THE WEDDING AT THE ARENA
Belrosian lay asleep on a cot in the common room of the Red Lion Inn. Tossing and turning in the throes of a nightmare, he mumbled aloud in his sleep.
"Lost in the Lake...falling off a cliff, falling out of a boat...waterlogged...confused about what happened during the ceremony...they brought the greater force to the parley...charmed, feared, backstabbed...outnumbered two to one twice over...what would I like my tombstone to say...slain, ignored, left behind...betrayed by the very mercenaries hired to be our guards..."
The wizard awoke with a start. Still trembling and sweaty from his nightmare, he looked around. It was the middle of the night. The common room was still dark. He could hear snoring from one of the other travellers staying at the inn.
"Bah, what a slaughter," he said to himself. "I won't die on behalf of a Kelethin soothsayer again, nor join again in battle unless the dark elves be at the very gates of Qeynos."
With that, he pulled the blankets back over himself and went back to sleep.
THE LAKE OF ILL OMEN
The forces of light assailed the Sarnak fortress guarding the pass into the Lake of Ill Omen. Composed mainly of northern mercenaries and adventurers, the small army's supply line lead around the Lake and southward to the elven outpost of Firiona Vie. They had for many months laid siege to the fortress. At one place in the outworks, several groups had charged the gates and managed to battle their way through to the inner wall of the fortress. One of these small, brave groups was joined by Belrosian Kenshed and his dwarven friend Hallertau Noblehop.
At midday, a brief lull fell over the battlefield. It had been a tough fight. All the elves were weary, as was the wizard. Belrosian sat down to rest, leaning his back against the wall. He leaned over to whisper to Hallertau. "By Quellios," the wizard said. "You can't spit without hitting a druid around here." He pulled his hood over his face.
Hallertau only nodded, and thumbed his axe. The blade was nocked in several places. He agreed with the wizard. Druids were common here in the Lake, and fully half of their war party was an elven nature-priest. The battle had been close so far, but at least everyone was alive, and they had won their way as far as the ledge overlooking the gates.
Hallertau grunted, and stood up. If dwarves ever got weary, Hallertau certainly was. And he looked it. Hall's head was still spinning from a blow to the head. The druids had patched him up, but it still hurt. And that lump on his head was no mere scratch. Belrosian watched the battered warrior as he stomped around the battlements, guarding the spellcasters and keeping an eye out for Sarnak reinforcements. Suddenly, Hallertau lost his balance, and began windmilling his arms furiously. Belrosian sat bolt upright as he saw this.
"Hallertau!" he cried. "Look out for the ledge!"
There was a sickening thump from the ground far below.
"I'm all right!" Hallertau called up. That blow to the head must have caused the dwarf to lose his balance, and he had unwittingly fallen right off the walls of the fortress.
"Hallertau, do you require assistance?" called down one of the more sensible druids.
"Nope," answered the dwarf. "There's only one of those scaly lizards about down here. I can make my way back up just fine." Well, there is no such thing as a lone sarnak, and the next thing Belrosian saw was Hallertau returning at a run, three angry sarnaks at his heels.
"Damnation," cursed the wizard. "I am already weak. This could spell our end." Wearily, the Erudite got to his feet and began casting a spell. BOOM! BOOM! The sarnak Hallertau was fighting went down. The wizard was now all but spent, but Hallertau was wounded, and all three druids were out of healing spells. He launched his last shock of frost at the next sarnak. The thing turned and came straight at the wizard.
***
The situation had not improved. The weary, battered adventurers sat huddled near the ledge. All about them, they heard cries of sarnak reinforcement mounting a sortie from deep within the fortress. The druids had managed to heal Hallertau, but Belrosian still had not regained his full power. Suddenly, an attack came upon them without warning. A swarm of sarnaks appeared, as if by magic. Perhaps they had scaled the walls, or come up through some hidden salley-port. None of that mattered now.
Belrosian began casting a spell. BOOM! BOOM! Hallertau was dying fast, bleeding from two- no, three- terrible wounds. The druids tried to step back, concerned. One of the sarnaks crumpled, but five leapt to take his place.
"What do those damned tree-dwellers know of warfare, anyway?" Belrosian cursed grimly to himself.
A strange sense of calm descended upon the wizard at that moment, there in the midst of battle. Sometimes the people of Erudin believe that it is the spirit of Quellios the Tranquil which comes to them in times of dire need. Or perhaps it is some trait passed on to them by Erud the Great.
Belrosian watched as Hallertau died beneath a horde of foes.
Belrosian watched as the druids scurried about, frantically trying to open magical portals to carry themselves to safety.
With an almost detached sense of doom, Belrosian fired a great burst of ice into the creature that had slain his brave friend. BOOM! It died, but Belrosian felt no gratitude, no vengeance, no fear, no scorn. With the brave warrior gone, there was little hope now for the rest of them. The sarnaks howled with delight, and rushed at the druids, curved blades and clawed hands raised high. One of them turned from the group, and came right at Belrosian. There was only one thing left to do.
Without a word, Belrosian ran straight for the ledge, and dove off.
***
Belrosian blinked, and tried to clear his head. He lay face down in the grass. He could not move, could see nothing. It was as if the spirit of calm which had come upon him had turned into a numb apathy. His leap had not carried him far enough to escape the clutches of the sarnaks. He could sense one behind him, could hear it, but could not see it. He could see only green grass, (or was it a green haze?) before his eyes, no matter which way he turned. A sarnak was still clawing at him, tearing through his shieldskin, tearing through his robes. Now, the haze of green turned into a haze of red. Fear entered into his mind. And that fear would save his life.
Acting on instinct now rather than intellect, Belrosian began the casting of the shadowstep. Had he been thinking, he would have realized that in the confined space beneath the walls of the fortress, a shadowstep would not work. This sort of spell required a wide open space to funciton. The sarnak behind him struck again, interrupting his spell. But Belrosian's instinct drove him on. Ever in his youth he had been trained- shadowstep, then gate- such is the wizard's way. Not even realizing that his shadowstep had failed, not even caring that it would not have worked, he began to cast the next spell in the sequence- opening a gate-portal of his own.
The sarnak slashed brutally at the cornered wizard, but he regained his concentration and continued his casting.
Belrosian lay asleep on a cot in the common room of the Red Lion Inn. Tossing and turning in the throes of a nightmare, he mumbled aloud in his sleep.
"Lost in the Lake...falling off a cliff, falling out of a boat...waterlogged...confused about what happened during the ceremony...they brought the greater force to the parley...charmed, feared, backstabbed...outnumbered two to one twice over...what would I like my tombstone to say...slain, ignored, left behind...betrayed by the very mercenaries hired to be our guards..."
The wizard awoke with a start. Still trembling and sweaty from his nightmare, he looked around. It was the middle of the night. The common room was still dark. He could hear snoring from one of the other travellers staying at the inn.
"Bah, what a slaughter," he said to himself. "I won't die on behalf of a Kelethin soothsayer again, nor join again in battle unless the dark elves be at the very gates of Qeynos."
With that, he pulled the blankets back over himself and went back to sleep.
THE LAKE OF ILL OMEN
The forces of light assailed the Sarnak fortress guarding the pass into the Lake of Ill Omen. Composed mainly of northern mercenaries and adventurers, the small army's supply line lead around the Lake and southward to the elven outpost of Firiona Vie. They had for many months laid siege to the fortress. At one place in the outworks, several groups had charged the gates and managed to battle their way through to the inner wall of the fortress. One of these small, brave groups was joined by Belrosian Kenshed and his dwarven friend Hallertau Noblehop.
At midday, a brief lull fell over the battlefield. It had been a tough fight. All the elves were weary, as was the wizard. Belrosian sat down to rest, leaning his back against the wall. He leaned over to whisper to Hallertau. "By Quellios," the wizard said. "You can't spit without hitting a druid around here." He pulled his hood over his face.
Hallertau only nodded, and thumbed his axe. The blade was nocked in several places. He agreed with the wizard. Druids were common here in the Lake, and fully half of their war party was an elven nature-priest. The battle had been close so far, but at least everyone was alive, and they had won their way as far as the ledge overlooking the gates.
Hallertau grunted, and stood up. If dwarves ever got weary, Hallertau certainly was. And he looked it. Hall's head was still spinning from a blow to the head. The druids had patched him up, but it still hurt. And that lump on his head was no mere scratch. Belrosian watched the battered warrior as he stomped around the battlements, guarding the spellcasters and keeping an eye out for Sarnak reinforcements. Suddenly, Hallertau lost his balance, and began windmilling his arms furiously. Belrosian sat bolt upright as he saw this.
"Hallertau!" he cried. "Look out for the ledge!"
There was a sickening thump from the ground far below.
"I'm all right!" Hallertau called up. That blow to the head must have caused the dwarf to lose his balance, and he had unwittingly fallen right off the walls of the fortress.
"Hallertau, do you require assistance?" called down one of the more sensible druids.
"Nope," answered the dwarf. "There's only one of those scaly lizards about down here. I can make my way back up just fine." Well, there is no such thing as a lone sarnak, and the next thing Belrosian saw was Hallertau returning at a run, three angry sarnaks at his heels.
"Damnation," cursed the wizard. "I am already weak. This could spell our end." Wearily, the Erudite got to his feet and began casting a spell. BOOM! BOOM! The sarnak Hallertau was fighting went down. The wizard was now all but spent, but Hallertau was wounded, and all three druids were out of healing spells. He launched his last shock of frost at the next sarnak. The thing turned and came straight at the wizard.
***
The situation had not improved. The weary, battered adventurers sat huddled near the ledge. All about them, they heard cries of sarnak reinforcement mounting a sortie from deep within the fortress. The druids had managed to heal Hallertau, but Belrosian still had not regained his full power. Suddenly, an attack came upon them without warning. A swarm of sarnaks appeared, as if by magic. Perhaps they had scaled the walls, or come up through some hidden salley-port. None of that mattered now.
Belrosian began casting a spell. BOOM! BOOM! Hallertau was dying fast, bleeding from two- no, three- terrible wounds. The druids tried to step back, concerned. One of the sarnaks crumpled, but five leapt to take his place.
"What do those damned tree-dwellers know of warfare, anyway?" Belrosian cursed grimly to himself.
A strange sense of calm descended upon the wizard at that moment, there in the midst of battle. Sometimes the people of Erudin believe that it is the spirit of Quellios the Tranquil which comes to them in times of dire need. Or perhaps it is some trait passed on to them by Erud the Great.
Belrosian watched as Hallertau died beneath a horde of foes.
Belrosian watched as the druids scurried about, frantically trying to open magical portals to carry themselves to safety.
With an almost detached sense of doom, Belrosian fired a great burst of ice into the creature that had slain his brave friend. BOOM! It died, but Belrosian felt no gratitude, no vengeance, no fear, no scorn. With the brave warrior gone, there was little hope now for the rest of them. The sarnaks howled with delight, and rushed at the druids, curved blades and clawed hands raised high. One of them turned from the group, and came right at Belrosian. There was only one thing left to do.
Without a word, Belrosian ran straight for the ledge, and dove off.
***
Belrosian blinked, and tried to clear his head. He lay face down in the grass. He could not move, could see nothing. It was as if the spirit of calm which had come upon him had turned into a numb apathy. His leap had not carried him far enough to escape the clutches of the sarnaks. He could sense one behind him, could hear it, but could not see it. He could see only green grass, (or was it a green haze?) before his eyes, no matter which way he turned. A sarnak was still clawing at him, tearing through his shieldskin, tearing through his robes. Now, the haze of green turned into a haze of red. Fear entered into his mind. And that fear would save his life.
Acting on instinct now rather than intellect, Belrosian began the casting of the shadowstep. Had he been thinking, he would have realized that in the confined space beneath the walls of the fortress, a shadowstep would not work. This sort of spell required a wide open space to funciton. The sarnak behind him struck again, interrupting his spell. But Belrosian's instinct drove him on. Ever in his youth he had been trained- shadowstep, then gate- such is the wizard's way. Not even realizing that his shadowstep had failed, not even caring that it would not have worked, he began to cast the next spell in the sequence- opening a gate-portal of his own.
The sarnak slashed brutally at the cornered wizard, but he regained his concentration and continued his casting.