Post by Tallaith on Oct 20, 2010 14:51:07 GMT -5
((Reserved for now for Adador's reply.))
Sunrise bled across the scabby heat-baked earth. The rolling jags of the Weather Hills that bordered the verdant green Far Chetwood were sparsely patched with tufts of blonde, sunbleached grass. Brave trees clumped together in crooked elbows of earth and stone, sheltering the wary and skitterish animals that lived in these dry hillsides. A few dark birds arched dusty wings to the morning sky, lurching into the already oppressive heat of the growing day.
On a rise overlooking Ost Alagos, a pact was ended. The merciless march of the sun overtook the shabby encampment and baked blood into the thirsty earth. A warrior fell to her knees beside the smoldering campfire, her face smashing into one of the stones that ringed it with a crunch of bone and cartilage that was not a sound a living body could make.
"Back to Naerost." The half-orc didn't bother to clean his bitter blade as he resheathed it at his hip.
Shadows passed through the knee-high grass, defying the growing dawn with their very existence.
The sun moved restlessly on, crawling towards it's noontime peak. The warrior did not move from her place by the fire, even when the embers finally ignited the strands of grizzled silver hair that peeked out of the woman's battered iron helm. The stink of singed flesh and burning hair kept the gore-crows at a distance for much of the morning, but as the sun began to slip lazily towards the western horizon, a few of the birds became brave and alighted near the corpse.
The same dawn had bloomed indifferently in Falathorn, where another sort of warrior was breaking another sort of pact.
Bethenn realized immediately where she was when she finally rose to the surface of murky dreams. The musk of woodsmoke, leather, and the oil used to keep plate armour free of rot clung to the fine sheets of the bed she was folded deeply into. As she slipped silently from the bed, appraising herself in the moment it took her to stand for any sort of hurt and feeling a brilliant rush of relief that all was well, Beth broke any promise she had made to this man in words or implications. If he was awake, she would kill him. If he slept, she would leave as a coward should, with all speed and no honour.
At the foot of the stairs of the odd elven house, the girl immediately realized that the heap of wool blankets before the fire was a sleeping man. His rhythmic breathing was soft and steady, so she allowed it to continue as she let herself out the door and into the grey dawn.
Beth put as much distance between herself and the man's house as she could without obviously running like a thief through the bright streets of the village. The elves seemed to spare her only the most token of passing glances, unquestioning and perhaps uncaring as the girl hustled to the town square. Her mask was gone, perhaps still behind the house she'd fled; now the girl pulled her dark hair over her face to conceal her features as well as she could.
Within ten minutes, Beth's business in the village square was done. She spent the day skulking like a hungry child with no pocket-money in a sweet shop between the confection houses and spun-sugar trees of the elven settlement. Her mind was reeling and her muscles throbbed with a ghost of a familiar pain, which through the course of the day grew at an almost indescernable rate. In three or four more days, the girl feared she would be seriously ill.
Dark fell in a soft silken sheet over the small village. No one had spoken to Beth and she had seen no sign of the man from last night, though she had made a point to circle in her prowling near his house every few hours. Too tightly-wound to sleep, Beth found a quiet place overlooking a shallow pool, tucked away in a soft curve of a hillside, to pass the night in thought.
Midnight brought scavengers to the warrior in Ost Alagos; wolf-dogs skulked in sorry orbits around the dead camp until they got the nerve to dart to the corpse for quick, investigative sniffs. Then nips. Finally, the bravest and the hungriest alike of the wolves fell to the serious work of dismantling thier armoured meal. By dawn, there would be almost nothing left of the warrior's remains to identify as being human.
Midnight in Falathorn was softer and immeasurably sweeter than the moon's presence in the Weather Hills. Though Bethenn sat with her feet in cool water, the scents of ever-blooming cherry and apple trees coursing through the breeze, the girl's thoughts turned back and back and back to the encampment at Ost Alagos. Her heart felt bruised as she tried again and again and again to drag her mind from the bony hillsides and peeling earth; the White Hands had infected her and she had never found a cure for both body and spirit.
The next morning brought obliteration to the old Warrior, her scraps of a lifetime of existence as breathing meat abused and scattered and torn and lost.
The next morning brought poetry to the young Warrior, her body aching and her existence as breathing meat finite and too brief.
Sunrise bled across the scabby heat-baked earth. The rolling jags of the Weather Hills that bordered the verdant green Far Chetwood were sparsely patched with tufts of blonde, sunbleached grass. Brave trees clumped together in crooked elbows of earth and stone, sheltering the wary and skitterish animals that lived in these dry hillsides. A few dark birds arched dusty wings to the morning sky, lurching into the already oppressive heat of the growing day.
On a rise overlooking Ost Alagos, a pact was ended. The merciless march of the sun overtook the shabby encampment and baked blood into the thirsty earth. A warrior fell to her knees beside the smoldering campfire, her face smashing into one of the stones that ringed it with a crunch of bone and cartilage that was not a sound a living body could make.
"Back to Naerost." The half-orc didn't bother to clean his bitter blade as he resheathed it at his hip.
Shadows passed through the knee-high grass, defying the growing dawn with their very existence.
The sun moved restlessly on, crawling towards it's noontime peak. The warrior did not move from her place by the fire, even when the embers finally ignited the strands of grizzled silver hair that peeked out of the woman's battered iron helm. The stink of singed flesh and burning hair kept the gore-crows at a distance for much of the morning, but as the sun began to slip lazily towards the western horizon, a few of the birds became brave and alighted near the corpse.
The same dawn had bloomed indifferently in Falathorn, where another sort of warrior was breaking another sort of pact.
Bethenn realized immediately where she was when she finally rose to the surface of murky dreams. The musk of woodsmoke, leather, and the oil used to keep plate armour free of rot clung to the fine sheets of the bed she was folded deeply into. As she slipped silently from the bed, appraising herself in the moment it took her to stand for any sort of hurt and feeling a brilliant rush of relief that all was well, Beth broke any promise she had made to this man in words or implications. If he was awake, she would kill him. If he slept, she would leave as a coward should, with all speed and no honour.
At the foot of the stairs of the odd elven house, the girl immediately realized that the heap of wool blankets before the fire was a sleeping man. His rhythmic breathing was soft and steady, so she allowed it to continue as she let herself out the door and into the grey dawn.
Beth put as much distance between herself and the man's house as she could without obviously running like a thief through the bright streets of the village. The elves seemed to spare her only the most token of passing glances, unquestioning and perhaps uncaring as the girl hustled to the town square. Her mask was gone, perhaps still behind the house she'd fled; now the girl pulled her dark hair over her face to conceal her features as well as she could.
Within ten minutes, Beth's business in the village square was done. She spent the day skulking like a hungry child with no pocket-money in a sweet shop between the confection houses and spun-sugar trees of the elven settlement. Her mind was reeling and her muscles throbbed with a ghost of a familiar pain, which through the course of the day grew at an almost indescernable rate. In three or four more days, the girl feared she would be seriously ill.
Dark fell in a soft silken sheet over the small village. No one had spoken to Beth and she had seen no sign of the man from last night, though she had made a point to circle in her prowling near his house every few hours. Too tightly-wound to sleep, Beth found a quiet place overlooking a shallow pool, tucked away in a soft curve of a hillside, to pass the night in thought.
Midnight brought scavengers to the warrior in Ost Alagos; wolf-dogs skulked in sorry orbits around the dead camp until they got the nerve to dart to the corpse for quick, investigative sniffs. Then nips. Finally, the bravest and the hungriest alike of the wolves fell to the serious work of dismantling thier armoured meal. By dawn, there would be almost nothing left of the warrior's remains to identify as being human.
Midnight in Falathorn was softer and immeasurably sweeter than the moon's presence in the Weather Hills. Though Bethenn sat with her feet in cool water, the scents of ever-blooming cherry and apple trees coursing through the breeze, the girl's thoughts turned back and back and back to the encampment at Ost Alagos. Her heart felt bruised as she tried again and again and again to drag her mind from the bony hillsides and peeling earth; the White Hands had infected her and she had never found a cure for both body and spirit.
The next morning brought obliteration to the old Warrior, her scraps of a lifetime of existence as breathing meat abused and scattered and torn and lost.
The next morning brought poetry to the young Warrior, her body aching and her existence as breathing meat finite and too brief.