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.
You really, really messed up now...
It was a perfect plan, in theory. The foul forms of his enemies moved with a practiced rhythm; it did not take an experienced warrior to notice it. All he needed to do now was pick an opening and dash between the two guarding the gate on the other side of the camp, and then... He gently shook his head to himself, his locks weighted down by the dust and debris.
You came all the way here, what are you scared of now, for pity's sake?!
He spared a glance to the seemingly endless encampment behind him, the realization that he will not find his way back slowly dawning on his furrowed brow. You go forward, you dash past them, you get out of the camp... He tried to speak words of encouragement to himself, to still the fear in his chest and make the decision. To stand up...
His eyes tore open as the unfamiliar sound reached his ears. Footsteps, heavy, not Yrch, not Man... Heavy, quickened... Someone is running... Someone is escaping. The Yrch did not notice yet, there was just enough time to...
If they are a friend, they will rush to my aid.
If they need an escape... I will grant them one.
His fingers gripped the leather strap of his fiddle, and before he could even think of a plan, he felt himself rise: a fiddle resting on his shoulder, his fiddle-bow upon the strings, a challenge in the bright blue eyes as he stood, a wicked smile on his face. You are mad, Crownlight.
A series of piercing, wailing notes escaped the fiddle as he pressed hard against the strings. It was a maddened plan, yet it was working; the Yrch around him failed to hear the very footsteps that were approaching., turning their vile faces to the unexpected, terrible sounds that surely would cause many a minstrel to abandon their calling. He could no longer hear the unknown footsteps either, but there was no time to dwell on it, for a band of Yrch now ran after him, gaining speed now as they shook off the momentary confusion. They cried insults and curses, but he had not the time to listen. He leaped forward, his feet sliding around the dirt and mud as he knew only of his wailing fiddle and of raw, unwavering survival.
Then he heard it:
"Oooooooooooooo!"
The bright eyes turned only so to see the strong, blockish form of a dwarven warrior, twin axes joined above his head as he leaped from some great height. A hilltop? A tent? Has he gone completely mad?! The eyes blinked, no understanding reflected on the young face as he continued to run, the fiddle unrelenting in its desperate cries from the torture no instrument should endure.
Bodies falling, wicked laughter, shouts and cries in a language he had never heard before. He stopped as he ran into a wall, gasping as he realized in a moment of desperation that he had nowhere else to run. The end of the line. The curtains falling on an act well done. A chase finished. It was a good attempt he must admit yet... The Silvan turned swiftly, a fiddle bow pointed to his terrible pursuers... or rather... pursuer, the one lone form that stood now before him, preparing to strike. One Yrch... the others? What shall it matter, one shall slay him just as quickly.
Still, no more than a moment of fear could pass as the vile figure lifted his weapon, ready to strike the pretend-bard across the chest before... The final Yrch fell, a dwarven axe separating the head from the body in one sharp strike, bathing the Silvan in blackened blood. The courage was gone, the bard had played his song and the trembling figure fell to his knees. Wide-eyed and shaking, Galtharian turned to face his savior.
Before him, covered in blood and gore, twin axes still in his hands, stood Dalbran Gurnisson. One worthy of song.
