Submitted: 15 March 2000

Traveler from the East

by a nosy patron

The stranger complied, albeit slower than would have pleased me. I returned to nursing my brew. Much to my chagrin, the stranger strode over to the bar, and (I think) nodded at Baresh from beneath the cowl of his cloak.

He was close enough that I should have been able to get a good look at him, but his cowl revealed next to nothing. I could tell that he was tall, likely an Elf or at least a Human with some Elven heritage. His cloak was a dark, almost shadowy black, with forest green trim. It concealed nearly everything, except his boots, which were highly polished black leather, and his gloves, which looked much the same as his boots.

Baresh sidled over to the stranger and nodded at him, as if he was familiar with the cowled figure. The figure spoke from within his cowl, a hollow almost inhuman voice. "My usual, Baresh."

Baresh disappeared quickly and reappeared suddenly with a glass of ice water. Ice water? In this weather, in a bar? This was certainly an odd fellow, indeed.

The figure somehow managed to sip from the glass while leaving the cowl over his face. He suddenly asked 'What new, Baresh?"

Baresh grimaced, and replied "Much, Master Farstrider. Mostly political intrigue. Nothing with any opportunities in your more, ah, mercenary bent."

The figure nodded, I could tell he nodded this time, and sipped from his water again. I nursed my brew, as well, trying not to seem like I was eavesdropping.

The figure then pulled his cowl down, revealing a middle-aged Human male, with dark auburn hair tied back in a ponytail, and a bearded face, although the beard was probably once a neatly-trimmed goatee and mustache. His eyes were shadowed by his brow, but I could see they flashed a crystalline green when the light hit them. He spoke urgently, almost hurridly, in quiet tones with Baresh.

"I bring tidings from the East, Baresh. Things do not go well, more and more desert our forces. We cannot hold against the tide of undead for much longer if this desertion continues. I fear the Barrier may fall, and the Provinces soon thereafter." The man sighed. A sad, pitiful sigh.

Baresh frowned, furrowed his brow and asked "Are you sure of this, Master Farstrider?"

The man opened his eyes and stared at Baresh. He nodded solemnly. "I was there, Baresh. I've been fighting alongside my comrades. I've lost a lot of friends, Baresh. A lot. My lover died in my arms. Do you know how that feels, Baresh?"

Baresh shook his head quickly, seeming respecting the man's grief.

The man reached down and brushed his cloak back, revealing his travelling garments. On his belt hung heavily a pair of scabbards. Each held a what was almost surely a scimitar. "My blades have cut deeply into the undead ranks, but so have the undead ranks cut deeply into me. Not physically, Baresh. No. This war is something far deeper. It is emotional, it is instinctive. I'm fighting for my life, Baresh. My life, andthe life of every one of the blissfully unaware citizens of the Provinces. We need help, Baresh, desperately. Our plea has thus far fallen on deaf ears. The runners sent to High Hold have returned with but a few legions. The ones sent to Zoluren and Ilithi have returned with far less." The man again sighed.

At this point, I felt a need to intervene, and ask a question of the trail-dirty man. "Good sir, if I may ask, just who the devil are you and what are you speaking of?"

The man glanced over at me, stuck my with a steeley-eyed gaze and then, slowly, turned back to Baresh. "See what I mean, old boy?"

The man then turned back to me. "Call me Farstrider, it's a name I've grown accustomed to. As for what I speak of, I speak of the war at the Barrier erected by the Rakash and the Prydaen as they fled their homelands to the East."

He paused, took a sip from his water and wiped his lips with his sleeve (which was still dusty, by the way). "While you blowhards sit here and play with your fancy weapons and armors and dawdle on measly political intrigue and "adventuring" into the local hills, there is a war going on. A war for the future of all of Elanthia."

Frowning, the man drew one of his blades, produced a whetstone from somewhere within his clothes, and proceeded to grind his weapon's edge as he spoke to me. (Strangely, Baresh did not seem to mind, although he's usually quite strict about sheathed weapons in his bar ...a few too many brawls, I suppose). "That, young man, is what I am speaking of. Something vitally important to our future as a civilization, and yet all but ignored by our citizentry. I fear that we may go the way of the Seven Star Empire. Fading away into a new rule, this time the inhuman rule of a Warlord Lich."