Lanésto's Plight

Armor creaked as the soldiers atop the battlements shuffled in place. A sense of nervous apprehension lay around the Castle Drent like a mist. Since midday, a blackish fog had been gathering a few miles away, just past the moorlands. The baron of the castle, Lanésto, had been notified by a watchman of its occurrence. By now the whole population of Castle Drent knew something odd was going to happen, but what? An old man in the courtyard muttered, “What sallies forth from beyond the moor?”, as the citizens shuddered in a gust of unnaturally cold air. The baron walked away from the parapet window he had been gazing through and signaled his advisor.

“Bring the Elder to me, would you? I have need of his wisdom.”, said Lanésto, forebodings in his deep brown eyes. The Elder came, and greeted Lanésto somberly.

“Of better days have I addressed you, milord.”

“Indeed, old friend. Yet I do not know the exact of what makes it contrary, thus, I appeal to you.” Lanésto was grave in his tone.

“The news is strange. What gathers behind the gloom is not of this world; ‘tis an Unseelie host, bound by blood to follow their prey. They march five leagues hence, a league ere the inception of the fog.”

“Shall they afflict us?” queried Lanésto.

“It is difficult to say at this point, sire. The unholy fog currently bears due south, and we lay just out of its path, a tack southwest.”

“Well. Let us pray for their consistency in keeping to a course. Can we do no more than this, Varoq?, asked the baron.

“I’m afraid so, my lord.”, the Elder replied.

The End

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