Atzar
12-06-06, 04:42 PM
((Closed to Lucien))
Snow drifted heavily down from the sky not too far from Radasanth, blanketing the frozen ground. Already the small town’s single dirt road was turning to muddy slush. The small, orderly homes collected the white powder on their thatched roofs, and icicles adorned their edges. Winter had finally arrived, and not a soul was outside to see it. They all preferred the warm comfort of the indoors on such a frigid day.
On the other side of the common house, the peaceful, wintry serenity stopped. All was in a state of clamorous, disorderly, child-borne mayhem. Kids climbed on tables, adult’s legs, and bookshelves alike, each little voice lending its own strength to the chaotic racket around it.
One woman looked at the ruckus with apparent disdain. A thin, aging woman with graying hair, she sniffed haughtily and turned to her friend. “How, exactly, are we going to live with all of them until the storm passes?”
Her companion was her complete opposite. Young, portly, and cheerful, she smiled at her tense friend. “It’s not so bad. Makes me wish I was still young enough to play with them.” The thin lady huffed, but said nothing.
“Perhaps I could calm them down a bit?” an old voice interjected.
“Oh, let them be,” the chubby lady responded with a smile over her shoulder. “They aren’t really hurting anything.”
“Yes, but that’s only a matter of time. Don’t worry, they’ll still have fun, but perhaps they’ll do it in a way that doesn’t drive everybody else insane.”
His name was Yeomir. He was a tall old man with long, chalk-white hair and a charming personality. Everyone, especially the kids, adored him. Smiling gently, he eased his way into the kid-packed common room.
“Who wants to hear a story?” his surprisingly strong voice rang out over the infernal din. Almost immediately, the noise died down and all young eyes turned on him. Yeomir was famous for his stories.
Another figure slipped into the room. Atzar Kellon, a mage from the village of Tel’Han, was stranded by the blizzard on his way to the Citadel in Radasanth. A friendly man had invited him into the house until the snowstorm passed, an offer he was only too willing to accept. Now that he was inside, however, he was bored. The shy mage knew nobody around him, preferring to keep to himself. He was always a sucker for a good story, however, and he settled down in a cozy corner to listen in. Even a children's story was better than boredom.
Yeomir, meanwhile, took his seat in the midst of the throng of now-silent children.
“What a treasure that man is,” the old, thin lady remarked to her friend in amazement.
Snow drifted heavily down from the sky not too far from Radasanth, blanketing the frozen ground. Already the small town’s single dirt road was turning to muddy slush. The small, orderly homes collected the white powder on their thatched roofs, and icicles adorned their edges. Winter had finally arrived, and not a soul was outside to see it. They all preferred the warm comfort of the indoors on such a frigid day.
On the other side of the common house, the peaceful, wintry serenity stopped. All was in a state of clamorous, disorderly, child-borne mayhem. Kids climbed on tables, adult’s legs, and bookshelves alike, each little voice lending its own strength to the chaotic racket around it.
One woman looked at the ruckus with apparent disdain. A thin, aging woman with graying hair, she sniffed haughtily and turned to her friend. “How, exactly, are we going to live with all of them until the storm passes?”
Her companion was her complete opposite. Young, portly, and cheerful, she smiled at her tense friend. “It’s not so bad. Makes me wish I was still young enough to play with them.” The thin lady huffed, but said nothing.
“Perhaps I could calm them down a bit?” an old voice interjected.
“Oh, let them be,” the chubby lady responded with a smile over her shoulder. “They aren’t really hurting anything.”
“Yes, but that’s only a matter of time. Don’t worry, they’ll still have fun, but perhaps they’ll do it in a way that doesn’t drive everybody else insane.”
His name was Yeomir. He was a tall old man with long, chalk-white hair and a charming personality. Everyone, especially the kids, adored him. Smiling gently, he eased his way into the kid-packed common room.
“Who wants to hear a story?” his surprisingly strong voice rang out over the infernal din. Almost immediately, the noise died down and all young eyes turned on him. Yeomir was famous for his stories.
Another figure slipped into the room. Atzar Kellon, a mage from the village of Tel’Han, was stranded by the blizzard on his way to the Citadel in Radasanth. A friendly man had invited him into the house until the snowstorm passed, an offer he was only too willing to accept. Now that he was inside, however, he was bored. The shy mage knew nobody around him, preferring to keep to himself. He was always a sucker for a good story, however, and he settled down in a cozy corner to listen in. Even a children's story was better than boredom.
Yeomir, meanwhile, took his seat in the midst of the throng of now-silent children.
“What a treasure that man is,” the old, thin lady remarked to her friend in amazement.