Tuesday, August 11, 2009

The Last Tale of Ra'han Lhalabar - II

27.06.09

Even through the thick b lack veil he wore over his eyes, Ra'han Lhalabar found the painful sunset of the surface world a marvel. Pink and orange stripes filled the horizon like strands of dyed spider silk on an enchantress. The lights flew around mountaintops which were taller than the ceiling of any underdark cavern, their tops covered with snow. The soft, frozen material fascinated the old weaponmaster; the only aspect of frozen water he's ever seen was ice – cold and dangerous. It was nearly unrecognizable using a drow's heat vision, and where ice covered the ground it also covered the ceiling, threatening to drop stalagmites. The sun, thrilling, yet wallowing and unstable mass of the terrible sun pained Ra'han's eyes, quivered without rhythm at the edges; a state the old warrior felt very similar to his own. Always putting on a cold face, dangerous to others through appearance and reputation, but unstable and unsure at time; Ra'han felt melancholy sweep over him. It disappeared behind the mountaintops quickly and without splendor, so it seemed, and Ra'han once more found he wished he could just stand up and head to these mountains and climb to their tops, that that was the only way he will ever feel peace.

Instead, however, the nagging feeling of the matron's order crept into his consciousness again, as it had for the week since Nebul's visit. The drow was sitting cross-legged in the shadow of a large, flat stone, inside a small cave, barely outside of the line of light. His arms were restively spread on his thighs, and he could see the last light fade into darkness. Evening birds chirped noisily and a strong breeze blew, yet neither could keep the underdark guide's thoughts off of his seemingly eternal turmoil – the dilemma keeping him under the overbearing ceiling of stone and rock against leaving his old hateful home. He could never find a viable solution, an unrecognizable force pulling him in while his will desperately wanting out. Shadowrealm hasn't been his home for decades, and the underdark was no one's home. He felt any old and strong drow like him could master fears of the surface world, yet something was keeping him from it.

The drow weaponmaster refused to let the extreme contrasts in view hypnotize him as he abruptly stood up and turned around. He picked up his old blade, Elghinnsila, and started trotting toward the black, dull underdark.

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