Author Topic: The Elf Wars  (Read 1078 times)

Offline discharger12

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The Elf Wars
« on: January 06, 2005, 08:12:04 PM »
Two hundred years after the main character of the Baldur’s Gate Series decided to return to a normal life, all the elves who had lived in the Amn area were forced to move north by an expanding war they would be forced to participate in, unless they deserted north of the area in which they lived. On the outskirts of Nashville the elves split into different sects, ordered by the Queen to look for their own areas in which to live, promising to return to their homeland after the wars had ended. One such sect found a deserted Durlag’s Tower. It had been looted long ago, by a certain adventurer, who had died some one hundred and thirty-six years ago. All the monster’s and traps had been cleared, and Durlag had been put to rest. If it was cleaned up it would be a wonderful place to stay. The only thing that bothered them was that a certain room in the tower was locked up tight. And in that room, there remained a most powerful item, with power a certain demon knight could not even dream imaginable.

A Mirror

The Elf Wars


         The Elf Wars

 

The long Kythorn twilight faded into the night. Durlag’s Tower lay enveloped in darkness except for a small stream of moonlight that shone through the fleecy clouds and cast a pale glow over the immediate area. Around the beleaguered front gate arrows flew through the night and here and there, swords clanged and magic flew, spasmodically breaking the silence of the night, like lone worgs barking in the dark.
The Alliance and the Coalition elves were waging civil war. 
Positioned at the very top of Durlag’s Tower, a lone bowman lay watching. He had recently cleaned the area of Coalition Elves, and the Tower was now occupied by the Alliance. Beside him lay his bow and arrows, and over his shoulder was slung a flask of healing potion. His face was the face of a student, thin and ascetic, but his eyes had the cold gleam of a fanatic. They were deep and thoughtful, the eyes of one who is used to looking at death.
 He was hungrily eating a stoat sandwich, having had nothing else since morning. When he finished his meal, he grabbed a flask of Firewine Ale from his pouch and took a short draft. He paused for a moment, considering whether he should risk a smoke of his pipe. It was dangerous. The flash caused by the spurt of magic might be seen in the darkness, and there were enemies watching. He scowled into the darkness. If only he had taken the time to learn how to conceal flames. Regardless, he decided to take the risk. 
Placing the pipe stem between his lips, he flicked flames off his fingers, inhaled the smoke hurriedly and put out the light. Almost immediately, an arrow slammed into the parapet. The bowman took another drag and putting out the bowl, swore softly and crawled away to the left.
Cautiously he raised himself onto his elbows and peered over the parapet. There was a flash, and a second arrow whizzed over his head, forcing him to drop back down. He had seen the flash come from the bridge near the front gate. The other elf was using magic to propel the arrows even further.

He rolled over the roof to a half-empty pot of stew that the other elves had been cooking in the rear. He then slowly drew himself up behind it, until his eyes were level with the top of the parapet. There was nothing to be seen- just the dim outline of the bridge against the mucky ground. His enemy was under cover.

 

Just then, a strange contraption the archer had seen only heard about appeared near the base of the bridge. He stared at it, having listened to the tales told by his fellow soldiers who claimed to have seen the newly invented weapon. He had silently doubted the truth of their descriptions, which told of an indestructible, iron-plated wagon that was fueled by magic. Even now, with the strange metal beast making its way slowly up the bridge, the young man hardly dared believe what his eyes were showing him.
He could clearly hear the dull creaking of the wheels and the sound caused his heart to beat faster. He wanted to fire his arrows at it, but he knew it was useless. If the tales were indeed true, and it appeared that they were, his arrows would never pierce the iron that covered the grey monster. 
Suddenly, from under the bridge came a figure, the identity shroud in mystery as its head was covered by a tattered hood. The figure walked up to the wagon and appeared to be talking to someone the archer could not see. After a moment, it turned and then pointed up at the roof.
 The head of another figure appeared at the opening of the wagon and looked up to where the first was pointing. Wasting no time, the bowman raised his weapon, and launched an arrow, aiming for the figure on the bridge. The missile found its mark and the unknown enemy whirled round from the impact and toppled over the bridge, screaming as he fell. 

 Suddenly from the near the bridge a flash sparked and the bowman dropped his weapon with a curse. An arrow had buried itself into his arm. He stooped over and tried to pick his bow up, but he couldn’t lift it. His forearm was dead. Dropping back onto the roof, he crawled back to the parapet. 

The blood was oozing through the sleeve of his cloak. With a mutter of words, the bowman was able to remove the coat area around the arrow. 
With no way to dig the arrow shaft out of his arm to heal it fully, he was forced to cut most of the arrow tail off, leaving the head inside his arm for the time being. He had some skill in healing, so at least he was able to stop the bleeding and dampen the pain. With a slight mutter, and a touch of his index finger, the wound slightly closed over the leftover arrow, but his arm was still useless. He could no longer use his bow.
With another curse, the bowman carefully inched to the edge of the roof. Apparently unhurt from the fall, the enemy near the bottom of the bridge covered his escape. He must kill that enemy and he could not use his bow. The only thing he had that would work for a situation such as this would be to use his magic dart. A plan started to form in his mind.

 Taking off his helm, he set it on the ground next to him and looking at it, muttered an incantation of levitating. Slowly, it floated to the edge of the parapet where it would be visible to the enemy below. Almost immediately there was a response, and an arrow pierced the center of the helm, and sent it falling over the side toward the ground below. Then, catching the bow in the middle, the sniper dropped his left hand over the roof and let it hang, lifelessly. After a few moments he let the bow drop to the street and then he sank to the roof, dragging his hand with him.
 

Crawling quickly to the left, he peered up at the corner of the roof. His ruse had succeeded. The other bowman, seeing the cap and bow fall, thought that he had killed his man. He was now standing before a row of more stew pots, looking up, with his head silhouetted against the ground. 

The Alliance bowman smiled and lifted the hand holding one of his darts above the edge of the parapet. The distance was about fifty yards- a hard shot in the dim light, despite the fact that the darts were magic heat-seekers. 
The smile grew wider as he remembered how he had acquired his prized possession. A simple bet and three very rare yet powerful darts had become his. What made them so special, despite their heat-seeking ability, was the fact that they had enough power to kill a half-aged red dragon. Using them was hard, but it was all he had. 
His arm trembling slightly, he took steady aim and sent the dart off into the dark, his arm shaking with the recoil. 


When he heard the scream of pain, uttered his own cry of joy. His enemy had been hit. Looking down, he watched as the other struggled to keep his feet, but he was unsteady and he slowly fell forward, his bow slipping from his hands. His body shook with a final paroxysm of pain, and then became still. 
He was dead.

 The bowman looked down at his fallen enemy and shuddered, the lust of battle dying in him. The sweat stood out in beads on his forehead and He became bitter with remorse. 
Weakened by his wound and the long summer day of fasting and watching on the roof, he retreated from the sight of the shattered mass of his dead enemy. His teeth chattered, he began to gibber to himself, cursing the war, cursing himself, cursing everybody.

 
He looked at the bow in his hand, and with an oath he hurled it to the roof at his feet. The bow’s tempered string snapped from the impact, and whizzed past the bowman’s head back to his senses.
 
Taking the Firewine Ale flask from his pocket, he emptied it in one long swig. Feeling reckless under the influence of the spirit, He decided to leave the roof and go look for his commander and issue a report. He picked up his bow and slung it over his shoulder. Then using the nearly the last bit of magic he had left in him, he conjured up a ladder to climb down. Going down through the tower would be suicide. 
Everywhere around was quiet. The monstrous tank lay silent. Who had ever survived the last ten minutes around the surrounding mile had run off to fight at The Ring, the arena where the fight between the Consular and the Queen’s Chief was taking place. The bowman was the only one left, save the dead bodies and all the monsters hauled up in The Tower. He picked up his bow and slung it over his shoulder. Then using nearly the last bit of magic he had left in him, he conjured up a ladder to climb down. Going down through the tower would be suicide. 


When the bowman reached the ground, he felt a sudden curiosity as to the identity of the enemy bowman he had killed. He decided that he was a good shot, whoever he was. He wondered did he know him. Perhaps he had been in his own brigade before the schism. He decided to risk going over to have a look at him. It was unlikely that there was anyone else under the bridge; otherwise, they more then likely would have fired their own bows. Even without bows, they could have easily snuck up to the wall and conjured up their own ladders and then stormed the roof. The bowman rushed over to the dead body. 

He turned it over and looked into his brother’s face.
« Last Edit: March 31, 2005, 11:57:07 AM by discharger12 »

 

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