Q
Quatre Winner
Guest
Original poster
The city of Kenar, in the kingdom of Ogenta, rumbled with preparations for war. Swords were sharpened, spears re-shafted, shields strengthened. All across the land, walls were being shored up, but in Kenar the Lords of the Mountain were called in to give extra strength to the defenses. They were well-paid, but also eager to act in the coming conflict, for they hated the White City and its surrounding kingdom. Ancient hatreds between elves and the ancestors of the mountain lords still ran deeply.
For the humans in Kenar and elsewhere, the wounds were shallower but no less felt. Always, the elf kings and their people were prosperous, yet always they jealously guarded the secrets to their success, leaving those outside their prosperous lands to fend for themselves. Only a war against them could distract the kingdoms of men from the famine that had lasted five years. In war, they found new energy, and the bitter hope of taking the spoils home to feed their families. To the more enterprising, elf treasure would not be amiss in their coffers. The elves deserved to suffer for their isolationism, for this grave insult to all neighborly feeling.
At least, that was how the race of men saw things. They may or may not have been correct about the elves' prosperity and motives- talks between the races had inevitably broken down, and suffering made men less willing to see both sides of the argument. They saw their cause as absolutely just, when reality, as is usually the case, lay somewhere in the middle. At this point, it mattered little; there would be war, and old hatreds meant the men would not be alone in their struggle.
Yet, even as other races joined them, looking for revenge or plunder, not all raced to the battlefield to take arms. Many who wanted nothing to do with the war, or had little reason to fight, went to the Wilds where neither man nor elf truly ruled. Other laws applied there, and many who went in never came out again, even if they did not venture farther than the outskirts. Yet, as local conflicts became more severe, more men and their families found the Wild a tempting option. Most of these were small laborers or farmers, too tired to fight, but not all.
By a small wooded lake one such wanderer had taken refuge. In the distance, he could hear the engines of war creaking, and smoke rising on the horizon where Kenar lay, but he had distanced himself long ago. He knew enough woodcraft to sustain himself, and sought out no company, living in a small hut by himself.
What he had been before coming here would not have been obvious from looking at him, for though he was young, barely close to manhood, he had the sharp eye of a seasoned campaigner. His build was slender, his limbs muscular, and his hands rough from unknown work. He didn't have the hardened, weathered skin of one who spent all his time in the sun, nor was he soft and unblemished, like the high-borns of Bram or Whalan. His clothing was plain and serviceable and weather-stained, but well-made nonetheless. It hid him well in the undergrowth of the forest where he had learned to make a living.
At the moment, he crouched by the lake in the early morning light, his deep blue eyes clear and intent on a clearing several feet in front of him where a deer stood, half-hidden. He had his bow drawn, but was waiting for a clearer shot, and could not afford to miss. As a soft breeze picked up before him, a few strands of raven hair slid into his eyes, looking like black feathers. He didn't so much as flinch, knowing he could not afford any errant movement at this point. The young buck was hesitant, but looked like it might come out in a few more moments...
For the humans in Kenar and elsewhere, the wounds were shallower but no less felt. Always, the elf kings and their people were prosperous, yet always they jealously guarded the secrets to their success, leaving those outside their prosperous lands to fend for themselves. Only a war against them could distract the kingdoms of men from the famine that had lasted five years. In war, they found new energy, and the bitter hope of taking the spoils home to feed their families. To the more enterprising, elf treasure would not be amiss in their coffers. The elves deserved to suffer for their isolationism, for this grave insult to all neighborly feeling.
At least, that was how the race of men saw things. They may or may not have been correct about the elves' prosperity and motives- talks between the races had inevitably broken down, and suffering made men less willing to see both sides of the argument. They saw their cause as absolutely just, when reality, as is usually the case, lay somewhere in the middle. At this point, it mattered little; there would be war, and old hatreds meant the men would not be alone in their struggle.
Yet, even as other races joined them, looking for revenge or plunder, not all raced to the battlefield to take arms. Many who wanted nothing to do with the war, or had little reason to fight, went to the Wilds where neither man nor elf truly ruled. Other laws applied there, and many who went in never came out again, even if they did not venture farther than the outskirts. Yet, as local conflicts became more severe, more men and their families found the Wild a tempting option. Most of these were small laborers or farmers, too tired to fight, but not all.
By a small wooded lake one such wanderer had taken refuge. In the distance, he could hear the engines of war creaking, and smoke rising on the horizon where Kenar lay, but he had distanced himself long ago. He knew enough woodcraft to sustain himself, and sought out no company, living in a small hut by himself.
What he had been before coming here would not have been obvious from looking at him, for though he was young, barely close to manhood, he had the sharp eye of a seasoned campaigner. His build was slender, his limbs muscular, and his hands rough from unknown work. He didn't have the hardened, weathered skin of one who spent all his time in the sun, nor was he soft and unblemished, like the high-borns of Bram or Whalan. His clothing was plain and serviceable and weather-stained, but well-made nonetheless. It hid him well in the undergrowth of the forest where he had learned to make a living.
At the moment, he crouched by the lake in the early morning light, his deep blue eyes clear and intent on a clearing several feet in front of him where a deer stood, half-hidden. He had his bow drawn, but was waiting for a clearer shot, and could not afford to miss. As a soft breeze picked up before him, a few strands of raven hair slid into his eyes, looking like black feathers. He didn't so much as flinch, knowing he could not afford any errant movement at this point. The young buck was hesitant, but looked like it might come out in a few more moments...