Meanderings of an Elven wizard - Episode 1 (revisited)

It's obvious to me that the embedded feature of Scribd.com is nice, but not quite ideal for simply reading a blog entry. So I've decided to simply post the story itself on the pages directly.

Here is the first installment:

Chance Encounter
Episode 1


It had been three days since he had left the comfort of the Elven forest. The summer was waning and the fall colors were starting to show. The rugged terrain of Gildor seemed such a stark contrast to the shaded glades of Mithlannar during this fine morning. Natiadar was only beginning to get used to the environment. He had finally found a trail that he thought would lead him closer to Port Berathon, which he had decided would be his first destination. As he reached a bend on the trail he heard a scuffle further down the path. He couldn’t see what it was because and outcrop of rocks was blocking his view. He didn’t want to risk climbing the rock to get a better view, so decided to simply advance with precaution. As he reached the end of the bend on the path he noticed a single young human, wielding a rapier and a buckler facing four disgusting looking Orcs.

One of the Orcs was already dead pierced through the heart, but the human seemed wounded at the side. He was facing too many foes, as it seemed.

Before he could lift his rapier to parry, one of the Orcs brought his large battle-axe down in one big swing, catching the human square on the chest. The human went down with a scream of pain.

Quickly Natiadar brought his staff up and used his right hand to make a gesture. As an incantation left his lips, what seemed like a shower of glittering powder erupted from his right hand and landed on the Orcs. The effect was almost immediate. The three Orcs wavered for an instant and dropped like sacs of potatoes. Natiadar quickly drew his dagger and with a look of disgust approached the Orcs and proceeded to slit their throats.

He suddenly remembered the poor human who had fallen prey to these monsters and turned around to see if there was any life left in him. He checked for a pulse and found one, a very weak one mind you. He quickly drew out a small paste from a canister he kept in his bag, and applied the ointment on the wound. After dressing the wound, he realized that although this poor soul may not be dead yet, he would surely die if he wasn’t brought immediately to a healer or a priest.

Port Berathon, he knew was still, three days away and he knew he couldn’t drag the human for three days. He scanned the area for any more foes and proceeded to look for some branches large enough to create some sort of stretcher on which he could lay the dying man.

An hour later, Natiadar was pulling the man down the trail in the hopes of finding a house of some sort. His muscles were begging for mercy and he knew he could not last another hour at this rate. Remembering a pattern that he had studied in his book he stopped to think about it. He knew he hadn’t attempted it before, which would make it that much more difficult to attempt, but he didn’t have any alternative. The risks were minimal, and the benefits would most definitely outweigh them.

He concentrated on the pattern and formed a circle with his arms. As he concentrated on destroying reality around him and attempting to reshape the chaos into his own pattern his mind strained with the difficulty of the task. With a final shred of determination he ordered the chaos into a nice round disk that floated a foot above the ground. With a gesture of his hand he forced the disk to lower and then rolled the human onto the disk. The disk slowly regained altitude as he ordered it, and finally set it’s self behind the elf like an obedient pet.

Forty five minutes passed as the two strangers traveled down the path. To Natiadar’s great relief a farmhouse appeared in the distance. He settled into a little jog as the disk followed him from a safe distance, but before reaching the farm he stopped to cover his face, not knowing if the farmers would likely welcome an Elf.

After slowly sneaking through a grown corn field he reached the courtyard. He was greeted with a similar seen he had seem earlier. Eight Orcs were in the process of attacking the poor farmers who had barricaded themselves inside the farm.

Natiadar lowered the disk and let it rest in the field hidden from view and quickly created a shield pattern with a wave of his hands. A large shimmering forcefield appeared in front of him. He approached the group slowly hoping to surprise them. He stopped within 30 feet of them hiding behind a cart.

Taking a deep breath he drew from his energy and started the same incantation he had done an hour earlier. His staff raised and his right palm shot upward, the cloud of glittering dust erupted again from his opened hand and landed on three Orcs. Two of them dropped instantly, but the third shrugged of the effects.

Instantly alarmed by the sounds of the Elven voice the six remaining Orcs turned to face their opponent. Natiadar settled into a fighting stance with his staff held horizontally. As the six Orcs approached he kept his back to the cart knowing that his force field would protect his front and sides.

The Orcs moved in but the Elf was quicker, with a thundering crack the staff connected with the skull of the first Orc who dropped unconscious.
The other five hesitated a little at the face of this 6 foot 5 opponent, but then trusted their numbers and attacked. They all attacked together but Natiadar was used to fighting many opponents. He ducked and weaved and would have dodged all five attacks, but one came straight at him. Before it could connect, it struck the force field sending the Orc back in a defensive position.

Natiadar methodically lifted his staff and brought it down on another Orc. The staff connected, but the Orcs armor took the brunt of the damage. The Orcs moved in again hoping to get past that retched shield the elf had put up. Again the elf dodged, and what he could not dodge, the shield deflected.

Natiadar brought his staff back on the Orc he had wounded and caught him in the face. The Orc when down with a thud. The four remaining Orcs tried one more time to take their opponent down, but failed. By that time they were down to three, and decided that precaution would be wiser, and proceeded to run away.

Natiadar un-shouldered his short bow and knocked an arrow, and shot at the three fleeing Orcs. Only two Orcs would be returning to their clan this day…

As Natiadar examined the downed Orcs and made sure they were dead, a medium sized man stepped out of the farm, not sure what to expect. The shimmering shield winked out of existence as Natiadar reversed the pattern, not wanting to freak the peasant out.

“Who are you?” asked the man.
“My name is Natiadar Baequirae, I hail from the west and am traveling to Port Berathon.”
As his cloak had fallen off his head, the peasant could clearly see his Elven features. Natiadar was a taller than most humans, topping 6 feet and 5 inches, and his thin black hair which came down to his mid back had a few neatly woven tresses attached to the back of his head to keep them off his clean hairless face. His deep blue eyes looked somewhat sunken after the amount of effort he had exerted that day, but they did not betray the strength that lay behind them. His shoulders were broad and strong and his gray Elven embroidered tunic seemed like it would have taken ages to weave.
“An Elf! Then you are no foe I presume…”
“That is correct! I am a friend, and will not harm you or your family. I have a man with me who is grievously wounded. He needs medical attention as soon as possible. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind helping me take him to the closest place where we can find some help.”

“Oh sure! Our Lord Isen Faldwell lives only a couple miles away from here. Father Tully, our priest, I’m sure will offer any assistance that is needed. Let me get old Kala out of the stables and we can put your friend on the cart. It’s only a half hour drive from here to Castle Faldwell.”

Natiadar’s mind wondered for a bit and he thought to himself, “These Orcs must be bold indeed to raid a farm that is that close to the Castle. I wonder what motivated them to do such a foolish thing.”

The Elf turned towards the peasant, “Tell me…”
“Jolan, sorry I did forget to introduce myself. Jolan Haggart!”
“Yes… so tell me Jolan, how do you explain Orcs raiding Lord Isen’s land this close to his stronghold?”
“Well you see, ever since Lord Isen fell ill his presence hasn’t been felt as much, and the militia hasn’t worked as consistently as they used to. My guess is that the Orcs somehow found out about this and decided to take advantage of the situation.”
“I see… interesting all this, very interesting. I have yet to reach Port Berathon and it seems that I have already fallen into some curious sort of intrigue. A sick Lord, a lax militia, and some Orc raids on farms close to the castle… interesting…” he let his voice trail into the wind.

It wasn’t yet nightfall before the little group reached Castle Faldwell. They were let in after only a few minor questions, which Jolan decided to answer. Jolan led the cart to the abbey and quickly ran inside to fetch Father Tully.

A few hours later Natiadar was let inside a small bedroom. The room was modestly filled, with just a bunk bed a nightstand and a chair. Lying on the bed was the human, looking much better than he had earlier. The aging priest known as Father Tully was still examining the wounded man.

As the elf entered, father Tully turned towards him.
“Your friend here is lucky he survived! You did a good job in dressing his wound and made it just in time! He is still very weak and I don’t suggest you badger him for too long.”

Natiadar nodded, “Thank you priest. I will not tarry.”

The priest left the room and the Elf sat on the chair next to the bed. He sat for a little while looking at the man. He was young and slender. His studded leather armor had been removed and hung on the wall with his rapier and buckler. A pair of nicely crafted navy velvet gloves rested atop the nightstand. He looked like he would probably be twenty, with short brown hair and clean-shaven. Although quite thin, he was definitely the wiry kind, and having lived through such an injury was proof enough that he had extraordinary resilience.

The man opened his green eyes slightly and looked up to his rescuer, “Who are you? Where am…”

“Rest for now, all answers will come in due time.”
“My gloves?”
“On the night stand, next to you. Get some rest, we shall talk later.”

Natiadar laid a gentle hand on his chest, and spoke a few words in Elvish.

The man fell back into a deep restful sleep.

With Father Tully’s great healing powers it was only two days before the man was back up and walking.

The previous day Natiadar had had a chance to talk to the human and found out his name was Roland Festus. He hailed from Port Berathon and was indeed only twenty years old, which seemed very little compared to the 156 years Natiadar had been living, but then again Elves don’t see time the same way humans do. He was on an exploration mission in this region for a friend of his when he was waylaid by the small group of Orcs.

Natiadar had also gathered from the priest that Lord Isen was very sick and that Father Tully’s healing abilities seemed powerless against such a disease. He had sent word to Port Berathon two weeks ago, which was only three days south, but had not heard any response from the Temple of Osha. Isen’s oldest son Luther was currently in charge of the Castle, but being only sixteen he was not very apt at making very good decisions and the people considered him somewhat incompetent.
Natiadar had chosen to leave the protection of Mithlannar so that he may educate himself better in the things of the world that are not Elven. He knew that the best way to learn about other places was not by simply pouring over the ton of books he had at home, but to also experience that world first hand.

So he decided to dig deeper into this intriguing situation.

The following day, while eating in the abbey with Roland, Natiadar turned towards his new found friend and asked, “So what exactly do you think is happening here? I mean first a Lord who becomes sick from an unknown incurable disease, and then we have these raids on his land, which are mind you awfully close to his stronghold. What do you make of this?”

“Well, if I were thinking like one of Isen’s enemies, which I don’t know if any exist, I would think that this could be easily implemented by the use of either poison or maybe even a magical disease, and then have an agreement with some Orc tribes to raid and weaken the lord’s land so I can raid it at a later time. But who would make any agreement with Orcs is beyond me! These beings want nothing other than to destroy every living thing that isn’t of their race.”

“You do have a point”, replied Natiadar, “but all this is only presumptions and hypotheses. We need harder evidence. Maybe we can talk to the Lord or his son and find out a little more about this.”

That afternoon they were let into the main hall of the castle where the lord held office during the day. After dealing with a merchant and a case of theft, Natiadar and Roland were introduced to Luther. Luther looked very young and large, his thick brown hair was methodically slicked back to show off a good sized forehead. His gown was deep green and held the crest of his family, a falcon on a branch on a gray background. Next to him stood a very thin robbed individual robed in a long navy velvet dress. His slightly wrinkled face indicated he was getting along in age, but he couldn’t have been much older than thirty-five. He leaned over towards the young lord and whispered something in his ear.

“Ah!” said young Luther, “Cornelius tells me that these are the saviors of our beloved Haggart! I guess I have you to thank for saving his crops and his family. What can I do for you?”

Natiadar looked at Roland who shrugged and stepped up to the dais, “Well lord Luther, we have heard of your father’s disease and have come to offer you assistance in the matter.”

Luther looked a little surprised at first, but then said in a concerned tone, “Yes! This is most distressful… I heard that our good father Tully has sent word to the City to see if any more help can be mustered in that area. Unfortunately we haven’t heard from the messengers in a couple weeks. Maybe you could go to Port Berathon and carry the message yourself?”

Roland nodded and bowed, “We would be delighted to assist you in that matter.”
“Good! Then I will have my scribe write a letter for you to carry to the city. Come back in an hour to pick it up. I shall also provide you with a pair of riding horses to aid you in the matter.”

The two companions left the hall looking at each other.

“I think this is not the end of our little adventure”, said Roland.
“Why do you think that?”
“I don’t know… It’s just a hunch. I just feel like something is wrong about this whole situation. Something’s not clicking.”
“Well, our assignment should be simple enough.”
“Yes, we shall see about that. Who knows how many more Orcs plague this region…”