Err...

[Guest Carlyan the Wise]

Intro:

 

This is going to be a fairly long piece, it's in progress at the moment as it is, but I figured I wanted to post up what I have and get some feedback (preferably in the critics corner, if you guys don't mind), but I want everyone to tell me at least one thing you DIDN'T like about it, and one thing that you DID like about it, if you are going to provide imput, which I definately need.

 

Also, I can't quite come up with a title for this, but it's basically history behind Carlyan's existance/what he did before now, involving his mother and father and his lineage. So, without further ado, here we go.

 

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Shroleyannè ran, as fast as she could. She was a young elf, as far as elves were concerned, and she was still naïve about the ways of the world. Her feet pounded silently against the earth, as only an elf can run, and she streaked through the forest towards her village. There had been a man—a wounded man, and he had sent her for help. As she came to the river, she stepped onto the wooden raft, only about three square feet, and whispered to the waterway in her native tongue.

 

“Offer snappa roat, Ley Vigan!” [Loose Translation: Provide a swift passage, Pure River!], she said urgently, and the river swelled and the currents shifted briefly. She was pushed across the wide span of the watercourse, The River Pure, or, in elven, Ley Vigan. The word Leyannè meant river, but all the elves shortened it to Ley, except when formally referring to a river. Her own name meant ‘Swift-River’, and somehow she had always had a special affinity for the water—it responded to her commands at the merest words, where others—elders, even, in her village would have spent hours attempting to divert the course of the river for a second.

 

The raft touched the opposite shore, and she whispered for the river currents to return to their original route—she wouldn’t need a raft to cross when she had the mounts and others to help her.

 

“Shromèlè, enedra! Mal rondè on trè trèlè or kellodè! Sè pero!” [Literal Translation: Quickly, relatives! A man in the forest is wounded!]

 

With that, several of the young men of the village mounted horses, and someone brought her a steed, and she mounted it. As she waited impatiently, she remembered what the man had said…

 

“Oh damn… the Goddess has come for me… I must be dead.”

 

He had thought she was a goddess… and that was strange. She certainly wasn’t ugly, but on the same thought pattern, she definitely wasn’t beautiful—there were dozens of other women in the village that were prettier than her.

 

And, that had made her hurry just a bit more back to get help than she might have if he hadn’t flattered her.

 

Suddenly, there was a group of seven elves ready around her, and she charged out to the river, and forded it as if death was on her heels, not the man’s. Those around her struggled to keep up, but they didn’t lose sight of her. She galloped through the forest, dodging branches and weaving in and out of the paths used for hunting and other activities in the forest, until she came to the place where he lay.

 

He had been butchered—or, almost. There was so much poison in the man’s body, and so many wounds, that it was a wonder that he had lived this long—an act of one of the gods, probably—but for punishment by having to deal with the pain, or as a gift by receiving life, she didn’t know. The others arrived on the scene, and she spoke to them in elven. “He lives! Barely, but he lives—we must get him to Lothillian, quickly!”

 

Four of the elves dismounted, and uttered some healing magics, and a few of the multitude of his wounds closed up and disappeared… he was able to ride with one of the elves, at least, but he was growing weaker every second—she could sense it. As they rode back to camp, one of the other elves attempted to heal him while in the saddle—or at least keep him alive until they got to the Elder of the Healing Order in their village—Lothillian.

 

Edited by: Carlyan the Wise at: 1/4/03 7:06:42 pm

Edited April 29, 2004 by Alaeha