Te'alis' Story
Posted: Wed Apr 14, 2010 1:10 am
((Yes, I know it shifts between past tense and present. It's intentional.))
Chapter One: Dreaming of Death
Deep within a forest, in one of the many small islands dotting the Sea of Swords, a hunter stalks his prey. Moving from branch to branch upon the vibrant green canopy that obscures his form, he watches intently for movement.
Bellow him, upon the forest floor, his quarry rests for the day, hiding from the sun in the shadows of trees and crudely-made tents.
"Dhaerow never learn." the hunter thinks to himself.
This is no time for laughing at their misfortune though. From the tracks he'd found earlier he knew that there were at least two. Now he can confirm three. This will be quick and bloody work, but he is prepared.
His hands caress the smooth ash wood of an elven-made longbow and he knocks an arrow, taking aim at the ragged remnants of a piwafwi cloak fashioned into a "tent". With one fluid motion he lets fly his arrow and drops the bow to the ground, trusting in it's magic to protect it from harm. The sickening thud from the arrow's impact brings him satisfaction as he draws his dagger and leaps from the tree.He lands in a tangled mess with his next target. There is a syllable spoken of their bastardized elven tongue before the dagger steals the breath from the dying drow's lungs. He tucks into a roll and is on his feet, drawing his blades, but the last drow is already rising to his feet. This will end in a fight.
The long, thin, elven blades strike drow steel as the two meet in a flurry of graceful and deadly attacks. Both aim for a kill. There will be no second chance to regain the upper hand. A false move means certain death, he is sure of it. A spinning left from a drow longsword comes painfully close to it's mark and sends both fighters wide. He takes a moment to observe his ebon-skinned opponent as they withdraw. His posture, his grace, his weapons. They truly were elves once and something in them still is. It is like looking into a mirror. It only makes him him angrier. He attacks with reckless abandon, losing himself in the moment, feeding on his hate for the dhaerow and all the lives they've destroyed, most of all his. Then it happens. Steel strikes true, piercing elven flesh and digging deep, a solid hit. He looks into the eyes of the dying drow and those deep red eyes look back at him the same way. They've both won and they've both lost. He looks down to see their tangled hands and the blades deep within them; both of them.
The two dying elves collapse to the ground. The dhaerow threat is at an end, but it stares down at him, teeth gritted. Blood, gore and thicker things leak from his foe and mingle with his own, soaking the forest floor in a messy puddle of blood and leaves. As the light dims in those fiery red eyes, so does the light dim in the forest. His world goes dark. Those red eyes are the last thing he sees. A haunting reminder of the monster he defeated and the monster he was forced to become to do it.
He awoke with a start, decades later. The firelight danced off the sweat dotting his form. The wound ached and he unconsciously ran a finger along the savage scar on his chest left by the drow's weapon. He allowed himself one long sigh of relief as he looked down at her, his salvation, a soft cascade of golden-brown hair framing her beautiful elven features. He kissed her softly upon the head, but let her sleep. He had always admired that ability in her. To find peace and dreams. Not reverie, not nightmares but sleep. Instead he stepped away from the bed of skins they shared and walked to the door, gathering a cloak around his body and peering out into the night.
The grove was quiet, and safe, peaceful and still somehow wrong. This was not the place for him. He'd defended it for longer than most of it's residents had been alive and now saw it flourishing in an age of serenity. Try as he might, he would never be capable of living a life of peace. His lot in life, his truest calling, was protecting that life for others, not living it himself. He felt the pains of age now when he moved. He rolled his shoulder and stretched as he gazed out over his home, feeling how slow this state of calm had made him. He sighed.
He realized now what must be done. He looked to his trusty bow, hanging upon the wall of the small tree-home. She would see that it made it's way into the hands of the next defender. All he would need was coin for passage upon the next ship. He had no words for her, his darling. His Archdruid, his lover, his wife. He would never have the words. He wished he could keep her for himself and live their peaceful life forever but he knew it was a selfish thought and let it pass. He was needed elsewhere.
He set out then, without a word to anyone, and booked passage on a merchant ship bound for the coast. He stared for some time at the passenger manifest before finally scribbling an alias he would adopt on his travels. Te'alis Avondovail, a jumbled mix of letters and syllables from his name and hers. At least he would keep a piece of her.
Chapter One: Dreaming of Death
Deep within a forest, in one of the many small islands dotting the Sea of Swords, a hunter stalks his prey. Moving from branch to branch upon the vibrant green canopy that obscures his form, he watches intently for movement.
Bellow him, upon the forest floor, his quarry rests for the day, hiding from the sun in the shadows of trees and crudely-made tents.
"Dhaerow never learn." the hunter thinks to himself.
This is no time for laughing at their misfortune though. From the tracks he'd found earlier he knew that there were at least two. Now he can confirm three. This will be quick and bloody work, but he is prepared.
His hands caress the smooth ash wood of an elven-made longbow and he knocks an arrow, taking aim at the ragged remnants of a piwafwi cloak fashioned into a "tent". With one fluid motion he lets fly his arrow and drops the bow to the ground, trusting in it's magic to protect it from harm. The sickening thud from the arrow's impact brings him satisfaction as he draws his dagger and leaps from the tree.He lands in a tangled mess with his next target. There is a syllable spoken of their bastardized elven tongue before the dagger steals the breath from the dying drow's lungs. He tucks into a roll and is on his feet, drawing his blades, but the last drow is already rising to his feet. This will end in a fight.
The long, thin, elven blades strike drow steel as the two meet in a flurry of graceful and deadly attacks. Both aim for a kill. There will be no second chance to regain the upper hand. A false move means certain death, he is sure of it. A spinning left from a drow longsword comes painfully close to it's mark and sends both fighters wide. He takes a moment to observe his ebon-skinned opponent as they withdraw. His posture, his grace, his weapons. They truly were elves once and something in them still is. It is like looking into a mirror. It only makes him him angrier. He attacks with reckless abandon, losing himself in the moment, feeding on his hate for the dhaerow and all the lives they've destroyed, most of all his. Then it happens. Steel strikes true, piercing elven flesh and digging deep, a solid hit. He looks into the eyes of the dying drow and those deep red eyes look back at him the same way. They've both won and they've both lost. He looks down to see their tangled hands and the blades deep within them; both of them.
The two dying elves collapse to the ground. The dhaerow threat is at an end, but it stares down at him, teeth gritted. Blood, gore and thicker things leak from his foe and mingle with his own, soaking the forest floor in a messy puddle of blood and leaves. As the light dims in those fiery red eyes, so does the light dim in the forest. His world goes dark. Those red eyes are the last thing he sees. A haunting reminder of the monster he defeated and the monster he was forced to become to do it.
He awoke with a start, decades later. The firelight danced off the sweat dotting his form. The wound ached and he unconsciously ran a finger along the savage scar on his chest left by the drow's weapon. He allowed himself one long sigh of relief as he looked down at her, his salvation, a soft cascade of golden-brown hair framing her beautiful elven features. He kissed her softly upon the head, but let her sleep. He had always admired that ability in her. To find peace and dreams. Not reverie, not nightmares but sleep. Instead he stepped away from the bed of skins they shared and walked to the door, gathering a cloak around his body and peering out into the night.
The grove was quiet, and safe, peaceful and still somehow wrong. This was not the place for him. He'd defended it for longer than most of it's residents had been alive and now saw it flourishing in an age of serenity. Try as he might, he would never be capable of living a life of peace. His lot in life, his truest calling, was protecting that life for others, not living it himself. He felt the pains of age now when he moved. He rolled his shoulder and stretched as he gazed out over his home, feeling how slow this state of calm had made him. He sighed.
He realized now what must be done. He looked to his trusty bow, hanging upon the wall of the small tree-home. She would see that it made it's way into the hands of the next defender. All he would need was coin for passage upon the next ship. He had no words for her, his darling. His Archdruid, his lover, his wife. He would never have the words. He wished he could keep her for himself and live their peaceful life forever but he knew it was a selfish thought and let it pass. He was needed elsewhere.
He set out then, without a word to anyone, and booked passage on a merchant ship bound for the coast. He stared for some time at the passenger manifest before finally scribbling an alias he would adopt on his travels. Te'alis Avondovail, a jumbled mix of letters and syllables from his name and hers. At least he would keep a piece of her.