. Patience has paid off again, and he has not offered yet anything he can not give.

    In the back he gives the impression he wants to seem manly. The offer of protections.. she agrees and he protects from elements and evil. She was thinking of other forms of protection, but he's not surprised. He shoulders the door, but it is solid. Again he tries but it holds steady. A third time... she offers to get one of the girls jokingly, and he asks how much she likes the door. By now he can feel she is getting a little irate with him, and she says she could care less if it's replaced at least. Done. The elf asks her to step back a moment, before he polymorphs into an umberhulk, and breaks the door in, half stumbling into the room catching himself before falling with his claws against the floor. Clumsy in appearance, he takes the opportunity to feel the vibrations of the floor, listening and feeling for off sounds of someone remaining in the room, or perhaps hidden.

    Nothing, so he drops the form, sniffing at the air slightly, as she comes in behind him and moves to the middle of the room. Her smell, other smells, wrongness. Not just the wrongness of old blood, or decay, or anger, or the actions from the rooms they had passed to get here. No, this was a disturbingly familiar wrongness, but he couldn't immediately place it. Sand turned a small circle in the middle of the room, laughingly talking about how plush the suite was. At this point, he considered her a liability, and his mind twitched deciding if she was to be protected, or if she just knew something that was needed.

    To be used he decided. He still needed her here to search, if she decided to tell him to leave, he'd have learned nothing.

    He makes some non-comittal comment or another, agreeing about the suite, but moved to the desk seeing papers laid out. Invoices, bills, payments, summaries. Useful to Sand, not to him. She's moving towards the bedroom, he follows but pays more attention around him. In the bedroom the statue overlooking the bed. Rather large bed. Sand gets ideas. He pays attention to the statue. Sand is getting aggravated, he moves back to the sitting room. The statue he'd seen enough of, he recognized Just'ene. That determined look he's seen before if not on her face, on the faces of those around him sometimes. That mark, that moment when what you're fighting for is greater then yourself. He'd seen it before.

    He taps a key on the piano in the sitting room. She's followed him out giving him an odd look... but it was an unattended piano. Who could keep themselves from hitting at least one key? The thought flicks through his mind again. Was Sand what she seemed? Was she just a source of information like he had decided, or was she something else, a dual life, a danger. His eyes narrow slightly at her, then past her to the door in the corner. Thicker, stronger, metallic. An off smell near it, as he lays fingers on the door. This was it. Sand has moved close, but he gives her room. No trust. She may be a demon or devil borrowing a form for all he knew of her so far, and his body would not be found for days if she was.

    This door. He felt it. Sand makes the comment that it looks a lot sturdier then the other door, but he's already decided that._

    How much..? For an extra person..?

    _Without surprise she quotes a price, and he agrees, saying he will have her here in but a moment. A locksmith, and triple the fee if she shows very special interest in her. A small smile at this, amusement in dark times he supposed. She agreed and he sprinted from the room. It was a risk leaving Sand alone there, one he'd not normally take, but the odds were split on what she could do, and he had the short side of the deal since it was at her whim for him to even be here. Something about that door tipped him though. While running, he slipped a scroll from a pouch, looking it over. Outside the inn it was crowded and there was shouting. People rushing about everywhere. He smelt blood and fire. Riots, it must be. A quick trip of someone making a move towards him, but he doesn't follow through leaving them on the ground and pushing his way through any group not willing to move quickly.

    Time was of the essence, Sand would not wait. Coin could only buy so much, and her patience was likely not on that list.

    Sliding to a stop as he enters the Commerce District looking at the scroll again he sees Eluriel in discussion with someone, a quick tug on her cloak for her attention, and a soft whisper._

    <e>I need a door opened.

    _Silly it would seem if he took the time to explain, but there were no questions and he turned quickly, rushing back towards the inn, with her following closely behind him. Again bullying his way past the riots, he could already see that the Guards were pushing back, and Legion members scattered about. Into the Regal and up the stairs and into the room, looking quickly about to see if anything had changed, been moved, or messed with in his absence. He motions to the locked door in the corner, indicating it as the one needing opened and Eluriel went quickly to work. Sand… he blinks.

    Sand had removed her coat and was in something -very- revealing. Eluriel was working at the door and then Fadia was entering the room asking what was going on. The elf mutters something and then asks Sand the price for another. An inward groan... and he agrees, though Sand is starting to mention people having limits. Rith enters the room there are a few words but he's not listening at this point. Eluriel is whispering that she can't unlock the door. He mentions a trick maybe, or a lever perhaps, looking towards the piano. Little things are starting to tick a bit out of control. Rith leaves, Eluriel is searching for a scroll. Sand is confused, but the door is suddenly opened, the remains of a scroll crumbling between Eluriel's fingers. They move into the room that Sand had guessed was perhaps a strongroom.

    It was not.

    Stairs down... Havon shows up, and the elf refused to pay another additional fee. He knew he was on the list of those to be watched, protected or otherwise important, and they didn't know what was below. He was quickly talked down before he could give explanation though, and with a turning feeling in the stomach, he saw that even Sand was coming below. He complimented her outfit because it seemed that after the effort she'd expended, when it was becoming clearer and clearer that nothing would come of it, she deserved at least a compliment. Spells and blessings, and then down...

    Oh yes.. yes this was definately of use.

    Sewers.

    Sand seemed uncomfortable, Eluriel seemed curious, Fadia seemed energetic, Havon seemed worried. Sy though.. Sy was largely disappointed, thinking it just another tunnel into the Peltarch sewers. Though, possibly it may have been used as an entrance into and out of the Regal for the two fled things that seemed the source of so much trouble. An echoing noise up the tunnel set everyone on edge though, he sniffed the air, but immediately regretted doing so. No one could immediately place it, though Sand decided to remove herself from the sewers and exploring, hard to blame her. Fadia was sent for Rith and anyone else that could be found._

    Fiend.. Havon says.. Fiend…

    _It came up the tunnel, massive, filling it almost entirely. Behind it something else moved in the darkness of the tunnels, and the spells began. Out out, he was blind, but it seemed Eluriel was already up the stairs. Havon seemed dazed against the wall though, why couldn't he have been left upstairs! Grabbing him by a piece of armor, still blind himself, it takes him awhile, all the while still being hit by spells and trying to feel out with his feet and free hand the stairs. Something passed him coming back down the stairs, Eluriel past the two of them and laying into the creatures. Sword and shield drawn as his sight returns enough to see stairs and drag Havon up tossing him at the top, shouting back down to Eluriel to get out. The three of them at the top of the stairs waiting for the first signs of a clawed hand, a misshapen head, an evil chanting to come up from the stairs.

    Instead?

    An army arrives, Fadia having found every volunteer she could possibly find. Looking at Sand and the shock of the sheer number of people in her just recently acquired room, he found himself thinking only one thing as he prepared to join the madness of going back below…_

    What is this going to cost me?

    ((edited to clean up some, clear up a little, etc.))</e>


  • A tap on the door brought Saha'ria. Peeking barely out through a partially cracked door she almost slammed it shut. Outside in the dark of the early morning stood a dark hooded form, some large blanket wrapped bundle across one shoulder and though the rain blew one direction, some odd trick of the light made it seem as if his cloak was instead flipping into the wind rather then with it. As she went to shut the door back, she noticed somehow that he had slipped a boot tip into the small opening between door and frame without her noticing that he had even moved.

    <e>Might I at least come in out of the rain for a bit, before you send me back out into it?

    UNCLE, SY'WYN!! multiple shouts of joy from the children meant they'd already recognized his voice, meaning she could no longer just deny that he had shown up. Gods, she hoped she didn't put an arrow in him like last time. With a very apologetic smile and an embarassedly bashful look to the floor she opened the door the rest of the way.

    <e>Please, come in. My apologies for not recognizing you sooner.

    As he stepped in there was a thump, thump, and then a third as the children assaulted him with hugs, Olwydd immediately searching his pouches for the sweets he likely had brought with him, a disappointed look as Sy'wyn deflected hands from the pouches and wrapped his hand around an apple instead taken from some hidden pocket below his cloak. The old elf lays the wrapped bundle on the floor of the common room near the fire.

    <e>I've brought gifts, for today we will hunt, and these will be of use to you. Your mother tells me you already have a bow, Iolyn but I have a better one for you here and one each for your siblings. Saha'ria will be allowed to borrow the bow that she has already placed to such good use..

    A small flush of her cheeks at the words as he flicks back the oiled cloth covering what he has lain on the floor reveals four bows. One they've seen already, short in length but with a strong draw and made of yew wood. The other three are new, but beautiful in craft. Made of oak, but by a masters hand they are cut in length to each of the children's heights so purposefully made for each that he doesn't even have to say which is for who they can tell from sight alone. Though lacking the decorative designs of many bows, near the center of the shaft on each is a dark stain in the shape of a tree. As they each take up a bow, Sy'wyn shows them the easiest way to string them, setting the end of the bow to the instep of their boot, then bending their knee using the press of their leg against the length of wood to hold the bend as they hook the loop of the bowstring over the far end.

    <e>Today, we hunt. But, before we go anywhere let me explain what it means to hunt. It causes confusion in this land if you say you wish to hunt, because it is interchangeable with other things such as training, cleansing, patrolling. The idea of finding something that is plaguing the land and "hunting" it, is what adventurers do. In any of the definitions, the concept is the same. There is something you want, be it food, loot, or challenge. There is the resources you have; wits, skill, bow and arrow. Do you understand? The hunt is pitting your skills and resources against that of your opponent. Be it an animal for food, or a creature that threatens the lands, there should always be respect. The contest can many times go either way, and often the hunter becomes the hunted.

    He pauses a moment looking over their faces as they stare intently at him. He realizes this is probably more words then he has given them in a long time, and may be too much for them to comprehend quite yet. Slipping his hand below his cloak he unhooks his scimitar from the worn sword belt, laying it still scabbarded in front of him. The children's eyes light up at the sight of a sword.

    <e>It is a matter of purpose. In any hunt, something will die, a life will end. He slips the scimitar from the scabbard a few inches, before laying it back down, part of the blade showing a faint shimmer from reflected lamplight. This edge has ended the life of many things. Some demonic, some misguided, some no different then you or me. The blood of those who have fallen to it wipes very easily from the blade, but never truly washes from the hands of the person who held it. He could feel Saha'ria giving him an almost horrified look. At the end of the day, I can only say that each time I've left on a hunt it was for a reason. Be it food, or to gather something I needed, or to stop something that threatened the lands. My point being hunt with purpose, not for the sake of hunting and respect always the fact that something or someone will die.

    <e>Uncle Sy'wyn, how many people have you killed…? Mother tends to avoid talking about such. This from Iolyn. Which is about right. At that age is when you first start thinking what those around you are truly capable of. The younger two children have slightly shining eyes, listening so hard.

    <e>One too many, but sadly not enough. Take up your bows and join hands please. A soft prayer in elvish, and there is a shifting around them, placing them somewhere else. The walls gone, the roof replaced by tree branches, and Sy'wyn sniffs lightly at the air a moment, before rubbing at his nose.

    <e>Got a cold, Uncle Sy'wyn?

    <e>Goblins.

    <e>You can smell goblins?! From Malani who starts sniffing loudly in imitation before giving up. I can't smell any goblins.

    With a small smile Sy puts a single finger to his lips, then sits on the ground bringing the others close and speaking in low whispers. He starts by clearing leaves from in front of him until there is clear ground. Then begins tracing his finger through the dirt as he describes goblins in a not to bright light. Destructive and only semi-intelligent they are often brash and easily provoked. They make up for lack of tactics often with sheer numbers. Unlike with some creatures, they are easy to discern the hardest by size, muscle and size of weapon. Capable of speech even if disjointed and barely intelligible, they are known to have casters though not particularly skilled ones. As he traces his finger through the dirt in front of him, he starts explaining the lay of the land. Marking an X in a small depression he explains that it is usually a camp of some tribe or another. A small line is a dry creek bed that runs close by it. Some pushed up dirt is a little ridge line close and to the south that overlooks. Like hunting an animal, hunting goblins is knowing your prey and planning. At this he goes silent and watches the children. Olwydd speaks first…

    <e>Let's charge in and kill them all before they know what's hit them!

    <e>That's foolish. I say we send Uncle Sy'wyn in and clean up what's left.

    <e>I say we go home… That from a worried looking Saha'ria, immediately shushed by the three.

    <e>What if we slip up that creek bed to the ridge line and hit them with arrows?

    <e>What if they see us?

    <e>We run away?

    <e>We hide behind Uncle Sy'wyn.

    <e>Isn't this a pretty flower? He blinks at that, looking down at Malani who is smiling up at him and holding a flower out. Where in the world had she found a flower in the Rawlinswoods…? Asking them to patience a moment, he slips up close to the camp and takes a quick measure of the goblins and their numbers before coming back.

    <e>Saha'ria and I will circle around to the south and then come back up on the opposite side of the ridge. You three carefully make your way up the creek bed and then to the top of the ridge. Shoot some arrows down into their midst, and when they come charging towards you, run down the hill towards us.

    The children set off happily up the creek bed, Sy'wyn and Saha'ria swinging further out and wide, but always in careful sight. <e>Aren't they quite a bit young to be taking on goblins? _Were they? He was not the best judge anymore truly, he had spent so much time in conflict with some threat or another that perhaps he was pushing them just a bit too much too early. Nicahh would hunt him to the ends of the land and beyond if any of them were hurt. Though he didn't respond to Saha'ria, he sniffed again lightly but didn't smell anything more then what he'd already checked on. Only three or four of the small ones. He stopped and watched the three children. Iolyn was removing the flower from Malani's hand and tucking it behind her ear so she would quit sniffing it. He was crouched low and moving smoothly though and leading his siblings well. Olwydd seemed to be having trouble getting over a fallen log in the creek before just rolling over it.

    His gaze shifted further up the creek bed. Then the small hill. It was in clear sight of the small depression that the goblins were currently arguing over something in. They should be able to make the top of the hill without much effort, but watching the three children so close to the goblins and making the amount of noise they were making he was torn. For their safety he should likely signal them back and call it a fail. But allowing them to continue that would give them such excitement. He made the opposite side of the hill with only a few more soft complaints from Saha'ria._ <e>Stay here… and no arrows for now. _He gives her a somewhat sharp look before slipping off around the far side of the hill, his mind made up now.

    He comes up the far side, out of sight of the children but able to keep a close eye on the goblins. Occasionally, the top of a child's head would poke up from the creek bed looking to see where the goblins were before ducking back down. It brought a small smile to his face before turning back to the goblins. From the looks of them, they seemed to be fighting over some bolt of cloth or something. Likely stolen. There was a cookpot nearby with what seemed to be a badger in it being boiled whole. All three carried daggers tucked in belts in poor condition. He waits. Crouching low his cloak hood down to shade his face. Not yet… Iolyn slips from the creek to the base of the small hill, working his way up through the brush with little stir from the goblins. Malani traipsing along behind her brother, seeming unconcerned and twirling her bow as she goes. Which does cause a stir from the goblins. Even more of a stir when Olwydd takes two tries to climb from the creek bed. The three goblins leer at each other._ <gob>Look at lot elfie meats on dats one..! _The three draw daggers, and start to creep forward, before one by one they each abruptly stop and stand still.

    At the top of the hill the three children line up, only Iolyn keeping low so his form doesn't stand out against the bits of sky behind. At the bottom of the hill near the cookpot, the three goblins stand stock still, daggers in hand. With a soft word, Iolyn lets loose the first arrow, followed by Olwydd, both striking true, the third from Malani misses entirely, hitting the cookpot, but Iolyn covers for her by sending a second arrow down. All three goblins stand stock still for a moment longer and then collapse._

    <e>Well done. Yes, Saha'ria may be looking at him suspiciously, but he doubted the children would suspect hold spells on the goblins until years later. <e>Let's see what your hunt has gathered you. _With a small smile he goes stepping down the hill, the three children tumbling (Olwydd practically rolling) down the hill to where the three goblins lay dead. Sy'wyn searches everything before letting the children do so, focusing on the daggers and for possible traps before saying the children can search. Malani presents the flower to him before spinning a little circle and saying it was a gift to be given and heads off to search with her brothers.

    Sniffing the flower a moment, he holds it out to Saha'ria who takes it with a small blush and a quick look down holding the flower up to smell it. Hardly paying attention he watches over the children as they gather together what they've found. Three coal pieces. Four coins. Some dangerous looking charm that he tells Malani to put down since she doesn't know where that's been._

    <e>True adventurers now, and well planned and… A loud goblin roar of challenge had him spinning to see a large brutish goblin come sprinting down the hill they'd used such a short time ago. Axe held high and slobbering at the lips it was obviously lost in rage and charged straight at Olwydd who instead of running stubbornly held his ground, holding his bow like he was going to beat it over the head with it. Two bowstrings twanged and something slipped past the goblins face close to the cheek, while fletching appeared stuck to its left shoulder. Iolyn and Saha'ria drawing second arrows and Malani shouting, <e>RUN, OLWYDD!! RUN!!

    _Then a large wolf plows into the goblin, jaws snapping at its legs until they flop helplessly and the fur and goblin roll harmlessly past Olwydd and two more arrows fly, one hitting the goblin, the other the side of the wolf. As the rolling stops it ends with the wolf standing over the goblin, jaws latched into its throat and giving the occasional shake of its head with a low growl. The with a sharp twist and tug there is a loud snapping noise and the head of the goblin hangs at an unnatural angle, the wolf sitting back and licking at the blood on its jowls. The children by this time were hugging on to Saha'ria and everyone was watching the wolf closely, an arrow still sticking from its side. An arrow with green fletching. Like the arrow now nocked again to Saha'ria's bow. Calmly the wolf backs away a little from the four, then half stretches and gnaws a bit at the the arrow until it gets a grip and yanks it out.

    A shuddering and melting of flesh and the wolf fades, leaving Sy'wyn holding an arrow in his hand… and looking at Saha'ria, who appears absolutely mortified._

    <e>Well, I believe this hunt is over. If you'd all like to hold hands…</e></e></e></e></e></gob></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e>


  • _The elf dismisses the faint image from the bowl of water in front of him with a flick of his hand, watching his reflection appear slowly to replace the mirrored sheen of some far off bright place. Still scarred, the skin of his face pulled into the four dark marks. Three across the cheek, the fourth down his forehead almost to the eye, though his face remained smooth otherwise, no hint at the passage of the many years he had already seen, and the knowledge of the many more he would see, Fenmarel willing.

    But it's the eyes really, the eyes for most elves are the only things that show the passage of time. His hair would likely not turn white for many many more years, wrinkles would not show around his eyes for awhile, nor the corners of his mouth, slowly spreading like it did for the lesser lived races. But the eyes… in his own eyes he could see the weight of time.

    As his eyes adjusted entirely back to the dimness of the cave, he looked about him at his gear lain out in orderly stacks, and flicked his cloak off his shoulders to lay with the rest, until finally he sat crosslegged in breeches and light shirt. Starting with his boots he begins working his way through his gear, looking for tears, marks, scratches, the wearing down that always starts small but can make such a difference when its needed. Working through cloth, leather and metal, oiling, polishing, and mending as he goes. His fingers slow, methodical as he looks for weaknesses to anything he carries. Finally, hours later he settles back quietly his eyes settling on two items he left in front of him.

    Though they in no way resembled each other, they still shared similar themes to him at least. One a blade, older then him, it's slightly curved blade and tapering tip carried an enchanted edge that needed no sharpening. That edge would carry on long after he had died, as it had carried on long after its original owner had died for the second time. It's worn and battered hilt had never been replaced, nor the sheath it rested in. It matched his cloak in many ways he mused to himself.

    The armor next to it, was a work of art. It's thin metal plates covered in designs and worked images of animal teeth and bones finely wrought from mithral. It's weight so very light, though it was as strong as any heavier full plate he'd come across, and enchanted as well. A gift and reward for effort put in. He'd seen the like of the armor before, always so deceptive to those who didn't know better. Many believed the suits ceremonial in nature since so few of his kind wore full plate usually, but he'd seen those works of art marched in line into foes before. They were not ceremonial alone, no, far from it, it's decorative and beautiful scrollwork as deceptive as anything he'd come across.

    War. Long ago he'd given up on wearing a war braid, since he was not a warrior. That was for others. He was an explorer, a healer, a craftsman, other things. Not a warrior. It was the difference of fighting for necessity as opposed to fighting as a profession, or for want, or for the thrill. He'd always counted it his largest failing, and probably always would that so many knew him as a fighter and sometimes healer rather then what he was. Staring at the armor a moment longer, he finally hops to his feet and heads over to the other side of the cave, digging through the spare wood until he finds several pieces that should work for what he is intending.

    Setting wood to saw blade, he works quietly, smoothly, shaping the wood down in time, though it's not obvious at first what he's making. His thoughts are far from the work, though skilled hands show he's worked the carving knives before. So many asking about wars now, the N'Jast one at the top of the list of course. He'd avoided that one, off elsewhere arguing with distant relatives, but he'd seen war in the past. Orcs, gnolls, humans, drow, bugbears and various goblinkin. Dragons, demons, devils, things that no one knew what they were. Fiends and friends...

    It was always the same. One side or another seeking to right some wrong. The other side deciding there was no wrong and the right were wrong, and the subtle feints, the harsh words would come to raids. Raids to assaults. Assaults to marching. Marching to siege. Siege to waiting... waiting. There was always waiting, and the waiting is always the hardest part, because by then there is no going back. There is no resolution without blood, pain, death. What resolution does that bring? There is no glory in war. There is no glory in battle. There is no glory in the fight. At the end of the day, it is but another dead creature laying at the feet of the more clever, the stronger of the two, the one who now gets to tell the story and claim their side was right. If someone argues? It perpetuates yet again.

    He'd heard the stories of some of the conflicts he'd been involved in, but it was always impossible to reconcile. Glorious charge at the walls? He remembered desperate running, hoping to get past the archers. Singular purpose? The struggle to stay with friends, and those you knew as the mob jostles you, and you dare not fall in that first rush, that first rush. If you trip, you'll be trampled and as good as dead by an archers arrows. Greater good was something you comforted yourself with later. Something you whispered in the night as you see again that first person you chopped down. There is no honor close range, you chop, you slice, you beat, you slam, you kick, you bash, you bite, you tear, you rend, you bloody the other and hope for one thing.

    That they stay down.

    Pulling the pieces of wood he's finished carving over to his gear, he pulls out strips of leather and begins lashing them together. Working again, slow and careful, pulling each strip tight before wetting it down with water and pulling again. The water was the trick he knew. As the leather dried it would tighten on its own, making the lashes hold together longer then just tying alone. Soaking each strip now, he carefully sets a round base of wood, and works a taper ended shaft into the base, tapping at the top with a soft wooden mallet to force the taper to bite in and fit tight. Stepping back he looks over his creation a moment before nodding and lifting up the armor.

    Funny that he had returned in time to set off on yet another large battle, he seemed to have a knack for that. He strapped the armor properly, setting it on the stand he had just finished, fixing the sword belt around its waist, and propping his tower shield against it before stepping back a few feet from it and watching it quietly. As he pulls his cloak back around him and goes to leave the den, he looks back over his shoulder and finds himself thinking... there is the equipment of an elven warrior._


  • @577786244d=LowerDenizen:

    …but he had to help Olwydd with his, punching a new hole in the belt to fit the young child's already threatning waist size.

    :evil: :lol:

    Very nice, btw.


  • Uncle Sy! Uncle Sy!

    These were not his relatives by blood, but they might as well be. Children of one of his few friends, and his student for many years he had finally shown up to start the training he had promised Nicahh. While the nanny watched with a wary eye, he pulled a bag of sweets from his pack and split it into three. Why children loved these things, he'd never know, but their eyes lit up with delight. Once they'd settled some, he pulled another bundle from his pack.

    <e>Today, we will be taking a trip. It is to hostile territory, so there may be some danger.

    Sah'ria's eyes narrowed even more at this, as she watched him pull a bundle from his pack to the children's absolute quiet fascination now. From the bundle he produced three short swords and a bow shaft, along with a quiver of arrows. The swords he handed to the children, with cautions to mind their fingers. He did not bother to tell them that they were enchanted to cause no harm to anyone, it was more of the illusion of danger then anything else. The bow however, was finely crafted and had a dark tree marked on the shaft, made by his hand.

    <e>This is a loan, and to be used only in dire circumstances

    He handed the short bow and quiver to Sah'ria. He doubted it would be used, but the illusion of danger was the element here. Not true danger. He watched her string the bow with at least an adept hand before turning to the children. Iolyn and Malani had their swords tight in hands, the matching sword belts already buckled, but he had to help Olwydd with his, punching a new hole in the belt to fit the young child's already threatning waist size.

    <e>You all will listen to me and do as I say while we travel, yes?

    Solemn eyes and small determined nods came from the young ones, but the nanny pulled him to the side a moment to speak with him in low tones.

    <e>Nicahh and Ael said they were fine with this?
    He gave a small nod, replying in low tones back.
    <e>They are fine with it. If there is any danger I will cut the trip short quickly.
    Raising his voice back to its normal tones, he turns to the children, holding a hand out.
    <e>Join hands, and hold on to me. You as well, Sah'ria.

    _A soft prayer and a turn and they were gone from their rented home, instead standing in the middle of the woods. A small glen, and though he did not tell them where, he had placed them correctly in the woodlands outside of the druids glen. A small smile touched his lips, for he guessed correctly that the others did not know where they were as Saha'ria knocked an arrow to the bow, and the children drew blades and crouched low. If they'd known him better, his wearing leathers today would have tipped them off, since he rarely went anywhere dangerous without wearing plate.

    Start slowly Sy'wyn. After a few moments of listening to the area, he motions them to put the weapons away, watching closely in their movements, judging quietly with his green eyes. The nanny kept the arrow to the string, but at least relaxed the draw on the bow. The children immediately sheathed weapons, and looked about wide eyed._

    <e>Where are we, Uncle? _This from Iolyn, barely whispered, and he marked how he was the first to pose the question.

    <e>This is part of the Rawlinswoods. A place your parents know well, and home to many, both treacherous and helpful. It has a long history, and is place you should never tread without respect for the many ways you can be taken from your path.

    Again Iolyn, <e>Why are we here?

    He smiled, because many questions implied a sharp mind and curiousity. Traits that lent well to training in any art, much less the art he teaches. <e>To learn and gather healing herbs, to observe the woods, and to leave without being attacked by large things that wish us harm.. see here? Do you know what these herbs are?

    _He proceeded to move about, sniffing lightly now and then, on the off chance that something hostile may wander into the area, or possibly worse, a druid on the way to the glen which would ruin the illusion he was attempting to create. As they came across certain plants he would point them out, listing which kept disease from spreading. Which helped stem the flow of blood. The applications of which with linens would keep the skin from rotting, and the various elements of plants in the use of tea. Two plants he showed to them, one he explained in tea was a pleasant taste, the other which looked extremely similar had the same pleasant taste, but would cause the drinker to become drowsy. Always he was watching, testing, questioning as he went through the long list of things he knew of the local plants. Malani was quiet, but there was no lost expression in his eyes like there was from Olwydd. Olwydd was attentive, but even more so seemed attentive to possible threats. Iolyn seemed enchanted with the flowers he pointed out, and the colors of leaves, but seemed sharp as well at least.

    As he came across animal tracks, or markings he explained those as well, covering over the likely animals in the area. Which were safe to hunt, which were not. Which herbs complimented which of the meats, and which would preserve it longer. Late in the afternoon, he felt that though young, he had a good measure of each of them. Though the nanny still seemed fond of keeping the arrow to string, and walking slow behind them. By midafternoon he suggested finally that they should stop to eat. To them it likely seemed they'd been hiking for miles, but in truth he had kept them to a path that meandered through the woods and often came close to back over itself, placing them close to where he'd first brought them._

    <e>Perhaps it is time we rest for a meal, and make plans fo- a snap of a twig in the close distance brought his head around, his nose already telling him it was a deer, but before he could say anything he heard Olwydd cry out

    <e>What was that!?

    And with that it was as if the slow tension that had been building in Saha'ria made her snap in fear of the children, and before Sy could even turn and point out to them the deer grazing a little further up the path he heard a sharp twang of a bow string, and something slammed into his shoulder. He looked down dumbly for a moment at a bloodied arrowhead poking from his left shoulder, and stumbled. After all this time of being quiet, finally Malani says something…

    <e>Uh oh. You killed Uncle Sy!

    As he collapsed to the ground, his hand to his shoulder, the next words from Iolyn caused him to shudder..

    <e>We can save him!

    _In moments he was buried under the three children who seemed to have forgotten anything to do with a possible threat.. Saha'ria was standing there apologizing over and over, and he was momentarily blinded by the sheer amount of cloth that the children were using to wrap his shoulder over and over again.

    Hours later, a much wrapped.. but somehow still bleeding Sy'wyn returns children and sitter to Nicahh, with little to no explanation about the blood on the children's clothes or why his shoulder is wrapped still he leaves them there after carefully prying the bow from Saha'ria's fingers.</e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e></e>


  • _Why would I not drink from the flask? Because it's a reminder. Every day I keep breathing it's a reminder of the cost of trust, of what it means to stay outside and alone. It's a reminder of why some things should be kept out of arm's reach, if not further. It is.. in essence my base nature. Base nature. As much as I talk about it so many times… that a goblin is a goblin. An elf an elf. A badger a badger.. why can I not make others understand this any better? To struggle against one's base nature is the tiring part, to act other then what you are, that is what wears one down. A badger may learn to swim... but to be a fish? It can not. I can not. That is what is being asked of me. Change.

    Can I be what I was before? More importantly, will I be, without the reminder... that constant burning inside that reminds me. I am unsure. Do I fear the disappointment of it failing... No. I fear that it will, and without that other reminder of my nature, without that those base urges that I will instead be something that I am not.

    I am not by nature an agent of the greater good, I am as likely to walk off as aid those who need it. Though I do not wish harm and cruelty upon others, I know from past experience that I am quite capable of such. I may do good things, but I do just as much of what many would consider evil, though I'd not consider it such. It's practical, and practical application is the basis of self reliance really.

    It bears much thought..._


  • _I was never a hero. Never a fighter. Never wished to wage war on others, never wished to stand in the way of something larger then me, or faster then me, or more violent then me. Yet… too many times to count I have. Why?

    Fenmarel would teach that those who are unable to protect themselves, should be taught what is necessary to do so. If you stand in as their protection, then all you do is teach them to be dependent on you for that protection. When you are not there, they are no better then they were to begin with, and will fail. I hear talk of for the greater good, and protect the innocent, but the Lone Wolf has never urged me to to anything drastic to interfere in the lives of others.

    I spread his word softly to those I feel will listen. I ask little more then a prayer to him in return for his healing. I teach tact and subtlety to those who it is best suited. He has asked little of me in return, and yet I have in gratitude given him everything I can.

    It is always difficult to know if you please your god or not. For the lay follower, it is nothing, but for those of faith, we strive each day to do what we believe is right always through the prism of the teachings we have been taught, and the voice of our diety in our heart. My god is not a god of smite and vengeance, or of death and warfare. My god is a god of self preservation above all else, and was the first to teach that reliance on others will lead more likely then not to betrayal.
    But I found in this land that if one does not rely on others, they are quickly sent to see their diety, and too many times I stepped up when I perhaps should have stepped back. I voiced aloud, when I should have held my words close. No good deed goes unpunished, and I did far too many good deeds for no other reason then the hollow words "greater good". The greater good.. even now, those words make me shudder. And with every small yes I gave, my word was bound. And with every small request I gained a scar, with every single sympathetic action, I weighed myself down until finally it came to a head.

    And I died.

    And I lay on the outskirts of Arvandor, and I waited for Fenmarel to come and chastise me.

    And I waited, but instead nothing.

    Time passed, I could feel it even though the sun stayed in perpetual twilight. And the weight of things slowly eased from my shoulders, my mind and my heart, and still I didn't move, and I closed my eyes finally and I think I drifted into sleep, true sleep, as the humans do, not the reverie of memories I didn't own or want, and in my slumber I think, I think I finally knew peace, and I recognized the errors of my ways, and I let it go._

    It is time.

    Those three words whispered softly close to me, but I had heard nothing come close. I stirred, but my eyes did not open yet.

    It is time, Sy'wyn. There are things to be done, and your rest is at an end for now.

    _And my eyes opened to the sight of trees I knew too well, in the Rawlinswoods. Somewhere near the ruins of the Elvish Encampment unless I missed my guess. And so I returned, naked and newborn, knowing well that this was not the place to be without equipment.

    It is a new life, and there are things to be done. A new life, deserves a new name, and I am born again from the woods. Eresse._


  • ((copied from the Peltarch Civil War thread))

    _"I should not be here…" the one thought running through his head over and over as he kneeled in the grass, in the mud, the blood soaked ground seeking guidance from Fenmarel. "I should not be here..." But he was, and others were lined near, the shields were out, the blades held ready, as each waited, as each paused... holding for the signal... He eyes Arandor in front of him, his oath was to him, the last two Gali Elders fighting far from home, to take back a town in flames. He could hear the chanting of the clerics, the calls of the battle ready as each waited.. yearned... "I should not be here...".... Silence...

    A single lit arrow floating above the walls....

    The rush... The screams of those calling out... the shouts of "for Peltarch!" "For Glory!" "For... " the deafening sound of metal... metal shod feet pounding cobblestones.... deafening, until finally he could only hear "I should not be here..." still echoing in his head.

    You think of odd things, single things in a fight like this...

    Archers, there were archers on the walls... but the gates, the gates just opened... we smile, we cheer... the other group had succeeded!! A group pours out of the gates... it is not our friends...

    The first sword hits shield, hits flesh, you can't hear, your breath burns in your throat, his breath was burning in his lungs... The first scream for help... He turns shield high to hold back the arrows from the wall.. He sees Nicahh fall... the sky cracks open, light falling into those who are streaming from the gates.... stunning them, not enough time... just not enough time... sheathing the sword in his hand, praying to Fenmarel, one time.... she is gone... arrows still hitting her body... turning, grabbing at the sword on his back, but Mariston has fallen back, bleeding heavily... and he finishes his prayer, closing his wounds, and then anothers, and anothers....

    I lost Arandor... though somewhere i hear him calling... there is a push forward, the heroes of the refugees are through the gates... Turn.. there has to be a door... there has to be a way up... Single thoughts... so tired... i have not rested in three days now... I should have told Darry where i was... my family... they will worry...

    HAH!! stairs there are stairs.. past these beds, he rushes up the stairs, cloak streaming behind him, dark plate clanking loudly as he tries to get up, to clear the archers from the wall.... Others have beaten him here.. Grag, his large axe flinging blood, and the Golden Haired Girl shouting to Tempus, her life almost gone, his blade stays sheathed, as he chants softly to Grag before helping the girl... she was to young to be here... too young, or perhaps this elf was too old.....

    Tala will not be happy... i have lost Elrin somewhere in the press, but the archers are gone now, and we flood back into the courtyard, shouts for help coming more often now, a louder prayer, and the sky cracks for me, dropping a few more of the soldiers... I cry out and the stones rise into a giant running forward to help others, while i press back against the wall.. fighting as i must, the sword back in hand.... "I should not be here..."

    We pushed back... bit by bit... stronger and better trained soldiers coming in platoons... i duck into an open door, taking the opportunity during a lull to pray, before others come rushing through... and i hear shouts of death magic... and again i call out, and again the stones rise to my command...

    And it stops...

    We limp our way out.. carrying the bodies of the brave, the young, the foolish... and i lived.. somehow.. i lived... in that press of flesh where you strike out not knowing if you are hitting friend or foe... knowing in the back of your mind you have not pressed in farther then 100 paces.. knowing...

    Soon... you will have to do it all again....

    ==============================

    -Before The Push-

    He pulled his cloak a little tighter, the hood a slight bit lower, watching the tops of the walls though the rain. He had not moved for a few hours now, and most had forgotten him, standing on the hill, his slight form barely making a shadow's mark behind him, holding an arrow lightly knocked to the string waiting.... there. A lone dark form rose on the wall silouhetted by the fires still burning in the city, he dropped his gaze to the ground, then in one smooth motion brought bow and arrow up and high, letting the string loose just as his eyes set once again to the figure, rewarded a few moments later by the shape disappearing over the back of the wall. He selects another arrow, lightly knocking it to the string and goes back to his quite vigil, watching the flames still lick away at the inside.

    He needed to return to the Romani soon, he had been away to long, neglecting his duties there. His aid here had been only small and of little consequence. An arrow here, some minor healings for those to stubborn to go to the field hospital and ask the priestess Daisy. He had lent some coin here and there to a few of the refugees, and donated towards supplies to aid those he could not help immediately. He had given his own food away early on foolishly, and had had to beg more, though it was all as tasteless as the ash still floating down from the city. He had stopped resting days ago. There was no peace in his reverie, his view of the burning walls replaced only by the burning of the trees of his own home far far south of here. Alvar and Fadien likely remembered little of it, though he and Amendale remembered it well. There was no peace in finding himself repeatedly telling the others, "e: it was not on purpose, it was an accident.... who knew that he could do that..." Those that knew the whys of him and Amendale, Fadien, and Alvar being forced out were dwindling he knew, especially since Amendale had retired into the woods to not be seen for over three years now. This was not helping... he gathered his gear and set south for a walk.

    -The Final Push-

    He returned in time to hear the shouts go out to form up, and though he only barely remembered where he was supposed to go, he formed up with the others, sword and shield out, kneeling back into the mud, once again pondering the fact that he should not be here. Yet he was, and likely deep down inside, knew it was to aid those who had died long ago, and could do nothing for now. As before they waited, you always wait in a battle, and the refugee army formed into their pretty formations, and those to would be gone soon, rent by spells, death, and confusion. Nico walked from soldier to soldier dropping comments to ease the strain of waiting, though to him they were not needed. "e: Patience, Sy'wyn, it will start soon enough, and not end qick enough..." Starting from behind, on the hill the order came, a barely heard shout at first, rolling forward over the ranks as an ocean wave pushing the army forward as every voice took up the call, every voice but his own roaring out..... "CHARGE!"

    And as a wave the army rolled again across the grass, building momentum, building strength, and he found a note hastily shoved into his hand, as he jogged at a trot, and opened the paper, hoping a note of luck from his loved or family, and instead reading the words, "you are in charge of this group" it read, "secure the Commerce District, and move against the the Bardic College.." The paper fell wadded to the ground to be ground below the feet of the others, as he focused again on the wall, aiming a little farther east of the gate.

    The army split, some bearing east, others west, and he found himself at the head of a grop bearing straight north. The first shouts went out as they came in rang of the archers on the wall, and the group tried their best to form up behind the shields in the front, and he raised his voice loud over the sounds of those screaming.. "FORGET THE FORMS, FLAT AGAINST THE WALL!! KEEP MOVING, TOWARDS THE GATE!! SLOW AND STEADY, NO NEED BEING OVERWHELMED!!" And to his surprise they listened, everyone flattened against the wall, jogging along it, until they reached a break and he stepped out drawing the archers fire on him, and giving his own archers the chance to feather the archers above, who had to lean far out beyond their stone protection to hit him.

    The first company charged out from the gates to try and reach them, and were shoved back by the frontliners, bravely led by the half orc Arishaka and Mog, who almost seemed to walk through the mercenaries and into the gates, leaving a wake of death behind them, and the entire force pushed into the first open space beyond the walls, largely unopposed, striking in as far as the earlier charge had reached in no time. The rush halted as they pushed into the commons, and found many of the mercenaries barricaded behind a wall of rubble, some of it still smoking, and supported by a mage who immediately dropped a fireball into thei midst. " AGAINST THE WALLS!! ARCHERS FORM UP!! " Arrows and axes flew from the refugees dropping the mage before he could do more damage, and Arishaka charged the barricade Mog beside her, and Pete working his way around, as he flipped his cloak back, and set arrow to string working methodically to aid as he could, the others the same. He immediately set people to guard, forming up as he could the few troops remaining to him, setting some to bottleneck the entrance to the commons closest to the burned husk of the Mermaid. Seeing people scatter about to try and hold what they had gained, he raised his voice once more, " SOMEONE RUN BACK AND TELL THE DWARVES TO AIM FARTHER NORTH!! " Random kegs and the occasional hin still hit the ground around them, as the area was secured, and more of the refugee Defenders came to hold, the officer barking to him as he came, " Good work! We'll secure the commons, keep the momentum going!" He healed as he could and went down on a knee intending to pray when he happened to spot something coming around the corner. Turning aside, not truly knowing all of the factions going on he had time to ask one question, " Black Armor is bad, right? " Before the armor in question came, with well trained muscle guiding it into their midst, and Pete was down in two hits, and suddenly mage spells were igniting the air, lighting Chaevre as she turned troll, and began hitting into the knights from behind, and he had enough time to stop Pete's bleeding and try to half drag him back before Pete was finished off with numerous hits from a blade that moved impossibly fast, and then.... silence... they had held, and the officer was bidding them move on, and somewhere Ting had shown, and he sent her out to scout, and waited for an answer.

    -A Wrong Turn-

    Soldiers to the south, officers to the north and a mage to the east. He moved his troops from the commons, slowly, easily, knowing that it was well known by now they had taken the commons and expecting opposition, and it came, but they had to move on, they could not stand still, and he moved in the middle of the troops wrapped in his cloak, his armor dented beneath, hearing the sounds of continuing fights across the city, but not hearing what he wanted which was the cheers of the other refugee groups, they started around around the Mermaid, it's burning shell masking their movements, as they flowed out into the street, moving east. And suddenly they were beset by a mage and a few troops, dropping Ting dead almost before she hit the ground, and Arishaka not long after, and he stopped as he realized he was heading the wrong direction from the College, that it was to the west, and so he reformed his few remaining troops, the adventurers within it becoming more scattered and showing the strain of the fight they had already gone through. Securing doors as they went, eyeing nervously the charred windows open above them, they moved towards the college.

    There it was.. he stepped forwards as quiet as only an elf in full plate can, as two defenders wearing the colors of those who fought for the refugees came up, and then from further down the street stepped two soldiers, wearing fine armor, one bearing the markings of a high officer, and one of the Defenders with them managed to get out, "It's Captain Rashor!" before the two slammed into the front lines, Mog and Chaevre taking the brunt of their combined fury, as he tried to stay out of reach and work his bow, stepping up only to heal. Chaevre was taking to many hits for her troll form to heal off, and he was running so very low on spells, so he drew blade and threw himself into their midst between them giving time for Chaevre to step back and heal. Mog, the two Defender soldiers, shouting for the captain to give in and the dark armored elf danced in circles around the two officers, none finding a real opening, and the two were back to back, with what seemed an armies worth of potions on them. Chaevre jumped back into the fight and he rolled out resuming his bow work, and trying to keep Mog on his feet. Finally down to his last spell, he took a risk, and shouted, " MOG BACK!! Leaving Chaevre to take the brunt of the swords, as he healed Mog with his last heal spell left, whispered a quick word, his cloak flaring blue and settling a mist aound him, and then a soft chant as he too turned troll, all elegant fighting gone, and threw himself back into the fray. The three of them focusing on the lesser officer were able to drop him, and then focused onto the Captain.

    Finally there was no choice, he ordered Mog back, and him and Chaevre settled into the tactics of those who are used to taking others forms... one took hits while the other healed, and so on and so one, till finally, with no other choice, and the arrows from the archers still not finding openings, he lost control and started beating down on the Officers helm, in an effort to blind him, crush his skull, squish him, who knows, not even the troll he was knew because those thoughts are above a troll, and in a final fit of rage he struck both fists down on the officers head and he dropped.... finally dropped. The troll he was, blinked. Then moved down the street, slowly its wounds covering over, and they had it... they had cleared the commerce district, and still he heard no shouts from the others.... And as he moved back to the commons, a dark slip of a girl stepped from the shadows of a building and whispered, " Sy'wyn " and it took him a moment to register, yes that was his name... " Niicahhh... " And she told of how the dock district group had failed, and were currently in the commons. And though he was tired, so tired, he knew it was not over. He reformed his group thinking to himself... "why is it never as easy as the orders? " Looking at the those who had died from his orders, the homes still burning, hearing the shouts and cries of those who were still dying. He shook off his troll form and tended those he could, then set out with those who volunteered to see about the Civics district....._


  • _He had heard the road was opened, that it led into the mountains. Yes, there were giants, but there was always something was there not? No matter where you went there was always something, and it had been long since he had seen somewhere new. He left the welcoming fire and headed off to the east, travelling to Jiyyd where Drelan caught up with him, and he spotted Star not far behind.

    It was just a walk, a trip to see somewhere new, to make a map, maybe see if there was lumber or ore. The trip to Ormpur itself did not take long, the wolves were little threat and they passed swiftly into the mountains, assaulted at the begining by three giants at once, but meeting little resistance beyond. Up hills and down, and up, and then down, and then up, always going higher, the weather turning cold, meeting a few giants here and there, but they were fairing well.

    Drelan asking when he planned to turn around, to return to town, and a slight frown creased the elf's brow. It was not about winning, it was about looking, seeing, the view and the snow, the giants that marred the beauty of the land that was wrapped in silence and was the outskirts of the region. Soon was his response. And they continued on, nearing the ridge, and as the elf looked up at the top of the peak so close, he thought to himself, another day, I will touch the peak. He looked to his companions, but today is not going to be that day.

    They set back out for the bottom of the mountains, moving swiftly now that every step was downhill, and though the path was crooked and ran back on itself, they made good time, though the giants seemed to be fighting more fiercely then they had on the way up. He went troll to save healing, they would need to rest soon, but he saw no safe place nearby, and then there were two giants. He had not seen them, they just came down a small ridge, one swining a massive greatsword, the other a hammer.

    Drelan fought side by side with the elf, and when they both knew they could not stand farther, Drelan asked the plan. The elf replied calmly, run. Both turned, the two giants behind them letting out roars, and as he turned his back, he felt the flat of the greatsword swing down and clip his legs, tripping him to the ground. He saw Drelan get enough distance to be somewhat safe, and he saw Star at the top of the ridge with her bow, a distance to be safe enough, and he saw the massive greatsword rise while he was flat on the ground, and he saw it flash down…. odd thoughts..._


  • _Pain. Keira would be happy. Odd thought. Pain. Pain meant life, meant he was still alive. Was he? The pain said yes. He went to lift his head from the floor, and felt the skin peel off the rough wood, he felt warmth on his face. The pain was worse. Warmth must be blood. He tried to sit up, the world swam in blackness. He almost fell down again. The room was dark, no not dark, red. Everything was red, tacky, sticky feeling, blood. The room was covered in blood. The pain was a throbbing now, dreamlike in its persistance, not persitant, red. The room was red. Was that his blood? His eyes caught a glimpse of metal, his shield, a reflection distorted. Green eyes, four long scars across the side its face. Three across the cheek, a fourth further up running from the hairline almost to its eye. He reached a hand up, shaking, touching lightly the pain crying in triumph at the movement, and almost overwhelming him as fingertips brushed his cheek, his hand lightly touching and feeling the reflection the same. He just knew these would not fade. He pulled his pack to his digging through it having trouble breathing, hoping against hope, until he found a healing potion down near the bottom, which he immediately drank down.

    He was out on the street limping, not sure how, the wolves were gone, or not there or he did not see them, it did not matter, he shuffled his way back to Jiyyd. His cloak was dark, it was always dark, but this time it was stained through and stiff from dried blood. Somehow he was on the tower. The archer tower overlooking the gates, Hedia was there, asking him something. Yes. Him. Sy'wyn that was his name. Asking him if he was alright, was something wrong. He shifted his cloak thinking was something wrong, and the clothing beneath his cloak showed red and soaked, his face was still coated in blood. She offered a rag and some water, and he sat there thinking wolves. There were so many wolves as he wiped at his face. Finally he gave up, dragging his armor to the Silver Valley where he lay in a stream and allowed the red to wash away._


  • _A single thought flickered through his mind, woven in threads of pain. He must get something between him and the teeth. He moved as quickly as he could at the scratching noises, sliding a potion from his belt and downing it at the same time his free arm pulled the small end table against the wall in front of the door. His eyes flicked about the room, he needed more weight against the door, and soon the kitchen table, the chairs and a rolled carpet added itself to the pile barricading the door. He tossed the dishes and firewood over as well, still glancing around the room as swiftly as possible, trying to find alternatives, because this was not an answer.

    The scratching noises changed to thumps.

    He backed from the door slowly listening to the thumping, knowing that it was the sound of a wolf's body hitting the door, throwing itself or being thrown it did not matter, the thumping came again, and then again, and he watched, his green eyes growing panicked, as the pile of furniture began shifting back with each louder hit on the door. He rushed for the stairs, slamming the door open with his shoulder, busting the lock, until he was on the second floor, frantically looking about. He turned and tossed the end table at the top of the stairs down against the door, then dragged a bookshelf and threw it down as well blocking the door entirely off before slumping back against the wall, bloodied, worn out, his katana only barely clenched still in his hand.

    A floorboard creaked.

    He snapped his eyes up to the far bedroom door, working his way up to his feet, chanting his last few blessings. He strained his ears, hearing little more then his own ragged breathing and the constant thump of his heartbeat, but he wanted to take no chances. He eased his way along the wall, and quietly opened the bedroom door opposite the room he had heard the floorboard creaking. No more then a few inches of a gap, he slid his slight form into the room, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure the room was empty. Trying to move as quietly as he could in dented full plate, he dragged the dresser in the room over across the door, then backed slowly away until his back pressed against the far wall, sliding his back down along the wall. Until he was crouched, watching the small line of candle light below the edge of the door.

    Two shadows across the line of light as something stepped to the door.

    His breath caught in his throat, as he watched the shadows. They shuffled quietly barely making a noise, but he knew that whatever it was was right at the door. He tipped forward on his toes, still crouched, laying the katana down finally, and cursing silently as he noticed for the first time that he had left a blood trail across the threshold and into the room. Whatever or whomever would know something had bled their way in. He shuffled his way closer to the dresser, losing sight of the light beneath the door, but bracing against the dresser. Silence. Ragged breath into his lungs, then out. Silence. Ragged breath in, and then out. Silence. So profound, he would later swear he heard a single drop of his blood falling and smacking against the floor. So silent in the house that he would swear he could hear a lone wolf howling outside in the distance, that there were still thumps against the outside door below. Ragged breath in, ragged breath out. Silence.

    The door handle slowly turned.

    The door pushed in, and hit the backside of the dresser. He pressed back, bracing harder. The door pushed further, inching the dresser against him. He pushed back and the dresser stopped moving. A sudden shove and he was rolled back, as the dresser slid more inches, but he set his feet against the ground and with a sudden roar pushed back even harder, shoving the dresser flat back against the wall and slamming the door shut as well. He heard a howl from the other side of the door, and turned quickly snatching his katana back from off the ground. He kept braced against the dresser waiting but there were no more attempts to open the door.

    A furred fist punched through the wood of the door itself.

    He brought the katana up and across but to late, the fist pulled back through the hole tearing at the wood as it did, and an inhuman face showed a moment, before a single yellow eye pressed agains the hole looking in as there was a loud low growl. He switched his grip on the katana, flipping it around and stabbing outwards through the hole in the door, but the creature moved back faster then he could thrust, and he hit nothing but the air. He glanced quickly through the hole as he drew his blade back but saw nothing outside the door. A moment later and he heard quick running steps approaching the door.

    The door disappeared into shattered wood and fur.

    A large shape slamming him back against the far wall as he managed to get his shield up in time to block the first wild swipes of clawed fists, but he was pressed flat back from the weight alone, and had no room to swing his blade, instead doing what he could to bring the hilt of the blade down again and again on the top of the creatures head. He felt the first tear against his ribs, finding an opening in the metal, then his shield was stripped and tossed to the side as the weight finally let him off the wall, and the sudden change in pressure dropped him to his knees, shieldless, and he slashed across from right to left with the katana, blood again in his eyes, and he thought he may have hit something before a clawed fist struck straight into his hand, and the blade clattered across the floor. He tried to throw himself to his feet and against the creature, and found he rose far to swiftly and easily, until he noticed the creature had him by the throat lifting him into the air and holding him against the wall. He kicked out, both his hands struggling to break the choke hold, as the edges of his vision began to blur black, but it seemed nothing he could do could hurt the creature as it held him one handed by the throat against the wall, the creatures other hands wildly slashing across his body, finding openings in his armor, tearing the padding beneath until the elf was only a shredded mess of flesh, his own ripped armor adding to the cuts. His kicks growing more and more feeble as the loss of blood and the loss of air took its toll. Until finally with a dazed and half empty look the elf looked up to see the creatures clawed hand outstretched and high, before being brought down hard and fast against the right side of his face.

    The world went red, then black._

  • D

    I would…leap out the window!

  • G

    Amazing.


  • _The heat was thick in the crafters hall of Jiyyd, as it always was, and it was what he preferred. He worked slowly at the crucible, allowing the copper to heat, and then slowly taking a hammer to it, workng the ingots into an axe head, and then attaching a shaft, calmly turning a few out and setting them to the side to let them cool in the air.

    He set his pack to his shoulders and was out the door early in the evening. He hoped to reach Ormpur by first light the better to scout for wood and ore, and still with plenty of light to scout again for any sign of the creature that had assaulted Lilin. He pulled his cloak tight as he wandered up the road, and noticed Grag's large shape coming towards him, so he passed off what he had been carrying from the dragon's hoard they had come across, since Grag was setting the rest into storage in the Legion Hall.

    He spent a moment talking to Zyphlin softly in the dark early night quietness of the village before heading off east along the road, lengthening his stride as his eyes adjusted from the bright lights of the torches and lamps to the softness of the starlight and the full moon above. He passed the last of the farm lands about midnight, and paused a moment to ask for basic blessings as he always did from Fenmarel, enjoying the peace of solitude and the quietness of the land.

    And the first of the wolves came.

    Since he had made no effort to cover his passing nor hide his trail, this was not surprising to him, and as the first wolf leaped from the shadows at him, he turned smoothly, tilting his shield to cover the backstroke of his katana coming from its sheath, tripping it to the ground, and then back again with the blade, edge first this time across its throat. He spun at a guttural growling from the brush nearby, but could see nothing in the darkness, and was to soon distracted by Worgs surrounding him and howling their inhumane howl, the sound rolling over him, tugging at him to hide in fear.

    But he had prepared, and the sound found no purchase on him, instead he stepped up into the center of their pile and worked his way outwards, using his shield as much as the katana, his feet shifting one step at a time, as he had been training so hard to do lately.

    And the first of the howls rose into the night.

    He could hear more in the darkness as he faced the last worg one on one, they were howling back and forth amongst each other, more then he had ever heard in the area before, and a distant thought of a new pack must have moved into the hills floated in the back of his mind, as he spun from the last of the worgs and smoothly tripped a pack leader who had just run up, and then another, back to the first, and then a third and he was getting hard pressed by the sheer size of the beasts versus his smaller stature. He was no longer fighting to get to Ormpur, but instead getting pushed back towards Ormpur, the large dogs having come from behind him….. but these... were white.

    He had no choice, he began calling to Fenmarel more, asking his aid to close his wounds, and then the air turned frigid cold. Winter wolves were everywhere and he was still being pressed back by pack leaders, more had taken the place of the first three and to make it worse clouds began to cover the moon, making it harder to see, and he gave up on trying to keep the proper forms with the blade, and just started wildly swinging, blade and shield both slamming into something no matter which way he turned, the air frigid, his breath no longer steaming in front of him, because he could no longer draw in a proper lungful of the cold air, his fingers going numb, his face covered in frost, and he no longer called on his god to close his wounds... the frost was freezing the blood before it could fall.

    And then the large one came.

    It leaped out of the darkness as he had just dropped the last of the winter wolves, and he only managed to get his shield between his face and its maw in time. The large thing was bigger then any pack leader he had ever seen its fur was a snowy white and it bit and snapped faster then he could move, and he was bleeding bad now, but had no choice but to face it down, it was a dog… if he turned his back on it, it would only run him down. "Patience Sy'wyn... let it wear itself down.... patience." But more wolves came to join it and then more winter wolves to add their cold breath and he lost patience and time, spinning in a vicious circle of snapping jaws and whining growls, he slashed at anything that moved, friend, foe, white fur, dark, wolf, jaw, teeth, eyes, if he saw it he shoved, slashed, kicked or hit. And silence fell, and he almost did as well, panting his breath misting in front of him, vainly thinking.... I must have killed every wolf for miles.

    And then the clouds above him finally moved from the moon, and he heard a shuffle to the north, he squinted against the darkness, looking into the night. And he saw a white shape raise from the ground, a monstrous wolf head lifting up high to the sky letting loose a long howl into the night to the moon above, so he shifted stance, right foot slightly back and tilted, left knee bent the slightest bit, the katana held low and wide behind him, ready to face this.... thing. And as he watched it rose up on two legs and ran for Ormpur.

    He watched it rise and run on two legs!

    He head not time for healing spells, so he shifted shape into a troll and set off in chase, knowing this to be the creature that had cursed Lilin to her fate. Out of the silent woods came pouring wolves, determined to stop him, and he was wading through them after this creature, after this perversion of natural order, slapping wolves away and ignoring the blasts of cold against the thickness of the troll skin. But it was taking its toll, he had lost sight of the leader amongst the shadows, and was unsure if it was even heading into Ormpur anymore. The wolves had shredded his legs, making it hard to run anymore, and the constant blasts of cold had made it hard to move.

    He was too far from Jiyyd to run back, and so instead he pressed forward, running as fast as he could for the safety he may find in the walls of Ormpur itself. He found it ironic that the child who wrestled Pack Leaders like play dolls was no where to be seen as he ran by, an entire pack of wolves nipping at his heels. He slammed into the gates half blinded by his own blood forcing them open and calling for help, but the village was empty, and he pressed on down the road, his right leg no longer working and being dragged forward only by the momentum he had already built. His frantic gaze turned each direction seeing nothing but fur and fang, not a sight of a villager or other, with his last burst of strength he slammed his shoulder into the door of the general store, losing his footing as he did and spinning to fall on his back across the threshold, a wolf immediately biting him again in the leg, and he lost his concentration, the troll form falling from his elven stature as he called out in pain, and then slammed his fist down on the top of the wolves head stunning it into letting go, rolled backwards and kicked the door shut. He lay there a moment. One foot against the door, his right leg still not moving, shaking, and trying to bring in one good breath of air, just one, but kept choking on it, and the blood that was pooling in his lungs.

    Then the scratching began._

    ((Let's play: What would you do? I will post the remainder of the story in a few more days. In the meantime… think about laying on your back in the store out at Ormpur, near death, one foot holding a door shut and knowing there are a hundred wolves outside wanting to get in.))