And the first meeting of Tarabeth. (And an attempt to work other people's fluff into my stories.)
Chronology - early year 3.
Dramatic prelude –
A light snow drifted down through the boughs of the black pines. The air was crisp, cold, and thin. A bloody sun slid into a purple horizon in the far west. The first stars began to burn in the coming night sky.
Among the fir trees ran a single, narrow trail, already frost-kissed and bathed in a thin shroud of white. Along this trail a lone rider plodded. The horse was as white as the surrounding winter frost. Its rider likewise was garbed in white: a long hooded cloak of the finest ermine fur completely shielded the rider from the chill. Within the hood, bright green eyes searched the surrounding trees. Wary.
For this is Nagarythe. A haunted land. A place unwelcome to strangers.
A sound cut through the evening still. The rider slowed. It was the sound of water on stone. Ahead the trees thinned, and an evening sky a riot of oranges and purples loomed. The rider dismounted and led the steed forward. The gap at the trees marked the edge of a drop. Below lay a grey, frothing sea, lashing upon teeth-like rocks. The drop was so vast, the rider could see the sea carrion birds, floating like tiny white and grey specks, between where the rider stood and the vast ocean below. The mountain here was shorn, as if by a vast blade, and plummeted in share madness for many leagues to the depths below.
The rider pulled back their hood, revealing the face of a girl. Her features were fine and angular; the slender almond eyes, and long ears, marked her as one of the elder race. The long, scarlet hair, twisted into braids with bands of silver, and the white gromril tiara upon her brow, marked her as more than that – a scion of one of the Great Houses. A Lady of the Asur.
Still the face was that of a child. A girl who had just seen her first century pass. She clucked and quieted the white mare; soothing the beast with a hand upon its brow.
“We are far from home, Swift Talon,” she whispered to the beast. “But this must be Nagarythe now.” Again she gazed out at the shattered landscape below, shuddering a bit at the horror of the forces such damage attested to. She turned. “Come,” she pulled on the reigns and led the horse further on.
The trail soon entered a clearing. A stream cut across it and plummeted over the edge of the nearby cliff. It was just a thin rivulet really, she thought. But if seen from sea, the waterfall the stream fed must be taller than the white towers of Lothern, she marveled. She led Swift Talon away from the edge, and to the stream, allowing the mare to sip from the cold mountain waters.
“You deserve more of a rest than I can give you,” she said with a sad smile. “But we mustn’t tarry for long.”
“You have traveled far then?” a man’s voice queried suddenly.
The girl looked up, startled that she had missed the man’s presence. There, seated upon a stump, sat an elf, wrapped in a cloak of leather and fur, whittling with a hunter’s knife upon a bit of stick.
“Yes,” she hesitated. And then continued a bit more boldly, “I have just crossed the mountains from Chrace.”
The hunter – for that is what she took him as – looked up at her with a burning intentness. He was pale of skin and dark of hair, like all the people of Nagarythe. His hair was long, but his scalp was shaven upon the side. His was an aged countenance – weather-beaten by harsh life.
“Crossing those mountains alone is a fool’s journey, “ he challenged with a snort. “Those rocks are haunted by all manner of fell beasts.”
She stood a little taller. “I am not afraid of any beast,” she replied haughtily. “I am Tarabeth, of the House of the Western Peaks! My brother is the greatest hunter of all Chrace! The Lion Prince of Chrace!” she said with great pride in her voice.
The hunter had returned to his whittling, seemingly unimpressed by her words. She grew hot at his insolence, but stilled her harsh rebuke. It is true what they say in Chrace, ‘the ways of Nagarythe are not our own’, she thought. Though that was often used as a slur, meaning a foolish or ridiculous act. Her brother had said it to her once many years ago, when he had found her room filled with the frogs from the castle pond….
“As I am a stranger here, I wish to ask for guidance,” she said in a more even tone.
The hunter nodded. “She will do,” he said as if to himself.
Suddenly they were no longer alone. Shadows detached themselves from the surrounding trees. Elves, dressed in long fur cloaks like the hunter’s strode into the clearing, fencing her and her mare against the cliff drop behind. The were all dark haired and pale skinned. Many had shaven heads, with the remnants of their hair tied into wild braids or tails. A few had black-marked skin.
Her hand dropped to the long dirk at her waist. “What is the meaning of this?!” she demanded.
The winter fur cloaks began to drop to the ground. Under them were long capes of black-scaled leather that glistened oily in the evening light. Armor fashioned from similar stuff covered the torsos, and great curved blades sat in sashes upon their hips.
“Druchii!” she hissed. Her long dirk was in her left hand now. And with her right she unclasped her ermine cloak and threw it at the face of her closest assailant. Before the corsairs could react she shoulder charged him, knocking him to the ground, and rolled past him. Leaping to her feet again, she jumped the brook and made for the tree line….
Only to come up short as two more Corsairs loomed before her, smiling grimly, wicked curved blades held before them.
“Don’t damage her!” the elf from the stump called. “The price will be higher in Karond Kar if we keep her face pretty!”
She was surrounded again. Her right hand reached up to the small of her back and unhooked the tool there. It was a Chracian hatchet – a distant cousin of the great woodsman’s axes that the Lion Guard wielded. The hatchet was a light, one-handed tool, of many uses. One of which happened to be weapon. Dirk in her left hand, hatchet in her right, she attacked.
Tarabeth was young. But she was a princess of a Great House of Chrace: she had been trained in the use of weapons from a time when she first walked. And the past decade she had spent at the White Tower of Hoeth, studying with the finest blademasters of the Ever Empire. She had spent long hours in the fencing halls training her muscles and instincts, and as the first Corsair lunged at her, he paid for his overconfidence as the hatchet struck home, cleaving fingers from hand. He howled in anger and pain.
The next came at her more carefully, curved blade in guard position. Still she ducked his heavy blow, and stabbed her dirk into his forearm. He reeled back, spilling bright red blood.
“Fools!” the stump-elf snarled, now striding towards her with a cruel reaver blade in each hand. He leapt at her in a flurry of blows, crisscrossing blades coming at her from all sides. It took all of her skill to stop the rain of blows. Only to find the Druchii Corsair standing there, perfectly at ease, smiling at her in amusement.
Her temper flared. How dare he mock her?! She lunged at him. With viper's speed, a flick of the corsair’s boot – dirt and gravel struck her eyes. She winced, and tried to clear her eyes. Only to feel the iron butt of a scimitar slam into her lower abdomen, dropping her helpless on the ground.
“A tip princess,” the Corsair gloated. “Learn your knife-play in the dives of Naggaroth, with your life on the line, not some fencing hall. Take her.”
Her eyes were filled with tears of shame and pain. She felt rough hands seize her firmly, stripping her of her weapons, and dragged her to her feet.
What would happen to her now..?
Suddenly an arrow struck one of the Corsairs in the throat. He dropped with a gurgle. Another arrow flew a split second later striking one of the men holding her in the shoulder with such force that he spun about. A young elf, charged out of the trees then, bulling past another two and grabbing her arm, while slashing wildly at the Corsair holding her other arm. The Druchii sprang back. The stranger pulled on her arm, leading her to the trees.
She blinked past her tears. At first, the strange elf seemed another Druchii. His scalp was shaved, except for black braided row from forelock to long queue in the back. His sword was curved like the Corsairs. But he was dressed in grey and brown leathers and long furs. “Come!” he tried to hurry her.
But she was still recovering. She staggered. A mailed fist came out of the darkness, striking her would-be rescuer square in the jaw. They both fell in a tumble.
“Grab her you idiots!” Once again the Corsairs pulled her to her feet.
A shaven headed Corsair, with black and silver demon markings along his neck, stood over the boy-elf as he pulled himself to his hands and knees. “What do we do with this one? Take him too?”
“No,” the Corsair captain replied. “Hold him against that tree.” He nodded at one nearby. In his hands now was a Druchii crossbow; the metal rasped as he loaded a bolt. “We’ll pin him there. As a reminder of who the true masters of Nagarythe are!” A cold laughter filled the clearing.
Nearby, Tarabeth watched helplessly. The tattooed Corsair and another hauled the boy-elf up to the indicated tree. The tattooed one smiled grimly and said, “It seems to be true what they say – only the stupid ones were left behind in Nagarythe!” He and his friend laughed. “Can’t you count boy?! There are thirteen of us! Did you really think you could defeat us all and escape?”
The boy – Narrin’Tim – looked up. His jaw was purple. But his eyes were defiant. “No,” he said past bloody teeth. “I was just hoping to buy some time until HE got here.” He pointed with his bruised jaw.
Tarabeth turned. Out of the shadows, a flicker of black and gold. And then another elf was striding across the clearing.
The Druchii reacted swiftly. The newcomer made a fist in the air in front of him. The closest Corsair dropped like a rag doll where he stood. The next two fell to a pair of lightning fast blows with fist and elbow to their throats. Then from a scabbard hung across his back, a great blade, nearly as long as the elf was tall, leapt to life. As it swept from its sheath in a single glittering arc, throats were cut and raised wrists severed.
Tarabeth blinked. She couldn’t believe it! She had witnessed some of the great long blade masters’ demonstrations in Hoeth, but this…. She had never seen a master of the “Faran Khaine” – the Lightning Cut – in battle before! It was a whirlwind of spinning blades, long black tresses and cloak flapping like raven wings, as the stranger cut a bloody swathe through the Druchii ranks. In seconds only the Corsair captain remained.
The two elves, Druchii and Asur, circled.
“I have a whole ship’s company of warriors waiting nearby,” the Druchii captain stated boldly.
“You did,” the stranger said simply.
The Corsair’s boot flicked. Tarabeth tried to shout a warning. She needn’t have bothered. The Druchii’s leg met the tip of the long blade with a sickening sound of cracking bone. Then with one swift turn, the stranger spun about and ran the length of the blade through the midsection of the raider; hefting him off the ground with the force of the blow. For a split second the Druchii squirmed in the air, several feet of silvered steel protruding from his back, until the elf warrior stood erect and dropped the now dead corpse from the blade.
Tarabeth tried to catch her breath and stay steady on her feet. The stranger wiped his long blade clean with a piece of cloth, before returning it to its scabbard. He helped the injured boy to his feet, and then the two of them came over towards her.
“I am….I am, Tarabeth of Chrace!” she said, valiantly trying to not sound frightened. “I have come here to find the Shadow Prince of Nagarythe!”
The stranger, his face partly veiled by long raven hair, eyed her with cold, black eyes. Then slowly he said:
“Well, Tarabeth of Chrace. You have found him.”
_________________ Seredain wrote: Headshot, you are wise like Yoda
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