Braided green cord

Some braided green cord is found in the west room of the River's Rest Museum.

Description

This is just an old section of braided green cord.  The color has faded over time and it's easy to see the old cord has been through rough wear.

Attached to the braided green cord is a tag that reads, "This cord is thought to have belonged to Millah Pradapt, the leader of the famed Falcon company, who fought under the Last Commander of the Citadel (4002 to 4,011 M.E.).  The cord was used as a symbol of rank."

Loresong

As you grasp the braided green cord and begin your song, you seem to hear the sound of distant drumming.  You feel your spirit being drawn away from the present, and the drumming becomes louder.  A vision comes to you...troops standing at parade, arranged in orderly lines while being inspected by a tall, wiry, jug-eared man.  The man's uniform, like the uniforms of the troops, is clean but much-patched.

He finishes his inspection, then addresses the troops.  "We are not here to mourn the loss of Tivin Welqen!" he states in a loud, commanding voice.  "Tivin led Falcon company well and he died well.  We will all mourn him in our own way, quietly, as he'd have wanted.  Today we gather to honor the new leader of Falcon company.  All hail Millah Pradapt!"

The troops erupt in cheers and applause.  The commander steps up to a wide-shouldered woman with short-cropped, blonde hair and a pink scar reaching from her broken nose to her jawline.  He pins a length of braided gold cord across her shoulder, then leans in close and whispers in her ear.  "Tivin was a brave man, but stupid," he says.  "He died bravely, but stupidly...and so did many of his men.  Learn from his mistakes."

The sound of drumming continues as you resume singing to the cord, but the sound is chaotic rather than disciplined.  You find yourself huddled beneath a large canvas tarp along with dozens of warriors.  Rain drums furiously on the tarp and the warriors squat around small fires, drinking mugs of sweet tea.  Their cloaks are secured by pins made of onyx and bearing the stylized image of a falcon's head.  Moving through the crowd is Millah Pradapt, wearing her new gold cord on the shoulder of her battle-worn uniform.  She approaches a skinny young half-elven man whose cheek has never known a razor.

Millah taps him on the shoulder and says, "Listen, Peach, I'm making some changes in the company.  I want you to...."  "My name's not Peach," the young man interrupts.  Millah fixes him with a cold stare.  "Three things," she says.  "First, never interrupt me unless it's important.  Second, until you start to shave your name is Peach.  Third, I want you to take over Falcon's scouts."  She holds out a braided green cord, dangles it in front of the young man's hand, and raises an eyebrow.

The young man stares at the cord for a moment, then looks up at Millah and says, "Just call me Peach."

A burst of staccato drumming startles you as you continue your song to the braided green cord.  A voice calls out, "Not yet...wait for it!"  It takes a moment for the vision to become clear, and you find yourself with a small troop of warriors huddled beneath raised shields.  Kneeling nearby is Peach.  He calls out, "Get ready!  After the next volley!"

Almost immediately you hear a flight of arrows thrilling through the air, then striking the upraised shields with a sound like a badly-played, cheap drum.  Peach shouts, "Now!  Go!"  The warriors rise as one and run away from the enemy, reaching a grove of thick pine trees before the next volley of arrows can fall.

Peach leads the scouts quickly through the woods.  The only sound is the ragged breathing of the weary troops and the occasional clatter of equipment.  Peach makes a hand signal and the warriors scatter into the woods and take up ambush positions.  They wait quietly, remaining nearly motionless, for a long while.  When it becomes clear they're not being followed, Peach stands up and signals his troops.  "Let's go home," he says.

As they walk quietly through the woods, Peach is approached by a large, muscular warrior who is several inches taller and several years older.  "I don't like running from the enemy," the man says.  Peach nods without bothering to look at him.  "It stinks of cowardice," the tall warrior says.  Peach raises his arm and sniffs at his armpit.  He makes a face and says, "It *is* pretty foul."  The tall warrior looks down at Peach and sneers.  "You are a coward, then?"  Peach nods.  "Given the chance, yes."  He finally looks up at the tall warrior.  "What do scouts do?" he asks.  The warrior considers the question for a moment.  "Find the enemy so that we may do battle with them," he responds.  Peach sighs and says, "Find the enemy and report back so that we can do battle with them.  Report *back*!  There's no point in finding the enemy if you get killed before you can report back.  How many archers did we encounter?  How many spearmen?  Were they green warriors or battle-hardened?  Were they well-fed or hungry?  Were they fresh or tired?"

The tall warrior is unable to answer Peach's questions.  Peach says, "I'm not afraid of the enemy.  I'm afraid of being asked those questions by Millah Pradapt and not having the answers.  Learn to pay attention, because after our next scouting mission, *you* will be the one reporting to Millah."

The tall warrior goes pale.

The sound of drumming returns as you resume your song.  This time the sound is rhythmic, in perfect cadence, although monotonous.  As your vision becomes more clear, you find yourself looking over the shoulder of Peach as he peers down from a low, tree-lined ridge.  In the valley below is a huge force of trolls and orcs, marching in formation.  The drumming of their iron-soled boots echoes up the ridge.

The tall warrior is at Peach's side.  "Gods help us," he says.  "I've never seen so many orcs and trolls in one place."  In a calm voice Peach asks "How many do you see?"  The warrior says, "More than there are fleas on a rolton."  Peach nods.  "A very charming image," he says.  "I'm sure Millah will find it useful."

Anxiety floods the tall warrior's eyes.  "How can anybody count so many enemy?" he asks.  "You can't," Peach says.  "Imagine a line dividing them in half and look only at the left half.  Now imagine another line dividing that group in half.  Can you estimate that number?"  The warrior nods.  "Then multiply it by four," Peach says, "and you'll have something to report to Millah when we get back to...."

A thrown axe whirs between Peach and the tall warrior, imbedding itself in the neck of the next man!  A band of orcs suddenly leaps among the scouts, hacking and grunting and cursing!  The scouts fight back with grim, quiet efficiency.  The orcs raise an alarm, calling loudly for support!

The tall warrior is fighting with astonishing ferocity.  He feels a tug at his leg and spins around quickly, his broadsword raise to attack!  But it's just Peach, lying on the turf.  An arrow is thrust through his left arm, and another is imbedded in his shoulder.  A deep gash in his side oozes thick, dark red blood.  Peach tears the cord off his shoulder and holds it out to the tall warrior.

"Take this," Peach yells.  "Run!  Get away!  Report to Millah!"  The tall warrior hesitates.  "Run!" Peach shouts.

The tall warrior grabs the cord and flees, knowing his comrades remain behind to protect his escape.