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PostPosted: Fri May 04, 2012 5:33 pm 
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Well played Sir
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It takes three obvious Shadow Warriors to answer some questions, how many were hiding in plain sight while it happened I wonder...

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These may be the last days of the Asur, but if we are to leave this world let us do it as the heroes of old, sword raised against evil!


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PostPosted: Fri May 04, 2012 6:01 pm 
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Headshot wrote:
And we don't sell our know-how; we live it.

And sell it dearly. :)
You know, catching a flying sandcastle in a face is not what you want in a battle, is it? Not that I would do that to any of you, of course. *Strolls away singing.*


Tiralya wrote:
It takes three obvious Shadow Warriors to answer some questions, how many were hiding in plain sight while it happened I wonder...

Those six looking over my shoulder from the shelf are laughing themselves silly.

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PostPosted: Fri May 04, 2012 6:08 pm 
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Well played Sir
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Well played m'lady.

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Beastly member of The Mage Knight Guild.
Narrin’Tim wrote:
These may be the last days of the Asur, but if we are to leave this world let us do it as the heroes of old, sword raised against evil!


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PostPosted: Fri May 04, 2012 6:58 pm 
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Now look here Nagarathi, you let Mr Headshot down from that tree, and stop pointing that bow at him. You'd probably miss anyway. Rotten shots, these Dru- I mean Nagarathi!

:D

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PostPosted: Sat May 05, 2012 4:36 pm 
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Hi all,

Sorry about that metaleptic intervention! I got treed by a bear. (And I thought Nagarythe black bears would be kinda cute and small like US ones. Not the case.)

Ok, I also have to apologize for breaking the story direction right now. See last night I was going through my old postings and I found this little ditty. I liked it, and thought it should be preserved as well. If nothing else it was my first attempt to look at the psychology of the Shadow Prince. I'm gonna throw it in with a bit of the batrep around it just cause it was so much fun! :D

We'll get back to the story in Cothique shortly.

Chronology is year one. Battle with Settra's Raiders.


Dramatic interlude –

Throughout the battle, like a great evil eye, a green witchfire had burned in the distant hills. The spectral forms of men, elves and demons could be seen rising in the air above it, circling like moths. Now as the undead army bore down on their position, the Shadow Lord noticed a change in the green light. It flared, and throbbed – almost like a heartbeat – growing so bright in the distance that it dwarfed the stars above. Around the Shadow Lord the color appeared to drain from the world, melting into the barren soil like wax upon a stove. A cold darkness remained. In it, he was alone. Alone except for the bright green flame. It grew closer; or he grew closer to it. Time. Distance. All was lost in that netherspace. All that existed was the blackness. And the flame.

Then a man emerged from the fire. Not a man. No. the thing wore the regal robes of the ancient priest-kings of Nekhara, but the flesh of his face and hands were dessicated and sallow. More witchfire filled his eye sockets. He emerged from the flame and stood, seemingly, only a few paces in front of the Shadow Lord.

“Despair,” a chilling, empty voice called from nowhere, and everywhere about him.

“Despair o Elfling! You stand before a Disciple of Nagash!”

“Despair at the wastelands I have known and swallowed!”

“Despair at the ruins of the kingdoms of ancient days!”

“Despair at the death that follows in the wake of one of the keepers of the Secret Name of Death.”

“Despair in the emptiness of your Being!”

“Despair!”

The witchfire seemed to burn even brighter in the eyes of the ancient licheking as he last spoke, watching the elf before him. The elf's head was bowed now; shoulders slumped. Face buried by his long tresses. His body shook.

Most go weeping into the graves the liche-kings prepare for them….

The elf’s shoulders shook. And then…a noise emerged. The liche’s head lifted in surprise. It was laughter, a soft, deep chuckling was escaping from the elf’s lips.

“Despair?” the elf looked up and suddenly said, eyes steely. “What do you know of despair, dead thing?!”

“What do you know of the sunken cities?! The once glistening marble halls now drunk by the cold deep?!” the elf glared as he spoke, taking a step forward.

“What do you know of the elder groves – ancient even in the times when the Lizard Gods first walked this world – that now lie submerged beneath brine and filth?!!” The elf took another step.

“What do you know of the families lost! The households emptied! To treachery and madness! A nation of brothers forced to slay brother?! Speak! What do you know?!”

Another step.

“What do you know of the wife who has made the funerary rites, while her husband yet draws breath!? A wife who has sung the dirge of parting, though the blood and warmth of her love still walk this earth?! Tell me!!!!”

The elf now stood before the liche, who was frozen like a statue. Whispering, and shaking as he did so, the elf continued. “Tell me – what do you know of the son? A son who will grow into a man without ever once having known his father’s face? His father’s voice?? His father’s love??!!!” He shouted.

Sudden comprehension filled the liche’s face. As well as something alien – fear.

“Yes, Old Nick. Now you understand,” the elf said grimly. Then suddenly his hand seized the collar of the priest’s robes, pulling its rotting countenance close to his own. Cold black eyes met spectral fire ones. And the black. Did. Not. Flinch.

“I am a Prince of the Nagarathi! I am the Shadow Lord!!”

A grim smile split the elf's lips. “And a Shadow Lord knows not this thing despair….”

“All we know is hate!” With one clean motion, Spite left its scabbard and traveled along a single razor arc, cleaving the ancient evil from collar to hip, spilling the green flame bile into the darkness.

Color returned….


The spell went off. We rolled for the effect. One. One. Two. Yeah, I wouldn’t suggest trying that spell on the Shadow Lord….

But there still was the shooting phase. At that point every skeleton in the army with a bow took aim at the Shadow Lord’s warriors, letting loose a mighty volley….

….and after the rain of black feathered arrows fell, there amongst a field planted with barbs of steel and bone, stood the Shadow Lord, and his brothers, untouched…

My opponent just couldn’t get a 5 or 6 for the life of him that turn. And I can say this without too much exaggeration, there was something of a supernatural horror at work. His entire army it seemed had tried to kill that one elf. But. He. Just. Wouldn’t. Die!

My turn comes around, and there is still the little matter of the entire undead army bearing down on my exposed lord and shadow warriors. What to do? What to do? I briefly toyed with the idea of trying to pull out of charge range and trying to make it into the lee of the big rock. But I wasn’t sure of that casket’s power. Line of Sight. No line of sight. Plus the darn Tomb King shooting had shown to be (usually) so accurate. (Man, so much better than ours! Arrrghhh!!!). So the withdrawal plan seemed sketchy.

Besides, the Shadow Lord is of the Nagarathi! Not some Chracian cub! ;)

“For the Everqueen!!”

That’s right. I charged. The Shadow Lord had his Aragorn moment. Just him and his brothers charging into the teeth of the undead army, while the rest of my army watched from the side. (I hope the cute emissary was watching, because it was quite cool.) With some luck, and good dice, his unit managed to make the flank of the chariots.

Now, the Nagarathi are not known as a people of many virtues. Unlike the elves of the inner kingdoms, the Nagarathi do not spend much time pondering the mysteries of Sophia, or of physics, natural and meta. In fact, the entirety of the Nagarathi ethics manual could be printed on one, half-sized, index card. It would read:

NEVER LEAVE A BROTHER BEHIND.

“For the Everqueen!!” The cry went all up and down the Nagarathi line, a great roar from deep within their breasts. With a heretofore unseen speed the army charged forward.

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PostPosted: Sun May 06, 2012 3:35 am 
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Well played Sir
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I loved that charge!

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Beastly member of The Mage Knight Guild.
Narrin’Tim wrote:
These may be the last days of the Asur, but if we are to leave this world let us do it as the heroes of old, sword raised against evil!


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PostPosted: Sun May 06, 2012 6:41 am 
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I like the part when he destroyed a sphinx with spirit leech.

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"Eatainian jerks…" -Headshot
"It was a little ungentlemanly." -Aicanor (on the Eatainii)
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PostPosted: Sun May 06, 2012 4:49 pm 
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How dare there be spam in such an immaculate thread...

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"Eatainian jerks…" -Headshot
"It was a little ungentlemanly." -Aicanor (on the Eatainii)
"What is it with Eataini being blamed for everything?" -Aicanor


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PostPosted: Mon May 07, 2012 7:46 am 
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Palin'Tanith wrote:
Something

:lol: Lol

Great post... Nice to see you let Headshot out of the tree again though.

@Headshot: That was one epic charge. Great posting. NEVER LEAVE A BROTHER BEHIND...

Rod

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PostPosted: Mon May 07, 2012 7:49 am 
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Hey if your available this week, thursday and saturday are best. Monday night would work too as of right now will see if i get called in for work though [-o<

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PostPosted: Mon May 07, 2012 8:16 am 
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A game - that's what we like to hear! [-o<

Gobbos again, Cal?

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"Eatainian jerks…" -Headshot
"It was a little ungentlemanly." -Aicanor (on the Eatainii)
"What is it with Eataini being blamed for everything?" -Aicanor


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PostPosted: Tue May 08, 2012 7:08 pm 
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Ultimate End Times Chronicler

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@Cal

Sure. We'll have Rod write that chapter for me, and Tiralya change diapers for you; all for the noble purpose of letting us get in a game! :D

But seriously, Thursday is looking pretty free (if frazzled). Send me a PM on some times and lets work something out.

Though, if you continue to roll five 6s on six dice whenever you need it, I'm taking a hit out on you! Your daughter is just gonna have to get used to the idea of growing up without a daddy.... :evil:

And story....

Back to Cothique, and the lovely North! Still spring, year six.


SOME OLD FACES….

Liliean followed the young Shadow Warrior outside the busy dockside quarter of Tor’Alessa and into the surrounding hills that loomed over the harbor. The streets here were broader, and less crowded with elves going about their business. As they reached the heights, the houses gradually became larger: stately mansions with walled-in enclosures. Glancing over the top of a few of the walls, Liliean could see carefully manicured gardens, stately willows, or carefully pruned pines and rosewoods, that testified to the aesthetic care, and the wealth, of the house’s occupants.

The boy warrior, Avyn’Pol led her down one of the tree-lined avenues that ended at another of the stately manors. Liliean immediately knew that this was the ‘headquarters’ to which he had referred to; a pair of Shadow Warriors, grim of countenance, and with blade and bow at hand, lounged on either side of the courtyard gate. They nodded at Avyn’Pol and allowed them to pass through. The interior courtyard was dominated by a carpet of lush green grass, and a small stone fountain, set with a crystal depiction of a stag, from which the water flowed out and over. Scattered about were groups of Nagarathi, archers and Shadow Warriors.

Liliean stopped and took in the view. The garden was so welcoming she wished she had time to kick off her boots and walk barefoot through it. Instead, she simply said, “This is nicer than the usual accommodations, isn’t it?”

Avyn’Pol nodded. “Yep, it sure is. Warm beds and clean sheets. And these funny smelling sticks in every room!” He seemed excited. “It’s all because some Cot’ii owed the Prince a favor. But too bad we’re only here for a little. I mean, until-“ he stopped suddenly, and sent a suspicious look at her. “Until…others talk to you that is.” And then he clammed up.

Liliean smiled. He was adorable! But she graciously nodded her head, and let the young Nagarathi lead her into the manor. Past the welcome foyer and up a flight of stairs led them to a long hallway. At the end was a large oaken door, partly agape. And lounging next to it…

“Who is that severe looking Romani there?” she asked with pursed lips.

“Ah that’s Tim,” Avyn’Pol answered, apparently having overcome his prior reticence. “He drew door duty this morning. Nobody can get into the command room without his say so.” The boy explained as they came down the hallway. He added in a whisper. “But he’s alright.”

Yes, he was. Liliean thought. He was tall, and lanky like most Nagarathi, and with the shaven scalp and long braided queue of the Romani wanderers of the Western Hills. But he was also armed to the teeth. A curved falchion at his waist, was only the longest of a set of knives slung through his belt. But then strangely, he had a long straight sword strapped to his back, and a refined, luxurious white wood bow, strung and resting against the wall, within easy reach. Odd that. Nagarathi tended to favor simple and functional over the decorative. And the work on the bow was incredibly intricate. She appraised its value with a practiced eye and concluded that it would trade for a small room’s worth of silver in certain quarters in Lothern.

She wondered if the Romani knew that?

“Pol,” the Romani greeted. “Who’s this?”

“I’m a courier,” Liliean quickly interjected. She presented the parcel with the Shadow Lord’s sigil emblazoned on the front. “I’m here to see the Prince.”

The Romani studied her with blank face and flat gray eyes. He wasn’t particularly handsome…but there was something about him… that made her stomach flutter. The way he just studied her calmly for those few moments.

Then he nodded, and pushed at the door. He looked inside.

“Wait a moment,” he said. “They are already in meeting.”

Liliean looked past his shoulder into the room beyond. It was a study, rather small but plush with rich furnishings. Thick carpets of bearskin and shelves lined with books sat along the walls. Despite the spring warmth outside, a small fire burned in a fireplace in one corner. The room was already crowded with elves, sitting and standing in various stages of attention. And on the other side of the room, directly across from the door, sat a teakwood desk. Behind which sat a grizzled old elf, face covered in scars, and hair done in a wild mangle of white braids.

Palin’Tanith. Terrific. She thought, and frowned.

Near the desk stood a tall elf dressed in burnished silver mail. He was young. Very young. Perhaps Avyn’Pol’s age. And his long blonde hair hung loose except for the single long temple braid. That and the furs he wore over his shoulder, marked him as Chracian.

Hmmm…but the furs were brown. So not a member of the warrior elite of that land. Or perhaps, giving the richness of his mail, one too young to have undergone the rite?

“My father,” the boy Chracian was saying, “has sent sailors and marines from his fleet. As well as weapons and provisions – feed, wood and ore, rope and textile, and fashioned bows and arrows. It’s…ummm, all in the list I gave you.”

He sounded nervous, Liliean thought. Of course, Palin’Tanith had that effect on people. Not only was he ancient, but his face was a virtual icon of conflict – the scars that covered his cheeks and forehead, clipped his nose, and the terrible red one across his throat, all testified to millennia of warfare against the Druchii. And he was just sitting there, staring at the boy. Appraising.

She could almost see the sweat pooling between the Chracian boy’s shoulders. “My father,” he said again, seeming to rush to get it out, “only regrets that he can’t send more. But he has…ummm, already committed sizable…ummm, resources of the House, to….ummm, other endeavors.”

At that Palin’Tanith leaned back in his chair. “Wait, don’t tell me,” the old elf said in his distinctive gravel-bass voice. “He’s thrown his warriors into that fool Caledorian’s expedition.”

The young Chracian started, and almost looked guilty. Then blushing, nodded.

Tanith’s chair made a loud scraping sound, as he kicked it back away from the desk, and stood hunkered over with disgust clearly showing in his face. “Dammit all! Are we to have no aid?!” he cursed, and looked like he dearly wanted to spit. “All because of that smug, lizard loving, inbred, son-of-a-“

“Tanith!” a voice interrupted. Liliean looked to the side and saw a tall, and handsome elf, dressed in immaculate Fleet officers robes, sitting idly in a chair, legs propped up on a small table in front of him. “As much as I enjoy listening to your reflections on the merits of the leading lights of the Ever Empire,” he said with a droll smile, “Perhaps this would be a case of ‘time and place’.” He finished, nodding at the young Chracian.

“Right,” Tanith nodded, and took a deep breath. “Sorry Prince Oryann. We’ll accept whatever aid your father can offer. Thank you.”

The young Chracian nodded his head again, and looked relieved to be released from any further speaking. He stepped back into a corner in the room.

Tanith glanced about the room. He ran his right hand through the tangle of white braids. The left sleeve of his robes hung limp and loose. Another loss in battle.

“Now, if there is no more business…”

The Romani pushed her into the room, coming in beside her with Avyn’Pol and closing the door behind them. Palin’Tanith’s eyes flitted to her, and then opened wide in shock.

“Lili!” he exclaimed.

“Old One,” she acknowledge back, with a smirk. She pointed with her chin at the empty sleeve, and said, “You been trying to trim your own braids again?”

“Cute,” the old elf said with a grimace. “What are you doing here?”

“Relax,” she said. She produced the parcel from her jacket and placed it on the desk in front of him. “I’m playing the courier. Nevernili of Tor’Yvresse is responding to the Prince’s letter. She has sent the requested trade maps,” she said, and pointed with her thumb at the parcel. “As well as additional supplies. I’ve got provisions, and clothing, and good Yvressi steel blades, all down at the docks waiting to be loaded into Nagarathi holds.”

“But no warriors?” Tanith frowned.

“Nope,” Liliean answered. “Something about a new vote on Archons. Yvressi politics.” She shrugged. “I head from Prince Elessehta that he could send an eagle ship and crew…” Tanith looked hopeful at that. “If. If you waited until the summer.”

“Dammit. No we can’t wait,” Tanith swore. “The Prince was clear that we must leave within the fortnight.”

Liliean just stood there, thumbs hooked into her belt.

“Alright,” Tanith continued. “We’ll make do. Like we always do.” He looked up at the elf maiden. “We can talk more later. This evening?” There was almost a note of hopeful inquiry in the last.

Liliean held up her hand. “Wait. Nevernili also sent this.” She held up the crimson stave. “The BloodRose,” she explained. “It was crafted for her father, Gallus, in his youth. She said it is a proud, and powerful, family artifact. But that she wants it used in Nagarathi hands.” Liliean looked thoughtfully at the redwood, then added:

“Actually, in my hands, she said.” She looked up at Tanith. “I’m coming with you.”

The room went quiet. And then Tanith exploded,

“What?!!”

Liliean folded her arms calmly across her chest. “You heard me.”

“No! Out of the question!” Tanith spurted.

Her temper flaring, Liliean snarled back, “Why not?”

“Because! Because…there are no women in the Host! That is why!” Tanith barked in return.

“Since when,” she snapped. “Women have served before! Everyone knows that! Why just recently you had women from Chrace and Saphery serving!” She looked around the room for support.

The one known as Tim slowly nodded and said, “That’s true, Tanith.”

“YOU! Stay out of this!” the old elf sent a glare at the Romani. Then turning back at Liliean said, “That was different. They were representatives from the Tower.”

“So?! You know I have the gift! I’ve spent decades studying with the navigators and learning their secret lore in Yvresse and Eataine. I’ve sailed to the Isles of Dawn and back! And up and down the coasts of Cathay! You know that!” she couldn’t control her temper any more and was shouting at the old, obstinate elf. “You need a navigator! And the Host needs someone with the gift!” She tossed the letter from her breast pocket upon the desk. “I know that! I intercepted the courier on the way to the White Tower!” She pointed at the letter. “I can offer both!!”

“No!!” Tanith shouted back.

“Why not?!”

Scowling, the old elf yelled, “Because I’m your father, and I say so!!”

Feeling cold inside, Palin’Liliean folded her arms across her chest once more, and said in a harsh voice, “Since when?”

The barb hit home. She could see a flicker of pain in the old elf’s eyes. But his jaw was set as he said, “I said no. And that is final.”

The room was dead quiet for a moment, but then….

“I believe that is not your decision to make, Palin’Tanith. It is mine.” A voice said softly from out of the shadows of the room. Suddenly all the elves were standing stiff at attention, as the Shadow Lord emerged from out of an alcove….


***

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PostPosted: Tue May 08, 2012 7:14 pm 
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Young Eataini Prince
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Headshot wrote:
“Who is that severe looking Romani there?”


Ha, I'd hardly call Tim severe. He seems rather jolly to me. Well, except when he's left guarding the door. ;)

Headshot wrote:
Sure. We'll have Rod write that chapter for me, and Tiralya change diapers for you; all for the noble purpose of letting us get in a game!


Oh good, I got away without having to do anything. :P

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"I say the Eatainii were cheating - again." -Aicanor
"Eatainian jerks…" -Headshot
"It was a little ungentlemanly." -Aicanor (on the Eatainii)
"What is it with Eataini being blamed for everything?" -Aicanor


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PostPosted: Wed May 09, 2012 2:53 am 
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Well played Sir
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I remember Elessehta being mentioned in this. The eagleship was in the old world, Evelo Maethor had taken it to search for his brother Daggro. He's still not back yet, in fact the Prince has taken his personal hawkship to sort out the mess down there.

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Beastly member of The Mage Knight Guild.
Narrin’Tim wrote:
These may be the last days of the Asur, but if we are to leave this world let us do it as the heroes of old, sword raised against evil!


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PostPosted: Wed May 09, 2012 6:59 am 
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Headshot wrote:
Sure. We'll have Rod write that chapter for me, and Tiralya change diapers for you; all for the noble purpose of letting us get in a game!

I'm glad I got the good part of the job.
Good luck with the diapers Tiralya. I've smelled them and I'm just glad it's not me changing them... ;)

I'll be happy to write a chapter for you. I'm just not sure if I can get them to talk to me. Palin’Tanith at least doesn't seem to like me very much. Tim might be a bit more reasonable but not much ;)

Rod

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Please try to remember that, no matter how 'official' the source seems, rumours are basically just a dictionary combined with a random number generator

For Nagarythe: Come to the dark side.
PS: Bring cookies!

Check out my plog
Painting progress, done/in progress/in box: 167/33/91


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PostPosted: Wed May 09, 2012 4:50 pm 
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@Tiralya (you'll always be Tiralya for me!)

Don't worry, I've forgiven the lack of Yvressi support in that endeavor! It's just Tanith that keeps grumbling, 'Typical.'

Which reminds me...

@Rod

Well given that Palin'Tanith is a racist, sexist, ageist, Nagarathi jingoist, etc., its probably not such a bad thing that he doesn't want to talk with you, or any of us. :)

And story-wise I always thought it was kinda interesting that the army book tells us the High Elfs are 'arrogant', and yet we as a community find so many different ways to explore that vice as a character trait. I mean from the very personally oriented arrogance of Eli's prince, to this miss-match of vanities and grievances that compose the core of 'grumpy old Tanith'.

headshot

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PostPosted: Thu May 10, 2012 8:25 am 
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Headshot wrote:
@Tiralya (you'll always be Tiralya for me!)

This I don't mind at all, the thought that you're typing it out and not copy/pasting makes it special. Tiralya is still pictured in my avatar too.

I wouldn't say that Elessehta is racist, he has personal reasons for hating Greenskins(the death of his father outside of Tor Yvresse), and Dwarfs(the death of his Aunt during the razing of Tor Alessi). I'd say the Asur arrogance shows in his view of humanity, he looks down on men for being weak.

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Lord Elessehta Silverbough of Ar Yvrellion, Ruler of Athel Anarhain, Prince of the Yvressi.
Beastly member of The Mage Knight Guild.
Narrin’Tim wrote:
These may be the last days of the Asur, but if we are to leave this world let us do it as the heroes of old, sword raised against evil!


Last edited by Elessehta of Yvresse on Sun Apr 21, 2013 6:30 am, edited 1 time in total.

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PostPosted: Tue Mar 26, 2013 8:30 pm 
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A CASE FOR CALCULATION – Part One


The Prince of Spires stood upon the palace balcony. It was only midmorning and yet already the sun was filled with the tropical heat of the south. Appropriately, the elf lord wore the diaphanous loose fitting robes that were the custom in his country, but otherwise, he scarcely noticed the heat. His eyes were fixed upon the horizon, with a burning intensity.

The Prince of Spires surveyed the breadth of his domains…

And did not weep. For there were more worlds to conquer….

Many.

To the north he could see the ochre smudge where the arid grasslands disappeared to the cracked earth and billowing dunes of the trackless Registan Desert. A deathland of scorpions and sand bordered by salt flats and the sea to one side and mountains in the far north. Mountains rumored to be the tallest in all the world; called by the natives ‘the Roof of the World’. But even then the deathlands only rippled around the base of the mighty snowcapped peaks, continuing to flow around the range’s hidden springs, ice vales, and carnivorous giants, stretching ever further north to merge with the great gaping maw of lifelessness that was the Dark Lands. There no civilized people dwelt. Only monsters and creatures of Chaos, in whose dark temples fires burned day and night, consuming the bodies of countless sacrifices. The screaming. The maimed. The tortured slaves, that spent a lifetime fueling the furnaces with their labor, only to finally end as offerings upon the very pyres they had labored so long tending…..

The Prince’s gaze shifted. To the south lay the mighty River Rewa. Its broad depths ran hundreds of leagues from the hinterlands and the shoulders of the ‘Roof of the World’, until it finally reached its mouth and emptied into the Bengali Sea. Here near its end, the river was broad – nearly a mile wide – sluggish and dotted with little rocky isles and sandbanks. And beyond the river….coming to its very edges, clinging, crushing, and devouring its far shore, the Great Jungle. That mass of tree and foliage, climbing vine, and poisonous fern, stretched as far as the eye could see, consuming all of the South within its hungry mass. It was full of life; but a life alien to his kind. The Jungle breathed. The Jungle grew. The Jungle thrived. And the Jungle ate. It devoured all within its bounds turning even the most hardy of life into compost for its own nourishment. Such is its way. So virulent was the growth beneath its boughs that every second of life, every breath taken, was a war with all other living things around one. A war that the Asur could not win. There in the depths of the forest only a few outposts of the High People were kept, harvesting the valuable spices of that realm. But even those few outposts were only maintained by the diligent work of Jade wizards, who were forced to tend to incantations day and night, until their eyes wept bloody tears, just to keep out the miasma and foul vapors of the land. The vapors were a more deadly foe than blade or fire: if unchecked, they would leave an Asur a desiccated corpse lying in his own bodily filth in less than a fortnight.

And then… Here. The City of Spires….

Between the Rewa and the Registan was a narrow band of arid plains, kept free of the Jungle’s vapors by fierce trade-winds coming in from the sea. Only here on the entirety of this forbidding continent had the Asur found a home.

They had found a home. And moreover, they had thrived.

The Prince’s eyes turned to the city. All about rose the towering calcified remnants of the conch-like shells of the ancient leviathans. Those spiraling bleached remains from which the city took its name dwarfed even the loftiest of marble construction the Asur had raised amongst them. The bones were near indestructible too; having survived tens of thousands of years of lashings by the terrible seasonal cyclones. So in the short millennia the Asur had called this place home a symbiotic life had sprung up between the comparatively young newcomers and the ancient graveyard: the Asur had built their column-lined halls, and lofty minarets within the eaves and under the shadows of the great calcite shells. And over the centuries the two had gradually become one, until now, the towers and temples of Asuryan’s people merged with the bones of the lost sea gods. The highest Asur structures now stood from the top of the great shells. Marble and bone, mixed to the purposes of life, worship, and defense. A city. His city….

The Prince of Spires jaw stretched taught as his teeth clenched. His eyes turned to the harbor that lay beneath his palace. There the most boisterous pool of shipping and storage could be found this side of Lothern. Vessels from throughout Ulthuan were moored alongside the many docks and wharfs and before the bulging contents of his warehouses. Amongst the vessels of the homeland were many more from the colonies of the south and east. Hundreds and hundreds of ships, all seeking to fill their holds with the spices that Spires had to offer. With the cattle that feasted on the lush grain of the grass beyond the city walls. And for the wealthiest of calling lords, with the dragon eggs from the nests of the nearby isles the city claimed as its own protectorate. Each egg worth a small fortune in silver or trade. And every exchange of that most precious of commodities the Prince of Spires himself carefully considered, and oversaw.

The cost for even a single egg was so high that it tempted some lesser lords to attempt theft of the eggs. To conveniently ‘find’ them in their sojourns through the Dragon Isles. Attempts that the Prince had time and time again rebuked with cold severity. Just two years prior a noblewoman from Saphery had been caught stealing eggs from the Isles. She was of high birth - a distant cousin to some of the Mage Lord rulers of that inner kingdom – and so the Prince had treated her with all the decorum her standing had demanded.

Her execution had been private, not a public spectacle. And the executioner’s axe blade had been forged from the purest of silver. As was tradition for the high born….

And yet still the smuggling and thefts continued. It was partly for this reason that behind the many merchant ships, the Fleet of Spires stood, disproportionately massive. It was true it was only a speck in comparison to the Navy that guarded the sea gates of Lothern. But only a few among the colonies rivaled it in sheer tonnage. And much of that had been due to the Prince’s planning. There at the north end of the harbor stood two of the mightiest ships known to ply Terra’s seas: the Dragon Ships of Ulthuan. Their ensorcelled prows capable of splitting granite and steel; their many decks crowded with the complicated torsion devices of the Eagle claws. Each engine capable of sending a shaft at such speed as to crack a mast at half a mile.

And only one of the two mighty dreadnaughts had been provided for by the Phoenix Crown. The Prince of Spires had paid for the other from his own purse. Spending nearly a century’s worth of spice profit into that single vessel.

But it was needed. Now all the sea raiders of the Bengali knew that the City of Spires was dominant. The Wako and Orc vessels knew to avoid his shipping lanes and lands, lest they face the wrath of Spires’ fleet. No naval force on this side of the Tower of the Sun could match it.

And that was as it should be. A power was rising in the East….

The Prince’s eyes turned below to the avenues closest to his palace. There stood the government ministries. The halls of scribes and scholars who kept careful records of taxes and levies, religious services and expeditions sent to the interior. One of the first buildings he had built had been the Hall of Histories. And over the generations the building had grown to its current marble magnificence. To its side though was where the Prince’s eyes turned. There in the shadow of the Histories was his newest office: the Hall of Demos Graphis. His writings of the people. Not history, but numbers. For the Prince of Spires had taken to counting. Counting the numbers the levy of lords had shown him. And over time he had noticed something: that the Great Houses of the City of Spires were producing more sons. More than was expected among the Asur. More births than were to be found in a similar set of households in Lothern. Twins were becoming common; something that was generally unheard of and considered miraculous in Ulthuan. Here, the Prince had noted first, and then counted, that nearly a fifth of marriages among the Lords resulted in a pregnancy within a decade. And of those a third could be twins.

It was as in the legends of the Asur before the Ever Empire. Of the fabled times before Aenarion. When the Asur were the ‘People of the Forest’ and lived under the eaves of Averlorn, ruled over by the Fairy Queen of the Forest. It was said in that age that sons often were of twins, and the tribes and clansmen of the Asur flourished in war and in peace. But that was thought to be the legends of distant times. Now the Asur dwindled throughout Ulthuan. Each generation smaller than the last.

But not here. Not in the City of Spires. Here the Great Houses grew. And the Prince of Spires had heard similar tales from the other Eastern Colonies. And so he had paid attention. And started counting to see the truth of these observations. And now, the Hall of Demos Graphis was tasked with not only tracking the births and deaths of the High Houses, but also the Low Gentry. Soon… with the coin and the scribes he would launch a more ambitious plan: the counting of the births of all Asur within the city. A true record of the people. And he would know for sure....

If as he suspected the truth was that the future of the Asur was in the East. That in time it would be the Colonies that provided the bulk of the Ever Empires levies and wealth. Now a ludicrous thought. For the colonies combined could not match the wealth and population of Eataine alone. But in time…. If the numbers held…. Then it could be that in a millennia the homeland of Ulthuan would be dependent on spears and coin drafted from the colonies. And with that time, the power in the Empire will have shifted…. And it would be wise to anticipate. So the Prince of Spires had carefully negotiated treaties and trade amongst the Colonial network. Building bridges and granting favors. All in anticipation.

But that was tomorrow. Today no colony could match even the weakest of Ulthuan’s kingdoms.

That thought tightened the muscles about the elf lord’s face. His eyes turned towards the harbor. He saw the signals of his discreetly placed watchers. He nodded. It was almost time.

His hand traced the fur and rippling muscles of the neck of his only companion on the balcony, a Bengali white tiger. The rarest of creatures found only in one mountainous vale of the Great Jungle. The creatures were known to grow to a length of twelve feet, and to weigh six hundred pounds or more. The most fearsome of predators in their part of the jungle, they lorded over with a natural nobility. Kings of the Forest. And they were frighteningly loyal and intelligent beasts. Some say more cunning than the mortals who called the land home. It was said that the White Tigers could come to know man-speech if given time. That they would lie at the edge of little bamboo and straw villages and listen. And learn.

The Prince stroked the tiger’s neck. “It is time,” he said softly. “Down Hobbs. Wait here,” he commanded. The tiger yawned lazily, its rough tongue flicking out and running over its nose and maw, before stretching onto the cool marble floor of the balcony. The elf prince turned and made his way inside. He glanced to the side of his chambers.

“Leave me.” The gaggle of maidens seated about his couches gathered up their robes and veils, bowed to him, and departed. He paid them no heed.

His eyes traveled across the room. The spears on the walls. The great axe that hung above the balcony entrance. The dagger he had left upon his desk. All within easy reach…..

Then his eyes fixed on the one set of doors to his chambers. He waited.

A gong rang somewhere in the depths of his palace. The seconds and heartbeats merged. Still the elf lord kept his gaze fixed. And then the door swung inwards, and an attendant followed. A bow.

“My prince!” the attendant called. “Presenting, the Lord….”

The attendant broke off momentarily confused. Then called out to the room, “Errr…. The Shadow Prince of Nagarythe!”


***


Last edited by Headshot on Tue Mar 26, 2013 9:45 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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PostPosted: Tue Mar 26, 2013 8:50 pm 
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Well played Sir
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Welcome back, I mean WTF? I mean yay~

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PostPosted: Wed Mar 27, 2013 8:53 am 
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Auctor Aeternitatum
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I'll just send that to GW to include it in the new army book ;)

Great read. Love to read about "my" colony. And I think you've captured the idea of planning for the long run and feeling of longlivety nicely.

Nice to see you back.

Rod

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Please try to remember that, no matter how 'official' the source seems, rumours are basically just a dictionary combined with a random number generator

For Nagarythe: Come to the dark side.
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PostPosted: Wed Mar 27, 2013 4:41 pm 
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Happy Spring Break! :D

In between bouts of grading exams I get to pop in here and leave a tiny piece of 'Nagarathi propaganda'. :wink:

Or as Tim and the others call it, "An exacting account of Spire's villainy."

Or as I like to call it, "a character study." (Based on extensive interviews conducted in the netherlands with a certain mother, girlfriend, and cadre of coworkers.... Who all attest to the laser-like accuracy of the piece.)

Anyways, stay tuned for part 2....

Headshot

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PostPosted: Wed Mar 27, 2013 5:05 pm 
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Young Eataini Prince
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nonne fabula nova est?

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"What is it with Eataini being blamed for everything?" -Aicanor


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PostPosted: Wed Mar 27, 2013 5:48 pm 
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Something Cool

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Weeeee! this just made my own spring break!

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PostPosted: Wed Mar 27, 2013 5:58 pm 
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Headshot wrote:
(Based on extensive interviews conducted in the netherlands with a certain mother, girlfriend, and cadre of coworkers.... Who all attest to the laser-like accuracy of the piece.)

It's actually wife now (I might just spam the site with pictures...), not girlfriend anymore. Might get in trouble with said wife if there was a girlfriend... ;)

I like Hobbs. Who doesn't want a huge white tigre as pet. Accidental name? Or perhaps more of a popular culture reference...

Rod

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Eirik wrote:
Please try to remember that, no matter how 'official' the source seems, rumours are basically just a dictionary combined with a random number generator

For Nagarythe: Come to the dark side.
PS: Bring cookies!

Check out my plog
Painting progress, done/in progress/in box: 167/33/91


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PostPosted: Wed Mar 27, 2013 9:00 pm 
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@Rod

Congratulations to you and the new Lady of the City! :D (I thought that might be the case but didn't want to presume....)

rdghuizing wrote:
Accidental name? Or perhaps more of a popular culture reference...


Hah! A doubled allusion. (I couldn't resist. :wink: ). The 'island of civilization surrounded by a sea of savage nature' story bit is a nod to Sir Thomas (and the name of the bones... just for fun :) ).

As to the pop culture bit. Well, let me just say... at least now we know the aloof Prince of Spires' name! :D

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PostPosted: Thu Mar 28, 2013 2:42 am 
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Haha villain indeed ! Welcome back

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PostPosted: Thu Mar 28, 2013 1:20 pm 
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In case anyone is interested, some pics of the big event: viewtopic.php?p=800546#p800546, even giving you a picture of the lady of of the City... I'll pass on the well wishes of course.

Rod

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Eirik wrote:
Please try to remember that, no matter how 'official' the source seems, rumours are basically just a dictionary combined with a random number generator

For Nagarythe: Come to the dark side.
PS: Bring cookies!

Check out my plog
Painting progress, done/in progress/in box: 167/33/91


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PostPosted: Thu Mar 28, 2013 5:57 pm 
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A CASE FOR CALCULATION – Part Two


The Prince of Spires’ eyes narrowed.

The fool attendant had embarrassed him. The young elf (and in the City, most were young… second or third generation, with only tales of Ulthuan connecting them to the homeland) failed to follow protocol and etiquette for presenting the Lord of Nagarythe. He should have prepared better! The arrival was planned for! And yet the cretin had not paid the proper heed to his task….

A decision was made. A decade or two spent manning the walls of an outpost in the Registan would suffice. Perhaps watching for the night raids of the local tribesman – those who liked to stake out their captives, and make small incisions in their bellies, before leaving them for the desert crawlers – would teach the lesson of the importance of attention to detail.

Spires made a mental note to instruct the steward accordingly. Then quickly smoothed over his features to return once more to their inscrutable, placid set.

For He was here….

The attendant bowed his way out of the room, and now there was only one other in the spacious chambers.

Standing in the doorway, tall, unmoving, was the Shadow Prince of Nagarythe.

The two ancient elf lords faced each other in silence. It was a learned silence, however. A studied silence. Very few of the eldest remained to walk the firmament of the mortal world, and upon the meeting, it was an occasion. Memories, that combined, encompassed thousands upon thousands of years of history…. And more than that…. Of living, loving, battling, regret, and hatred. Of conversations spoken and unspoken. Of trials witnessed, betrayals revenged, losses grieved…. Two ancients had seen and heard all that was to pass from Asur lips; all that could be held in Asur gazes. And the two Princes needed no words to assess the meaning of this meeting. Words would come later, as decorum and practicality dictated, but for now, the two stood, and observed.

The Shadow Prince was of course garbed in the ancient baroque armor of his office. The black and gold, once gaudy and flamboyant – a present proffered to honor the first of the office, the original High Lord of Nagarythe, Malekith, Betrayor and Witch King of Ulthuan’s most deadly foes. The armor was now worn, rent, and in tatters. Patched here and there over its long centuries with new leather straps and ithilmar rings. Still the carnage of innumerable battles could be seen traced across its surface: the telltale blow of axe and sword, intermingled with the crushing fang of gigantic maw. A veritable horror history of agony and death was written across the armor.

Yet beside the armor there was little to speak of the Nagarathi’s station. His breeches were of simple spun cotton, just like the common laborers wore. And the boots upon his feet were a familiar pair of sailor’s issue, typical to the Fleet. He wore no cloak in the heat. No silver torc about his neck. No crown or diadem upon his brow. The only other accouterment about him was the great sword upon his back. It was slung at a relaxed angle across his shoulders from worn brown leather straps. The sheathed blade nearly touched the marble floor: a full two meters in length. The black sharkskin and leather bindings across its hilt were worn with much use.

Only a High Lord of Ulthuan would be allowed to carry weapons this deep into the palace. It was their right and custom. The Prince of Spires was not surprised by the blade. Not in the least. He had expected it.

And if the Nagarathi lord was aware of the many, very serviceable, weapons that bedecked the walls of Spires’ chambers, he was not showing it. Neither was he showing surprise at the supine mega-predator that was apparently passive upon the balcony a few steps behind the Prince of Spires. That placidness a false front: Spires knew that the beast could easily leap to the doorway, bringing its claws and fangs to deadly purpose in one pounce. All at a snap of his fingers.

And of course there were the Blade Lords. Those that had taken the vow of silence and pledged themselves into the service of the City through a lifetime of martial training and monastic contemplation in their hidden fortress in the Registan. Each as deadly as ten spears with their distinctive mighty tulwars. Two stood outside the doors to his chamber. Another half a dozen were nearby, hidden, within easy call.

Even a younger elf would have recognized the mortal danger they were in, the moment they set foot in the chambers. A lesser elf would have balked and cringed, quick to gain favor with his host and Lord of the House. But no… of course there was no sign from the Prince before him. He was a High Lord of the Asur, and an elder. They did not show fear.

And he was Nagarathi. The Prince of Spires had seen the fabled Nagarathi Shadow Warriors on too many battlefields to expect them to show fear. Only rage. And the greater the odds, the greater the rage. That was the Nagarathi way….

Predictable.

No, the only thing odd about the Shadow Prince’s demeanor was his solitude. As a High Lord he was accorded attendants, even in the inner reaches of Prince’s house. And yet he came alone. Where were the wild-haired clansmen of his barren country? A pair of the grim cutthroats should have been at his side. Their absence was…curious….

The Shadow Prince stepped inwards. He unbuckled the sheath from his chest and placed the great sword upon the teakwood sword-stand in the alcove next to the entrance.

Interesting. The possibilities narrowed. The Prince of Spires turned to the kettle upon a nearby small bronze charcoal burner. He poured two cups of the local milk tea. When he turned back the Shadow Prince had already crossed the room, and stood next to the small table beside the balcony doorway, his fingers carefully tracing the rosewood edge of the board there.

“Tahjong?” the Nagarathi said.

“Yes,” the Prince of Spires answered, one eyebrow elevated. “You play?” In reply the Nagarathi lord sat at one of the two chairs before the table, his gaze absorbed by the white and black pieces arrayed upon the board.

Spires set the cups down and took the opposite seat.

As the Nagarathi prince studied the board, Spires studied the prince. It was the black eyes that marked him as an ancient. The young still had pupils and irises like the lesser races. But not among the eldest; as the Asur came into their full being the eyes drained of color and took upon the shades of eternity.

Spires’ own eyes were solid white; a contrast to the ebony ones across the table. That was from another legend of ancient Avelorn: the war chiefs of the forest elves were said to have black eyes. Signs of the favor of Khaine. A life spent in the service of death filled the soul, and the soul manifested itself, as with all of Asuryan’s creatures, through the eyes. White eyes were the mark of the wise-men and shamans. Denoting a lifetime of study and contemplation of His realm….

Rarest of all were the silver eyes. Those Seers who lived in dreams and saw the fabric of the Weaving….

So the saying went. Though Spires was uncertain of the truth of the old tales. While it was true that he had spent a great deal of his time in study…. Yet he had seen, and caused, many a death in his long life.

The Shadow Prince moved a piece. It was a conservative move, scarcely changing the contours of the board. Spires pondered it nonetheless.

As he pondered, mouth pursed, he continued to watch his foe.

“Is it true,” he began after a moment, “that the Nagarathi have no word for ‘surrender’?” He moved a piece.

“It is so,” the Shadow Prince answered, eyes on board. “we say alt’Eatani instead.”

Spires frowned and quickly did the translation in his head: “the Eatanian act”. Of course…. The famed Nagarathi contempt for all southlanders.

Spires considered further. Were the Shadow Prince’s words a subtle dig at his own background? His frown deepened.

He would know of course. Just as he knew him. From long ago. Long before he had taken the mantle of Shadow Prince. Back then the title had been held by another…. And Spires the City had yet to be founded. They were lordlings then… young sons of High Houses….

He remembered it well. In the Crown’s fleet in the seas of the distant east. They had all been newly commissioned junior officers then; serving the Phoenix as boys-just-become-men, which meant leaving home and hearth for the first time, and learning instead the often cruel ways of King and Country. Their classroom, the grueling labor and brutal discipline upon ships-of-the-line prowling savage coasts on the far side of the world.

There were the three of them then, inseparable. Kurnion of Chrace, stolid and unwavering. Blessed with an unstudied sincerity and easiness of manners and temper, he had been popular among crew and officer alike. A natural leader, even then. And of course Malossar of Caledor. Pugnacious and loud. Quick to offend. Even quicker to drink. He had only nearly avoided a flogging on the Eagle through the captain’s fear of repercussions from his Caledorian benefactors.

And strangest of all… Vaal, the ‘once noble’ of Nagarythe. Quiet. Studious. Seeming more interested in his books than in life on the ship. He was the most reserved of the three. His silence was taken for shyness and an absence of spirit, and time and again the young lordling would disappear into anonymity at the captain’s dinner table. A cipher among lords and warriors.

But Spires had known better. He had seen the young Nagarathi’s face the night the Captain had insulted and belittled his homeland. Had seen the eyes flash as they looked down at the floor in seeming subjugation. And Spires had watched. He had seen the chain of events over the next ten years. Coincidence all had thought. That was what was said by the admiralty afterwards. They had not seen the hand behind the acts. Had not seen how it had guided and shaped events – turning opportunities into promotions and demotions – until ten years after that dinner the Nagarathi and the Captain, now equals in rank, had stood upon the aft castle at dawn….

And Nagarathi steel had run through the heart of their one-time commander. An honor duel the Fleet had called it. Allowed because of rank. Acknowledged by custom. But they had not seen what Spires had….the years of planning….

No it was revenge, pure and simple. Cold. Calculated. Exact in its application.

And Spires had admired it. It was then that he had begun his study of the ancient Nagarathi tongue. He had learned that there were twenty-seven distinct words for ‘revenge’ in the language. Each denoting a slightly different nuance in form and affect….

Spires considered the board once more. The latest move by the Shadow Prince was aggressive. Even reckless. It risked the center for a potentially game winning move on the edge. But it could be countered by twelve different positions, each of course with their own risks and possibilities. He considered carefully….

Of course, back then none of the three were interested in opening their closed camaraderie to a non-descript lordling from Lothern. A scion of a once great house; a house of the peerage that had stood beside Aenarion against the Daemons of Chaos. But a house whose once vast holdings in Tiranoc had been drunk by the sea at the time of the Sundering. And then his father and grandfather, through a series of rash ventures and investments had squandered away the remaining wealth, leaving him little but the once lofty title of his station. His mother had been forced to raise him in the servant’s quarters of a ‘friends’ manor in Lothern; their own estate having been sold to ‘settle a debt’.

Living among servants…. Feeling the distinction of birth and breeding.... But not having the coin, or opportunity that it provided. The schooling. The training. The trips to Avelorn or Saphery that so many other young lords of the Great Houses took. All of that had twisted in Spires’ stomach like a red hot blade. And when he was of age he had done the only thing that a lord of his standing but lack of fortune could: he had gone to sea.

And he had found that he was good at his job. Better than most. He had the drive. And the care. And soon he was best in the Fleet.

What little good that did him….

His superiority brought him little love but much envy. The lords of the wealthy houses still sneered at him as he walked by. And no matter how much harder he tried; no matter how many sleepless nights he spent perfecting his craft. Or the many hard fought days in battle upon red-stained seas, proving that he was the best…. Nothing changed.

And when his commission finished he had taken his years of pay and invested it into his great ambition: a dream he had long considered. A new place. A new world. A new title.

A ‘starting over’….

Spires left his reverie. That truly was the Curse of the Asur he thought: those memories still burned as bright today as they had nearly two millennia before. He studied the board.

“Finubar agrees with me,” he said as he did so.

“Yes,” the Shadow Prince answered. He too was focused upon the board. “There are carvings in Anlec that match your description. The artifact is of ancient Nagarythe.”

Spires made his move. He felt a surge through is arms as the pieces slid into place. “I have won,” he stated simply as he gazed at the board with satisfaction.

The Nagarathi studied it as well. “Yes, it would seem so,” he agreed. The Shadow Prince stood. “I will gather the Host and leave the city at first dark.”

Spires glanced past the balcony: the sun was already far in the west. Many hours had passed as the two elves had silently contemplated their game. He stood.

“The Thuggee cultists will not be easy prey,” he instructed. “By day they will disappear amongst the mortal villages of the forest. And they will be undistinguishable from the people of the land. Only to return at night to slay at the behest of their Goddess Khalina.”

She who many believed was just another face of the all-Death, Khaine.

“We will find them. And the artifact,” the Shadow Prince answered and collected his sword.

Of course they would. The Nagarathi would watch the villages for weeks on end if need be. They would not depart until what was theirs was reclaimed. Spires knew this.

And with a nod of his head, the Shadow Prince was gone. And once more Spires was alone in his chambers.

The satisfaction of victory still glowed within. His eyes drifted across his lush chambers. The many trophies of his hunts. The fine satin curtains. The gilded eaves and columns, wrought in gold and platinum….

And stopped upon his desk.

The papers on top…. He walked over closer to it. The papers… he was always careful to turn them square to the corners of the wood. And yet… these were not.

He looked down. The locked cabinet below the desk. It held all of his personal correspondence. All the records of his treaties with the other colonial lords; the accounts of his discoveries in the interiors; his expenditures…. He touched the cabinet door. It was open.

Spires frowned.

And calculated.


***



Crud! Back to work for me. :(

It was good to stop by and see familiar faces. Congratulations again to Rod and the new Lady of Spires!

And let me say that I look forward in the coming year to reading all about our new book, and how it has saved/destroyed High Elves/Warhammer/Western Civilization! Many hundreds of pages of passionate discussion I hope! :lol:

Oh which reminds me. I'm not sure what the latest rumors are, but I would hazard, given GW's previous track record, that the next generation of Shadow Warriors will be 'new and improved', with all kinds of snazzy abilities (up to an including 'holy hand grenades' for every unit!). Which means Nagarythe's finest should be showing up on many more table tops. Which is a good thing! :)

But Palin'Lilean wanted me to pass on that the Nagarathi term for 'fair weather friend', and 'Eatainian covertly shot in the back and left in a ditch to rot' are one and the same! Imagine that!! :D I'm not sure what she meant by it, but she did finish by saying, 'you know who you are' in a most sinister fashion.... :wink:

Happy Gaming!

Headshot


Last edited by Headshot on Sat Mar 30, 2013 9:13 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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PostPosted: Thu Mar 28, 2013 9:55 pm 
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Rainbows
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Oh, splendid, Yowl the cat prince is back with his white kitty! I also read the tale with a cat asleep on my lap (black one, mind you). Great as always, Headshot. I think I need a holiday as well. :mrgreen:

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PostPosted: Fri Mar 29, 2013 8:00 pm 
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Inseperable eh? It kinda makes me not want to write anymore fluff and let you just flesh out the three characters with your genius!

Awww parting is such sweet sorrow, you always come and leave!

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