((This story was written by me, set in the D&D universe. I will be posting updates frequently to the MAIN thread, so if you want to follow along, keep checking. Constructive criticism and feedback is appreciated, tell me anything you'd like out of the story and it might get added. 
))
Narolmin was born to Geldin and Sabrina Goldentongue in a small hamlet in the forests near Thalden. There is little to tell of this tiny pocket of civilization save that its name is known only to its inhabitants, not through any campaign of secrecy, you understand, but simply because it is such a dull and stifling place, completely unstimulating to anybody who hasn't lived there their whole life, that everyone promptly forgot its name when it had disappeared around the bend of the road, and only great cartographers who spend their ample free time conjugating all the places of the world know it, though they know it only as a name and a dot in the middle of a patch of green.
Sabrina Goldentongue was a barmaid and Geldin was an apothecary who taught Narolmin the foundations of what in his later life would blossom into alchemy.
Narolmin was, as all children are, even in the unstimulating cesspool of the unknown hamlet, both curious without reserve and talkative without shame, a trait which is inherent in all children, and especially those of Gnomes. Many was the time his mother or father took him aside for a scolding while the other parent attempted to sooth the ruffled feathers of a caller or dinner guest as a result of Narolmin's wagging tongue.
Almost all children grow out of this stage. Those that do feel a faint sense of melancholy whenever they see a child running around, asking questions, or doing the thousand and one things children do that they ought not. They feel this faint pang briefly, so briefly that most haven't the time to acknowledge or identify it, but it is this: Children have the greatest freedom in the world. Not freedom of body, in that they have not yet pledged themselves to a god (not truly, for they do not understand those things), or a lover, or a master, or a king. Nor freedom of speech, which they exercise with great relish, and quite rightly too, for no child should be told to be seen and not heard. No, they are free in that their mind is not yet bogged down with the shackles of maturity. When we enter reality – usually from our mid teens to early twenties – we have set up walls. We know what is, and what we do not know we believe to be so, and no one can change it – or at least not without a great deal of effort and discomfort. We are constantly hemmed in by a wall which blocks out what only children have: Pure, raw, unrefined imagination. If someone were to describe what magic is, I would tell them it is imagination. When the savage said to himself, "Now I shall invent the wheel," he didn't actually say this at all. As a child, he said, "This coconut rolls around, yet this squarish rock does not. Why is that? Why because it is round." now comes the non-logical thinking, "Maybe I could make something like a coconut and it would roll around, but it would have things on it. No, a place where you could put things! No, a coconut is too hard to make, I shall use this piece of a tree trunk. Yes that is perfect! Now it shall roll!" And then comes the testing and the adding of more slices of tree trunk until you finally had a handcart. To my mind there is little difference between this kind of imagination which produces a wonder of mechanics to the imagination which causes us to imagine our opponent being nicely barbecued by a ball of blue flame, thus leading to the summoning of a fireball.
Yes, all children have imagination, and Narolmin especially, and they also have a pure love of adventure and experience. Anything new to them is a treat. A new kind of candy, a new vacation home, a new toy, a new word, anything is a marvel. How many times has a child learned a new word and then spent the whole day or even multiples of that day saying "Well, we gots ourselves a pa-di-ca-munt." Narolmin, however, was never pirated of either his imagination, nor his love of novelty, though this would not have been hard to be deprived of, considering his stifling environment.
It was Beadle who kept it alive. Beadle was a bard, a Gnome like him, and an old one at that. A hundred and fifty was Beadle when young Narolmin scampered through the door of the local inn – obviously no one ever got drunk here due to the lack of merriment or stimulation in the village, but there were many who heroically tried nonetheless – to hide from his friends in a game of hide-and-seek and chose Beadle's seat behind which to hide, hoping to camouflage his spindly limbs among those of the stool. Put into a nutshell, Narolmin was fascinated by Beadle. The old bard shared Narolmin's love for the new, and it was this external influence – for as both psychologists and parents (and apparently biographers) will attest, adults influence children in the early stages of their life – that instilled the childlike fascination in Narolmin inexorably. Narolmin revels in all that is new. While many adults shun what is new, for it upsets their beliefs and, thus, their entire life, Narolmin believes in nothing and everything. If you were to tell a Dwarf that stone was a kind of wood, he would look at you askance, as would an Elf or even another Gnome, but Narolmin would laugh, say, "Well, if dem damned gods didn't jest make it nonburnable to spite us." If a person were to be told that Tempus and the lot were nonexistant and it were proved to them, that person would most likely promptly drop down, plug his or her ears against the blasphemy, and begin repairing his breached walls with prayer and hymns. If you were to prove it to Narolmin, he would grin broadly and reply, "So does dis mean all clerics are jes sorcerers and they don' know it? What a lark!" Beadle had been many places, seen many things, but this became a very few places and things when relative to all that there is, was, and will be to see in the world. Some people attest to have been everywhere or seen everywhere or fought every monster or explored every pit in the Abyss, but these people fool themselves, for they have merely seen everything in the specific places where they were – and many times not even that – fought only all the monsters they encountered – and even then sometimes not even that – and only explored the pits they saw. We cannot do everything, even those of us immortal, for everyone has his time, whether he be frail human or long-lived Elf or even a god in the Astral Sea. We cannot choose what the world does to us, what it gives us, only what we do in the time that is given to us, no matter what the world may throw at us.
It was a month after Beadle died that Narolmin left. "Da, dere ain't nothin' fer me in dis hamlet. I've learned a trade – two actually, and I can take care of meself. Don' cry, Mam. Bye, Da." And with that, a bundle on his back, a pair of thick leather boots on his feet, a knife in his belt, and his lute slung over his shoulder, Narolmin was off to see what the world threw at him.
The very next day he fell among thieves.
He had set out from the hamlet in the morning and had walked all night, heading southwest to Telfamm. At evening, he was tired out by the day's journey, and after a cold meal he tossed himself onto some moss and promptly began snoring as only a Gnome can.
The next morning he awoke to the cold kiss of a knife at his throat.
In the early dawn hours a group of ruffians had come creeping through the woods, searching for deer. They found the Gnome, obviously young and alone, and took an opportunity. They stole up on him and placed a knife to his throat before he woke. "Well well, what have we here?" said a particularly bad-breathed bandit in his face, "A little child-person all lost and alone. Shouldn't sleep so lightly in these woods, never know what could sneak up on ya," the other thugs laughed in chorus, making it clear that this was their leader. There were eight of them. All carried knives, clubs, or spears. They were men for the most part, with a few of them bearing grotesque features suggesting Goblin heritage. "Sharag, search his pack," barked the captain. A Half-Orc of immense size and obviously disproportional wit began rifling through Narolmin's neat bundle, tossing out pieces of bread, a waterflask, apples, and some lute strings. Meanwhile, two other ruffians began poking and patting Narolmin's person, searching him for valuables and relieving him of his knife and lute, while their chief did the honors of cutting his purse. The few coppers Narolmin possessed spilled out onto the forest floor, and the chief began counting them out. When he finished he looked up, annoyed. “One silver and a score of coppers, bah, what a haul. Been too long since a good merchant passed through these woods. Ain't he got nothin' on him?” The ruffians patting him down poured out their meager findings – a silver watch on a chain, a box of matches, and a piece of cheese. The leader fingered the watch, sniffed the cheese then snapped it up, put the matches in his pocket, then scooped up the coins and put those in his belt pouch. “Alright, let's kill him. At least then maybe the local bumpkins will know we mean business.” The others shared uncomfortable glances. “Narks, we didn't sign up fer no killin....” began one, but another nudged him in the ribs. It was obvious these thieves had no stomach for actual murder, excluding the Half-Orc, who was fingering his club muttering “Smash,” and didn't look bright enough to be uncomfortable anyhow.
Narks straightened up, two brigands pinning Narolmin down, and drew a rusty shortsword that looked like it belonged in a museum and was never used except to cut carrots. In the other hand he held his dagger. He took a deep breath, bracing himself for the kill. All Narolmin could think was, “Wow, killed by a normal thief. Definitely not the best ballad.”
Then Narks took an arrow to the hand.
The chieftain looked at the arrow protruding through his hand, then dropped it and his knife with a shout. As his cry of pain pierced the still morning, it mingled with a bellowing shout. “Moradin Fuzhodal!” and out of the underbrush that lead towards the path came crashing a large pile of metal mingled with a tangle of deep reddish hair. It plowed into the Half-Orc, Sharag, sending him toppling down. He raised his great club to defend himself, but a warhammer arced down, smashing it almost in two, and a shield bashed it aside. The metal lump turned out to be a Dwarf with a plated metal beard. His hammer was still covered with splinters from the club, and in his other hand the shield bore a hammer and anvil, the symbol of Moradin, god of the Dwarves. A second arrow whistled past Narks's ear, hitting one of his restrainers in the shoulder. The man leaped up, howling with pain, and Narolmin took this opportunity to dig his elbow into his other captor's ribs, then pull another knife from his boot and jab it into the villain's stomach. He then lept up and dove for his lute. Narks gave a howl of both rage and pain and lunged for him, but Narolmin was quicker. The bandit leader, used to fighting human-sized people, overshot his lunge, and drove his sword firmly into a patch of moss a foot in front of Narolmin, who grabbed his instrument and scurried over to a fallen log, atop which he lept, brandishing his lute. Hardly had the Dwarf stood up to begin the finishing blow on Sharag when an arc of green light shot toward the Half-Orc. It exploded in a burst of green, and the Half Orc's head melted into a puddle. A drop fell on the Dwarf's boot, where it began to sizzle. With a cry he brushed it off with some dirt, and where it had been the metal was burned black.
“Gnomes' bones, watch where ye fling yer damned acid!” he cried over as he readied himself, planting his feet firmly on the ground.
The thugs stared at him nearvously, then Narks stood up, spitting out dirt, and shouted, “Get him, you cowards! He's only one Dwarf, and only have the height of one of you!” The Dwarf bared his teeth – or at least he might have, his beard hid his mouth – and growled out, “Come at me, ye vagabonds!”
One of the bandits nearvously threw his spear, but the Dwarf caught it on his shield. The shaft splintered and the point stuck in the shield. Two of them charged and the Dwarf countercharged, both shouting war cries. The first swung his club, but it was batted away by the Dwarf's shield with ease, and that man received a smack with the hammer that dislocated his shoulder. He dropped down with a sharp crack and shout, as the other one jabbed his spear. It got past the shield, but glanced off the Dwarf's steel breastplate, just above the heart, its intended target, and nicked his shoulder. With a snarl of outrage the Dwarf ducked down low and swung his hammer, cracking a kneecap, then bashed his shield forward, sending the highwayman sailing back with the wind knocked out of him. The thickets which hid the path rustled and out stomped a Half-Orc. He stood seven feet tall at least, and his skin was gray-green and from his lower jaw protruded two small tusks. His hair was tied back and at his side was a longsword in a scabbard. His eyes were deep-set and squinting down the shaft of an arrow which was knocked to the great longbow he held drawn. He loosed his arrow and it thunked into the winded Half-Goblin's skull.
Narolmin had regained (some) level of control now, and had quickly adjusted his barings to the fight at hand. Brandishing his lute, he combined a few choice chords with a verse an old Halfling had once written about the strangeness of lightning. When the last note was struck a thin bolt of electricity struck one of the ruffians, knocking him out cold with smoke curling off his hair and beard. Another figure lept from behind a large rhododendron bush to the right of the Half-Orc's thicket, about ninety degrees. This one was lithe and slim, obviously female. As she jumped, an orb of light left her hand and soared toward a retreating bandit, catching him square in the back, picking him up off the ground, and sending him flying twenty yards forward into a holly tree. He fell to the ground and did not move. The two remaining thugs lost hear then. They turned and ran, the one clutching his shoulder from Narolmin's dagger, the other supporting the chief Narks, who appeared to have sprained his ankle. Narks kept calling curses over his shoulder at Narolmin and the group, then slapping his human crutch on the head whenever his injured foot hit the ground.
Narolmin turned to face his saviors, and they in turn sized him up. The Dwarf stood as tall as... well, a Dwarf. His beard was long and obviously well-groomed, and dark reddish-brown. It was also covered in multiple metal plates as added armor. His shield bore Moradin's symbol, as did his hammer and an amulet around his neck. His eyes were blue-gray, like ice on a winter pond. The Half-Orc was, as has been stated before, very large, well-muscled, but carried himself with an heir not inherent to any mere barbarian. His shoulders were cocked back in a way that suggested a more refined form of combat, and it was obvious he could use that bow. At his side hung a sheathed sword and hunting knife. The third, female combatant turned out to be a human. No, an Elf. No wait, a Half-Elf. Her shoulder-length hair was black, and her eyes were the same, except with some blue, like pre-midnight. She wore a loose robe of deep maroon etched with golden symbols. In one hand she gripped a long hawthorn staff with a dull red stone set in it.
(To be continued.)
))Narolmin was born to Geldin and Sabrina Goldentongue in a small hamlet in the forests near Thalden. There is little to tell of this tiny pocket of civilization save that its name is known only to its inhabitants, not through any campaign of secrecy, you understand, but simply because it is such a dull and stifling place, completely unstimulating to anybody who hasn't lived there their whole life, that everyone promptly forgot its name when it had disappeared around the bend of the road, and only great cartographers who spend their ample free time conjugating all the places of the world know it, though they know it only as a name and a dot in the middle of a patch of green.
Sabrina Goldentongue was a barmaid and Geldin was an apothecary who taught Narolmin the foundations of what in his later life would blossom into alchemy.
Narolmin was, as all children are, even in the unstimulating cesspool of the unknown hamlet, both curious without reserve and talkative without shame, a trait which is inherent in all children, and especially those of Gnomes. Many was the time his mother or father took him aside for a scolding while the other parent attempted to sooth the ruffled feathers of a caller or dinner guest as a result of Narolmin's wagging tongue.
Almost all children grow out of this stage. Those that do feel a faint sense of melancholy whenever they see a child running around, asking questions, or doing the thousand and one things children do that they ought not. They feel this faint pang briefly, so briefly that most haven't the time to acknowledge or identify it, but it is this: Children have the greatest freedom in the world. Not freedom of body, in that they have not yet pledged themselves to a god (not truly, for they do not understand those things), or a lover, or a master, or a king. Nor freedom of speech, which they exercise with great relish, and quite rightly too, for no child should be told to be seen and not heard. No, they are free in that their mind is not yet bogged down with the shackles of maturity. When we enter reality – usually from our mid teens to early twenties – we have set up walls. We know what is, and what we do not know we believe to be so, and no one can change it – or at least not without a great deal of effort and discomfort. We are constantly hemmed in by a wall which blocks out what only children have: Pure, raw, unrefined imagination. If someone were to describe what magic is, I would tell them it is imagination. When the savage said to himself, "Now I shall invent the wheel," he didn't actually say this at all. As a child, he said, "This coconut rolls around, yet this squarish rock does not. Why is that? Why because it is round." now comes the non-logical thinking, "Maybe I could make something like a coconut and it would roll around, but it would have things on it. No, a place where you could put things! No, a coconut is too hard to make, I shall use this piece of a tree trunk. Yes that is perfect! Now it shall roll!" And then comes the testing and the adding of more slices of tree trunk until you finally had a handcart. To my mind there is little difference between this kind of imagination which produces a wonder of mechanics to the imagination which causes us to imagine our opponent being nicely barbecued by a ball of blue flame, thus leading to the summoning of a fireball.
Yes, all children have imagination, and Narolmin especially, and they also have a pure love of adventure and experience. Anything new to them is a treat. A new kind of candy, a new vacation home, a new toy, a new word, anything is a marvel. How many times has a child learned a new word and then spent the whole day or even multiples of that day saying "Well, we gots ourselves a pa-di-ca-munt." Narolmin, however, was never pirated of either his imagination, nor his love of novelty, though this would not have been hard to be deprived of, considering his stifling environment.
It was Beadle who kept it alive. Beadle was a bard, a Gnome like him, and an old one at that. A hundred and fifty was Beadle when young Narolmin scampered through the door of the local inn – obviously no one ever got drunk here due to the lack of merriment or stimulation in the village, but there were many who heroically tried nonetheless – to hide from his friends in a game of hide-and-seek and chose Beadle's seat behind which to hide, hoping to camouflage his spindly limbs among those of the stool. Put into a nutshell, Narolmin was fascinated by Beadle. The old bard shared Narolmin's love for the new, and it was this external influence – for as both psychologists and parents (and apparently biographers) will attest, adults influence children in the early stages of their life – that instilled the childlike fascination in Narolmin inexorably. Narolmin revels in all that is new. While many adults shun what is new, for it upsets their beliefs and, thus, their entire life, Narolmin believes in nothing and everything. If you were to tell a Dwarf that stone was a kind of wood, he would look at you askance, as would an Elf or even another Gnome, but Narolmin would laugh, say, "Well, if dem damned gods didn't jest make it nonburnable to spite us." If a person were to be told that Tempus and the lot were nonexistant and it were proved to them, that person would most likely promptly drop down, plug his or her ears against the blasphemy, and begin repairing his breached walls with prayer and hymns. If you were to prove it to Narolmin, he would grin broadly and reply, "So does dis mean all clerics are jes sorcerers and they don' know it? What a lark!" Beadle had been many places, seen many things, but this became a very few places and things when relative to all that there is, was, and will be to see in the world. Some people attest to have been everywhere or seen everywhere or fought every monster or explored every pit in the Abyss, but these people fool themselves, for they have merely seen everything in the specific places where they were – and many times not even that – fought only all the monsters they encountered – and even then sometimes not even that – and only explored the pits they saw. We cannot do everything, even those of us immortal, for everyone has his time, whether he be frail human or long-lived Elf or even a god in the Astral Sea. We cannot choose what the world does to us, what it gives us, only what we do in the time that is given to us, no matter what the world may throw at us.
It was a month after Beadle died that Narolmin left. "Da, dere ain't nothin' fer me in dis hamlet. I've learned a trade – two actually, and I can take care of meself. Don' cry, Mam. Bye, Da." And with that, a bundle on his back, a pair of thick leather boots on his feet, a knife in his belt, and his lute slung over his shoulder, Narolmin was off to see what the world threw at him.
The very next day he fell among thieves.
He had set out from the hamlet in the morning and had walked all night, heading southwest to Telfamm. At evening, he was tired out by the day's journey, and after a cold meal he tossed himself onto some moss and promptly began snoring as only a Gnome can.
The next morning he awoke to the cold kiss of a knife at his throat.
In the early dawn hours a group of ruffians had come creeping through the woods, searching for deer. They found the Gnome, obviously young and alone, and took an opportunity. They stole up on him and placed a knife to his throat before he woke. "Well well, what have we here?" said a particularly bad-breathed bandit in his face, "A little child-person all lost and alone. Shouldn't sleep so lightly in these woods, never know what could sneak up on ya," the other thugs laughed in chorus, making it clear that this was their leader. There were eight of them. All carried knives, clubs, or spears. They were men for the most part, with a few of them bearing grotesque features suggesting Goblin heritage. "Sharag, search his pack," barked the captain. A Half-Orc of immense size and obviously disproportional wit began rifling through Narolmin's neat bundle, tossing out pieces of bread, a waterflask, apples, and some lute strings. Meanwhile, two other ruffians began poking and patting Narolmin's person, searching him for valuables and relieving him of his knife and lute, while their chief did the honors of cutting his purse. The few coppers Narolmin possessed spilled out onto the forest floor, and the chief began counting them out. When he finished he looked up, annoyed. “One silver and a score of coppers, bah, what a haul. Been too long since a good merchant passed through these woods. Ain't he got nothin' on him?” The ruffians patting him down poured out their meager findings – a silver watch on a chain, a box of matches, and a piece of cheese. The leader fingered the watch, sniffed the cheese then snapped it up, put the matches in his pocket, then scooped up the coins and put those in his belt pouch. “Alright, let's kill him. At least then maybe the local bumpkins will know we mean business.” The others shared uncomfortable glances. “Narks, we didn't sign up fer no killin....” began one, but another nudged him in the ribs. It was obvious these thieves had no stomach for actual murder, excluding the Half-Orc, who was fingering his club muttering “Smash,” and didn't look bright enough to be uncomfortable anyhow.
Narks straightened up, two brigands pinning Narolmin down, and drew a rusty shortsword that looked like it belonged in a museum and was never used except to cut carrots. In the other hand he held his dagger. He took a deep breath, bracing himself for the kill. All Narolmin could think was, “Wow, killed by a normal thief. Definitely not the best ballad.”
Then Narks took an arrow to the hand.
The chieftain looked at the arrow protruding through his hand, then dropped it and his knife with a shout. As his cry of pain pierced the still morning, it mingled with a bellowing shout. “Moradin Fuzhodal!” and out of the underbrush that lead towards the path came crashing a large pile of metal mingled with a tangle of deep reddish hair. It plowed into the Half-Orc, Sharag, sending him toppling down. He raised his great club to defend himself, but a warhammer arced down, smashing it almost in two, and a shield bashed it aside. The metal lump turned out to be a Dwarf with a plated metal beard. His hammer was still covered with splinters from the club, and in his other hand the shield bore a hammer and anvil, the symbol of Moradin, god of the Dwarves. A second arrow whistled past Narks's ear, hitting one of his restrainers in the shoulder. The man leaped up, howling with pain, and Narolmin took this opportunity to dig his elbow into his other captor's ribs, then pull another knife from his boot and jab it into the villain's stomach. He then lept up and dove for his lute. Narks gave a howl of both rage and pain and lunged for him, but Narolmin was quicker. The bandit leader, used to fighting human-sized people, overshot his lunge, and drove his sword firmly into a patch of moss a foot in front of Narolmin, who grabbed his instrument and scurried over to a fallen log, atop which he lept, brandishing his lute. Hardly had the Dwarf stood up to begin the finishing blow on Sharag when an arc of green light shot toward the Half-Orc. It exploded in a burst of green, and the Half Orc's head melted into a puddle. A drop fell on the Dwarf's boot, where it began to sizzle. With a cry he brushed it off with some dirt, and where it had been the metal was burned black.
“Gnomes' bones, watch where ye fling yer damned acid!” he cried over as he readied himself, planting his feet firmly on the ground.
The thugs stared at him nearvously, then Narks stood up, spitting out dirt, and shouted, “Get him, you cowards! He's only one Dwarf, and only have the height of one of you!” The Dwarf bared his teeth – or at least he might have, his beard hid his mouth – and growled out, “Come at me, ye vagabonds!”
One of the bandits nearvously threw his spear, but the Dwarf caught it on his shield. The shaft splintered and the point stuck in the shield. Two of them charged and the Dwarf countercharged, both shouting war cries. The first swung his club, but it was batted away by the Dwarf's shield with ease, and that man received a smack with the hammer that dislocated his shoulder. He dropped down with a sharp crack and shout, as the other one jabbed his spear. It got past the shield, but glanced off the Dwarf's steel breastplate, just above the heart, its intended target, and nicked his shoulder. With a snarl of outrage the Dwarf ducked down low and swung his hammer, cracking a kneecap, then bashed his shield forward, sending the highwayman sailing back with the wind knocked out of him. The thickets which hid the path rustled and out stomped a Half-Orc. He stood seven feet tall at least, and his skin was gray-green and from his lower jaw protruded two small tusks. His hair was tied back and at his side was a longsword in a scabbard. His eyes were deep-set and squinting down the shaft of an arrow which was knocked to the great longbow he held drawn. He loosed his arrow and it thunked into the winded Half-Goblin's skull.
Narolmin had regained (some) level of control now, and had quickly adjusted his barings to the fight at hand. Brandishing his lute, he combined a few choice chords with a verse an old Halfling had once written about the strangeness of lightning. When the last note was struck a thin bolt of electricity struck one of the ruffians, knocking him out cold with smoke curling off his hair and beard. Another figure lept from behind a large rhododendron bush to the right of the Half-Orc's thicket, about ninety degrees. This one was lithe and slim, obviously female. As she jumped, an orb of light left her hand and soared toward a retreating bandit, catching him square in the back, picking him up off the ground, and sending him flying twenty yards forward into a holly tree. He fell to the ground and did not move. The two remaining thugs lost hear then. They turned and ran, the one clutching his shoulder from Narolmin's dagger, the other supporting the chief Narks, who appeared to have sprained his ankle. Narks kept calling curses over his shoulder at Narolmin and the group, then slapping his human crutch on the head whenever his injured foot hit the ground.
Narolmin turned to face his saviors, and they in turn sized him up. The Dwarf stood as tall as... well, a Dwarf. His beard was long and obviously well-groomed, and dark reddish-brown. It was also covered in multiple metal plates as added armor. His shield bore Moradin's symbol, as did his hammer and an amulet around his neck. His eyes were blue-gray, like ice on a winter pond. The Half-Orc was, as has been stated before, very large, well-muscled, but carried himself with an heir not inherent to any mere barbarian. His shoulders were cocked back in a way that suggested a more refined form of combat, and it was obvious he could use that bow. At his side hung a sheathed sword and hunting knife. The third, female combatant turned out to be a human. No, an Elf. No wait, a Half-Elf. Her shoulder-length hair was black, and her eyes were the same, except with some blue, like pre-midnight. She wore a loose robe of deep maroon etched with golden symbols. In one hand she gripped a long hawthorn staff with a dull red stone set in it.
(To be continued.)
