11-17-2011, 08:22 AM
The ignorant would say that the woods are at peace here. Of course, if you listen closely and know what you seek, you can hear the dull throb of fear coursing through their sap. The woods are uneasy. The sinister chopping of hungering axes grows louder every day, and the aftershocks of demonic corruption still rock the boughs of Ashenvale. Harravorn let out a sigh, and leant away from the side of the great tree he had been practically lying against. He shifted his weight to his staff, instead – his weakened state requiring it's support to stand. He was no feeble old man like this in ages past, but conflict in the dream and being assailed by agents of the nightmare had sapped him of his endless vitality. As such; a tired, worn, aging elven man stood by the ancient tree, older than it by perhaps a thousand years. His flowing robes were of deep blues, greens and browns – feathers and graven lunar sigils dangling loosely from them. His hands were wrapped tightly in small leather gloves, fingers left exposed to the air. These self-same purple fingers wrapped themselves tight about his staff, itself formed from unwielding ash and planted firmly into the loose soil. His knuckles whitened on it. Though he would not admit this to a living soul, this was his tree. In ages past, he had taken it's seed and planted it here – and he would not let the orcs take it.
And so he waited. He waited as the rhythmic hacking grew inexorably closer. Scenes from his past flickered across the druid's vision, but never did he waver in his vigil. Not when the trees on the edge of sight started to give almighty shrieks and crash to the forest floor. Not when the first orcish scouts came his way. He dispatched them all; the strong roots making up much of the undergrowth suddenly whipping around their bodies, tightening mercilessly around the despoilers and crushing their last breaths from their lungs. He called upon the guardians of the forests – drowsy brown bears and skittish storm crows alike. Though a valiant defence, marshalling the nearby forces of nature in defence of an old friend; it could not go on forever. Brought low in the end by the shaft of an orcish arrow, he lay there in the woods of his birth – gasping his last as the loggers made haste to bring the end of one of his oldest and most noble friends.
And so he waited. He waited as the rhythmic hacking grew inexorably closer. Scenes from his past flickered across the druid's vision, but never did he waver in his vigil. Not when the trees on the edge of sight started to give almighty shrieks and crash to the forest floor. Not when the first orcish scouts came his way. He dispatched them all; the strong roots making up much of the undergrowth suddenly whipping around their bodies, tightening mercilessly around the despoilers and crushing their last breaths from their lungs. He called upon the guardians of the forests – drowsy brown bears and skittish storm crows alike. Though a valiant defence, marshalling the nearby forces of nature in defence of an old friend; it could not go on forever. Brought low in the end by the shaft of an orcish arrow, he lay there in the woods of his birth – gasping his last as the loggers made haste to bring the end of one of his oldest and most noble friends.