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Sir Gerard d'Montfort - In his own words (a tale of Anka Seth)- Updated Nov 11th
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<blockquote data-quote="Haraash Saan" data-source="post: 4108816" data-attributes="member: 46615"><p><strong>Chapter 9 – My oh my, what a comfy bed</strong></p><p></p><p>The morning sun revealed the desolation that surrounded us. The rats had moved on but not before having eaten every living thing, including the farmers we had seen during our flight. Broken brush and dirt was all that remained.</p><p></p><p>No one had been significantly injured during our recent flight, however, because he was carrying Holton, the extra weight had caused Strav to stumble as he charged through the doorway. </p><p></p><p>As the dust settled an argument began.</p><p></p><p>“It’s not natural!” fumed Argonne as he pointed to Holton’s body. “He’s dead. He should be buried or burnt, not oiled and fawned over.”</p><p></p><p>“You don’t understand, you simpleton!” Spat back Mortec. “I am trying to save his soul. A lost soul is terrible thing. Imagine its pain, wandering forever with no peace.”</p><p></p><p>“He’s dead.” Argonne repeated as he reached into his pack. After a moment his flint was in hand. “Morgan surely you of all people would understand. Gather some dry brush and we’ll burn the corpse.”</p><p></p><p>“No.” commanded Strav as he stepped between the body and Argonne. “Mortec says he can release its soul. And so he will.”</p><p></p><p>Argonne took a step toward Strav, who tensed, hand moving to the hilt of his rapier.</p><p></p><p> “Um, who’s that?” queried Morgan casually, completely diffusing the tension.</p><p></p><p>My gaze followed his finger to the lintel set above the great doorway of the temple. A man sat cross-legged upon it. His hair was wild, knotted and unkempt in contradiction to his serene and peaceful face. A long bone pipe rested casually between his lips, its bowl clasped between thumb and forefinger. Somewhat disconcerting to me was that he appeared not at all concerned that we were now aware of him.</p><p></p><p>Always the spokesman I introduced myself, “Hello good sir. I am Gerard d’Mowbray and these are my companions. May I ask what it is that you are doing perched atop that lintel?</p><p></p><p>Our mysterious watcher pulled the pipe from his mouth and smiled as he replied. “Merely contemplating my surrounds.” He drew a long breath on his pipe.</p><p></p><p>“And how long is it that you have been sitting there contemplating?” I asked sounding friendlier than I felt.</p><p></p><p>Another inhalation followed by a moments pause, “Most of the morning I would think. It seemed a nice place to relax.” Said the stranger.</p><p></p><p>With that he leapt off his roost and landed nimbly in a crouch. Standing up, he said “My name is Zhontell.”</p><p></p><p>Our concerns regarding Holton were ignored as Zhontell explained that he had been travelling the peninsula of Yorath for some weeks, wandering with no purpose or destination. </p><p></p><p>As Zhontell spoke I realised that he was no man, but an elf. His face was angular, even more so than Stravarious’, but his skin was pale, not black. </p><p></p><p>His loose homespun tunic did not hide his large and toned muscles, unusual for an elf, and the reason I had initially taken him for a human. The ash staff he carried was the only sign of a weapon.</p><p></p><p>My initial suspicions faded, there was a calming air about him. He seemed a likeable fellow so at the conclusion of his story we invited him to join us on our journey to Halfast.</p><p></p><p>Such was our trust we allowed Zhontell to lead us across country to shorten our trip. Once again the travelling party has grown; first with dwarfs and now this odd elf. The mood was light and relief at escaping the Gerechian temple was obvious, but our initial boisterous conversation faded quickly. We were simply too tired to continue. </p><p></p><p>The elf led us to the ruins of the temple of Srcan where we had previously sought shelter from the rain more than a month ago whilst on our original journey to Yorath. </p><p></p><p>Seeing the ruins again caused me to remember the strange bone that I had found on our earlier visit and ignore my fatigue. After making camp I pulled it out of my pack and studied it intently. It was slightly curved at each end and there were unusual markings, very much like writing, on one side of it. My fingers traced gently over the inscription. I had never really taken time to study it before, not that I would have made much of it.</p><p></p><p>A shadow, flickering in the camp–fires light, loomed over my right shoulder. “May I have a look at that?” ask Zhontell.</p><p></p><p>“But of course.” I said as I handed it to him. “Can you read it?”</p><p></p><p>“Hmm? Yes.” said Zhontell as he looked it over, “The writing is in the language of the Fey. It says ‘Strong arm to the mistress of the strike.’ A saying usually attributed to the followers of Srcan.”</p><p></p><p> “So what is the bone for?” I asked, seeing an opportunity to build a rapport with our newest companion.</p><p></p><p>“Ah, I thought you knew. It is a bow. It simply needs a string and it will make a fine weapon.” he said.</p><p></p><p>I chuckled. Well that was one question answered. All this time I carried around some sort of holy weapon. </p><p></p><p>“May I have it?” asked Zhontell.</p><p></p><p>I had no need of it and I recognised another opportunity to learn more from our friend, so I agreed on the condition that he teach me the Fey language. He agreed, and so began my lessons in Fey.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Haraash Saan, post: 4108816, member: 46615"] [B]Chapter 9 – My oh my, what a comfy bed[/B] The morning sun revealed the desolation that surrounded us. The rats had moved on but not before having eaten every living thing, including the farmers we had seen during our flight. Broken brush and dirt was all that remained. No one had been significantly injured during our recent flight, however, because he was carrying Holton, the extra weight had caused Strav to stumble as he charged through the doorway. As the dust settled an argument began. “It’s not natural!” fumed Argonne as he pointed to Holton’s body. “He’s dead. He should be buried or burnt, not oiled and fawned over.” “You don’t understand, you simpleton!” Spat back Mortec. “I am trying to save his soul. A lost soul is terrible thing. Imagine its pain, wandering forever with no peace.” “He’s dead.” Argonne repeated as he reached into his pack. After a moment his flint was in hand. “Morgan surely you of all people would understand. Gather some dry brush and we’ll burn the corpse.” “No.” commanded Strav as he stepped between the body and Argonne. “Mortec says he can release its soul. And so he will.” Argonne took a step toward Strav, who tensed, hand moving to the hilt of his rapier. “Um, who’s that?” queried Morgan casually, completely diffusing the tension. My gaze followed his finger to the lintel set above the great doorway of the temple. A man sat cross-legged upon it. His hair was wild, knotted and unkempt in contradiction to his serene and peaceful face. A long bone pipe rested casually between his lips, its bowl clasped between thumb and forefinger. Somewhat disconcerting to me was that he appeared not at all concerned that we were now aware of him. Always the spokesman I introduced myself, “Hello good sir. I am Gerard d’Mowbray and these are my companions. May I ask what it is that you are doing perched atop that lintel? Our mysterious watcher pulled the pipe from his mouth and smiled as he replied. “Merely contemplating my surrounds.” He drew a long breath on his pipe. “And how long is it that you have been sitting there contemplating?” I asked sounding friendlier than I felt. Another inhalation followed by a moments pause, “Most of the morning I would think. It seemed a nice place to relax.” Said the stranger. With that he leapt off his roost and landed nimbly in a crouch. Standing up, he said “My name is Zhontell.” Our concerns regarding Holton were ignored as Zhontell explained that he had been travelling the peninsula of Yorath for some weeks, wandering with no purpose or destination. As Zhontell spoke I realised that he was no man, but an elf. His face was angular, even more so than Stravarious’, but his skin was pale, not black. His loose homespun tunic did not hide his large and toned muscles, unusual for an elf, and the reason I had initially taken him for a human. The ash staff he carried was the only sign of a weapon. My initial suspicions faded, there was a calming air about him. He seemed a likeable fellow so at the conclusion of his story we invited him to join us on our journey to Halfast. Such was our trust we allowed Zhontell to lead us across country to shorten our trip. Once again the travelling party has grown; first with dwarfs and now this odd elf. The mood was light and relief at escaping the Gerechian temple was obvious, but our initial boisterous conversation faded quickly. We were simply too tired to continue. The elf led us to the ruins of the temple of Srcan where we had previously sought shelter from the rain more than a month ago whilst on our original journey to Yorath. Seeing the ruins again caused me to remember the strange bone that I had found on our earlier visit and ignore my fatigue. After making camp I pulled it out of my pack and studied it intently. It was slightly curved at each end and there were unusual markings, very much like writing, on one side of it. My fingers traced gently over the inscription. I had never really taken time to study it before, not that I would have made much of it. A shadow, flickering in the camp–fires light, loomed over my right shoulder. “May I have a look at that?” ask Zhontell. “But of course.” I said as I handed it to him. “Can you read it?” “Hmm? Yes.” said Zhontell as he looked it over, “The writing is in the language of the Fey. It says ‘Strong arm to the mistress of the strike.’ A saying usually attributed to the followers of Srcan.” “So what is the bone for?” I asked, seeing an opportunity to build a rapport with our newest companion. “Ah, I thought you knew. It is a bow. It simply needs a string and it will make a fine weapon.” he said. I chuckled. Well that was one question answered. All this time I carried around some sort of holy weapon. “May I have it?” asked Zhontell. I had no need of it and I recognised another opportunity to learn more from our friend, so I agreed on the condition that he teach me the Fey language. He agreed, and so began my lessons in Fey. [/QUOTE]
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