Midnight RPG - Chapter 28.41

The following takes place after Zal'Kazir and Eranon meet in town but before they are called away by the activity on the Spear of Grief. I can't remember exactly where the conversation left off, so forgive me if I pick up in a strange or unnatural place. I was planning to pick up right after Zal mentioned Eranon looked troubled.

Eranon

Eranon looks up at Zal'Kazir, a mixture of pain, rage, and fatigue evident. The previous fire in his eyes has diminished somewhat.

Eranon: "Yes, my friend, I am tormented by this place, seeing this has stabbed to the very heart of me. Seeing these criminals laugh and sing in their city bought and payed for by the blood of those they rob. They could do so much against the shadow, yet they wall themselves in while Aryth dies."

Narration

As Eranon speaks these words new to the elf's lips, words of intolerant guarded untrust, the small black speckled terrier yaps at his feat. Growling on occasion to show it's mettle in this new age of hate. It is here in this place where men feign happiness that stirs the seepage from his soul.

Along the docks of Bildgewater, as Eranon walks with Zal'Kazzir, they watch... Captain Aesir Norfall courts away in a foppish manner, turning his head at the young boys on the pier - with their summer sweat stained silks clinging to their wide shoulder and chest. In the distance (some 100 yards) from the docks the sounds of carousing can be heard, regardless of the mid-day hour. The whores are unashamed as wives are cast aside for the plunder of their northmen husbands. The drink is unlike elven spirits or Sarcosan wines, here... in this place the liquor coats the gullet like acid, burning it's way to it's victim's gut. Sadly they gourge themselves risking alcohol poisoning by sopping up the grained alcohols with near rotted breads and meat red off the bone.
These men resemble their bretheren to the North - yet these Dorn have grown content being the bullies in their small world, taking what they want - but cowering against the cold embrace of darkness.
You notice that not only their lighthouse (the Bloody Light) burns day and night - so too do the torches along the L boardwalks... What are these people in fear of? It has been 99... no... 100 years since the Shadow fell, for which they've learned to ignore the calls of their forefathers, the calls of man, elf, dwarf, kith & kin of halfling and gnome...

It is the year of Eredane's 1st millennium, year 100. And the summer spoils on having just begun only six short days ago - yet in this place, in this time the summer seems to have captured all hate and brought it to the feat of this would-be elven hero.
Things not known on the wind conspire in this time, things of deceit and treachery and the arrow sting of love long turned foul... There will be a reckoning across Eredane this season - the disease of hate spreads where it once was not welcome. With each bitter word the elf speaks, the clatter of hooves driven by another bitter elf ride out to seek mass extermination, carnage, decimation, cleansing, massacre, mass murder, race extermination, annihilation - seeking genocide of the fey.
Were the will to save the world ever at these pathwalker's grasp it has long since fumbled into the darkness... And the Great Lady feels fear for the first time since being scarred...

Zal'Kazzir

Zal'kazzir looks back at Eranon, his features softening, black eyes widening into deep wells of compassion. The half-smile fades from his lips, and then quickly re-forms as he begins to speak.

Zal'Kazzir: "I'm sorry to see this place affect you so, my friend. It must be shocking to you, to see such decadence, even as your people struggle and suffer."

"I must admit, it is even somewhat shocking to me; not the wine, women and song, of course, this place is tame, if exceedingly dirty and crude, when compared to many places in the southlands, but in light of what the Dornishmen once were."

"My people and theirs are ancient rivals, and while we Sarcosans have no great love for the northmen, we have always respected their strength and honor. Once, the Dornish nobles preferred death to disonor, and abided by a warrior code both terrifying and impressive to we of the south. Of course, our wits trumped their strength tie and again, but a noble enemy is still worthy of respect, and when the Dornish lords finally surrendered in Fallport, and kingdom of Erenland was eventually formed, many of our peoples merged and became a greater whole."

"These... *brigands* however, are a far cry from the noble Dornish princes whom we once battled across the Pelluria. The spark is still there, but it is almost as though they have forgotten who they are..."

Turning away from Eranon, and looking toward a nearby tavern, Zal'Kazzir continues, the scholarly tone he had adopted, fading to a softer, more philosophical one."

"Do you know why these men revel, Eranon?"

Zal'Kazzir waits, still facing the dimly lit tavern, waiting to hear his friend's reply."

Eranon

Eranon: "I have only a guess, my friend. It seems to me that they have given up, they wait for the end hidden on this island, and while death approaches them all. . . they dance."

Eranon balls up his fist, looking around, then letting his eyes rest on Zal'Kazzir, waiting to be convinced.