A Land Far Away

*Written in a clear, flowing script, common*

I have come to a very turbulent place, called The Dale of Shadows. I beleive it apptly named, as it appears many beasts roam free here, subjecting the people to their fear. Not long after my arrival in the town proper itself, I found the place utterly devoid of any amenities. Rats roam free here, though it is said cats are used. It is curious that the rats continue coming. It does not bode well for the place. I have seen trash strewn over the ground....the people apparently just throw it into a field, expecting it to go away. Shells of buildings are left to stand, it appears long after they burn down or are wrecked, leaving the children a very convenient and dangerous place to play. Even better was the well I found near the orphanage here, quiet open and the stones low enough to allow a childs fall. I am truely amazed at the substandard condition of this hamlet, as well as the thoughtlessness of its people.

I do suppose that in a time of war, such as they are experiencing, it is slightly excusable. I have learned from one of the locals that many of the farmsteads outside of the town proper have been razed to the ground by orcs. It would seem that the place is plagued with more than just these beasts, though I have yet to learn what these other threats are. It appears it is a place of martial law, as there are guards enough here to protect a goodly sized town. I am curious as to how well these men are trained, or if they are just farmers with pitchforks. An astounding number of refugees from the outlying areas are cramped into small tent-camps, reminding me much of the drawings of Lendil in his dipiction of the southern camps during the wars. I know not how long they have been here in such condition. I think my first duty will be to tend to them in whatever way I can. The lost hope in their eyes is deeply troubling to the spirit. Perhaps their predicament is not aided by the sight of gallows high on the hill. A ruler should rule by being just, not through intimidation and fear.

I have met a few of the inhabitants personally, an astounding mix of the demographic. THe elves appear to be haughty, going so far as speaking elven to my face, as if I could understand a word they said. Most times, they speak their tongue and glance my way. An extremely rude tribe. I am in the hopes not all of their kind are as such. It appears they have a slight disdain for humans, yet they congregate in a human town. It puzzles me slightly. One in particular seems to think overly much of his station. I have decided it is perhaps best to avoid him altogether. Though he did come looking for me when concern was expressed, he seems less than pleased with the path that has been chosen for me, as if he expected his opinion of me to mean anything.

The halfbred of their kind seem much more plesent. Even introducing themselves to me. I sense kindness, as well as wisdom, from their presence. I think I would know them better, if given a chance. I enjoyed their company, though one appears to be very quiet in nature.

A shock to me was the small man, with much facial hair. At first I thought it was a boy playing at being grown, but upon closer inspection I saw the slight wrinkle of age upon him. He seemed a very aggreeable being, even offering words of help in my own predicament. Perhaps I will take his advice and look into these White Stars...though the name still perplexes me.

And lastly, a GoodMaster! He hails from a dell nearby, which he guards vigilantly. He states that his people mine iron, and are renowned for their abilities in the art of forging! Out of all, I like him the most. He has a sense of honor about him, though he is a bit uncouth at the dining table. I have a feeling I would know him better, as well as his people...it has been long since I have seen a GoodMaster.

Lastly, something extremely odd. The trees walk here!

Intriguing introduction Dan, I'm looking forward to meeting this one!:)

Wonderful as always Daniel. The total change in tone, so very creative.

He held the flute in unsure hands, gazing into the recesses of the pit. Was there struggle within? Did his reflections on his path mean such? He did not think so....Was he so blind to the world around him? He thought he was extremely observant of it. But perhaps not. He would have to ponder the meaning of this. The flute squeeled as he pushed the air from his lungs into it. He was not his training. Not his skills. When peace came, he would be peaceful. There was more to his path than just war. Did not people need help in peace? He sighed once again, thinking long on her words. Perhaps the slight had hurt him some, no matter if it came from a female rat eater. Perhaps the commanding tone and self-righteousness of the other had hurt him as well. Apparently, the denizens here liked to hurt and wound. From the smirk on his face, he would say that they actually enjoyed the laying low of others, took some sort of pride in it. No matter. He was an outsider. He would find some way to help these people. Perhaps a wall was not the best means at the moment, as it would take great risk and time to build, with little result.

Drow. He knew little of them. Stories told to frighten children. Yet it appeared they were in this land. At least the small one had told him something of use, with all of his pushing his weight around on some unknown stranger who was just trying to help.

He thought long and hard, then nodded to himself. Swordarms is all they appeared to be concerned with. BUt if he could break his neck in the dark, of how much use was he here, truely? Parhaps, in fact, her word was true. Perhaps the rat eater had somehow seen deep within, and plucked something that he was afraid of being. Swordarms...but he did not follow blindly down his path.

He looked at the flute again....a strangers kindness in a harsh land. As the first clear note rang from it, he felt a small comfort...at least someone here cared enough. He quietly, and carefully, packed the flute away...a beautiful gift in a harsh land.

He lay on the rough cot, his angered and fevered stomach releasing the last of it's content. He looked down at his stomach, his own eye full of bile and anger. To be taken from duty, because of this.... he grimaced...yet he knew there was nothing for it but to let the ailment pass. He thought of them, and began fervently praying in his own mind that their journey met with little resistance.

Goodmaster. Resembling everything of his kind, ale drinking, goblin hating, stout and trustworthy. And a good mind, he had not even thought to weaken the support beams....a good solid mind. THough unwavering in his beleifs. He had seen the fire of malice in the dwarfs eyes when he had spoken to the crippled Duergar. Knew deep within that the GoodMaster would take the life of this injured being. Knew within that he would have to stop the act... but it did not come to that. Instead, the Duergar saccrificed his own life for them, whether out of more hatred for the goblins than them, or another reason, he knew not. Durgan's mind was set in some respects, this he would have to respect.

Pathfinder. Wild, yet calm. A walking contradiction, with her feathers, beads, flowing hair, primal ink...yet mind of total control, total sureity, total confidence. She spake little, was very focused. When not focused, very...relaxed. Unrigid....flowing like the waters. A woman to her own, needing no outside recognition for who and what she was. He admired that. The animals around admired it too, for they did not exhibit any aggression when she strode near them, purposefully. Good eyes, good ears....he hoped she would open up, but would not pry.

His thoughts dwelled on the hin a moment. He reserved judgement. But he liked this follower of Tymora. He seemed jovial. Not a bad trait...as long as it was kept harmless. Perhaps a chair could be found for the temple, so that he might sit comfortably once again....

His mind wandered to the preparations...the fence restructured next, now that the horses were being moved.

This only led his mind back in full circle, to cursing his stomach and whatever foulness he had eaten.... And as he lay there, angered at his own helplessness, the day wore on, and the rest drove the first part of his plan to Merrywood for him.

A good read. Nice to make it into someone's story! Keep the ink flowing.

His eyes slowly scanned the horizon east and north east of the timbers in front of him...numerous fires had been seen in previous nights on that horizon. And not the steady fires of the goblin and orc camps...but explosive fires. Not for the first time, his mind wondered how the Shadowdale lines fared. The moment of guilt subsided, as he turned his head to the new defenses. Perhaps he was no hero, but perhaps it was not necessary to be one. Perhaps what he was doing was enough. The platform he stood on as he gazed over the wall had not even exsisted a moon ago. Much had changed, just by his presence. Guilt was gone, he was where he was meant to be.

His gaze slowly turned toward the tent, rising near the corral which had been moved inside the fort to contain the remaining two horses...and he smiled slightly. He was not the only one here who was supposed to be here...

His eyes slowly moved back to the eastern quandrant again. In day, we dig...in night.......we watch.

*written in a neat, flowing script, common*

Death comes softly, smiling. Her dark hair volumous, her absent gaze penetrating to the very core. She parts her lips, a knowing smile, and pays a visit to those who have forgotten her. Her long, delicate fingers wrapped around a cup of wine, her nails painted crimson. She watches silently, as the events unfold. She gazes at me breifly, as the club strikes down onto my shoulder, then turns to stare at a small one. ANd somewhere in my mind, I hear her softly whisper... "Not today, my dear youngling....not today." The Goodmaster charges, running the great ogre through the gut, toppling it to its knees. She claps her hands in glee.

Days after now, all is quiet. The men are anxious. At least four ogres, as well as perhaps thirty or so goblinkin, lay rotting outside the walls. The stench is overpowering, yet I dare not risk lives to quell a mere inconvieniance. The gate has been repaired to the best of our ability...I think I will suggest something more sturdy be made after...if there is an after. Still, we hold. We did not loose a single man. Besides the initial foray, everyone followed orders. The Goodmaster has been an exemplary leader. He works well under preasure....in fact, I think this is his environment...where he shines the most. I admire him, his courage, his raport with the men. His confidence in giving orders, and his encouragement, not beratement. He truely is a sight to behold in battle.

The Pathfinder is an amazement to me. It is as if she and her horse are one being when together...the way they glided over the gate, the way she sat straight in the saddle, even though wounded severly. She has her own bravery, an individuals bravery. And intellect to match.

The days have been quiet, a few of their scouts seen roaming near...but so far, they wait. Time will tell...I hope we have enough provisions...

May the Great Watcher protect us all.

Tarrent of Amn

...

He walked wearily past the tavern. Death watched from her perch above, smiling a gentle and knowing smile. People often mistook her...labeled her as evil. She felt a slight sorrow in her heart for the man who trudged below, his armour blackened from the smoke of the bombardment...his hands covered in the drying blood of the victims of the latest of the forays of the small ones, his hanging head denoting weariness, and acceptance of what was to come.

He was graceful in his thought and action. She had watched the night before as he concerned himself with the spreading fire, and not the lone injured figure lying on the ground. She had waited to take that one, to see what he would do...but he kept his concentration on the fire. SHe was slightly puzzled by him...on the one hand so eager to save life, on the other so passionate in the taking of life to protect others...Salk could attest to that.

She rose gracefully from her perch, and balanced on her heels across the tip-top of the roof to gain sight of the man again. He stood staring out over the small ones encampments. She was slightly confused as to the inner workings of the man...so distant..so giving...she smiled a knowing smile, then turned her attention to the dead outside the walls, shuffling him into the back of her mind.

A storm brewed deep within. The female Magickar with glowing blue eyes had been completely correct....and he hated that. In fact, small scars remained on his hands from his nails digging in while she spake. Five faces hovered before him as he stared into the great fathom of the pit...accusation in their eyes. They will remain for years, he thought gazing up to the stars. He did fear it, but eyes kept swiveling toward him when a decision was to be made, and all the books in the world could not give him the necessary preparation for it.

He gazed at his armour, formally a splendant suit, now dented in many places. Hero. No...he did not think of himself as such. He was merely enacting what all his years of training had taught him. What he had been raised for. He eyed the flute again, frowning slowly. A man was not merely his skills.

He turned, and strode to the northern front, to once again tear down the western structures and block off the left flank.

Splendid stuff

He spake quietly to himself.

"Welcome home."

A halfsmile on his lips, he gazed at the moon. It was good to be understood. Good to hear anothers earnest words. Good to feel a kinship. Good to see another walk the path. Miriel had earned his respect...that much he let her know. To say more would be...improper...at such a juncture. He furrowed his brow slightly. The old one had offered protection...how well did he know her? ANd what were his intentions? He saw her eyes though. He had promised to be at her call, and he would. It was simply too soon to pledge to her, but the thought raced through his head. I know you. I am you. You are my sister. I will die before you. The pledge every brother of his House gave to his sister. His line gone...it was time to become brother in a new family. He would have to pledge to Tala soon, in fact it was overly due. If Miriel had mistaken her for his Lady....it was long overdue. And to Durgan, his bladebrother. If his father could only see...he would shake his head and laugh. Brother to the tender of the wounded, the finder of paths, and the wielder of axes.

He grinned slowly. His love for each of them slowly budding, his loyalties becoming transfixed. His path becoming entwined with each of them. He bowed his head and whispered.

"Welcome home."