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Krislin took off his helmet and gathered his cloak about him at the Viridale forest border camp as guards sauntered by, his eyes keen on the forest and ears twitching.
"The gnolls have yet a trick or two, I'm sure," he thought as he edged closer to the flames, miraculously steady in the rather persistant downpour. "There is something we are all missing here."
Recent easing of the gnolls' ambition to overrun the camp seemed too well-timed for the shadow-dweller, an elf apart from his blood by wide oceans and apart from his comfort by a creeping feeling of ill tidings in his new nation-home.
The last two weeks had at least seemed to ease his inability to make friends in the nation that Umberlee deposited him two months prior, he brooded. Valkur's blind eye had let the bitch queen wreak havoc on the merchant vessel he'd been a mate on, so the rain still bothered him, bringing back snatches of memory from the deadly storm each time he felt the drops pelt his skin.
He was picked up by a trading ship that brought him to port in Sundren when his captain and the rest of the crew of The Barterer were lost at sea in a storm off the Sword Coast.
Whether it be miraculous intervention, luck or stupidity that brought him here, Krislin now had a new home, new stomping ground and new social system to integrate into. He smiled as he thought back over the wreck, the past few weeks and his newfound friendships.
"As a trader, no one trusted me," he thought, brooding on the flames dancing before him and the shadows that twisted and played on the tents nearby. "As a lonely castaway, it seems my charisma has been more ... present."
Mek'ry Evralin, the archer, and Hasu Kaben, bald-headed monk, jumped to mind. He'd buried his blade in the back of quite a few gnolls, orcs and rogues with those two fighting beside him.
He looked up as the rain stopped, pulling at the eyepatch that covered a cut above his right eye from the elements, and hopefully from infection. Solitary run-ins with cartel rogues and Grimaxe orcs had not been kind to him. He muttered an oath at the pain in his eye and drained a healing draught, throwing the vial into the flames and pulling out a plank of wood and a small knife.
He whittled.
Just then, an archer-guard of the Viridale border stopped beside him, grinning.
"Whatcha got there, master elf?" the bright-eyed watchman said, eager to start a conversation, and showing it.
"Krislin. Krislin Sent," the elf spat back. "Master Elf will not do."
Crestfallen, the human teenager turned and walked away. Krislin pulled his cloak closer around his shoulders and continued work on the smallish wooden boat he'd begun carving.
"Sails will be difficult without some proper canvas," he thought.
Krislin had been shying away from the city proper for some weeks, uncomfortable at the growing size of the Triumverate's grasp in Sundren and unsure of where he stood against the Banites he'd been hearing rumors of. He'd rather just be apart from the fray, but knew he couldn't help but end up mixed into the friction if he stayed in Sundren.
"Where else do I go?" he thought wistfully.
The question had barely crossed his thoughts; the arrow that landed beside him jarred him from reverie. In moments, his helm rested on his brow, his blades were in his hands and his cloak whipped in the air behind him as he made for the shadows along the edge of the fort.
The gnolls had launched a small offensive to capitalize on shift-change, he thought, moving swiftly away from the hail of stones and arrows sent sailing by the Muckspear that accompanied them.
He heard a scream, spinning to his left and catching the young friendly guard's eye as he breathed his last on the end of a goblin's blade.
Krislin faded against the fort wall, pressing his body full flat against the wood and drawing his weapons inside his cloak. The darkness would serve him until the guards were able to regroup.
A gnoll's snout appeared from around a tent feet away, sniffing at the air for the light musk of his elvish persperation. He knew he had to act.
With a moment's hesitation, he stepped forward away from the wall slowly, blades behind his back, and walked steady right up to the gnoll.
For no logical reason, the gnoll looked through him. Its last gasp was audible, but muffled by the rush of air from the smile Krislin carved where its neck met its collar bone.
The elf withdrew as the gnoll fell over, bleeding along the grass. A nearby Muckspear started at the sound of the corpse hitting the ground and the rush of escaping life.
Krislin spun, sheathed his blades, and made slowly for the wall. He watched as the goblin ran by, oblivious to his presence.
The Sundarian guard had massed at the other end of the camp and descended on the group of interlopers quickly, dispatching them back to the forest with a blaze of fire magic from a mage on the back line.
Krislin was stunned silent, caught flat-footed against the wall, searching for reasons why that gnoll had not seen him in plain view.
"Valkur must feel guilty of his debt to me," Krislin thought, his lips curling into a sneer.
A disparate thought seemed to rise up alongside his annoyance at the god who had left him to Umberlee's oceans.
"Dance in the shadow, Krislin Sent."
He could not rightly tell if the thought belonged to him.
"The gnolls have yet a trick or two, I'm sure," he thought as he edged closer to the flames, miraculously steady in the rather persistant downpour. "There is something we are all missing here."
Recent easing of the gnolls' ambition to overrun the camp seemed too well-timed for the shadow-dweller, an elf apart from his blood by wide oceans and apart from his comfort by a creeping feeling of ill tidings in his new nation-home.
The last two weeks had at least seemed to ease his inability to make friends in the nation that Umberlee deposited him two months prior, he brooded. Valkur's blind eye had let the bitch queen wreak havoc on the merchant vessel he'd been a mate on, so the rain still bothered him, bringing back snatches of memory from the deadly storm each time he felt the drops pelt his skin.
He was picked up by a trading ship that brought him to port in Sundren when his captain and the rest of the crew of The Barterer were lost at sea in a storm off the Sword Coast.
Whether it be miraculous intervention, luck or stupidity that brought him here, Krislin now had a new home, new stomping ground and new social system to integrate into. He smiled as he thought back over the wreck, the past few weeks and his newfound friendships.
"As a trader, no one trusted me," he thought, brooding on the flames dancing before him and the shadows that twisted and played on the tents nearby. "As a lonely castaway, it seems my charisma has been more ... present."
Mek'ry Evralin, the archer, and Hasu Kaben, bald-headed monk, jumped to mind. He'd buried his blade in the back of quite a few gnolls, orcs and rogues with those two fighting beside him.
He looked up as the rain stopped, pulling at the eyepatch that covered a cut above his right eye from the elements, and hopefully from infection. Solitary run-ins with cartel rogues and Grimaxe orcs had not been kind to him. He muttered an oath at the pain in his eye and drained a healing draught, throwing the vial into the flames and pulling out a plank of wood and a small knife.
He whittled.
Just then, an archer-guard of the Viridale border stopped beside him, grinning.
"Whatcha got there, master elf?" the bright-eyed watchman said, eager to start a conversation, and showing it.
"Krislin. Krislin Sent," the elf spat back. "Master Elf will not do."
Crestfallen, the human teenager turned and walked away. Krislin pulled his cloak closer around his shoulders and continued work on the smallish wooden boat he'd begun carving.
"Sails will be difficult without some proper canvas," he thought.
Krislin had been shying away from the city proper for some weeks, uncomfortable at the growing size of the Triumverate's grasp in Sundren and unsure of where he stood against the Banites he'd been hearing rumors of. He'd rather just be apart from the fray, but knew he couldn't help but end up mixed into the friction if he stayed in Sundren.
"Where else do I go?" he thought wistfully.
The question had barely crossed his thoughts; the arrow that landed beside him jarred him from reverie. In moments, his helm rested on his brow, his blades were in his hands and his cloak whipped in the air behind him as he made for the shadows along the edge of the fort.
The gnolls had launched a small offensive to capitalize on shift-change, he thought, moving swiftly away from the hail of stones and arrows sent sailing by the Muckspear that accompanied them.
He heard a scream, spinning to his left and catching the young friendly guard's eye as he breathed his last on the end of a goblin's blade.
Krislin faded against the fort wall, pressing his body full flat against the wood and drawing his weapons inside his cloak. The darkness would serve him until the guards were able to regroup.
A gnoll's snout appeared from around a tent feet away, sniffing at the air for the light musk of his elvish persperation. He knew he had to act.
With a moment's hesitation, he stepped forward away from the wall slowly, blades behind his back, and walked steady right up to the gnoll.
For no logical reason, the gnoll looked through him. Its last gasp was audible, but muffled by the rush of air from the smile Krislin carved where its neck met its collar bone.
The elf withdrew as the gnoll fell over, bleeding along the grass. A nearby Muckspear started at the sound of the corpse hitting the ground and the rush of escaping life.
Krislin spun, sheathed his blades, and made slowly for the wall. He watched as the goblin ran by, oblivious to his presence.
The Sundarian guard had massed at the other end of the camp and descended on the group of interlopers quickly, dispatching them back to the forest with a blaze of fire magic from a mage on the back line.
Krislin was stunned silent, caught flat-footed against the wall, searching for reasons why that gnoll had not seen him in plain view.
"Valkur must feel guilty of his debt to me," Krislin thought, his lips curling into a sneer.
A disparate thought seemed to rise up alongside his annoyance at the god who had left him to Umberlee's oceans.
"Dance in the shadow, Krislin Sent."
He could not rightly tell if the thought belonged to him.