Humanity does not live long enough
to grasp the import of history. Your boundless optimism continues to
drive you to new heights, which is impressive. But it blinds you to
the far-reaching consequences of your quest for greatness. Perhaps
you view the past as shackles to your amibitions, as the one foul
smelling wastrel that can ruin your great revelry in living. Ware the
past, and use it to guide the future. Can you not see the patterns of
atrophy and extirpation that plague us all?
-Eruirdyn, elven scholar and explorer
Nefydd Foulkes watched as the town
burned, the wooden walls finally catching fire as the outer buildings
collapsed. His vantage point from the hill was uncontested, the
corpses of several men lay about him. The crows circled above the
conflagration, their patterns of ascent occasionally molested by a
plains hawk. Some had left the aerial congregation and were now
picking at some of the corpses. Nefydd's most recent employer, the
merchant Cormac, was among them.
That's what comes of a swing at
peaceful negotiations, Nefydd mused. It was a crossbow bolt that
took the merchant in the throat. Definitely an ex-soldier or
disgruntled militia. Cormac, you should've taken my advice and
run.
Nefydd was a man of
average build with dirty blonde hair that was just growing out of the
close cropped stage. His nose was large, and broken at least once. It
was his helm that really made him stand out, the visor had built in
lenses made from one of the glassworks at Kelmaranse. Nefydd's vision
was, he reckoned, one of his many shortfalls. But his swordsmanship
was better than average, which, he thought, was one of the reasons
why he was still standing and the others, alas, were not.
Another crucial
factor to Nefydd's survival was standing 50 paces to his right. The
dwarf Grijolhd, was a natural bender of magicks, known in the
professional schools of magery as a sorcerer. His hair was black as a
raven, and his beard was cut shorter than most dwarves, with striking
streaks of grey. Despite his heritage, Grijolhd's physique was not
impressive; a lanky upper body disproportionate to his muscular,
stocky legs.
“If we were
thriving 'adventurers,' we would loot these bastards and be done with
it. But since the entire economy of the Bright Empire has taken a
dive down a cracked garderobe, we may as well bugger that option,”
Grijolhd spat on the scorched ground beside him, “Not to mention
looting men who were driven to desparation sours my luminous
disposition.”
“Grij, we never
really looted, not even on our tomb runs. No sense in starting now,”
Nefydd's smile was gone, his head turning back to observe the growing
inferno. “It's finally coming apart. Even though I had the sickly
anticipation, I couldn't quite grasp the dissolution.”
“Aye Nefydd, the
breakdown boggled your charming pessimism eh? Let's get marching,
before more pissed off townsfolk, er, former townsfolk show up.”
“I wonder if the
'enthusiasm' has spread.”
“Neffer, I
wouldn't be surprised. I think anarchy on this level is its own
special kind of madness. The kind that breeds plague.”
“Grij, let me pay
my respects to Cormac before we go.”
“Aye lad, there
is that.” Grijolhd spat again, this time hitting the forehead of a
corpse. “While I pay mine,” he whispered.
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