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Re: Rashghalla

Post  Kithrater on Fri Jul 04, 2008 11:16 pm

Sergher, the mystic of the old gods, has long sought to establish the Gods rightful place in this new land. Though old and feeble, his voice is filled with a might unknown to even the most stout of us hunters, when he speaks of the deceit of the elves. Not one man of us does not know of someone who has not been castigated for refusing to lay down the beliefs of our forefathers, as the elves would have us do. In secret, we met in the pines outside of Hule's, far away from the unnatural eyes of the elf-kin. We bled, and swore our oaths to one another, that we would not turn our backs on the true owners of the land. Sergher seemed to grow stronger, his back less hunched and hands more firm with every new traveler we ushered in to the secret knowledge.

One night, when clouds obscured the dark sky and the only light in Dorthonion was the distant blaze of Hule's hearth fire many miles away, Sergher led us to the Old Place of the forest. In a file we walked, shields and spears heavy on our backs, the mystic leading in front. The Gods granted him sight on this dark night, and his tattered dark cloak seemed to glow an eerie purple. More than bootsteps filled the night. The soft pad of paws accompanied us, silver and grey bodies moving through the undergrowth on either side of our foot-worn trail, yellow eyes watching us with interest. Men reached for their antler-handled knives, wary of the wolfs but not afriad of attack, for the harsh winter had yet to claim the pines of Dorthonion.

We finally reached the clearing, and once all dozen of us arrived, we looked about for the mystic. No sign of him or his purple cloak could be spotted, even as a break in the clouds allowed thin ribbons of moonbeams to light the forest grove. "Bow down to Rashghalla, messenger to the Old Gods". The booming voice of the feeble mystic.

And then the heavy padpaw of a wolf that stood taller than the gates of Hule's, twice as tall as any of the men in the glade. Grey fur cast silver in the moonlight, and yellowed maw wet with saliva. Two huge eyes, cast as red as the entrails of countless hunts, swept over us. "Bow down, and cast your prayers", said Sergher, emerging from beside the wolf, clad now in a brilliant suit of white-enamelled leathers, a jagged sword on his hip. I swallowed, my throat dry and legs bending of their own accord.


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