dalbran

“Wrath and vengeance, grudge and strife, we march into the afterlife! Rhump-rhump-rhump...” 
“Could you stop that, Gurnisson?” 
“Stop that? Baah, nonsense, Azul-Kang! The Speech of Borri Stonehand is a fine tale to kill foulskins to!” Dalbran shook his head, his beard swaying on long, gentle strokes.  

They finally found a place to rest. Within one of the ruined structures within Carn Dum, the two were huddled around a small fire, draped in their traveling cloaks. 

“Ye know, for a Elf-Warrior in a shoddy piece of plate, yer not too bad, laddie.” 

You really messed up now, Crownlight.

The young Silvan cursed his own antics silently, biting his lip, daring not to make a sound. It was quite a curious scene to behold: the small form of the wood elf covered in mud and dead grass fazed between the tents of the Yrch camp, not a step to be heard as he moved, his muddied robes matching the dirt beneath him. 

Where jewels drive the dark away, and night becomes as bright as day, an honest end from an honest start, for wealth is found inside the heart. 

The letter is neatly folded, the visible side only being labeled with "For Ninimil" in small script. It sits atop the heavy covers decorating a certain patron's bed, presumably having been left there while the room was empty. Once unfolded, the page shows a carefully written note, the handwriting hinting it was written by a scholarly type or someone who has sent one too many letters.

The night hung calmly over the carved halls. The stars, like a thousand gems scattered across the velvet, shone clearly in the deep blue, bathing the Iron Hills in their silver glimmer. Two dwarves sat laid atop the Dainlik, giggling to some, undoubtedly hilarious, joke one of them made. 

I kneel before you and you call me by the name given in days that shone.
I answer but it feels foreign from your lips.
I would ask what that name is to you had I not known;
Had I no fear.

I kneel before you and you steal the words that bind me to the ground before us:
My oath to you once stood as a badge of honor,
Now it lies dying in this tall grass.
A fiddle string has no worth alone, let me not cling to your dying word.