Post by Deleted on May 3, 2018 12:48:12 GMT
It’s the night the remnants of Daring Height’s defenders and citizens have made it through to the questionable safety of Faerun.
The initial feeling of elation at escape and thwarting the Xvarts gradually gives way to an atmosphere of unease and confusion as facts and stories are shared. As a true understanding grows of the enormity of the day’s events, a dark pall begins to settle over the survivors, finally coalescing into stark realisation and mute despair. Walking away from the small group of Rholor, Aurelia, and Leocanto with whom he was just arguing and discussing, Lachlan sits down by the open tent door. He’ll rejoin them in a moment, but he’s not quite ready yet.
He watches the others for a while.
He can see Taffeta huddled close with her family – her husband, Nerry, her two daughters, Aila and the curious, almost unsettling, Idari. The Half-Elf half smiles; he now knows and respects the warrior-poet that lurks within the Halfling ranger.
His gaze wanders over the crowd, seeing Daisy and Dorian deep in conversation. He can’t spot the others, Seraphina and Aramil – maybe they’re taking quiet solace in each other’s company. Coll and Cecil move amongst the frightened townsfolk handing out food and drink; Lachlan feels a momentary pang of guilt for surreptitiously torching his tab behind the Ettin’s bar in the confusion of the earlier battle. He can’t see the gnome artificer but can hear the unmistakable sounds of mechanical tinkering outside the tent.
The bard has begun quietly strumming his flute – idly, almost distractedly, at first. Lachlan leans his head back against the rough canvas, closes his eyes, and begins to play in earnest, memories and horrors from the day seeping into his music. He remembers the celebratory feast just 24 hours ago, bittersweet now; first contact, and the breaching of the gates; the manic retreat and the running battle through the streets of Daring; the final battle; the cataclysmic explosion that heralded their 'victory'; and then silence and pain and a feeling of pure loss.
Lachlan finishes, unaware he has been playing for (an obnoxiously self-indulgent) half an hour or more. Mutely, he stands up, maybe he isn't ready to join the others. He walks off into the night......
The initial feeling of elation at escape and thwarting the Xvarts gradually gives way to an atmosphere of unease and confusion as facts and stories are shared. As a true understanding grows of the enormity of the day’s events, a dark pall begins to settle over the survivors, finally coalescing into stark realisation and mute despair. Walking away from the small group of Rholor, Aurelia, and Leocanto with whom he was just arguing and discussing, Lachlan sits down by the open tent door. He’ll rejoin them in a moment, but he’s not quite ready yet.
He watches the others for a while.
He can see Taffeta huddled close with her family – her husband, Nerry, her two daughters, Aila and the curious, almost unsettling, Idari. The Half-Elf half smiles; he now knows and respects the warrior-poet that lurks within the Halfling ranger.
His gaze wanders over the crowd, seeing Daisy and Dorian deep in conversation. He can’t spot the others, Seraphina and Aramil – maybe they’re taking quiet solace in each other’s company. Coll and Cecil move amongst the frightened townsfolk handing out food and drink; Lachlan feels a momentary pang of guilt for surreptitiously torching his tab behind the Ettin’s bar in the confusion of the earlier battle. He can’t see the gnome artificer but can hear the unmistakable sounds of mechanical tinkering outside the tent.
The bard has begun quietly strumming his flute – idly, almost distractedly, at first. Lachlan leans his head back against the rough canvas, closes his eyes, and begins to play in earnest, memories and horrors from the day seeping into his music. He remembers the celebratory feast just 24 hours ago, bittersweet now; first contact, and the breaching of the gates; the manic retreat and the running battle through the streets of Daring; the final battle; the cataclysmic explosion that heralded their 'victory'; and then silence and pain and a feeling of pure loss.
Lachlan finishes, unaware he has been playing for (an obnoxiously self-indulgent) half an hour or more. Mutely, he stands up, maybe he isn't ready to join the others. He walks off into the night......
