Vampiric Angel
09-14-06, 04:07 PM
They were surrounded. Among the gray forbidding rocks of the Mountains of Dawn there was no escape. Gripping Dawntracker tightly, Anenfel's gaze shifted from foe to foe. He couldn't believe he was in this situation. Elves fighting elves. How ironic it seemed to him, the very race he had ventured to find, the same blood that flowed through his veins, and he was now forced to oppose them in battle. He could see the trepidation in their eyes - however minute it was - and that gave him a sliver of hope.
A small chance to perhaps prevent their advance. He could see their loosened grips, for a fleeting moment the half-elf thought they would let him go. But as chance would have it, that thought was a distant thing. The injured drow spy, his leg broken after apprehending the Raiaeran spy, spat at the soldiers surounding them and shouted at them in his own language.
"Nadorhuanen! Dos orn el p'los nindol tangi zhah xunor!"
Anenfel cringed at the tone of the drow's voice. Although he knew nothing of what the spy said, he could tell from the manner in which it was spoken that it was a harsh insult. In almost an instant after the comment, the elves remembered themselves, their place, and their duty. Once again they narrowed their eyes and tightened their grips, and Anenfel knew that now, they were truly helpless.
With swords upraised and taut arrows trained on him, the half-elf stood ready. His companion in this adventure, a human by the name of Torin Reahkari, held his large titanium sword with determination and force, while the elves closed in around them. He back stepped to get a better defensive position and readily held his blade for the battle to come. He sent a quick glance behind him, to Anenfel, to make sure his companion was still with him.
They stood strong, almost back to back, aside from the drow and elf spy between them. The elves took a step forward and Anenfel clenched his jaw. At that moment, when death seemed certain against such insurmountable odds, his mind went back to the day he arrived in Ettermire, the day he accepted the mission that was doomed to failure.
* * * * *
Large gray clouds covered the sky. A foreboding of the downpour to come. A fine day to stay indoors, it seemed, for almost the entirety of the technologically advanced city was empty. The taverns were still open, the different shops and businesses still accepting customers, and the street vendors, the brave merchants from distant lands, weighed the scales and chose to brave the storm, should there be one.
They knew that rain would not extinguish their hunger for profits. They were in it for the long haul, willing to suffer the elements if they made a pretty coin. There were also the stubborns. The defiants that, no matter what confronted them, would simply shrug it off and trudge on. The half-elf admired those people. He often thought of himself among that group, though a chance to prove so has never been given to him. Still, he held his head high with pride, completely willing to accept the challenge.
He walked slowly now, seeking out a proper place to wait out the storm. He passed many taverns, but the one he wished to visit, the one he had heard countless stories about, was the El'inssring. What the half-elf could surmise from the many stories was that it was a large, great tavern, (which, ironically enough, was the tavern name's translation) where he would find a warm welcome, an even warmer bed, and maybe some fine ale.
Though he found no interest in the ale, a drink that he has despised since before he could remember, the warm bed was appealing enough. Yet nothing good comes without drawbacks, for he had also heard of the tavern's lean towards the agressive. A place where a wrong look, a sarcastic comment, or even a misplaced scoff could start a brawl. And that was definitely something that the half-elf wanted no part in.
After successfully navigating the streets, with no prior knowledge of the place, he came upon the door to the El'inssring. Placing his hand on the knob and entering the fabled tavern was the only experience he would get from the place, because once entering, the sounds of shouting, grunting, and curses filled the air. It seemed he caught the "Great Tavern" at a bad time, the entire place was in an uproar and fists were flying as casually as a drunk's coins on a bad night. So without much thought or hesitance, he left the tavern in search of better accomodations.
The streets were slightly more full now, a rainstorm hardly being enough to stem the city's nightlife. He found another tavern suitable to his needs, a quiet place known only as the "Refuge". He was greeted with a warm smile from the barkeep, a surly dwarf by the name of Dolsen, and a small group of patrons, and from the look of them, they had been going here for a long while.
After sitting and ordering a glass of water, an order that the dwarf took with wide eyes and mouth agape, he turned his head, inspecting the small tavern for what it was, a small and dusty establishment with four rooms on the second floor. His eyes came upon a small board that hung loosely from the wall behind the barkeep, holding papers of information from the Alerarian government.
After learning from Dolsen that the papers were different freelance assignments the government were to willing to pay to have dealt with, the half-elf paid for his drink, even against the dwarf's proclamation that, "I have plenty 'o water in th' back," and headed for the door.
A small chance to perhaps prevent their advance. He could see their loosened grips, for a fleeting moment the half-elf thought they would let him go. But as chance would have it, that thought was a distant thing. The injured drow spy, his leg broken after apprehending the Raiaeran spy, spat at the soldiers surounding them and shouted at them in his own language.
"Nadorhuanen! Dos orn el p'los nindol tangi zhah xunor!"
Anenfel cringed at the tone of the drow's voice. Although he knew nothing of what the spy said, he could tell from the manner in which it was spoken that it was a harsh insult. In almost an instant after the comment, the elves remembered themselves, their place, and their duty. Once again they narrowed their eyes and tightened their grips, and Anenfel knew that now, they were truly helpless.
With swords upraised and taut arrows trained on him, the half-elf stood ready. His companion in this adventure, a human by the name of Torin Reahkari, held his large titanium sword with determination and force, while the elves closed in around them. He back stepped to get a better defensive position and readily held his blade for the battle to come. He sent a quick glance behind him, to Anenfel, to make sure his companion was still with him.
They stood strong, almost back to back, aside from the drow and elf spy between them. The elves took a step forward and Anenfel clenched his jaw. At that moment, when death seemed certain against such insurmountable odds, his mind went back to the day he arrived in Ettermire, the day he accepted the mission that was doomed to failure.
* * * * *
Large gray clouds covered the sky. A foreboding of the downpour to come. A fine day to stay indoors, it seemed, for almost the entirety of the technologically advanced city was empty. The taverns were still open, the different shops and businesses still accepting customers, and the street vendors, the brave merchants from distant lands, weighed the scales and chose to brave the storm, should there be one.
They knew that rain would not extinguish their hunger for profits. They were in it for the long haul, willing to suffer the elements if they made a pretty coin. There were also the stubborns. The defiants that, no matter what confronted them, would simply shrug it off and trudge on. The half-elf admired those people. He often thought of himself among that group, though a chance to prove so has never been given to him. Still, he held his head high with pride, completely willing to accept the challenge.
He walked slowly now, seeking out a proper place to wait out the storm. He passed many taverns, but the one he wished to visit, the one he had heard countless stories about, was the El'inssring. What the half-elf could surmise from the many stories was that it was a large, great tavern, (which, ironically enough, was the tavern name's translation) where he would find a warm welcome, an even warmer bed, and maybe some fine ale.
Though he found no interest in the ale, a drink that he has despised since before he could remember, the warm bed was appealing enough. Yet nothing good comes without drawbacks, for he had also heard of the tavern's lean towards the agressive. A place where a wrong look, a sarcastic comment, or even a misplaced scoff could start a brawl. And that was definitely something that the half-elf wanted no part in.
After successfully navigating the streets, with no prior knowledge of the place, he came upon the door to the El'inssring. Placing his hand on the knob and entering the fabled tavern was the only experience he would get from the place, because once entering, the sounds of shouting, grunting, and curses filled the air. It seemed he caught the "Great Tavern" at a bad time, the entire place was in an uproar and fists were flying as casually as a drunk's coins on a bad night. So without much thought or hesitance, he left the tavern in search of better accomodations.
The streets were slightly more full now, a rainstorm hardly being enough to stem the city's nightlife. He found another tavern suitable to his needs, a quiet place known only as the "Refuge". He was greeted with a warm smile from the barkeep, a surly dwarf by the name of Dolsen, and a small group of patrons, and from the look of them, they had been going here for a long while.
After sitting and ordering a glass of water, an order that the dwarf took with wide eyes and mouth agape, he turned his head, inspecting the small tavern for what it was, a small and dusty establishment with four rooms on the second floor. His eyes came upon a small board that hung loosely from the wall behind the barkeep, holding papers of information from the Alerarian government.
After learning from Dolsen that the papers were different freelance assignments the government were to willing to pay to have dealt with, the half-elf paid for his drink, even against the dwarf's proclamation that, "I have plenty 'o water in th' back," and headed for the door.