Walt-Marsters

Up Elf, Down Elf By Larqven 2090's a.a.H. Southwestern highland borderlands of the Queendom of Priva There was a throng of folk everywhere. The grounds were being torn up again for the tri-annual festival after being pasture in the interrum. The Privan priest Astur wondered how many of the livestock of the local drow had been slaughtered for the 'Argyle Rut' as many Privans irreverently referred to the fertility festival. Much of the food was brought in via caravans, drives, or poled up the Alfos River and prepared outside of Dahl'Wrache. It was lucrative since many feared and often refused to eat anything prepared by drow. "Watch yourself, teacher, lest you fall into--misfortune," Astur's attendant warned him. Alexandra turned her gaze in the fading twilight towards the rising hills and escarpments to the southeast; with the Dargoina Mountains rising far in the background, still colored in a surprisingly cheery rose despite the gathering gloom around them. But