NightCast
06-13-09, 12:49 AM
Closed.
Begins with a two-part NPC prologue.
Raucous laughter lilted into the clear night sky as six men sat around a jolly campfire on the Fields of Khu’fein. The band of men had set up camp some hours ago as the sun had taken leave for the evening, forfeiting its place in the sky for a full moon that radiated a calm and gentle glow down upon the quiet grasslands. The air was still and the night quiet; probably due to the loud group parked in the middle of the prairie-like field that stretched for miles in all directions, but the men were unconcerned; lost in the gales of their own laughter and highly unlikely stories they shared. In all manners it appeared to be a typical group of mercenaries seeking fame and fortune, but a strange disquietude seemed to hang over slightly empty guffaws and – if one were to watch closely – the nervous twitching of eyes that seemed to jump at every shadow upon the dark plains told a different story.
Not a particularly superstitious fellow, Roland could not ease his growing sense of foreboding, but the waking visions and strange pains that came all over his body – the same pains he had felt as he had come to his full height as a man – gave him a legitimate reason to be nervous. The plains were not natural, not by any sense of the word; strange magic and stranger creatures were said to exist in these parts. P’haps the ale was’int such a good idea, the gloomy thought came unbidden into his head, but he could not imagine the night on a creepy plain sober. To be drunk among good company was just one blessing the gods had given man; besides, sobriety was overrated, wasn’t it? In any case, he was already drunk and thinking about how the night would have been better spent without the alcohol was a moot point.
A soft whisper reached his ears, startling him. Turning in the direction of the sound, he was struck by awe as a soft breeze came rolling through the fields, bowing the long green grass in their direction in a beautiful domino effect. The grass rose and fell with a sigh; a sound akin to that of silk fluttering on clothes line outdoors. Sweeping upon the group like a gentle wave, Roland was snapped out of his reverie by the bite of the unseasonably cold wind and the musty, pungent smell of the campfire.
Roland shivered and decided suddenly that he would like nothing more than to curl up under a blanket and sleep. As it had already been decided that he and one of the others of his group did not have to keep watch this night, he said nothing, but stood and walked a couple of paces away from the rest. Unfurling a small travel mat he carried in his pack, he sat down on the bedroll and reached into the bag one last time to pull a thin blanket from it. Taking care to cover himself completely, Roland put his head down, pulled the sheet close to his body and fell asleep incredibly quickly. His last waking thoughts were an irritated and grumbled dissertation regarding at how odd it was to be experiencing growing pains again.
Hidden by the long grass, none could have seen the sickly green mist rise from the ground in two long and smoggy tendrils – one on each side of Roland’s head – and curl upwards and then in towards each other, slipping into his nostrils. His sleep, while originally peaceful, now seemed to have taken a turn for the worse as sweat broke out upon face, his skin went cold and clammy, and the distressed facial expressions he now made while remaining totally silent and fast asleep went unnoticed by his drunken companions.
Begins with a two-part NPC prologue.
Raucous laughter lilted into the clear night sky as six men sat around a jolly campfire on the Fields of Khu’fein. The band of men had set up camp some hours ago as the sun had taken leave for the evening, forfeiting its place in the sky for a full moon that radiated a calm and gentle glow down upon the quiet grasslands. The air was still and the night quiet; probably due to the loud group parked in the middle of the prairie-like field that stretched for miles in all directions, but the men were unconcerned; lost in the gales of their own laughter and highly unlikely stories they shared. In all manners it appeared to be a typical group of mercenaries seeking fame and fortune, but a strange disquietude seemed to hang over slightly empty guffaws and – if one were to watch closely – the nervous twitching of eyes that seemed to jump at every shadow upon the dark plains told a different story.
Not a particularly superstitious fellow, Roland could not ease his growing sense of foreboding, but the waking visions and strange pains that came all over his body – the same pains he had felt as he had come to his full height as a man – gave him a legitimate reason to be nervous. The plains were not natural, not by any sense of the word; strange magic and stranger creatures were said to exist in these parts. P’haps the ale was’int such a good idea, the gloomy thought came unbidden into his head, but he could not imagine the night on a creepy plain sober. To be drunk among good company was just one blessing the gods had given man; besides, sobriety was overrated, wasn’t it? In any case, he was already drunk and thinking about how the night would have been better spent without the alcohol was a moot point.
A soft whisper reached his ears, startling him. Turning in the direction of the sound, he was struck by awe as a soft breeze came rolling through the fields, bowing the long green grass in their direction in a beautiful domino effect. The grass rose and fell with a sigh; a sound akin to that of silk fluttering on clothes line outdoors. Sweeping upon the group like a gentle wave, Roland was snapped out of his reverie by the bite of the unseasonably cold wind and the musty, pungent smell of the campfire.
Roland shivered and decided suddenly that he would like nothing more than to curl up under a blanket and sleep. As it had already been decided that he and one of the others of his group did not have to keep watch this night, he said nothing, but stood and walked a couple of paces away from the rest. Unfurling a small travel mat he carried in his pack, he sat down on the bedroll and reached into the bag one last time to pull a thin blanket from it. Taking care to cover himself completely, Roland put his head down, pulled the sheet close to his body and fell asleep incredibly quickly. His last waking thoughts were an irritated and grumbled dissertation regarding at how odd it was to be experiencing growing pains again.
Hidden by the long grass, none could have seen the sickly green mist rise from the ground in two long and smoggy tendrils – one on each side of Roland’s head – and curl upwards and then in towards each other, slipping into his nostrils. His sleep, while originally peaceful, now seemed to have taken a turn for the worse as sweat broke out upon face, his skin went cold and clammy, and the distressed facial expressions he now made while remaining totally silent and fast asleep went unnoticed by his drunken companions.