thomas.berubeg
Wandering the World
So, as Kol is unable to run our joint NOTW, I'll be running a simpler one
Return to Foxford
Two generations had passed since the inhabitants of Foxford had met the full wrath of the Baron Duin Halfmorn, and the village had regained strength with immigration from the central Elohim cities. No sign is left of the dark days of the past. True, no child is named Sonne, anymore, and there are claw marks on the bar of the pub, but in reality, the stories of the past are largely forgotten, tales to be told over a frothing mug of dwarven ale. It is over one of these mugs that this story begins…
Old Kol the hermit had come in for a beer, and, clutching it in his two hands, he crouched in the corner, mumbling to himself. The villagers paid no heed, as even the youngest was used to him.
This particular day was dark and stormy, the wind buffeting old leaves and branches about, and most of the village had gathered in the warmth and safety of the Inn.
IN a crash of thunder, the door of the inn slammed open, an, in it, stood, silhouetted by the lightning, a large figure of a man. The villagers all started in fear, some starting to surreptitiously make their way towards the back door of the Inn.
The figure strode towards the innkeeper, shaking behind his bar. “Innkeeper. I will need lodging for the night.” The voice was that of a high Elohim noble, a companion to Ethne herself. At it’s sound, Kol yelped and, in pure terror, ran out of the Inn.
“Of course, my lord,” bowed the Innkeeper “our best lodgings!” As he led the way upstairs, the noble turned to look upon the assembled villagers. On his belt was a beautifully ornate officer’s whip, and the assembly gasped covetously. The Noble looked out at them, and, grinned a feral grin before turning up to the second floor.
Return to Foxford
Two generations had passed since the inhabitants of Foxford had met the full wrath of the Baron Duin Halfmorn, and the village had regained strength with immigration from the central Elohim cities. No sign is left of the dark days of the past. True, no child is named Sonne, anymore, and there are claw marks on the bar of the pub, but in reality, the stories of the past are largely forgotten, tales to be told over a frothing mug of dwarven ale. It is over one of these mugs that this story begins…
Old Kol the hermit had come in for a beer, and, clutching it in his two hands, he crouched in the corner, mumbling to himself. The villagers paid no heed, as even the youngest was used to him.
This particular day was dark and stormy, the wind buffeting old leaves and branches about, and most of the village had gathered in the warmth and safety of the Inn.
IN a crash of thunder, the door of the inn slammed open, an, in it, stood, silhouetted by the lightning, a large figure of a man. The villagers all started in fear, some starting to surreptitiously make their way towards the back door of the Inn.
The figure strode towards the innkeeper, shaking behind his bar. “Innkeeper. I will need lodging for the night.” The voice was that of a high Elohim noble, a companion to Ethne herself. At it’s sound, Kol yelped and, in pure terror, ran out of the Inn.
“Of course, my lord,” bowed the Innkeeper “our best lodgings!” As he led the way upstairs, the noble turned to look upon the assembled villagers. On his belt was a beautifully ornate officer’s whip, and the assembly gasped covetously. The Noble looked out at them, and, grinned a feral grin before turning up to the second floor.
