Just thought I'd share a story based off my current elven adventurer. Here you are, my friends... The tales of Kale Sensualstab, elven swordmaster and hedonist!
The elf slowly raised his mug to his lips, savoring with a sigh the delicate and rosy flavor of the strange wine. These dwarves were crude, yes, but there were a few things they did well. Making alcohol was one of them. The elf did not fancy the harsh beers and literally staggering whiskeys that the bearded ones favored, but their wines were truly a connoisseurs delight. He took another slow sip, letting the delightfully aromatic wine roll around on his tongue before swallowing. His eyelids fluttered in ecstasy.
'Elf.' Came the harsh voice. It was like rocks grinding together.
It entirely ruined his good vibrations. He tried to ignore it.
'Oi, elf!' Came the voice from behind him, insistent and coarse. The elf sighed, setting his mug down and turning from the bar, still seated on his stool. When his eyes lighted on the owner of the voice, he sighed and smoothed back his long gray hair.
Four dwarves stood before him. Masons, judging by the rock powder that coated them. Very drunk masons. The elf nodded to the foremost of them, who swayed slightly as he spoke.
'Yer... Yer a long way from the furrest, elf. Whatcher doin' 'ere?' He slurred, thrusting a stubby finger at the leather-clad elf.
'Enjoying your fine wine, friend dwarf. Even in my... 'furrests', your people are famed for their prowess with the barrel and the vine. I came here to see if the legends were true.' He leaned back, placing his elbows on the bar as he did so. The action pulled his cloak to the sides, revealing a long and slender sheathe of black leather buckled at his side. A hilt of masterfully carved wood protruded from it. The elf's smooth and fine-featured face wore a disarming smile, at odds with his calculated display of weaponry.
'Yeah? Well... I think that yer needin' ta go.' The dwarf blustered, oblivious to the casual and delicate way the elf traced his fingers across the pommel of his sword. The ruby set into the wood glimmered in the torchlight illuminating the tavern. The dwarf's friends nodded and murmured words of agreement, obviously as tipsy as their leader.
'Is that really necessary? Come, join me for a drink.' The elf said amicably. 'Let's make it interesting, even! I bet I could beat you in a drinking contest. What do you dwarves call it? Agesh or'ucat?'
The dwarf narrowed his close-set eyes, bristling brows writhing over them like angry caterpillars. 'Yer thinkin' ye can outdrink a dwarf?' He bellowed, thick and stinking spittle flying out fro between his beefy lips. 'Yer daft, elf! Yer daft and I'm gonna show ye just how!' With an inarticulate howl born of years of pent-up hatred towards what he viewed as filthy tree-lovers, he sprang towards the elf, hands outstretched and grasping with murderous intent. His friends gave a shout and picked up nearby stools, preparing to rush in and show the pansy elf the meaning of a 'dwarven discussion'.
The elf was off his stool in a flash, blade whipping out from its sheath with a whispering rasp or wood on leather. The blade struck twice; once on each of the leaping dwarf's hands. The elf made it move with a sinuous grace, and were the dwarves not drunk, they would still have been unable to follow it's path through the air.
Then the elf leapt to the side as the dwarf continued his flight, slamming headfirst into the solid granite of the bar. He attempted to grab the rim of the bar to pull himself up, but groaned when he realized his hands hung limply at the end of his broken wrists.
There was silence in the tavern. The elf felt eyes on him from every corner as dwarves turned to watch the tussle in progress. Those eyes were not friendly. He held his long blade in both hands, the strange and swirling patterns of his tribe seared into its living wood seeming to twist in the flickering torchlight. He slowly began to walk towards the door, blade leveled and ready to strike. The dwarves did nothing, said nothing. They merely watched as he reached the door and backed slowly out, into the well-lit tunnels of Nuggadlenod, that place that was called Donkeyseed.
When he was gone from the tavern, one of the injured dwarf's friends helped him to his feet, clumsily setting him on a stool.
'Ye're alright, then, Urist?' He asked his friend, gazing concernedly into his slightly glazed eyes.
'Bah! This ain't the first time I've busted me hands, Thenod. Ye're knowin' that.' He barked back. He gestured sharply towards the door, his hand flopping uselessly at the end of his burly arm. 'But I'm doubtin' that prissy tree-lover could take it so well. I'd love to get me smashin' teeth onto his arm...' The dwarf gave a demonstrational chomp of his large, flat teeth. 'Barkeep! What's 'is name?'
The barkeep looked up from where he had been righting a fallen stool. 'I think he said Kale. Kale... Aluverlalala or somethin' like that. Ye're knowin' I don't speak that fairy talk.'
Urist grunted and nodded, eyes narrowing.
'I be comin' fer ya, Kale. I be comin' fer ya.'
Author
Topic: A Grudge is Born. (Read 1363 times)