View source for Fawn BW XXXI

Fawn looked on a meeting, which had gathered in a large, circular room, partially filled with ornately carved marble statues of people of all races.  The high ceiling depicted a night sky with the constellations marked in bright jewels. Carved at the edge of the room, joining bright white, marble floor to blue-black ceiling, was a huge muscular man, arms outstretched to hold up the disk-shaped ceiling.  The curved walls were studded in four places with high arched, broad windows that were partially shuttered to attempt to keep out the cold but let in the bright, winter sun.  Around a smooth, highly polished, black stone, round table sat five very different individuals.  

At the head of the table was a figure, similar in stature to a dwarf but with a broad, round, bald head that sported a long plaited white beard. He was dressed in a pale blue, ermine- trimmed coat, fastened with sapphire buttons and loose fitting, white, woollen trousers, tucked into high, soft leather boots.   Whilst having the muscular, stocky physique of the young, his care-lined face was far from youthful.  Fawn believed this to be a gnome, though he had never met one. 

On his left was a comparatively huge man, towering over those around him.  He was a swarthy warrior dressed in sable furs, whose horned helmet was placed on the table to his front and vast round shield lent against his side, displaying its emblazoned image of a one-handed Norsemen holding aloft a sword.  The man’s blonde hair was ruffled, as if it had just been released from the confines of his helmet. His full beard was neatly trimmed and plaited at each side where his moustache came to a tapered end.  Bright, shining blue eyes peered out from under thick white eyebrows, daring onlookers to hold his gaze.

Next to the huge Norseman was his miniature double, dressed as he was in the same dark fur and plate armour, with winged helmet on the table and shield propped next to him. However, he was not blonde, had no beard and his broad, hairy feet were not covered in leather and metal. The Halfling’s face was lined and battle worn; he looked to be middle-aged though it was difficult to be certain. His unkempt, brown, curly hair tumbled onto his shoulders and his big green eyes seemed to take in everything. 

A third war helmet, on which was a circlet of brightly burnished adamantine, was placed on the table. This helm was in front of a dwarf, whose armour was bejewelled and inlaid with red-gold, such that his breastplate appeared to be the face of a fierce, threatening red dragon.  His dark-brown hair and beard were long but neatly plaited and his high cheek bones were pale orbs of bare flesh (that was otherwise obscured by thick, dark hair).  His deep green, intense eyes regarded the company carefully.

The last was a young oriental man, short, wiry and dressed almost entirely in an orange sack. Hair swept up into a tonsured cue and kept in place with a plain wooden pin, revealed keen black eyes and handsome oriental features.  No helmet adorned the table to his front and no shield lent against his chair; however, his lengthy pole arm, that spawned razor sharp, wicked looking, half-moon shaped cutting edges at each end, underlined his unique fighting ability.    

“My friends,” began the venerable Gnome at the head of the table, “the valiant defence of Fontainver and our own recent heroic assault on the forces of Demogorgan, have paved the way for another decisive battle.  Barring a rather troublesome dragon, all that stands between us and freeing the north of Everinstar is the enemy holed up in Gos.”  He paused for effect, looking at each of the members sat at the table, “We need a decisive victory to deny the enemy a foothold from which to launch further attacks, before we press home our advantage.”

Light shone in through four, diametrically opposed windows - brightest was that behind the gnome.  It struck the floor and was reflected blindingly off the silver inlay, which wound in a pattern, partly covered by the gnome’s chair.  It struck Fawn that it appeared to be a river winding its way through a blinding, white landscape, as if through snow or a salt marsh.  It formed a symbol, partially obscured but clear enough to Fawn: it was a flower, perhaps a white rose.  

A long silence was eventually broken by the halfling, “You know my thoughts,” he began, “I maintain that we should forget Gos for now and drive home the advantage you speak of by taking back Minas Maedus.”  No-one met the eyes of either party, and it seemed to Fawn that they knew this disagreement was coming and preferred to examine the table rather than risk upset.  Dark was the table, as if a night whose stars were where the black stone was shot through with metals of all manner – sparkling in the sun light. Mysterious patterns were revealed to Fawn as the sun briefly illuminated the entire table: it appeared to be a dozen figures, perhaps Gods, outlined in dots of gold, silver and bronze linked with a fine tracery of precious stones of all hues.  

“Yes, my friend,” replied the Gnome carefully, “I am aware of your desire, which is why I called this meeting.” He paused again, before continuing in a deliberate tone, “No-one has appointed me as your leader and I would not wish to volunteer for such an honour; however, we must be unified in our endeavours or the enemy wins. What do the others say?”  The air was sucked from the room, nothing was heard and no-one seemed to breath.  A cloud passed the weak sun and the room was dark.

The Norseman broke the silence first, “I would for Gos, to return my ancestral home to the Norsemen, but I understand well the arguments made against such a move.”  As if to prove his understanding he continued, holding hands before him as if they were scales, “Our decision weights the choice between securing the North and freeing our friends…”

“Then I too would favour my kin and vote to retake Minas Maedus, where my cousins fight a desperate battle of survival,” broke in the dwarf hastily. “They are hanging on in desperation, pleading often for our support and we have let them down.” 

“Try to keep calm my old friend,” the Gnome said pleadingly, patting the air in front of him soothingly before beginning again, “you know that we all care deeply about the plight of Rodrus and would dearly love to see a swift resolution to its plight; however, I fear that we would be diverted into a protracted engagement, which would deny us the opportunity to retake Gos.”

The dwarf met the Gnome’s eyes and took a deep breath, “your words are wise, as ever, my friend; however, you are right, no-one has appointed you our leader.”  Again the dwarf waited, as if he expected to be challenged and when none came he continued, “So, if we are to make a decision, then it should be one of consensus, not dictate.”  Looking at each in turn, when their name was mentioned, the dwarf counted the votes, “I believe that my Lord Ferro and I prefer to come to the aid of Rodrus, with you and Fremar voting to take the battle to Gos. That leaves the decision in the hands of Hintsu-san, the hero of Ishtur.”

The oriental man blanched.  He was clearly unaccustomed to making such monumental decisions. Fawn reckoned he would have preferred to be facing countless foe on a battlefield in the depths of the Abyss than be in that room deciding the fates of men and dwarves. “Well, unless I am told otherwise…”

Before the monk had chance to make his decision known the door burst open and through it came a Norseman to rival Fremar in stature, hurriedly followed by a Gnome who wore very similar garb to the one chairing the meeting. “My Lords,” declared the massive human warrior, “a mighty army has emerged from the West!”

Jumping up, both dwarf and Norseman picked up their weapons and helmets ready to join battle with whatever new foe was presented. Again the Gnome deployed his calming hand and soothing tone, “What is the nature of this army?”

The man answered for the Gnome, who was overshadowed in any case, “Elves from the Old Forest and what appears to be an army of samurai, or so our scouts tell us.”

It was the halfling’s turn to leap up and collect his things ready for battle, “So, Tuar Chan has persuaded Elerienne to join him and has fielded his forces against us!  Do they join with Orcus and Inwe at Gos?” 

“No,” said the gnome politely, “Tuar Chan was captured by the White Council and brought here, where he took his own life in disgrace…”  While he spoke, Fawn saw the monk nod and look into the distance as if recalling a memory. 

The halfling slowly returned to his seat and filled a pipe that he produced from a pouch at his side.  Holding it expertly in his mouth he struck up a tinder which he held in his right hand whilst replacing his flint and steel in his pouch. After a long draw on his pipe he asked, “Then what is to be made of this development?” 

“What more do you know?” enquired one Norseman of the other.

“Well, my Lord,” began the messenger breathlessly, “scouts reported seeing Elerienne’s folk leaving the forest’s northern boarders, assembled for war.  A day later a second party of elves, this time accompanied by legions of oriental warriors left the forest and headed north east.”

“What banners did they raise?” asked the monk dispassionately.

“There were many, but none that we recognised,” replied the man nervously.

“Did your scouts record any that were at the vanguard?” pressed Hintsu, “I would be interested in determining, for definite, the origins of this force.”

“You have an idea from where they might have come, Hintsu?” asked the Gnome.

“Well, most of Tuar Chan’s force will have fled back to Malor to bolster his own very sizeable army,” mused the monk, “The only other place they may have come from, in Everinstar, is Nega but I do not understand how they might have travelled such a distance unnoticed and unchallenged by the enemy.”

“Good points my friend…Well, did they copy any of the insignia the oriental army marched beneath?”

“No, my Lord, not to my knowledge.” The Norseman looked at his Liege helplessly, before explaining, “the message we received was carried on the wing and not subject to closer examination.”

“I think I might have the answer,” the halfling said quietly, as if still contemplating his words, “the Sylvan Elves may have moved them in the same way that they brought us to Morgul.”

“But of course! Then they are for us!” declared the Gnome.

“And if they are?” asked the dwarf, stroking his beard in contemplation.

“Well,” began the gnome, before being cut off by the halfling.
Jumping up again, the diminutive warrior exclaimed, “We can turn back to Maedus and set about freeing Rodrus!”

“Yes, yes!” exclaimed the dwarf, pounding the table, “that is exactly what we should do, and fast!”

“Thank you, my friends – Ferro and Marin – I believe you have made your point,” calmed the gnome, “What say you now Fremar?  I would not separate from our gallant cavalry, so you perhaps cast the deciding vote.”  These last words were of obvious relief to the monk.

“Aye then Sire,” the giant man said slowly nodding his head part in agreement, part in thought, “if it is the case that this wondrous new army is for us, and against those holed up in Gos, then we should move on Maedus.”