A Voice Like Silver: Prologue
(or "some scene-setting fiction for our duet campaign")
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| So, kinda like this guy except less Warcrafty. |
A lone sun elf kneeled beside a pool deep in the Moonwood. Amidst the slate-gray sky reflected in the water, the black bark of the duskwood trees, and the white of the fallen snow, he was a blaze of color. His mithral plate mail was decorated with scores of autumn leaves worked in brass, bronze, copper, and gold. The helmet that sat beside him was similarly worked and surmounted with branching bronze antlers. His golden blond hair and bronzed skin combined with the golds and reds of his armor to make him appear an incarnation of the rapidly-fading autumn.
Autumn, the season of Marpenoth, the month of falling leaves… Autumn, the season of Uktar, the month when the leaves rot… Autumn, the season of Nightal, the month when the sun draws down into darkness…
The elf seemed to be gazing at his own reflection in the pool, but one familiar with the elvish trance state would recognize that his mind was far from his present surroundings. The elf relived unpleasant memories, to judge from the furrowing of his brows and the gritting of his teeth. The growl of a nearby beast brought him out of his unhappy reverie and he rose to his feet in one smooth motion.
“Yes?” he asked politely, his voice as golden as his armor, as honeyed as his golden hair.
The pale-skinned moon elf in hunter’s leathers who entered the glade seemed rustic, inconsequential beside the sun elf knight in his red armor. The moon elf bowed. “The drider has failed, my lord,” he replied.
“The drow?” asked the sun elf. The drider – a half-spider, half-drow outcast from drow society – had been paid to destroy a coven of drow worshippers of Eilistraee, a goddess determined to lead her people out of the dark and the evil they had descended into long ago. The sun elf conspired to make sure these “good” drow made no allies among the elves of the Moonwood; their goddess was far too openhearted for his taste.
“There was not a casualty amongst them,” the moon elf replied, retreating cautiously as his master drew nearer. “One of Alustriel’s brats interfered – as well as the half-elf. Brightwood’s child. The paladin of Hanali Celanil.”
“Dagorcarak!” shouted the sun elf. A pitch-black worg padded quickly to his side, an ornate elvish saddle on its back. The beast’s burning red eyes bespoke its fiendish origin. The sun elf mounted his steed and turned to his servant.
“Tell the Eldreth Veluuthra that Carric Starym returns to the hunt. I will not rest while a half-human is loved by the goddess who rejected me.”
Autumn, the season of Marpenoth, the month of falling leaves… Autumn, the season of Uktar, the month when the leaves rot… Autumn, the season of Nightal, the month when the sun draws down into darkness…
The elf seemed to be gazing at his own reflection in the pool, but one familiar with the elvish trance state would recognize that his mind was far from his present surroundings. The elf relived unpleasant memories, to judge from the furrowing of his brows and the gritting of his teeth. The growl of a nearby beast brought him out of his unhappy reverie and he rose to his feet in one smooth motion.
“Yes?” he asked politely, his voice as golden as his armor, as honeyed as his golden hair.
The pale-skinned moon elf in hunter’s leathers who entered the glade seemed rustic, inconsequential beside the sun elf knight in his red armor. The moon elf bowed. “The drider has failed, my lord,” he replied.
“The drow?” asked the sun elf. The drider – a half-spider, half-drow outcast from drow society – had been paid to destroy a coven of drow worshippers of Eilistraee, a goddess determined to lead her people out of the dark and the evil they had descended into long ago. The sun elf conspired to make sure these “good” drow made no allies among the elves of the Moonwood; their goddess was far too openhearted for his taste.
“There was not a casualty amongst them,” the moon elf replied, retreating cautiously as his master drew nearer. “One of Alustriel’s brats interfered – as well as the half-elf. Brightwood’s child. The paladin of Hanali Celanil.”
“Dagorcarak!” shouted the sun elf. A pitch-black worg padded quickly to his side, an ornate elvish saddle on its back. The beast’s burning red eyes bespoke its fiendish origin. The sun elf mounted his steed and turned to his servant.
“Tell the Eldreth Veluuthra that Carric Starym returns to the hunt. I will not rest while a half-human is loved by the goddess who rejected me.”
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