- Messages
- 43
- Character Biography
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The army moved slowly. From the skies it looked like a swollen snake that wound it's way slowly through the vast Falwoods. Elves of all kinds including Aerai and Avariels, humans, dwarves, orcs - even a few giants - marched together under various colourful banners that stood out against the green foliage. Despite the various units and species that made up the army its quarry was the same; the demon Arkhivom. He sat like a spider in his dark web deep within the forest and whilst his attention for the moment was focused on his ancient enemy, the Aerai, the beings of the Falwood knew full well that should they fall the rest of the Falwood would too. Then, the rest of the world. That knowledge cast a grim feeling across the army.
Each night the slow moving snake would stop and along its length campfires sprang up. It was around these fires that the grim realities of what they marched to were put aside as friends and strangers found themselves drawn to the warmth of the fires. Every one seemed to be different; around one a person might discuss politics or the philosophy of ethics. Around another a soldier could listen to ghostly stories from across the world. Others chose to simply drink or played games that usually resulted in the grumbled exchanging of coins.
For a young Avariel, it was this part of the day that had quickly become her favourite.
Ostára took after her mother, or so her father claimed. You have a wanderers feet, child. Unable to keep still. The first few nights she had dutifully stayed by campfire presided over by The Thirteen but by the fourth night she was unable to take another discussion of the same old things. Excusing herself, she had wandered through the camp. Each night she had sought out a different fire letting her feet guide her. She'd met people from tribes or cities she had only ever read about and drunk, exchanged stories with, and even danced with many of them. Her social prowess had even led to people calling out their greetings, or inviting her to join their section, during the days march. Little Butterfly, The Thirteen had taken to calling her.
Tonight's wandering had led her to a fire where someone had set up an archery target up against a tree. People were drunkenly downing shots of silvery liquid then attempting to shoot the middle of the target. Tara found herself slowing then stopping to watch in bemusement as those by the fire cheered on the archer. This one had apparently decided shooting the bullseye blindfolded was not enough and a nervous looking dwarf stood with an apple on his head.
"Aren't you worried he's going to miss?" she asked the gathered crowd.
Each night the slow moving snake would stop and along its length campfires sprang up. It was around these fires that the grim realities of what they marched to were put aside as friends and strangers found themselves drawn to the warmth of the fires. Every one seemed to be different; around one a person might discuss politics or the philosophy of ethics. Around another a soldier could listen to ghostly stories from across the world. Others chose to simply drink or played games that usually resulted in the grumbled exchanging of coins.
For a young Avariel, it was this part of the day that had quickly become her favourite.
Ostára took after her mother, or so her father claimed. You have a wanderers feet, child. Unable to keep still. The first few nights she had dutifully stayed by campfire presided over by The Thirteen but by the fourth night she was unable to take another discussion of the same old things. Excusing herself, she had wandered through the camp. Each night she had sought out a different fire letting her feet guide her. She'd met people from tribes or cities she had only ever read about and drunk, exchanged stories with, and even danced with many of them. Her social prowess had even led to people calling out their greetings, or inviting her to join their section, during the days march. Little Butterfly, The Thirteen had taken to calling her.
Tonight's wandering had led her to a fire where someone had set up an archery target up against a tree. People were drunkenly downing shots of silvery liquid then attempting to shoot the middle of the target. Tara found herself slowing then stopping to watch in bemusement as those by the fire cheered on the archer. This one had apparently decided shooting the bullseye blindfolded was not enough and a nervous looking dwarf stood with an apple on his head.
"Aren't you worried he's going to miss?" she asked the gathered crowd.