Slugbaby
New Member
Excerpt from the Mapping of Markesh. Please note this is the unedited version as was the intro I posted previously. In answer to the reply I recieved on the last post, well I suppose capitalization is important but I went to secondary school 25 years ago and leave that stuff to the editor, hell thats what their paid for, enjoy the story, enjoy the writing, if you don't whats the point.
CHAPTER ONE – GATHERING STEAM
Idron sat on his small pack awaiting the arrival of his new companions. His short dagger stuck uncomfortably in his side, this irritated him for he was a stranger to the carriage of weaponry. He was of mixed blood-half elf, on his mother’s side and Protalien on his father’s side. This uncommon mix had been shunned during the time of his conception, but times had changed as had attitudes and most, but not all, accepted loves ignorance to the boundaries made of men.
Protalien’s were a race not dissimilar to Elves, though they tended to be broader, slightly taller and less concerned with the enchantments of the Elvin folk. The Elves however found enchantment everywhere, especially in the very nature of things and this made them at one with the Earth. Protalien’s were a Warrior creed, skilled soldiers, trackers and woodsmen. They tended to be unsocial creatures, who kept their distance from one another, only coming together for important issues, such as fight days, mating and training. The most social of its institutions was its Army; a very large and very professional Army, the pride of its race and a dominating force in the wider world. Yet even its soldiers sought solitude outside of their duties. A seemingly sad Race if viewed from the outside, but still a proud race whose population were loyal, brave and almost to a man, skilled soldiers.
Idron had, had little contact with his father and had been nurtured by his Elvin mother. He had grown to love the finer things that life has to offer and loved all the fruits that nature provided. To the untrained eye, he appeared Protalien, slightly larger than an Elf, standing around five foot ten; he had broad shoulders on his lean body and wavy golden locks crowning his angular face, features that were recognisably quite different than those of the dark haired elves. These differences had brought him unwanted attention as a child and he had been treated as an outcast by those of his own age group. However the elder elves loving all that lives had treated him well and taught him all of the Elvin ways and customs. Due to these teachings he felt at one with nature and had seldom had call to use a weapon apart from the bow he had occasionally used to put food on his mothers table. The dagger, which now pained him so, was a gift from his uncle Mithred, an experienced Elder from his village, who was now in his 500th cycle and was rumoured to have been a combatant in the famed battle of Falcon Ridge during the Dwarf Wars. Idron had been only too pleased to accept this gift but was still none too keen of its presence on his person.
He had been waiting all evening on the quayside of The Green River’s southern Port. Directed to meet his unknown companions there at midday sharp on the twelfth of June and had not wished to be late. He was beginning to wish he’d caught an early morning Ship and savoured the delights of his mother’s home for a final night; his eagerness had however not been rewarded. The night was drawing in, and a fine drizzle was in the air. He had little in the way of shelter and knew nothing of the Ports layout. He had hoped other travellers would have turned up early and that this night would be spent in the Company of new friends; evidently this now seemed highly unlikely. The evening light faded fast and with it a drop in temperature accompanied by an unexpected sudden heavy downpour. The chain mail vest he wore now felt colder than ever and his thick woollen royal blue coat became his only comfort. He was just about to move when a voice cut through the blanket of rain.
‘Ere, young Sir! Are you completely daft or what?'
He looked up to find a human soldier peering out from the parapet of a wooden weather-beaten lookout post on the quayside.
‘Get yourself up the road you silly sod, there’s an Inn not less than a quarter of a mile up yonder- it can be pricey, but not as costly as the doc’s fee for a pneumonia cure’
‘Thank you, but I’ve been waiting for my friends’ Idron replied feeling nothing short of stupid for he knew the meet wasn’t until tomorrow. But wanted to appear as though he had some purpose for sitting in the cold and wet, which of course he did not.
‘Well, fine friends you seem to keep! Company they certainly are not… However, should they appear I’ll be certain to guide them in your direction, although we don’t tend to get too many ships in after dark, so I think they’ve more than likely abandoned you!’
So replied the soldier, who had some experience in life and did not for one minute believe this young lad was waiting for anyone. He had seen many young adventurers in his time and knew the lonely, lost ones when he saw them.
Oblivious to the World, that one, he said to himself as Idron passed his post.
After a brisk walk the din of the bawdy inn’s occupants could be heard. The noise made Idron reluctant to enter, even though the warm yellow lights spilling from its coloured glass windows seemed so inviting. He stood at the door, rain dripping from his hood, his small but heavy pack weighing on his back. He had spent his days amid the Elves, and even there he had been an outsider. Now he became very hesitant. He was anxious to enter but fearful of how he would be received halted his advance. He was young, knew nothing of the world, and although he wished to find his place in life he began to question whether he had made the right choice. ‘He who hesitates is lost,’ his uncle had told him, and these small words of wisdom rang true in Idron’s mind as his decision to enter was unexpectedly made for him.
A jolt from behind suddenly thrust Idron through the inn’s doors; losing his footing in the process, he arrived with a tumble in a most haphazardly fashion and found himself sprawled across the inn’s entrance foyer in under the watchful eye of the inn’s patrons. There was a sudden silence as strange eyes took in the sight laid before them. The silence amplified Idron’s embarrassment and was followed by an outburst of deep, roaring, belly-bursting laughter. He had indeed looked most comical slipping and sliding through the door like some half-drowned calf. His attempts to find his footing were akin to the slapstick comedy found in the travelling fairs. The laughter continued and he felt blood rushing to his head as a veil of colour filled his cheeks.
‘What the blasted! Oh! Well I never did see… Sorry there, my dear boy’ said a confused but apologetic voice from his rear.
‘Mark you, what with the rain and the wind, well I just didna see you lurkin around the doorway. Not the best of places to hover, after all’
The voice belonged to a burly Dwarf who was now peering down and dripping cold rain on the fallen lad. He was dressed in muddy well worn boots that stopped short of his exposed knees; Close fitting black woollen breeches could be seen below a brass breast plate that was only just visible under a long-for a Dwarf that is- distressed brown leather hooded coat.
‘Come now, no hard feelings,’ the Dwarf said as he aided the boy in regaining his composure. ‘Now, let me buy you a drink, it’s the least I can do! What do you say?’ His rugged face was broken by a wide grin, showing that behind the weathered face and the long black, silver tipped beard there dwelled an honest and compassionate soul.
Once the dwarf had Idron back on his feet his face turned to thunder has he faced the laughing crowd, ‘An’ as for you miserable lot, you can just quit yer laughin, ‘tis a fine way to treat strangers! You oughta be ashamed of yerselves…. now get back to your own business, afore ye makes me angry!’ he scowled angrily at the inn’s chuckling customers, bringing a sudden solemn manner to his audience.
Compassionate maybe, but obviously no pushover; and apparently not a Dwarf to upset either, by the look of it, thought Idron.
‘It’s no problem, I shouldn’t have stood there as long as I did, he who hesitates, my Uncle says but thanking you kindly, it would be a pleasure to keep your company on such a foul night, and a drink would be most welcome’ Idron thought one hesitation enough for the night and could see that in this Dwarfs company he would at least be safe
‘Two, large mugs of ‘Just one more’ for this young fellow and I, my dear girl and add it to my slate’ said the Dwarf has he scrambled upon a large stool to gain the height required to peer over the bar. Once seated he turned to Idron and introduced himself
‘Benjamin’s the name, Benjamin Brandsaw, although my friends call me Bsore, due they say to my short temper, and you’ll be?’
‘Idron, pleased to meet you I’m certain and many thanks for the drink, but I’m not accustomed to ‘just one more’ is that a Markesh drink?’
Idron replied, trying to keep the rapport going
‘Certainly not’ Benjamin, snapped back ‘It’s a Dwarven Ale, so called because that’s how the night progresses when you drink it, very apt I think’
‘Sorry, I didn’t wish to offend, its just that I’ve not ventured much out of Elkwind Valley, where red wine is the mainstay of those that drink’ replied a rather sheepish Idron; feeling as though he’d already turned sour a promising relationship.
‘Take no heed of my manner laddie, it’s just my nature, I mean nothing by it, suppose that’s why Bsore has stuck’ he muttered the last line as it was aimed more to himself than Idron.
‘Elkwind Valley hey! And I took you for a Protalien, what were you doing living amongst Elves?’ said a sour faced Benjamin raising one of his wild bushy eyebrows.
CHAPTER ONE – GATHERING STEAM
Idron sat on his small pack awaiting the arrival of his new companions. His short dagger stuck uncomfortably in his side, this irritated him for he was a stranger to the carriage of weaponry. He was of mixed blood-half elf, on his mother’s side and Protalien on his father’s side. This uncommon mix had been shunned during the time of his conception, but times had changed as had attitudes and most, but not all, accepted loves ignorance to the boundaries made of men.
Protalien’s were a race not dissimilar to Elves, though they tended to be broader, slightly taller and less concerned with the enchantments of the Elvin folk. The Elves however found enchantment everywhere, especially in the very nature of things and this made them at one with the Earth. Protalien’s were a Warrior creed, skilled soldiers, trackers and woodsmen. They tended to be unsocial creatures, who kept their distance from one another, only coming together for important issues, such as fight days, mating and training. The most social of its institutions was its Army; a very large and very professional Army, the pride of its race and a dominating force in the wider world. Yet even its soldiers sought solitude outside of their duties. A seemingly sad Race if viewed from the outside, but still a proud race whose population were loyal, brave and almost to a man, skilled soldiers.
Idron had, had little contact with his father and had been nurtured by his Elvin mother. He had grown to love the finer things that life has to offer and loved all the fruits that nature provided. To the untrained eye, he appeared Protalien, slightly larger than an Elf, standing around five foot ten; he had broad shoulders on his lean body and wavy golden locks crowning his angular face, features that were recognisably quite different than those of the dark haired elves. These differences had brought him unwanted attention as a child and he had been treated as an outcast by those of his own age group. However the elder elves loving all that lives had treated him well and taught him all of the Elvin ways and customs. Due to these teachings he felt at one with nature and had seldom had call to use a weapon apart from the bow he had occasionally used to put food on his mothers table. The dagger, which now pained him so, was a gift from his uncle Mithred, an experienced Elder from his village, who was now in his 500th cycle and was rumoured to have been a combatant in the famed battle of Falcon Ridge during the Dwarf Wars. Idron had been only too pleased to accept this gift but was still none too keen of its presence on his person.
He had been waiting all evening on the quayside of The Green River’s southern Port. Directed to meet his unknown companions there at midday sharp on the twelfth of June and had not wished to be late. He was beginning to wish he’d caught an early morning Ship and savoured the delights of his mother’s home for a final night; his eagerness had however not been rewarded. The night was drawing in, and a fine drizzle was in the air. He had little in the way of shelter and knew nothing of the Ports layout. He had hoped other travellers would have turned up early and that this night would be spent in the Company of new friends; evidently this now seemed highly unlikely. The evening light faded fast and with it a drop in temperature accompanied by an unexpected sudden heavy downpour. The chain mail vest he wore now felt colder than ever and his thick woollen royal blue coat became his only comfort. He was just about to move when a voice cut through the blanket of rain.
‘Ere, young Sir! Are you completely daft or what?'
He looked up to find a human soldier peering out from the parapet of a wooden weather-beaten lookout post on the quayside.
‘Get yourself up the road you silly sod, there’s an Inn not less than a quarter of a mile up yonder- it can be pricey, but not as costly as the doc’s fee for a pneumonia cure’
‘Thank you, but I’ve been waiting for my friends’ Idron replied feeling nothing short of stupid for he knew the meet wasn’t until tomorrow. But wanted to appear as though he had some purpose for sitting in the cold and wet, which of course he did not.
‘Well, fine friends you seem to keep! Company they certainly are not… However, should they appear I’ll be certain to guide them in your direction, although we don’t tend to get too many ships in after dark, so I think they’ve more than likely abandoned you!’
So replied the soldier, who had some experience in life and did not for one minute believe this young lad was waiting for anyone. He had seen many young adventurers in his time and knew the lonely, lost ones when he saw them.
Oblivious to the World, that one, he said to himself as Idron passed his post.
After a brisk walk the din of the bawdy inn’s occupants could be heard. The noise made Idron reluctant to enter, even though the warm yellow lights spilling from its coloured glass windows seemed so inviting. He stood at the door, rain dripping from his hood, his small but heavy pack weighing on his back. He had spent his days amid the Elves, and even there he had been an outsider. Now he became very hesitant. He was anxious to enter but fearful of how he would be received halted his advance. He was young, knew nothing of the world, and although he wished to find his place in life he began to question whether he had made the right choice. ‘He who hesitates is lost,’ his uncle had told him, and these small words of wisdom rang true in Idron’s mind as his decision to enter was unexpectedly made for him.
A jolt from behind suddenly thrust Idron through the inn’s doors; losing his footing in the process, he arrived with a tumble in a most haphazardly fashion and found himself sprawled across the inn’s entrance foyer in under the watchful eye of the inn’s patrons. There was a sudden silence as strange eyes took in the sight laid before them. The silence amplified Idron’s embarrassment and was followed by an outburst of deep, roaring, belly-bursting laughter. He had indeed looked most comical slipping and sliding through the door like some half-drowned calf. His attempts to find his footing were akin to the slapstick comedy found in the travelling fairs. The laughter continued and he felt blood rushing to his head as a veil of colour filled his cheeks.
‘What the blasted! Oh! Well I never did see… Sorry there, my dear boy’ said a confused but apologetic voice from his rear.
‘Mark you, what with the rain and the wind, well I just didna see you lurkin around the doorway. Not the best of places to hover, after all’
The voice belonged to a burly Dwarf who was now peering down and dripping cold rain on the fallen lad. He was dressed in muddy well worn boots that stopped short of his exposed knees; Close fitting black woollen breeches could be seen below a brass breast plate that was only just visible under a long-for a Dwarf that is- distressed brown leather hooded coat.
‘Come now, no hard feelings,’ the Dwarf said as he aided the boy in regaining his composure. ‘Now, let me buy you a drink, it’s the least I can do! What do you say?’ His rugged face was broken by a wide grin, showing that behind the weathered face and the long black, silver tipped beard there dwelled an honest and compassionate soul.
Once the dwarf had Idron back on his feet his face turned to thunder has he faced the laughing crowd, ‘An’ as for you miserable lot, you can just quit yer laughin, ‘tis a fine way to treat strangers! You oughta be ashamed of yerselves…. now get back to your own business, afore ye makes me angry!’ he scowled angrily at the inn’s chuckling customers, bringing a sudden solemn manner to his audience.
Compassionate maybe, but obviously no pushover; and apparently not a Dwarf to upset either, by the look of it, thought Idron.
‘It’s no problem, I shouldn’t have stood there as long as I did, he who hesitates, my Uncle says but thanking you kindly, it would be a pleasure to keep your company on such a foul night, and a drink would be most welcome’ Idron thought one hesitation enough for the night and could see that in this Dwarfs company he would at least be safe
‘Two, large mugs of ‘Just one more’ for this young fellow and I, my dear girl and add it to my slate’ said the Dwarf has he scrambled upon a large stool to gain the height required to peer over the bar. Once seated he turned to Idron and introduced himself
‘Benjamin’s the name, Benjamin Brandsaw, although my friends call me Bsore, due they say to my short temper, and you’ll be?’
‘Idron, pleased to meet you I’m certain and many thanks for the drink, but I’m not accustomed to ‘just one more’ is that a Markesh drink?’
Idron replied, trying to keep the rapport going
‘Certainly not’ Benjamin, snapped back ‘It’s a Dwarven Ale, so called because that’s how the night progresses when you drink it, very apt I think’
‘Sorry, I didn’t wish to offend, its just that I’ve not ventured much out of Elkwind Valley, where red wine is the mainstay of those that drink’ replied a rather sheepish Idron; feeling as though he’d already turned sour a promising relationship.
‘Take no heed of my manner laddie, it’s just my nature, I mean nothing by it, suppose that’s why Bsore has stuck’ he muttered the last line as it was aimed more to himself than Idron.
‘Elkwind Valley hey! And I took you for a Protalien, what were you doing living amongst Elves?’ said a sour faced Benjamin raising one of his wild bushy eyebrows.