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Caught in the Reverie


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Courtesies, credits, and honorable mentions: @Nectorist @Esterlen @3andD @TrendE @Cowmoonist @Artifact @excited @PC_Swift @MisguidedRoyal @Hedonism, among others...

 

CAUGHT IN THE REVERIE

 

bickando_western_european_medieval_villa

 


 

It was a still, warm afternoon as Strickland Banks departed from his small keep, a place he had yet to name. It was a humble place, little more than a two-building wooden abode sitting atop a rock. A well-built, sturdy bridge leapt over the river it bordered to connect the two sides, and from there Banks and his servants often took the time to fish. It was the most useful part of the keep, that bridge, as it allowed him to let the days pass along quicker. Occasionally matters were made livelier with the infrequent arrival of local tax collectors, and it was here that some of his more rambunctious friends would take the opportunity to play a few jokes on the poor man. Yet, days such as those had come to grow fewer and farther between.

 

On the evening that Banks had received the land deed, he and his closest companions had spent the night at a local tavern. They were sketching designs for a grand estate, discussing the defensive necessities that such a keep would require, and arguing over the name it would carry: a signifier that this stretch of land was truly their own. That day was years ago. Some of his friends were still present, shuffling within and around the keep, and occasionally taking a few days to hunt, but most had since left. Two had died, Cutler and Hob, but the rest had ventured elsewhere, off to greener pastures.

 

Whistling a merry tune, Banks continued along the lonely dirt road that led to Petra, where he could hopefully find an open tavern. Although the walk was long and lacked company, he didn’t mind it much. As the more rugged landscape near his keep gave way to the gentle rolling hills of the town, an increasing number of farmsteads and ranches came into sight. As he passed them all, Banks could see the fieldhands laughing amongst each other as they picked their grapes, children playing in between tall stalks of corn, and aging farmers instructing their sons on how to repair a broken gap in the fence. All was well for those unable to read their histories, he thought.

 

It was well past midday as Banks finally reached the outskirts of Petra, a town similarly enjoying the fruits of the day. Making his way through a few streets, the gentryman eventually settled on a polished, recently-built tavern. A few denizens could be seen walking about the streets, but otherwise what life that may have existed seemed to be shuttered away for the day. It was the same last week.

 

Entering the tavern, Banks was greeted by a bright, colorful, and well-decorated establishment. Something was cooking in the kitchens, and although he did not know what it was, it smelled good. Aside from the barkeep and a few hired hands, the only other person in the establishment was an old, lanky dark elf sitting in a damp corner. He could be seen drinking from a mug encrusted with cheap gems. Figuring he too would want a companion, Banks decided to sit across from him, with or without their permission. The elf simply greeted him with a nod and continued drinking.

 

“Quiet day, isn’t it?” Banks asked the elf.

 

“It’s been a quiet day for a long time now. Every town I enter, every pub I frequent, experiences a quiet day.” The dark elf responded, bitterly grimacing as he finished the rest of his drink. He gestured for another from the barkeep.

 

“I suppose so, though the war against King Frederick made the notion of fighting quite sour in many.” The gentryman ordered a pint of mead.

 

“Did you fight? I did. A shame to call that a war. I’ve seen bar fights greater than that.” Spat the elf

 

Spoiler

 

“No, it ended before I could even arrive. It was a quick-run thing.”

 

“A time before me, it seems. The rise and fall of great men, empires, kingdoms, the like. They began and ended not with meek whimpers, but with thunderous claps! We have lost it, I think.” Said the excitable young gentryman, sighing after. “Now, though, I sit at my keep and I fish.”

 

“Hm… The cause is… fine, but I speak not of that. I have fought for and against many men, both good and wicked, and by my hand, or by the hand of the men I knew, history has been altered. However, I find that is not what stirs my soul.” The elf rapped his thin, wrinkled fingers on the rim of his mug.

 

“Then what is?”

 

The old elf paused for a moment, gathering his words, before taking a small sip and beginning again. “At each battle I fought, I stood beside the only family I have known. They, like I, were contemptible rouges, holding little else sacred but their own battle-brother, but it was in them that I found life"

 

“I had a band of friends like that, too,” said Banks. “We didn’t fight any battles, well, we haven’t yet, but I think we will before our lives are over. Most of them are off and away now.”

 

 “Don’t count on it,” said the elf, finishing what seemed to be his hundredth flagon. “I thought the same just a few years ago. I keep humoring myself into thinking something could be a return to the days I sorely miss. To each and every comrade that I stood beside at Helena and a thousand other battles, I sent a letter.” He looked at Banks, his piercing eyes quite somber. “Dead. Retired. Missing. The whole lot of them.”

 

“Could you not make new companions?” Asked Banks.

 

“Perhaps.” The dark elf shrugged. “But it doesn’t feel the same. Victory is not so sweet when the men you cheer with are strangers, nor can defeat be consoled so swiftly when you drink alone. The men I knew were men who joined me as we triumphed over armies vastly larger than our own, and men who would stand by me even after a shattering defeat. Such a bond cannot be so easily forged.”

 

Spoiler

 

 

 

 

Strickland Banks raised a brow, incredulous. “Outnumbered? A tale I hear from every old soldier. Surely you’re playing up the tale a bit more than you’d like to admit.”

 

Spoiler

 

 

The elf smirked, raising his tankard to his lips. “Well, not always.” With that, the ashen-skin elf drifted into a drunken stooper; dreaming of vast pastures filled with sun-ripened strawberries.

 

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i combat-logged in the 'when renatians get bored' video, please remove it i dont wanna get banned plz defy 

 

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