Post by Cat on Oct 9, 2009 10:11:33 GMT -6
Endless Travels
“TRAVELERS! TRAVELERS! Do you fear the taunting cold of the shiverpeak mountains? Are your boots ripped and your skins emptied of fresh DWARVEN ale?! Are you trying to get the drunkard title, and just unable to fight? Adventurers, do all of your Droknar Runners say they are PRO, and keep dying on YOU?! Then come to Beacon Perch’s very own Dwarven EXPRESS! We have the finest warriors equipped with armor made STRAIGHT from Droknar’s Forge here to guide you through the barren ice death traps that wait ahead of you! Don’t let your fortunes, let alone your lives, be lost from the dangers that lie within the shiverpeaks! The finest and most skilled warriors from all of Tyria are here at the Dwarven Express for your disposal to guide you on the extremely dangerous path to Droknar’s Forge! We ask not your line of business! From farming to trapping to trading to killing mesmers! Come now! Come ALL! Space is running out as the next run to Droknar will leave at dawn! LAST CALL FOR THE DWARVEN EXPRESS!”
In front of the wooden hut, the town pub, a Dwarven Merchant yells his final call for business under the torch light. 25 paces to his right, he notices an attractive newly hired human female Xunlai Agent, struggling mercilessly trying to keep a few of the town Storage’s 8 foot Torches alit.
Light howls from the wind hitting the side of the fort creats ChilLz along the merchant’s back, averting his mind from the hopelessly cute storage clerk.
The winds that night remind him of when he almost Died on the great shiverpeaks. Stranded; and out in the peaks during the worst blizzard in the last 4 decades, would give any one the feeling of the horrid mesmer dance, know what I mean?
The snowflakes tingle as the Dwarven Merchant takes a deep sigh of relief, finalizing in his mind, his newly accomplished hard days work. The black and dirtied snow trails left by hundreds of adventurers that day have already began to fill and cover. Fresh layers of powdered snow continued descending from the glittering heavens above.
Most of the adventurers have already sought shelter at the Inn or fortified themselves inside his pub with a few mugs of freshly brewed ice cold lip biting dwarven ale. All he could see that were left out were a few rival groups of trappers, their pets alike, a ranger here, a monk there, a couple of amateur private contracting runners, and the poor Xunlai Agent to his right… having to check in and out 24 hours a day, the items of a wopping 777 person populous, generously not counting their wives and children.
Gleaming from the east, the merchant scans the innards of the wooden fort known as Beacon’s Porch. It lays on the side of one of the central mountains in Shiverpeak, serving as a pivot point for prosperous and adventure seeking travelers to and from 3 of the main cities in Tyria: Ascalon, Lion’s Arch, and most of all, Droknar’s Forge.
“I bet this be the end for today,” the merchant says in a soft weary voice. Just then, the merchant felt the ground resonate below his feet, giving him a slight startle. The low howl and rumble of the fort gate horns were being blown! They were the only warning given exactly 20 minutes before the closing of the fort’s two gigantic gates, each leading to either Deldrimor Bowl or Lornar’s Pass. Even now, after 20 years, he could still be startled by the massive power of the gate horns.
The merchant turns and starts walking toward his pub, mentally preparing himself for the tending of his already half drunken customers. The music and dancing from inside the pub got louder and louder with each step, each leaving a new 3-inch footprint in the snow behind.
<BANG! CRASH! Sounds of women ScreEEeecChingZzZ!>
<sounds of tables crashing and plates breaking>
The merchant staggars for the door, dreading the condition of his newly remodeled pub. He jumps up the stone steps, and reaches for the handle to the wooden door, when all of a sudden, the door slams into the merchant’s wrist, knocking him back along with 2 wailing individuals that fall out the door, luckily missing the half dozen stone steps and into the snow.
The merchant, with an intense pain in his right hand, tries getting up, only to fall again with the pain of putting weight on his right wrist. Next to him, a human and a black bearded
mercilessly roll around, each struggling to gain the upper hand in this apparent fight. As the merchant finally picks himself up with the sole use of his left hand, the struggling on the floor finally gains control and pins the human to the ground face up, reaching for a dagger in his right boot. He draws his weapon, ready to strike down the victim trapped beneath his groins. He raises his arm to swing and says, “Dryconias! Tonight, you die!” in a low out of breath tone. The dagger then flys into the Human’s chest, resulting in a loud sickening cRAcK of bones!
Both the and the human lay still. The merchant, not sure of what to make of the scene, stands in silence, completely bewildered as to what he should do.
A stain of red snow began arching outward from beneath the two bodies.
“TRAVELERS! TRAVELERS! Do you fear the taunting cold of the shiverpeak mountains? Are your boots ripped and your skins emptied of fresh DWARVEN ale?! Are you trying to get the drunkard title, and just unable to fight? Adventurers, do all of your Droknar Runners say they are PRO, and keep dying on YOU?! Then come to Beacon Perch’s very own Dwarven EXPRESS! We have the finest warriors equipped with armor made STRAIGHT from Droknar’s Forge here to guide you through the barren ice death traps that wait ahead of you! Don’t let your fortunes, let alone your lives, be lost from the dangers that lie within the shiverpeaks! The finest and most skilled warriors from all of Tyria are here at the Dwarven Express for your disposal to guide you on the extremely dangerous path to Droknar’s Forge! We ask not your line of business! From farming to trapping to trading to killing mesmers! Come now! Come ALL! Space is running out as the next run to Droknar will leave at dawn! LAST CALL FOR THE DWARVEN EXPRESS!”
In front of the wooden hut, the town pub, a Dwarven Merchant yells his final call for business under the torch light. 25 paces to his right, he notices an attractive newly hired human female Xunlai Agent, struggling mercilessly trying to keep a few of the town Storage’s 8 foot Torches alit.
Light howls from the wind hitting the side of the fort creats ChilLz along the merchant’s back, averting his mind from the hopelessly cute storage clerk.
The winds that night remind him of when he almost Died on the great shiverpeaks. Stranded; and out in the peaks during the worst blizzard in the last 4 decades, would give any one the feeling of the horrid mesmer dance, know what I mean?
The snowflakes tingle as the Dwarven Merchant takes a deep sigh of relief, finalizing in his mind, his newly accomplished hard days work. The black and dirtied snow trails left by hundreds of adventurers that day have already began to fill and cover. Fresh layers of powdered snow continued descending from the glittering heavens above.
Most of the adventurers have already sought shelter at the Inn or fortified themselves inside his pub with a few mugs of freshly brewed ice cold lip biting dwarven ale. All he could see that were left out were a few rival groups of trappers, their pets alike, a ranger here, a monk there, a couple of amateur private contracting runners, and the poor Xunlai Agent to his right… having to check in and out 24 hours a day, the items of a wopping 777 person populous, generously not counting their wives and children.
Gleaming from the east, the merchant scans the innards of the wooden fort known as Beacon’s Porch. It lays on the side of one of the central mountains in Shiverpeak, serving as a pivot point for prosperous and adventure seeking travelers to and from 3 of the main cities in Tyria: Ascalon, Lion’s Arch, and most of all, Droknar’s Forge.
“I bet this be the end for today,” the merchant says in a soft weary voice. Just then, the merchant felt the ground resonate below his feet, giving him a slight startle. The low howl and rumble of the fort gate horns were being blown! They were the only warning given exactly 20 minutes before the closing of the fort’s two gigantic gates, each leading to either Deldrimor Bowl or Lornar’s Pass. Even now, after 20 years, he could still be startled by the massive power of the gate horns.
The merchant turns and starts walking toward his pub, mentally preparing himself for the tending of his already half drunken customers. The music and dancing from inside the pub got louder and louder with each step, each leaving a new 3-inch footprint in the snow behind.
<BANG! CRASH! Sounds of women ScreEEeecChingZzZ!>
<sounds of tables crashing and plates breaking>
The merchant staggars for the door, dreading the condition of his newly remodeled pub. He jumps up the stone steps, and reaches for the handle to the wooden door, when all of a sudden, the door slams into the merchant’s wrist, knocking him back along with 2 wailing individuals that fall out the door, luckily missing the half dozen stone steps and into the snow.
The merchant, with an intense pain in his right hand, tries getting up, only to fall again with the pain of putting weight on his right wrist. Next to him, a human and a black bearded
mercilessly roll around, each struggling to gain the upper hand in this apparent fight. As the merchant finally picks himself up with the sole use of his left hand, the struggling on the floor finally gains control and pins the human to the ground face up, reaching for a dagger in his right boot. He draws his weapon, ready to strike down the victim trapped beneath his groins. He raises his arm to swing and says, “Dryconias! Tonight, you die!” in a low out of breath tone. The dagger then flys into the Human’s chest, resulting in a loud sickening cRAcK of bones! Both the
and the human lay still. The merchant, not sure of what to make of the scene, stands in silence, completely bewildered as to what he should do. A stain of red snow began arching outward from beneath the two bodies.
