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Screensize: 640 x 480 800 x 600 1024 x 768 1280 x 1024 UserName: Password: Format Mode: Basic  Help  Prompt  Format: Font Andale Mono Arial Arial Black Book Antiqua Century Gothic Comic Sans MS Courier New Georgia Impact Lucida Console Script MT Bold Stencil Tahoma Times New Roman Trebuchet MS Verdana   Size 1 2 3 4 5 6   Color Black Red Yellow Pink Green Orange Purple Blue Beige Brown Teal Navy Maroon LimeGreen Message: * HTML is OFF * Forum Code is ON Smilies [quote][i]Originally posted by Purple Dragon Knight[/i] [br]27 Kythorn, The Year of the Tattered Banners As the elf stepped into the inn, a warm wave of woodfire warmth washed all over his weary frame, a sweet and enticing invitation to torpor, which he could not afford. Still, he needed to rest for he had ridden hard for the last tenday, and the light summer garnments he had packed for the trek had made him woefully unprepared for the cold, chilling rains that fed the springs and streams of the Sunset Mountains. After dining on the crude meal that was brought to him, the moon elf obliged himself on a bottle of cheap wine, which he would surely need to listen through the tall tales spewed out by the scrawny, sniffling self-style "bard" that was currently running his mouth up on the low stage located by the back door. A fitting location, if this fellow was the representative of the level of bardic performance shown here, thought the elf, smiling inwardly. Listening to the stuttering fool, the elven armathor at least learned the town's name. Hluthvar, founded some two centuries past, supposedly named for a locally born warrior hero who fought and died at the Battle of Bones in 1090 of this Dale Reckoning. According to the foppish youth, who was obviously a recipient of some type of hallucinatory substance, the man had fought one dragon named Klauth, won, and henceforth turned the tide of the battle. Fools. Humans had a way about them that sometimes irked the elf. Their innate need to aggrandize was so great that they had, over the centuries, brought lying to the level of an artform. In his younger days, Orlin had been at times fascinated by this trait, often confusing it for spontaneity, when in fact it was merely an expression of men's mercenary nature. When a human has no money to buy admiration, he does so by selling himself short. He was getting old, and short-tempered, he observed inwardly. Perhaps the nature of his current task might have something to do with his lack of patience, he thought, sighing profoundly. As he raised his eyes from his drink and lazily searched the upstart storyteller to reacquire the focus of his frustrations, he realized that nearly all the patrons present were looking at him... disapprovingly. Barring a half-elf wench serving drinks up on the second level of the balconied taproom, he was perhaps the only traveler of elf blood here. The few locals present seemed to display either the colors of the local lord or the religious symbols of human god of guards, sentinels and law-enforcers, one named Helm, if one was to believe the reports on the current roster of the human pantheon. Concluding that his loud sighs had perhaps gone registered, he got up... and steadied himself with the back of his chair... then bowed to all as he made his way to the stage. The offended youth first gave him a look of disapproval, akin to a sheep rearing on its hind legs when faced to a wolf, but then shifted his gaze to the ground when the elf warrior just stayed there, resting a hand on his sword-hilt. "Allow me to enlighten you, men of Hluthvar, and fellow road-weary travelers. I am not one for lengthy discourse, so I will keep it simple." The crowd shifted, some now adopting an openly agressive stance, some even shouting, but the elf just took swigs from his wine carafe until the mob-in-the-making had silenced itself, perhaps as much as in curiosity as in a desire to hear the next offending words just to fuel their anger. When he had silence, he spoke again. "First, Klauth is very much alive, and has never been defeated in battle. I know this, because his sons and gandsons have had dark designs on my homelands for centuries. It is lucky that our best warriors and mages have managed to repel their attacks, and a testament to their fierce courage in combat... but if Old Death himself would show up and crash into our forest, there is little that our whole garrison of 300 warriors, wizards, bladesingers, spellsingers and spellarchers could do but run for their own lives!" He took a swig, and continued. "Let me tell you the tale of a man who tried to fight old Klauth, yelling his god's name at the top of his lungs, and bringing half a battalion of hardened soldiers to the Wyrm's doorsteps. This man hoped to either intimidate the dragon with the size of his army, or die a hero's death fitting for the history books of his kingdom, which shall remain nameless for your purpose here. No, this was not the way of Old Death. Old Death had fought countless such battles, established his dominance a thousand times, with increasingly inferior foes and contestants, until such a time where he did not even bother waking up from his slumber when such petitioners came for a slice of his glory. But on this day Klauth, the Old, The Old Death, had awakened from a decade-long slumber and obliged the crowd with a tiny sliver of his attention. He walked to the High Marshal so casually that his ease and confidence had the army stand motionless. Some say that his sheer size and majesty held them enthralled, and some would be right. Whatever the cause, Old Death was upon him in an instant, and simply plucked him from his horse as a child would a small toy. Holding the thrashing commander firm in his claws, the Great Wyrm stretched its mighty wings, and in a thunderclap, took to the skies. After a few days, the befuddled army returned to their city, leaderless. Upon their arrival, they found their wives in excitement over the talk of the day: the High Marshal had decided on a series of sweeping new changes, not limited to but nonetheless including some reforms that would allow women to work, wear certain pieces of fashion that were in vogue in southern Chessenta and Chondath, and other societal upheavals. Many of the High Marshal's generals went to him in utter frustration over this nonsense, but they were all silenced. So profound was the change in the previously warlike figurehead that after a few years, many an officer started to conspire against him, convinced that the man was the Old Death in disguise... using spells to impersonate the High Marshal and leading the country anywhere it pleased just as long as it would increase the gold in the Treasury's coffers. For indeed, the country had not done better in more than six decades, ever since the days of the last king. Nobody knows what happened to the High Marshal exactly, in his few days alone with Old Death... what is certain is that his own kingdom, his pride and joy, ended up slaying him in a public execution. The High Marshal did not put up a fight (he had actually become a devout follower of Eldath in his last few years) and laid his neck out to ease the axeman's job, a smile on his face." The elf rose up to his feet, slinging his pack over his shoulder. Putting two gold pieces on the nearest table, he told the innkeeper, "For the room, innkeeper." The crowd was absolutely speechless. Orlin Moonflower stepped down the low stage, and stopping by the young storyteller, finished by saying, "Pay close attention to the true meaning of pride, young one, and whether or not the dragon you so quickly dishonor lay within your midst, or worse, if you are inadvertently doing a dragon's most deadly work by yourself." Loud cheers and demands of an encore accompanied the elf on his slow, well-deserved ascent to the inn's third floor, where a warm bedroom awaited. [/quote]   Check here to include your profile signature. Check here to subscribe to this topic.