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A whisper in the breeze, calling through the leaves.
The boat tossed and rocked, cascading through the fury of the storm that seemed to constantly wrack these parts of the ocean. Shouts of rough, crude human voices filled the air, filled with anxiety and panic as ropes snapped and wood gave way. One of the sailors slipped on the wet deck, cracking his skull hard upon the planks beneath, before sliding shamelessly across the surface when the boat tipped fore and aft.
A building gale, the flurry of wings beating against the current.
The shipmaster roared orders to close the sails, to keep them from being shredded by the winds. His voice was sucked into the chaotic winds - smothered by the volume and anger of the storm. How they seemed to scurry like insects! The fair-skinned elf could only shake his head in shame as he watched their clumsy motions, their cow-like stumblings.
A resounding melody, strong, crisp, and filled with conviction.
Keen eyes and sharp senses, far beyond the ken of most humans, tasted the salt water in the air. He felt the wind swirl around him - not oppressive as it was to the humans, but embracing him. He moved with the rocking of the wooden vessel, rather than stumble to resist the motions. He was at peace, centered; if only these short-sighted, graceless simians could follow suit.
"I can see the lighthouse, lads! Only a bit further!"
He had seen the beacons light for some time now, the elf thought to himself. It was a wonder these creatures could do more than stumble blindly through the dark without someone holding their hands. This fledgling nation, this 'Sundered Valley', would need the presence of the Tel'Quessir more than they knew. The elves, ancient and wise, would guide these misguided humans and protect them from their own naked ambition and dangerous, uninformed decisions.
Howling fury, brought forth with the precision of a stroke of lightning.
It was here, Besae knew, that the Tel'Quessir like he would be needed. He could feel it in his flesh and bones, vibrating like the song of Corellon. Here, he would bring forth the Swordwind, and cut down those who would make themselves the enemies of the elves. The Retreat is over; but the Return is just beginning.
The boat tossed and rocked, cascading through the fury of the storm that seemed to constantly wrack these parts of the ocean. Shouts of rough, crude human voices filled the air, filled with anxiety and panic as ropes snapped and wood gave way. One of the sailors slipped on the wet deck, cracking his skull hard upon the planks beneath, before sliding shamelessly across the surface when the boat tipped fore and aft.
A building gale, the flurry of wings beating against the current.
The shipmaster roared orders to close the sails, to keep them from being shredded by the winds. His voice was sucked into the chaotic winds - smothered by the volume and anger of the storm. How they seemed to scurry like insects! The fair-skinned elf could only shake his head in shame as he watched their clumsy motions, their cow-like stumblings.
A resounding melody, strong, crisp, and filled with conviction.
Keen eyes and sharp senses, far beyond the ken of most humans, tasted the salt water in the air. He felt the wind swirl around him - not oppressive as it was to the humans, but embracing him. He moved with the rocking of the wooden vessel, rather than stumble to resist the motions. He was at peace, centered; if only these short-sighted, graceless simians could follow suit.
"I can see the lighthouse, lads! Only a bit further!"
He had seen the beacons light for some time now, the elf thought to himself. It was a wonder these creatures could do more than stumble blindly through the dark without someone holding their hands. This fledgling nation, this 'Sundered Valley', would need the presence of the Tel'Quessir more than they knew. The elves, ancient and wise, would guide these misguided humans and protect them from their own naked ambition and dangerous, uninformed decisions.
Howling fury, brought forth with the precision of a stroke of lightning.
It was here, Besae knew, that the Tel'Quessir like he would be needed. He could feel it in his flesh and bones, vibrating like the song of Corellon. Here, he would bring forth the Swordwind, and cut down those who would make themselves the enemies of the elves. The Retreat is over; but the Return is just beginning.