Balven Tyrsahl

[Darradarljod]

The sounds of the patrons had muffled into a numbing background atmospheric. The swollen, dark eyes of the middle aged human glared hauntingly to the far wall their lids half-concealing, lopsided. Each stroke of the mans fatigue brought a wave of alarming intoxicated nausea as he dared to let the wet stare shy by closing his eyes. Forced to remain awake, memories of youth took this oppertunity of weakness to sieze him, and by their merciless and cruel way return his tortured mind unwillingly to the nights of lifechanging terror that had birthed his ambitions.
~
The cold winds billowed through the valley, wailing like the forlorn, in its wake leaving the trees rustling violently above their heads. Between the trunks and through the long grasses a line of grim faced men clad in tattered cloth and leather moved at a cautious pace through the untravelled passage. By the pale light of the cloud smothered moon they could see their quarry ahead in a small clearing bordering an expanse of woodlands. There, illuminated by the light of several small roasting fires were woodsmen, lumberjacks. Some were armed - though, some were not. Regardless, their tents bore the symbology of the Zhentarim.

The presance of ambience and sound of the woods, of his breathing and that of the conscripts and rebels around him, slowly faded into an eerie and silent recollection as the memory took him in and around the clearing. The roars of his fellows was lost to him this time. His attempts at dismissing the approaching skirmish from his mind failing to his current lack of will. Men fell by the feathered quarrel of his crossbow and those of others near him, the less fortunate peasants who had not invested in projectile weaponry charging into the melee to contest with the suprised Zhentarim labourers and their armoured Zhentilar guards. Axe was met with hammer, sword on spear, the unarmoured though superior number of Dalemen falling by scores, taking few with them. With eyes wide and hands trembling the then young Balven Tyrsahl fought not out of honor or glory, but out of fear and hatred for his oppressors. Oaths from a his grim past driving him to acts of what many had called 'heroism', though those who did were spared the brutalities of the actual conflict. To see another perish, there was nothing more frightening, scarring. To see the Black Hand sieze his land, home and family and destroy them all...
~
A roused patron stumbled, collasping into his side and disturbing his train of memory. Balven scowled, pushing the apologetic man off with one hand. He set down his tankard and rose to his unsteady feet, readjusting the cloth belt he wore at the front of his tunic. With a deep breath, he dropped several coppers into the empty vessel and staggered out of the door, wiping down his worn and aged face with the calloused hand of a simple labourer.