Signals

[LucienMoonmist]

*His sharp ears perked as he heard the awaited horn. He had guessed this time would come. Standing on the branch he was previously sitting upon, he pulled a small set of silvered pipes from his tunic. Settling them to his lips, he began a soft melody, almost below that which a human could hear. So gentle, reminiscent of wind chimes from a distant hill.

Almost immediatly, the woods themselves seem to come to life with action as many grey and green clad archers began to move about the woodlands. Slowly they made their way to assigned positions. Looking south, his eyes picked up the single arrow shot into the air and nodded. Those he sent south were readying themselves as well. He merely grinned at the trained archers efficency. If only theie enemies would have the chance to appreciate it as he did now. With a grin, he hopped fro mthe branch and drew his bow, moving himself to the castle, safe in the knowledge that those whom they fought would not see their elegance. They would witness well the clouds of death which would rain upon them. Of that, he was certain.*

[LucienMoonmist]

*He had watched the archers move into their positions flawlessly. The moved with pride and purpose, yet concealed from view and muted from sound. They were the deliverance of Death upon the winds. The ones in the south had split themselves off into their assigned groups, and should have made contact with good sir Hawkmoon at this point. He should smile a bit knowing that he had a small hidden contingent of archers holding his rear should things go sour. In the woods, the elves had gone about securing and laying themselves to hold attacks from most sides should it come that way. A small group even to monitor the sea edges within view of this place. None would pass through here that sought harm or malice. The small group he had sent back to the caastle were fine and well. Even on the open plains of grass, an elf would only be seen if they desired it. That group did not wish it. They would be reinforcing the archers within windstorm it's self as well as splitting to add strength to the harbor. No, one did not cross the elves. One did not cross the friends of the elves. With a grin, Lucien nodded to the young elf beside him. She moved off and nearly vanished into the woods. Moving back to the edge facing Windstorm, he nodded lightly, whispering softly*

"May no blood spill which is loved."

*Those near him uttered the same words as they turned and moved back into the concealing arms of the forest.*

[Ponde]

Unblinking depthless dark eyes pierced the foliage as they swept the harbor below her, missing little. Lithe as a weasel, finely muscled cords in her slender arms taught as she shifted soundlessly from one side of the beech’s trunk to the other. She settled in with endless patience, prepared to wait days if it were required of her.

Leaning back against the solidness of the ancient tree, she set the pad of her curved right index finger into the bowl that she formed with her small pink tongue and wet it for several long moments, circling the tip slowly, then lightly and with an almost reverent gentleness, she brushed her finger lightly along the length of the string . . . She had caught her bowmaster doing it once, long ago. Her question as to it’s reasoning met merely with a laugh. She’d secretly adopted the practice . . inventing her own reasons . .

Setting her bow across her lap, she reached around and rapidly retied her long raven hair back into a knot, securing it with a silver sliver. Her left forearm wrapped lightly in fawn doeskin strips, her soft gray tunic sleeveless and close fitting, with nothing extra to hamper movement. Secured to her hip were the usual 15 arrows, always the same number when she set out . . each fletched the same color, except for one. The heads, however, varied, in substance and intent. Seven of black obsidian, chipped by her own hand to a razored edge, seven of iron . . and one a vicious double pointed head that ripped flesh mercilessly, leaving wounds that would not easily heal, if ever. That one she saved for “special” targets . .

She watched the ships bobbing like leaves, wondering idly at whom her special treat would be chosen to receive.