Post by Eldrin the Black on Dec 9, 2008 9:53:20 GMT -5
The ebony desk, covered in parchments and leather bound accounting booklets, seemed a stark contrast to Eldrin, whose skin was abnormally pale. The Spartan stone room was poorly lit and a thick tapestry hung over the only window in the chamber to block out any light,for light annoyed the pale lord of the DreadHold. A man stood before the desk with obvious apprehension, and his hands shook as he handed a paper to a black clad and black skinned soldier standing against the wall behind Eldrin. Dark elves were generally not to be trifled with, and Raslin was well known for his lack of compassion and fighting prowess.
“Hmmm,” Raslin murmured under his breath as he read over the document. He lingered on it for a few moments before handing it to Eldrin, who sat with a menacing glare on his face. His eyes darted back and forth over the page with an almost approving look until he reached the end of the document, and then the face of the man twisted with rage. Shaking with wrath, Eldrin stood and clenched the document so hard his knuckles turned white.
“You……want…….more?!” Eldrin said, eyes wide with exasperation. “I’ve given you 1200 gold bars and 5 shipments of weapons and armor. I have sent my own men to die for your Lord’s incompetence!” Eldrin was leaning over the desk farther and farther, as he screamed at the messenger, who, in spite of facing the wrathful visage of Eldrin the Black, held his composure much better then expected. “Your Lord’s ineptitude knows no bounds!” Eldrin stopped dead cold with his last statement, and suddenly, as if realizing his temper, he pushed away from his desk and turned towards the tapestry behind him. He pretended to study the woven intricacies of the expensive piece, but really, he was thinking.
The Governor of Illiriya was young and inexperienced with war, but Eldrin knew he defended the republic and his people with all his heart. He was failing at that task for a variety of reasons. The Capital had been at ease when the Baragari had attacked from the southern edge of the Icespur Mountains, and their lack of preparedness had cost them the capital. Refugees had been pouring into the outlying provinces, including Arun-Dar, for the better part of six months. Nevertheless, the young lord had not fled as Eldrin expected. He gathered what few men he could and fought the barbarians, albeit foolishly, and had held the complete loss of Illiriya at bay for almost a year. The Lord of Arun-Dar could not help him personally though, for he had his own problems.
He had sent his squire, with a detachment of Dreadwood soldiers, to the Well of tears, in the mountains north of the Dreadwood, to stop the Lich Achivius from possessing the powerful place. An army of skilled undead and evil northern mercenaries had taken the well and defeated Alo, Novice of the White hawks. Over half of the detachment had been killed and they were hiding from the enemy force in the mountains. To make things worse, Rillia, an Astrillien paladin, had sent a letter asking for assistance at the temple of Madyrn. The temple of the evil god, not far from Alo’s position, held an artifact that might destroy Achivius. This was good news, for the waters of the well had made Achivius almost invincible and Eldrin knew no way in which to defeat the mighty undead lord. Eldrin sighed as he made up his mind about what should be done.
“Lord Raslin, take your best men and go to Illiriya. Your expertise is needed.” Eldrin turned and looked at the messenger. “And see that Illiriya is provided with 500 more bars of gold for the war.” Eldrin turned to Raslin and narrowed his eyes. “These Baragari fiends will taste the blades of Dreadwood Company soon….and despair. Understood?” Raslin nodded in agreement. “You may go messenger.” The man sighed with relief and left as quickly as seemed prudent in the presence of his betters.
“Eldrin,” Raslin spoke softly as he looked into his friends eyes, “You are starting to lose control.” Eldrin sat back down at his desk and started shuffling through some papers.
“I know,” Eldrin whispered, subduing grief as he acknowledged the statement.
“You’ve no choice, you must…”, the dark elf hadn’t even finished his sentence when his black clad friend turned, in one fluid motion, and had him, hand gripping his throat, pinned against the wall, and a dagger stuck a full hand into the stone next to his head. “You must….,” Raslin sputtered, but then lost his voice as he mouthed muted words. His feet dangled a full foot from the ground.
“I …will….not!” Eldrin screamed as he tightened his grip around the Drow’s neck. Raslin’s face began to turn white and his eyes began to roll back as he swayed on the brink of unconsciousness. The large man’s face contorted as his friend sputtered and drooled, and, with great shame for what he had done, loosed his grip. Raslin fell to the floor with a thud. He began coughing and heaving for air, but, regardless, slowly he stood back up. The abuse meant little to the dark elf, he knew why his friend had acted the way he had and did not hold him accountable.
“My lord, I have heard rumors of slavers on the western edge of the Dreadwood. They have heard of the war and seek to profit from it. They should be stopped. They should be given no mercy.” With that, Raslin straightened his black officer’s coat and walked from the room. The Lord of the Dreadwood knew his dearest friend was right. He was losing his control. His blood lust was sinking into his daily affairs. He could no longer bring himself to pray, for the darkness was slowly taking him over. Eldrin knew his dearest friend was right…he must feed.
“Hmmm,” Raslin murmured under his breath as he read over the document. He lingered on it for a few moments before handing it to Eldrin, who sat with a menacing glare on his face. His eyes darted back and forth over the page with an almost approving look until he reached the end of the document, and then the face of the man twisted with rage. Shaking with wrath, Eldrin stood and clenched the document so hard his knuckles turned white.
“You……want…….more?!” Eldrin said, eyes wide with exasperation. “I’ve given you 1200 gold bars and 5 shipments of weapons and armor. I have sent my own men to die for your Lord’s incompetence!” Eldrin was leaning over the desk farther and farther, as he screamed at the messenger, who, in spite of facing the wrathful visage of Eldrin the Black, held his composure much better then expected. “Your Lord’s ineptitude knows no bounds!” Eldrin stopped dead cold with his last statement, and suddenly, as if realizing his temper, he pushed away from his desk and turned towards the tapestry behind him. He pretended to study the woven intricacies of the expensive piece, but really, he was thinking.
The Governor of Illiriya was young and inexperienced with war, but Eldrin knew he defended the republic and his people with all his heart. He was failing at that task for a variety of reasons. The Capital had been at ease when the Baragari had attacked from the southern edge of the Icespur Mountains, and their lack of preparedness had cost them the capital. Refugees had been pouring into the outlying provinces, including Arun-Dar, for the better part of six months. Nevertheless, the young lord had not fled as Eldrin expected. He gathered what few men he could and fought the barbarians, albeit foolishly, and had held the complete loss of Illiriya at bay for almost a year. The Lord of Arun-Dar could not help him personally though, for he had his own problems.
He had sent his squire, with a detachment of Dreadwood soldiers, to the Well of tears, in the mountains north of the Dreadwood, to stop the Lich Achivius from possessing the powerful place. An army of skilled undead and evil northern mercenaries had taken the well and defeated Alo, Novice of the White hawks. Over half of the detachment had been killed and they were hiding from the enemy force in the mountains. To make things worse, Rillia, an Astrillien paladin, had sent a letter asking for assistance at the temple of Madyrn. The temple of the evil god, not far from Alo’s position, held an artifact that might destroy Achivius. This was good news, for the waters of the well had made Achivius almost invincible and Eldrin knew no way in which to defeat the mighty undead lord. Eldrin sighed as he made up his mind about what should be done.
“Lord Raslin, take your best men and go to Illiriya. Your expertise is needed.” Eldrin turned and looked at the messenger. “And see that Illiriya is provided with 500 more bars of gold for the war.” Eldrin turned to Raslin and narrowed his eyes. “These Baragari fiends will taste the blades of Dreadwood Company soon….and despair. Understood?” Raslin nodded in agreement. “You may go messenger.” The man sighed with relief and left as quickly as seemed prudent in the presence of his betters.
“Eldrin,” Raslin spoke softly as he looked into his friends eyes, “You are starting to lose control.” Eldrin sat back down at his desk and started shuffling through some papers.
“I know,” Eldrin whispered, subduing grief as he acknowledged the statement.
“You’ve no choice, you must…”, the dark elf hadn’t even finished his sentence when his black clad friend turned, in one fluid motion, and had him, hand gripping his throat, pinned against the wall, and a dagger stuck a full hand into the stone next to his head. “You must….,” Raslin sputtered, but then lost his voice as he mouthed muted words. His feet dangled a full foot from the ground.
“I …will….not!” Eldrin screamed as he tightened his grip around the Drow’s neck. Raslin’s face began to turn white and his eyes began to roll back as he swayed on the brink of unconsciousness. The large man’s face contorted as his friend sputtered and drooled, and, with great shame for what he had done, loosed his grip. Raslin fell to the floor with a thud. He began coughing and heaving for air, but, regardless, slowly he stood back up. The abuse meant little to the dark elf, he knew why his friend had acted the way he had and did not hold him accountable.
“My lord, I have heard rumors of slavers on the western edge of the Dreadwood. They have heard of the war and seek to profit from it. They should be stopped. They should be given no mercy.” With that, Raslin straightened his black officer’s coat and walked from the room. The Lord of the Dreadwood knew his dearest friend was right. He was losing his control. His blood lust was sinking into his daily affairs. He could no longer bring himself to pray, for the darkness was slowly taking him over. Eldrin knew his dearest friend was right…he must feed.