The People Prepare for War

Date: 2/1/2013 at 4:52
From: Anonymous
To : Everyone
Subj: The People Prepare for War

With a grace not often found in ladies of her amount of substance, Sukie twirled and leapt through her kitchens with all the grace of a gazelle. A rather well-fed gazelle. She hardly noticed as young Taroc returned from doing the Baron's bidding in Elvandar. Even now, she really didn't hear him so much as the fresh scent of leaves was a strange addition to the heartier smells of trail bread and simple camp beans.

Momentarily distracted from her thoughts of the better days when she'd be allowed the time to create glorious pastries and pies, Sukie noted the tired looking young man and smiled a bit more gently as she asked if the Pathfinders had sent another cadet to assist her in moving her rations upstairs to Knight-Marshal Gardan.


Meanwhile beneath the low hanging eaves of Elvandar's great trees, a pretty young eledhel named Iaxhari stands hunched just inside the door of a small chicken coop, her current thoughts all centered upon the strange sight before her.

"I rooster!" With no thought to the damage his high voice did to her auditory health. "I dance, eggs pop out! POP!"

With an audible sigh, Iaxhari did what she must for her people and assisted the species-confused gwali that seemed to have some decidedly adult-themed ideas of how one ruled a chicken roost. As she finally brought all of Alareni the baker's order of rations up, the sight of hundreds of eledhel garbed in armor and carrying shining new weapons making her heart swell beneath her chestplate.

As Iaxhari arrived a bit flushed still and bright eyed, another heart swelled just a bit as Verigand Windwhisper eagerly assisted her with the rations she brought. His palms sweating and his head pounding from trying to tally the totals of donated armor and tunics and bundles of wood, Verigand was fairly sure he managed to thank the young woman before she rushed to her duties. Turning back to his, he gulped in a breath of forest air before getting back to work.


Stooped beside the elegantly garbed Keshian ambassador, Zur's heavy brows furrowed as he struggled to parse out what Yashar and his thick human tongue was trying to tell him about his men.

"You appear ready to march," was about all Zur really cared to hear, and thusly he grunted and swung a massive hand up to the mix of goblins, moredhel and his own trolls that stood restlessly in the training yard.

This wasn't the first group Zur had led out to secure holdings and build forts for his people. He had already been in a few skirmishes with the Kingdom folk that morning and his blood still pumped with the thrill of battle and the fury of their few, but noted defeats. The sting of a blade slice as he battled whilst Krondor's troops sought to stop their men from building a fort outside of Uru still stung him as he focused on the task ahead.

Set up forts. Prepare for the allies. Keep our holdings secure. Glancing back, he grinned beneath his battle-dented helm as he looked over the heads of goblins and moredhel and straight into the piercing gaze of another troll. The fighter bellowed back a warcry and Zur quickly turned back in time to block the incoming warhammer headed straight for his head.

"To battle!" was the last intelligible words he cried before he lost himself in the rush of securing victory.


And in the midst of it all of these stories of the war efforts, the tales of glories, the anguished recounts of men lost and plans shattered, dark men slip through even darker shadows. They adeptly move a few crates here, escort a few young women into the woods there, and all the while smirks curve across their silk-shrouded faces as they too prepare...

Penned by my hand on the 4th of Dzanin, in the year 41.