legends realm dreams < 2 of 4>

From: bryan@stiatl.uucp (Bryan Donaldson)

Date: Thu, 11 Aug 1994 23:08:08 +0000

Dream #10 Life of Devin

Long ages ago, there lived on the shores of Dale Lake a lone and
friendless man.  His name was Devin, and none knew where he had come
from, or how long he had dwelt there.  One day the man's dwelling was
simply there at the shore of the small lake, and since that time he
had always been there.

He fished in the lake for his food, and truly he needed little else.
Taking no thought for riches or politics, he lived a simple life beneath
the willows that overhung the shore of Dale Lake's sapphire surface.
Strangely everyone seemed to know of him, although he had few visitors.
Words seemed precious to him, for he gave few of them away.

And he never aged, and the years slipped silently by while kingdoms rose
and fell, and were forgotten.  The kings of men battled among themselves;
orcs swarmed across the world and were gone; elven queens and princes
reigned in the deep forests of the world.  And Devin lived on the
shore unbothered by it all, and probably not knowing.  In hundreds of
years, he aged not at all.  He worried about the birds that lived near
the lake, and what would become of them in winter.  He thought long on
the habits of fish, that he might better snare them for food.  And
forest plants that grew in each season gave him pause for meditation.

Nothing in Verana went unnoticed by the gods, and they saw Devin fishing
on the shore one summer.  Kolvathe, the radiant goddess of nature, was
pleased by Devin's simple life, giving to nature and taking from it as
he should.  She blessed him with a secret blessing, and none knew its
nature. The other gods questioned Kolvathe about her favor to the human,
but she only smiled.

Across the world, swathed in deadly black mist, Nagashun noticed Devin
too.  His evil heart hated such carefree living, and he saw that the man
was favored of Kolvathe.  Seeking therefore to anger the goddess and
destroy her works (as he ever did), Nagashun himself went in secret one
night to the dwelling of Devin, unnoticed by the other gods.

He smashed the door of the house easily, and raged inside.  Looking around
in surprise, he saw Devin warming his hands by the fire.  The man showed
not the least bit of concern as he looked up at the god of evil, and smiled
at him.

He offered the towering murderer some of the broth he had been cooking.
Nagashun recoiled, suspecting a trick; could this fool not see his death
approaching?  A puzzled look crossed Devin's face, for the sranger was
acting oddly.

Not wishing to tarry overlong where he might be discovered, Nagashun
raised his arm and smote Devin a mighty blow.  The man's back broke
instantly.  As he lay in agony on the floor, his life slipping away, he
looked at the incarnation of evil with confusion.  Devin did not
understand gods and wars, and he died knowing nothing of his murderer.

When Devin's life passed, a shadow of fear siezed Nagashun's heart, and
he fled the place in sudden terror.  A premonition of some dire event
had flashed before him, and he feared it.  His fist still ringing from
the hateful deathblow, he trailed black mist across the sky in his flight.

The a deep turmoil arose in the lake, as if some gargantuan hidden spring
had suddenly opened up from the deeps; and water poured out in a massive
flood upon the shores of the lake.  Some said that the earth mirrored
the actions of the goddess Kolvathe as she wept for Devin's passing.  The
water rose swiftly, and engulfed Devin's house.

But the water did not stop there.  It rose even more swiftly, as the
lake expanded with incredible speed.  It washed over towns and fields,
and whole forests were swallowed. For twenty days, Dale Lake poured
unchecked into the countryside. Finally the waters quieted and the lake
was still.

It was not the same lake, and many said afterward that the spirit of Devin
had somehow passed into it.  It was therefore named anew Devindale Lake,
the largest in all Verana, and thus it has been known ever since.

And sometimes, in summer months when the weather is mild, and the sun
sets slowly over the western shores, it is said that Devin may be seen
yet, fishing alone from a rock, or setting snares along the shore.
Such stories are laughed at by many, but the wise say nothing.

Dream #11 The Shadowstaff

It is known by a few in Verana that long ago, in their lust for power and
their folly, the Calamar forged the Obsidian Staves.  They were items of
great power, and not wholly evil; alas, they were valued highly and
guarded well by that evil race, and few but the Calamar have ever seen
them.

Some say the staves have vanished, but it is not so. There are a few
clues, in subtle places, that much can be read from if the reader is
wise.  What follows here is a scrap taken from a journal entry of an
elven explorer who was slain in the wild nearly twenty years ago.

"Day 13"	The moon vanishes tonight, so my forays must be under
the sun.  Still no luck in finding the "hidden river" spoken of in the
tale.  South of the forest, I have come across the vast grasslands.  A
small river lies before me, but it is certainly not hidden.

"Day 15"	Crossed the river --  cold for this time of year.  The
land here is sparse and barren, with many hilly areas and little land
for grazing.  I have turned slightly east to avoid the more rugged hills.
According to the map a second river is not far off to the east about two
days travel.

"Day 19"	Found the gap in the hills to the west!  The shadowstaff
must be near.  After two days in the hills I came upon the hidden river
and followed it west to its source.  A cave lies up on a rocky shelf.  I
shall investigate there in the morning.

This is all that remains of a badly burned text, all that is readable.
The mangled body of an elven explorer was found strewn on the slopes above
the source of a river . . . .

Dream # 12 Faith of Raswyn

The old man sat almost motionless.  His eyes, constantly roving the
ancient page in front of him, were the only sign that he was even alive.
The expression on his wrinkled face was fixed in a thoughtful frown as
he perused the large tome sitting on his reading table.  Around him was
a small, solid-looking room of stone, warmed by a low fire.  It was
not decorous, for a priest of Raswyn was ever frugal; yet a sense of
comfort and deep spirituality pervaded the place.

The book he was reading had been brought to him that very afternoon by
a servant of the cult, for him to make of it what he would; the more he
read, the more troubled he became.  It spoke of Tahman, the one who had
dwelt in Verana since the coming of humans.  That, of course, made the
god older than any now existing in the world's pantheon!  Such a thing
continued to baffle the priest after many years of the study of the god.
According to the book and popular teaching, the god was drawn into Verana
in spirit with the coming of humankind into the world.  The name of the god
was in a very ancient language, but the priest knew it; "Tahman" was as good
a translation as any.

Apparently Tahman had walked the world since the beginning, choosing not
to use his godlike abilities, but rather to observe and appreciate the
beauty of the world.  Tahman was the personification of truth, and his
disciples were known as "truth-seekers."  Unlike most other gods, Tahman
would often walk unnoticed among the people of Verana in the guise of
an ancient man.  Many people knew of his existence, but precious few had
met the deity in person.

Something nagged at the back of the old man's mind; he felt he was
missing something important in these legends, but couldn't place what
it was.

Reading on, the book described how Tahman would sometimes change his guise
to that of a young man, or a tall warrior, or even a child, to savor
the variety of existence.  Very seldom did he manifest himself as a
god, prefering to remain disguised.  Occasionally he would even join
himself to some mission or quest, staying until his purpose in it was
fulfilled.

The thought that the priest was missing something was maddening.

Then something surfaced in his mind.  A tall warrior ... a quest ...
suddenly the pieces of the puzzle began to come into focus.  Rising
from his chair and crossing the room to his huge bookshelf, he selected
a dark tome of ancient languages.  He turned to the particular section
he sought, his gnarled hands turning the old pages with care.  Tahman
. . . Tahman . . . that name, in another ancient tongue, could be
something else . . .

He found it.  A slow smile spread over his face as he examined the
yellowed page.  Still smiling, he closed and replaced the book, and
crossed again to the reading table.  So many years had passed since
that fateful day that had changed his life; it was a long time not to
know the identity of his patron deity.  Yet the answer was here, and
he had discovered it.

Tahman.  Or, in the ancient tongue he had examined, "Raswyne" . . . .

Dream #13 The Seige of Kol Targas

In the long summer of the Golden Age of Verana, after the defeat of the
armies of the first Dragon King and before the coming of the Overlord,
the Dwaves settled finally in their beloved mountains to the north.
The scattered clans at last joined together to form one nation, and it
was very great.  Led by the mighty warrior Naugard son of Naugror, they
built the great fortress of Kol Targas between two spurs thrusting out
from Garach-Naril, the Great Mountain.  The mighty walls of Kol Targas
were ever the pride and strength of the dwarves, and it stood as a
bastion against many armies from the DragonDen Mountains over the long
years.

Naugard was a proud and mighty dwarf, but at last his years overcame
him.  Passing the scepter of leadership to his son Nolimon, he went
to rest with his fathers in the great tombs beneath Garach-Naril that
no man has ever seen.  He had reigned for fifteenscore years.

Nolimon was much like his father, and under his wise and just rule the
dwarves continued to prosper.  Great wains carried dwarven ores into
Paverain and Talthain, and both men and dwarves profited from the open
trade between the kingdoms.  For the metals of the dwarves were
renowned throughout Verana, creating unmatched steel blades straight and
true.  Some said the poewer of Golinnon burned in the smithies of the
dwarves, and the Master Craftsman-God blessed the weapons made by his
children.  They brought back fine cloths and leathers from the Middle
Kingdoms, for such items of ease were rare in the harsh Northern
Mountains.

Some say that at this time the vigilance and strength of the dwarves
may have been less than it was.  For no invasion had come from the
DragonDen Peaks in almost a century, and the watch on the Pass of
Terror slumbered.  Many dwarves cultivated the ways of men in
Talthain, planting crops and raising herds rather than woking daily
at their forges.  And they were grown proud, for their works of metal
and magic brought praise from the rulers of men, and even from the
elves of Valandain.  Thus it was that when the Overlord rose suddenly
to power, the dwarves were caught unawares.

Little warning came from the southwest of the great invasion.  Indeed,
the faithful scouts that brought disturbing news of the creatures'
unexplainable activity were ignored.  Nolimon in his folly knew that
his nation was strong, and deemed it would withstand any invasion from
the Peaks.  Thus he sent the scouts away in shame.

On a black day when a great storm arose from the southwest and darkened
the sun, the host of the Overlord poured like evil filth from the Pass
of Terror.  They were swift and deadly, and far greater than the dwarves
had imagined.  For the Overlord had won to his cause great monsters and
creatures from deep beneath the caverns of the DragonDens, and even the
stout-hearted fled before their fell visages.  Orcs and goblins swarmed
in great numbers down from the mountains, bringing with them rock-trolls
and great winged gargoyles.  The host scattered the outlying communities
of the dwarves and went hither and thither across the plains, slaying and
burning where they would.

Bitter and dismaying reports reached Nolimon, who was now in his two
hundred thirtieth year of rule.  He rose from the throne where he sat
and stood long in thought, repenting indeed of his pride and his treatment
of the noble scouts of the Pass.  Then he turned to Dimrol, marshal of his
armies, and it seemed to many that a fell light burned in his eyes.

"Make ready my sword and armor," the voice of Nolimon reang out across the
vast hall, "for there will be much blood to come.  Gather our forces, worthy
Dimrol, for now your lord has great need of you!"  With a salute, Dimrol
turned and strode from the hall.  Then Nolimon sank back into his chair,
troubled.  For it was in his heart that he would not live to see the end
of this new war, whether for good or no.  Taking thought, therefore, for
the lineage of the kings, he summoned his son before him.

Namon was young as the dwarves measure it, barely one hundred, yet already
he was an esteemed warrior and skilled smith.  Proud and full of fire he
stood before his father, whom he revered; and he bowed low.

"What would you have of me, my sire?" the dwarf asked.  A smile grew on
Nolimon's weathered face, for his son was already wise and just, and the
old dwarf loved no one more in all Verana.

"My son, you have pleased me in all things, and the light of honor shines
bright within you.  Know this: my time is near, and I grow weary of this
world.  It is in my heart that this war will outlive me, and I would fain
rest with my fathers.  Therefore take from me now the sacred sceptre of
Kings.  Rule my people with a hand just and true, and waver not in the
paths of your instruction.  It grieves me that I give such a burden to
you in this evil time, but my strength fails me.  I would wish strong
leadership for our people this day, and they will look to you as they
have looked to me.  I know in my heart that you will not fail."

Then Nolimon placed the Scepter into the hands of Namon, and Namon bowed
low before his father, and kissed him; thus was the line of Kingship
renewed even as the plains knew the tramp of the Overlord's evil host.
Then Namon went out to face his people in the great courtyard outside the
hall; and a fell and mighty light was in his eyes.  Many said indeed that
it was none other than Golinnon himself that stood before them, with a
voice like thunder and a face alight with the brightness of heaven.

Strong and compelling words Namon spoke then to his people, and they
hearkened.  He spoke of honor, and the valor of their fathers of old,
and also of their overweening pride and greed.  Many repented of their
deeds that day, and when all was said the dwarves were eager for the
battle.

Then the armies of the Overlord ceased their pillaging and cameon an
unswerving course for Kol Targas, and the Overlord himself rode in the
forefront.  In his dark thought he knew that the fortress was the strength
of the dwarves, and that their nation would stand as long as its walls
remained unbroken.  Therefore he thought to crush the bastion in a
swift stroke, ending with it the hope and help of the dwarves.

But Namon was not sleeping, and with great speed he mustered his
armies.  Chanting the slow dirges of the dwarves, they poured into the
great fortress at Kol Targas and made ready to defend it.  Their hearts
were high, for the mountain walls were very great, and the gates were
deemed unbreakable.  Namon watched as the vast army of the Overlord drew
near across the fields, yet his heart did not fail him.  The sun shone on
his polished steel helm and shield, and his youthful face was set
with determination.

On came the army, and the ring and tramp of their feet echoed off the side
of the mountain.  The dwarves prepared for both a long seige and an
overpowering attack, for they did not know the mind of the Overlord.
Great stores of food had been brought in from the surrounding field with
all possible speed, and the storehouses deep within the mountain rock
were full.  Great vats of boiling oil stood ready upon the walls, and
huge draggardi, the crossbow-ballistas of the dwarves, stood ready atop
the walls, their ammunition stacked beside them.

On came the host at a great pace.  Just when it seemed they would break
like a dark wave upon the face of the sheer fortress wall, the army of
the Overlord halted.  The were just out of range of the draggardi, and
Namon would not firs upon them.  He gazed darkly at the endless serried
ranks that stretched across the land like a disease, wondering what evil
the Overlord might have in store.

With a hideous wail, they surged forward.

The sound was evil, and the hearts of the dwarves faltered; but Nolimon
went swiftly among them, speaking to his captains and renewing the spirits
of his soldiers.  Before the attackers reached the walls, he returned to
his vantage point on the great cross-bridge above the gate.  He watched as
the forces rushed towards him, seeing the leering and hateful eyes of the
orcs and goblins; and he gave the signal to fire the draggardi.

The Overlord did not know of the great ballistas of the dwarves, or he did
not care.  Their huge, flaming bolts plowed into the raknks of the
creatures and exploded, creating gaping holes in their oncoming wall.
The battle-wall turned to screams of anguish as burning or impaled
creatures were thrown back or trodden underfoot by those behind them.
As the front wave milled in confusion, the deadly ballistas fired again,
taking a howling toll of death among the already scattered ranks.  In
disarray, the horde reversed its charge and returned to their former
position beyond the range of the deadly catapults.

The dwarves cheered, and Namon with them; yet he was not fool enough to
believe the battle won.  All that afternoon he waited with his men on the
wall, keeping a watch upon the distant enemy ranks.  In his heart he knew
that the next attack would not be so eassily thwarted.  As the sun sank
beneath Garach-Naril, he descended into the keep to confer with his
captains.  The soldiers watched as the enemy disappeared into the
gathering darkness.  Soon only their cook-fires were visible, with black
shapes crowded around them.  Long into the night their vigil endured.

In the hour before dawn, when the sun was but a hint of grey in the east,
the horde assaulted the keep again.  This time they were not alone, for
the great winged beasts from beneath the DragonDens soared above them.
Namon came out upon the wall and prepared to give the order to fire
the Draggardi again.

But the dwarves were caught unawares, for the flying beasts swooped over
the walls and attacked the wariors manning the ballistas.  They stooped
shrieking among them, and clawed at their face and eyes, and hurled some
even over the battlements.  Then great was the confusion of the dwarves,
and few draggardi found their mark, for the warriors instead battled the
beasts with mighty hammers.  Thus did the charging host crash straightaway
into the gate.

And burst through.  To this day it is not known what evil caused the gates
to buckle, for they were of renowned dwarve-steel.  Perhaps the Overlord
used some spell to weaken them.  They stood for a moment, then smashed
inwards under the weight of the charge.  The evil forces gave a shout a
poured into the inner courtyard, slaying the surprised guards where they
stood.  Before Namon and his captains could react, orcs and goblins were
sweeping through the lower levels of the keep, burning and killing where
they would.

Then Namon looked with great despair upon the scene below.  His captains
spoke to him, saying, "Lord, the battle turns grim indeed; we know not
what foul magic gained entrance to the gates, but the day may not be won
against so great a host with no walls between us.  We bid you depart; for
with you goes the hope of the dwarves, and the line of Nolimon.  Lest evil
befall our ruling house, take thought for our nation and hide thyself.
The sun shall shine one day hence when you avenge us!"

Namon was no coward, but he saw the wisdom in these words.  Taking a few
men, therefore, he passed away down into the mountain, into the secret
passages to the tombs below them.  The tunnel was sealed behind him with
a great earthquake, and none have seen the lord of the dwarves since the
dark day of his departure.  Many have searched for him in the caves
beneath Garach-Naril.  But he is not there, nor is it known where the
cold tunnels of the mountain have taken him.

Dream #14 The Folly of Umbria

Do you, o pilgrim, know the folly of Umbria?
Righteous they were not, and doom overran them.
As the sun lay dying in the west, King Ulrich
Gathered his host.  They raised their spears as
One, and marched east across the plains.  Drawing
Nigh to the DragonDen Mountains, Ulrich pressed
Straight on, for his lust for conquest burned hot.
Light broke in the east, and Ulrich's host was half
Over the treacherous peaks.  Supplies were scant;
Vicious cold nearly forced him to turn back.
Even so, he knew fields of Talthain were near.

Ulrich froze suddenly as huge shapes rose
Monstrously above the surrounding peaks.  A sharp
Blade of fear pierced his heart; they were dragons!
Rarely were such creatures ever seen, and Ulrich
Indeed had hoped he would not find them here.
At once he ordered his captains to entrench,
Not knowing the tactic would be useless against such beasts...

Many dragons had waited in ambush for the army
In crevasses and dells unknown to the host.  Their
Lairs poured forth the fell creatures, and they flew
Into the sky, darkeneing the sun and the hearts of
The Umbrian army.  Caught in the mountains
And unable to move, the host quailed as the dragons
Roared and descended on them to deal out fiery death.
Yea, the slaughter was great that day.
Perishing in waves, the army withered before an
Enraged onslaught, and few escaped.  Some few men
Ran screaming back to the plains, the horror of the
Slaughter forever etched in their faces and their souls.
Others in Umbria do not speak of the "battle," for
None would admit their folly, even years later.
Never again was so great a host sent to cross the
Evil mountains, in the reign of any Umbrian King.
Luan, however, may have something in store...

Dream #15 The Shards of Law

When evening brings the dying rays
of sun upon the shattered spires
where dragons dwell, the northern peaks
push skyward, cloaked in solar fires.

And somewhere on the windswept heights
a shard of Law is crying yet;
a bastion of the land that was
remembers, though the world forgets.

In eastern deserts, rubble-scarred,
where wasteland stretches 'cross the miles
of sun-baked earth that knows no tread,
where creature-bones lie heaped in piles,

There, too, may Law be found, although
the cost were high, and long the fight.
Yet chaos, growing, grips the world
in strangling ties of fearful might.

An isle shrouded ages past
in blinding mist lies to the north;
and Law's faint glimmer calls the brave
to right old wrongs; who will go forth?

From forests wide that shade the floor
of glades that never see the sun,
there too dwells Law in broken form,
by streams that ever northward run.

Who then will forge the lock to bind
the evil, that they not o'errun
our fair Verana?  Such a man
must, from the many, make the One.

Dream #16  Forging of the Blacksword

Long ago, when the world was young and all woods were united into one
mighty forest, there dwelt in the region of Valandain an elven-smith.
Derindar was his name, son of Danarion, and his works were counted
unsurpassed among even the most skilled of the elven loremasters.  Many
rings he wrought, and some of these graced the hands of the elf-princes
of old.  His necklaces and pendants were displayed on the throats of many
in the elven court and, it is said, even around the slender necks of the
elven queens.

His jewels were fine indeed, yet Derindar's heart was turned rather
toward things of power.  He was often away in the forest at his secret
abode where lay his great forge.  None were permitted to enter there,
save his son Deraldar only, when he was later come to manhood.  Few
things indeed did Derindar bring from the hidden forge to the high elven
court, yet even these items had considerable power.  Some there were that
gave the power of great feats of wizardry and arcane lore; others
enhanced command over others' hearts or wills.  In those days Derindar
was freee with his gifts, for he had no cause to begrudge them to any
who would ask of him.  His works were praised by all, and for his skill
and his generosity he won great reknown.

In time Derindar grew proud, for his creations were unsurpassed by any
of the elven-smiths.  The praise of others he coveted for himself, and
scant praise would he bestow on any other elf.  As time passed he gave
few items to those at the court, and gave only to those he favored.  No
longer would he undertake a task for one who had need of an item of power.
His works were cheerless, and showed the cold beauty of craftsmanship
rather than the natural beauty of the earth.

Not long after, Derindar took thought for weapons, for it seemed wise
to him that his family should be prepared to defend their home.  In
truth, the works he had stored in the hidden forge at Valandain made
the greatest collection of items of power ever seen in the world.  There
was no threat to his home, which he named Valanost, for the vigilance and
might of the elves in those days would withstand any peril.  But his heart
was poisoned with love of the works of his forge, and it seemed to him
that many would fain lay their hands upon his hoard, if they could.

Then the forge-fires of Derindar burned long and hot, and with the aid
of Deraldar his son he began to forge armor of rings and connected
plates.  They were skillfully wrought, so that the wearer might move with
ease and the armor seem as mere clothing on their body.  When these
shining suits were finished, Derindar gathered quantities of forgotten
materials and began smithing great swords and shields.  Fell, swift blades
he made for himself and his family, and in their forging he used no small
amount of his power.  Derindar knew much of the use of swords, for he had
practiced long in secret at his home.  Thus he instructed his family in
their use and gave the blades to them.

When their work was done, Deraldar turned to his father.  "You have no
sword of your own.  Will you not take arms with us, to defend our home
and lands?  Or do your thoughts lie elsewhere?"

Then Derindar laughed as one fey.  "Indeed," he said, "indeed, my son!
Weapons we have, but now will I make a weapon the like of which the world
has not seen!  Come, for I have prepared for this forging overlong.  You
shall help me, and the world will tremble when this blade is unsheathed!"
Thus saying, he brought forth many ores and substances which he had kept
hidden even from his son.  He fired the forge hotter than ever before,
and threw mystic substances on the flames.  The fires burned with a black
hue at their heart.

For eight days and nights Derindar and his son toiled over the great
blade.  Thrice did they throw it back into the fires of the forge because
of some small mistake in the casting. The black fires turned themselves
into the unfinished sword, and ever after it was said that one who held
the blade next to a hot flame could see in the metal the ancient fires of
the forge at Valandain.

At length the great work was completed.  Derindar plunged the sword blade
into the cold waters of a nearby stream, and a great black steam went up
from it.  When it cooled he took it from the river, and the blade was as
black as midnight.  Deraldar banked the forge, and together they set the
blade upon the jet-black hilts they had fashioned for it.

The Derindar lifted the full-wrought sword over his head, and it shone
with unearthly power.  And he cried with a great voice, naming it Valkyari,
which is the Blacksword.  And he laughed again, and said to his son, "See!
Already the blade thirsts for sword-work.  Truly, it is made for battle.
Whoso uses it will take many lives, for such was ever its purpose.  They
will find great glory in battle, and die in battle also.  Such is their
doom."  Then he locked the blade away in the fastness of his storeroom,
and rested from his great labor.

Dream #17 Star Lake

The sun was being engulfed by the flat horizon when the party of
outriders arrived back at camp after a long week of forays into the
Shadow Hills.  Harth Al-Agrith, captain of this particular nomad party,
dismounted swiftly and turned his horse over to the waiting handlers.
Walking tall toward his chieftain's tent, he peered around at the camp.

The plains of Margeth stretched in all directions as far as the eye could
see, but Harth never trusted their flat expanse.  True, one keen of eye
could make out an orc raiding party while they were miles away, but even
the orcs knew tricks that would disguise their approach until it was too
late.  These days it was not wise to sleep in their vigilance of guarding
the camp.

His chief was waiting for him when he entered the dimly-lit dwelling, and
the old half-elf smiled at him.

"You return quickly, Harth.  Will you tell me then, that all the orcs have
been driven from the Shadow Hills, and your brave warriors had nothing to
do?"  The chief was an old friend, and Harth was used to his joking.  He
smiled in return.

"Alas, I wish it were so.  Yet you guess our report closely; we saw no orcs
in our patrol area, nor signs of any.  I liked it not, for they can only
be plotting evilwhere we cannot find them.  Yet we lost no warriors, and
for that I am glad."  He handed his chief his map of the area his band
had explored.

"What lake is this?"  The old half-elf indicated a large new spot on the
map and looked questioningly at Harth.

"Indeed, wise one, it is a new lake,"  Harth grinned, "and a strange one
at that . . ." his features clouded.  "We could find no trace of a ripple
or a wave in it.  I suspected magic, but our shaman said there was none.
And the lake gave a peaceful feeling, almost restful.  Truly, I believe
the place was not evil."

"Interesting.  What did your band think?"

"They felt as I did.  And . . ."

"What?"

"Well, I don't like to speak of things imagined, but one of them told me
he saw someone -- not of our band -- standing on the shore."

"An orc?"

"He says definitely not.  A man, an old man, wearing a long grey cloak
and carrying a staff.  And very tall, too.  When my scout hailed him,
the man looked at him and then simply -- um -- vanished."

"Vanished?"  The chief's look was decidedly skeptical.

"Yes . . . it is strange, but I felt he spoke the truth."

"Interesting.  We may send another party that way soon to find out more
about this lake.  Did you go all the way around it?" he asked, squinting
at the map.

"No, we were running low on supplies.  We believe, however, that there is
an island in the lake, not too far from the eastern shore . . . there."
Harth indicated a point on the map.  "perhaps the island is worthy of
investigation."

"Indeed," the old man nodded.  "Well, Harth, you have done well.  You
may go now."  Harth turned and left the tent.

--
Bryan Donaldson                    bryan@stiatl.salestech.com
Sales Technologies, Inc
3399 Peachtree Rd, NE               If one is born into an era of decadence,
Atlanta, GA  (404) 841-4000         one may as well enjoy it while it lasts.