Silverfire

Here is some of a story I started a long while back based on a great D&D campaign I was privileged to participate in. This is not how I remember it and I do not think this is the best version of it, (yes it was rewritten several times) so if someone out there has the good copy which I can't seem to find, please let me know. I would really like to go further with this some day, maybe I'll even be able to complete this tale... Anyway, on with the goods!


Silverfire

Outside the Pride of Waterdeep Inn the temperature was dropping rapidly, as the sun had fallen behind the horizon a few hours ago. It was fast approaching late autumn and although the hour was late, many merchants were still going about their business, eager to secure their shipments before the winter hit in full and the shipping ceased. The sky was without stars this windy night, shut out by the approaching storm that closed in on the city from the north. The unusual blackness of the sky and the gusting, howling wind made the outdoors seem most uninviting.

Within the sturdy walls of the Pride of Waterdeep, though, the patrons of the inn were in a joyous state. All of them with the exception of one. An elf. A most unusual individual to be unengaged in the festivities about him, yet he was quite removed from the cheers, toasts to friends, and laughter that filled the place. Off at a corner table, all alone sat the elf. He was of normal height and build for an elf with nothing remarkable about

him, save his long, silvery hair and his stern, piercing silver gaze.

His only company was the tall bottle of elvin wine, and a long sword lying unsheathed, next to it's scabbard upon the small, round table. The elf sat perfectly still, staring at the sword before him. His only movements were to take an occasional, deep swallow from the open bottle which, was now, nearly half empty.

Off to the side, a barmaid approached the small, wooden table that the elf occupied. Too far into his own thoughts, the normally alert elf was oblivious to her advance. Standing directly beside the elf, the barmaid reached out and placed her hand on his shoulder and leaned closer meaning to whisper into his delicate ear.

Suddenly the elf snapped back to his immediate surroundings. Without hesitation he sprang from his chair, snatching the sword from the table as he rose. The unfortunate barmaid soon found herself lying flat on her back with the elf poised above her, his eyes full of blazing hatred, and his sword resting on her collar bone, it's tip scratching her throat.

The taproom became suddenly quiet, as the patrons considered the comotion and it's source. The elf sensed all those eyes glaring at him and forced himself to relax his sword. The barmaid's fear showed plainly upon her face and for many uncomfrotable moments, even when the elf returned the sword to the table, she lay there, not daring to move. Neither did the eyes of the crowded room move, staying firmly fixed upon the very odd, and seemingly hostile, elf.

Becoming very uncomfortable under the stares, the elf turned his discomfort into anger and vented it on the unfortunate woman, who was still lying at his feet.

"Damned human, don't ever sneak up on me like that again. It is a very good way to end your pathetic existence." With that the elf spun around and seated himself back at his table, returning to his lucidity.

Completely shocked the woman sat there dumbly for a moment more. Then, she burst into tears as she scrambled to her feet and ran back to the kitchen. Another barmaid followed her into the kitchen, and a dark scowl etched itself into the bartender's face as he looked on. The crowd continued it's silent observation of the situation, as if they expected something more to occur.

This went on for several more seconds, the grouping in the taproom gazing at the elf, and the elf, in return, ignoring the fact that they even existed. Suddenly the silence was shattered when a dwarf stood upon his table and held his mug up bellowing,"Give me another mug 'o mead, real mead this time not this watered down orc piss."

The gathering relaxed at that, some even chuckling at the obviously intoxicated dwarf - the chuckles inevitably received a threatening glare from the aggravated dwarf. The bartender was unsure if he should be grateful to the dwarf for breaking the tension, or if he should be offended by the dwarf's accusation. With a shrug he poured a tall glass of his strongest mead, promptly sending it to the dwarf's table. His bar was far more important than a drunken dwarf's opinion of his mead.