High Elf Tales

[Karak Norn Clansman]

Reply of the Chracians

Negotiations were off to a bad start, and had only taken a turn for the worse. Neither the haughty Asur nor the cruel and arrogant Dawi Zharr were renowned for their humility. The semi-barbaric Chracian highlanders were least of all suited for diplomacy, out of all the scheming kingdoms of Ulthuan. The Red Host of Nir-Kezhar had likewise not fostered a reputation for subtlety and restraint through its bloodied history of legendary insults and baleful atrocity. Bards would sing of the ensuing tongue-waggling for centuries to come, as both sides sparred with words as if aiming for the heart. The conversation grew ever more heated, and winged words leapt back and forth in a flurry of repartee and barely veiled threats.

At last, the High Elf princeling had enough of it. No laws of hospitality could hold him back from exacting revenge upon the insulting intruder. A shameful shaving of the coiled beard would not do.

Laiontides Fairbraid pulled sword and held it a mere inch before the stunted diplomat's nose, right between his surprised eyes, akin to glowing coals. The princeling's bodyguards moved in on the craven Hobgoblin entourage of the foreigner, great axes raised and ready to strike.

"Look, Dwarf. This blade is sharper than your cloven tongue."

"No man threatens a messenger!" cried the Chaos Dwarf. "Blasphemy! This is crazy!"

For a moment, the Elf seemed to relent. The short blade sank to his side. Then, wrath engulfed Laiontides' visage.

"This. Is. Chrace!"

It was a low blow. The Elf kicked him in the hat.

Sturdy chinstraps ensured that the force of the kick threw the entire heavy Chaos Dwarf along with the hat into the well. The last thing that Ambassador Zharkanek the Sly knew, as darkness suffocated him, was a primal sense of sinking into earth and water.

- - -

See pictures of the miniature diorama here.

[Karak Norn Clansman]

Lothern Infiltrator 00L

Flaming light flickered between colonnaded shadows. The ruddy light was cast not only by torches and braziers, for it emanated also from molten metal, ensorcelled lava and far worse substances harvested from an otherworldly realm beyond the ken of mortals to comprehend. It was a glowering light, an angry light, a hungry light. If the snorting of a bull could ever come off as light, this would be it. And indeed, it was.

Through the dark halls of the Temple strode a majestic figure, bedecked in garb so ostentatious as to make any lesser acolyte prostrate themselves against the floor at the mere sight of it. Dawi Zharr thrust their countenances into the dirt on the obsidian floors, while Hobgoblin servants slunk back into the shadows of nooks and crannies, too wise of capricious overlord violence to ever wish to be seen by such a towering Dwarf of Fire. The striding figure was clearly a Dawi Zharr of His anointed priesthood, no doubt about it. A single glance at the regal paraphernalia of the venerable Sorcerer-Prophet struck fear into slaves and slavedrivers alike. Luxurious banner poles held aloft two lazily flapping pennants. Only the highest castes were allowed such items of office! Even other Sorcerer-Prophets instinctively bowed in respect to the strange gestalt, for how could they do otherwise when the mighty one sported a slave dedicated to supporting his giant crowning headgear? Not even they had a hat thrall!

All around, Bull Centaurs, the guardians of the Temple of Hashut, gave way, and even they seemed to be on the verge of trembling at the sight of the lordly Sorcerer-Prophet. Such an overmighty display of power and wealth walked there! Such a cruel overlord, ancient beyond the ken of lesser inductees into the Cult of Hashut! And amid all the loud brass clangs and hoof stomps and roaring fires of the inner sanctum of the holy Temple, no one realized that the great one moved without making so much as a whisper of a sound. Such a heavyset Sorcerer-Prophet ought to have made the ground shake at his tread, yet his nimble feet moved with the grace of swans. Had anyone been wise enough to notice the walk of the feet, they would have wondered at the undwarfish movements, yet they did not notice, for all they could see was the almighty grand hat on the head of the glaring Sorcerer-Prophet, for that hat was graced by a flame-snorting bull's head, and that bull's head had Daemonic eyes inside it that moved...

Inside the hot disguise, Lothern infiltrator 00L adjusted the shoulder rests for the giant onion hat inside which he walked. He had eschewed of gloves in order to not risk slipping on the sweaty handles of the fake arms that stuck out from beneath the hat. The disguise was a ludicrous creation, so audacious and so outlandish that it had actually worked. The Lothern artisans who had fashioned it had drawn the designs from hundreds of witness drawings and looted trophies found in the great Asur capital. The chief designer among them had concluded that these despicable fallen Dwarfs did not dabble in elegance, unlike the refined High Elves of Ulthuan. Instead, the haughty chief designer Nesrauti had concluded, they could get away with anything as long as they loaded the disguise with a garish amount of ostentation in layer upon layer. "Like an onion, indeed! Haha, onion, get it? For the headgear itself is shaped in such a way," the chief designer had smirked.

And so it was. The smug urbanite who had headed the design of the disguise had been astonishingly correct in his insight. All they had needed was to find a plucky Halfling to dress up as a Hobgoblin of the Dark Lands to assist Agent 00L, and off they went. The intelligence steward of the eyes-and-ears Annex had insisted upon the Halfling companion: Apparently the thieving sneaks were experts at infiltrating such dark hearts of ashen empires of fire and slavery. He had been correct as well. Who could have believed that such a rotund little jolly creature could have endured the baleful hardships of such harsh realms steeped in mysticism and crushing hierarchy?

A full score of Bull Centaurs up ahead heaved and snorted as they slowly opened the enormous bronze gates to the Priestly Sanctum. Inside waited an entire conclave of the most powerful and ruthless warlords and semi-petrified magicians this misbegotten breed of beardos had ever produced. Matters of greatest importance would be discussed, and all the most valuable information would flow right into the ears of a High Elf infiltrator. Who could ever have thought that a towering Elf could ever had disguised himself as a Dwarf?! These foul midget worshippers of Chaos would come to rue the day that they had initiated their phallic arms race in headgear size.

Agent 00L indulged himself with a smirk inside the grand crown hat that he wore, and entered the sanctum with unbreakable confidence in the disguise.

The Bull Centaurs howled an unholy mantra, and the doors closed behind him with the clang of slain titans.

- - -

See pictures of the sculpted miniature here.

[SpellArcher]

Instead, the haughty chief designer Nesrauti had concluded, they could get away with anything as long as they loaded the disguise with a garish amount of ostentation in layer upon layer.

Now that's cheeky!