SiriaCessmera
12-27-2003, 07:27 AM
On request, I am reposting this in the RP forums. Was originally posted in the main DnL English forum. Hope you enjoy the read.
The soft drone of insect wings were all that sounded in the ears of the Seven as they awaited underground for an all too certain death to take them. The dancing of torchlight off the carved clay walls detailed the fear and pain as uneasy shadows swayed to and fro, restless in this moment of calm. A crude wooden table stood in the center of the Seven - notes, books and maps strewn across the coarse, grained top.
A man stepped toward the table, coughing as he choked on the dank, stale air. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, preparing his words in his head. “My name is Gilhen, son of Varehen, human from the realm of Zephyr. The Alliance is suffering, its hopes are dieing. We gather this day to decide which path we will take in the strife to reclaim ourselves from the ire of Dragoon.” He paused a moment to gather himself, looking into the faces of the other six who had now gathered around the center table. Clearing his throat, he continued, “With that, I ask of you all now, do we choose to continue our fighting?”
“Tis be nuthin’ but ‘eh vain fight if we be takin’ up in arms again,” grunted a humble Dwarf by the name of Lillikin. “Perhaps ye all be losin’ yer faith, but I know Agnar twould be a comin’ to put those cads in their places.”
“What proof have you of that? It’s the Gods who started this blasted war, who says they even care to save us? We are nothing to them, this is our fated end by which they have doomed us to,” cried Sargiaàn, a young, sharp tongued Half-Elf. He looked as though he wanted to continue on his rant but instead sighed, and stared blankly into the torchlight.
Gilhen turned to the Dwarf, a sympathetic smile gracing his face, “He’s right, the Gods have failed us. Praying to them now would only waste what few breaths we have left to live.” It pained Gilhen to speak as such. The faith Lillikin still possessed was rare in those ages of dark – to abolish it would be to abolish what will he had left to live. Even Gilhen had bowed his head from time to time for a few words that Zephyr might return a watchful eye and helpful hand to all those of loyalty, it hurt to think this a fools hope.
“Why not stay underground until our troops have matured? We will then make our attack with a force far greater than what any could muster this day,” softly spoke the Elf, Sylvandiel.
Awoken from his thoughts, Sargiaàn laughed heartily at Sylvandiel. “Oh sure, you Elves may enjoy the smell of soil, but for the rest of us it stinks worse than a dieing Orc down here,” he spat mockingly.
A thundering crack startled them all as Gruhun, the Half-Orc, pounded his fists against the table, causing the top to splinter. “Stupid Half-Elf have no ideas, stupid Half-Elf only mean to others,” Gruhun roared, pointed a bloody fist at Sargiaàn. From this, argument pursued as each of the races shouted how they thought things should best be handled. Lillikin preached that Agnar would come to save all, Sylvandiel and Frolwen, the Fairy, continued that it would be best to remain underground, Sargiaàn mocked both parties and Gruhun and Hoguànk, the Half-Troll, cursed at everyone.
Such would it carry on for hours had not the roar of battle from Dragoon echoed throughout the tunnels at that very moment, drowning out all other sounds. In stark contrast to the silence that followed the roar, a gentle sobbing was heard. It came from Gilhen, whose head was down as he leaned on his fists against the table. “I’ll not wait any longer for those demons to destroy my home and,” he paused as a tear rolled down his cheek, “loved ones.” Weakly he pushed away from the table, resting his back against the damp clay walls.
“Then let’s not wait. Let us act now,” Sargiaàn said as he fumbled through his cloak pocket, eventually pulling out a roll of parchment. Spreading the parchment over the table, he waited for the other races to read the text –
“We, the Half-Elves, wish to pledge our allegiance to the Alliance in this time of war, that we may not cease our fighting until either Dragoon and his troops lay dead or our own bodies are returned to Ganareth’s soil.”
Upon finishing the read, Gruhun clumsily took a quill from the table and scribbled the allegiance of both the Half Orcs and Half Trolls onto the parchment, reading the same commitment as the Half-Elves had given. Lillikin soon after wrote a similar pledge in the name of the Dwarves, followed by Sylvandiel of the Elves, Frolwen of the Fairies, and finally, Gilhen of the Humans. At the top, Gilhen finished off by titling the document, ‘The Treaty of Seven Pillars’.
“Well then,” Gilhen said as he laid the quill next to the Treaty, “we’re off to battle!”
The soft drone of insect wings were all that sounded in the ears of the Seven as they awaited underground for an all too certain death to take them. The dancing of torchlight off the carved clay walls detailed the fear and pain as uneasy shadows swayed to and fro, restless in this moment of calm. A crude wooden table stood in the center of the Seven - notes, books and maps strewn across the coarse, grained top.
A man stepped toward the table, coughing as he choked on the dank, stale air. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, preparing his words in his head. “My name is Gilhen, son of Varehen, human from the realm of Zephyr. The Alliance is suffering, its hopes are dieing. We gather this day to decide which path we will take in the strife to reclaim ourselves from the ire of Dragoon.” He paused a moment to gather himself, looking into the faces of the other six who had now gathered around the center table. Clearing his throat, he continued, “With that, I ask of you all now, do we choose to continue our fighting?”
“Tis be nuthin’ but ‘eh vain fight if we be takin’ up in arms again,” grunted a humble Dwarf by the name of Lillikin. “Perhaps ye all be losin’ yer faith, but I know Agnar twould be a comin’ to put those cads in their places.”
“What proof have you of that? It’s the Gods who started this blasted war, who says they even care to save us? We are nothing to them, this is our fated end by which they have doomed us to,” cried Sargiaàn, a young, sharp tongued Half-Elf. He looked as though he wanted to continue on his rant but instead sighed, and stared blankly into the torchlight.
Gilhen turned to the Dwarf, a sympathetic smile gracing his face, “He’s right, the Gods have failed us. Praying to them now would only waste what few breaths we have left to live.” It pained Gilhen to speak as such. The faith Lillikin still possessed was rare in those ages of dark – to abolish it would be to abolish what will he had left to live. Even Gilhen had bowed his head from time to time for a few words that Zephyr might return a watchful eye and helpful hand to all those of loyalty, it hurt to think this a fools hope.
“Why not stay underground until our troops have matured? We will then make our attack with a force far greater than what any could muster this day,” softly spoke the Elf, Sylvandiel.
Awoken from his thoughts, Sargiaàn laughed heartily at Sylvandiel. “Oh sure, you Elves may enjoy the smell of soil, but for the rest of us it stinks worse than a dieing Orc down here,” he spat mockingly.
A thundering crack startled them all as Gruhun, the Half-Orc, pounded his fists against the table, causing the top to splinter. “Stupid Half-Elf have no ideas, stupid Half-Elf only mean to others,” Gruhun roared, pointed a bloody fist at Sargiaàn. From this, argument pursued as each of the races shouted how they thought things should best be handled. Lillikin preached that Agnar would come to save all, Sylvandiel and Frolwen, the Fairy, continued that it would be best to remain underground, Sargiaàn mocked both parties and Gruhun and Hoguànk, the Half-Troll, cursed at everyone.
Such would it carry on for hours had not the roar of battle from Dragoon echoed throughout the tunnels at that very moment, drowning out all other sounds. In stark contrast to the silence that followed the roar, a gentle sobbing was heard. It came from Gilhen, whose head was down as he leaned on his fists against the table. “I’ll not wait any longer for those demons to destroy my home and,” he paused as a tear rolled down his cheek, “loved ones.” Weakly he pushed away from the table, resting his back against the damp clay walls.
“Then let’s not wait. Let us act now,” Sargiaàn said as he fumbled through his cloak pocket, eventually pulling out a roll of parchment. Spreading the parchment over the table, he waited for the other races to read the text –
“We, the Half-Elves, wish to pledge our allegiance to the Alliance in this time of war, that we may not cease our fighting until either Dragoon and his troops lay dead or our own bodies are returned to Ganareth’s soil.”
Upon finishing the read, Gruhun clumsily took a quill from the table and scribbled the allegiance of both the Half Orcs and Half Trolls onto the parchment, reading the same commitment as the Half-Elves had given. Lillikin soon after wrote a similar pledge in the name of the Dwarves, followed by Sylvandiel of the Elves, Frolwen of the Fairies, and finally, Gilhen of the Humans. At the top, Gilhen finished off by titling the document, ‘The Treaty of Seven Pillars’.
“Well then,” Gilhen said as he laid the quill next to the Treaty, “we’re off to battle!”