The Tiran Wars: Southern Reaches

DeletedUser

The demon giant flexed it's massive muscles, as the group of heroes faced it down. The stares of the good locked with evil and for a moment and for the briefest of instants the very air between the two forces crackled with electricity. Then the sounds of fighting coming from the elven warriors at the entrance to the massive mountain chamber broke the tension filled silence. The brave elven warriors held back a seemingly never ending hoard of filth and evil, their blades flashed and where they did, orcs, goblins and giants fell.

The clatter of elven made swords and shields clashing against the crude iron instruments of the orcs, accompanied the heroes charge towards the demon giant himself. As the heroes neered the feet of the massive giant. The tallest of the assembled heroes did not reach to the knees of the beast. The frightening visage of the Demon Giant was made even more terrifying, as the beast gave a great howl and from under it's arms sprouted two more. It's face was a gruesome mask, a human face, but each legiment and strand of muscle stood out, as if it had no skin. From it's back it took four axes, each bigger then any of the heroes standing straight up.

The Du'ellofar trained Ranger Ryn'ntar Toro'eth threw all of his weight toward the giant, his elven made sword. It took the short Du'ellofar eleven years to create the three feet of magical steel, it had been sung from the earth itself and no mortal hands had been involved in it's creation. A magical gemstone glittered in the sword's pommel and to one who was skilled with magic, they would see the glow eminating from the sword and giving it's user great power and endurance.

Storming toward the giant right behind Ryn'ntar Toro'eth was the mysterious Regal, his staff clutched in his hands. Not much was known to Ryn'ntar of Regal, but he knew that this man was a force to be reckned with.

Coenwulf, the big man with the strange accent charged in aswell. With him Temaland charged towards the massive beast.

Faeron and his leigion of elves stayed the foulness at the gates of Mt Hiradul, their shields and swords flashed in perfect synchoronization. The orcs pushed against the shields of the tall elves, who pushed back, fighting with every ounce of strength their immortal bodies had.

In the red sky outside, lightning flashed and great hunks of rock fell from the sky and crashed into the charred ground in the moutain ranges. Hundreds, no thousands of rocks, the very earth trembled with mighty tremors.

The battle raged inside the mountain fortress of the Demon Giant. One hour, two hours, three. Years of back and forth fighting with the leigions of darkness had all come to this single battle, the only way to destroy the demon giant. So, the combined might of warriors from near and far, triumphed.

As the demon giant fell to the ground, it's very will to continue broken, as wel as it's body, many lives were extinguished. For as the Demon Giant fell to his knees, he used the last of his great will to cause Mount Hiradul to errupt upwards, bellowing black smoke into the sky.

The heroes ran from the mountain, all but one. Ryn'ntar Toro'eth. To this very day, the remains of the Ranger Ryn'ntar Toro'eth are encased, as the Demon Giant was before, in thick polished obsidian. He had acheived the final honor of the Du'ellofar, the one Lady T'omarowee had invisioned from the moment he had entered her city.

________________________________________________________________________

Many Years Later​

The opulent convoy of Duke Gerald Eff'ngham rolled it's way southward, between the mountains and through the valleys that marked the ending of Tiran and the beginning of it's neighbor, Southland. The inhabitants here were strange, nomdadic people who travelled with the game of their lands. They loved the land, worshipped it, almost as if it were the god of the church. To Duke Gerald Eff'ngham they were disgusting creatures, barely humans, but certainly nothing to be ashamed of exploiting.​

Behind him, the ranks of bronze skinned chattel labored in chains, to follow the convoy of wagons, the dust of the wagons the only thing in their mouths. The Demon Giant was dead, but in ome human beings, the evil lived on, for there was no peace on earth. No quarter given to some innocents. No peace.​

No one knows exactly what happened to the duke, but what is known is that he was never seen or heard from again. Something must be done. The murder of King Eff'ngham's nephew Gerald could not go unanswered and so Tiran answered, with spear and shield and the horns of war.​

No quarter was given. No peace since the day Duke Gerald Eff'ngham's head was smashed into a rock, his convoy destroyed and the slaves freed. The horns of war have sounded, the line in the sand drawn and the fighting has begun. Pick your side. Stop the war? Or continue it? The fate of Tiran of Southland and of the entire world rests in the hands of heroes now. You decide.​

_______________________________________________________________________​
Rules!​
  1. No god modding. You cannot control anyone else's character.​
  2. NPC characters such as The King, Father Abbot and The Demon Giant are playable by all, but cannot be your main character.​
  3. Realistic names, these are important. Having Trouble? Here's a name generator for you to use. http://rinkworks.com/namegen/​
  4. Characters can be on opposing sides, but players cannot fight each other's characters, take it out on the NPCs dammit!​

Character Sheet Time.

Name:
Age:
Hometown:
Country:
Training:
Profession:
Education:
Biography:​
 
Last edited by a moderator:

DeletedUser

You got my name wrong. It was Témalad, not Temaland :razz:.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Name: Markef
Age: 30
Hometown: None
Country: Tiran (unofficial)
Training: 30 years of roughin' it.
Profession: Mercenary/bounty hunter
Education: Minimal
Biography: The (rumored illegitimate) son of Témalad, Markef lives very much the same way as his father did, living off the land and traveling about on foot. Also like his father, he is a mercenary who seldom asks payment, supporting himself by selling various objects he picks off his dead enemies. He now yearns to be a true warrior, and is eager to fight in the oncoming war, but is hesitant to fight the Southlanders, since they remind him of the people Témalad left behind more than half a century ago. He is perhaps the only one in Tiran who knows all of his father's secrets, including his past, and one of the few, if any, who speaks his father's native language.
 
Last edited by a moderator:

DeletedUser

Name: Faeron
Age: Unknown
Hometown: Feras
Country: Rwendia
Training: Elven training with the Bow and elven sword, Under Taenion the wise.
Profession: Archer
Education: Apprentice to Taenion the wise.
Biography: After the battle at Mt. Hiradul, Faeron and the other elves had returned to their forest Kingdom of Rwendia. For many years he lived in peace with the other elves. But it was not long before the country of Tiran was covered in blood once more. The elven Elders said that the the elves would take no part in this war. That was all that was said, but Faeron wanted to learn more. He got his bow, his elven sword and left the elven forests for Tiran.
 

DeletedUser

Name: Ryn'taer Toro'eth
Age: 20
Hometown: Terra'kn
Country: None
Training: Du'ellofar Ranger Training
Profession: Ranger
Education: No acceptable human education.
Biography:

As the soon to be heroes and the ranger Ryn'ntar Toro'eth rode forward, to the outskirts of the long burnt out city of Haunts, the girl Mia Forthen watched the mysterious one the others spoke of as a Ranger. Ryn'ntar sat straight in the saddle of a borrowed horse, his bow strung over his shoulder and his calloused hands gripping the pommel of his elven sword. He was handsome, the younger Mia thought, as she watched him disappear over a rise, the others in his company along with him.

Later that night, afater the wagon train had halted and began their work on the burnt out town, she approached the tall Ryn'ntar Toro'eth. They spoke for a long while, with each of his words, she became more enchanted with him, little did she know the true motives behind her feelings.Meanwhile, Lady T'omarowee clutched a gem stone to her breast, putting all of her mind's force into the thoughts and actions of the young Mia Forthen. That night, Mia came to Ryn'ntar, in the tent he had taken his own, to act out her passion.

Nine months later, Ryn'ntar Toro'eth was already encased in obsidian. The whole of Tiran was washed of the scourge of the Demon Giant. All of the heroes were scattered, living their own lives. And Mia Forthen was giving birth. She was fading fast, she had been living alone and her water had broken while she was alone. It was all part of the elven Lady T'omarrowee's plan for the babe she would birth. Just as the newborn Ryn'taer Toro'eth was born, Lady T'omarowee appeared, her glittering Gemstones working.

Mia Forthen died that night, either by natural birthing problems, or by elven intervention, none know, but Ryn'taer Toro'eth was saved. Unknown to all, but the Du'ellofar.

__________________________________________________________________________
 

Deleted User - 819397

(Woo! Sequel time! Just a note, it was an axe-lance, not a staff :))

Name: F'nor
Age: 32
Hometown: E'das
Country: Nar'in
Training: Trained with an axe-lance and shield combination
Profession: Blacksmith
Education: Homeschooled
Biography: F'nor is the supposed son of F'lar (better known as Regal in the legend), but although that fact is unproved he is certainly Regal's heir. Before Regal vanished for good, he gave a young F'nor his weapons he used to help Ryn'ntar take down the Demon Giant. After that, F'nor learned how to use the weapons, and when time started to wear on the oddly shaped weapon and the shield he took them to a blacksmith. Impressed by the man's skill with re-forging the pieces, F'nor became apprenticed to the man and when he became too old to take on the work F'nor took his place. F'nor enjoys the work, but he also has the feeling Regal is still alive, waiting for him to take up the mantle Regal once bore and to find him. Torn, he waits for a sign.
 

DeletedUser25825

Name: Kyolja

Age: 26

Hometown: Ryrochas

Country: Sharo'werin

Training: Tower of the Shadow Mages within the Charkash Mountain Range

Profession: Shadow Mage

Education: First Chosen of Archmage Ellira Yishel, The Scourge of Bethuz

Biography: Kyolja was the third born child of a family in Ryrochas in the far off country of Sharo'werin. The entire region was subject to the ruthless members of a secret sect of magic users referred to as The Shadow Mages. The Shadow Mages ruled the region through fear from examples made of the villages that failed to yield to their rule. When Kyolja was nine, she was offered as a ritual sacrifice to protect the entire village for one year from the attention of the Shadow Mages. She was taken to their stronghold, The Tower of the Shadow Mages. Most sacrifices were worked to death in service to their masters, however, Kyolja proved to possess the gift of magic wielding long before it usually manifested in others. The Archmage Ellira Yishel, better known as The Scourge of Bethuz, took personal interest in the anomaly that was Kyolja. Kyolja was apprenticed to Ellira and served her for thirteen years, proving herself time and again as one of the more powerful members. She proved herself to be a formidable mage the day she destroyed Ellira in a monumental magical battle. The reign of The Shadow Mages ended on a dismal day of winter when the villages banded their best fighters to rise up against their oppressive rulers, and converged on the tower to destroy it and wipe the scourge of the Shadow Mages from the face of the world. The sheer numbers of fighters and those done with oppression were barely enough to succeed in their crusade for freedom. The Shadow Mages were no more, save a very few who escaped into obscurity.

_________________________________________________

Kyolja was mounted upon a thin black mare in the center of a forest path, not moving and surrounded by six men with swords drawn. She was an average sized woman dressed in a mottled gray cloak with the hood drawn up and concealing all other features of her body save her lips and her chin, which was bone white with a purple stripe stained up the center of her chin and crossing across her lips. People of her region, which was very far from this part of the world, would know what she represented and avoid her. This was not that part of the world, and most had never even heard of where she was from. It was for this reason she found herself preyed upon by highway robbers.

"Get down from that horse little girl. Don't make us hurt you", a large burly man who reeked of cheap wine challenged her. She remained still in her saddle, gloved hands holding the reins and spoke, "You best move your enterprises elsewhere. To try and impede my progress is to imperil your continued existence", with a quiet, calm voice. This, of course, elicited guffaws from all of the outlaws before the leader snarled, "Take her." One of the men drew back on the string of his longbow and aimed the arrow at her as she turned her head slightly in the direction of the creak of the longbow.

The man loosed the arrow at her and she flicked her right hand in the direction of the projectile whistling through the air towards her. The arrow careened off as though striking a wall. The men looked at each other even as she bladed her right hand and slashed it through the air in the man's direction while hissing something inaudible. The archer screamed out in gurgling pain and terror as a gaping slash was rendered across his throat, which he clutched in a vain attempt to stop the blood spraying forth. The men looked at the woman, turned and began to flee down the path.

She remained still, with her covered head lowered, as the men fled from her presence. She started to whisper as she stood in her stirrups, before interlocking her fingers together. The running men all slammed headlong into an invisible wall of unseen force and slid down it into a pile of limbs and trembling bodies. She continued to whisper as she kept her fingers interlaced and pressed the base of her palms together as the men began standing and crying out in terror and blubbering cries for mercy as the leaves, branches and dirt surrounding them was stirred by the passing force as it closed around them. The men began beating at nothing as they tried to find an escape from her spell.

Kyolja continued whispering as she settled back down in her saddle and nudged her horse forward at a slow walk. The mens' pleas grew silent as she neared them, slowly dropping their clenched fists, and looking in awe at the diminutive appearing woman. She kept her head bowed, keeping her features concealed, as she rode passed them with her lips moving silently. She continued to ride as they began to cry out for release once again. Kyolja provided the ultimate release as she slapped the palms of her encircled hands together swiftly. She stopped speaking and took hold of the reins once again, ignoring the collected mass of broken limbs, blood and worse she left in her wake.
​
 
Last edited by a moderator:

Deleted User - 819397

F'nor was enduring a usual hard days work at the forge with his apprentice when a man came up with a letter for him. Blinking the sweat from his eyes he looked at the paper. The outside only gave his address...not even a name. Perplexed, he opened the paper and almost fell over. The letter consisted of only one sentence, but there was no doubt in F'nor's mind what it meant. "I await you in the east". F'nor felt a rush of excitement course through him. Perhaps he would finally meet Regal, the man who helped bring down the Demon Giant and gave him the weapon he had used. He had so many questions to ask the mysterious man, so he immediately got ready for the trip. A half hour later he was telling his apprentice to only accept small jobs while he was away. He then grabbed the steel axe-lance and shield and set out east.

A few days later he realized he was approaching the famed Mt Hiradul, where the final battle had taken place. He had never been this far away from his town, and seeing the mountain where history had been made was stunning for him. He was just a simple blacksmith who happened to have a piece of the history that was made within the depths of that mountain...it was all too odd. However, something about the legend was tickling F'nor's mind...something about the weapon he carried. It came to him in a flash; if one pounded the lance end of the weapon on the ground, a powerful shock-wave would emit. F'nor hesitated, then did as the legend said...and nothing happened. F'nor's heart sank...was all this some cruel joke, or did the reforging of the weapon take the power out of it? More determined then ever, F'nor continued on his way past the mountain. He soon entered a large forest that seemed to have no end. Stubbornly, F'nor kept going.

(If anyone wants to read the original Tiran Wars for a bit more context on the heros of the fight mentioned above, it's at http://forum.the-west.net/showthread.php?t=36645 )
 
Last edited by a moderator:

DeletedUser

Markef marched along, climbing over rocks and swinging around trees, making his way just as his father taught him to. He did not tire easily, and that was an excellent advantage at the moment, as he was now several days into his trek through the Hiradul mountains. He was not entirely sure why he was in those mountains to begin with. He believed that he wanted to see the historical landmark of Mount Hiradul, where Témalad and his compatriots had slain the Demon Giant years ago. He did not know what to expect, and as far as he knew, he was motivated only by a desire to see as much of the world as possible. "Good enough for me", he thought.

Coming to a stream running down the mountain, he decided to rest for a moment. Sitting upon a rock, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a bag. The bag contained some strips of meat from an elk he had slain several days ago packed in salt. He pulled out a strip, washed off the salt in the stream and took a bite out of it. He didn't mind the gamey flavor, truthfully, it seemed enhanced and refined by the salt.

Looking up from his position, he saw the peak of Mount Hiradul rising above all the others. Nature had done quite some work on the mountain, and although it obviously had it's top blown a matter of tears ago, it was on it's way to looking as it had before. Literally, it would never look exactly the same, however. It was probably over a day's hike from his current location, which he kept in mind as he took a sip from his canteen, refilled it in the stream and headed out into the wilderness, singing marching songs to himself.
 

DeletedUser

It was a cool day, in mid autumn, when Ryn'taer Toro'eth had been given word to return to Terra'kn. The ranger had been propped in the shade of a giant oak tree, it's limbs so old and wise that they twisted around each other in some places, when the diminutive shape of an elf appeared in the branches above. Ryn'taer recognized the voice immediatly as belonging to Serban, the elf whom had taught his father, the great Toro'eth, and then later on himself.

"Our lady requires your presence immediatly, Ryn'taer." Serban called from above.

"Hello, Serban, it is good to see you again after so long. Come and sit, let us have the midday meal, before we travel homeward." Ryn'taer sat up straight and stoked the small fire he had built.

"It is very urgent, young one, we cannot wait. Do you not realise what an honor this is? Our lady does not usually invite Rangers back home." Serban scolded, as he leapt from the tree and, using his small gossimer wings on his back, descended noiselessly to the ground "I do not even know yet, what our lady wants, but since she spoke of you directly, it must be important. So, let us be away, before I thrash you."

"Yes, Serban." Ryn'taer had always been saddened by the harsh nature of the elves towards humans, even those they turned into Rangers. Humans were harty creatures who were able to carry disease with them their entire lives, but the Du'ellofar were quite fragile creatures when it came to sickness, so they kept the humans at arms length. Ryn'taer always had suspicioned that the Du'ellofar genuinely did not like humans at all, but were controlling creatures and so they used a few Rangers to do their work across the lands.

The pair had travelled on foot, through the trees and valleys, across rivers and lakes and over mountaintops. They travelled many days, until they reached the steps of Terra'kn, where the Lady T'omarowee reigned over all Du'ellofar. Serban and Ryn'taer spoke little, but the days flew by, as the pair ran full tilt towards home, where their lady needed them.

However, Ryn'taer did not enter the city, for before he was able to return to his home, there was a blinding flash of emerald and Lady T'omarowee stood in front of the two. Serban dropped to his knees, as did Ryn'taer, bowing their heads to the thickly mossed ground. The lady of Terra'kn stood around three feet tall. Her perfectly toned body was wrapped in flowing robes that bellowed up around her. Her blonde hair was wrapped atop her head in an intricate weave. Her pale face and hourglass figure were beyond communication. Her voice, however was napoleonic and harsh, even when she was trying to praise.

"Ryn'taer Toro'eth, you have taken your time getting here. It does not please me to see your return in such a manner, however, it is time for you to fulfill your duty to our people. It has come to my attention that Tiran has began making slaves of the people of Southland and the wild tribes of that reigon revolted. Tiran responded with an immeasureable army of steel and armor, to put the rest of the country in chains. If they are allowed to do this, they will begin hunting down others to use as their chattel." T'omarowee stopped and shook her head, locks of golden hair tumbled over her face as she did so and she swept them back away from her emerald eyes.

"I understand my lady. What I do not understand is, the people do no thave an army. Are we not going to commit ourselves to this fight?" Ryn'taer responded, as he stood to his full height of six feet four inches.

"It was my belief that Serban taught you more about our ways then what you have shown here this day, Toro'eth. We will not fight with Tiran, we do not have the warriors, or the inclination. Not us, you, Ryn'taer. Go south and seek you the Rebelious factions of Southland, aid them in anyway you can, kill Tiran soldiers, destroy their settlements and rob their caravans, you cannot allow this atrocity to go unpunished. Have I made myself clear to you, Ryn'taer?"

"Yes, my lady." Ryn'taer replied

"Good. Serban will go with you, to help mentor you in the ways of the Southlanders and to enhance on your original training as well. I wish you all speed."

There was another brilliant flash and just as it had been before Serban had chanted his spell to make the city appear, there was now only forest remaining.

The pair turned and headed southward.

As the days grew colder and the trees began to die, Serban began his mentoring of Ryn'taer anew. Each morning, before setting out, Ryn'taer would find an isolated spot, where he would continue to hone his already sharp fighting abilities. Each night, Serban would speak of Southland, tell Ryn'taer of the proper way to approach a Southlander, the correct use of their language and how to sit properly at a meal and so the days slipped by.
 

Deleted User - 819397

F'nor entered a clearing. There was a small hut off to the right, so he started to head for it. Upon reaching the front though, he stopped. An older man was sitting on a stump that had been carved to take on a more chair-like form. Upon seeing F'nor, the old man broke into a large smile. "I wondered how long it would take you to get here." he said.

F'nor was rocked. The older man was Regal. "I'm sorry it took me so long..." he began, but Regal cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Do not apologize...you made better time than I expected. Now, bring forth the weapons I gave you all that time ago." F'nor did, and then blurted, "I tried to send a shock-wave out but nothing happened...when it was reforged I think the power went out of it." To his surprise, Regal laughed. "And do you not remember the legend clearly?...judging from my face you don't know what I mean. The blacksmith who fixed this thing, did he have any comments about it?" F'nor could only shake his head. "That's odd...I'd have thought any blacksmith nowadays would be unable to work with pure adamantine." F'nor almost fell over. His versions were hardened steel, but that meant... "Yes, I see you've figured it out." Regal smiled. "But when you gave them to me you said that they were the weapons you used to help destroy the Demon Giant!" Regal frowned. "Your memory is embellished. All I said to you was that those weapons were LIKE the ones I used that day."

F'nor started pacing, agitated. "But what was the point then, giving me a replica?" Regal smiled almost sadly. "I had to be sure if my son could wield the true one." was his response.

F'nor almost fell over. "So it's true...I really am your son. Why did Mother never say anything of this?" Regal shrugged. "I asked her not to. Think about it, had you grown up knowing you were the son of a legend, you would have had a massive ego...you would not be the man standing in front of me now...that's why I left...and because of the other reason..." F'nor saw an opportunity and pounced. "What other reason is this?" Regal winced, then smiled. "I suppose you deserve to know...let me tell you the true version of what occurred under that mountain."

It was terrifying, looking at the behemoth called the Demon Giant. My comrades and I were steadfast though, and we charged. Ryn'ntar led the charge, and I was right behind him. Oh, we fought for a long time...several hours at least. In the end though, we prevailed. As the Demon Giant fell for the last time, he sent a bolt of energy up into the mountain which triggered the well known event that blew the top off the mountain. It was pure chaos inside...rocks started falling everywhere. Ryn'ntar ordered all of us to go...although only half of our group ran...he ordered again, and everyone else ran but me. I ran up to him. "Ryn'ntar, what are you doing? We need to get out of here NOW!" I yelled. He looked to me with eyes that were full of uncertainty. "I have to see him die...it's the only way I'll be able to confirm the mission is over." he stated. "What? That's insane! The whole place is coming down! Even if our blows didn't kill him, rocks larger than his head entombing him will! Let's go!" Ryn'ntar then did something unexpected. He pulled out an odd pendant. "This is a stone that proves I am a human allowed to be among the Du'ellofar. Take it, and go to them if I do not make it out...tell them what I did." "Ryn'ntar...I'm not leaving without you." I declared adamantly. "You have no choice...as the official leader of this party I command you to go! I'll see you outside after the fireworks end." he ordered. Taken aback, I reluctantly turned to leave. "Very well, but promise me you'll leave when things get too dangerous to stay." Ryn'ntar was silent for a moment, then murmured "I promise...NOW GO!" As I ran, all hell broke loose. The cavern was collapsing. I turned around to see Ryn'ntar dodging boulders, unable to make forward progress...it almost seemed like he didn't want to make progress, but that couldn't have been true. I turned to to go and help him when several massive boulders fell in front of me, sealing the way I had come. I was forced to leave him in that cave...to die.

Regal looked up, tears in his eyes. "I became good friends with all of the heroes on our long journey, but Ryn'ntar was special...he had this aura about him that made it impossible to doubt his ability even had you not seen it. We started the journey as shaky allies...me without my memory, him not sure any of us could be trusted. By the end though, I considered him to be the brother I never had...ever since that day, I've always thought I might have been able to save him had I held back slightly...that's the other reason I left...I felt guilty...if I had been able to save him, why did I leave? This has tormented me for 40 long years...Regal trailed off into silence, and F'nor didn't think it would be prudent to say anything at this point, so they sat there, in silence...
 

DeletedUser13682

Name: Cassius Syntar
Age: 34
Hometown: Straton upon Carron
Country: Tiran
Training: 10 years as royal guard, 10 more years as officer training
Profession: Officer in Royal Guard, currently Companion (equivalent to Major, leads a company of 80 men)
Education: the best the guards can offer
Biography: Born to a family of minor royal importance, owning about 30 acres of land, worked on by 2 people, Cassius grew usually the same way a merchant in the city would, but sometimes as a farmer, working the fields along with his siblings. When he was 13, Cassius's parents sent him to the Guards, to learn how to be a guardsman, after he exhibited signs of interest. Cassius enjoyed the training, and became a foot soldier. Cassius showed promise as an officer after rallying men to the fight, after they broke ranks and fled. Getting reassigned to Royal Guard Officer Training School (RGOTS), Cassius spent 10 years working toward the command he has now, the 4th Guards Horse Company. Now, rumors have risen of a new evil, and Cassius has been sent along with the 4th Guards to find this evil, and stop it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Look at this mess! It's horrible!" A few men couldn't handle it any longer, and ran to puke their guts out. The scene was horrible, mens' bodies, crushed nearly beyond recognition, except for one man in the distance, he was mostly intact, except for a thin line of freshly clotted blood on his neck, about as thin as a paper. Nearby was an arrow, probably from the bow that was dropped next to the neck cut guy. "What do you think happened here, sir?" Asked one of the stronger stomached boys. "Well, son, that's not that hard to figure out. I'll show you." Cassius got off his horse, and walked over to the lone man's place. "See here, how the horse hooves are deeper, that's where this person stopped. The men, probably highway robbers, ordered the person to get off their horse. They refused, and that guy," Cassius pointed toward the neck wound guy, "let loose an arrow, with the intention of killing. The arrow is a few feet away from the horse hooves, it was deflected, but not by armor, there's no indication the head hit anything. It was magic. The guy who shot the arrow, he got his neck cut by magic, collapsed where he stood, dropping the bow in the process. The other men, seeing this, were scared, and ran.

"These men were stopped cold in their tracks, blood on the ground a few feet forward of their current position indicates that. The rider takes a few steps, and stops again." Cassius walks over to another place where horse hooves are deeper than usual. "The rider stops again, and crushes them to death. They felt it for a moment, that's the last thing they saw. Their pupils are dilated like nothing else. Pure horror. I'd be that scared too if my last memory was a person watching me get crushed, pure, unadulterated pain replacing every other feeling but fear itself. Horrible way to die. The horseprints go off to another area, toward that village. Comany! Mount! We're going to the village!" The company got on their horses, those still a little queasy puking as they rode, and the race was on toward the village. When they arrived, Cassius gave his orders. "Men, spread out. Everybody take a market stall or tavern or inn, any public place. Then look for private residences. Somebody must have seen a new person." The men rode off, searching for the mystery person. Cassius, as was his habit, looked first in a mug of beer at the nearest tavern.
 

DeletedUser

There was once a prosperous road leading from Rwendia to Tiran and the elves and humans traded freely and were often good friends, but human hearts are fickle and it was not long before they betrayed the elves, they thought themselves superior and beleived the elves would be easy targets. It was true that the elves were a peaceful race but when it came to war, they were not to be reckoned with. The humans slaughtered an Elven caravan which was unarmed and took many elves as prisoners... This infuriated the Elven Elders who ordered an Invasion of Tiran, it was not long before they proved themselves as a stronger force and marched on Tiran's capital, the elves did not slaughter as the humans did but only fight back when attacked. Their army marched into the heart of Tiran, killing anybody who tried to stop them. They marched straight to the castle where the King was hiding. The army of Tiran was assembled in the courtyard and there was a gruesome battle and many on both sides were killed before the army of Tiran finally gave up the fight and fled. The elven army marched up to the King who had accepted his fate and sat on the bed in a solemn silence. It was then the elven leader sent an arrow through the Kings heart, which was the elven punishment for betrayal. The elves destroyed all records of the war within Tiran and little is known of the war today, besides that which is kept by the elves in Awryndar which is a library consisting of the history of Rwendia and Tiran since the time the elves came from far away lands and settled here, it is also one of the last places in the world that knowledge of ancient magic is kept. Only the Eldest of the Elves are alowd in Awryndar. It is one of the most sacred places in Rwendia.

The numbers of Elves has decreased dramatically since then, and without knowing have began beleiving what they set out to destroy, A feeling of superiority
Also the humans have forgotten the lesson the had once learned and have returned to their ways of killing and war... but that is their nature and I fear it may never change .

I am beginning my quest to return peace and prosperity as well as trust between all races and hope these words will spark a change in the Elves, but I am unsure of who may come to acquire this parchment and hope it is not found by some fool who sees it unfit to keep something of such "insignificance"

Elmris
__________________________________________________

Faeron set out from Rwendia at a monotonous paced jog, although elves could run for very long distances they could not run forever and the way to Tiran was long and dangerous...
He was using an ancient road which nature had taken its hold upon, it was mossy and grass grew out of the cracks, in fact the road was barely visible through all the plants and moss, even muck in some places. It was once used for travel between Tiran and Rwendia, but that was before he was even born and Faeron had little knowledge of things that occurred before his time. He only knew that the Elves and humans had stopped trading and talk with each other after some sort of dispute between the two.

Faeron moved swiftly, and was nearing the first few villages of Tiran. Although he could have gotten here a little faster with a horse, he did not want to be seen, or heard for that matter, unless he showed himself. And he as many other elves, did not believe in using horses for their own use. Faeron entered the village in a brown cloak with a hood which kept his face in a shadow, it was late night and the moon was shining brightly. He strolled to the village tavern, where he bought a drink and sat alone in the corner of the buiding, listening with his keen hearing to what was said. Nothing was mentioned of the war until a large bearded man came into the pub, he told everyone of a Tiran caravan which had been slaughtered in the countryside. True or false Faeron could not tell, but the other men at the tavern started uttering insults to the Nomads and speaking of spies and how even the lowliest farmer was not safe now. A big, red haired man, a farmer by the look of him, pointed a finger at Faeron. He had drunken a few too many beers it seemed but now the others came up to Faeron and demanded he took off his hood. Faeron didn't want a confrontation with them, although he could handle them he did not want to draw attention... he was puzzling for something to say when the doors of the tavern were flung open, a tall man, maybe a high ranked soldier in the Tiran army walked into the room, he saw the commotion and and raised his hands to the village folk and said , "Don't worry, he's with me", he sat quietly next to Faeron and supped his beer, "I only did that not to start a fight you know"....
 
Last edited by a moderator:

DeletedUser25825

Versions of Kyolja's arrival in the village were easily located by the fanned out company of cavalry. Guards reported seeing a lone rider, the only traveler from that direction all day, travel from the same copse of woods the company had just come from. There was nothing much more to help description wise than; the rider was female, small, wearing a gray traveler's cloak, and riding a black horse. The guards relayed she'd asked about farrier services and directed her to the marketplace.

Soldiers of the cavalry that went to the marketplace to seek her out were directed to Wert, proprietor of the only farrier in the village. Wert brought the men to the back of the establishment and pointed out an all black mare contentedly chewing at a patch of roughage. Wert spoke of the horse with near awe in his voice as he described never having seen a horse quite like it. The cavalry examined the horse from outside the fence and noticed nothing out of the ordinary about it, other than it looked thinner than a horse should. Wert was adamant the the horse was unique, and they all dropped the subject for now.

Wert described his meeting with the woman as very brief. She'd asked to have the mare's shoes checked. When asked to pay in advance, she'd held out a handful of small gold and silver coins, while advising him to choose what he felt his services were worth. Wert chose a gold coin he was unfamiliar with. Wert stated surprise that she merely withdrew her hand back into her cloak after he'd chosen without so much as one complaint about what coin he'd chosen. It was an outrageous sum for checking shoes, which showed no wear. He showed the men a small gold disk with a sickle on one side, and an "S" struck on the opposite side, while advising it wasn't this area's coinage but gold was gold after all. When pressed about anything else, Wert described her about the same as the guards had. Small, wearing a gray cloak, concealed her face with a drawn up hood, and added her hands were bone white and all of her fingertips were stained purple past the first knuckle. Wert told them that she walked off towards the taverns.

Two of the cavalry located the tavern the rider was staying at. The keeper, Gavon, advised she'd paid for the night and one meal to be served to her room in a similar method as she had with Wert by holding out a handful of mixed gold and silver coins. Gavon, being a surprisingly honest man, chose two plain silver coins. Gavon described the woman as small, wearing a traveler's cloak with the hood drawn up, and having bone white skin with purple staining where he could see it on her hands and chin. Gavon provided the room number she was staying at when asked.
 

DeletedUser

The next day, Markef pulled himself over the last mountain, knowing that although he had spent almost all of his energy getting to this point, he wouldn't need much more. He found himself at the base of Mount Hiradul, and a wave of anticipation swept over him. At last, he had found the place where his father and his allies had slain the Demon Giant, and brought peace to Tiran, if short-lived peace.

He wound his way through boulders several times his size and chunks of sharp obsidian that could cut a man in two. Multiple times he nearly tripped and met his end on an obsidian blade, but he pressed on in spite of the danger. Soon, he saw something in the distance that excited him in a way he had never felt before. Unable to run through the wasteland, he made his way as quickly as possible. Finally, he made it to the base of the Demon Giant's remains.

The Demon Giant's flesh had rotted away years ago, leaving only a pile of dense, dry bones, some of which had been smashed as the body was pelted by volcanic rocks so may years ago. Markef recounted the story that his father had told: "Coenwulf and I charged up to him, and I took a good swing and jabbed my sword in him."
The next part of the story stood out to him: I couldn't pull it back out; it was stuck too hard in there. I know, that's what she said. Anyway, I just abandoned it and whipped out my axe".

"He just abandoned it". As he pondered that line, he noticed something shiny in the rubble. Moving a few rocks out of the way, he discovered it to be a large, durable sword, it's point lodged firmly inside a bone. With a great amount of effort, he tugged the sword out, and held it. It was amazingly light for a sword of it's size. He swung at the air with it, and it seemed to be generating momentum on it's own, and he was merely guiding it. He pulled out a strip of salted elk from his backpack, and tossed it into the air. With minimal effort, he sliced it in half with the sword.

It occurred to him that he was dealing with no ordinary sword. It may have been ordinary decades ago when his father buried it in the Demon Giant's flesh, but no more. Over the many years, as the Demon Giant's flesh decomposed, it's arcane energy remained, and some of it was absorbed by the sword. Markef grinned, for he was now holding an enchanted weapon with immense power. With no sheath available, he wrapped the sword in an extra shirt and strapped it to his backpack. He knew what had drawn him there, and that he had no further business there for the moment. Perhaps he would return one day, but he had no reason to stay, so he hoisted his backpack onto his back and headed back out.
 

DeletedUser

"Let us see if you have kept up on your fighting skills, young Toro'eth." Serban said, as the pair were fliting their way through a small clearing in the middle of a forest "The Southlanders take great pride in their tremendous bravery and skill upon the battlefield, you will have to be on your best performance all the time, if you are expected to gain influence in the south and help to overthrow the oppression of Tiran."

"Yes, my friend." Ryn'taer replied, as he came to a stop, from the long strided lope he and Serban had been at since before the rising of the sun. Ryn'taer was not tired, but the trip had slowly begun to chip away at his endurance, soon he feared he would have none left.

Serban looked as calm, collected and deadly as ever, standing ten yards away from his protege. Ryn'taer couldn't help but notice the foot long elven blade Serban clutched in his small fist, and held high above his head in a two handed grip. "This will be a first blood training, Ryn'taer and I shall not go easy on you, for you will find no mercy in Southland. Now defend yourself!"

Serban threw himself forward, propeling himself towards Ryn'taer faster than expected, by using his wings as thrusters. Ryn'taer was barely able to get his father's sword into a guard in time to parry the elf's savage thrust. As the two blades met sparks flew and peppered the ground about their feet. Ryn'taer moved the hilt of hs blade forward and let it slip past the tang of Serban's much smaller blade, he went for an attack to Serban's legs. Before he could even follow through with an attack, the Du'ellofar elf jumped straight up, doing a backflip over the blade of Ryn'taer. Though Ryn'taer had a height and weight advantage over the elf, he did not have nearly enough agility to catch the nimble elf off his guard. Each time Ryn'taer felt he was getting close to a strike, Serban would use his wings and hover above the ground for a few moments.

The pair battled back and forth for at least thirty minutes, before Ryn'taer found an opening and took advantage of it. Using his sword like a spear, Ryn'taer stabbed it forward, deliberatly wide of the elf, before bringing it straight across his body. The original goal of the attack was to smack the elf across the head with the flat of his blade and the Ranger had a moment of sheer joy, as he felt a satisfying thump of metal contacting flesh. Ryn'taer was then suprised to find that Serban had levitated with his wings once more and had caught his enemy's blade under his arm, between his ribs and his shoulder. The elf savagely pulled backwards on the blade and turned to the side and, as he had planned, the blade of Ryn'ntar was pulled straight out of Ryn'taer's grasp, before the pommel was applied to the young Ranger's forehead.

Ryn'taer's world exploded in white hot agony, as the jeweled pommel of his sword was torn from his grasp, Serban, rotating on his axis, used his gained momentum to smash the hilt of his enemy's own sword into his templ. Ryn'taer rocked sideways, black and white flashes exploded behind his eyes and he felt momentarilly dizzy, before he fell sideways. From the ground, he blinked involuntary tears of pain from his eyes, as he felt around for a way to pull himself to hsi feet, before he gave up and laid down.

Serban felt mightily disappointed, as he spun Ryn'ntar's blade around in his grasp, before tossing it to the ground, beside his unworthy son. Ryn'ntar would never have taken such a direct path in a fight like the one he had just sparred with Ryn'taer. It seemed Ryn'ntar's son was not of the same caliber, as his father was, but so help him Serban planned to make the boy as good. This boy would be his father's son, if it killed him in the proccess.

"You made multiple crucial mistakes, Ryn'taer. I am a smaller and more skilled attacker then you are and therfore commanded the field, your only way to defeat me would have been to get my sword into a position where I could not defend myself. That is what your father would have done, my boy." Serban crouched down, beside Ryn'taer "We will practice more of the sword dance, only this time it will be more intensive and a lot more painful. Now come, let us try again."

Ryn'taer regained his feet and the pair went about practicing once more.
 

DeletedUser13682

Time to drink. Well, not yet. First, somebody, an elf probably, was about to get into a fight with the elf. The elf seemed useful somehow, he didn't know why. Time to help. Cassius walked over to the table the elf was sitting at, grabbing a beer along the way, being a Guards officer has its perks, and sat down next to the elf, saying to the men, "Don't worry. He's with me." Now, anybody under the protection of even a Guards common soldier is instantly immune from all domestic violence, and this was no exception. The men walked away, and Cassius said to the elf. "I only did that not to start a fight you know. I might need you. I don't doubt that you have certain skills needed to help us. We're looking for an evil, if we don't stop it, the kingdom could be destroyed. I am unsure how you can help at the moment, but I have a feeling you can." Just then, a few Platooners (lieutenants) walked in with some news.

"Great news sir. The evil is in the village. Here's all the information we have. The evil is a woman, small in stature, wearing a gray cloak, skin as pale as noblewomen, and purple colored fingertips and chin. She comes from a foreign country, as indicated by these coins." The Platooner that was speaking tossed Cassius the coins, and contineud. "Her horse is a black mare, slightly thin, we have it outside currently, we've detained it, but the farrier says it is unique. The woman is staying in a room in the tavern down the road a little bit. Do you want us to detain her?" Cassius shook his head. "Not yet. I want to know more about her. She mercelessly killed those men, destroyed them more like it, in a tortuous death." Cassius handed the coins to the elf. "Anything you can tell us about the coins, or any of the other information my Platooners told me?"
 

DeletedUser

Faeron stared quietly at the coins, they were not like any he had ever seen. "I have never seen these coins before, but perhaps if you would tell me what you know of the south lands and their war between Tiran, I would help you" he said to Cassius. Cassius Considered for a moment and agreed. "You help me find the "witch" and I will tell you all I know as we go along" he said cautiously. "Good, so what now?" Faeron watched Cassius as he thought about it... "We shall capture her in the tavern she is staying in" he said slowly... And which tavern is that?
"The Silver Coin" said one of the platooners, "Good, heres what we do.....

It was a chill night, rain started to drip and soon it became a shower. Faeron and Cassius walked through the muddy streets into "The Silver Coin", they talked with the tavern keeper for a moment. "She was wearing a grey coat, I didn't really see her face but she's went up to her room for the night, anything else?" said the bar keeper in his deep voice, Cassius had gotten his men to keep the black mare under control in the stables so she could not escape on horse back. Faeron and Cassius walked slowly up the stairs, it was puring outside and the first sounds of thunder were booming in the skies, a flash of lightning and shouts from the stables... then the sounds of a horse galloping in muddy ground , but not away from the village but towards the tavern. In a split second Faeron knew, he dashed to the "witches" room, turned the handle, locked, he ran at it and broke the door down, she was at the window sill, hunched down, covered in a cloak. She looked back, her face was as paler than any Faeron had seen before and a sneer broke at her lips. Without warning a great force slammed into Faeron, sending him through the door he had just came from and slamming into the hallway wall, he glimpsed back for a second as she jumped from the window, Faeron didn't hear any sound of her landing but he heard Cassius shouting from the hallway, "THE HORSE!!!!". Faeron got up quickly and looked out the window, the hooded figure was galloping away on her horse having made amazing distance already, Faeron drew his bow, aimed for a second and let loose, his arrow sored through the sky, cutting through the wind and the rain, it closed in on its prey, hit the rider square in the back, or at least it looked like it. The arrow had dropped in mid air, inches away from the rider and fell harmlessly in the mud, another minute and she was out of sight, gone into the night. A gasp of shock came from Cassius, not at the brilliant shot but at the fact that it stopped in mid air.... he cursed to himself for letting her go and stormed down to the stables where Faeron heard shouting erupt from the Soldiers and the stable hands, blaming each other for the horse getting away. Faeron searched the room thoroughly before finding a silver coin alike the one Cassius had showed him. He stored it within his cloak, went down the stairs and left the village quietly. He had only learned a little from Cassius, and he would return the favor to him later, but this was more important. He had "borrowed" a small bag from the tavern and stored what he would need within it... he made good speed and set out in the direction the rider had left, using his keen senses and tracking skills to follow her tracks...
 

DeletedUser25825

Kyolja sat at a desk in her room, ignoring the murmurs from the folk gathered below in the tavern while she thought of things to come. Her ride had been long and taxing, and she needed rest, but first she had to determine a few things from her book. She sat with her bone white hands rested upon the open pages, before her thoughts returned to the highwaymen from earlier. The attack did not help matters, and would ultimately draw attention that she did not desire at this time. Ada the Crone had made it quite clear what she was meant to do, and Kyolja had long ago learned to fight one's fate given by the seer was useless. She sighed and cleared her mind of the Crone's words intending to focus on the book.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose as she detected a difference in the murmur from below. It had gone silent, and bespoke of something out of the ordinary occurring. She rose from the chair she was seated upon and moved to the door. She pressed her ear to the door and listened intently. The clamor of an incoming storm made it difficult, but she heard somebody ascending the stairs. Usually, this was not out of the norm and would not alarm her, but these two were trying very hard not to be heard. She whisked away from the doorway whispering, "Cocheta, I need you." She grabbed her cloak, which she'd hung over the back of the chair and pulled it on before raising the hood over her head. She grabbed her book and a purse of coins. She ignored the sound of one coin escaping and rolling off the desk and under the bed, as she stuffed both objects into an inner pocket of her cloak.

She tugged the window open as she heard her mare approaching through the storm. The inward rush of wind and mist from the downpour would usually have made her smile as it brushed across her face, but she heard the doorknob to her room twisting. She climbed onto the sill of the window as Cocheta stopped below. The door crashed open as it was bodily forced, and she turned her head slightly towards the intruder as he burst into the room and shouted. He would see nothing but a small smirk cross her stained lips, as everything else was concealed by her hood, before she whispered and swiped her hand through the air as if some noisome fly were buzzing around her and he found himself slammed backwards by an unseen force. She lept forward into the night. She raised her arms outward and slowly descended as though weightless onto the mare's bare back. She leaned forward as she grasped Cocheta's mane and spoke, "Run like the wind my friend." The mare whinnied and bolted off into the night.

She ignored the outcries of consternation as she fled into the storm and darkness. She made an almost ethereal sight as she galloped further away from the village, with her gray cloak flapping in the wind of the storm on a horse that moved faster than horses should. She continued forward and heard the distinct whistle of an arrow cutting through the night's air, unerringly headed in her direction. She maintained her grasp on Cocheta's mane with one hand as she flicked her other hand upward as she had done before, sending the arrow meant for her flittering away harmlessly. She grabbed hold of Cocheta's mane and continued to flee.

She rode hard for a few more minutes before sitting up and slowing Cocheta to a canter and finally to a walk. She leaned forward briefly to pat the mare's neck while thanking her. Her thoughts returned to the inn. She was being pursued, that much was obvious, but she was uncertain who was after her. She had many enemies, and it seemed that an elf was now on that list. The distance she had ridden by the time the arrow was loosed at her could only have been fired by the legendary accuracy of an elven hand. She idly wondered what she had done to deserve the attention, as she couldn't recall having personally offended any in recent times.

"Cocheta stop", she stated and the mare did so. She eased herself off the horse and stood silently, trying to hear anything on the raging wind of the storm that was now in full gale. She heard nothing and figured she was most likely in the forest she'd traveled through to reach the village she'd evicted herself from. She dragged her hand along the flank of the mare and murmured, "You must be thirsty from your flight. Find us some water Cocheta." The mare bobbed her head in the wind and moved off of the trail. Kyolja grabbed the mare's swishing tail as the horse walked off and followed. Soon they found a stream, and horse and mage both drank from the cool, babbling water. When Kyolja was sated, she sat and said, "Cocheta, this place is as good as any to stay the storm. Hopefully, the rain will throw off the peasants who seem displeased with our presence."

She searched out a stout tree and sat beside it. She wrapped herself more firmly in her cloak and waited.
 
Last edited by a moderator:

DeletedUser

Ryn'taer's sweat slick muscles stood out on his arms, chest and stomach, having been worked to a solid mass by the constant struggle between he and Serban. He held his sword high above his head, in a perfect high guard position. His arm muscles bulged, as he swung the sword around in a perfect arc, then used his momentum to carry him off his feet for a few moments, before his bare feet landed once again on the forest floor. The Ranger's body moved with perfect rythmn, the sword dance of the elves put Ryn'taer into a meditative state, where he was perfectly aware of all around him. Serban had began to force this practice upon his pupil again, the day after his victory in the meadow, just north of the capital of Tiran. Ryn'taer had been poorly disciplined then, his swordsmanship skills had fallen behind in the Ranger's mind, but now, almost ready to cross the border into Southland, the young Ranger was in perfect condition again, as he had been before he had left Terra'kn the first time. Each night, Ryn'taer melted back into the underbrush and disappeared for many hours, the cool night air the perfect time to practice the Elven sword dance, he would disappear to a clearing or glade, where he would completely disrobe and wait for the forest's soul to enter him. He would then go into the powerful elven sword dance, where his mind would retract into his body and his very soul would come to the forefront.

It was on one of these nights, when Serban left camp a few hours after Ryn'taer disappeared. The elf followed his protege into the forest, following not a sign or marking on the ground, but a very disturbance in the forest's heart. He found his human without any problem and watched, as the sword of his father, Ryn'ntar snaked out and back, cutting through the air with such force as to create a whistling sound. Serban watched and inside Ryn'taer he sensed a slow turning of thought and mind. In these states, a Ranger's very soul became the deciding force in their bodies and their minds were easily read, by the elves. Serban found Ryn'taer's thoughts and mind to be pure of thought and mission, without any motivations, but freedom, for all people.

Serban smiled, before he himself waas lost in the darkness and vegetation, returning to camp, to wait for Ryn'taer. He waited for many hours, before the Ranger came back to the camp and sat beside the fire, sweat having plastered his hair against his forehead.

The Du'ellofar elf's lips curved upwards in a genuine smile of accomplishment, as he inclined his body backwards and laced his hands behind his small head "It seems, my young ranger that you are ready to cross the border. Southland is a day's trek south of us, tomorrow, we will make camp in the foothills of Southland."

"Thank you, Serban." Ryn'taer replied, himself laying back aginst a tree and crossing his legs at the ankle "What are we to do, after we arrive in the south?"

"I will tell you on the road tomorrow, but we must be careful. I spoke to one of our Du'ellofar outrunners today and there have been reports of a mysterious human riding a horse. Our outrunner told us that she seems to be highly skilled in the use of magic, but he did not know if she used the gemstones of the Saint Eve'lyn monks. So we must be careful to not become this sorceror's latest victims."

"Yes, Serban." Ryn'taer closed his eyes and slipped back into sleep.
 

Deleted User - 819397

Regal looked up at F'nor. "In any case, you have proved yourself admirably capable in physical strength, skill with the axe-lance, and most importantly, you have a good heart." He stood up and walked into his hut, returning with a bundle of cloth. "I have therefore decided to give you the true weapon and shield I used to help take down the Demon Giant." F'nor took the bundle and unwrapped it. A perfectly forged axe-lance and shield lay in his hands, tinged slightly blue from the adamantine used to create them. He looked up at his father, tears in his eyes. "Are you sure I am worthy, Father?" Regal smiled. "I am positive, my son...all I ask is this. Do all in your power to stop this upcoming war. It MUST NOT continue...I have a feeling that if it does, our nation will cease to exist. Promise me you will do all you can to prevent this war." F'nor nodded. "Of course, Father." Regal looked off again. "Time cannot close all wounds. I still feel horrible about my leaving Ryn'ntar behind...were I younger, I would march forward in his name to stop this war...I owe it to him. As it is, I can only send the one who I feel will have the best chance to do what I myself cannot. You need to set out immediately tomorrow. I will provide funds for your journey...you need a horse, for one thing. However, tonight, let us break bread together as father and son."

A few hours later, F'nor stretched out on the floor. His mind was in turmoil...Regal truly was his father...he had always wondered, but to have his thoughts confirmed was shocking...he thought to the fact that he now had to help prevent the massive war that was ongoing even now from escalating further. He debated on ways to do this until he fell asleep.

In the morning he rose early, as was his usual routine since blacksmithing could be done at all hours, and it was never good to waste time. He noticed Regal wasn't up yet and went to the bedroom to tell him he was going to be off...however, upon reaching the bed, he knew that he wouldn't be telling Regal that...or anything...Regal was dead. F'nor went outside and dug a pit, gently putting Regal in it and refilling the hole. He then put a large stone over the slight mound. He wanted to engrave something on it, but didn't think anything he had would be practical. He then felt a forging tool in his pocket he had forgotten to leave with his apprentice...it was a tool used for fine work, and it would serve as an engraving tool as well. He wrote:

Here lies Regal
Hero of Tiran
Who helped bring down the Demon Giant
And was my father.

He then allowed himself 15 minutes to weep for his father who he had barely known. He then rose, and headed south.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Top