Jarin sits at the edge of the bed, caught somewhere between the last moments of sleep and first seconds of consciousness, wiping his grey eyes with a tan calloused hand. The crows aren’t even up yet, he tells himself as he reaches for his leather sandals before giving up on the effort. They’re much too far from the comfort of his bed, and bending any further would send pain shooting through his spine, a now misshapen stack of compressed discs under strong muscle on his forty year old frame. He sits upright on the sheets once more, twisting and turning with a few groans and pops from his knuckles and joints.
“Up and out with ya, or come back to bed,” a muffled voice softly reproaches Jarin from the pillow next to his. “Enough of this in between business.” The woman rolls over and removes brown curly hair from her fair-skinned face as she squints up at Jarin with one eye open in the dim lamp light.
“Sorry, love,” Jarin chuckles as he leans over, ignoring the pain this time to plant a kiss on his wife’s forehead. “Up and out it is, then.” With a deep breath, the Man pushes himself upright, sliding his feet into unlaced sandals and throwing a heavy long-sleeved shirt over himself. His morning routine is brief as he moves about the small three-room dwelling. Heating porridge over the hearth, shaving with a small knife, and finally lacing his sandals, Jarin prepares for a busy day at Faudree’s Red River Port. Returning the oil lamp to the nightstand in their room, Jarin whispers to his wife once more.
“Lill, we should be getting that Avont’ ship in t’day.” A stir under the covers gives Lillian’s acknowledgement of the comment. “So I’ll be late. Tell Alur we can go to the Bazaar tomorrow if she likes. Breakfast is heating up, too.” Small fists emerge from the sheets, balled up with arms stretching toward the ceiling. Through a long yawn, Jarin’s wife sits up and answers, still only half awake.
“I can take her, dear.” Another yawn. “She’ll have a harder time talking me into buying new clothes than she would you.” Lillian chuckles as Jarin scoffs at her from the doorway. “Be safe.”
“Always.” Jarin smiles and grabs his small work sack before leaving. He stops in the next room to softly say goodbye to a small lump of blankets on the floor. The nine-year-old underneath them hardly moves, intent on staying asleep as long as possible.
Jarin opens the front door, stepping out onto the second story landing of their building, a wooden structure six floors high, with several houses on each level. The Herds is a tricky neighborhood to navigate in the best light, and much worse before daybreak. A few flickering lights can be seen in the windows opposite their building on the narrow street. Likely more dock workers or vendors just rising for a day’s work. Jarin starts down the creaking wooden steps, surprising a few sleeping birds. The jet black creatures squawk angrily as they take off form the railing toward the rooftops. Well, the crows are up now, he thinks.
It’s nearly a six mile trek from his building in The Herds to the southern docks of the Red River Port where he’ll be working today. For the entire first mile, Jarin sees only two passersby on the streets. Then, as the Bjornen Star peeks over the treetops of the Elklands Forest, shedding light on rooftops and path stones, the road begins to stretch out further, and a few more early risers can be seen sluggishly moving along on their way. Anyone heading toward the Port is moving deliberately slow, for today is Shipment Day. One of the huge Avontuur International Shipping & Trade vessels is expected to dock this morning. Along with the anticipated goods and cargo to be unloaded will inevitably be the unanticipated extras. Sailing Dwarves always bring more than they need, and likely more than they should onboard an Avontuur Ship. Not to mention the stowaways of every race and species, Intelligent or otherwise. Shipment Day at any port is almost always a mashup of taking inventory and fighting small battles.
Deep in thought concerning the upcoming ‘activities’, Jarin hardly notices a hulking black figure moving northward to his right. In the early light of dawn, the vessel slides through the waters of the Red River expertly and with almost no sound. By the time the Dwarven Ship captain blasts his first welcoming horn, a bellowing chorus of steam-organs and metal drums alike, the ship is well ahead of Jarin and moving quickly toward the docks. Looks like the last three miles of today’s hike will be at a run. Jarin kicks up dirt as he presses onward, hearing the hisses from street cats who disapprove of his loud sandals slapping against the stones so early.
.
NOON
.
The scene can be likened to that of a battlefield skirmish. Several authoritative voices compete for attention with loud growls from both onboard the Ship and from the Port Building’s balcony overhead. People and goods are removed from the hull, some more forcibly than others, and the occasional shout of injury can be heard among the ruckus. All the while, fishermen and crews work to haul their small boats away from the noise toward less active piers, fearing for their lives and the safety of their crafts. The huge black wooden frame of the Avontuur ship sits high in the water, its metal prow gleaming in the sunlight as the four mainsails are furled up.
“Jarin! Olnar! Get that sod outta my port!” This angry call, issued from a Dwarf on the balcony in a yellow tunic and expensive suede gloves, stands out among the rest as Jarin and his fellow worker, a Halfling in a green tunic and sporting a black eye already this morning, set down a large case of spices from Leonidan and sprint back across the narrow boarding planks to apprehend a particularly nasty Half-Elf who is currently voicing his opinion on the Dwarven shipping company by throwing glass vials at workers from a box marked “Dracos Ailment Succor”. The vials burst and explode on the deck of the ship and against a few workers, who almost immediately succumb to whatever side effect that specific relief vial contained. By the time the Halfling Olnar makes it to the Half-Elf, there are at least a dozen small clouds of colored smoke on the deck, and almost as many workers coughing, laughing, or vomiting.
“Get ‘is arms, Jarin!” The Halfling dives from atop of crate as Jarin holds the Half-Elf’s attention, wrapping up the Ailment assailant in a leaping bear hug. The pair goes down quickly, and elbows are thrown before Jarin kneels on the attacker’s back and binds his hands in rope.
“Felinor,” Jarin grunts to the Half-Elf as he struggles. “Every time with this! Every time! What’s it to you if a few Dwarves wanna bring goods to Bulund, hmm?” Jarin tightens his knot, fully incapacitating the Half-Elf’s arms as Olnar sits beside him, rubbing his face, the black eye now almost swollen shut.
“It’s the principle, Jarin!” Felinor the Half-Elf, a citizen of Faudree and one not unaccustomed to the inside of a Stoneside cell, responds, his face smashed into the wood of the ship’s deck. “Every time they come here, they leave more folks behind!” He grunts and squirms, uselessly against Jarin’s strength. “They’re taking jobs, crowding the taverns, and introducing pestilence and evil to Bulund! Get OFF of me!”
Jarin can’t deny any of the points his former coworker is making as he and Olnar pull the Half-Elf to his feet before accompanying him toward the planks to the dock where two more workers snatch Felinor away, one of them still covered in a mysterious liquid and scratches from broken glass. The Avontuur Ships do in fact bring more than just sailors, and they leave plenty more than just cargo behind. Faudree started centuries ago as a town of Men, and these days, every Intelligent Race exists and even thrives in the city. But that can’t be a bad thing, can it? Jarin thinks about this a while as he watches the melting pot that is the Red River Port and Docks churn with excitement and vigor. A Dwarf passes by him and issues a gruff hello as he marches toward the Shipwright’s office with a heavy bag of gold and the Ship’s trade ledger.
Suddenly, a hand shoves his shoulder. “J, help me with this crate, ‘fore we get our pay docked. You c’n buy me a Bull’s Blood at the end o’ this shift.” Olnar winks at Jarin, or at least, it appears so, through the one working eye he has this day. The two stoop to lift the spice crate once again, its contents shifting a bit, and they head toward the warehouse.
.
DUSK
.
At a central booth inside The Loosened Reins tavern, Olnar the Halfling is holding a mug to his bruised blue eye. The swelling has gone down, but the shiner will linger for at least a few days. With another hand, he’s dipping bread into a bowl of broth, his stomach and pockets significantly fuller now than they were this morning. He looks up across the table at Jarin, who is deep in thought over his full mug.
“Bull’s Blood ain’t cuttin’ it t’day, J?” Olnar jokes with the man. Of course Bull’s Blood is good enough. It can knock the strongest Dwarf on his back after only a half dozen pints.
“Nah, that’s not it. Just thinking about the girls.” Jarin smiles, enjoying present company but wishing he were home earlier. “I wonder how much of today’s pay Alur’s already convinced Lillian to spend on her.”
“Not as much as if you’re sorry ass would have been there with her,” a tall Half-Elf takes the seat next to Jarin and clasps his shoulder with the joke. The Half-Elf has golden blonde hair, fair skin, and a long slender build typical of their race, but he’s lived more often among Men than with his own race for most of his life. These days, he can be seen hunting the Elklands edges with the Rangers of the Outpost.
“We don’t all have a pile o’ gold and no wife to take care of, Thalin.” Olnar speaks up for himself and Jarin before anyone has a chance to continue the banter. He points a mug at the Half-Elf as his voice grows less cheerful. “Saw your cousin again t’day.” Thalin’s ears flinch beneath his golden hair as he looks toward Olnar, the Halfling now showing his full face.
“I sure hope he didn’t give you that,” Thalin points a long finger at Olnar’s bruised face as the Halfling shakes his head in assurance. “You two have seen more of my cousin in a month than I have in a year. Felinor has no ambition anymore.” Thalin balls his fist, turning now to Jarin. “You’ve got your family, Olnar’s got his, I’ve got my hunting… Felinor just goes around saying he’s been wronged, like he didn’t have every chance we did to make something out of himself. Like someone stole his birthright.” The Half-Elf bites his lip, having said too much in offense of his own blood. The next few moments of silence among the trio are finally disturbed by a barmaid arriving with two new mugs, meant for Olnar and Jarin. Thalin produces two gold coins from his pocket with a smile, and the barmaid begins to leave to fetch a third mug before Jarin stops her.
“He can have mine,” Jarin says, standing from the table with a twist and crack of his back. “I should have been off more than an hour ago.” To the bereavement and shunning from his friends, the Man backs away from the table, hands in the air as a surrender, though inwardly excited to be on his way. Turning toward the door, Jarin reaches out, only to have it come crashing inward toward him. Two persons stumble through the open door of the tavern, one of them falling face first onto the floor. The tumult is enough to silence much of the crowd. Jarin helps the Man to his feet as his partner, doubled over with hands on his knees, shouts out through deep breaths.
“Minotaurs!” The Man is covered in dirt, thorns, and scratches. He and his companion appear to be Rangers from the Outposts, though wildly out of breath and panicked. “Minotaurs at the edge of the Elklands!” A low murmur rises in the tavern. Jarin looks back toward his former table. Thalin the Half-Elf is already to his feet and is striding across the room toward the group.
“Which tribe? Do you know which tribe?!” Thalin grabs the first Man’s shirt collar, standing him upright with a swift pull. “Who led them out?!” Jarin’s heart pounded in his chest as he thought only of the safety of his family. The man being held now by Thalin answered the questions in order with a stammering voice.
“It’s… the Felhides. Felhide Tribe, Thalin. They’re led by…” he tugs at the Half-Elf’s hands a bit to loosen his collar. Thalin holds fast. “They’re led by a Vargen-Blood.” The tavern explodes into an uproar immediately. Some patrons are shouting curses at the Man for lying, others shouting curses for bringing such a bad omen to Faudree. If this is true, then a Vargen-Blood, a creature of half wolf and half Intelligent Race, is somewhere in the Elklands Forest, and furthermore, if he’s commanding a tribe of Minotaurs, then Faudree is in serious trouble.
“Out of my way,” Jarin shoves the three aside as the noise level grows ever louder. “I’ve got to get home.” As he passes the second of the Rangers near the door, the Man calls through the shouts to Thalin.
“Your cousin was the one who brought him out, you know!” The Man is picking thorns from his tabard with a scowl. “He went in there this afternoon! With YOUR bow!” Jarin spins in the doorway to see Thalin, whose slender blue eyes are now wide and face pale.
“MOVE!” The Half-Elf springs into action, his love of the Wilds and of his family overtaking all rational thought of a winless battle. He is out the door and starting up the northern path before Jarin can move aside. Olnar reaches Jarin at the steps of the tavern just before the door shuts, muffling some of the pandemonium inside.
“J, I’m gonna help him. Felinor may be a prick, an’ he may be a sorry excuse for a political rebel, but he was our friend for nearly two decades.” Jarin nods, staring up the path at Thalin’s back as the Half-Elf puts more distance between them.
“Catch him,” Jarin says to the Halfling, giving him a near-impossible task. “I’ll fetch your gear, my hammer, and tell our girls goodbye.” Olnar starts off as fast as his legs can take him. Jarin picks up his pace and jogs south, toward The Herds. He plans on stopping by Olnar’s house to alert his wife after meeting Lillian and Alur at his own house. Tonight will be no cause for celebration. Tonight will not be spent in a lover’s embrace, or near a roaring fire with his sweet princess in his lap. No. As Jarin’s heart pounds and his breath quickens, he can only assume tonight will end in a heated debate against the unflinching will of the Minotaurs, and a fierce battle for the life of his friend.
As his sandaled feet pound on the pavement and turn onto his road, Jarin sees the open window of their common room and hears a familiar squeal. A cry of joy from his daughter. A responding laugh from his adoring wife. And he thinks briefly of abandoning his friends, but every man has his fight, and if you don’t fight for your friend’s family, who will fight for yours? His hand pushes the door open as the tears well up in his eyes.
A Map: i.imgur.com/DD6zNsX.jpg
The Visuals: i.imgur.com/GoS4Njc.jpg , i.imgur.com/apadsom.jpg
Jarin of Faudree: i.imgur.com/NH7WlKq.jpg
Olnar the Halfling of Faudree: i.imgur.com/482qf9p.png
Felinor of the Bulund Clan: i.imgur.com/tq1KgWO.jpg
Thalin of the Bulund Clan: i.imgur.com/7O0mdCz.jpg
.
DAWN
.
Jarin sits at the edge of the bed, caught somewhere between the last moments of sleep and first seconds of consciousness, wiping his grey eyes with a tan calloused hand. The crows aren’t even up yet, he tells himself as he reaches for his leather sandals before giving up on the effort. They’re much too far from the comfort of his bed, and bending any further would send pain shooting through his spine, a now misshapen stack of compressed discs under strong muscle on his forty year old frame. He sits upright on the sheets once more, twisting and turning with a few groans and pops from his knuckles and joints.
“Up and out with ya, or come back to bed,” a muffled voice softly reproaches Jarin from the pillow next to his. “Enough of this in between business.” The woman rolls over and removes brown curly hair from her fair-skinned face as she squints up at Jarin with one eye open in the dim lamp light.
“Sorry, love,” Jarin chuckles as he leans over, ignoring the pain this time to plant a kiss on his wife’s forehead. “Up and out it is, then.” With a deep breath, the Man pushes himself upright, sliding his feet into unlaced sandals and throwing a heavy long-sleeved shirt over himself. His morning routine is brief as he moves about the small three-room dwelling. Heating porridge over the hearth, shaving with a small knife, and finally lacing his sandals, Jarin prepares for a busy day at Faudree’s Red River Port. Returning the oil lamp to the nightstand in their room, Jarin whispers to his wife once more.
“Lill, we should be getting that Avont’ ship in t’day.” A stir under the covers gives Lillian’s acknowledgement of the comment. “So I’ll be late. Tell Alur we can go to the Bazaar tomorrow if she likes. Breakfast is heating up, too.” Small fists emerge from the sheets, balled up with arms stretching toward the ceiling. Through a long yawn, Jarin’s wife sits up and answers, still only half awake.
“I can take her, dear.” Another yawn. “She’ll have a harder time talking me into buying new clothes than she would you.” Lillian chuckles as Jarin scoffs at her from the doorway. “Be safe.”
“Always.” Jarin smiles and grabs his small work sack before leaving. He stops in the next room to softly say goodbye to a small lump of blankets on the floor. The nine-year-old underneath them hardly moves, intent on staying asleep as long as possible.
Jarin opens the front door, stepping out onto the second story landing of their building, a wooden structure six floors high, with several houses on each level. The Herds is a tricky neighborhood to navigate in the best light, and much worse before daybreak. A few flickering lights can be seen in the windows opposite their building on the narrow street. Likely more dock workers or vendors just rising for a day’s work. Jarin starts down the creaking wooden steps, surprising a few sleeping birds. The jet black creatures squawk angrily as they take off form the railing toward the rooftops. Well, the crows are up now, he thinks.
It’s nearly a six mile trek from his building in The Herds to the southern docks of the Red River Port where he’ll be working today. For the entire first mile, Jarin sees only two passersby on the streets. Then, as the Bjornen Star peeks over the treetops of the Elklands Forest, shedding light on rooftops and path stones, the road begins to stretch out further, and a few more early risers can be seen sluggishly moving along on their way. Anyone heading toward the Port is moving deliberately slow, for today is Shipment Day. One of the huge Avontuur International Shipping & Trade vessels is expected to dock this morning. Along with the anticipated goods and cargo to be unloaded will inevitably be the unanticipated extras. Sailing Dwarves always bring more than they need, and likely more than they should onboard an Avontuur Ship. Not to mention the stowaways of every race and species, Intelligent or otherwise. Shipment Day at any port is almost always a mashup of taking inventory and fighting small battles.
Deep in thought concerning the upcoming ‘activities’, Jarin hardly notices a hulking black figure moving northward to his right. In the early light of dawn, the vessel slides through the waters of the Red River expertly and with almost no sound. By the time the Dwarven Ship captain blasts his first welcoming horn, a bellowing chorus of steam-organs and metal drums alike, the ship is well ahead of Jarin and moving quickly toward the docks. Looks like the last three miles of today’s hike will be at a run. Jarin kicks up dirt as he presses onward, hearing the hisses from street cats who disapprove of his loud sandals slapping against the stones so early.
.
NOON
.
The scene can be likened to that of a battlefield skirmish. Several authoritative voices compete for attention with loud growls from both onboard the Ship and from the Port Building’s balcony overhead. People and goods are removed from the hull, some more forcibly than others, and the occasional shout of injury can be heard among the ruckus. All the while, fishermen and crews work to haul their small boats away from the noise toward less active piers, fearing for their lives and the safety of their crafts. The huge black wooden frame of the Avontuur ship sits high in the water, its metal prow gleaming in the sunlight as the four mainsails are furled up.
“Jarin! Olnar! Get that sod outta my port!” This angry call, issued from a Dwarf on the balcony in a yellow tunic and expensive suede gloves, stands out among the rest as Jarin and his fellow worker, a Halfling in a green tunic and sporting a black eye already this morning, set down a large case of spices from Leonidan and sprint back across the narrow boarding planks to apprehend a particularly nasty Half-Elf who is currently voicing his opinion on the Dwarven shipping company by throwing glass vials at workers from a box marked “Dracos Ailment Succor”. The vials burst and explode on the deck of the ship and against a few workers, who almost immediately succumb to whatever side effect that specific relief vial contained. By the time the Halfling Olnar makes it to the Half-Elf, there are at least a dozen small clouds of colored smoke on the deck, and almost as many workers coughing, laughing, or vomiting.
“Get ‘is arms, Jarin!” The Halfling dives from atop of crate as Jarin holds the Half-Elf’s attention, wrapping up the Ailment assailant in a leaping bear hug. The pair goes down quickly, and elbows are thrown before Jarin kneels on the attacker’s back and binds his hands in rope.
“Felinor,” Jarin grunts to the Half-Elf as he struggles. “Every time with this! Every time! What’s it to you if a few Dwarves wanna bring goods to Bulund, hmm?” Jarin tightens his knot, fully incapacitating the Half-Elf’s arms as Olnar sits beside him, rubbing his face, the black eye now almost swollen shut.
“It’s the principle, Jarin!” Felinor the Half-Elf, a citizen of Faudree and one not unaccustomed to the inside of a Stoneside cell, responds, his face smashed into the wood of the ship’s deck. “Every time they come here, they leave more folks behind!” He grunts and squirms, uselessly against Jarin’s strength. “They’re taking jobs, crowding the taverns, and introducing pestilence and evil to Bulund! Get OFF of me!”
Jarin can’t deny any of the points his former coworker is making as he and Olnar pull the Half-Elf to his feet before accompanying him toward the planks to the dock where two more workers snatch Felinor away, one of them still covered in a mysterious liquid and scratches from broken glass. The Avontuur Ships do in fact bring more than just sailors, and they leave plenty more than just cargo behind. Faudree started centuries ago as a town of Men, and these days, every Intelligent Race exists and even thrives in the city. But that can’t be a bad thing, can it? Jarin thinks about this a while as he watches the melting pot that is the Red River Port and Docks churn with excitement and vigor. A Dwarf passes by him and issues a gruff hello as he marches toward the Shipwright’s office with a heavy bag of gold and the Ship’s trade ledger.
Suddenly, a hand shoves his shoulder. “J, help me with this crate, ‘fore we get our pay docked. You c’n buy me a Bull’s Blood at the end o’ this shift.” Olnar winks at Jarin, or at least, it appears so, through the one working eye he has this day. The two stoop to lift the spice crate once again, its contents shifting a bit, and they head toward the warehouse.
.
DUSK
.
At a central booth inside The Loosened Reins tavern, Olnar the Halfling is holding a mug to his bruised blue eye. The swelling has gone down, but the shiner will linger for at least a few days. With another hand, he’s dipping bread into a bowl of broth, his stomach and pockets significantly fuller now than they were this morning. He looks up across the table at Jarin, who is deep in thought over his full mug.
“Bull’s Blood ain’t cuttin’ it t’day, J?” Olnar jokes with the man. Of course Bull’s Blood is good enough. It can knock the strongest Dwarf on his back after only a half dozen pints.
“Nah, that’s not it. Just thinking about the girls.” Jarin smiles, enjoying present company but wishing he were home earlier. “I wonder how much of today’s pay Alur’s already convinced Lillian to spend on her.”
“Not as much as if you’re sorry ass would have been there with her,” a tall Half-Elf takes the seat next to Jarin and clasps his shoulder with the joke. The Half-Elf has golden blonde hair, fair skin, and a long slender build typical of their race, but he’s lived more often among Men than with his own race for most of his life. These days, he can be seen hunting the Elklands edges with the Rangers of the Outpost.
“We don’t all have a pile o’ gold and no wife to take care of, Thalin.” Olnar speaks up for himself and Jarin before anyone has a chance to continue the banter. He points a mug at the Half-Elf as his voice grows less cheerful. “Saw your cousin again t’day.” Thalin’s ears flinch beneath his golden hair as he looks toward Olnar, the Halfling now showing his full face.
“I sure hope he didn’t give you that,” Thalin points a long finger at Olnar’s bruised face as the Halfling shakes his head in assurance. “You two have seen more of my cousin in a month than I have in a year. Felinor has no ambition anymore.” Thalin balls his fist, turning now to Jarin. “You’ve got your family, Olnar’s got his, I’ve got my hunting… Felinor just goes around saying he’s been wronged, like he didn’t have every chance we did to make something out of himself. Like someone stole his birthright.” The Half-Elf bites his lip, having said too much in offense of his own blood. The next few moments of silence among the trio are finally disturbed by a barmaid arriving with two new mugs, meant for Olnar and Jarin. Thalin produces two gold coins from his pocket with a smile, and the barmaid begins to leave to fetch a third mug before Jarin stops her.
“He can have mine,” Jarin says, standing from the table with a twist and crack of his back. “I should have been off more than an hour ago.” To the bereavement and shunning from his friends, the Man backs away from the table, hands in the air as a surrender, though inwardly excited to be on his way. Turning toward the door, Jarin reaches out, only to have it come crashing inward toward him. Two persons stumble through the open door of the tavern, one of them falling face first onto the floor. The tumult is enough to silence much of the crowd. Jarin helps the Man to his feet as his partner, doubled over with hands on his knees, shouts out through deep breaths.
“Minotaurs!” The Man is covered in dirt, thorns, and scratches. He and his companion appear to be Rangers from the Outposts, though wildly out of breath and panicked. “Minotaurs at the edge of the Elklands!” A low murmur rises in the tavern. Jarin looks back toward his former table. Thalin the Half-Elf is already to his feet and is striding across the room toward the group.
“Which tribe? Do you know which tribe?!” Thalin grabs the first Man’s shirt collar, standing him upright with a swift pull. “Who led them out?!” Jarin’s heart pounded in his chest as he thought only of the safety of his family. The man being held now by Thalin answered the questions in order with a stammering voice.
“It’s… the Felhides. Felhide Tribe, Thalin. They’re led by…” he tugs at the Half-Elf’s hands a bit to loosen his collar. Thalin holds fast. “They’re led by a Vargen-Blood.” The tavern explodes into an uproar immediately. Some patrons are shouting curses at the Man for lying, others shouting curses for bringing such a bad omen to Faudree. If this is true, then a Vargen-Blood, a creature of half wolf and half Intelligent Race, is somewhere in the Elklands Forest, and furthermore, if he’s commanding a tribe of Minotaurs, then Faudree is in serious trouble.
“Out of my way,” Jarin shoves the three aside as the noise level grows ever louder. “I’ve got to get home.” As he passes the second of the Rangers near the door, the Man calls through the shouts to Thalin.
“Your cousin was the one who brought him out, you know!” The Man is picking thorns from his tabard with a scowl. “He went in there this afternoon! With YOUR bow!” Jarin spins in the doorway to see Thalin, whose slender blue eyes are now wide and face pale.
“MOVE!” The Half-Elf springs into action, his love of the Wilds and of his family overtaking all rational thought of a winless battle. He is out the door and starting up the northern path before Jarin can move aside. Olnar reaches Jarin at the steps of the tavern just before the door shuts, muffling some of the pandemonium inside.
“J, I’m gonna help him. Felinor may be a prick, an’ he may be a sorry excuse for a political rebel, but he was our friend for nearly two decades.” Jarin nods, staring up the path at Thalin’s back as the Half-Elf puts more distance between them.
“Catch him,” Jarin says to the Halfling, giving him a near-impossible task. “I’ll fetch your gear, my hammer, and tell our girls goodbye.” Olnar starts off as fast as his legs can take him. Jarin picks up his pace and jogs south, toward The Herds. He plans on stopping by Olnar’s house to alert his wife after meeting Lillian and Alur at his own house. Tonight will be no cause for celebration. Tonight will not be spent in a lover’s embrace, or near a roaring fire with his sweet princess in his lap. No. As Jarin’s heart pounds and his breath quickens, he can only assume tonight will end in a heated debate against the unflinching will of the Minotaurs, and a fierce battle for the life of his friend.
As his sandaled feet pound on the pavement and turn onto his road, Jarin sees the open window of their common room and hears a familiar squeal. A cry of joy from his daughter. A responding laugh from his adoring wife. And he thinks briefly of abandoning his friends, but every man has his fight, and if you don’t fight for your friend’s family, who will fight for yours? His hand pushes the door open as the tears well up in his eyes.
“Daddy! You’re hoooome!”
.
NIGHTFALL
.