The Elves of The War Meadows cheerfully dance and drink in celebration of life in the form of a newborn goddess, Zeale. The pub is filled with every member of this closed society all in high spirits. Walls carved from white pine stationed inside the hollow of a rolling hill. Lanterns light the narrow corridors and sleek door frames leading to the city’s only tavern. Oak barrels are used as seating circling mossed stumps from trees well past their time.
Enemy to The Elves of The War Meadows, Lord Kolvar, enters with a few of his loyal lackeys. Faelyn, Elvish Prince of The War Meadows, stands proudly as his brethren begin to kneel before that of darkness himself, Lord Kolvar. Lord Kolvar cackles wickedly gesturing for his lackeys to restrain Faelyn as he turns away.
FAELYN. (Confident.) Coward. (Beat. Lord Kolvar turns.) The War Meadows has been home to my people for centuries. After our ancestors were cast down from the mountain peaks they were forced to fend for themselves against your hellish armies of barbarians that roamed the desert land. Fleeing towards running water they eventually found a home, WE eventually found a home. All we seek is an asylum from your brutality. Why is that you bother us here? On a glorious night celebration at that? We are a peaceful, loving race. As prince of this realm, I request your immediate removal from this tavern.
Unbothered, Lord Kolvar mockingly sniggers under his stench breath and turns away once more. In a swift motion, Faelyn manages to slice his lackeys to shreds using razor slide lining of his heel. Drawing an arrow from his quiver, Faelyn once more confidently addresses Lord Kolvar.
FAELYN. It is of the utmost disrespect to turn your rear to royalty. Now. (Beat.) Take the remainder of your lackeys and kindly show yourself out. We have guests and I don’t think they’re sporting the appropriate attire for battle.
Lord Kolvar draws his ax forged by the ice of the mountain peaks High Priestess. He turns, readying his stance as his lackeys surround him.
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