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Dusk in the Land of the Fading Stars- Clark's Story Hour
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<blockquote data-quote="clark411" data-source="post: 270604" data-attributes="member: 4768"><p><strong>Chapter 1</strong></p><p></p><p>It was the beginning of the cold season in the northern lands of House Leel, and as the sublime hues of the evening sky gave way to the dark gray of a winter’s night, snow began to fall. The stone highway that was blanketed with early day frosts was visible only by the knee-high wooden posts that marked the decimeters of the journey, and a lone man walked between them as his journey led him north.</p><p></p><p>His breath rose in mists that quickly vanished into the cold wind that slowly was beginning to grow as the snowclouds silently roiled high above the bleak fields of white. “Although I may have lost count, I think we’re nearly there.” Toned his voice from beneath the ice covered fur of the wintercloak that hid his face up to the bridge of his patrician nose. Peering out into the growing dark of the coming night, he saw a group of buildings that was clustered along side the row of road posts that stretched as far as he could see. “Good, despite the storm we’ve made good time. With any luck, there will be a bed there for us.” </p><p>Opening his cloak enough to see within, his gaze met the soft green glow of catseyes. The cat, warm beneath the cloak, extended its claws to strengthen it’s grip on the man’s arm. Wincing slightly, the man nodded and closed the cloak to keep the cold out. “Sometimes Rove, I want to just drop you in a snowbank. You should treat me a little better—there are far more snowbanks in these parts.” Without a response from beneath his cloak, the man smiled, and continued down along the road and towards the tavern.</p><p> </p><p>----------------------------------------------------------------------------------</p><p></p><p></p><p>The crisp, pained cry of the wooden stool took the form of a series of cracking noises as an ox of a man shifted his weight to lean his fists on the tavern’s bar. His cloak doing little to conceal his size or the massive sword that was strapped across his back, Graddock would have been sitting alone if not for his companion Kamal. Feeling the snap of cold across the back of his neck, the dark-skinned Khamal’s eyes turned to look towards the door. <em>Longsword beneath his cloak</em>, he noted silently before returning to his drink.</p><p></p><p>The man chose the only available seat in the house, sitting by the large man with the sword strapped across his back. “Bartender—a glass of brandy and a bowl of milk please.” He asked, taking from his coin purse three Settorins, more than enough to excuse the presence of the black cat he softly placed on the table before the bowl. Sipping his brandy, he turned to see the large man staring intently at Rove. “Is he bothering you, ser?”</p><p></p><p>The large man shook his head, “No, I just have never seen a black one before.” He turned back to his drink.</p><p></p><p>“Fair enough.” The cloaked man nodded, pulling his hood down from his face as it began to drip melted frost. “I am Dalen, and this is Rove. We’ve traveled from Illuvia.”</p><p></p><p>“Graddock.”</p><p></p><p>“Well met.” A moment of uncomfortable silence between the two was interrupted as an armored man wearing a bear cloak put his arm between them.</p><p></p><p>“Bartender, two more for us!” he said, before returning to his table.</p><p></p><p>“He seemed dressed for a fight. Do you know who he is?” Dalen quietly said to Graddock.</p><p></p><p>The ox grunted. “That bear cloak is the symbol of House Leel. He’s a Man-at-Arms of some sort.”</p><p></p><p>“I see. You both seem fairly well armed as well. Could I ask what you do?”</p><p></p><p>The dark-skinned Khamal leaned forward to meet Dalen’s gaze. “We’re bounty hunters. Mercenaries. Headsmen. You name it.” He placed a short chain of long, rusted, three pronged hooks from his belt and placed them on the table. “Graddock, remind me later to replace these ones. Looks like dead wildmen fight us even when they are nothing more than bounty-heads on our hooks.”</p><p></p><p>“The blood of Wildmen is harsher than acid.” Grunted the ox.</p><p> </p><p>Recalling his lessons, Dalen nodded. “’Blood will always triumph over steel,’ it is said, ‘and Man shall always reign so long as-‘”</p><p> </p><p>“We are born of the blood of our fathers, and not of their steel.’” Khamal finished. “I have heard this before.” He nodded.</p><p></p><p>Dalen nodded, and finished his brandy. Rove looked at him silently, and pawed softly at his hand.</p><p></p><p>----------------------------------------------------------------------------------</p><p></p><p></p><p>The darkness of the forests to the west of the tavern was pierced by the rapid motions of torchlight moving amongst the weighed down boughs of snow-baring trees. Twelve riders armed for battle sped out and onto the silent night highway, passing a lone horseman who kept to the foilage of the woods as they moved southward. Anton, leaning downward to speak to his horse, waited until they were gone before he spoke.</p><p> </p><p>“That was uncommon.”</p><p> </p><p>Pausing to think a moment longer, he pulled the reigns of the horse to move out of the forest and onto the open road.</p><p> </p><p>Far beyond, he watched as the twelve horsemen reached the crest of the hill, and continued southward. When he was convinced none would see him follow, he pushed his horse into a gallop along the winter road.</p><p></p><p>----------------------------------------------------------------------------------</p><p></p><p> </p><p>Dalen sat listening to Khamal and Graddock tell their stories of the North and the Wildmen, contentedly absorbing the information in case it could become relevant in the future. Like any learned in the arcane, Dalen was more than used to learning about accomplishment, failure, and the will to succeed despite the dangers of the unknown. He smiled at the parts of their stories that contained fights, noting that although their stories were perhaps more simplistic than those of the arcanists he had been taught, they had far more exciting parts to their tales.</p><p> </p><p>“So, you hunt the Wildmen because they’re a danger to the city then?” he asked.</p><p> </p><p>Khamal, putting flagon of mead down, nodded. “Yes. Well, frankly it’s more about the—” he paused as Graddock, facing the window behind him, put a hand on his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“Torches.”</p><p> </p><p>Khamal and Delan turned in unison to look out of the windows of the tavern. Amidst the reflections of dancing, fiddlers, candles and a softly crackling fireplace, the night air beyond the tavern was illuminated by armored men whose steel glittered with torchlight. Amidst the dancing ghosts that wavered across the window pane, they stood there motioning to each other, and barking muted orders. Below the frenzied pitch of fiddle and dancing feet that kept off the cold, Graddock and Khamal heard the solid thump of the tavern doors being barred.</p><p> </p><p>Rising to their feet, the two headsmen unsheathed their weapons at the bar, along with their cloaked friend. The sounds of merriment shattered along with the windows as thrown torches skittered across the dusty floorboards. Scimitar in hand, Khamal ran full force at the window, diving through it and out into the bitter cold of the night air. Rising quickly from the snow, he saw four of the horsemen pointing their swords at him.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="clark411, post: 270604, member: 4768"] [b]Chapter 1[/b] It was the beginning of the cold season in the northern lands of House Leel, and as the sublime hues of the evening sky gave way to the dark gray of a winter’s night, snow began to fall. The stone highway that was blanketed with early day frosts was visible only by the knee-high wooden posts that marked the decimeters of the journey, and a lone man walked between them as his journey led him north. His breath rose in mists that quickly vanished into the cold wind that slowly was beginning to grow as the snowclouds silently roiled high above the bleak fields of white. “Although I may have lost count, I think we’re nearly there.” Toned his voice from beneath the ice covered fur of the wintercloak that hid his face up to the bridge of his patrician nose. Peering out into the growing dark of the coming night, he saw a group of buildings that was clustered along side the row of road posts that stretched as far as he could see. “Good, despite the storm we’ve made good time. With any luck, there will be a bed there for us.” Opening his cloak enough to see within, his gaze met the soft green glow of catseyes. The cat, warm beneath the cloak, extended its claws to strengthen it’s grip on the man’s arm. Wincing slightly, the man nodded and closed the cloak to keep the cold out. “Sometimes Rove, I want to just drop you in a snowbank. You should treat me a little better—there are far more snowbanks in these parts.” Without a response from beneath his cloak, the man smiled, and continued down along the road and towards the tavern. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The crisp, pained cry of the wooden stool took the form of a series of cracking noises as an ox of a man shifted his weight to lean his fists on the tavern’s bar. His cloak doing little to conceal his size or the massive sword that was strapped across his back, Graddock would have been sitting alone if not for his companion Kamal. Feeling the snap of cold across the back of his neck, the dark-skinned Khamal’s eyes turned to look towards the door. [I]Longsword beneath his cloak[/I], he noted silently before returning to his drink. The man chose the only available seat in the house, sitting by the large man with the sword strapped across his back. “Bartender—a glass of brandy and a bowl of milk please.” He asked, taking from his coin purse three Settorins, more than enough to excuse the presence of the black cat he softly placed on the table before the bowl. Sipping his brandy, he turned to see the large man staring intently at Rove. “Is he bothering you, ser?” The large man shook his head, “No, I just have never seen a black one before.” He turned back to his drink. “Fair enough.” The cloaked man nodded, pulling his hood down from his face as it began to drip melted frost. “I am Dalen, and this is Rove. We’ve traveled from Illuvia.” “Graddock.” “Well met.” A moment of uncomfortable silence between the two was interrupted as an armored man wearing a bear cloak put his arm between them. “Bartender, two more for us!” he said, before returning to his table. “He seemed dressed for a fight. Do you know who he is?” Dalen quietly said to Graddock. The ox grunted. “That bear cloak is the symbol of House Leel. He’s a Man-at-Arms of some sort.” “I see. You both seem fairly well armed as well. Could I ask what you do?” The dark-skinned Khamal leaned forward to meet Dalen’s gaze. “We’re bounty hunters. Mercenaries. Headsmen. You name it.” He placed a short chain of long, rusted, three pronged hooks from his belt and placed them on the table. “Graddock, remind me later to replace these ones. Looks like dead wildmen fight us even when they are nothing more than bounty-heads on our hooks.” “The blood of Wildmen is harsher than acid.” Grunted the ox. Recalling his lessons, Dalen nodded. “’Blood will always triumph over steel,’ it is said, ‘and Man shall always reign so long as-‘” “We are born of the blood of our fathers, and not of their steel.’” Khamal finished. “I have heard this before.” He nodded. Dalen nodded, and finished his brandy. Rove looked at him silently, and pawed softly at his hand. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The darkness of the forests to the west of the tavern was pierced by the rapid motions of torchlight moving amongst the weighed down boughs of snow-baring trees. Twelve riders armed for battle sped out and onto the silent night highway, passing a lone horseman who kept to the foilage of the woods as they moved southward. Anton, leaning downward to speak to his horse, waited until they were gone before he spoke. “That was uncommon.” Pausing to think a moment longer, he pulled the reigns of the horse to move out of the forest and onto the open road. Far beyond, he watched as the twelve horsemen reached the crest of the hill, and continued southward. When he was convinced none would see him follow, he pushed his horse into a gallop along the winter road. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dalen sat listening to Khamal and Graddock tell their stories of the North and the Wildmen, contentedly absorbing the information in case it could become relevant in the future. Like any learned in the arcane, Dalen was more than used to learning about accomplishment, failure, and the will to succeed despite the dangers of the unknown. He smiled at the parts of their stories that contained fights, noting that although their stories were perhaps more simplistic than those of the arcanists he had been taught, they had far more exciting parts to their tales. “So, you hunt the Wildmen because they’re a danger to the city then?” he asked. Khamal, putting flagon of mead down, nodded. “Yes. Well, frankly it’s more about the—” he paused as Graddock, facing the window behind him, put a hand on his shoulder. “Torches.” Khamal and Delan turned in unison to look out of the windows of the tavern. Amidst the reflections of dancing, fiddlers, candles and a softly crackling fireplace, the night air beyond the tavern was illuminated by armored men whose steel glittered with torchlight. Amidst the dancing ghosts that wavered across the window pane, they stood there motioning to each other, and barking muted orders. Below the frenzied pitch of fiddle and dancing feet that kept off the cold, Graddock and Khamal heard the solid thump of the tavern doors being barred. Rising to their feet, the two headsmen unsheathed their weapons at the bar, along with their cloaked friend. The sounds of merriment shattered along with the windows as thrown torches skittered across the dusty floorboards. Scimitar in hand, Khamal ran full force at the window, diving through it and out into the bitter cold of the night air. Rising quickly from the snow, he saw four of the horsemen pointing their swords at him. [/QUOTE]
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