shaking his head. It was an ill omen, as all knew it to be. The Northlands had bared the storm’s call before, cherished mother nature’s challenge. It was no easy thing, but for them to grow restless was not always in preparation for the long colds.
“Pray Mother that is all you intend to test us with .” The Huntsman muttered more to himself while waiting for one to come down and open the damned door. As was with any castle or home, there were a number of entry points large and small, and he had no interest in the grand procession of the largest drawbridges. Castle Olvang was his home as much as any guardsmen or servant, offering him freedom to move through the halls as he saw fit.
Within was every bit as extravagant as without, presenting halls lit by luminous globes of light on metal stands along walls of polished oak. Petite elven servants dotted those halls going about their tasks in livery of midnight blue overlain with a pallid yellow near white around the cuffs and sleeves for the men, the hem of the dress and gloves for the women.
It was their task to see the globes of light remain ed stable, among innumerable other things. Moving through the halls on a glistening marble floor with a powerful quickness to his stride, the Huntsman paid none of them a second thought. Elven kind was very good at going unseen, an ideal trait for servants that could not bear the cold of the Northlands the way its native kin did. All who sought shelter received purpose, and the everlasting winter would see them perish if they did not rise to it.
The Huntsman continued down adjacent corridors, weaving his way through the maze of a fort with a knowing step. Visitors from afar thought it madness or wickedness of elves that the castle had been constructed so, but they were given to appreciate the method behind it before their stay was done. No guest was able to simply wander off and venture on his or her own accord without getting lost. It reduced the chance of spies and subterfuge when each guest required a serving escort.
That dependency itself taught the outlanders that they were not wholly above depending on the other races. Humbling and educating alike. Confronting a tall wooden door barred with iron rivets, the Huntsman did not slow, but simply reached out to lift the door’s latch and slammed his shoulder into the wood of it. The frame rattled and whined before pealing open on screeching hinges. More a problem of weight than oiling, such heavy-set doors had a way of stopping thoughts of subtlety, too. Inside, a raucous crowd of cheers and laughter met the Huntsman.
“Hoi, Mikhael! Old Man Midnight granted you another night , I see!” A man called from inside, waving a hand over the crowd as many in the room turned to the Huntsman who filled the quarters with a stoic presence from the door. Mikhael – as a familiar face addressed the Huntsman – barked a sharp laugh as he pulled off his cloak, removing several inches of fur and bulk from his shoulders.
“Hah, so he has, and no thanks to you, Knight-Commander. Flaming children you send will kill themselves with the weight of their own swords.” He grouched, taking a flagon from the nearest standing maid. Many of the elven servants around the tavern were firmly seating in the lap of a far larger man, their uniforms unbuttoned and in ruffled messes to leave perky little breasts on show for groping hands and eager mouths that wanted something more than the flagons and meals they were serving.
A few others were only visible from the heeled boots sticking out from under a table. Mikhael had no interest in serving girls tonight, and moved to sit opposite the Knight-Commander who had thrown up his hands in deference.
“Truth, they won’t learn to run if the Old Man does not chase them. Was it not the same for us?” He asked, grinning a jagged and angular smile over the brim of his mug. The half-dressed elven waif he was ‘entertaining’ took her chance to scurry off, and
“Pray Mother that is all you intend to test us with .” The Huntsman muttered more to himself while waiting for one to come down and open the damned door. As was with any castle or home, there were a number of entry points large and small, and he had no interest in the grand procession of the largest drawbridges. Castle Olvang was his home as much as any guardsmen or servant, offering him freedom to move through the halls as he saw fit.
Within was every bit as extravagant as without, presenting halls lit by luminous globes of light on metal stands along walls of polished oak. Petite elven servants dotted those halls going about their tasks in livery of midnight blue overlain with a pallid yellow near white around the cuffs and sleeves for the men, the hem of the dress and gloves for the women.
It was their task to see the globes of light remain ed stable, among innumerable other things. Moving through the halls on a glistening marble floor with a powerful quickness to his stride, the Huntsman paid none of them a second thought. Elven kind was very good at going unseen, an ideal trait for servants that could not bear the cold of the Northlands the way its native kin did. All who sought shelter received purpose, and the everlasting winter would see them perish if they did not rise to it.
The Huntsman continued down adjacent corridors, weaving his way through the maze of a fort with a knowing step. Visitors from afar thought it madness or wickedness of elves that the castle had been constructed so, but they were given to appreciate the method behind it before their stay was done. No guest was able to simply wander off and venture on his or her own accord without getting lost. It reduced the chance of spies and subterfuge when each guest required a serving escort.
That dependency itself taught the outlanders that they were not wholly above depending on the other races. Humbling and educating alike. Confronting a tall wooden door barred with iron rivets, the Huntsman did not slow, but simply reached out to lift the door’s latch and slammed his shoulder into the wood of it. The frame rattled and whined before pealing open on screeching hinges. More a problem of weight than oiling, such heavy-set doors had a way of stopping thoughts of subtlety, too. Inside, a raucous crowd of cheers and laughter met the Huntsman.
“Hoi, Mikhael! Old Man Midnight granted you another night , I see!” A man called from inside, waving a hand over the crowd as many in the room turned to the Huntsman who filled the quarters with a stoic presence from the door. Mikhael – as a familiar face addressed the Huntsman – barked a sharp laugh as he pulled off his cloak, removing several inches of fur and bulk from his shoulders.
“Hah, so he has, and no thanks to you, Knight-Commander. Flaming children you send will kill themselves with the weight of their own swords.” He grouched, taking a flagon from the nearest standing maid. Many of the elven servants around the tavern were firmly seating in the lap of a far larger man, their uniforms unbuttoned and in ruffled messes to leave perky little breasts on show for groping hands and eager mouths that wanted something more than the flagons and meals they were serving.
A few others were only visible from the heeled boots sticking out from under a table. Mikhael had no interest in serving girls tonight, and moved to sit opposite the Knight-Commander who had thrown up his hands in deference.
“Truth, they won’t learn to run if the Old Man does not chase them. Was it not the same for us?” He asked, grinning a jagged and angular smile over the brim of his mug. The half-dressed elven waif he was ‘entertaining’ took her chance to scurry off, and
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