This is the end of part 1 of his drafts. He did a little for part 2 but I'm working to finish it up based on his screenshots and outlines.
The Events of the 14th of Felsite, 1075Part 1:
For the better part of two days, drums could be heard in the distance, their methodical
thrum, thrum, thrum sending a chill down the stoutest of spines. It grew in volume, and by dusk on the 13
th, some Dwarves swore they could feel the maddening instruments reverberating through the very stones. Occasionally, if the winds drifted in the right direction, flute melodies could be heard, and the droning dirge of pipes, and what could only be the sorrowful sounds of a battle hymn.
Merkil and his band stood atop the eastern wall of the fortress. Adol and Maggarg were both bundles of nervous energy, and Merkil chewed on some roots, his gums blackening from it's tar-and-tobacco contents. Even Likot seemed jittery, her trench coat rustling about her ankles, her single good hand checking and re-checking the action on her repeating crossbow.
"
The air, it tastes wrong... Damn them, them them all, there's just no time..."
"It'll be alright," Merkil said gruffly. "We've fought off countless bands before. This will off no more issue than a hundred other battles."
"
I don't taste goblins... I'm tasting death. I'm tasting... Lords... all the Lords, I'm tasting the Star God."
Maggarg favored here with a glance out of the corner of his eye, his thumb slowly pressing his sword free from the lock in his scabbard. His other hand inched around to grip at the handle. Even in his emaciated, recently-freed state, he was coiled like a whip, his temperament cooled not the least by his imprisonment, his distrust of most everyone having blossomed while in the cells.
"Oh yes, he's a'commmin'," Wilber said, without his usual cheer. His eyes were wide, his tongue lolling as he dabbed at his lower lip. "Comin' straight through, friends o' mine, commin' straight through... we..." and for an instant, it seemed as if sanity gripped him. The cloud over his eyes cleared, and the Dwarf stood a bit straighter, his eyes watching out to the wastes. "We should find a hovel to hide in. This storm is blowing straight through."
***
"Get to work!" Aryn screamed. "We close the hatches in three hours! Death is on the winds, and your salvation is in the domes! Your salvation is inside Ocean's Bled! GRAB YOUR POSSESSIONS!"
Dwarves rushed about, hauling chests and cabinets, dropping behind them old clothes, trinkets, jewelry. Bears, a good dozen of the armored beasts, were snarling and swiping at those who were too slow to get out of their way. Aryn himself stood atop the single entrance to the domes, his arms folded across his chest, purple cloak billowing out behind him. He struck a regal figure, even with the matted, thinning hair and the stooped posture. The set of his face was determined, his gaze steely, his voice - the crack of a whip. Despite themselves, many of the Dwarves felt that this was the lesser of two evils. Torn apart at the hordes, or worked under the sea by a master they already knew.
Rice and Lucy were some of the last to file in, but only because they had stopped to aid Mookie. Dojango, dragging along a barrel of felt, was given aid by Akroma and Quote, and even Lugnut put aside his papers to lend a hand to the old salt Cokho. In adversity, came togetherness.
***
The Duke and his Wife stood at the edge of the desert, watching as the countless bands of... marching figures drew closer. In the morning light, it was difficult for them to make out much, but they could see the swirling of capes, and they could see the leanness of the figures. They could also see their leader, graceful and lithe, marching by himself. As he drew closer, The Duke let out a sigh of relief. Only an elf, darker of skin, but most likely it hailed from the south. Rings of red flowers filled out it's hair, and it's mouth was stretched into a painfully wide smile, showing rows of thin, gleaming teeth.
"We're surprised to see you here," The Duke announced, giving a slight bow. "Seeing as a representative is still in our fortress, making his demands."
The Elf before them didn't speak, he only tilted his head to the side like a dog, that insipid smile stuck on it's face. The Duke's mustaches twitched, and he narrowed his eyes, but he continued on in as pleasant a tone as he could muster.
"Of course, we'll find you room and board. But you must understand it might well be below the station of one such as... such as..." He frowned, trying to see on the sparse clothing a rank, an insignia, an anything. "Sir, just why are you here?"
The elf's eyes rolled back, his mouth widening in silent laughter. It continued to widen, his jaw stretching as hands clasped at his stomach, holding back the silent chortles.
It continued to widen, stretching, the lips straining thin. Eventually, the began to crack at the sides, splitting the skin upwards until it reached his tapered ears, the bones and tendons snapping and popping as it shifted to accommodate. His cloak, a deep red, unfurled behind and stretched out to great lengths, and it was then the Duke saw that it wasn't a cloak - it was wings, great leathery bat wings, and with a single snap they locked open. With the snap of a thousand cloaks being shaken out, every figure hidden in the dusk unfurled his own cloak, a thousand sets of wings, blocking out the raising rays of sunlight.
A long tongue, slathering, began to unroll from the Elf's mouth, the forked tip flickering. In horror, the Duke looked up and saw blackness where the eyes had once been, twin pits of inkiness - no, it was ink - blackness dribbling down the sockets, running from the corners of it's mouth, dribbling to sizzle and pop on the sands. It brought it's hands up to it's chest and made a small circle with cracked, misshapen fingers. And it whispered two words, the sounds of hundred year old parchment crackling before crumbling to dust.
"Olsmo. Lives."
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Topic: Migrursut: What Comes After The World Ends? [Epilogue] (A Community Fort) (Read 390216 times)