Revenge of Nagarythe
The night was a great, deep void, into which even the stars of the heavens seemed to fade. Dark, wraith like clouds obscured the light of the moon, and throughout the bleak land, the elves hid in their homes, yearning for the coming of day, for the winds of magic ran high, and it was folly to venture into the thick black maw of the night.
All this suited the purposes of the raiding party, twenty ruthless Naggorothi, clothed in dark mail and black cloaks, with deadly repeater crossbows and swords hidden beneath. Their leader was a tall, fell captain named Gunarth, a wicked, twisted being, veteran of many winters, and many murders as well, he was an assassin schooled well in the arts of death. This was his third foray into the lands of Ulthuan, but never before had he gone this far south. It was a standard raid, and he was but a member of a much larger force, but he himself had been delegated by the leader of the raid to go southwards into the foothills of the great Annulli mountains, to a distant mountain shrine, rumoured to be the final resting place of the greatest bane to Naggaroth that ever raised blade: Alith Anar. The rewards for the plunder of this shrine, if it indeed existed, would be beyond his wildest dreams. He would be exalted by the Witch King himself, raised to a position of power and wealth.
Thus, caught up in his dark dreams, the arrogant elf did not notice the softly whistling arrow that transfixed the Dark Elf who was guarding the rear. He fell without a sound, and only when he hit the hard stones of the road did Gunarth turn in surprise. "Halt!" he hissed, and his followers needed no second bidding, for they were mystified by the lone arrow. Then, another arrow came out of the wood, and hit Gunarth's shield, only inches away from his heart. He grinned, and a red light awoke in his eyes. "Spread out, my soldiers, and let's see if we can find our sniper." His men eagerly began walking towards the wood, bloodlust conquering all thoughts of reason from their minds.
In the woods, behind a great oak tree, a tall elf cloaked in grey stood, with bow raised and arrow notched. Near him knelt the other members of his band, for they were Shadow Warriors, elusive and lonely survivors of the destruction of their homeland at the hands of the Witch King. They knelt now in silent prayer to Isha and to Loec, two of the Elven gods, begging for speed and skill to aid in their revenge. Yet their leader Caryndil was not bowed in prayer, but watched instead with eagle eyes the advance of the Dark Elves into the wood. Raising his bow, he stifled a cry of outrage at the fouling of the woods of Ulthuan by these scum. He whispered in the ancient tongue, " Spirit of wind, guide thou the flight of my arrow" and loosed his shaft. It felled a Dark Elf, hitting him in the neck. "Spirit of fire, aide thou the strength of my arm" Another whistling arrow, another Dark Elf splayed out on the ground in cold death. And now, his compatriots had finished their prayer and joined Caryndil in his relentless attack, the woods now filled with white fletched arrows. Dark Elves fell like wheat.
Now Gunarth was alarmed. Half of his party were dead, and he felt the icy talons of fear grip his heart. "Back, my soldiers!" he cried, and stumbling, they began to run towards the road, but suddenly they were met by a hail of arrows from that direction, which they had deemed safe. And now, the Shadow Warriors burst from the undergrowth, with cries of "Nagarythe!" and "Ulthuan!" Casting aside their bows, the High Elves drew their swords, and they glittered like starlight upon the grass beneath the trees. The Naggorothi fled now aimless in terror, and were cut down as they ran. But Caryndil now confronted Gunarth, as he stood paralysed with fear in a little clearing. "Take up thy blade, thou spawn of Naggoroth, and face me!" spoke Caryndil in tones of clear command. For, despite the centuries of festering hatred of the Shadow Warriors for their dark kin, Caryndil was unwilling to see this one die without a fight. But Gunarth saw this as an act of weakness, and treacherously he drew a poisoned knife from beneath his hauberk and dashed at Caryndil. Yet to no avail, for Caryndil, seeing his intent, with a thrust of his longsword slew Gunarth, his silver blade piercing the heart of the Dark Elf. And so Gunarth, with all his dreams of power and wealth and glory, perished at the hand of his ancient kin.
Caryndil wiped his sword on the grass, and sheathed it. He looked down at the body of the coward, and for an instant, the look of cold satisfaction on his face was removed, and a great sorrow overcame him, and kneeling, he closed the still staring eyes of the body, and bowed his head. Then, picking up his bow, he strode off back to his companions, to return to their camp.
The night was a great, deep void, into which even the stars of the heavens seemed to fade. Dark, wraith like clouds obscured the light of the moon, and throughout the bleak land, the elves hid in their homes, yearning for the coming of day, for the winds of magic ran high, and it was folly to venture into the thick black maw of the night.
All this suited the purposes of the raiding party, twenty ruthless Naggorothi, clothed in dark mail and black cloaks, with deadly repeater crossbows and swords hidden beneath. Their leader was a tall, fell captain named Gunarth, a wicked, twisted being, veteran of many winters, and many murders as well, he was an assassin schooled well in the arts of death. This was his third foray into the lands of Ulthuan, but never before had he gone this far south. It was a standard raid, and he was but a member of a much larger force, but he himself had been delegated by the leader of the raid to go southwards into the foothills of the great Annulli mountains, to a distant mountain shrine, rumoured to be the final resting place of the greatest bane to Naggaroth that ever raised blade: Alith Anar. The rewards for the plunder of this shrine, if it indeed existed, would be beyond his wildest dreams. He would be exalted by the Witch King himself, raised to a position of power and wealth.
Thus, caught up in his dark dreams, the arrogant elf did not notice the softly whistling arrow that transfixed the Dark Elf who was guarding the rear. He fell without a sound, and only when he hit the hard stones of the road did Gunarth turn in surprise. "Halt!" he hissed, and his followers needed no second bidding, for they were mystified by the lone arrow. Then, another arrow came out of the wood, and hit Gunarth's shield, only inches away from his heart. He grinned, and a red light awoke in his eyes. "Spread out, my soldiers, and let's see if we can find our sniper." His men eagerly began walking towards the wood, bloodlust conquering all thoughts of reason from their minds.
In the woods, behind a great oak tree, a tall elf cloaked in grey stood, with bow raised and arrow notched. Near him knelt the other members of his band, for they were Shadow Warriors, elusive and lonely survivors of the destruction of their homeland at the hands of the Witch King. They knelt now in silent prayer to Isha and to Loec, two of the Elven gods, begging for speed and skill to aid in their revenge. Yet their leader Caryndil was not bowed in prayer, but watched instead with eagle eyes the advance of the Dark Elves into the wood. Raising his bow, he stifled a cry of outrage at the fouling of the woods of Ulthuan by these scum. He whispered in the ancient tongue, " Spirit of wind, guide thou the flight of my arrow" and loosed his shaft. It felled a Dark Elf, hitting him in the neck. "Spirit of fire, aide thou the strength of my arm" Another whistling arrow, another Dark Elf splayed out on the ground in cold death. And now, his compatriots had finished their prayer and joined Caryndil in his relentless attack, the woods now filled with white fletched arrows. Dark Elves fell like wheat.
Now Gunarth was alarmed. Half of his party were dead, and he felt the icy talons of fear grip his heart. "Back, my soldiers!" he cried, and stumbling, they began to run towards the road, but suddenly they were met by a hail of arrows from that direction, which they had deemed safe. And now, the Shadow Warriors burst from the undergrowth, with cries of "Nagarythe!" and "Ulthuan!" Casting aside their bows, the High Elves drew their swords, and they glittered like starlight upon the grass beneath the trees. The Naggorothi fled now aimless in terror, and were cut down as they ran. But Caryndil now confronted Gunarth, as he stood paralysed with fear in a little clearing. "Take up thy blade, thou spawn of Naggoroth, and face me!" spoke Caryndil in tones of clear command. For, despite the centuries of festering hatred of the Shadow Warriors for their dark kin, Caryndil was unwilling to see this one die without a fight. But Gunarth saw this as an act of weakness, and treacherously he drew a poisoned knife from beneath his hauberk and dashed at Caryndil. Yet to no avail, for Caryndil, seeing his intent, with a thrust of his longsword slew Gunarth, his silver blade piercing the heart of the Dark Elf. And so Gunarth, with all his dreams of power and wealth and glory, perished at the hand of his ancient kin.
Caryndil wiped his sword on the grass, and sheathed it. He looked down at the body of the coward, and for an instant, the look of cold satisfaction on his face was removed, and a great sorrow overcame him, and kneeling, he closed the still staring eyes of the body, and bowed his head. Then, picking up his bow, he strode off back to his companions, to return to their camp.