Post by Khaine on May 2, 2019 21:20:58 GMT
As the baggage train trailed into the newly erected walls of the siege camp, the young elf took a long look at the city extending behind it, her eyes clouded with rain. This was Tor-Elyr, her home, and she feared that it would be the last time she saw it as it was now, as it had been for unnumbered years before that day: glorious and resplendent, from the opulent marketplaces, to the rich manses of the merchant houses and the high spires of its noble lords. Of these she made a final mental image, by which to preserve them in her minds eye. As the wagon she was kept in finally entered the camp, the majestic view of the city was replaced with the ominous black of the iron-wrought curtain walls of the encampment.
Strong, armoured hands found purchase upon her flesh, the cold steel feeling alien upon her skin as she was dragged down from the wagon and unto the dirt, whereupon her head was raised to be inspected by the slave-master. Asked for her name, she tried to speak, but her sorrow was so great that she felt it choke the words from her throat, as tears streamed down from her eyes. “I name you Kuyl, “cowardice”, for such is the legacy of your people,” smiled mockingly the driver of slaves with his yellowed teeth, his breath feeling warm and rotten upon her face. After another moment he threw her back, but otherwise did not harm her, nor did he lay chains upon the girl, for the camp was well guarded and there was little chance of escape.
The guards that had dragged her from the wagon now raised Kuyl up for the slave-master to declare her doom: “You shall serve the Dreadlord himself. Be thankful that you are not delivered to the tender mercies of lesser elves…” spake he grudgingly. He knew of course the fickle nature of his lords, who demanded the most valuable slaves for themselves, as well as the fact that this prisoner had been seen for her beauty around the camp. So was the girl stripped of her old garb, a silken robe of intricate design, now torn and marred by hardship, she was bathed, and finally put in the dress of slaves by the others of her kind. Then she was directed to one of the bigger tents in the camp, which was guarded by two heavily armoured guards, wielding cruel spears and golden shields emblazoned with a black sun. Their eyes were weary, but hatred fueled their gaze, so that she averted her eyes and stood there, cowed, until one of them tired and grabbed the girl, shoving her inside as he exchanged an amused look with his companion.
The girl’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the inside of the tent, which was lit only by several candles, pale witch lights dancing on their edges. At first she thought she saw two elves: One sat upon his knees, staring at nothing in particular at the other side of the tent in some form of meditation. The other was closer and towered over the first menacingly. This one wore a suit of black steel plate over golden silk robes. The armour was intricately engraved with frescoes depicting great hosts of elves doing battle at either side of a monstrous sea-beast whose serpentine heads coiled around the plate up to the crown of the helm, from whence they protruded as if rising from the stillness of a lake to devour their prey. Indeed, prey she felt as she beheld the great warrior, only to realize a moment later, when her eyes had adjusted, the stillness of its form and the empty sockets of the great-helm, which as she saw now was mounted on a display marked centrally with a golden stylized sun.
Not being able to control her fear and weakened by her grief, Kuyl inhaled sharply. This alerted the meditating elf to her presence, who turned his head abruptly to look at the source of the disturbance. This was the first glimpse she got of the one she assumed to be the Dreadlord. What little light the candles afforded shone upon his face, showing his features crisply, as if they had been carved from marble at the birth of the world before it was marred by chaos. The nobility of his visage almost moved the girl to seek clemency, for he seemed at that moment akin to the lords of her own people, from which perhaps their estranged kin were not so different. But she was stopped, as her eyes were drawn inexorably to the dark gaze with which he had transfixed her, his eyes burning in hers like violet stars in strange and foreign skies. Such was the strength of his gaze that her voice again choked in her throat even as she went to speak, and thus silenced she lowered her head in shame and obeyed when she was bidden to go in front of him.
The elf was sitting upon his knees, his khaitan pulled down around his waist so that he was bare chested. As she drew closer, she could make out more of him. His hair was long, and flowed down behind him, while some of it was tied up in a knot above. It was the colour of midnight. As she moved to his front, she saw what the long hair upon his back obscured: His chest and torso were marred by blackened bruising beneath the skin, which followed a forked-lightning pattern downwards, as if a tempest were unleashed upon his very flesh. The girl recoiled at the sight of the horrific wounds, which seemed almost as if they had been inflicted from within; the skin was not broken. The lord frowned upon noticing her reaction: “This is the work of your ilk,” he snarled, “what they cannot defeat, they sunder. Much like Nagarythe of old.” The girl cowered once more at these words, for she feared retribution for angering him, but he was quick to change his tone, noticing her despair: “I am Duvaindir. They call me the “Mournblade” on account of this” he said, standing up slowly with the black sword in his hand. The blade seemed to drink the air and light around it, making the slightest hissing sound. As he sheathed the sword, the witch lights seemed to grow stronger and illuminated the tent well, banishing the darkness. The lord’s gaze too seemed happier and she felt a great burden lifted from her shoulders.
“What is your name?” he continued. As her sadness was somewhat lessened, and her woes seemed for a moment farther away, she spoke her true name: “Erialla” , but hastened to add: “my lord. But I have been given the name Kuyl here…” Duvaindir looked at her with a playful smirk, and she felt somewhat relieved, thinking she had found luck in being assigned to serve him. “Erialla, the name fits you well. I would not change it,” he said, then proceeded to wear his khaitan once more, letting her fasten the straps in the front tightly. After putting on his plate gauntlets, which ended in cruel claws, his boots, and fastening to his side the sheathed blade, he looked down at the slave and said: “Come, I wish to show you something…”
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Strong, armoured hands found purchase upon her flesh, the cold steel feeling alien upon her skin as she was dragged down from the wagon and unto the dirt, whereupon her head was raised to be inspected by the slave-master. Asked for her name, she tried to speak, but her sorrow was so great that she felt it choke the words from her throat, as tears streamed down from her eyes. “I name you Kuyl, “cowardice”, for such is the legacy of your people,” smiled mockingly the driver of slaves with his yellowed teeth, his breath feeling warm and rotten upon her face. After another moment he threw her back, but otherwise did not harm her, nor did he lay chains upon the girl, for the camp was well guarded and there was little chance of escape.
The guards that had dragged her from the wagon now raised Kuyl up for the slave-master to declare her doom: “You shall serve the Dreadlord himself. Be thankful that you are not delivered to the tender mercies of lesser elves…” spake he grudgingly. He knew of course the fickle nature of his lords, who demanded the most valuable slaves for themselves, as well as the fact that this prisoner had been seen for her beauty around the camp. So was the girl stripped of her old garb, a silken robe of intricate design, now torn and marred by hardship, she was bathed, and finally put in the dress of slaves by the others of her kind. Then she was directed to one of the bigger tents in the camp, which was guarded by two heavily armoured guards, wielding cruel spears and golden shields emblazoned with a black sun. Their eyes were weary, but hatred fueled their gaze, so that she averted her eyes and stood there, cowed, until one of them tired and grabbed the girl, shoving her inside as he exchanged an amused look with his companion.
The girl’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the inside of the tent, which was lit only by several candles, pale witch lights dancing on their edges. At first she thought she saw two elves: One sat upon his knees, staring at nothing in particular at the other side of the tent in some form of meditation. The other was closer and towered over the first menacingly. This one wore a suit of black steel plate over golden silk robes. The armour was intricately engraved with frescoes depicting great hosts of elves doing battle at either side of a monstrous sea-beast whose serpentine heads coiled around the plate up to the crown of the helm, from whence they protruded as if rising from the stillness of a lake to devour their prey. Indeed, prey she felt as she beheld the great warrior, only to realize a moment later, when her eyes had adjusted, the stillness of its form and the empty sockets of the great-helm, which as she saw now was mounted on a display marked centrally with a golden stylized sun.
Not being able to control her fear and weakened by her grief, Kuyl inhaled sharply. This alerted the meditating elf to her presence, who turned his head abruptly to look at the source of the disturbance. This was the first glimpse she got of the one she assumed to be the Dreadlord. What little light the candles afforded shone upon his face, showing his features crisply, as if they had been carved from marble at the birth of the world before it was marred by chaos. The nobility of his visage almost moved the girl to seek clemency, for he seemed at that moment akin to the lords of her own people, from which perhaps their estranged kin were not so different. But she was stopped, as her eyes were drawn inexorably to the dark gaze with which he had transfixed her, his eyes burning in hers like violet stars in strange and foreign skies. Such was the strength of his gaze that her voice again choked in her throat even as she went to speak, and thus silenced she lowered her head in shame and obeyed when she was bidden to go in front of him.
The elf was sitting upon his knees, his khaitan pulled down around his waist so that he was bare chested. As she drew closer, she could make out more of him. His hair was long, and flowed down behind him, while some of it was tied up in a knot above. It was the colour of midnight. As she moved to his front, she saw what the long hair upon his back obscured: His chest and torso were marred by blackened bruising beneath the skin, which followed a forked-lightning pattern downwards, as if a tempest were unleashed upon his very flesh. The girl recoiled at the sight of the horrific wounds, which seemed almost as if they had been inflicted from within; the skin was not broken. The lord frowned upon noticing her reaction: “This is the work of your ilk,” he snarled, “what they cannot defeat, they sunder. Much like Nagarythe of old.” The girl cowered once more at these words, for she feared retribution for angering him, but he was quick to change his tone, noticing her despair: “I am Duvaindir. They call me the “Mournblade” on account of this” he said, standing up slowly with the black sword in his hand. The blade seemed to drink the air and light around it, making the slightest hissing sound. As he sheathed the sword, the witch lights seemed to grow stronger and illuminated the tent well, banishing the darkness. The lord’s gaze too seemed happier and she felt a great burden lifted from her shoulders.
“What is your name?” he continued. As her sadness was somewhat lessened, and her woes seemed for a moment farther away, she spoke her true name: “Erialla” , but hastened to add: “my lord. But I have been given the name Kuyl here…” Duvaindir looked at her with a playful smirk, and she felt somewhat relieved, thinking she had found luck in being assigned to serve him. “Erialla, the name fits you well. I would not change it,” he said, then proceeded to wear his khaitan once more, letting her fasten the straps in the front tightly. After putting on his plate gauntlets, which ended in cruel claws, his boots, and fastening to his side the sheathed blade, he looked down at the slave and said: “Come, I wish to show you something…”
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