Post by Baethor on Nov 13, 2006 20:53:34 GMT -5
The scent of incense and old leather wafts around you as you walk down another row of books. sunlight reflected by mirrors lights the rows as you walk through, glancing at books written in strange languages, or in strange rune-like glyphs. Turning pas the next row, you come across an old man sitting at a desk, a pair of thick glasses hangs on the end of a long crooked nose. The man does not notice your approach, studiously he reads from two books while quickly scribbling in another, muttering under his breath in some strange tongue. His snow white hair pulled tight behind his head, occasionally stroking his thin white beard in deep thought. A small raven sitting nearby on a perch of stacked book, caws at you as you approach. as if snapping out of sleep his head suddenly snaps up, his eyes seeming to change color in the sunlight examining you as you approach. "Eh?! Who are you!? what are you doing here?!"
his tone surprises you momentarily, as does the sudden way he slams his books shut by waving his hands over them. "Oh yes...i remember now...your the one wondering about Black Gnolls...hmm...follow me." his chair creaking out from under him, he strides out from behind his desk, moving with a slight hunch, the raven flaps off and lands on the mans shoulder, staring at you as you follow the strange old man. "I am the Historian," he explains "I am charged with recording known legends, finding unknown legends, translating ancient texts, and so on. and of course to the certain person in need, in this case you, helping them learn about how to best deal with a drastic situation."
Turning around another stack of books the Historian climbs a large spiral staircase, leading to a second level, filled with even more books, most of them dusty and obviously very old. "I remember this warrior once...needed to learn how to kill a dragon-lich. now that was an interesting subject to look up...Ah! here we are." Waving his hand through the air, a book on a high shelf pulls itself from its perch and floats silently to the Historians hands. "The black gnoll is a still recent legend, first recorded by the very first historian almost 300 years ago. This," waving the old book in front of your face "is the first report of a black gnoll. It's a soldiers journal, I'll read you the entry you'll want to hear..."
Rifling through the pages, he pauses his lips moving but making no sound. "Ah, here we are. "They swarmed on us, like a cloud of claws and fangs. Nothing we could throw at them slowed their advance. A gnoll unlike any we had seen stood in the midst of their ranks, growling out their guttural language. his fur was black as night, standing easily a head over any of our men. I can feel my life slipping from me, so i must write quickly. The gnolls chanted a name as their leader, the black gnoll, walked through their ranks. That name was Gruhll. The gnolls gathered the few living men, and Gruhll would look them over before barking an order. some of them were tied and carried off, others just gutted were they knelt. I was only giving a gut wound, but with the clerics dead, my wound will soon take me. Beware the black gnoll, he cannot be stopped." And thats where it trails off into unreadable words."
The librarian snaps the book shut and tosses it into the air, letting it glide back to its resting place. "Gruhll, the gnoll chieftain. Men say his father was a true wolf, and his mother a gnoll. but the elves say his father was a forest demon, who took the form of a wolf. in either case, Gruhll was special...I've ready many other reports, from men, and elves. but each time something is different, the gnolls are better armed, better prepared, and more skilled. Gruhll learned from each attack, taking leaders and soldiers, torturing some to learn tactics and secrets. others were kept separated and were given better treatment, if they taught the common tongue to Gruhll and his shamans. learning the common tongue allowed Gruhll to better gain information, which he would pass on to his shamans."
Moving along down the aisles he grabs another tome off of a low shelf and walks over to a pedestal lit by a ray of sunlight, waving his hand over the tome the pages flip and settle, a picture of a normal gnoll is drawn on the page. "According to this, gnolls live for an average of 20 to 25 years, aging about four years for every one human year. however reports of Gruhll's attacks lasted for almost 40 years. rumors are that he lived to be 45. which in itself is amazing, somehow he convinced a great number of gnolls to fight for him, at a very young age. there have also been filed reports of assassination attempts on him, all of which failed. Poisons failed to phase Gruhll, and magics seem to simply not work. If the assassins ever confronted in battle, they were cut down expertly. Gruhll was a master of fighting with sword and shield, and was often witnessed fighting in the front lines with his gnolls." closing the large tome. the historian turns to look you in the eyes again, his glasses glinting in the sunlight.
"Some say he could not be killed, and his demon blood kept him alive for so long. that same blood however, did not die with him. Gruhll took only two mates in his life, both of them baring him pups, but neither of them could outlive him. his pups however were not black gnolls. though they were stronger then other gnolls, they were not near the power of Gruhll....his great great grand pups however...is a different story....come with me..." the Historian wanders off darkly, heading down a dark corridor, lit by candles.
(to be continued.)
his tone surprises you momentarily, as does the sudden way he slams his books shut by waving his hands over them. "Oh yes...i remember now...your the one wondering about Black Gnolls...hmm...follow me." his chair creaking out from under him, he strides out from behind his desk, moving with a slight hunch, the raven flaps off and lands on the mans shoulder, staring at you as you follow the strange old man. "I am the Historian," he explains "I am charged with recording known legends, finding unknown legends, translating ancient texts, and so on. and of course to the certain person in need, in this case you, helping them learn about how to best deal with a drastic situation."
Turning around another stack of books the Historian climbs a large spiral staircase, leading to a second level, filled with even more books, most of them dusty and obviously very old. "I remember this warrior once...needed to learn how to kill a dragon-lich. now that was an interesting subject to look up...Ah! here we are." Waving his hand through the air, a book on a high shelf pulls itself from its perch and floats silently to the Historians hands. "The black gnoll is a still recent legend, first recorded by the very first historian almost 300 years ago. This," waving the old book in front of your face "is the first report of a black gnoll. It's a soldiers journal, I'll read you the entry you'll want to hear..."
Rifling through the pages, he pauses his lips moving but making no sound. "Ah, here we are. "They swarmed on us, like a cloud of claws and fangs. Nothing we could throw at them slowed their advance. A gnoll unlike any we had seen stood in the midst of their ranks, growling out their guttural language. his fur was black as night, standing easily a head over any of our men. I can feel my life slipping from me, so i must write quickly. The gnolls chanted a name as their leader, the black gnoll, walked through their ranks. That name was Gruhll. The gnolls gathered the few living men, and Gruhll would look them over before barking an order. some of them were tied and carried off, others just gutted were they knelt. I was only giving a gut wound, but with the clerics dead, my wound will soon take me. Beware the black gnoll, he cannot be stopped." And thats where it trails off into unreadable words."
The librarian snaps the book shut and tosses it into the air, letting it glide back to its resting place. "Gruhll, the gnoll chieftain. Men say his father was a true wolf, and his mother a gnoll. but the elves say his father was a forest demon, who took the form of a wolf. in either case, Gruhll was special...I've ready many other reports, from men, and elves. but each time something is different, the gnolls are better armed, better prepared, and more skilled. Gruhll learned from each attack, taking leaders and soldiers, torturing some to learn tactics and secrets. others were kept separated and were given better treatment, if they taught the common tongue to Gruhll and his shamans. learning the common tongue allowed Gruhll to better gain information, which he would pass on to his shamans."
Moving along down the aisles he grabs another tome off of a low shelf and walks over to a pedestal lit by a ray of sunlight, waving his hand over the tome the pages flip and settle, a picture of a normal gnoll is drawn on the page. "According to this, gnolls live for an average of 20 to 25 years, aging about four years for every one human year. however reports of Gruhll's attacks lasted for almost 40 years. rumors are that he lived to be 45. which in itself is amazing, somehow he convinced a great number of gnolls to fight for him, at a very young age. there have also been filed reports of assassination attempts on him, all of which failed. Poisons failed to phase Gruhll, and magics seem to simply not work. If the assassins ever confronted in battle, they were cut down expertly. Gruhll was a master of fighting with sword and shield, and was often witnessed fighting in the front lines with his gnolls." closing the large tome. the historian turns to look you in the eyes again, his glasses glinting in the sunlight.
"Some say he could not be killed, and his demon blood kept him alive for so long. that same blood however, did not die with him. Gruhll took only two mates in his life, both of them baring him pups, but neither of them could outlive him. his pups however were not black gnolls. though they were stronger then other gnolls, they were not near the power of Gruhll....his great great grand pups however...is a different story....come with me..." the Historian wanders off darkly, heading down a dark corridor, lit by candles.
(to be continued.)