Nightal 19, 1386 Year of the Halflings Lament – Valkurs Roar
Mar 25, 2023 8:59:51 GMT -5
DM Grizwald, ShadowCatJen, and 13 more like this
Post by DM Hawk on Mar 25, 2023 8:59:51 GMT -5
A drop of ink fell from the gnome’s quill as the words of the Wolf’s Wood Mist tribesman were spoken. Frimgarold Scheppenfiedlen did not realize that his jaw had gone slack beneath a meticulously groomed mustache. If he had noticed he would have closed it, of course. A gaping mouth is unseemly. Even at a moment like this one.
Thwael stood in the center of the audience chamber of the great hall with perhaps a hundred eyes staring at him. The elf appeared unbothered and unassuming. He simply stood, his poise relaxed and graceful, as he held the gaze of the baron. His expression was calm and patient in contrast to the rising tumult of anxiety surrounding him. His words had been spoken calmly and slowly, in elven, as if teaching a child. But the calm elven words had struck the audience chamber like a thunderbolt.
“War is not the word. They hunt you, Lord of Dead Rock, and they are coming for you now. They will slay anything between to reach you.”
The Councilors and the Reserves reacted in various ways. The High Inquisitor was on her feet, followed by Inquisitor Steel. The Guard Captain stood calmly beside Thwael. It seemed everyone else was making noise at once. Elven assassins, a gnomish baker’s dozen of them, were coming for Baron Crownsilver. Lord Baron Azorus responded to the elven tribesman, but Frimgarold could not hear him over the noise. Another drop of ink fell.
When the baron turned toward him, Frimgarold realized his mouth was gaping. He closed his mouth and leaned in to listen, but the Baron’s words were not for him.
“Are you ready for this, son?”
There was a moment's pause. And then, “It is why I am here father.”
Orders began to flow from the Castellan, first to Huntsilver. Then, he addressed the High Inquisitor.
“Take command of the Regular Guard. Set watches at all the gates and send detachments to Hope's Cradle, the taverns, temples and to the homes of the Councilors and their families.”
Vera’s voice was calm and clear, “As you command. Councilors, with me please.”
Aluxar turned to the Baroness, “You too, Mother”
Frimgarold hopped up from his chair and fell in with the Baroness and other Councilors beside the High Inquisitor as she led them out of the hall.
* * *
The ground shook and dust fell from the ceiling. Frimgarold watched the dust drift down, thankful for the protection of his sturdy writing desk as he huddled beneath it.
Another dragon must have passed overhead. A big one. Frim’s curiosity had gotten the better of him an hour before. A single glimpse of a wyrm wheeling over head was enough to send the gnome trembling beneath the desk, clutching his prized possessions tightly. Too tightly.
The clockwork time piece had broken. His favorite gnomish stylus had bent. He’d lost control of his bladder when the first dragon passed overhead but Alakaboom’s Moisture Whicking Chamois Insulated Undergarments had kept him in relative comfort. The underpants had worked well for the gnome, keeping his outer trousers dry and odor free. It would not do for him to be found dead of fright in his house with soiled pants.
Frimgarold could hear shouting, right outside his door. Then there was a pounding on the door and Frimgarold struggled to contain a shriek. Dragon!
The rational thinking of the Administrator surfaced. Dragons do not knock. Do they? Could it be the elves?
“Master Frimgarold! Councilor, are you within?” The pounding again.
Cautiously, Frimgarold emerged from the desk, holding the broken timepiece and the bent stylus, he glanced at himself in a mirror. The Lantan imported mirror had a crack now. He looked dreadful. Placing the prizes down carefully he produced his mustache grooming kit from a pocket and begin to arrange the whiskers properly.
“Master Frimgarold!”
Frim muttered to himself as he stalked towards the door. They wouldn’t even allow a gnome to groom himself before barging in if he didn’t answer. The indignation allowed him to forget the dragons for the moment as he opened the door.
“Yes?”
Standing in the street was Lieutenant Haler of the Inquisitors and the two regular guards that had been watching his door street-side. Corporal Thandric looked weary and private Zacho looked spooked. Lieutenant Haler had it together though. Vennis always seemed to have it together, the gnome reflected. Haler spoke.
“The guards are being withdrawn to the Great Hall. If you wish protection you must come with us there.”
“My guards? But...I can't fight elves! Oh my!” Frimgarold’s mouth ran faster than his thinking sometimes. It frustrated him so. He began to count to ten in gnomish.
“The baron's chamber is heavily protected” Vennis added.
The Inquisitor Lieutenant and the Guards turned and began jogging down the street, leaving him behind. Frimgarold Scheppenfiedlen closed the door to his small home and set the clever locking mechanism. He took solace in the sound of the smooth gears of the device and gave his home a brief, loving look. Knowing he might not see it again he turned and scurried down the street, as fast as gnomish legs would carry him.
The path to the Great Hall was littered with debris. Among the debris were the dead. The Acting Herald tried not to look at the body of the woman who had been crushed by stone broken free from an overhead rooftop. And then the street ahead was blocked.
It was a startled moment before Frimgarold realized the way before him was blocked by dragon. A green dragon. His bladder began to betray him once again.
A figure walked carefully around the dragon and into view. He was right-sized, not too tall like the humans. Armored, head to toe in gray steel, an axe in one hand and a shield strapped to the other arm. Frimgarold knew his heraldry and glimpsed at the shield, taking in the sigil of a hunting horn. Then he spied the holy symbol of Gorm Gulthyn, the Fire Eyes. It was the Minister of Mines. The Ambassador. Only it wasn’t. At this moment, Arak Smithson was a warrior and he was looking over the dragon as it lay in the street.
They’ve killed the dragon! Frimgarold noted the wounds torn into the dragon’s body. He also noted the livery of a Valkur’s Roar guardsman caught beneath the dragon, clearly crushed beneath it when the wyrm fell. The Minister gave Frimgarold a nod and raised his bloody axe in greeting before turning his attention back to the wrym, perhaps attempting to confirm the dragon was truly slain.
Frim moved around the dragon as it lay in the street, being sure to keep the Ambassador between the dragon’s jaws and talons and himself. Rounding the dragon, Frimgarold took in the sight of the plaza and the Great Hall.
Then he heard it. That magical, unnatural, mournful hum that could bring him to tears or give him nightmares. Frimgarold shivered as the sound washed over him. Starmetal. Feyrza.
The Castellan stood squarely before the entrance of the Great Hall. He was wounded and the shield had been torn free of his arm, but he was composed and his presence provided a sense of surety amidst a roiling sea of uncertainty. The starmetal sword was held in his right gauntlet, its blade aglow and singing that sorrowful song. The humans didn’t seem to mind it as much as they gathered around him. As he neared, Frimgarold could hear their voices over the keening of the sword.
Frimgarold had to sidestep another fallen guardsman as he approached. The Lieutenant had arrived ahead of him and stood with those surrounding Aluxar Crownsilver. The Kara-Tur Inquisitor held her heavy blade on her shoulder and wore a purposeful expression. Inquisitor Steel was there as well, but her face was grief-stricken, her eyes haunted. The Mage Guard Cooper stood beside them, turned to watch the dragons gliding over the city. There was Captain Runa and the woman had it together like Vennis. Guardswoman Whitelaw was there in black and white. The dwarven guardsman from Earthfast, Naldin, stood beside her in sweat-stained leather and Frimgarold noticed far fewer feathered arrows peeking over the dwarf's shoulder than before. The half-orc and bearded Inquisitors, Kur and Kalien, had just arrived. A blonde woman in Purple Dragon uniform sat astride a war horse, it’s hooves clip-clopping on the cobbles as it stepped back and forth in anticipation. The Castellan was speaking.
“Hunters…the elves are trying to lure us away…they struck Hope’s Cradle. We cannot leave the Hall undefended but we cannot let them terrorize our people unchecked. Find them and kill them.”
With a mixture of banter, bravado, and quiet resolve the hunters set about the task. Aluxar directed others to reinforce the Baron’s guards. Master Arak returned from the dead dragon and joined the Castellan on the steps of the Great Hall. Inquisitors Kalien Black and Kur moved beside Crownsilver as well and joined Inquisitor Steel to keep watch over the plaza. Guardsman Naldin had readied one of his remaining arrows and peered out from beneath his helm. The Castellan turned to the Purple Dragon astride the war horse.
“This is our mark, Firstsword Xandy…we cannot abandon this hall and we cannot let the dragons terrorize our people. So I want you to bring the dragons to us. You and Compass. We’ll face them here.”
Those standing with Aluxar nodded grimly.
The Purple Dragon wheeled her horse, “Well then... something to lift the spirits...oh…! Huzzah!” The rider thundered away on her steed, seeking a dragon to tempt into Aluxar’s trap…or to come and devour them, horse and all.
Frimgarold felt like sneezing but saw the opportunity and found his voice before Pebble galloped back with a dragon on her horse’s hooves.
“Yes Castellan? We are to report to the Baron's office for protection?”
Aluxar looked at Frimgarold and the gnome saw something in his eyes that betrayed the confidence of the bold words he had spoken only moments before. The Castellan paused to recover a battered shield from the ground and in that moment seemed to regain his resolve.
“No, Frimbiscuit…”
Frimgarold felt his mustache tingling, wanting to twitch in protest but he maintained control of the whiskers. The old nickname used this terrible night seemed to bring a sense of comfort to Aluxar and those around him. In his own fright Frim possessed a way to grant courage to someone else. The gnome could afford it this once. Aluxar continued.
“…the elves murdered the guards posted at the orphanage and one of the children as well.”
“Oh my! No!” The words were out of Frim’s mouth before he could think. Then the sinking feeling came. Despair arrived to visit Frimgarold’s fear.
“Listen to me, Frimgarold.” The Castellan was confident.
Frimgarold looked up at Aluxar and swallowed a lump in his throat. Grown gnomes do not cry in front of humans.
“Take these guards with you to Hope's Cradle and bolt yourself inside. Do not tempt the elves with visible targets...close every door, shutter every window. Huddle the children in the basement. You lot remain with them until you hear from us. Keep calm and the children will be calm.”
Inquisitor Kur looked away, something had gotten in his eye.
“Calm…Castellan…” Frimgarold heard his voice say.
“Calm breeds calm, Frimgarold...go now...just think about grooming that fine mustache with Prince Valiant's royal hair.”
Frimgarold took a deep breath, looked at Zacho and Thandric.
“Right…the mustache..come on guards, the children need us…calm…calm…”
Inquisitors Steel and Kur escorted them to the orphanage. Walking through the gate in the curtain wall, Frimgarold saw more bloodshed. Two guards had been lost and a Huntsilver forester. Beside them lay one of the elves. She was clad like Thwael and bled from several wounds. Frim wondered if the elven woman had been Neen, but there was no time to look closer.
Then they arrived at Hope’s Cradle and Frim felt the chill run down his spine. Two guards lay dead in the street at the gate of Hope’s Cradle’s playground. One of their cloaks had caught on the fence as he fell and remained draped over a wrought-iron post. Behind the guards, lying face down in the yard, was an orphan boy. A red-feathered arrow rose up from his back. Frimgarold was not a gnome-of-action but it was apparent to him that the child had been running for the safety of the orphanage when he was struck.
Frimgarold wanted to fall to his knees and give in to despair. Then he remembered the sound of his own voice, only a few moments before.
…come on guards, the children need us…
Frimgarold mustered his courage, strode to the door, opened it and stepped inside. He was greeted by a crowd of frightened faces. The children. Calamity and Nacyra were there as well and looked just as frightened. For a moment they all looked at each other, pale and wide-eyed. Panic began to rise.
Then a small, one-armed girl spoke.
“Hey it's Mister Frimgarold! Tell us a story!"
In the midst of it all, this little girl loaned Frimgarold her courage. Calm breeds calm.
Frimgarold called upon his skill as an orator to muster his best speaking voice, strong and sure.
“Tonight children, we are going to talk about a big horse named Prince Valiant…”
* * *
“And so Garl Glittergold, Baervan Wild Wanderer, and Chitika Fastpaws returned to the Golden Hills after their grand adventure, leaving the Crawler Below searching for a make-believe –”
“Frimgarold?" A hushed voice asked, "Have you been reading all night?”
The children had surrounded him and fallen asleep to the sound of his voice hours ago. Nacyra and Calamity were snoring, each with a child in their lap. Frimgarold had kept reading as they slept to drown out the distant sounds of horror throughout the city. Frim placed the book in his lap and turned towards the quiet voice.
The Castellan was there and the door was open. The light of dawn spilled into the room behind him.
Frimgold took a closer look at Aluxar. The man was bruised and bloodied. The armor he wore was battered and the livery of Valkur’s Roar hung about him in tatters. The look in his eyes was weary and haggard.
“Castellan…is it over? How fares the city?”
Aluxar sank to his knees and settled onto the orphanage floor beside the sleeping children.
“Please Frim, keep reading. Just a little longer.”
Frimgarold watched as the Castellan pulled one of the sleeping children into his lap, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes.
Garl, Baervan, Chiktika and Prince Valiant began another adventure.
Thwael stood in the center of the audience chamber of the great hall with perhaps a hundred eyes staring at him. The elf appeared unbothered and unassuming. He simply stood, his poise relaxed and graceful, as he held the gaze of the baron. His expression was calm and patient in contrast to the rising tumult of anxiety surrounding him. His words had been spoken calmly and slowly, in elven, as if teaching a child. But the calm elven words had struck the audience chamber like a thunderbolt.
“War is not the word. They hunt you, Lord of Dead Rock, and they are coming for you now. They will slay anything between to reach you.”
The Councilors and the Reserves reacted in various ways. The High Inquisitor was on her feet, followed by Inquisitor Steel. The Guard Captain stood calmly beside Thwael. It seemed everyone else was making noise at once. Elven assassins, a gnomish baker’s dozen of them, were coming for Baron Crownsilver. Lord Baron Azorus responded to the elven tribesman, but Frimgarold could not hear him over the noise. Another drop of ink fell.
When the baron turned toward him, Frimgarold realized his mouth was gaping. He closed his mouth and leaned in to listen, but the Baron’s words were not for him.
“Are you ready for this, son?”
There was a moment's pause. And then, “It is why I am here father.”
Orders began to flow from the Castellan, first to Huntsilver. Then, he addressed the High Inquisitor.
“Take command of the Regular Guard. Set watches at all the gates and send detachments to Hope's Cradle, the taverns, temples and to the homes of the Councilors and their families.”
Vera’s voice was calm and clear, “As you command. Councilors, with me please.”
Aluxar turned to the Baroness, “You too, Mother”
Frimgarold hopped up from his chair and fell in with the Baroness and other Councilors beside the High Inquisitor as she led them out of the hall.
* * *
The ground shook and dust fell from the ceiling. Frimgarold watched the dust drift down, thankful for the protection of his sturdy writing desk as he huddled beneath it.
Another dragon must have passed overhead. A big one. Frim’s curiosity had gotten the better of him an hour before. A single glimpse of a wyrm wheeling over head was enough to send the gnome trembling beneath the desk, clutching his prized possessions tightly. Too tightly.
The clockwork time piece had broken. His favorite gnomish stylus had bent. He’d lost control of his bladder when the first dragon passed overhead but Alakaboom’s Moisture Whicking Chamois Insulated Undergarments had kept him in relative comfort. The underpants had worked well for the gnome, keeping his outer trousers dry and odor free. It would not do for him to be found dead of fright in his house with soiled pants.
Frimgarold could hear shouting, right outside his door. Then there was a pounding on the door and Frimgarold struggled to contain a shriek. Dragon!
The rational thinking of the Administrator surfaced. Dragons do not knock. Do they? Could it be the elves?
“Master Frimgarold! Councilor, are you within?” The pounding again.
Cautiously, Frimgarold emerged from the desk, holding the broken timepiece and the bent stylus, he glanced at himself in a mirror. The Lantan imported mirror had a crack now. He looked dreadful. Placing the prizes down carefully he produced his mustache grooming kit from a pocket and begin to arrange the whiskers properly.
“Master Frimgarold!”
Frim muttered to himself as he stalked towards the door. They wouldn’t even allow a gnome to groom himself before barging in if he didn’t answer. The indignation allowed him to forget the dragons for the moment as he opened the door.
“Yes?”
Standing in the street was Lieutenant Haler of the Inquisitors and the two regular guards that had been watching his door street-side. Corporal Thandric looked weary and private Zacho looked spooked. Lieutenant Haler had it together though. Vennis always seemed to have it together, the gnome reflected. Haler spoke.
“The guards are being withdrawn to the Great Hall. If you wish protection you must come with us there.”
“My guards? But...I can't fight elves! Oh my!” Frimgarold’s mouth ran faster than his thinking sometimes. It frustrated him so. He began to count to ten in gnomish.
“The baron's chamber is heavily protected” Vennis added.
The Inquisitor Lieutenant and the Guards turned and began jogging down the street, leaving him behind. Frimgarold Scheppenfiedlen closed the door to his small home and set the clever locking mechanism. He took solace in the sound of the smooth gears of the device and gave his home a brief, loving look. Knowing he might not see it again he turned and scurried down the street, as fast as gnomish legs would carry him.
The path to the Great Hall was littered with debris. Among the debris were the dead. The Acting Herald tried not to look at the body of the woman who had been crushed by stone broken free from an overhead rooftop. And then the street ahead was blocked.
It was a startled moment before Frimgarold realized the way before him was blocked by dragon. A green dragon. His bladder began to betray him once again.
A figure walked carefully around the dragon and into view. He was right-sized, not too tall like the humans. Armored, head to toe in gray steel, an axe in one hand and a shield strapped to the other arm. Frimgarold knew his heraldry and glimpsed at the shield, taking in the sigil of a hunting horn. Then he spied the holy symbol of Gorm Gulthyn, the Fire Eyes. It was the Minister of Mines. The Ambassador. Only it wasn’t. At this moment, Arak Smithson was a warrior and he was looking over the dragon as it lay in the street.
They’ve killed the dragon! Frimgarold noted the wounds torn into the dragon’s body. He also noted the livery of a Valkur’s Roar guardsman caught beneath the dragon, clearly crushed beneath it when the wyrm fell. The Minister gave Frimgarold a nod and raised his bloody axe in greeting before turning his attention back to the wrym, perhaps attempting to confirm the dragon was truly slain.
Frim moved around the dragon as it lay in the street, being sure to keep the Ambassador between the dragon’s jaws and talons and himself. Rounding the dragon, Frimgarold took in the sight of the plaza and the Great Hall.
Then he heard it. That magical, unnatural, mournful hum that could bring him to tears or give him nightmares. Frimgarold shivered as the sound washed over him. Starmetal. Feyrza.
The Castellan stood squarely before the entrance of the Great Hall. He was wounded and the shield had been torn free of his arm, but he was composed and his presence provided a sense of surety amidst a roiling sea of uncertainty. The starmetal sword was held in his right gauntlet, its blade aglow and singing that sorrowful song. The humans didn’t seem to mind it as much as they gathered around him. As he neared, Frimgarold could hear their voices over the keening of the sword.
Frimgarold had to sidestep another fallen guardsman as he approached. The Lieutenant had arrived ahead of him and stood with those surrounding Aluxar Crownsilver. The Kara-Tur Inquisitor held her heavy blade on her shoulder and wore a purposeful expression. Inquisitor Steel was there as well, but her face was grief-stricken, her eyes haunted. The Mage Guard Cooper stood beside them, turned to watch the dragons gliding over the city. There was Captain Runa and the woman had it together like Vennis. Guardswoman Whitelaw was there in black and white. The dwarven guardsman from Earthfast, Naldin, stood beside her in sweat-stained leather and Frimgarold noticed far fewer feathered arrows peeking over the dwarf's shoulder than before. The half-orc and bearded Inquisitors, Kur and Kalien, had just arrived. A blonde woman in Purple Dragon uniform sat astride a war horse, it’s hooves clip-clopping on the cobbles as it stepped back and forth in anticipation. The Castellan was speaking.
“Hunters…the elves are trying to lure us away…they struck Hope’s Cradle. We cannot leave the Hall undefended but we cannot let them terrorize our people unchecked. Find them and kill them.”
With a mixture of banter, bravado, and quiet resolve the hunters set about the task. Aluxar directed others to reinforce the Baron’s guards. Master Arak returned from the dead dragon and joined the Castellan on the steps of the Great Hall. Inquisitors Kalien Black and Kur moved beside Crownsilver as well and joined Inquisitor Steel to keep watch over the plaza. Guardsman Naldin had readied one of his remaining arrows and peered out from beneath his helm. The Castellan turned to the Purple Dragon astride the war horse.
“This is our mark, Firstsword Xandy…we cannot abandon this hall and we cannot let the dragons terrorize our people. So I want you to bring the dragons to us. You and Compass. We’ll face them here.”
Those standing with Aluxar nodded grimly.
The Purple Dragon wheeled her horse, “Well then... something to lift the spirits...oh…! Huzzah!” The rider thundered away on her steed, seeking a dragon to tempt into Aluxar’s trap…or to come and devour them, horse and all.
Frimgarold felt like sneezing but saw the opportunity and found his voice before Pebble galloped back with a dragon on her horse’s hooves.
“Yes Castellan? We are to report to the Baron's office for protection?”
Aluxar looked at Frimgarold and the gnome saw something in his eyes that betrayed the confidence of the bold words he had spoken only moments before. The Castellan paused to recover a battered shield from the ground and in that moment seemed to regain his resolve.
“No, Frimbiscuit…”
Frimgarold felt his mustache tingling, wanting to twitch in protest but he maintained control of the whiskers. The old nickname used this terrible night seemed to bring a sense of comfort to Aluxar and those around him. In his own fright Frim possessed a way to grant courage to someone else. The gnome could afford it this once. Aluxar continued.
“…the elves murdered the guards posted at the orphanage and one of the children as well.”
“Oh my! No!” The words were out of Frim’s mouth before he could think. Then the sinking feeling came. Despair arrived to visit Frimgarold’s fear.
“Listen to me, Frimgarold.” The Castellan was confident.
Frimgarold looked up at Aluxar and swallowed a lump in his throat. Grown gnomes do not cry in front of humans.
“Take these guards with you to Hope's Cradle and bolt yourself inside. Do not tempt the elves with visible targets...close every door, shutter every window. Huddle the children in the basement. You lot remain with them until you hear from us. Keep calm and the children will be calm.”
Inquisitor Kur looked away, something had gotten in his eye.
“Calm…Castellan…” Frimgarold heard his voice say.
“Calm breeds calm, Frimgarold...go now...just think about grooming that fine mustache with Prince Valiant's royal hair.”
Frimgarold took a deep breath, looked at Zacho and Thandric.
“Right…the mustache..come on guards, the children need us…calm…calm…”
Inquisitors Steel and Kur escorted them to the orphanage. Walking through the gate in the curtain wall, Frimgarold saw more bloodshed. Two guards had been lost and a Huntsilver forester. Beside them lay one of the elves. She was clad like Thwael and bled from several wounds. Frim wondered if the elven woman had been Neen, but there was no time to look closer.
Then they arrived at Hope’s Cradle and Frim felt the chill run down his spine. Two guards lay dead in the street at the gate of Hope’s Cradle’s playground. One of their cloaks had caught on the fence as he fell and remained draped over a wrought-iron post. Behind the guards, lying face down in the yard, was an orphan boy. A red-feathered arrow rose up from his back. Frimgarold was not a gnome-of-action but it was apparent to him that the child had been running for the safety of the orphanage when he was struck.
Frimgarold wanted to fall to his knees and give in to despair. Then he remembered the sound of his own voice, only a few moments before.
…come on guards, the children need us…
Frimgarold mustered his courage, strode to the door, opened it and stepped inside. He was greeted by a crowd of frightened faces. The children. Calamity and Nacyra were there as well and looked just as frightened. For a moment they all looked at each other, pale and wide-eyed. Panic began to rise.
Then a small, one-armed girl spoke.
“Hey it's Mister Frimgarold! Tell us a story!"
In the midst of it all, this little girl loaned Frimgarold her courage. Calm breeds calm.
Frimgarold called upon his skill as an orator to muster his best speaking voice, strong and sure.
“Tonight children, we are going to talk about a big horse named Prince Valiant…”
* * *
“And so Garl Glittergold, Baervan Wild Wanderer, and Chitika Fastpaws returned to the Golden Hills after their grand adventure, leaving the Crawler Below searching for a make-believe –”
“Frimgarold?" A hushed voice asked, "Have you been reading all night?”
The children had surrounded him and fallen asleep to the sound of his voice hours ago. Nacyra and Calamity were snoring, each with a child in their lap. Frimgarold had kept reading as they slept to drown out the distant sounds of horror throughout the city. Frim placed the book in his lap and turned towards the quiet voice.
The Castellan was there and the door was open. The light of dawn spilled into the room behind him.
Frimgold took a closer look at Aluxar. The man was bruised and bloodied. The armor he wore was battered and the livery of Valkur’s Roar hung about him in tatters. The look in his eyes was weary and haggard.
“Castellan…is it over? How fares the city?”
Aluxar sank to his knees and settled onto the orphanage floor beside the sleeping children.
“Please Frim, keep reading. Just a little longer.”
Frimgarold watched as the Castellan pulled one of the sleeping children into his lap, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes.
Garl, Baervan, Chiktika and Prince Valiant began another adventure.