[b]Banaari[/b]

[b]15th Day of Summer, Belias Shield Encampment, Greater Cardinal War Camp[/b]

“Fucker!” 

The dishevelled remnants of a once quite fine leather boot came flying out of the sagging entrance of a rather lopsided tent, narrowly missing a young squire’s head, soon after that guttural curse. The squire yelped and ducked as the unorthodox projectile sailed past him and splattered into the mud of the thoroughfare, where it was quickly consumed by muck and dragged down into the depths. The boy, one of three squires to the Lord Dakuris of Melfic, decided it wasn’t worth sticking around to find out who had thrown the boot so carelessly, as they likely had a spare to launch at him if he mouthed off and they might not miss a second time. He skittered off, just in time to miss the oddly mixed sight (both sad and comical) of a proud, aged, Grey Elf with one boot missing and his holey sock on display. The Elf in question shook one gnarled and warped fist at the sunken shoe and turned away, closing the sleepy entrance to his tent as he went, and the camp moved on without him.

“Fuck it arl wear odd’uns then.” The Elf muttered to himself, spitting out a clump of his messy long grey hair as it got stuck in his teeth in the excitement. He stooped over to an old and quite clearly different boot to his brown leather one and pulled it on, wincing slightly as it pinched his toe. It was inferior to the brown boot in every way, shame he couldn’t fix the other, but that was life. It was getting harder to fix things with those shaky hands of his, and he was forgetting all the tricks he’d picked up. Soon he wouldn’t even be able to do handy-man things, seeing as how he was getting less and less handy. Then he’d be worthless, might as well go off into the wilderness to die like the Wild Ones used to. He grunted, stooped to pick up his sword mostly out of habit, and shrugged it sheath and all onto his back. It wouldn’t do him much good back there, he’d have to whip the sheath off just to pull the sword out, but he didn’t do [i]that[/i] these days anyway. Better to leave it to the young’uns, this was their show now, he’d had his time.

The old Elf, who was named Banaari by his Father nearly three centuries ago, left his tent and followed the crowd. It was best in places like this to let oneself get swept up in the wave of bodies, carried to wherever it was one needs to go. Better than to fight the tide and find yourself battered and bruised, tired beyond belief, and swept up in it regardless. Or so he thought, anyway. This time, it seemed he was to be led to the speaking stand, where all the fine orators made their speeches and instilled honour and courage in their men. He couldn’t wait to be inspired.

"THE DUCHESS WILL SPEAK! YOU WILL LISTEN! IT IS TIME! IT IS TIME!"

The herald roared, and Banaari winced as his large sensitive ears flinched at the noise and it brought back memories. He shrugged off his discomfort with a sarcastic little quip.

“Not thar we ‘ave a choice in thar matter when ye be shouting at the top of ye lungs though is it?” He said in his more common accent, loud enough for the people next to him to get a chuckle out of it. Most of them did, and the others smiled and nodded. Elf or Man, most dog’s bodies could appreciate a good joke at the expense of the top dogs. Though when one turned around and noticed an old as dirt Grey Elf dressed in rough brown homespun behind him, he did a comical double take. Unsurprising, Grey Elves were uncommon enough but old ones were almost unheard of. They’d all died in the wars.