05-21-2017, 08:43 PM
We're just shy of the top - and I'm about three seconds from throwing Chatterly off the side - when he starts to tell me about the elves.
"They're a rare breed. Wood elves by way of some byzantine high-born bloodline - magically adept and highly cultured, but averse to building permanent settlements or cities. Rather than fleeing into the Green, settling, or attempting to integrate, they've been traveling around Camelot since the end of the War forming temporary camps - sometimes for as long as a year."
"What makes them 'wood' elves?" I demand, my curiosity overtaking my desire to see the spy splatter. We crest the lip of the rock-face and step out onto a broad, grassy plateau dotted with expansive, solitary trees. It reeks of sun-baked stone and dry grasses. In the distance, to the North, beyond the river which feeds the waterfall as well as to the west, the trees grow thicker, overtaking the grassland entirely. "Why don't they build cities? And what war?"
Chatterly takes six quick steps away from the edge and then turns to face me.
"It's simple, dear fellow: They are wood elves because they are found nigh-exclusively in the woods. They don't build cities or permanent homes because they value the natural order even moreso than others of their kind - although personally I question whether any such thing as a natural order exists in our world. As for the war... that would be the war against Diablo. Ask around, and I'm sure plenty of people will be perfectly willing to tell you about it. Or even better, I'll get you a book on the subject. I imagine you'd find that... palatable."
I hiss, clenching my fists. In the name of edification I've endured a great deal of indignity since coming to Harnburg. I've allowed others to believe I would serve their causes, that I would grant priority to the whims of anyone save for myself - practically blasphemy, but a necessity of this great work I've undertaken. Still, there is a limit to my indulgence, and Chatterly with his casual refusal to fear me is near to reaching it. "Are you mocking me, Chatterly? Do you think that's wise?"
He shifts his weight, rippling his cloak. A wind blows from the west, rippling the grasses in amber waves, and carrying with it the smells of unburnt forest. The dirty white hems of my ridiculous trousers (still a necessary evil, sadly) flap and flutter loosely around my shins.
"I was merely making an informed observation. I'm well aware that you could probably kill me if you decided to, though I expect you'd find it more difficult than you imagine - But I invite you to ponder the potential consequences. I already explained to you that the Duke isn't a fool."
He looks at me from beneath the ridge of his brow, within the shadows of his hood. "And despite what you may think, neither am I."
Abruptly I feel cold, as though frost has infiltrated every nook and cranny of my golden carapace, clinging to my scales. It's the same feeling I got from the barkeep in Holmwood, the same thrill as when the standing-stone came so near to injuring me.
Fear. For just a moment, something in his stance, something about his confidence - this gray-haired pygmy frightens me! But it's different somehow, having little to do with the threat of physical harm. How much does this man know? How much does he control? What power does he hold?
I wrestle with the urge to destroy him here and now, to call his bluff, to establish my dominance, shining in the sun - but I don't, and I think I'm more surprised at my own restraint than at the agent's sudden air of menace. The wind shifts.
"Who are you really, Chatterly? Are you a Prime?"
He smiles without humor, and the tension is broken. The sun disappears behind a cloud. "No. Now, if we're done posturing, there's more you should know about the elves."
I turn and scowl, pacing to the edge of the cliff and back. I'm experiencing something I've never considered before: I think I've been outsmarted, though I can't say when or how, and I'm stumbling over the very idea.
"...Alright," I growl. "For the sake of my payment... and other things. But don't think this confrontation is over."
He goes on to explain the known elven defenses, their economic position and attitude towards intruders, but I'm only half-listening.
My mental model of Harnburg has just changed, in tone if not in actual content, and the composition of its final destruction has shifted accordingly: Chatterly, even more than the Duke, must be humbled before he dies. Still, in discovering this strange streak of inexplicable menace within the Duke's agent I believe I've uncovered a new layer to this society - a streak of malignant pride and purpose that's almost respectable.
I need to learn more about the court of Harnburg, and I get so absorbed in my musings on the topic, that I don't notice Chatterly has left until I realize he's been silent for several minutes. Alone in the grasslands, I put the valley at my back and I walk towards the forest. The multitudinous sun-dry grasses rustle around my feet, brushing my knees as I stride majestically on.
I use a handful of golden lightning to set them on fire. It improves my mood tremendously.
"They're a rare breed. Wood elves by way of some byzantine high-born bloodline - magically adept and highly cultured, but averse to building permanent settlements or cities. Rather than fleeing into the Green, settling, or attempting to integrate, they've been traveling around Camelot since the end of the War forming temporary camps - sometimes for as long as a year."
"What makes them 'wood' elves?" I demand, my curiosity overtaking my desire to see the spy splatter. We crest the lip of the rock-face and step out onto a broad, grassy plateau dotted with expansive, solitary trees. It reeks of sun-baked stone and dry grasses. In the distance, to the North, beyond the river which feeds the waterfall as well as to the west, the trees grow thicker, overtaking the grassland entirely. "Why don't they build cities? And what war?"
Chatterly takes six quick steps away from the edge and then turns to face me.
"It's simple, dear fellow: They are wood elves because they are found nigh-exclusively in the woods. They don't build cities or permanent homes because they value the natural order even moreso than others of their kind - although personally I question whether any such thing as a natural order exists in our world. As for the war... that would be the war against Diablo. Ask around, and I'm sure plenty of people will be perfectly willing to tell you about it. Or even better, I'll get you a book on the subject. I imagine you'd find that... palatable."
I hiss, clenching my fists. In the name of edification I've endured a great deal of indignity since coming to Harnburg. I've allowed others to believe I would serve their causes, that I would grant priority to the whims of anyone save for myself - practically blasphemy, but a necessity of this great work I've undertaken. Still, there is a limit to my indulgence, and Chatterly with his casual refusal to fear me is near to reaching it. "Are you mocking me, Chatterly? Do you think that's wise?"
He shifts his weight, rippling his cloak. A wind blows from the west, rippling the grasses in amber waves, and carrying with it the smells of unburnt forest. The dirty white hems of my ridiculous trousers (still a necessary evil, sadly) flap and flutter loosely around my shins.
"I was merely making an informed observation. I'm well aware that you could probably kill me if you decided to, though I expect you'd find it more difficult than you imagine - But I invite you to ponder the potential consequences. I already explained to you that the Duke isn't a fool."
He looks at me from beneath the ridge of his brow, within the shadows of his hood. "And despite what you may think, neither am I."
Abruptly I feel cold, as though frost has infiltrated every nook and cranny of my golden carapace, clinging to my scales. It's the same feeling I got from the barkeep in Holmwood, the same thrill as when the standing-stone came so near to injuring me.
Fear. For just a moment, something in his stance, something about his confidence - this gray-haired pygmy frightens me! But it's different somehow, having little to do with the threat of physical harm. How much does this man know? How much does he control? What power does he hold?
I wrestle with the urge to destroy him here and now, to call his bluff, to establish my dominance, shining in the sun - but I don't, and I think I'm more surprised at my own restraint than at the agent's sudden air of menace. The wind shifts.
"Who are you really, Chatterly? Are you a Prime?"
He smiles without humor, and the tension is broken. The sun disappears behind a cloud. "No. Now, if we're done posturing, there's more you should know about the elves."
I turn and scowl, pacing to the edge of the cliff and back. I'm experiencing something I've never considered before: I think I've been outsmarted, though I can't say when or how, and I'm stumbling over the very idea.
"...Alright," I growl. "For the sake of my payment... and other things. But don't think this confrontation is over."
He goes on to explain the known elven defenses, their economic position and attitude towards intruders, but I'm only half-listening.
My mental model of Harnburg has just changed, in tone if not in actual content, and the composition of its final destruction has shifted accordingly: Chatterly, even more than the Duke, must be humbled before he dies. Still, in discovering this strange streak of inexplicable menace within the Duke's agent I believe I've uncovered a new layer to this society - a streak of malignant pride and purpose that's almost respectable.
I need to learn more about the court of Harnburg, and I get so absorbed in my musings on the topic, that I don't notice Chatterly has left until I realize he's been silent for several minutes. Alone in the grasslands, I put the valley at my back and I walk towards the forest. The multitudinous sun-dry grasses rustle around my feet, brushing my knees as I stride majestically on.
I use a handful of golden lightning to set them on fire. It improves my mood tremendously.