Returning to Fort Areos from a long and once again unsuccessful journey through Stagwood late one recent night, I heard sounds and alarums. Rushing for the Fort, I made a prodigious leap for the Fort walls. It is a pity nobody was there to see me. I was poetry personified, the image of grace and beauty, and I am sure that that ally of darkness, Zachary, had he seen me, would have been quite envious of my Elven grace.
Despite my skill, I was unable, after all, to top the Fort walls, so I entered by the usual route, only to see a large band of the unwashed undead. I put the fear of Elves in them by rushing past them with speed and adroitness (though how that word means what it means is beyond me—it seems anything but adroit, but the Common language can never express as elegantly the fine nuances of meaning that Elven can, all so beautifully that Humans have been known to weep when an Elf recites her shopping list.) Read More
The silence of Stagwood is a contradiction in terms. Being silence thus implies there is a lack of noise. Being a forest implies critters and creatures, beasts and beings live there. Such an amount of life existing in one location has a certain melody all its own. As it is in the area in and surrounding the Stagwood. Crickets and cicadas chirrup their nightly concert. A lone owl calls, mournful for the scurrying beasts it hopes to devour. The wind, whistling gaily as it dances among the wood. The steady clang of steel upon forged steel.
Another late night, that’s what it is for Sharl. The orders, as they usually seem to, come all at once. The militia with seven suits of chain to be mended, Connor’s family dropped off a neat dozen sets of their tools that need sharpening, re-solidifying, and the unique sort of firmness only a Dragonborn smith can seem to imbue upon a weapon. Not to mention the order of horseshoes that was scheduled to be picked up in a day or two for Axe Lake. Sharl still wasn’t sure how Sorann managed to get that deal, but it kept life easy for them, between the minor…Read More