"I thought that I had detected a round of storytelling
going on. Most excellent: there is nothing better to
take one's mind from a cold evening than a warm
tavern, excellent beer and good sophonts ready to spin
their tales of their peoples. I have arrived early
enough to not miss too many tales, either.
"But I have not properly introduced myself. Geoffrey,
knight-errant of her Most Petite Majesty Elizabeth
XXIII, Queen by the Grace of God of all Ellyllon, at
your service. So, what are the covenants of this fine
game you weave?"
"Tales of our people's origins? A most cheerful and
pleasant diversion: and one that I may honorably
partake in. Pray allow me to have your cups filled as
I begin ... but I forget myself. The good scion of
Stone there looked ready to craft his tale, first. My
most humble apologies: please forgive my presumption."
(Laughs) "Yes, indeed, open hands do help smooth out
rumpled honor. Let my paying for this most fine drink
accomplish the same. Is everyone settled and
comfortable? Very well, then I shall begin. In
time-honored tradition, I will relate this tale with
the old words: Once upon a time..."
Once upon a time there was a vassal of the Lord
Himself. He was a brave vassal, loyal, honorable and
pious: and a grim and relentless foe of Evil. His
battles were epic, and many were the foes that fell to
his ever-shining blade. Yet this good knight was also
gentle and just to those under his protection, ever
striving to make their lives better through his
freely-given sacrifices. And he never stopped
thanking God for the happiness of his simple life.
Then came one day where his King and Lord spoke unto
him, and called him to greater duties. And the knight
willingly gave up his humble tasks to become God's own
General and Commander of the Host. Not even in his
own Heart would Sir Laurence - for, while his name was
of no matter to himself while a simple knight, matters
were different in his new station. After all, you
cannot lead a campaign when your vassals are forced to
shout 'Hey, you!' when they wish to get your
attention! - again, not even in his own Heart would
Sir Laurence grumble or bemoan the loss of his
simpler, more personally satisfying days.
Would that his vassals had felt the same - although I
am not doing them justice. They were - are - a varied
lot: stark warriors and gentle healers, crafty co u n
s elors and laughing bards, clever artisans and wild
rovers, but all equally loved their Creator and wished
to serve Him. However, Sir Laurence was at the time
the youngest of them all, and there were those who
were sure that the oldest vassal of all should have
been persuaded to take up again the mantle of
leadership, instead. Heaven obeyed Sir Laurence,
nonetheless ... but there was always that hint of
hesitation.
Thus things continued, until one day those warriors
among God's immediate vassals came to Sir Laurence and
inquired of him whether he had any plans to create an
Unbroken Race of his own. Those among the others had
long since brought forth peoples as friends and allies
to Man and Elf, and it was thought that Sir Laurence
would wish to do the same. I of course will not make
the suggestion that a baser motivation - a subtle
reminder of the Commander's youth - was involved in
any way.
At any rate, Sir Laurence smiled - I have been told
that his face flushed, but I do not believe it - and
responded.
"Yes, I have made such plans: indeed, I have completed
them." And as he rose the assembled vassals could see
that the Commander had been putting the finishing
touches on two winged figures. At his breathing of
the Words of Life into their ears, the two rose up on
gossamer wings and flew about their creator.
Sir Laurence's vassals were silent for a moment:
finally, one spoke. "A wondrous design, Lar -
Commander Sir Laurence. When were you planning to
make a full sized version?"
Sir Laurence raised an eyebrow. "These are
'full-sized', Sir Janus: indeed, a greater girth would
be pointless and wasteful. They will do quite well
for themselves." He looked at his 'children'. "You
will be named Rupert ... and you will be named
Elizabeth." He smiled. "Yes, you can switch names, if
you like."
The silence from Sir Laurence's vassals was even more
profound. A second vassal eventually broke the still
air: "Yes, but what on Earth and Heaven are they good
for?"
Sir Laurence's eyes were bright, yet full of challenge
- and, forgive me for saying it, a bit of mischief as
well. Our penultimate father is very young, as such
things go - but his voice was innocent. "Why, Sir
David, they are good for helping us win the War. Why
would you think otherwise?"
A grumble like rocks, which eventually coalesced into
words: "For one thing, they're small."
The Commander of the Host's mouth curled into a smile.
"I assure you, size is immaterial in this case. They
will make fine warriors." No doubt the looks of
polite disbelief caused him to continue, "I fancy that
they could defeat your own champions, not five minutes
after their birth. In fact... send for them."
The three vassals blinked at the sudden steel in Sir
Laurence's voice, but they obeyed. The Commander
nodded at their subordination and continued, "The
rules are simple: this is an affair of honor, not
blood, so there shall be no fighting to the death.
The contest will continue until one side surrenders to
the other. Is that understood? Excellent."
The first Champion to arrive was Sir David's: in many
ways, the Lord of Stone was the most critical of the
Commander, and it was no surprise that his Champion
was a stark fighter, dressed and bodied as one of Sir
David's beloved Dwarves. The two Ellyllon had in the
meantime begun to debate who should have the right to
face their first foe: the issue was only resolved when
Stone's Champion growled that he would face them both
at once. Both sides bowed to each other, and began.
This "battle" was perhaps not the most epic in the
annals of the Ellyllon race: the Lord of Stone had
forgotten his own edicts when he chose his Champion.
Courteously, the Ellyllon struck the first blow,
allowing their opponent to fight ... once they
realized what was keeping him immobile. This
unfortunately took a minute or so. After that, well,
it is difficult to pick a flying target out of the air
when all that one has is a hand weapon.
After a few minutes, the Champion could hear the
chuckling going on behind him. He called for a pause
- which, of course, his opponents honored - to see his
liege lord scowling and Sir Laurence faintly smiling.
At his puzzled look, the third vassal (who had
remained silent until now, his quiet eyes taking in
everything) took pity on the angel to tell him,
"Your opponents have been playing naughts-and-crosses
on your shield."
The Champion looked, and yea, indeed, they had. Quite
neatly, if legend was true. He scowled, imitating his
liege lord. "If you would come down and fight
hand-to-hand..."
Rupert nodded. "Your pardon, good knight. If you
feel at a disadvantage, we will of course handicap
ourselves by doing so. May it never be said that the
Ellyllon took undue advantage in an affair of honor."
Strangely enough, this did not appease the Champion.
Still scowling, he fiddled with his shield for a
moment, then angrily slung his axe back over his
shoulder. "Enough!" He turned to his liege lord.
"My honor forbids me to fight on their terms, but
their honor requires them to fight on mine, despite
the consequences. I will not answer honor with
dishonor." He turned back to his opponents. "I will
yield."
The two Ellyllon bowed and curtsied in mid-air,
respectively: Sir David's scowl as he watched them
suddenly faded, as an errant thought about the utility
in war of flying scouts with excellent aim occurred to
him. There was a bit more genuine respect than before
in his own bow to Sir Laurence.
During the battle, the second Champion (Sir Janus')
had appeared, and had been given a certain amount of
hastily-whispered instructions by her liege lord.
Grinning slightly, the Champion politely requested to
face only one opponent at a time, with no weapons on
either side: great wings sprouted from her back as she
removed her armor. After a slight altercation on the
Ellyllon's side (which ended with Elizabeth's outright
ordering Rupert to retire from the battle - we've been
obeying our ladies ever since, by the way), the two
flew to the middle of the clearing to do battle.
Our people have long since enshrined a variant of this
struggle into our own customs: it became clear that
the two fighters had silently agreed that that no
blows would be struck on either side. Instead, the
goal would be to use their wings to disturb the air,
for the purpose of blowing the other off course ...
and possibly into a tree or the ground. It had also
been silently agreed that the contest would continue
until one refused to go back into the air.
This was, of course, a battle where one of our people
would be at a severe disadvantage: while our ultimate
corporeal ancestors were stronger than any one of our
people today, they were not noticeably heavier.
Elizabeth's wing buffets stung ... but her opponent's
replies would send our First Queen tumbling out of
control. It was only a matter of minutes before the
inevitable happened and she was forced to the ground.
She gamely picked herself up and flew back into the
fray - and was knocked down again. And again, and
again, and again, and again: but every time she felt
to the ground or was dashed against a tree, Good Queen
Bess would shake her head, flick her wings and hair,
and return to the fray.
Finally, disgusted with herself, Janus' Champion
shouted, "Have done!" and descended to the ground.
Her opponent lowered herself - painfully - to eye
level. The Champion turned to her liege lord. "The
Champion of the Lord of Stone was quite right. Honor
should not be met with dishonor: I could kill her, but
I cannot force her to cry off." She bowed to Queen
Bess. "I will yield." Luckily, the Lord of Wind does
not hold grudges - at least, not for long: or perhaps
he simply respects perseverance. His own bow to his
Commander was likewise full of a bit more respect now.
Then, as if by a lodestone all eyes turned to the
third vassal, who had by now found himself a
comfortable place to sit. His eyes were merry as he
quietly murmured, "What? My Champion's turn?"
Sir Laurence, of course, is not subject to
nervousness, but it is said that he came as close to
that state as he ever does when he replied, "Yes, Sir
Michael. Please bring him forth to face my Champion
Rupert." In Laurence's arms, Queen Bess struggled to
rise and object. "Hush, my daughter. Let thy future
King earn his spurs."
The Lord of War nodded, and casually pointed at a
patch of grass. "Appear." And with that - Michael's
Champion appeared. Everyone blinked at his choice,
for the fellow that appeared was corporeal. He was,
in point of fact, a Halfling.
I can see that our Halfling friends here are grinning
in anticipation. What, is this part of the story part
of your legends, too? It is? An actual saga - tell
me, what verse form? Ah. Well, I am not too familiar
with this style that you call 'epic limerick', but I
look forward to hearing it later.
At any rate, the Halfling looked around, bemusedly ...
then fixed his eyes on his liege lord.
"So this was what you wanted me for, boss?"
"Indeed, Sir Toby." The Halfling looked dubious at
the title, but kept his mouth shut.
"Right. So, who am I fighting?"
"That flying nobleman over there. Could you take
him?" The Halfling squinted.
"What can I use?"
"Anything you like."
"Even a sling? I mean, your average nobleman isn't
too keen on facing a peasant weapon..."
Rupert spoke up. "Good Sir Toby, when defending the
Right a true nobleman takes up whatever weapon is at
hand. If it is your favored weapon, then I will face
it gladly, and not scorn you for it."
The Halfling nodded at this and looked for his pipe.
Sir Michael idly smiled and lit it for him. "He's
polite, I'll say that for him."
"Indeed. You realize that you aren't supposed to kill
him?"
The Halfling looked pained. "Boss, give me a sling
and enough room to swing it I can knock a fly off the
wall without hurting either the fly or the wall.
That's why I'm here, right?" Sir Michael chuckled in
response. "So, that's not a worry ... but, why am I
doing this?
Sir Michael leaned back against a tree and lit his own
pipe. "Well, Sir Toby, my own liege lord has just
created them, and he's trying to show that they'll be
an asset to the War by having them face our
Champions."
"How are they doing?"
"Two for two."
The Halfling looked at the Lords of Stone and Wind.
"Impressive - but, if their creations of your liege
lord, then they would be." He scratched his chin
idly. "Can I just save trouble all around and concede
right now?"
"You think that you'll lose?"
"Probably not - but I do think that it'll be
discourteous for me to try. I'm in an army, not a
mob. I don't argue when the generals decide things."
Sir Michael's expression was carefully neutral.
"Something to that, Sir Toby, something to that.
Still, you should at least go through the motions..."
The Halfling nodded ... then stood, twisted and let
fly with a sling in one motion. The Ellyllon's
expression flickered as he tensed, then noted that the
stone was deliberately shot six inches wide.
Sir Toby nodded. "Good nerves, better reflexes. He
would have dodged it if it was on target. Good
enough." The Halfling raised his voice. "I yield."
He turned back to his own liege lord. "Now, Boss, if
I could get back to the supply depot before they lose
all the beans again?"
Sir Michael rose as his Soldier faded out. The Lord
of War bowed low to his liege lord, saying, "I
apologize for any inadvertent insult to the valor or
worth of your creations. They will aid us well." He
turned to his comrades.
"Isn't that right?"
...
"...and that's how the First King and Queen of the
Ellyllon Earned their Honor. What's that? There was
one unanswered question?"
"'Why did Sir Laurence make his creations the size
that he did?' Ah, an oft-asked question. Well, the
usual answer is some variant of the thought that he
wished to teach his vassals to not look at the surface
when determining worth, or something similarly pious.
However, you all seem honorable sorts, so I'll tell
you what my people really say - but you must swear to
not reveal it, or scorn us for it. It's a bargain,
then: here, we shall seal it with another round. Now
gather around and hear the secret:
"He made us small so that the rest of the Unbroken
Races would not be under too much of a
disadvantage."
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