Crimson Mist

As the sun dips down below the mountains and the six deliberately dismembered Orc bodies are swallowed up by dark shadows, the pools of sticky blood start to stir. The torsos and severed limbs shudder and twitch but they’re incapable of housing any form of life now. Broken vessels beyond repair.

Instead, in silent frustration, the dark red blood rises like vapour from the useless corpses, coalescing into an unsettling red mist before slowly creeping up the mountain path in search of fresh hosts. 

(S)Elf Abuse

The Older Grey-Elf; Tamerlane, finally finishes his lengthy explanation, to his recently returned son, before falling silent.

“So you understand now, when I came to see your Mother's people that century-and-a-half ago, we were trying to recruit the High-Elves into attacking Theranthor. The Demon Prince, or so we thought, was semi-permanently dealt with and we’d spent the last hundred years secretly undermining the great Blue Dragon’s support and power. The Grey are more thinkers than fighters though, and we couldn’t do it alone.”

Sitting across from his Grey Elf Father, Arowe pushes his glass of wine away from him. It’s a fine, dry white, but it currently tastes like vinegar in his mouth.

“You tried to recruit the High-Elves to attack the Dragon for you, after actively defending her from them? No wonder you were thrown out of Glendorne’. It wasn’t just the man I thought was my Father who despised your people. Pretty much everyone I knew growing up in Glendorne spoke angrily about the treacherous Grey. ‘Worse than the Drow’ they’d say! Everyone except my Mother, and now, after meeting you, I fully understand why.”

Tamerlane has the grace to place his glass down, unfinished.

“There’s a greater reason why your people… Your Mother’s people hate us. We didn’t just align ourselves with Theranthor, we actively protected her. We fortified her body with our spells. We bolstered her lightning breath with our enchantments. We defended her from all attacks… Even when those attacks were from the other Elven races. She HAD to live long enough to destroy Zartak’s material plane form and drive his essence back to the Nine hells!”

Arowe finds himself scowling. He hadn’t realised until he’d arrived at the mountaintop city of Falutin, how much prejudice against the Grey Elves had permeated his Sylvan heart.

“There HAD to have been a better way?!”

Tamerlane just shakes his head.

“You’ve seen the Tapestry. We had no choice. If the High Elves hadn’t tried to attack her directly while Zartak was still active on this plane, we wouldn’t have been forced to counter-attack them in Theranthor’s defence.”

Arowe bristles.

“It was years before I was born, but I heard the stories. Your people killed hundreds of my people! Uncles, Aunts and Cousins!”

It’s Tamerlane’s turn to get angry.

“Your people?! You’re not ‘Your people’. You’re half ‘My people’. They attacked us! Killed us! I am sorry for all the deaths… On both sides. Unlike the Orcs and the Humans, there are too few of us to spare in unnecessary battles.”

Arowe nods as he calms himself down.

“My Mother used to say that it was a consequence of our long lifespans; Elven children are few and far between.”

Tamerlane mirrors Arowe’s nod.

“Exactly right. Your Mother was always clever… for a High-Elf. That was why, as a race, we had to be practical in our decisions.”

Despite the unconscious but obvious insult aimed at his Mother and the High-elves in general, Arowe smiles ironically at his Father’s assertion.

“Your ‘practical’ decision has come back to haunt you now though, hasn’t it?”

Tamerlane’s grey eyes cast downward, just for a moment.

“Unfortunately, despite our plan succeeding and the Great Dragon; Theranthor defeating the Demon Prince in their final battle. It has made us enemy number two on Zartak’s hit list. Only the relentless Orcan hordes angered him more. It’s almost certainly why he’s using them as meat puppets now to herald his return.”

Cometh the Darkness

Grott-Warren is much as you’d expect of a mining town, even a silver mining town, other than the fact that it’s (almost) completely deserted.

Despite following his parents into the clergy, Banaal was still a Dwarf and all Dwarves knew mining, deep, deep in their bones. These mines are obviously still paying out and this town should be bustling with life.

The town is small though, with the miners generally living beside their current ‘live’  mines and only coming into town for entertainment and supplies.

Now though, from what the evidence shows, everyone, other than the little girl; Rebecca, is likely dead. The coal in the blacksmith’s forge has cooled to warm ash, showing that it’s not been tended in days and almost every ground floor door and window is smashed in. And, most obviously, despite the absence of bodies, there’s blood literally everywhere! 

From the gruesome half-eaten hand you found on the first of the Red-eyes Orc, you suspect what vile purpose the Human and Dwarven corpses are being used for.

It’s still two hours before sunset though, giving you all plenty of time to roughly re-secure the lower floor of the ‘Silver Cave inn’. There’s piles of fresh timber in the general store supply shed, plus hammers and plenty of nails. 

After all the broken furniture is cleared away, everyone could easily fit within the stone walls of the, could be re-fortified, tavern, even Banaal’s faithful mule; Murmel could squeeze in.

There’s also coins in the till and two locked safes in the general store and empty guard house. There’s even several abandoned crates loaded up with silver ore!

Banaal can’t help feel the pull of the silver in his Dwarven soul.

The only other obvious option left open to them is to follow the multiple drag tracks leading away from the town. After a brief search, it becomes apparent that they all converge together into just four bigger trails, each one, presumably, leading to a separate mine

It’s hard to guess the total numbers involved but it’s likely scores… Possibly even  a hundred of them. A daunting number, especially considering the soon to come darkness.

Before she falls asleep beside him, the town’s lone survivor; Rebecca answers all the questions Banaal asks of her, but she’s just six-years-old and a lot of what’s happened is beyond her experience and understanding. It’s obvious though, that her parents locked her in the tavern attic, before they were killed, in a desperate attempt to save her.

Now her tiny, traumatised life is in the hands of the adventurers and, even if they survive this night, it’s still four more nights and days to Chaval; fortified mountaintop capital city of Agentia.

Grayeux Tapestry

Standing in the large, magically illuminated circular room, side by side with his newly discovered Grey-Elf Father, Arowe examines the section of the vast tapestry indicated. The whole tableau is about eight feet tall but is sewn into a hoop-like circle, covering everything except the single entrance. From start to finish, the mostly monochrome tableau must stretch out over several hundred yards.

“What is this place?”

Tamerlane places a reassuring hand on his son’s well-muscled, bow-strengthened shoulder.

“This chamber is called ‘The Circle of Time’. The tapestry was woven by a group of our women over a millennia ago. Women obsessed with their task… Possessed by it, some say. It shows the history… And future of my…of our people.”

Arowe draws his keen eyes back to the tapestry.

“So what exactly is it that I’m looking at?”

Tamerlane tilts his elegant, silver haired head to one side.

“Do you not recognise your pink shirted self?”

Looking again, Arowe’s eyebrows shoot up at the rare splash of colour.

“Yes, that’s me and my friends, but I’ve never fought those weird six-legged panther creatures before…”

And looking further along.

“And I’ve never crossed a river on a burning barge either!”

His, recently reunited with, Father nods. 

“These battles were fated to happen and yet, somehow they didn’t… At least not to you. You were never meant to come here. We were never meant to have met and yet, for some unknown reason, the future’s been disrupted.”

Slightly confused, Arowe pulls a quizzical expression.

“Is that what the first Grey Elf meant when he said ‘I shouldn’t be here’?”

The older, Grey Elf nods. 

“You being here disrupts the grand scheme of what’s meant to happen and what’s not. Although I am glad of this chance to see you, I fear your presence, in a place you were never destined to see, will have long term ramifications on both the Grey Elves and the future of Fissa.”

Running to the end of the tapestry, Arowe comes to the final scene; A huge demon leading a vast army of red-eyed Orcs.

“Do we win?”

Tamerlane unhurriedly catches up.

“As you can see, the tapestry’s predictions are coming to an end, and for the first time in a millennium, we literally have no idea what’s going to happen.”

Moral and Actual Bankruptcy

“What do you mean ‘Danté’s dead’?!”

The two old men bristle at each-other, each one blaming the other for the far away failure of a third old man.

“Exactly as it sounds. Our secret deal with the Assassin has ended in abject failure.”

Dunning and Kruger have never particularly liked each-other or had any respect for the other’s opinions. Both men originally sought the Stowanian crown for themselves and then, after Urdurel’s peace offer, both men thought that they’d be the first choice to be his named successor in place of his murdered daughter and disavowed son. 

It’s fifty years later now though, fifty years of weaselly sycophancy and slyly currying favour. Decades of promoting their own self interest, while actively undermining each-other. Despite both men holding positions of great influence and prestige within the country, second only to Lord Urdurel himself, that promise of absolute power is still, frustratingly, beyond either of their reach.

The initial speaker; Dunning, whispers a second question.

“Do they know we were behind the attack at the border?”

Kruger purses his already wrinkled lips.

“No. No, I don’t think so. Danté’s association with the Witches is smokescreen enough.”

Both old men fall silent for a moment before Kruger continues.

“If we don’t find a way to stop Urdurel, he’s going to bankrupt the whole Kingdom. The army is swelling to a size that the realm can ill afford to pay for long and he’s sent those adventurers off to offer full payment for that ridiculous prison tower, plus interest, to the Gnomes of Ambergis!”

Dunning responds with an equally bleak tone.

“Poison’s failed repeatedly and, unless we find another way to… stop him, there’ll soon be nothing left for either of us to inherit, even if those accursed demons are beaten back.”

Not Small - Father Away

Sitting in his oddly perfect but dull chamber, Arowe is startled by a sharp knock from outside. Despite the general condescension he’s received from the Grey Elves, they’ve treated him… cordially… mostly, and he’s felt safe at least. Rather than being a prisoner, the lock on his private chamber door is, reassuringly, on the inside.

Standing up, Arowe walks slowly to the barred entrance and slides back the bolt, before drawing open the door. Outside, he finds himself eye to eye with a thin but handsome Grey Elf, perhaps an inch taller and a century or so older than himself.

“It’s gratifying to see you inherited both my height and your Mother’s beauty.”

Arowe takes a step back further into his room. He’d come all this way, primarily to enlist the Grey Elves into the coming war, but also to discover his true ancestry. He hadn’t expected to meet the man so quickly though and felt somewhat unprepared.

“You’re my real Father?”

Looking the Grey-Elven man up and down, Arowe takes in the slender but athletic frame and well defined jawline. It’s like gazing into an unfunhouse mirror, where the colour and joy had been almost completely drained out of the reflection.

After a long pause, in which both men assess each-other, the Grey Elf claiming to be his Father, speaks.

“Look at us. Look at you. Can there be any doubt? Despite your name and title, your bloodline is as much Grey than High.”

Arowe instinctively moves forward to hug the tall Elf in front of him but stops short, as the other Elf’s response isn’t inviting. Instead, he gestures for his… Father to come in and sit down.

“Why was I not told of this before? Why didn’t you claim me? Why did I have to endure the contempt of my… High Elf… Father…”

Arowe falters.

“I’m sorry. This is quite unsettling. I don’t seem to have the vocabulary needed.”

The slightly older Grey Elf reaches out his fine boned hand and places it reassuringly onto his son’s.

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry. Allow me to fill in a few of the blanks. My name is Tamerlane, and the last time I saw your Mother; Lissomny, was the day you were born.”

Another uncomfortable silence settles over the two men, until Arowe eventually breaks it.

“Why?”

Tamerlane sighs.

“I was an ambassador for my people, looking to recruit the High Elves to our cause, but when I was introduced to your Mother, I was instantly smitten. As you know though, romantic relationships between our species is forbidden. That said, Lissomny and I would have braved the prejudice if the High Elf council hadn’t decided to break ties with the Grey. Not just break off diplomatic relations but to outright condemn us. I was driven out of Glendorne and your Mother, as a High-born Elf of the city, had no choice but to remain.”

Arowe takes in the story with a puzzled look.

“But you said you saw me when I was born?”

Tamerlane continues.

“I secretly stayed in communication with your Mother but she’d already settled on a practical plan moving forward. Despite my objections, she married a grasping minor High Elf noble, to give you a chance of a good life. I think she hoped that your Grey heritage wouldn’t present itself quite so obviously though.”

The handsome Grey Elf falls silent again for a moment.

“I slipped into the city unseen and made it to your Mother’s bedchamber. You were asleep in the cradle next to her. She let me hold you but insisted that her plan was the correct one and she was already married. Was this… Filligren not even a little good to you?”

Arowe twists his mouth, trying to find something kind to say about the cruel and petty man who he’d thought had been his Father. Tamerlane spares him the grief though.

“Lissomny assured me that it was all for the best, but I see now that I should have fought harder for you. Fought harder to be in your life. I’m so sorry… my son.”

Eternally Ancient

Lord Urdurel’s hand trembles as he gulps down his morning goblet of the magical Fey water and he feels it literally wash away the weight of the previous day. As an added bonus, the water is so pure and so clear, any attempt at poisoning it have, so far, proved impossible.

At almost a hundred years old, his eyes aren’t what they were and he has to stretch out his arms to focus on the crepey, liver-spotted skin of his boney hands.

To live endlessly as a feeble and arthritic old man? To exist eternally but in constant pain? To endure day after day, week after week, month after month, without any hope of finding love again or fathering more children?

Eternal youth is a blessing, but eternal old-age?

Placing the clear, crystal goblet down on his bedside dresser, Lord Urdurel stiffly clambers out of his bed with just one resolve.

“This doesn’t have to be forever. I just have to survive long enough to protect my kingdom, my legacy and my people.”