Last updates: Friday, 23 January, 2004 10:56

When you write your story it becomes writ and the legend will live on. — Vonna Firehair. Questor of Astendar

Pelgar’s Council
“Yes, yes, come sit with me a while for there is much to tell of the Heroes of Daralon. I’ve had my fill of council issues today so this will be a welcome distraction. Yes of course, please do help yourself to the wine, it’s sweet yet refreshing. Now where to start? Oh I would sip it if I were you it’s somewhat stronger than it initially seems. Right where was I? So do you know much of the world above? Ney? Barsiave! A land once rife with greenery, lush and verdant, of fine cities and sprawling communities living off the wealthy bounty Barsiave would offer. Rolling hills, soaring peaks, open plains, meandering rivers, all at peace with Barsiave and it’s Name-givers, it’s peoples. That is until the circle of magic turned once more and the rift was opened spilling untold monstrosities into our beloved lands. Yes that’s right, the Scourge, as it has become known to most of the name-giving races, beset upon our world by the powerful loosing of magic. I still say that had the reckless use of magic been curbed greatly by those in power that this great atrocity would never have happened, but freely all manner of name-givers flung magical powers about as if they were a wooden training sword in the hands of an over enthusiastic child.
Do pardon my digression and lets get some air in here.
Arrhhh there much better, it almost feels fresh compared to this stuffy room after slaving through council writs all day."

............To Be Continued

Skars Stones

Alone on the hillside, Berek knelt in the dirt. Before him lay his great war-hammer and ‘Skar’s Stones’ – The small rocks the lizard had inscribed with fake runes of power.
The Obsidiman finished stringing the stones onto a piece of twine and donned his new necklace. He dug both huge hands into the mother earth and lifted them high above his head letting the soil slowly cascade down upon his shoulders. “Never again will I fail to defend a companion,” he whispered to the wind. Almost in reply the wind picked up. A storm was approaching from the south.
Footsteps approached from behind. “Time to go,” said Tal placing a hand on Berek’s shoulder.
Reluctantly Berek got to his feet, hefting the great war-hammer onto his shoulder and climbed the hill to the Midland trading post where the horses waiting