What follows, is more or less a true story from Legends Mode. It's also only part of a myth cycle that spins back to the beginning of this world and forward quite a ways. Depending on how this goes, I'm planning to talk about the death of Ale at the hands of Bulsa's mother (true) and the quest to bring his body a great distance to the ocean to be buried (my invention, but his family's names tend towards the aquatic and they worship a goddess associated with the ocean).
Ale was young, and as yet unblooded. She let out a war cry and charged forward. Her target was a black haired, sorrowful looking man, about her own age, clad in bronze armor and holding a iron spear.
Her breath caught in her throat as she looked at him. That, surely, was the face of the Bronze Raven, who had struck down nearly two score of her people. But the Bronze Raven would be nearly half a century old by now, and his race was nowhere near as long lived as hers.
By his demeanor, then, this must be Bulsa Constructflew, the son of the Bronze Raven. They called him the Speechless Misery of Water, for his sorrowful visage and his taciturn nature. As she watched, Tise Twilightplanned charged towards him, wooden mace raised high. With scarcely a care, Bulsa surged forward, and his spear ripped through Tise’s wooden armor and impaled her.
“Murderer!” Hissed Ale, and charged. That her people had come here to kill his didn’t strike her as any sort of reason for him to kill one of them. After all, they were the elves, the True People, and this land was theirs to protect and nurture, and the humans were only squatters to be cleared out.
Bulsa came to meet her, raising his shield to block the first swing of her wooden sword. “Life is pain, elf,” he said. “Pain, and death, and rebirth.”
“For humans, maybe,” she snarled. “He could have lived forever!”
Constructflew said nothing, merely lunged at her with his spear. She blocked it, but he had followed it up with a swing of his shield, and this caught her in the face, stunning her and knocking her to the ground. He loomed over her, his face absent of the savage joy common to most heroes, whether elf, human, dwarf, or goblin. She grabbed her sword, but he stamped down on it, splintering it.
Another elf crashed into Bulsa, knocking him to the ground. Bulsa lost hold of his spear, and Ale knew she had only a brief moment of respite. Already, he was wrapping his meaty human hands around her savior’s delicate neck.
As the neck gave way with a sickening crack, she grabbed the iron spear and thrust into the side of Busla’s head. He let out a long sigh and collapsed. Holding the spear still, Ale glanced about for another foe, only to see that, despite their overwhelming numbers, the battle had been lost.
“Fall back!” Called Lefari, who had led the siege. “We are undone! Fall back.”
Kneeling, Ale, seized a lock of Busla’s black hair and cut it from his head. Hanging it from the iron spear to make a crude trophy, she howled her rage and victory, and then turned and ran with her elf comrades.
As she glanced back, she saw a woman, elderly by human standards, but of proud bearing, staring at her with the smoldering hatred of Cacame himself. A shiver ran through her, a glimpse of her own death, but she put it aside as she ran.
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Topic: The Speechless Misery of Water (Read 782 times)