Stories Around the Fire (OTA)

[devon]

Winds roared across the River Erinin, churning the normally slow moving waters into a white capped torrent. These winds, bringing with them all the icy fury of the north, hit the legendary city of Tar Valon like a hammer, causing the city to shut down under a blanket of thick, white snow. The streets that were normally so full of life emptied, as every sane man and woman ran inside to hide. The day grew long, and night fell, and soon all that moved in the dark city were the falling snowflakes and the smoke from chimneys. The storm raged on, attacking the entirety of the island. Even the White Tower, the greatest power in the land, whose occupants could force kings to bend knee and mountains to tremble, were helpless before the storm’s ferocity. The grounds where the fighting men and woman of the White Tower trained were hidden under the snow, and none dared to brave the storm. That is to say, no one willingly went out. Men and woman still moved in the night, ignoring the biting cold so as to do their duty. One of those men trudged through the snow; his feet frigid and wet, to the welcoming glow emanating from the barracks. With his watch over, Jasen could finally find some warmth.

 

As he opened the door, dozens of eyes turned towards him, glaring at the person responsible for releasing the elements into the room. He quickly shut the door, and everyone slowly went back to their business. On a night like this one, no Guard or Warder would want to stray far from the immense stone fireplace in the barracks, and so the room was full. Jasen tried to knock as much snow off his boots and shoulders as he could, but it seemed to be melting faster than falling, and so he reluctantly marched forward, growing wetter with each step. Instead of going to his cot to change his clothes, he moved towards the fireplace, and the sounds of laughter that danced around it. Tossing his sodden cloak on a rack, Jasen pushed his way onto a bench, amidst cries of several others who were less fond of Jasen’s soggy disposition than he was. He held his hands up to the fire, sighing as the heat seeped into his frozen bones. Closing his eyes, Jasen let his mind wander adrift, just enjoying the heat from the fire.

 

After a few minutes, he began to hear snippets of the conversation. “The Last Battle is coming. The other day, I heard the blacksmith of Darein was at his forge, and just melted. He was working at his forge, and as usual had sweat on his face. Well, people said that the sweat began to pour from his face, and as it dripped he began to shrink. And it just dripped, and dripped and dripped, and he shrank, and shrank, and shrank. They said his apprentices looked on in horror as their master was wrung dry right in front of them, working all the while. He collapsed in front of them, nothing but a pile of skin and bones in a puddle of water.” Jasen looked around as the faces of his comrades grew grim, and the only sound that could be heard was the howling wind outside. And as Jasen watched his friend’s spirits fall around him, infected by the dark topics and the storm outside, and he knew that if this kind of talk continued it would be a bad winter in the yards. So he cleared his throat and began to talk.

 

“Of course the times seem bad now, but they have in the past as well, and you know what? The White Tower has always stood strong. Who was the last time someone has conquered the Aes Sedai? Nobody, that’s who. We’ll get through this like we always do. But right now, we’re off duty, we’ve got ourselves a warm fire, so let’s enjoy ourselves while the gettings good, all right? Now, let’s put away the talk about the goings on in the world, and try to entertain ourselves. Does anyone have a good stories? They can sad or funny, full of love or war, just as long as they are good. I’m no gleeman, but I’ve got a few of my own, and I’m sure you lot have some floating around in those thick skulls of yours.” Smiling, Jasen reached out and grabbed a waterskin that the person next to him was holding. He could feel the heat coming from it, and judging by the smell coming from the top, it contained tea thick with honey; a soldier’s favorite. Taking a swig from the top, he continued. “We’ll make a rule. We’re going to pass around this skin, and whoever is holding it is responsible for the entertainment. So who wants to start?”

Edited January 4, 2011 by devon

[devon]

Jasen looked around, realized he wanted more of the tea and so put the skin to his lips again. “Well, since I came up with the rule and the bag is in my hand, I guess I’ll start. My story takes place many hundreds of years ago. This story takes place during the War of the Second Dragon, when a false dragon terrorized the world and the nations were falling to him one by one. At the time of this story, the White Tower had not yet mobilized any army to oppose this man, but they had sent sisters out, for he could channel. And how he could channel! Whole armies disappeared at the wave of his hand, he lit the sky at night so his followers could do battle at any hour. They say he could stop your heart with a look, and even an Aes Sedai would sweat in his presence. It was at this time, that a young nobleman named Gerrod gathered together a group of men to stand against this threat. They were not connected with any nation, nor did could they stand up to the false dragon in a battle, instead they took to the shadows and harassed the tyrant’s army.

 

“Up and down the countryside, this band attacked the false dragon’s army where it hurt them most. They burned supply lines, attacked the lines of new recruits, poisoned wells along the armies path, anything that would slow the juggernaut down. And throughout their campaign, their leader led from the front, twin swords in his hands as he rode into battle. For a year and a half, they terrorized the false dragon’s troops, instilling in them the same fear that they brought to the nations of the world. Their success eventually caught the attention of the false dragon, although he viewed it as only a minor annoyance. But months passed, and their body count grew higher, and soon this annoyance became hatred, and then a passion. The false dragon grew to despise Gerrod and his men, and demanded his head. Ambushes and traps were planned, but Gerrod evaded them all, growing ever more famous. If this were a happy tale, I would tell you that Gerrod was never captured, and that he fought until the false dragon was taken down. I would tell you he found love and settled down, raising children of his own. Alas, this is not one of those tales.

 

“Eventually Gerrod was captured, his men slaughtered. But the false dragon did not want to kill him outright. No, this cruel being wanted to torture the hero, to teach his enemies what happened to those that opposed him. Wine was bought for the army, and food, and women. The false dragon turned the torture into a celebration of his greatness. They tied Gerrod to a pole in the middle of camp, and set the torturers on him. For hours they used their evil knowledge upon him, with knives and flame, ropes and salt. But never once did he scream. Not once did he whimper. Though tears covered his cheeks, Gerrod did not make a sound.

 

“In the crowds a hooded figured moved. As the men feasted and drank, the cloaked being moved silently towards the center of the camp, to where the main attraction of the day lay. Closer and closer our hooded figure came to where Gerrod stood silently, until they reached the circle of guards surrounding the proceedings. The cloaked figure stared at Gerrod, writhing silently on the pole, in obvious pain but unwilling to shout out. It was at this moment the false dragon himself came to where Gerrod stood, standing feet away. He had come to see his enemy pay for the slights he had done him. In a flash the cloak flew off the figure, revealing the shining golden hair of Gerrod’s lover, the Lady Bellame. A bow appeared in her hand as if from nowhere, and upon it an arrow. Fletching came to cheek and the arrow was released, shooting forward towards the two men in the middle of the camp. Guards rushed at her, swords driving towards her. As the first blade struck, she watched as her arrow flew true, striking Gerrod in the chest. As the life fled from her, she whispered out to her fallen lover. ‘I will see you again, my love.’ With that, she fell to the ground, dying happily, with the knowledge that she had delivered her Gerrod from agony, and depriving the false dragon of the thing he wanted most.”

[Visar Falmaien]

The door blew open again, sending flurries of damp, freezing air into the warm room. Torvus kicked the door shut angrily, and set his spear down. The Light knew the thing was probably frozen like an icicle, like he felt. He hadn't even brought his crossbow out on his watch, too fearful that the cold would make it break.

 

What a dismal watch, he thought, but finally it was over and he could enjoy the warmth of the fire. He shrugged his snow covered cloak off and hung it to dry on the already full rack. Then he joined the men at the fire. One of them, a guardsman named Jasen, held a flask of something, probably warm tea in this weather. Torvus wished it was firey brandy, that would heat his insides better he thought. But drinking was usually discouraged among most of the guardsmen, at least on duty.

 

He settled down, trying to stop shivering as his body adjusted from the temperature change. Jasen was telling a story. As Torvus listened to pick up on things, he heard of the false dragon and of Gerrod's defiance. Why had Gerrod done so, Torvus wondered. Why not just let the false dragon burn out. Why fight on when it was surely hopeless?

 

Still, thinking of it in real life situations wasn't really doing anything at the moment. For now, he just enjoyed the story. A few more were told as the tea flask was passed around. Then the flask came to him. Torvus started, wanting some of the tea, but not really wanting to embarrass himself by trying to tell a story. The guardsman next to him patted him on the shoulder, trying to encourage him.

 

"Oh alright, I'll say something." Torvus muttered half to himself.

 

"Let's see, I think this was one my father used to tell me. About the raid on the watchtowers of Amyl Dar and Veryshak. It must have happened at least a score years ago, maybe more, well before I was born anyway. It was high summer, and the Blight had been quiet along the Saldaean border for some time, a couple years really. All of a sudden, there was a great raid, and the watchtowers, usually famed for their diligence, were caught unprepared. Several Fists, easily enough to threaten even a fortified village or two, broke through the lines intended to contain them.

 

So it was that a mounted patrol of only fifty men, led by my father Turan, or so he claimed anyway, stumbled upon the enemy. My father, always one to use some common sense, immediately ordered a retreat. He sent three messengers off in three directions to get help. One fell before he could get very far, but the other two sped off to the nearest fort.

 

The trollocs pursued them, cutting down several of his comrades that were not fast enough to get their mounts into a gallop. But trollocs can only run as fast as horses for a short distance, you know, so eventually my father's banner outpaced them. But they did not run. Firing their bows from the saddle, they made the trollocs pay dearly for their pursuit, shooting them down one by one.

 

This went on for a few hours, and both horse and man were tired from a seemingly inexhaustable foe, still hundreds strong. My father saw a valley ahead surrounded by two hills, and decided it would be there they'd make their stand. "Men," he said, "If we're going to die, we might as well go out in the best way, leading these villainous spawn away from our wives and children. No one lives in that valley, and if we have any say, no trolloc will come back out alive!" Brave words, and his men shouted despite their weariness, but they knew they were doomed.

 

They rode through the valley, using every little defile to spring an ambush. Soon their arrows were out, and they charged the trollocs with their lances. Soon even their lances were shattered, and they fell back again, drawing swords. The trollocs were preparing one final charge to destroy them for sure, when from either side of the hill, a storm of arrows from unseen archers came pouring down into the enemy. The volley was so devastating that the trollocs, bewildered and disorganized, broke and ran! My father ordered one last charge, and was joined by two hundred men on foot coming down from the hillsides. True to his word, not one trolloc escaped the valley alive, and the place became known as the valley of no return. Out of my father's fifty, only twelve survived the year from their wounds."

 

Torvus stopped then, not sure how to best end the story. It was dry, about battles and tactics, and some men seemed uneasy about him talking about trollocs so casually. He wasn't a great story teller like his father; he didn't do the tale any justice. He couldn't even remember any of the men's names, some of them his father had loved like brothers and had mourned their loss for years. Torvus wondered how much of the tale was true and how much was exaggerated as stories go. But he would probably never know the real truth unless he talked to the other men, and he doubted any of them were still alive. It had happened a long time ago.

 

Torvus took a long swig from the tea, nodded in thanks, and passed it on, wishing he was a better story teller.

Edited January 11, 2011 by Visar Falmaien