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Story Hour
Of Fey and Shadow - A Midnight story hour (Restored 14 May 2006)
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<blockquote data-quote="Emiricol" data-source="post: 1920715" data-attributes="member: 469"><p><span style="font-size: 26px">Prolog Part II - The Snow Ghosts</span></p><p> The scene below was horriffic. The smell of blood hit Thrayn's nose, but he did not allow it to distract him from the task at hand. The reserve Orcs, seeing the fight nearly over, broke from their cover to converge on the scene of the ambush - the better to make sure they received their portion of the loot.</p><p> </p><p> Beside him, Rongald whispered to the elf. He still had a tone of awe to his voice whenever he spoke to the snow ghost, Thrayn. The Elf's recent problems lessened his status in the eyes of the superstitious Rongald not at all. <span style="color: #ffff00">"We are still clear, Sir. The orcs haven't seen us,"</span> he said to Thrayn in the abrupt, gutteral tones of the Norther tongue.</p><p> </p><p> Below, two Orcs came to fists over what looked like a small furry animal, but was in fact the scalp of one of the Men. Only the first scalp, for the dead Men would all soon be so abused. The remaining Orcs, who numbered now a mere five, gathered around the other two in a circle and hooted, cheering on their favorite and laughing, while dying Men and Orc alike bled out nearby. The distraction of the fight would last only a few moments, certainly, and then the mutilation of the dead would begin in earnest.</p><p> </p><p> Rongald's words barely registered in Thrayn's mind. Within sight these servants of the Shadow reveled in the success of their vile work. To him they looked no different than the many orcs he had already lain asunder during this past century of pain and dragging war. And so, to him, they were already dead. Dead faces laughing while other dead faces quarrelled. They just didn't know it yet.</p><p> </p><p> Crouched in the shade of the thick bole of a snow coated tree, Thrayn turned to Rongald, his eyes dimly reflecting in the dark, and finally replied. <span style="color: #ffff00">"And they never will see us. Move in when they start to scream."</span></p><p> </p><p> Thrayn stood and began the short litany that would direct the arcane powers he called forth. His hands worked in a small circle and came together, his fingers twisting into an uncomfortable knot. <span style="color: #00ff00">"Mutos corporus augaminus destrie theles margat finestus."</span> </p><p> </p><p> The words hummed with power and a small breeze blew back against his face, fanning his hair in a most unnatural fashion as he spoke. Below, the orcs began to notice that something was wrong. They erupted into cries of terror and confusion as, even at this distance, it was clear what was wrong. Their eyes, usually black, had turned to the color of new snow, white and glowing in the moonlight, while droplets of blood rolled out of savaged tearducts in place of tears. Rongald darted from hiding, charging down into the clearing, his spear held ready.</p><p> </p><p> Thrayn took a few breaths. He could feel the energy sap from him as the curse took form in black, orken flesh. He drew his fighting knives and charged down after Rongald.</p><p> </p><p> Ahead of him, Rongald's charge came to an abrupt stop as his spear buried itself in the back of a flailing Orc. The victim's confused cries turned to a squeal of agony, but were cut off with a sickening wet sound as Rongald pulled freed his spear. Thrayn took a dancing step left around Rongald and immediately had to duck as a stumbling Orc swung blindly with his sword. The clumsy Orc might as well have been standing still for all the good it did him. Thrayn sprung up as the beast twisted from the force of his own swing, and buried his long knife to the intricate hilt, directly between two of the orc's ribs with one quick thrust. As he pulled the blade free, black blood frothed at the wound and splattered against his face. The orc tried to cry out but managed only a wet gurgle, dropping his sword and clutching at the rent in his side as his lungs began to fill with blood, before falling over into the snow and struggling no more.</p><p> </p><p> Thrayn spun around and stepped directly into the path of another stumbling thug. He looked into the orc's white, clouded eyes and plunged the clean blade of a second knife into his belly, the shudder of a bursting organ travelling up the blade as blood from the wound gushed out over Thrayn's hand. He pulled back on the knife swiftly as he backstepped to avoid the orc's stumbling fall to it's knees. It clutched at the wound in vain, blood was pouring too quickly from the wound for any hope of survival.</p><p> </p><p> Thrayn looked around the clearing, still in a ready crouch and eager for more. The only movement he saw, however, was Rongald, breath heaving, dragging his spear from the throat of a downed orc. In the weakening light of the fire he could see steam rising from the open wounds of the dead and dying around him, and from the still-hot blood on his own blades. It was several moments before he realized that his breath was coming just as hard and ragged as Rongalds from the exertion of the fight - even as one-sided as this one was.</p><p> </p><p> Gathering himself, Thrayn carefully wiped the intricately engraved Erunsil knives on the cloak of one of the dead bandits, ignoring his bloodied face and hand for the moment, as well as the man's arm - which lay some feet away. He sheathed the knives and looked about clearing at the carnage. They had been dead long before he had arrived, it just needed some convincing.</p><p> </p><p> Thrayn began walking amongst the dead, turning them over with his foot one at a time searching for any surviving Orcs to slay or finish off. As he passed the fire, he grabbed a leg from the still roasting hare and began to eat what was once the meal of a man now dead, and circled the camp. They had been bandits after all, and would have stolen from any who they encountered, Shadow or not, so the liberation of a rabbit was of minor concern if any. Two enemies dead, bandit and Orc, the viler of the two at my hands.</p><p> </p><p> Still circling, the sound of a muffled moan reached his ears. He darted a look to Rongald, who was seated across the camp from him still regaining his breath and covering his mouth with the hem of his shirt. Thrayn sniffed, and noted idly that the air did indeed stink of orc offal. He decided against chastising the Dorn for his weakness.</p><p> </p><p> The moan came again. This time Thrayn saw the source, a tangle of bodies; an orc, spear broken off and protruding from it's chest, lay atop of two humans. He drew a knife and walked over to the slain orc to kick the corpse aside. The first body beneath was obviously not the source of the moan, as one of the cleaver-swords of the Orcs was stuck deep in the man's skull, bisecting it almost to the neck.</p><p> </p><p> Thrayn knelt down and flipped that body over, too. It snagged on something, and just then the man beneath him wailed and curled in agony, his hands reaching toward his legs. Thrayn looked down and saw the source of the man's pain. A javelin was thrust through his shin, bone and all, and had become entwined with the other man's leg. <span style="color: #ffff00">"Rongald, come over here."</span></p><p> </p><p> Rongald nodded, quickly coming to the Fey's side and waiting expectantly. Rongald always looked like he'd follow the Elf to the Obsidian Tower and back if he asked him to, but of course this wasn't so. Rongald himself was a bandit, but had found some purpose to his meaningless life fighting the Shadow - especially since he had a Fey, and a Sorcerer at that, to back him up. Purpose in life and a full belly were a powerful enticement in these times.</p><p> </p><p> At a glance from Thrayn, Rongald looked down at the Man, who was pale with shock and loss of blood. Now that he was free of the two corpses, the wounded took off his simple belt and made a makeshift tourniquet. The whole affair lasted just a few seconds.</p><p> </p><p> <span style="color: #ffff00">"So, the bandits had a survivor, Sir. Shall I kill him for you?"</span></p><p> </p><p> At this the wounded man stopped what he was doing and looked up. He glanced at his axe, but it lay far enough away that he hesitated to try for it. Instead, he spoke in a deep voice using the Erenlander tongue but heavily accented in Norther. <span style="color: #ffbf00">"I am Dornhild. Should not my fight with the Orcs make me your ally? At least not your enemy."</span> Then Dornhild glanced from Rongald to Thrayn and back. And froze. His eyes slowly tracked from Rongald back again to Thrayn, eyes wide and pupils consuming the blue of his eyes. <span style="color: #ffbf00">"Y... y... you..."</span></p><p> </p><p> Rongold translated quickly for the Elf. Dornhild shot a look back at Rongald, then locked eyes with the Fey, exclaiming in his native tongue. <span style="color: #ffff00">"What in Shadow's Grasp is this?"</span> His breath was heavy with near panic. <span style="color: #ffff00">"I beg you, kill me if you must but do not eat my soul! Let me die fighting!"</span> He whispered the last, as his voice cracked in raw fear.</p><p> </p><p> Thrayn held his had up to Rongald, indicating that he should hold. Eat his soul. These pathetic, ignorant Norther and their superstitions. Snow ghosts. Eaters of souls. Stealer of children. He sighed softly. <span style="color: #ffff00">"What are you doing in the woods of the Erunsil, Northman?"</span> Thrayn's voice was quiet, his words spoken steadily.</p><p> </p><p> The man paused for a moment, perhaps considering whether to talk, but his situation was dire. The fear on his face showed his decision was a foregone conclusion, so Thrayn waited patiently but did not have to wait long. <span style="color: #ffff00">"We had raided the Shadow's forces near the curst ruins of Cale, but had to flee deep into these foul Plains. Eris Aman is tricky and we lost our position, and thought to avoid wandering into the hell of the bogs in the south of Eris Aman by skirting the Veradeen woods."</span> He swallowed uncomfortably then, and cringed very slightly. It was an unnatural look for a Dorn warrior, from everything Thrayn had seen of their kind.</p><p> </p><p> Thrayn stood and looked about the abbattoire that remained of the campsite. He gave a significant look to Rongald and headed toward one of the two carts at the edge of the firelight, throwing open the flap at the back and looking about the contents. Within lay over a dozen of the Orcs' heavy vardach blades, as well as sack upon sack of flour and grains labelled in Orc, jar upon jar of various preserved foods, and a barrel of fresh water, as well as horse shoes, bits of leather and other gear for the group of bandits. He looked back at the two humans, pausing for a moment to consider his situation. He then went to the second cart, likewise mostly stolen food, giving credence to Dornhild's claim that they had been raiding caravans of Izraedor. Calen had long since fallen to ghosts and worse, defeated in the early days of the Last War by treachery, as so many places of Man were in those horrible final days of freedom.</p><p> </p><p> Satisfied of the man's veracity as well as the rich find, he returned to the two Men at an even pace. Light from the fire backlit him as he squatted down near Dornhild's legs, shining off his white hair like a halo. <span style="color: #ffff00">"Rongald, hold him tight."</span></p><p> </p><p> Rongald grunted, eyes lingering a bit too long on the wagons, and then knelt down to pin the man's shoulders to the ground. <span style="color: #ffff00">"Don't move or it'll be rough on you, Norther,"</span> said Rongald as if ignorant of his own Dorn heritage. He said Norther as a curse, his tone bitter. Dornhild grunted and nodded in a single, curt motion, then set his teeth in anticipation.</p><p> </p><p> <span style="color: #ffff00">"I don't know your intentions, *brother*,"</span> he said to Rongald, <span style="color: #ffff00">"but I beg of you not to let him hurt me..."</span></p><p> </p><p> Thrayn dropped his knees down on either side of the javelin jutting through the man's shin. Setting his shoulders, he gripped the haft near the wound and pulled it free in a single quick motion. The javeln resisted but then gave way, coming free with a sudden jerk. Dornhild, to his credit, made not a whimper but the muscles standing out on his jaws gave away the pain he was in. Blood began to ooze once more from the wound, though his tourniquet kept this from becoming too bad.</p><p> </p><p> Drawing his knife, he cut the man's pant leg off and tore it into strips as quickly as his hands could manage. He bound the wound tightly, wrapping it in several layers of the makeshift bandage. Reaching up to the tourniquet, he loosened it and yanked the belt free. He nodded to Rongald who released his grip with a somewhat perplexed look.</p><p> </p><p> The wound seeped, but as Rongald let him go Dornhild nodded in apparent relief and sat up, putting pressure on the wound until it stopped seeping. <span style="color: #ffff00">"I'm hoping this doesn't mean you are just sparing me long enough to fatten me up. My papa used to tell tales of the witches of the woods stealing children to either eat or to grow up into slave soldiers to fight shadow, bringing the Orcs to whatever village they came from to burn it down in retribution."</span> His tone showed he was unconvinced of the tale, but nonetheless here was a real, life Elf, a creature of legend in modern times. <span style="color: #ffff00">"I didn't believe the Fey existed still in the world of Men and Orc,"</span> he concluded simply.</p><p> </p><p> Thrayn tossed the belt onto Dornhild's heaving chest. <span style="color: #ffff00">"You were a fool to make such a visible camp in the borderlands. This place is rife with bandits, Orcs and worse. But, you are a fool who will live a while longer."</span> He stood and walked over to the fire and grabbed what rabbit remained, returning to Dornhild and tossing the meat near the Dorn, within his reach. <span style="color: #ffff00">"Eat. Meat to feed your blood. You may suffer tonight, but the morning will be all the better for having lived."</span></p><p> </p><p> Dornhild glanced at the meat, eyeing it hungrily. <span style="color: #ffff00">"Living is better than not living,"</span> he said finally, voice shaking slightly in a mixture of pain and no small amount of shock at talking to an Elf. <span style="color: #ffff00">"I thank you for sparing my life, if in fact you have."</span> He took a hesitant bite of the rabbit, as though the touch of the Fey might have tainted it somehow with magic or worse.</p><p> </p><p> A feeling of sympathy came over Thrayn as he looked at the wounded Northman eating now hungrily of the rabbit. He nodded to him and stood, and had to stop himself from making some gesture that might betray his feelings. Sympathy had no home in the Plains of Eris Aman. Thrayn started to walk back toward the fire and called over his shoulder. <span style="color: #ffff00">"Rongald. Help me gather up the bodies. Add anything of worth to the carts. Burn the rest."</span></p><p> </p><p> Rongald commanded Bornhild, <span style="color: #ffff00">"We burn the bandits first. They don't stink as badly, so we do them first and Orc second. Less time spent in burning Orc fumes that way."</span> He punctuated this by spitting upon one of the dead orcs. Bornhild merely nodded.</p><p> </p><p> The busy work of burning the corpses went off quickly, bodies piled high with cold efficiency atop a mound of wood and lit up without remorse. Dornhild spared a tear for his companions, now all dead, but said nothing; no words of remembrance marked the passing of those men. Then came the orcs, and the odor indeed was something to remember. It seemed to burn one's nose, and weak men had been known to retch at the smell.</p><p> </p><p> Gathering all the gear, Thrayn nodded after a final look around. <span style="color: #ffff00">"Rongald, you and the bandit take a wagon each and head west with all due speed. Worse things than orcs and bandits plague these curst plains. If anything should happen, keep going west - never south. As you value your soul, go not south."</span> Thrayn followed with stealth, alert for signs of ambush.</p><p> </p><p> With that, and a parting glance over his shoulder at the life he knew now burning in the night, Bornhild was taken with Rongald and the Elf Thrayn west, into the lands of the Veradeen, the home of the Erunsil - the snow ghosts.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Emiricol, post: 1920715, member: 469"] [size=12]Prolog Part II - The Snow Ghosts[/size] The scene below was horriffic. The smell of blood hit Thrayn's nose, but he did not allow it to distract him from the task at hand. The reserve Orcs, seeing the fight nearly over, broke from their cover to converge on the scene of the ambush - the better to make sure they received their portion of the loot. Beside him, Rongald whispered to the elf. He still had a tone of awe to his voice whenever he spoke to the snow ghost, Thrayn. The Elf's recent problems lessened his status in the eyes of the superstitious Rongald not at all. [color=#ffff00]"We are still clear, Sir. The orcs haven't seen us,"[/color] he said to Thrayn in the abrupt, gutteral tones of the Norther tongue. Below, two Orcs came to fists over what looked like a small furry animal, but was in fact the scalp of one of the Men. Only the first scalp, for the dead Men would all soon be so abused. The remaining Orcs, who numbered now a mere five, gathered around the other two in a circle and hooted, cheering on their favorite and laughing, while dying Men and Orc alike bled out nearby. The distraction of the fight would last only a few moments, certainly, and then the mutilation of the dead would begin in earnest. Rongald's words barely registered in Thrayn's mind. Within sight these servants of the Shadow reveled in the success of their vile work. To him they looked no different than the many orcs he had already lain asunder during this past century of pain and dragging war. And so, to him, they were already dead. Dead faces laughing while other dead faces quarrelled. They just didn't know it yet. Crouched in the shade of the thick bole of a snow coated tree, Thrayn turned to Rongald, his eyes dimly reflecting in the dark, and finally replied. [color=#ffff00]"And they never will see us. Move in when they start to scream."[/color] Thrayn stood and began the short litany that would direct the arcane powers he called forth. His hands worked in a small circle and came together, his fingers twisting into an uncomfortable knot. [color=#00ff00]"Mutos corporus augaminus destrie theles margat finestus."[/color] The words hummed with power and a small breeze blew back against his face, fanning his hair in a most unnatural fashion as he spoke. Below, the orcs began to notice that something was wrong. They erupted into cries of terror and confusion as, even at this distance, it was clear what was wrong. Their eyes, usually black, had turned to the color of new snow, white and glowing in the moonlight, while droplets of blood rolled out of savaged tearducts in place of tears. Rongald darted from hiding, charging down into the clearing, his spear held ready. Thrayn took a few breaths. He could feel the energy sap from him as the curse took form in black, orken flesh. He drew his fighting knives and charged down after Rongald. Ahead of him, Rongald's charge came to an abrupt stop as his spear buried itself in the back of a flailing Orc. The victim's confused cries turned to a squeal of agony, but were cut off with a sickening wet sound as Rongald pulled freed his spear. Thrayn took a dancing step left around Rongald and immediately had to duck as a stumbling Orc swung blindly with his sword. The clumsy Orc might as well have been standing still for all the good it did him. Thrayn sprung up as the beast twisted from the force of his own swing, and buried his long knife to the intricate hilt, directly between two of the orc's ribs with one quick thrust. As he pulled the blade free, black blood frothed at the wound and splattered against his face. The orc tried to cry out but managed only a wet gurgle, dropping his sword and clutching at the rent in his side as his lungs began to fill with blood, before falling over into the snow and struggling no more. Thrayn spun around and stepped directly into the path of another stumbling thug. He looked into the orc's white, clouded eyes and plunged the clean blade of a second knife into his belly, the shudder of a bursting organ travelling up the blade as blood from the wound gushed out over Thrayn's hand. He pulled back on the knife swiftly as he backstepped to avoid the orc's stumbling fall to it's knees. It clutched at the wound in vain, blood was pouring too quickly from the wound for any hope of survival. Thrayn looked around the clearing, still in a ready crouch and eager for more. The only movement he saw, however, was Rongald, breath heaving, dragging his spear from the throat of a downed orc. In the weakening light of the fire he could see steam rising from the open wounds of the dead and dying around him, and from the still-hot blood on his own blades. It was several moments before he realized that his breath was coming just as hard and ragged as Rongalds from the exertion of the fight - even as one-sided as this one was. Gathering himself, Thrayn carefully wiped the intricately engraved Erunsil knives on the cloak of one of the dead bandits, ignoring his bloodied face and hand for the moment, as well as the man's arm - which lay some feet away. He sheathed the knives and looked about clearing at the carnage. They had been dead long before he had arrived, it just needed some convincing. Thrayn began walking amongst the dead, turning them over with his foot one at a time searching for any surviving Orcs to slay or finish off. As he passed the fire, he grabbed a leg from the still roasting hare and began to eat what was once the meal of a man now dead, and circled the camp. They had been bandits after all, and would have stolen from any who they encountered, Shadow or not, so the liberation of a rabbit was of minor concern if any. Two enemies dead, bandit and Orc, the viler of the two at my hands. Still circling, the sound of a muffled moan reached his ears. He darted a look to Rongald, who was seated across the camp from him still regaining his breath and covering his mouth with the hem of his shirt. Thrayn sniffed, and noted idly that the air did indeed stink of orc offal. He decided against chastising the Dorn for his weakness. The moan came again. This time Thrayn saw the source, a tangle of bodies; an orc, spear broken off and protruding from it's chest, lay atop of two humans. He drew a knife and walked over to the slain orc to kick the corpse aside. The first body beneath was obviously not the source of the moan, as one of the cleaver-swords of the Orcs was stuck deep in the man's skull, bisecting it almost to the neck. Thrayn knelt down and flipped that body over, too. It snagged on something, and just then the man beneath him wailed and curled in agony, his hands reaching toward his legs. Thrayn looked down and saw the source of the man's pain. A javelin was thrust through his shin, bone and all, and had become entwined with the other man's leg. [color=#ffff00]"Rongald, come over here."[/color] Rongald nodded, quickly coming to the Fey's side and waiting expectantly. Rongald always looked like he'd follow the Elf to the Obsidian Tower and back if he asked him to, but of course this wasn't so. Rongald himself was a bandit, but had found some purpose to his meaningless life fighting the Shadow - especially since he had a Fey, and a Sorcerer at that, to back him up. Purpose in life and a full belly were a powerful enticement in these times. At a glance from Thrayn, Rongald looked down at the Man, who was pale with shock and loss of blood. Now that he was free of the two corpses, the wounded took off his simple belt and made a makeshift tourniquet. The whole affair lasted just a few seconds. [color=#ffff00]"So, the bandits had a survivor, Sir. Shall I kill him for you?"[/color] At this the wounded man stopped what he was doing and looked up. He glanced at his axe, but it lay far enough away that he hesitated to try for it. Instead, he spoke in a deep voice using the Erenlander tongue but heavily accented in Norther. [color=#ffbf00]"I am Dornhild. Should not my fight with the Orcs make me your ally? At least not your enemy."[/color] Then Dornhild glanced from Rongald to Thrayn and back. And froze. His eyes slowly tracked from Rongald back again to Thrayn, eyes wide and pupils consuming the blue of his eyes. [color=#ffbf00]"Y... y... you..."[/color] Rongold translated quickly for the Elf. Dornhild shot a look back at Rongald, then locked eyes with the Fey, exclaiming in his native tongue. [color=#ffff00]"What in Shadow's Grasp is this?"[/color] His breath was heavy with near panic. [color=#ffff00]"I beg you, kill me if you must but do not eat my soul! Let me die fighting!"[/color] He whispered the last, as his voice cracked in raw fear. Thrayn held his had up to Rongald, indicating that he should hold. Eat his soul. These pathetic, ignorant Norther and their superstitions. Snow ghosts. Eaters of souls. Stealer of children. He sighed softly. [color=#ffff00]"What are you doing in the woods of the Erunsil, Northman?"[/color] Thrayn's voice was quiet, his words spoken steadily. The man paused for a moment, perhaps considering whether to talk, but his situation was dire. The fear on his face showed his decision was a foregone conclusion, so Thrayn waited patiently but did not have to wait long. [color=#ffff00]"We had raided the Shadow's forces near the curst ruins of Cale, but had to flee deep into these foul Plains. Eris Aman is tricky and we lost our position, and thought to avoid wandering into the hell of the bogs in the south of Eris Aman by skirting the Veradeen woods."[/color] He swallowed uncomfortably then, and cringed very slightly. It was an unnatural look for a Dorn warrior, from everything Thrayn had seen of their kind. Thrayn stood and looked about the abbattoire that remained of the campsite. He gave a significant look to Rongald and headed toward one of the two carts at the edge of the firelight, throwing open the flap at the back and looking about the contents. Within lay over a dozen of the Orcs' heavy vardach blades, as well as sack upon sack of flour and grains labelled in Orc, jar upon jar of various preserved foods, and a barrel of fresh water, as well as horse shoes, bits of leather and other gear for the group of bandits. He looked back at the two humans, pausing for a moment to consider his situation. He then went to the second cart, likewise mostly stolen food, giving credence to Dornhild's claim that they had been raiding caravans of Izraedor. Calen had long since fallen to ghosts and worse, defeated in the early days of the Last War by treachery, as so many places of Man were in those horrible final days of freedom. Satisfied of the man's veracity as well as the rich find, he returned to the two Men at an even pace. Light from the fire backlit him as he squatted down near Dornhild's legs, shining off his white hair like a halo. [color=#ffff00]"Rongald, hold him tight."[/color] Rongald grunted, eyes lingering a bit too long on the wagons, and then knelt down to pin the man's shoulders to the ground. [color=#ffff00]"Don't move or it'll be rough on you, Norther,"[/color] said Rongald as if ignorant of his own Dorn heritage. He said Norther as a curse, his tone bitter. Dornhild grunted and nodded in a single, curt motion, then set his teeth in anticipation. [color=#ffff00]"I don't know your intentions, *brother*,"[/color] he said to Rongald, [color=#ffff00]"but I beg of you not to let him hurt me..."[/color] Thrayn dropped his knees down on either side of the javelin jutting through the man's shin. Setting his shoulders, he gripped the haft near the wound and pulled it free in a single quick motion. The javeln resisted but then gave way, coming free with a sudden jerk. Dornhild, to his credit, made not a whimper but the muscles standing out on his jaws gave away the pain he was in. Blood began to ooze once more from the wound, though his tourniquet kept this from becoming too bad. Drawing his knife, he cut the man's pant leg off and tore it into strips as quickly as his hands could manage. He bound the wound tightly, wrapping it in several layers of the makeshift bandage. Reaching up to the tourniquet, he loosened it and yanked the belt free. He nodded to Rongald who released his grip with a somewhat perplexed look. The wound seeped, but as Rongald let him go Dornhild nodded in apparent relief and sat up, putting pressure on the wound until it stopped seeping. [color=#ffff00]"I'm hoping this doesn't mean you are just sparing me long enough to fatten me up. My papa used to tell tales of the witches of the woods stealing children to either eat or to grow up into slave soldiers to fight shadow, bringing the Orcs to whatever village they came from to burn it down in retribution."[/color] His tone showed he was unconvinced of the tale, but nonetheless here was a real, life Elf, a creature of legend in modern times. [color=#ffff00]"I didn't believe the Fey existed still in the world of Men and Orc,"[/color] he concluded simply. Thrayn tossed the belt onto Dornhild's heaving chest. [color=#ffff00]"You were a fool to make such a visible camp in the borderlands. This place is rife with bandits, Orcs and worse. But, you are a fool who will live a while longer."[/color] He stood and walked over to the fire and grabbed what rabbit remained, returning to Dornhild and tossing the meat near the Dorn, within his reach. [color=#ffff00]"Eat. Meat to feed your blood. You may suffer tonight, but the morning will be all the better for having lived."[/color] Dornhild glanced at the meat, eyeing it hungrily. [color=#ffff00]"Living is better than not living,"[/color] he said finally, voice shaking slightly in a mixture of pain and no small amount of shock at talking to an Elf. [color=#ffff00]"I thank you for sparing my life, if in fact you have."[/color] He took a hesitant bite of the rabbit, as though the touch of the Fey might have tainted it somehow with magic or worse. A feeling of sympathy came over Thrayn as he looked at the wounded Northman eating now hungrily of the rabbit. He nodded to him and stood, and had to stop himself from making some gesture that might betray his feelings. Sympathy had no home in the Plains of Eris Aman. Thrayn started to walk back toward the fire and called over his shoulder. [color=#ffff00]"Rongald. Help me gather up the bodies. Add anything of worth to the carts. Burn the rest."[/color] Rongald commanded Bornhild, [color=#ffff00]"We burn the bandits first. They don't stink as badly, so we do them first and Orc second. Less time spent in burning Orc fumes that way."[/color] He punctuated this by spitting upon one of the dead orcs. Bornhild merely nodded. The busy work of burning the corpses went off quickly, bodies piled high with cold efficiency atop a mound of wood and lit up without remorse. Dornhild spared a tear for his companions, now all dead, but said nothing; no words of remembrance marked the passing of those men. Then came the orcs, and the odor indeed was something to remember. It seemed to burn one's nose, and weak men had been known to retch at the smell. Gathering all the gear, Thrayn nodded after a final look around. [color=#ffff00]"Rongald, you and the bandit take a wagon each and head west with all due speed. Worse things than orcs and bandits plague these curst plains. If anything should happen, keep going west - never south. As you value your soul, go not south."[/color] Thrayn followed with stealth, alert for signs of ambush. With that, and a parting glance over his shoulder at the life he knew now burning in the night, Bornhild was taken with Rongald and the Elf Thrayn west, into the lands of the Veradeen, the home of the Erunsil - the snow ghosts. [/QUOTE]
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Of Fey and Shadow - A Midnight story hour (Restored 14 May 2006)
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