As Vallen drifts off into a dream, his mind wanders back to the events that brought him to the town of Windhurst, and the Dancing Mare Tavern:
It is midday, and a green cloaked figure crouches next to a conifer tree on the sparse outer edges of South Brixia’s Western Forest. Needles from the tree litter the snow covered forest floor. He pulls a water pouch from inside of his cloak, and as the cloak shifts his green chain armor is revealed. He pulls a wide green leaf from a satchel at his side; rolls a sticking substance into it, and slowly eats the improvised sandwich. He takes a pull from the water skin and hooks it back on his rough leather belt.
He removes the metal half-helm circlet from his head and wipes his brow. The man is Vallen the High Elf and he has travelled hundreds of miles and many months. His long delicate face is covered with the grime and sweat of the road. There is steel in the long and vaguely haunted features. His eyes speak of a burden that he alone carries. One that he wants desperately to lay down, but can’t.
Vallen pulls an object from belt and holds it in his clinched fist. He softy utters a word and a muted blue glow seeps between his fingers. He opens his hand, and a glowing blue stone levitates from his palm. He slowly waves his hand from right to left and the stone flares a bright white light as it points east. Vallen closes hand and the magical light disappears.
“I have you now.” Vallen says, as he grins to himself.
He checks the straps of the long sword at his waist and replaces the circlet on his head. The elf removes an odd metal rod from its strap on his back and lightly taps it lightly against the armored bands running the length of his forearm. The metal shaft hums faintly with mystical energy.
He rises and walks until the tree line meets a well maintained dirt road. He travels east along the edge of the road; staying within the protective cover of the trees. His travel is slow as he makes his way along the roads side.
“Hosema.” Vallen intones and he begins to move a swiftly through the trees as if he was jogging across open grasslands. It is as if the foliage pushes him along as he walks. Twilight falls as Vallen approaches his prize.
A small covered wagon slowly creaks its way down the road eastward. Two human coachman sit hunched in their seats, with their fur coats clasps about them against the cold. Vallen sees swords and bows resting within easy reach. Vallen holds his rod in one hand and his long sword in the other. His brows knit in concentration as he mumbles three two words in rapid succession.
The wagon drivers pull the two draft horses to a rough halt, as three green cloaked men step into the road before the startled drivers.
“Bandits!” One of the drivers yells, and both of the coach drivers draw and knock their bows.
“We are a simple wagon carrying only sacks of grain.” One of the men hollers. “Hardly worth spilling blood for! Stand down and let us pass, or I’ll put and arrow between your eyes!”
A voice; which seems to be coming from all three of the hooded men at once responds “You are willing to lay down your lives for sacks of grain? There is something more here than bags of foodstuffs I think.”
The two wagon drivers look at each other, as they try to decide what to do. Suddenly, they raise their bows and fire two arrows expertly at the waiting bandits. Two arrows strike two green cloaked bandits, but instead of causing screams of pain, the arrows pass thru the would-be bandits unhindered. In the place of the men, are two man-sized clumps of snow collapse two the ground. The two wagoneers stare in disbelief, as the third bandit raises a metal rod in their direction.
“Witchery!” The harsh voice of one of the bewildered wagon drivers shouts, as both men knock another arrow.
Vallen thinks that luck once again sits atop his shoulder. His two simulacrum formed of winter’s snow were the targets of the deadly arrows. He could have struck at the men from hiding, but he had to give them a chance to parlay, but parlay does not seem to be in the cards. Vallen smiles inwardly. He’ll have another opportunity to prove his worth and bravery against these thieving humans. He could have chosen to strike from the shadows. But there is little honor in that.
“Otlad!” Vallen yells, and a beam of erupts from his metal rod and strikes one of the bow wielding humans in the chest. A sheet of ice forms and spreads from the point of the beams contact. The intense cold caused be the mystical ray causes the man’s fur to become covered in frost, but fails to penetrate his protective clothing. Even so, the bowman is forced to fight the numbing cold to draw back his bow string for another deadly strike. The bow string pops with a twang; a victim of the extreme cold caused by the frost. The hapless coachman drops his useless bow, and half jumps; half falls over the side of the wagon.
The second bowman fires his arrow, only to have it fly wide of its dodging target. After the miss, he draws his sword and charges the fleet footed elf. The man’s heavy furs cause him to move slowly, and Vallen is able to move into the rushing swords man and take him off balance. Vallen strikes once and then twice, and his sword bites into the man’s thick furs and through the leather armor underneath. The wounded man stumbles and falls in the snow. His furs and armor saved him from a killing stroke, but has still been wounded severely.
The second swordsman; having recovered from his fall, cleaves at Vallen. Though Vallen is able to parry the blow he is sent sprawling back into the snow. The swordsman, teeth still chattering from his first encounter with Vallen’s Hoarfrost rod, bears down on the prone High Elf.
Before he can even raise his sword to strike again, Vallen raises his mystic weapon, and fires its beam into the swordsman at point blank range. The second beam does its job this time, as a wave of freezing cold covers the man in a sheet of frost. The doomed wagon driver stands frozen, sword half raised before toppling over dead.
Vallen stands slowly to his feet as the swordsman that he cut down earlier rises and swings wildly at his head. The elf warrior deftly ducks under the blow and drives his sword point through the warrior’s heart. The man falls and his blood soaks into the pure white snow.
The victorious elf scans the area for any signs of movement before strapping his rod and sword back into place. Vallen rubs his forehead and chuckles to himself. Using the rod does cause a strain. Even so, the magical weapon allows him to focus his limited mystical abilities into a formidable weapon. His martial training has not afforded him time necessary to more fully develop his powers, but items such as this make up for his arcane deficiencies.
Vallen walks to the waiting carriage and gently touches one of the nervous horses, before walking around to the back of the covered wagon. He climbs inside and begins rummaging thru the sacks of grain. After a short time he pulls a small copper box from inside of a torn bag. He carefully pops the top of the ornate box and the tiny form of a beautiful maiden coalesces and begins to sing sweetly into the frigid air.
Vallen snaps the box shut, and grins in satisfaction. D’sin White hair’s famous faerie music box; the second to last item left to be recovered for the reclusive wizard. So reclusive is the high elf magus that he did not even realize that his citadel had been invade and sacked by a group of reclaimers; expert thieves and magicians that make their living stealing artifacts like the newly recovered music box.
Many of his valued artifacts had been stolen and sold before he had even realized anything was wrong. Though distracted, the mage was no fool, and his most powerful and unique items are more fiercely guarded. It is even rumored that some of these items were once used by the legendary High Elf Artifact Knight Avidus Green Eye.
Vallen decides that he will return the box to the nearest High Elf stronghold. The stronghold is no more than fifty miles from his location; nestled unseen and undiscovered within the large South Brixian western forest. After that he will follow the glowing stone until he finds the last item and his work in this matter is done.
A muffled cry pulls Vallen sluggishly from his dream. The sound of a body crashing to the floor outside of the storage room door fully rouses him from his dream. Vallen cannot believe how suddenly and fully sleep had overcome him. That is most unusual for a road wary wanderer such as himself.
Vallen jumps to his feet and pulls his magical rod from its resting place. He carefully slips between out of the storeroom and sees the body of the fat innkeeper sprawled on the floor behind his bar. Beside his body is a thick metal case that Vallen guesses must contain his sword. After observing the thick lock holding the case, Vallen attempts futilely to find the key until he hears a series of shouts and crashes from upstairs.
Vallen pulls his dagger free from its place on his belt, and rod and knife in hand, stealthily moves up the staircase towards the conflict.
[zombify_post]
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