"Stop, thief!"
A rather gruff looking dwarf made a swipe at the lithe youth, barely missing as the young dark elf tumbled beneath the merchant's table and made a dash for the woods. He could hear the curses and angry shouts nipping at his heels as his feet pounded against the earth, a small bag clutched in his nimble hands. Despite the dwarf's fury, his short legs could not keep up with the agile thief's knack for escape. Soon, the dark, ragged clothed figure had slipped past the tree line, dissapearing into the gloomy bog that bordered the South Wastes of Tarhyl.
Merchants came and went from this area, peddling their wares to traveling adventurers. They generally brought a handful of guards with them, given the distance they had to travel from Newport. That, and the constant shadow cast from Freeport loomed just over the horizon. The dangers involved meant that the merchants were taking a healthy risk - however, the compensation was generally worth while, and they kept their stock full with only the best.
A portion of which was now in the possession of a young dark elf boy, who sat silently within the knotted mass of roots beneath a large, haunted oak, its branches clawing at the sunless, dark air around it like clawed fingers. The boy dared not breath, as a number of the merchant's guards came crashing through the exterior of the forest, muttering harsh oaths beneath their breath as they cut and hacked their way into the gloomy bog, thick with vines and grasping roots. However, after a few moments of half hearted searching, they gave up and went back. A stolen trinket or two wasn't worth scouring the Stinger's Bog.
When he heard the clinking of their armor fade and the sound of their labored footsteps withdraw, the thief finally let go of his own breath. He sat hunched against the body of the gnarled and twisted tree, finally looking down at the small treasure he had acquired. Opening the bag, he poured the contents out onto the mossy ground in front of him, his sharp eyes constantly flitting about, always searching for any signs of immediate danger. Every now and again he would push his filthy charcoal hair out of his even darker eyes, his appearance making him look more like a wilderman than a dark elf.
His name was Nekkor, a dark elf with little past behind him and seemingly little future before him. Born without a house, he bore the shame of having no surname for himself. Because of his status within the dark elf community, his best hopes were to be accepted as a servent within a dark elven family, or worse, a family of another lesser race. Deciding that he would rather die on his own accord rather than under the rule of someone else, he had fled the crude city of Grobb and made his way into the wilderness. He wandered aimlessly for the most part, stealing from caravans or wandering merchants when he could, living off of whatever the land provided for the rest. It was far from luxurious, but his will to live, to overcome death, drove him ever onward.
Two days later
Hungry eyes watched from the shadows of the treeline as a man approached the dwarven merchant. He was clothed in a brightly colored robe, and various jewels and rings adorned his fingers and ears. He carried no apparent weaponry other than a small dagger sheathed in a jeweled hilt at this side, and a gnarled walking staff. A long, bushy white beard fell from his face, cascading down his chest. It had the promise of an easy steal, and Nekkor's mind raced with the possibilities such wealth could bring. Shoes to protect his bare feet, clothes to replace the rags he wore, food for weeks... His jaw grew taught and his eyes narrowed in determination.
Finally, the robed man stepped away from the dwarf's makeshift caravan shop and turned to leave. He was heading north, towards the barren desert wastelands. The young dark elf was almost shaking with anticipation. Like a shadow, he crept along the treeline, staying just out of sight as he tracked his prey. Rusty dagger in hand, he flitted from cover to cover, his footsteps silent as he drew closer and closer to his target.
The man stopped suddenly, and Nekkor bent low behind a large rock, his eyes narrowing as he waited to see what the man would do. He was a few yards from him, and he could hear the bearded man mumbling something beneath his breath, every now and again making odd gestures with his hands, as if arguing with the air before him. The thief spotted a pouch at his side. That would make for an easy grab.
Steeling himself, Nekkor burst into motion, a sudden blur of movement and energy. Leaping from behind the rock, he closed the distance between himself and the robed figure in mere moments. Despite the commotion he had caused in his initial movements, the man seemed not to notice him. This only increased Nekkor's excitement. He reached out for the man's pouch, his nimble fingers closing over the soft leather material. Just as he was about to pull away, he heard with crystal clarity what the man was speaking, though he did not understand their meaning.
"...zirtarish ia Nia Galis."
Time seemed to slow about them. Suddenly, there was something like a blast of wind, though nothing was ruffled or disturbed. Nekkor felt as if the entire world suddenly dropped away from him, his stomach lurching and his heart catching in his throat.
The robed man and Nekkor dissapeared in a blinding flash of light.
To be continued...
A rather gruff looking dwarf made a swipe at the lithe youth, barely missing as the young dark elf tumbled beneath the merchant's table and made a dash for the woods. He could hear the curses and angry shouts nipping at his heels as his feet pounded against the earth, a small bag clutched in his nimble hands. Despite the dwarf's fury, his short legs could not keep up with the agile thief's knack for escape. Soon, the dark, ragged clothed figure had slipped past the tree line, dissapearing into the gloomy bog that bordered the South Wastes of Tarhyl.
Merchants came and went from this area, peddling their wares to traveling adventurers. They generally brought a handful of guards with them, given the distance they had to travel from Newport. That, and the constant shadow cast from Freeport loomed just over the horizon. The dangers involved meant that the merchants were taking a healthy risk - however, the compensation was generally worth while, and they kept their stock full with only the best.
A portion of which was now in the possession of a young dark elf boy, who sat silently within the knotted mass of roots beneath a large, haunted oak, its branches clawing at the sunless, dark air around it like clawed fingers. The boy dared not breath, as a number of the merchant's guards came crashing through the exterior of the forest, muttering harsh oaths beneath their breath as they cut and hacked their way into the gloomy bog, thick with vines and grasping roots. However, after a few moments of half hearted searching, they gave up and went back. A stolen trinket or two wasn't worth scouring the Stinger's Bog.
When he heard the clinking of their armor fade and the sound of their labored footsteps withdraw, the thief finally let go of his own breath. He sat hunched against the body of the gnarled and twisted tree, finally looking down at the small treasure he had acquired. Opening the bag, he poured the contents out onto the mossy ground in front of him, his sharp eyes constantly flitting about, always searching for any signs of immediate danger. Every now and again he would push his filthy charcoal hair out of his even darker eyes, his appearance making him look more like a wilderman than a dark elf.
His name was Nekkor, a dark elf with little past behind him and seemingly little future before him. Born without a house, he bore the shame of having no surname for himself. Because of his status within the dark elf community, his best hopes were to be accepted as a servent within a dark elven family, or worse, a family of another lesser race. Deciding that he would rather die on his own accord rather than under the rule of someone else, he had fled the crude city of Grobb and made his way into the wilderness. He wandered aimlessly for the most part, stealing from caravans or wandering merchants when he could, living off of whatever the land provided for the rest. It was far from luxurious, but his will to live, to overcome death, drove him ever onward.
Two days later
Hungry eyes watched from the shadows of the treeline as a man approached the dwarven merchant. He was clothed in a brightly colored robe, and various jewels and rings adorned his fingers and ears. He carried no apparent weaponry other than a small dagger sheathed in a jeweled hilt at this side, and a gnarled walking staff. A long, bushy white beard fell from his face, cascading down his chest. It had the promise of an easy steal, and Nekkor's mind raced with the possibilities such wealth could bring. Shoes to protect his bare feet, clothes to replace the rags he wore, food for weeks... His jaw grew taught and his eyes narrowed in determination.
Finally, the robed man stepped away from the dwarf's makeshift caravan shop and turned to leave. He was heading north, towards the barren desert wastelands. The young dark elf was almost shaking with anticipation. Like a shadow, he crept along the treeline, staying just out of sight as he tracked his prey. Rusty dagger in hand, he flitted from cover to cover, his footsteps silent as he drew closer and closer to his target.
The man stopped suddenly, and Nekkor bent low behind a large rock, his eyes narrowing as he waited to see what the man would do. He was a few yards from him, and he could hear the bearded man mumbling something beneath his breath, every now and again making odd gestures with his hands, as if arguing with the air before him. The thief spotted a pouch at his side. That would make for an easy grab.
Steeling himself, Nekkor burst into motion, a sudden blur of movement and energy. Leaping from behind the rock, he closed the distance between himself and the robed figure in mere moments. Despite the commotion he had caused in his initial movements, the man seemed not to notice him. This only increased Nekkor's excitement. He reached out for the man's pouch, his nimble fingers closing over the soft leather material. Just as he was about to pull away, he heard with crystal clarity what the man was speaking, though he did not understand their meaning.
"...zirtarish ia Nia Galis."
Time seemed to slow about them. Suddenly, there was something like a blast of wind, though nothing was ruffled or disturbed. Nekkor felt as if the entire world suddenly dropped away from him, his stomach lurching and his heart catching in his throat.
The robed man and Nekkor dissapeared in a blinding flash of light.
To be continued...