Well, the end of the week is near, and seeing from the votes, TPW has won. The beginning may be a bit sketchy, but it'll just simply do. I'm thinking about giving a deadline of when I should write updates for the story... so... yea. Atm, though, it'll be updated randomly.

I hope you all enjoy the prologue.

*******



Kand El’rendar wandered exhaustedly toward the Forlorn Shores, his weary brown eyes flickering faintly in the moons’ light. Solarus and Lunarus, the twin moons, shimmered hopelessly above the Neverend Sea, the great aquatic pass that separated Ranaamar from The Great Glacier.

From the touch of the moons’ light, the sand flickered like white-hot amethysts, gleaming with a myriad of dusky sparkles.

The dreamy Realm left Kand in shivering awe. The gorgeous scenery was desolate, its beauty enwrapped with a strange sense of misery.

The apprentice wizard from Diablos, a desert port in the south, soon felt disconnected from the world as his eyes swept about the sandy-shores, his gaze distant and haunted. The young human was listening to the blackness which the wind carried, his shoulder-length hair dancing in its somber secrets. Jerked upright, Kand’s haunted gaze turned in every-which direction, seeking the source of the sound. It was a distant memory of a weeping mother.

His mother? Kand brooded, his red-brown eyes flickering faintly through his blue bangs. It was a brand of the Ruby Drake, one of the superior Thieves Guild in Diablos, nearly renowned all over the Southern Deserts.

The lamenting lullaby, the weeping dirge, ensnared the young apprentice, memories swarming his mind and heart like a maelstrom. The unrelenting chaos became a mesmerizing blur in the young wizard’s eyes, his feet moving of their own accord.

The discordant stumble of the boy led him closer to the icy shores, the cacophony of crashing waves and the sonata produced by the seals, walruses, half-frozen beached-whales, and their carrion. Far to the east near the shoreline stood half-standing monuments, shadowy monoliths so colossal that it seemed as if the Titans themselves had built them. The amount of intrigue they radiated drew the unconscious wizard closer…

The wailing song, one of death and misery and hopelessness, became stronger and richer. Enchanting, full of melancholy, the desolate requiem stole Kand El’rendar farther into the ancient ruin.

Wobbly legged and shivering, Kand entered the Realm of oblivion, forgetting who and what he was, where he was. He only followed the ancient cobbled road that he soon found as he ventured forth to the great desolate ruin.

The ancient city felt colder than the tundra, colder than the shores he had walked upon.

Stronger and stronger, pulsed the song. Weaker and weaker, worked his mind. The dulcet winds led Kand astray, towards the only building that remained intact.

It was an old tower, whose entirety was of diamond-encrusted stone, its top having no spire but a crown-like summit. The mournful song, from that very structure, became stronger and more sound to Kand. Lone and weary, but nonetheless hypnotized, Kand El’rendar moved closer.

The tower was huge and it sparkled beneath the amethyst beam of the twin moons. The dusky-colored sparkles emphasized the perfection of the architecture. The many well-placed stones seemed to blend in, not revealing if they were separate, curved, or even properly sized. The tower was seemingly just a giant, cylindrical monolith… until one peered closer. The oblong stones were of archaic make… dragons, perhaps? Kand mused.

The great twin black-bronze doors opened silently at his steps, as if they were expecting Kand.

The apprentice stepped in.

The door closed with a silent shudder as his person entered.

The song echoed within the great halls of the tower, enchanted jewels and minerals and opals lighting the hallowed realm. It was all perfect and magnificent, paradoxically ugly and terrifying. Kand, unable to halt his own body, walked farther in, following the ancient midnight blue carpet, made of velvet. The silver hems of the midnight blue carpet glittered with magic as well…

Louder and more dissonant, the dirge echoed throughout the tower with sheer power. Kand could not and did not pull away from the enchanting song, its music beautiful and hideous. Fear and awe gripped his heart, intrigue tugged at him from his very mind. The little thief-mage continued on, the desolation immersing him with a dark promise, one of which he feared and loved.

Twisting throughout the continuous corridors, Kand soon found himself descending down the tower’s base and into the catacombs below… where ancient magics proved the most powerful.

Like a maelstrom, the magics of old gripped, tugged, and wrenched the young wizard farther into the catacombs, and farther into the glow of a dark light. Blackness enshrouded him, the singing more distant, and yet it was incredibly close… the chaotic turns of the song making him fall to his knees and sob and shriek in abrupt agony. His hands went to his ears, his yellow robes being devoured, his flesh being nipped by tiny, icy teeth.

Then silence.

In a similar instant, the wizard picked up his head, his pseudo-ruby earrings glittering in the dark radiance of the room. Kand whimpered and then sighed with relief, his rusty eyes going from pain, to fear, to awe in a matter of seconds as he stared upon a giant metal wheel which was embedded into the stone walls of the catacombs. In the middle of the mirror-like wheel was a great opal, larger than a grown man, a mere pebble to Titans, that changed colors constantly, ever-so subtle were the changes.

If one were to look far away, they would notice that it was a druidic-cross encircled by a great wheel, whose ever-changing eye, the opal-heart, shimmered beautifully like Khaos himself.

Kand, upon looking at the wheel, heard for an instant a hollow voice.

Thy mind seeks power… its wind-like voice, discordant within a melody, stated bluntly. Kand was stupefied, his rust-colored eyes searching for a way out… but an invisible hand held him fast onto his knees, giving a flow of comfort. Of power.

“Who are you? Where are you?” Kand asked aloud, his eyes seeking for the illusionist (if there was one.)

I be this colossus in front of thee, mortal. Replied the voice, whose powerful voice forced Kand’s eye to the magnificent, mirror-like wheel. The opal flickered with an unseen life. As it spoke once more, the opal pulsated the subtle-changing colors in a living, breathing form of light.

I be the dawn, the passageway, of said power… only if thee releases me from this prison…

Kand fell back, but did not dare move another inch. He considered the great wheel. Perhaps he could gain the power? Rule vast kingdoms with an iron-fist, to gain whatever he so pleased? “What kind of power?” He asked slyly, moving forward with intrigue.

More so than my Makers. More so than the Titans. Equal to the Sands of Time themselves.

The answer brought greed and lust to the young man’s eyes, drawing him closer. “And all you want is to be released?” Kand asked, trying to make sense of his great fortune. The catch seemed simple and not at all terrible.

Aye…

The young wizard, arose and warily approached the wheel. As he grew closer, he saw a translucent glass crank at the bottom of the wheel. Kand placed his hand upon it, and with barely a push the wheel set into motion.

First, it was a slow cycle. With each recurring cycle, the speed increased. Slowly at first, but the celerity was apparent after the sixth circuit. The rapidity of the spinning wheel seemed chaotic, a ghastly, multi-colored mist erupting from the great opal, stealing away the room. ‘Twas an essence of Khaos, the Father of All, and as so, the mist took on many shapes… but failed. More active than the languid entity, the dissonant mist pulsated and swirled into several cyclones.

Kand stared about in awe, his half-eaten robes renewing into black and purple robes, his potato-sack cloak becoming a rich black-and-red cloak of the purest velvet. His desert-rich skin softened, his eyes now a bright red. The human wizard appeared rich and royal. Graceful and powerful.

Oiled black hair and a rugged jaw, Kand appeared in his dreaming image.

A silver amulet fell to the floor with a miniature image of the wheel dangling from its silver chains, the ever-changing opal the size of a ring. At the sound of the amulet’s impact, the wizard looked down.

Pick it up, young master…

The mist began to subside as Kand crouched and picked up the miniature wheel. Upon looking at the amulet, as he arose, Kand noticed from the corner of his eye that there was a huge circular indent in the wall.

Wear it…

Kand placed the amulet upon his neck, his body stiffening as the miniature wheel hit his chest with a gentle pat of its swing. Kand felt absent from his body, and from there, his inner desire became who he was as his soul melded with the great sentient artifact. Both became aware of who and what they were…

With laughter as unheard and as daunting as a madman’s, the fanciful wizard glided from the catacombs, to the rise of the spiral staircase. As Kand fled the catacombs with his newfound power, he continued his way up the tower… until he approached a steel hatch. With just a hand, the hatch flew open, revealing the mourning night sky, the red cracks of the Void and the many celestial bodies of the plane shimmering in the silver-blue and crimson moons’ light. Stars winked here and there, their twinkling no more than shadows as Kand stood atop the great monument, arms outstretched and high above his head, wide spread as if to gather all of the energy flowing through Aeternus, the Plane of Mortals.

He cackled madly, his eyes shifting color, much like his hair, performing the act simultaneous as when the opal changed.

A storm brewed overhead, lightning cackling with Kand’s insane laughter, thunder booming. Darkness settled…

Rain began to fall…

Hey there Sess. Great work so far. A little longer chunk that I like to read from a screen at once, but still, excellent work. It's always nice to get a little meaningless introductory banter before we learn anything too major, and this works well to hook people without simply bombarding them with facts and descriptions.

Brace yourself; ado ahoy!

As usual, I am elated to announce that I shall be providing you with another one of my endearing over-critiques! Don't you just love how nice I am like that?


This doesn't make sense. You can't look at something from behind you. I don't know what you meant by this.


You don't need the "of" here. The wind does not carry of the blackness. The wind carries the blackness.


Sombre.


Perked means "made jumpy, enthused or lively". You can't make something enthusiastic, lively or jumpy upright.


This sentence feels akward and forced. The visual description does not mesh well with the contextual background in the same sentence; it feels like you want to say too much at once. Consider splitting to two sentences. There are too many subordinate clauses in this one.

Once again, I'm not sure this makes a lot of sense. Are you saying the sonata is of half-frozen beached whales? If so, I'd consider restructuring that sentence for clarity. If that's not what you mean, you simply need to be more lucid.


I think you've lapsed tenses again here. You maybe mean "the Titans had built them?


Euphony is a quality, and is thus uncountable. You cannot have "a euphony" or "the euphony", only "euphony". You can say something else has euphony, such as the requiem having euphony, but there is on such thing as "a euphony".


Same again.


Do you mean blend in?


You can peer. Your eyes themselves cannot. Peering is a facial and bodily action encompassing more than the eyes. Drop the "'s eyes" and it'll read fine.


Unconcious is an adjective, not a verb. You would use the word to describe someone/thing. It is not a thing in itself. I think you made a similar mistake with "subconcious" earlier, but I forgot to pick it out.

The song now echoed within the great halls of the tower...

I'll pick up from here tomorrow, when I'm not so tired that I can feel my own eyeballs mutinying against me. Night!

Ah, I see. Thank you, Nihilist. The only thing I see a problem with your critique is that there are two spellings of the same word. Somber and sombre are variants. Other than that little mishap, thank you for finding those errors for me. I'm quite grateful ^^

Erm... also... some of this was forced. Maybe all of it. I just tried to pull all of the ideas out at once. So, if you find anything else, let me know. I'm feeling quite reliant on your grammar checks

Also, I think I meant to put "jerked upright" so I'm gonna fix that.

Again, thank you and keep up the good work. ^^

Edit: I did some of the early editting. Thank you, Nihilist.

This is not a mistake so much as ambiguity. A hall is one building. A tower is another building. I can kind of see what you mean by this, but it's still a bit "iffy" (To use the literary terminology. ^.^)


It's fUrther, not fArther.


Using "midnight blue carpet" twice in a row like this seems a little desperate or absent-minded. Perhaps try "following a rug of deepest azure, made of velvet..." instead of the first one?


You cannot be immersed with something. You are immersed in something.


Same issue as earlier here. You cannot love of something, or fear of something. You can have a love of something, or a fear of something. Equally, you can love or fear something.


FArther instead of fUrther a couple more times here.


Though pseudo technically works here, it sounds odd; out of place, almost. I would personally suggest saying faux here. It has the same meaning, but it is much more commonly used to describe material items, particularly clothing, whereas pseudo is usually used in conjunction with intellectual or artistic phenomena or parephenalia.

This also sounds kind of disharmonious, the repetition of "change" so closely. Maybe just "ever-so subtly"? would do? It's at your discretion really, whether this needs alteration.


Do you mean "look FROM far away"? I'm a little unclear about this, because if not, it's a little difficult to understand.


The syntax is a little confusing here. I'd consider clarifying it by reinforcing the clauses with commas after "heard" and "instant".


Your ancient god seems to have lasped into pirate-speak. Saying "I be" is not archaic, it is pirate. Or possibly scottish. But either way, not archaic. If you want it to sound archaic ("thee"s and "thou"s), consider replacing "in front of" with "before", "be" with "am" and "this" with "the".


Yet again, repeating your lexical choices so frequently is a bad idea. Also, voices do not have voices, so either way, this doesn't make sense. Consider replacing the second "voice" with "tone" or "delivery".

Again with the "be". Once again I'd go with "am" here. If you still want the archaism, switch "releases" for "releaseth". I'd also say "if thou wouldst only" instead of "only if thee", but that's another one for your discretion. On an unrelated note, you don't need the second comma, it creates an unnecessary clause. Say it out loud with the pauses and you'll notice it doesn't seem as smooth with the comma.


"More so" means "to a greater extent than". It might sound more mellifluous, but the "so" stops it from making sense. Also, for archaism, replace "my"s with "mine"s.


You don't need the comma here. Just say to yourself "the young wizard arose" with and without the comma and see what I mean.


I'm not sure you want "first" here. If there is a first, it implies there is also a second and third etc. which in turn implies a set of distinct and verifiable states of speed, rather than a steady transition from slow to fast. Perhaps "initially", or "at first"?


Another comma you shouldn't have. Between opal and stealing.


You've used "robes" twice in quick proximity. Same issue as above really; vary your register. Try "vestments", "garb" or even just "clothes".


Cloak twice in quick succession. Same problem as above.


"Graceful and powerful" is not a sentence. Every sentence must include at least one verb. You could just turn it into a subordinate clause of the prior sentence by changing the period to a comma.


Glided should be glid.


Simultaneous with the opal changing. It doesn't read properly the way you had it.


There you go! Can't wait for the next one now.

There are three main points you should focus on. Firstly, using the same word twice in quick succession. Worst comes to it, just requisition the aid of a trusty thesaurus. Secondly, avoid unnecessary commas. Reading your work alout to yourself as you write is the best way around this, and it saves time in proof-reading as well. Conclusively, the wheel seems to speak archaically (thees and thous). If you want to brush up on your archaic, I'd consider going out and getting a colletion of Samuel Taylor Coleridge poems; the language he uses is beautifully mellifluous, dulcet, euphonic and utterley timeless. Everyone quotes "Rime Of The Ancient Mariner" (heck, even I do on my "about me" page, but that's just because that stanza inspired Shelley's Frankenstien), but I actually prefer "Christabel". Its also far better for archaism linguistically. You might be able to find it on the web for free if you're exceptionally lucky or persistent.

Postscript edit: Goodness me; it took me 5 posts to get through that! *eyebleed* Jolly good show!

Alright... I'll do some editting later, or when ever I am bothered. But thank you, Nihilist. Oh! I also found out that your correction of "glided" is falsely placed. Glid is not a word and therefore is wrong. Glided is proper.

Now... the next one. 13 pages long... gods... 14, actually... Ah well. So many errors... I'm half-asleep so I won't do anything fancy until tomorrow (or whenever I am bothered)

So... Goodnight and I pray you all enjoy Chapter I.

*********




Rain began to pound upon the poor village of Asher. The rain fell slightly at first, light and practically unnoticed, but as time moved on, it rained harder, heavier with each droplet. The winds did not howl, not even at the demand of Aeru, the god of wind, seas, and storms. The wind elementals slumbered beneath the spell of a greater entity, one that worried the great god. The storm giants did not assist, and therefore, they slumbered much like the elementals.

Aeru, in his dismay, glided about the farming village, riding the winds of his make. Unfelt and black, even Aeru felt weary as he rode his non-existent winds.

The wind god was a handsome deity, his jaw was square and his chin slightly cleft; his nose long and narrow, nearly pointing as it curved upward. Broad-shoulders broke from the toga in which he wore, grey and white like the clouds in which he resided. His sea-green eyes were dull and nearing grey, a sadden calm that showed helplessness, even hopelessness.

Pale, diamond-speck skinned, Aeru glided his way about the petty village, for that was the source in which his storms had miraculously taken interest in. One such interest, however, that it gave the dismal god an ever-rising ire.

Grey lips parted, the wind deity whispered a simple word, one whose archaic meaning was lost to mortals, even the elves (the eldest of all races). As the word touched empty air, a blurry, translucent cocoon appeared about Aeru and simply pulsated once. The god of storms vanished in thin air, away from the mortal realm… even from the mortal plane, it seemed, for his essence was no longer about the Realms or Planes.

There was one on-looker, however, that took note of the event. Grolosh, God of the orcs, Heathen King of Wrath and War. In the names of the almighty orcs, it was Grolosh in who was given tribute in blood of the dead. Grolosh despised many who were not orc, or even unrelated to orcs. Goblins and kobolds were in his favor, for they brought to him amusement.

Upon the vanishing of Aeru, the Orc King smiled, despite the fact that his power upon the Plane was also waning. Grolosh turned from the vanishing sight of his “brethren” and ventured forth to the Netherpine Wood, a place where all hesitate to go… even orcs. The god, his blood-rich cape dancing upon stale air, entered the wood in which he divulged himself in a raid party of orcs. A mere twenty-five warriors who would pillage and plunder in the name of Grolosh, enough of them to sack the poor village of Asher within the hour of Time’s Hourglass.

In appearance of a mortal, Grolosh had only one eye. He had lost his left eye in a battle with Roark, god of wisdom, king of the Pantheons, and Patron God of the human race. Within that battle, Roark, too, lost his eye. Roark had lost his right eye, an equivalent loss to that of Grolosh. In due battle, legends spoke of the eyes crashing to the Mortal Plane, creating the ancient shrines in which now housed the eyes upon a pedestal, holy artifacts of unknown powerful. Neither god tried to reclaim their forgotten eyes, for they were both warring gods who were too proud to restore themselves to their pinnacle of power.

Grolosh, his green-tinted flesh shimmering in the wood’s phosphorescence, ran his crimson eye about the raid party, their battle-rage consuming them slowly. With mahogany gauntleted hands, the god gave a flourish that, for some unknown reason, hushed the yammering orcs, stopping them from brandishing blades. Within the same fluid motion, the god settled his right hand to his belt, which rested his infamous (or not so infamous to the orcs) battle-axe, Clog. The ebony blade and its mithril edges shimmered in the ghastly light.

Upon opening his tusked mouth, many orcs groveled at his feet, pleading for mercy or a blessing. Grolosh smiled, prolonging his speech.

When his patience began to thin, Grolosh finally spoke, his voice booming and oddly melodic in the orc tongue.
“My children,” the god called, his voice booming like thunder, “I have come to you in the Time of Calamity!”

Growls of denial and boos of disapproval changed Grolosh’s smile into a scowl, for he too did not like this age. “I have come, to you in the mortal flesh, to speak of a prophecy. A prophecy,” he hesitated, giving a dramatic effect that caused the orcs to hush and lean in. The silent hush became uncomfortable, the ambiance of dread and wanting. “A prophecy,” he reiterated, giving it a strained emphasis, a rich meaning that was meant to be remembered, “that I have created when I molded you into flesh and bone, filled with meat and blood. From the rise of orcs to the fall of man and elf, I have prophesized that there was to be a war of a greater magnitude that would restore my power, the power to make you, my children, stronger.

“To you, my children, I bare you a message… when I give you a sign, I want a prophet… one of you lowly wretches… to seek my shrine and remove your left eye and swear truth that you will, in my service become my High Priest. You will be my chosen, for in one of you, I have instilled a fateful name… one of which I shall not tell you myself.”

For a brief moment, the scheme behind his crimson eye revealed itself. The orcs, too dumb and pathetic to realize it, shuffled amongst themselves uncomfortably. A presence of a god was rare… even rarer for one to admit to his own people that the world was ending, or at least in great turmoil.

“I give unto you, my children, my blessing.” Grolosh murmured, his booming voice fading as his blood-red cloak, tattered and yet fashioned beautifully, swirled about his person. A cocoon of blood… the orcs watched the display with awe, their green flesh covered with sweat, their yellow tusks being masked by the swollen purple-red tongues.

The cloak flew apart, fully destroyed into shreds, revealing nothing behind it. No ebon-cuirassed god, no almighty entity… nothing but red scraps of velvet.

One orc, the apparent leader, for he wore “fanciful” armor, arose to his feet and cried, raising his battle axe high into the air, “to the slaughter!” and together, all of the orcs arose with him and ran towards the small village of Asher…

*******

The whooping and hollering of orcs alerted the lazy village. Never before did orcs raid the small village, whose pine wood lodges and straw-thatched roofs were of little-to-no value. The village was poor, but all was well with friendly neighbors and self-financed. The village was neutral in itself and the lord of the tundra took no interest in the village, leaving it be… though the village often sent supplies of horse-shoes to Castle Netherwind in Darkthorne.

Then the descent of orc raiders…

The men, jumping up from their reading chairs or out of their beds, be they sick or well, leaving their children and wives for the barn in which held scythes, hoes, rakes, shovels, and axes. They ran well, but not fast enough, for the lupine orcs were close and the village had no fortifications. No defense, no allies… they were doomed. Of all the men, none of them were experienced or hardy… there were only fifty men upon the farming village. The men watched as the orcs sped down the hill that led into the ghastly wood, ruled by Lord Llarioth, God of Death and Undeath. The women watched their husbands and eldest sons make a stand. The children, too young to fight, watched their mothers watch their fathers and brothers stand…

Darkness descended upon the village…

*******

Tael al’Voraan walked upon Dusk Road, singing a tune that was meant to soothe animals and set men and women into a dancing spirit. He was an elf, fairest of the fair, more charming than any prince, in fashion, in manner, and in looks. The ranger was not vain nor did he rely on his appearance, though most elves do when conversing with other races. The elf was struck with albinism, though his eyes were as green as the trees, brighter and more valuable than emeralds, milky like jade. Fair and beautiful, he was not Forsaken like most albinistic elves. At his left hip rested a beautiful long sword of elven-make, sheathed in unknown leather. ‘Twas of ebony and gold, that scabbard. At the pommel of the long sword was an orb that subtly changed colors, always ghastly like fog and always beautiful like the moons and fair women.

The elf bone-structure was lupine. Sharp and well angled, his nose curving inward and properly narrowed. Pointed ears found themselves from beneath his long burrows of hair, twitching at every sound, even the silence of his steps made them twitch, for it was of the soft vibrations that shot themselves unbeknownst throughout his body. His emerald green eyes were almond-shaped and slanted, defining his high cheekbones, along with his long lashes, which also contributed in revealing his pale arched brows.

Mahogany leather armor tightened around his slender build, defining his well-attuned muscles and acrobatic grace. Two pads fell from the leather belt, adding a skirt-like quality to his greaves. Knee-high boots, purely of leather, made naught a noise, even at the beckoning of his grey-green cloak, which gave a hypnotic quality to the graceful acrobat.
Rain pelted the albino gently, not slowing him in the least.

The long grey-green cloak was pulled tightly over Tael, however, as he came upon a village. Tael moved closer, finding himself upon a hillock overlooking the village, giving him somewhat of a full view of the small farming home. Then he heard of the whooping and hollering of barbaric raiders. A flame flickered in the ranger’s eyes as he unconsciously clutched the long sword at his hip, the horned guard flashing in the dim light of a rainy day as his cloak flew from his shoulders, the leather hilt being squeezed by the elf’s leathern hand.

Swiftly, the elf set himself into motion, charging down the hill as his left hand reached behind the dancing cloak as the long sword within his right hand sprung free from its scabbard. The howling ring of the blade echoed faintly… but replacing the lost sound was a rosy-pink light.

The hillock was not far from the village and the agile elf reached the village within a matter of short minutes. Upon sliding to a stop, the elf threw a glinting object with his left hand, and then angled his foot as he pushed himself away from an opening as he continued to slide along the grass, his left heel digging into the ground as he pressed his back against a lodge silently. He rolled to his right, appearing on the other side of the building, his vision no longer seeing the hill that led into Netherpine Wood. Panting slightly, the elf reached behind himself once more, dove out into the open, and threw another object.

This object narrowly passed a farmer’s ear… and it struck an orc, who was now tumbling down the hill. Tael got to his feet in an instant, springing forward and passing the farmers with lightning fast speed, causing them to fall back from the mesmerizing blur. Within the same motion, the ranger tossed several more objects about, hitting more than a few orcs.

They were daggers and each and every one of which he had nailed orcs in the stomach, chest, and throat, causing them to die swiftly. Some of the orcs, enraged by the appearance of the elf, forgot about the farm. Their racism and cynicism for elves driving them, the orcs pressed against Tael in a hard rush.
Tael counted fifteen orcs.

He smiled grimly, his long sword flashing furiously. Most of the orcs could not handle the elf, though, for he dodged and parried each blow adeptly. Each lost something. A limb, an eye, or their life. Tael stood amongst eight fresh corpses, each holding a wound and groaning before their spirit fled. The lupine elf stood perfectly poised, his emerald eyes flashing to each clumsy creature that still lived. Four broke away, crying “White Wolf” or “Demon Wolf”, searching for refuge amongst the ghastly wood… and there, their cries worsened to that of sheer terror and agony, a guttural noise as the wood consumed the cowardly.

Three orcs now stood against the elf. Two were hesitant, but went forward anyway, hoping to slay the agile creature… and swiftly.

Breaking into a charge, the two orcs drove their spears forward, seeking to impale the elf. Tael, on the other hand, hooked his long sword about the twin spears and parried the blow. Upon reversing the momentum of his parry, the deadly albino put one step forward, spinning as he did so, along with descending into a crouch, and removed a leg and broke a tendon upon one orc. The opposing orc howled and crumbled, rolling down the hill with the rest of his brethren… where he met the “nicest” group of farmers… and they all held their congratulatory sticks.
The howling ceased.

The other orc took advantage of the spinning elf by thrusting his spear forward as he regained his balance, hoping to skewer Tael. Al’Voraan smiled as the orc grew close, and quickly broke from his spin by leaping high into their air, breaking the spear’s shaft upon his flying ascent… then he reversed the grip of his weapon and swung downward, hard and fast, cleaving the orc’s pig-like face upon his descent, a fountain of blood showering the two combatants. Tael and the mysterious orc leader.

The previous orc was, quite literally, split in two, falling apart like two loaves of bread.

“Nice sword, elf,” spoke the orc in surprisingly fluid Common, the language of trade. “Perhaps I will let you live if you hand it to me,” He bartered, his voice unperturbed by the carnage the skillful elf had provided.

“I reckon we skip the theatrics and just say you surrender,” Tael jested, his emerald eyes holding no mercy for the orc. “Unless you are sure you can kill me.”

“Kill you? Of course I can. I am Malug Skullbreaker, War-Priest of Grolosh!” The orc howled, his hand working intricately in spinning his great battle-axe. Malug set forward, spinning the axe by a leathern thong at the butt of the weapon. The momentous charge forced Tael to dive to the left, away from the wicked spinning axe, a pendulum of doom, a maelstrom of sheer rage. The albino’s dive became a roll, and his roll became a spinning leap, forcing the elf to turn back toward the destructive War-Priest, his long sword brought up in a defensive ploy.

Malug turned and faced his nemesis, charging yet again, but caught the leather-bound steel shaft of the axe, chopping hard within the fluid motion. Moving with great grace and celerity, the elf parried the axe blade, though his hands and knees went numb with shock, the mere force of the blow devastating. Malug was forced back, unbalanced by the devious recoil of his parried strike.

With a grunt through gritted teeth, the elf shifted his foot forward once as the orc soon recovered and stepped forward with another chop. Tael thrust forward with his long sword as Malug realized that he was far too close to the elf, over-chopping his opponent. At the last moment, the orc stopped his momentous blow and spun, forcing the elf in mid-strike to leap back from the cunning counter-attack.

Malug was over-balanced, swaying to the side and nearly toppling forward. The graceful ranger, however, took advantage. Charging forward, Tael held his long sword with both hands, holding the blade vertically against his shoulder. He howled, and upon nearing the orc, he struck forward.

Malug soon regained his balance. However, as he looked at his enclosing enemy, he fell back a step, his left eye being cut in two. The orc fell back and was sprawled upon the ground. A great wound ran from Malug’s left temple to his lower right lip. Blood began to flow freely from the great gash. The orc howled in agony, howling like a lone wolf to a lone moon.
Tael was compelled to slay Malug Skullbreaker, but his conscience forbade him.

“Perhaps, Malug… you will learn a lesson. So much more intelligent than your kin… perhaps you’ll abandon your ways of slaughter, the shackles of ethnic laws?” Tael asked. He soon wondered if he was speaking to Malug or to himself, trying to be reassured of the prospect that there is good in everything. “Perhaps, Malug…”

Tael, his body weary and a pain within his ankles burning, walked towards the village, wincing. Cheers of appreciation and cries of joy towards the gods for the great miracle erupted from the village.

“A dancing miracle, that one,” jested one farmer, whose appreciation was slightly racist towards the elf. Tael smiled and took it in stride, searching for a tavern or inn.

“’Ey, ‘ey, ‘ey, that’s THE Dancin’ Miracle to you, sir!” A villager retorted, a tone of respect and admiration towards the albino.

The Dancing Miracle… the elf smirked and then laughed at the compliment.

There we go. I was bothered enough to seperate the paragraphs.

Enjoy!

Actually Sess... Glid seems to be a word too, though I also found glided, so there we go. Glid is the UK accepted version, glided in the US.

I'll get to reading and picking apart this latest block just as soon as I can be bothered and it's not late at night (as now).

hmmmm Nihilist is here to help you get better and I;m here to just give my opinion on the writing.

I haven't read it all(cause its quite long( but I must say it looks pretty good so far. Its a lot more poetic than anything I normally write and its quite fun to read. When i finish i guess I'll be hoping to see more!!

lol, alright.


Ah, I see. Well thank you.

I just noticed my previous post was shitty with errors. My bad!! Well other than that I came to say i finished and I really like it except I'm confused. Are we allowed to write stuff that has nothing apparent to do with LFG or is this going to get to that soon?? Cause if we don't have to I would love to know that.

Well, I am apparently the only one here in the Fanfic forum who's ever dared to do such a thing... but then again, I also got permission from the people here to do a non-fanfic. Although, the reason why I am doing this is because I fail at doing fanfics, so I strayed off and did my own thing. I dunno if I should encourage people to do so or not, but... yea... this story of mine is quite new, VERY new, and it's the FIRST fic that isn't a fanfic. If anything, I dunno... Erm... just make a thread like I did and ask. Hell, make a poll and a small outline of what it's about, if you need to. But, for the most part, it's undecided. My story seems to be the only non-fanfic here, atm, save for a few excerpts.

I don't have a problem with it personally. I haven't heard anything official about non-fanfic stories being allowed here or not, but the forum is slow, there is no forum or thread for non-fanfic stories, and they're not hurting anything. This is really the most appropriate place to put them at the moment, so I leave them be.

Ah, thank you for clearing that up, Devin ^^

And now... here's the new, extremely long, back breaking chapter that MAY have to be editted SEVERELY...

Chapter II

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The elven ranger didn’t have to walk far into the village of Asher to find a place to stay, for to the far west of the village was its tavern, the Drunken Mule, so named for the spirits that even a mule could drink and be off its high horse within a couple shots. Though Asher was a poor village, the people who work hard upon their land could make devastatingly good liquor.

The Drunken Mule was an old little tavern, merely two stories high and a little bulky. The tavern was in moderately good shape, most often repaired every few years or so. The wood of the tavern was well polished and every available knot-hole that existed was plugged up by corks. The roof was flat and made of wood, meshed with straw and tiles. On the left half of the roof within the mid-section was a stone-and-cobbled chimney with smoke dancing languidly out of its stony throat.

Above the wooden door was an iron-wrought pole that held the wooden sign of the tavern with a mule drinking from a giant foamed mug, its flank branded with the word “Drunk.” Running in an oblique angle from top-to-bottom was name “The Drunk Mule.” Tael shook his head at this and reread it, only to notice “en” in big red letters, in contrast to the black paint of the previous words, coming from the mule’s flank. The elf’s grey lips curled into a humored smile as he chuckled and entered through the modest tavern door.

As he went inside, he noticed that the bar was full of tobacco smoke and smelling of petty whiskey, along with the natural smell of fertilizer. Tael’s long narrow nose wrinkled. With a sigh, and with many astonished eyes upon him, Tael al’Voraan stepped further in, making his way slowly, yet gracefully, toward the bartender.

The modest tavern looked far larger than it did outwardly, for everything was spacious. Ten tables were randomly scattered about, each squared-top, with four chairs per table. All made of wood. Nothing to fancy, mind, for the tavern was built by farmers and inhabited by farmers. Trade was hard to come by, but the villagers, hard-working farmers, managed without trade and nearly established their own form of government. The chief of the village, though often known as Chief Mayor, encouraged the free roaming of the villagers as long as it did not endanger the village or its people.

To the right wall of the tavern was a great stairway, enough for three broad men to walk up and down, side-by-side, with some space in-between. To the left of the tavern was a great fireplace, which was roaring to life with a flame within its hearth, a great red leather chair and a foot rest of the same material, and similar comfort, resting in front of it upon a turquoise rug. Such commodities were hard to come by, but for all of its grandeur, including the trophy of a Minotaur’s head upon a plaque above the roaring inferno, the village had a little secret… apparently this was the Chief Mayor’s seat. Beside the great leathern armrest of the chair was an oak table covered with a white cloth. A book sat atop of the stand, its sea-green bindings worn and torn. The title was unreadable, but the elf just shrugged, finding no interest even though it was quite familiar to him.

As he approached the barkeep, a great bear-of-a-man whose burly chest was puffed out with pride. A barbarian exile, the elf knew, for the man’s long blond hair was worn in an exotic fashion, braided and tossed around his neck like a collar. The fair skin was rough, well-blistered by weaponry. The sky blue eyes of the barkeep smiled, much like his lips, parted in a friendly smile.

“Ah! An elf! What brings you here, tree-lover?” He jested, though trying hard to hide his heritage and their racisms. Barbarians had no love for anyone but the wilderness and themselves. Racism was a hard habit to kill, especially for a reformer.

“I was just traveling, friend,” replied the ever-jubilant elf, though his murky emerald eyes belied his true feelings. The barbarian took note of this, but said nothing other than asked, “From where and why?”

The elf sighed, ‘twas a dismal one, and replied simply, “From everywhere. I help those in need, nothing more. Adventure, my friend, is a calling that not even I can ignore.”

“Ah, I know what you mean. Tell me, friend, what is your name?” The barbarian asked, already forgetting his heritage in the midst of the conversation.

“Tael,” the ranger spoke, “Tael al’Voraan.” He added, his emerald eyes sparkling somewhat beneath the murk of jade. “And what is your name?” Tael inquired, not wanting to refer to him as “barkeep” all night.

“My name is Ungar Thunderfist, Son of Thorbaul the Hammer! It is a wonder to meet you, Tael al’Voraan of the Elven Realm.” Ungar greeted, huffing his chest out further. Quickly, he exhaled, remembering his place. Tael snickered and held out his hand, hoping to clasp wrists with the man. Ungar the Barbarian reached out clasped Tael’s wrist, his giant paw of a hand fully engulfing the elf’s forearm. Ungar was by far a giant. For a human, he appeared to be at least eight feet tall. The great man smiled his genuine smile, releasing the elf’s grasp, with was oblivious compared to the great man’s hand. “Sorry,” Ungar apologized, his smile wan. “I don’t seem to know my own strength!” He laughed.

“It’s quite alright. Though, if I may be so bold as to ask, Ungar, where do you come from?” Tael asked politely, his left hand massaging his right arm.

“I am from this very tundra. I have fled my people in search for difference. To be stuck within this box of a taiga and to hear those sickening cries of the dead yonder Forlorn Shores… I believe I am the only one sane enough to leave… but I have not made it far. As you can see, I am here, in this village. Schooled in literacy, I became a bartender as my master passed away. Good man, he was… I’ve inherited his tavern, as you can see.” Ungar expressed, his hands and arms moving in practiced grace. A warrior’s grace and a scholar’s flourish… There was more to Ungar than he would like to admit. The elf smiled knowingly as he studied the human.

“I see…” Tael murmured, his eyes filled with some admiration. “Why did you leave your people?” The elf asked in turn. The barbarian was about to open his mouth to reply, but his jaw dropped as an ominous wind blew open his door. ‘Twas dark outside. Incredibly so, for all that illuminated the village was the crack of lightning’s whip, the thorn-like design of the bolts shattering the darkness sky. Though it was midday, a storm was conjured abruptly.
‘Twas the time of Chaos.

Within the doorway was a slender, black cloaked figure, whose eyes glittered in the shadows of his cowl. Those illustrious orbs of sheer silver sent a shiver down Ungar’s spine and piqued the elf’s intrigue. The cloaked man cursed under his breath and removed his mysterious black cape, handing it to a barmaid who was almost struck by the door. The howling wind did not relent.

Wearing black robes, the wizard walked in stride, wishing to speak to Ungar, who was frozen with fear. “Of course…” the elf chuckled, remembering the superstitious prejudices against the magically talented. Including elves. Two burly men, one of which was holding a nervous barmaid within his arms, walked towards the wizard. They were quite tall in comparison to the elf-sized wizard, who appeared frail and thin.

“Move aside,” the mage whispered in a hoarse tone.

“Oi, did ye listen to ‘dis chump, Dan? He’s commandin’ us around, he is,” the man with the barmaid jested, unafraid of the wizard, unknowing of his power.

“Yeah,” chuckled Dan, shrugging nonchalantly, “perhaps he’s cranky ‘cause no woman would bed ‘im, eh, Charlie?”

“Ain’t the bookworms more accustomed to masturbatin’? Findin’ women as beautiful as this ‘un a waste of time?” Laughed Charlie, who placed his hand on the buttock’s of the barmaid. She blushed. Timidly, the young barmaid stared about, hoping someone to save her.

Ungar, finding this improper, made a move. Only the steady hand of Tael stayed the barbarian. The barkeep growled, while Tael smirked, knowing what was going to happen next.

“Or, perhaps this bookworm,” continued Dan, moving closer to the mysterious wizard, “ain’t got much.”

The mage drew a glyph in the air with his left index finger, his low, spidery voice working in intricate harmony with his movements. Careful and precise, he seemed. Blue and silver flame stole the air as it outlined the rune, causing the advancing man to pause. The patrons and barmaids shuddered at the spidery voice alone, and closed their eyes at the brilliant radiance of the magical glyph’s flame, curling away from it. Ungar paled, incredibly so, for no blood seemed to run through his face. The big man’s paw-like hand gripped the great counter so hard, so tightly, that it began to crack and splinter.

Tael looked highly amused, leaning casually against the desk. With a nonchalant gaze, he looked about the bar, pretending nothing was happening.

“Karak!” The wizard murmured, finishing the spell as he barely touched the glyph. The glyph rippled and released five bolts of lightning. Like a clawed hand, the bolts struck the advancing man and shot him through the tavern’s wall, his face in a puddle of mud.

“Dan!” Called Charlie, who tossed the woman to the floor in his concern for his friend, his body half-turned as he gazed through the titanic hole. “How dare ye---“ Charlie began, only to be hit in the chest by three magical darts of green energy as he turned fully to face the wizard. Spinning and flipping, the poor farmer flew through the same exit as Dan; his body bent awkwardly as his face acted as a shovel and dug itself into the mud.

They were both very still.

“Unconscious,” the wizard explained, murmuring another spell that repaired the tavern’s giant hole. The Drunken Mule was returned to normal.

Somewhat.

Ungar’s grip tore a chunk of wood from his counter, and he blushed, glaring balefully at the wizard. Before the great brute could speak, Tael intervened. “Thank you for repairing that hole,” the elf thanked, his emerald gaze entrapping the silver-eyed wizard. “And thank you,” the elf added, his eyes flickering obscenely, “for saving that woman from perils unknown.”

“Save?” The wizard scoffed, seemingly insulted. “I save no one but myself, Forsaken! Now, I came here to talk to the barkeep… I demand to have your finest mulled wine. I’ll be damned if you question me, you buffoon of a human.” The wizard snarled. The proud barbarian was about to speak before the elf intervened, quite timely and cautious. “My friend here is dumb and deaf; I am his ears and lips.” Tael smiled, signaling for the barbarian to fetch the wine, tugging at his cloak to mention “elegance” the only thing closest to “fine” that he could think of. The barbarian glowered at the wizard and went about his task, his steps having somewhat of a hop to it. A thanks, perhaps?

“I believe you should be somewhat calmer, mage. Didn’t they teach you discipline in the Academy?” Tael asked as his friend vanished. The silver eyes glowered at the albino, signaling that he was in no mood for jests. The extremist elf pressed on. “Patience is a virtue, friend. You should at least banish those temperamental thoughts and be calm,” he suggested, performing a slight flourish with his right hand.

The wizard seemed as if to speak, for he brought up his slender, ebony index finger to perform a ranting lecture. The reminder of the Academy’s studies and lessons were like a smack to the face. “You are right, elf. I should be more respectful… but gods be damned if I ever run into idiots again. And be assured I am bound to…” the wizard growled, trying to enter serenity. “Pardon my outrage, for nothing has gone right these past few days. No goblin ears, no orc snouts, this godsforsaken rain, and those two morons who are now sobering up in the mud. By the gods, I am agitated to the nine hells!” The wizard whined, complaining. “I’ve had a bounty of thirty platinums for a large sum of goblin ears and orc snouts. Now I am in this wasteland with no hunt whatsoever. It’s as if something has disturbed the natural order. Gaeus save us…”

“Perhaps, friend, I can assist you. We have some orc corpses at the bottom of the hill just outside. Perhaps in the morning you would take care of your business?” Asked the rover, his emerald eyes flickering yet again.

“The morrow… if the storm lets up, I will take you up on your offer, elf,” the wizard said somewhat gratefully… it was hard to tell from his sardonic tone.

“Tael,” the ranger threw in quickly, hoping it would be better to get a name in rather than an air-filled conversation of mystery and racism. “Tael al’Voraan.”

“Armand Traquil,” the wizard announced, bowing in a grand flourish. Tael bowed gracefully before the wizard.

“When my friend returns, Armand, you know you must apologize.” The elf advised, a knowing smile on his face.

“He’s deaf.” Armand argued.

“I lied.” The elf chortled, which soon became a bellyful laugh. Armand visibly winced at that. He cursed under his breath, tapping the table with his sleek ebony finger.

“I hate you…” the wizard mumbled, throwing back his cowl. Beneath the shadows, he was a handsome youth. A black goatee and long black hair, his skin a rich ebony, his eyes beautiful platinum, and his lips a dark magenta. Armand’s jaw was squared, his multi-planed face strongly angled. From beneath his heavy locks, Armand’s ears appeared at dull points.

“Half-Elf?” Tael asked, somewhat amused.

“Does it matter?” He asked in reply, his cool tone inapprehensive. “Where the hell is that brute?” Armand growled, his temper returning.

“Well speak of the Devils!” Howled Tael in good humor, watching as the barbarian returned from the cellar, wine in hand. “I’m not a good judge of liquor, so it was hard to find a drink…” the barbarian mumbled in apology for his tardiness.

“Worry not, friend. Armand wishes to tell you something,” Tael assured, as he glanced back at the black-robed mage. “Right?” The ranger asked, a deadly glint in his eyes as stared deep into those amazingly powerful silver orbs. Armand needed no additional prodding in order to understand those murky flames of jade.

“I apologize for my improper behavior, barkeep…” the wizard apologized reluctantly, feeling as if he were tearing out a part of his own soul. He turned to the albino and mouthed “Happy?” Tael merely smirked.

Ungar nodded in appreciation of the apology, though his jaw was firm.

“Armand, this is Ungar Thunderfist, Son of Thorbaul the Hammer.” Tael introduced, nodding towards the great brute of a man. “Ungar, this here wizard,” the elf saw the barbarian wince and straining to keep his cool, “is named Armand Traquil.”
The half-elf and barbarian bowed stiffly to one another. The elf’s smile grew wider, if it were possible.

The three of them sat together, the ranger and wizard drinking mulled wine, which Armand fortunately liked and even “complimented” the literate barbarian. Though conversation was stiff, Tael enjoyed himself. After many hours, the tension melted away, the half-elf being somewhat kinder. Not knowing if it was the wine or the kind ambiance Tael tried to present, the elf took advantage of the moment.

“Why do you wear black robes, Armand?” The elf asked, his tone jubilant with its honey-sweet melody.

“Because darker magics are far better!” The wizard replied. He wasn’t drunk, Tael noted, but he was somewhat broken down. It must have been the wine. “We black robes don’t have to worry about anything but being ran out of town. And you know what, Tael? It’s fun not having to care. It’s so fun, that you can grasp all the power and be alone, forever and ever, and never have to worry! Except, maybe, being ran out of town… but if you can grasp the power, you can rule that town instead of running from it…”

Tael frowned.

Ungar was beginning to speak, which Tael politely interrupted.

“Why did you run from your people, Ungar?” He asked soothingly, giving it a patronizing tone. Ungar didn’t take offense, he only gave into the question with a dismal sigh.

“I ran because I got tired of everything. The harshness of the tundra, the constant fear of dying… I even disagree with our god, for gods’ sake! I left because of the unfairness of it… just because my ancestors suffer that fate doesn’t mean I should carry the legacy.” Ungar stated, his eyes distant, far into memory… a story he would likely never tell.

“So I left,” he continued, his tone emotionless, “I left in search of something better. This village seemed as if it were the answer to all my problems.”

“But it isn’t?” Tael asked, astonished by his own sense of intrigue; not that he didn’t know it, but the fact that he was openly expressing his interest caught him off guard. Tael groaned silently.

Ungar didn’t noticed.

“I left my village when I was only eight years old,” the barbarian began anew and was interrupted by Tael’s remark.
“My gods! You were but a babe!”

The barbarian shrugged it off. “I left and I ended up here. My father had passed two months before I left, so I took my inheritance with me. A warhammer, said to be crafted by Dagnar himself,” from beneath the counter, the barbarian brought forth a warhammer. Tael’s jaw dropped, Armand nearly dropped his glass, the patrons of the bar hushed and the barmaids stared at the barkeep in admiration, blushing at his great strength.

‘Twas the size of the elf from foot to shoulder, give or take a few inches… or a foot… perhaps a yard, but no more. The great warhammer had a rectangular stone block for a head, which was cracked all around with a huge imprint of thunderbolts at each head. Every so often, amber light illuminated the cracks and darkened to a hellish orange. It faded slowly if not deviously.

“I dragged this for miles upon miles… growing weary, I found this village, as if Dagnar himself sought to protect me. Even so, I do not know whether I should love him or hate him… but now… living here is a new level of hell, one of which I want to escape. I have lost two fathers; I do not want to disown them both with sacrilege.” The barbarian mumbled, as if on the verge of tears. A feral growl escaped his lips, fighting the tears back. “I seek adventure, Tael al’Voraan. I want to live a life, not exist in one.”

Tael felt sympathy, he felt camaraderie.

“Perhaps, Ungar…” The elf began, but fell silent. Ungar leapt up from his stool behind the counter, his eyes red. “I think it best for us to go to bed. The hour is late,” Ungar intervened before the elf could say anything. Always sly, that one.

“Of course, it is rather late. It’s High Moon for Solarus.” Tael agreed, nodding.

The many windows of the Drunken Mule revealed a surreal darkness, one of which allowed no light. Though, through the distance, up the hill and within the hallowed (or cursed) grounds of the Netherpine, wolves howled. They were the only clock for the night. They knew time… they were Time…

*********

Erm... again, too lazy to touch it up, so you MAY have to wait until I am bothered. I apologize for its messiness.

TPW's cover

And to add: That's two years old. My art today is a bit better.

*low whistle*

That's really well done. I agree with iisFEARED that the language is rather poetic, but that only enhances the story. I will definitely be following this.

Keep up the good work!

Well, thank you everyone for the review, they were most kind.

And now I present to you Chapter III! (Not the BEST chapter, but I had to finish the introduction of characters '>.>)

Warning: The dialogue is quite graphic and inappropriate for children (somewhat) under the age of 13 and even still may need to have a parent or guardian to allow them to view the conversation. From this point on, the conversations (since Chapter II) may be highly inappropriate and therefore must be read at your own risk.

This is not the best chapter, but hopefully not the worst either...

*********



From afar, over the hill to the far west of Netherpine Wood, a burly dwarf began to walk, the chaotic winds howling in defiance as it pushed the fur-coated warrior back. From the Severed Moors the dwarf had ventured. He had a black-and-grey beard that was long past his spirit-filled gut and placed within his brown leather belt, his long salt-and-pepper hair was unkempt, also somewhat tied with a dirty leather band connected and tied about the dwarf’s long beard. The dwarf was uncanny and unlike other dwarves, for he was more wild and untamed, though he wore plate greaves and gauntlets, he also wore a great wolf pelt about his bare chest. A woolen cloak of the most hideous brown enshrouded the barrel-chested figure and his many pelts. His hazel eyes glittered like ice, full of ever-raging fury.

Cursing under his breath, his voice like that of a rockslide, the Moorish dwarf fought against the strong winds, the heavy rain becoming stinging hail. His curses continued.

“…Stupid cold,” he growled, pulling his filthy cloak about himself. “’If I ever find meself a warm bed…” the dwarf barbarian began, his feral eyes searching for a warm village. His great axe, which was in a leather thong upon his back, the shaft-and-butt was a spike of mithril, appeared from behind his right shoulder. Growling and muttering thousands of curses to gods and nature alike, the Moorish dwarf continued to struggle against the powerful winds. The dwarf, more meant for the moderate frost and the abnormal humid-warmth seasons of the Moors, found his teeth chattering and his body numbing.

Before he could finish his statement about a warm bed and a snuggly home of a villager, the dwarf thought he heard a sound, the most unusual sound for a dwarf to hear even with these howling winds.

“In coming!” it cried, a shrill voice amongst the winds. The dwarf, who was forced to avert his eyes in fear of the frosty winds of pointing them out with their unmerciful hail, looked ahead to see a half-rolling, half-flying halfling. It was a blur, and yet it moved slowly… perhaps it was the battle-rush? The dwarf thought, but brushed it away… and himself, as well, as the halfling flew into his great chest. Though it did not pain the dwarf, the air within his lungs blew out of his large, plump lips as the little critter “seemingly” knocked the large brute over.

“By Thanatis’s Hammer, watch where yer goin’ ye daft li’l shrew!” The dwarf cursed, rolling to his side to glare balefully at the halfling far beneath him. The halflings were infamous in all of Aeternus for their curiosity and nit-picky fingers, along with their constant stream of lies and tricks. Sharp with a tongue and quick with the wrist, the cutpurse race of miniature half-elves, though they do not grow facial hair and are not related to elves nor humans, were nothing but trouble.

The two arose quickly, for the chill of the tundra was nipping at them like rabid dogs.

“If it weren’t fer this cold wind, I would throttle ye until yer eyes bleed and pop into jelly fer me next biscuit,” the dwarf went on, not at all caring about the halfling.

“What’s your name, friend dwarf?” asked the halfling, whose smile was genuine and his brown eyes glittering with innocence. He wasn’t listening, the dwarf noted with rage. In a fury he tried to grasp for his axe, but his rocky hands were numbed to the bone.

“I’m not tellin’ a halflin’ nuttin’!” roared the dwarf, whose grey eyes glittered with feral luster.

“My name is Beebo,” the halfling introduced as he bowed, still not paying attention to the dwarf’s unnatural rage. The smile upon the halfling’s thin lips were warm and friendly, but the dwarf, always angry and grumpy and feral, paid no heed to the halfling’s kindness. “Beebo Doorhacker, my name is, and since you won’t tell me your name… I’ll just call you…” the halfling paused for a moment and put his slender finger to his chin as he contemplated.

“I’ll call you Teddy!”

“Oooooh no ye don’t, ye li’l weasel! Me name is Dagnar Greystone, and if ye want to name me, use me name that me bearded mother gave me, ye li’l...” the dwarf rambled in yet another defiant rant, cursing the halfling for all its worth, stomping around, his blood boiling, his veins popping out of every inch of his monstrous bulk. The dwarf rambled and rambled, the halfling watching him in modest curiosity.

“I like Teddy better, though…” Beebo mumbled in disappointment, but the gloom lasted for only a moment, for always jubilant and innocent, the little rogue snapped his fingers together. “Oh!” He cried, raising his hand and hopping up and down like an impatient child, his long black hair undulating behind him. “Oh! Oh! Oh!”

The dwarf stopped his ranting in curiosity, the rage never fleeting from his eyes. Impatiently, the dwarf growled, “What is it, ye li’l shit-fer-brains!”

“I know of a nice warm place for us to go!” The halfling replied, not at all put down by the insult. The dwarf howled with rage and right before he prepared to throttle the poor little halfling and rob him of his many leathers and daggers and pouches, along with the green woolen cloak, the halfling’s remark activated an instinctual intrigue within Dagnar's little nut mind.

“Do ye really?” Dagnar asked.

The halfling nodded.

“Lead the way, then, li’l one.” The dwarf ordered sternly, though also half-mockingly. “And if yer fixin’ to rob me, I’ll cleave your li’l head in half!” The dirty Moorish dwarf warned ominously, his glittering hazel eyes looking forward to fulfilling that promise.

Beebo, overwhelmed with joy, turned and prepared to walk forward. “Wait… wasn’t there a hail storm? I mean, I just realized the winds have stopped.” The halfling told the dwarf. For all of his vigor, Dagnar noticed that ever since the halfling had bumped into him, the winds have stopped and the hail had ceased. “By Thanatis’s Hammer…” the dwarf spoke in wonder, looking about. The chill air was still cold, but the winds did not rush and whip at the adventurers.

“I think the gods are being fickle,” the halfling began, using his “wisdom” and “intelligence” to explain how. “I mean, who’s never heard of a fickle god anyway? It’s impossible! They’re always changing their minds. First it’s ‘Oh, look at this little halfling. Perhaps I’ll throw him into a pit of goblins!’ then it’s ‘Oh! Looky here! A field of ponies and butterflies!’ seriously! Why can’t they stick to one thing?” The halfling rambled, the dwarf pondering. Something was amiss, and even a goblin would’ve realized the same sensation of weird if they were walking through this gods’ forsaken wasteland of permafrost and ill-fertilized growth.

The clouds seemed to have magically vanished, for the tundra sky was clear, though it was rare that it ever was in Vaelamehl, revealing two full moons. Solarus and Lunarus were the red and blue moons that were said to be the embodiment of the two gods of magic. Their amethyst moon-beam illuminated the tundra, making the moist yellow grass a hideous color, though they sparkled beautifully. Stars flecked the ethereal sky and its many red-cracks giving off some light.

The eerie phenomena did not escape the thoughts of the two small figures.

After miles of travel, when the moons parted farther, as if in search for a lost and forgotten object, dwarf and halfling stopped upon a hillock, which overlooked a village.

“Here it is. I saw it on my way to Darkthorne,” the halfling said jubilantly, proud of himself that he did not lie to the dwarf. “There’s a tavern to the west of it.”

“A tavern, eh?” The dwarf asked, scratching his oily beard. This halflin' must’ve been sent by Thanatis himself! By the Hammer, a warm bed! The dwarf thought profoundly as he ran toward the village with a howling glee, his stocky body hopping and skipping in an unbalanced manner that made him seem all the more wild and bloodthirsty.

“Wait! Don’t leave me!” Cried Beebo, whose brown eyes were wide with shock and the pain of loneliness. Stubborn until the end, the halfling himself worked his little legs into motion, jumping and rolling to catch up to the boulder-like dwarf. Quick and nimble, the little one’s grace was profoundly equivalent to that of an elf’s otherworldly presence. As his cloak flew back, two long daggers upon his hips slapped his flanks, their wicked curves promising death to those who dare endanger him or anyone else.

“I leave who I want, midget!” the dwarf called back in reply, unaware of the halfling’s deft speed and grace, the nimble balance in which told a long and interesting story. It ranged from thieving and training and perpetual adventure.

Beebo ignored the insult and ran past the dwarf in a blur, already reaching the small village. The dwarf cared not, for the village promised food and a warm bed to sleep. No matter how he felt for the halfling, he cared for only himself and his needs. The village was his salvation… and the gods only knew how much mead and ale the dwarf would need to shake the chill from his bones and blur his mind from the annoyance of the halfling.

Perhaps the halfling’s tell-tale intrigue would disrupt him from Dagnar’s presence, leaving the barbaric dwarf from the Moor to his peace.

Perhaps…