Fostering Interspecies Understanding (The Damn, Dirty Elves Quest)

[King Ghidorah]

Amid the darkening twilight I stalk the streets of Harnburg, home to Castle Harnburg and capitol of the duchy to which it lends its name. The town is shaped like a crescent teardrop (a form which will in time prove to be devastatingly appropriate), narrow at its northern end but widening as it curls around the lake towards the ducal fortress which lies at its heart. What began as a single cobblestone road, a paved continuation of the path I followed to reach this place, soon forks into three wide avenues. They present a drastic change from the packed-earth wagon-trails I've traveled until now, lined on either side by two and three-story thatched-roof buildings wrought of dark bricks and ruddy stone. Wooden signs hung above the doors and windows offer a variety of services, an enticing glimpse into a complex universe of interconnected trades - taverns, smithies, inns and glassmakers, seamstresses and butchers, carpenters and masons. 

I'll visit these establishments later, to observe them in operation and learn about their customers in greater detail. For now, though, something else catches my attention: Large (for tiny human values of the word) men wearing chain-mail shirts, red tights, and open-faced helmets have begun to appear on the streets, patrolling at long, irregular intervals. They've all got smallish metal discs fastened to their forearms with hide straps, lanterns in their hands, and small swords sheathed at their hips. At first I think they're simply lost, but they're all too much alike for this display to be coincidence. 


I try to stop one of them - very soon after they appeared they became the only people around - but they seem to be making an effort to avoid me, hastening around corners and ducking into alleyways. Finally I manage to corner one in a broad market square paved with wide, flat flagstones, trapping him between a pair of shuttered wooden stalls that abut the outer fortifications of Harnburg Castle. For all that he's near my height, he looks very small and alone standing in he shadows with his little lamp and his little shield, looking at my hide blazing bronze in the light of his lantern and trying to decide whether or not to draw his weapon.

"What," I ask him, my voice dripping with cold curiosity, "are you doing?"

[King Ghidorah]

At first, the fellow seems to be at a loss - so I pull his sword from his belt, glean a small nihilistic thrill from bending it in half, pin him against the wall by the shoulders and ask him again. 

"What are you doing? Why are you dressed the same as all those other men?"

He tenses, and at first I think he's going to struggle, but then he thinks better of it. 

"We're the city watch," he says, with only a slight tremor in his voice. "The Duke's men. We're on patrol - enforcing curfew." 

I take a moment to think about that, processing the meaning of curfew (a word I didn't know I knew, filled with the cadences of disappointment and weakness), and frowning as I spot a contradiction. 

"If you're enforcing a curfew, then why have none of you approached me? Besides your fellow soldiers I'm literally the only person I've seen outdoors since the sun finished setting. Are you all incompetent, or merely afraid?" 

The watchman looks nervous, an indecipherable series of expressions flickering across his craggy, fire-lit features before he gives his answer.  

"The Duke told us not to engage you if we could help it." 

I let go of the watchman's shoulders and grab him by the front of his chain-mail instead, lifting him off the ground. His armor chitters and clicks as it scrapes against the red stone wall. I nearly demand he tell me how the Duke could possibly know I was coming, but the answer strikes me before the words can pass my lips, blindingly obvious: Chatterly. My new, mysterious acquaintance must work for the Duke of Harnburg. Why else would he have instructed me to ask for him at the castle?

Instead I ask, "Why?"

The watchman's eyes flicker down toward my golden grasp, powerful fingers crushing the links of his hauberk.  

"Because," he says, swallowing, "You're to be his guest. And he doesn't want us to provoke you." 

I'm tickled by the futility of the gesture; Provoked or not, I'm going to kill them all. The only thing the Duke's consideration has bought him is time.  My laughter echoes across the square, reverberating off the masonry, and I let go of the man's armor. He manages to keep his feet when he hits the ground. 

"Your Duke is wise. Now. Tell me about yourself."  

***

It takes almost an hour to extract enough information about corporal Sebastian Hoen of the Harnburg militia to satisfy me. I've gotten better with practice - I'm learning which questions to ask, and the best ways to keep a person talking when they don't necessarily feel like it. 

 As it turns out, he's actually quite interesting: created out of nothing, with only basic skill at arms and knowledge of how to live, the man has gone out of his way to make himself likable, but it hasn't quite worked out the way he'd hoped. Women find him attractive for breeding purposes, but he's never quite sure how to deal with that, and keeps finding himself getting chased out of other people's bedrooms by angry men - and on one occasion an angry mob, to the ongoing amusement of his fellow soldiers. He mostly spends his days practicing with the sword I just ruined, or carrying out mundane tasks, and his nights sleeping or out on patrol. In spite of his strength, which is above average for a secondary, Sebastian feels like nobody respects him, and suspects that although he may be acting out his original purpose, he's also wasting his life. 

I tell him he's right, and leave him leaning downtrodden against the wall. The irony of his death at this moment would be brilliant, but sadly the cost would be too great. The Duke is expecting me, and breaking one of his toys would be too obvious; It would render much of my restraint up until this point useless.

The streets and squares surrounding the outer walls of Harnburg Castle are more ornate than the rest of the town. The gutters are cleaner, the rooftops are shingled rather than thatched, and the corners of the buildings are decorated - statuary at street level (mostly of rams and lions) and gargoyles in the eaves. In the starlight, as I circle towards the gatehouse, their open mouths and proud poses almost look like masks of terror - as though the stones alone can see what's soon to come.    

Post 1: 383 words according to wordcounter.net
Post 2: 711 words according to wordcounter.net

1094 words total.

-Travel to Harnburg: accomplished 

[King Ghidorah]

Gaining entrance to Harnburg Castle turns out to be surprisingly simple. 

The main gate is on the easterly side of the castle walls, facing the top of the valley, and consists of two one-story-high slabs of black iron, studded with rivets and mounted on hinges as big around as my thighs. They fit snugly between a pair of stout, square towers, built from the same red stone as the walls they adjoin (and, for that matter, almost everything else in this valley!) Together with a narrow terrace laid between their parapets, they form a sturdy gatehouse, facing a broad market-square. Torches are set in brackets on either side of the portal, lighting the entrance to the castle grounds with an oily orange glow. The iron doors are barred for the night, and as much as it galls me to admit it, I don't think I have the power to force them open without ascending first - I imagine them flying off their hinges beneath a barrage of golden lightning, molten, twisted and useless as the gatehouse explodes into stony shrapnel, and the echoes of anticipated destruction make me tingle.  

There's a single wooden door with a large shiny lock at the base of one of the towers, atop a small set of steps. A guard stands beside it, looking dumpy and nervous in the torchlight, with a set of keys hanging from his belt. He's fat, his tights don't fit, and his chainmail is spotty, and when he sees me step into the light, my lustrous hide beaming incandescent as it captures the torches' flames, he slams into the wall in his haste to back away. 

"I am here to see the Duke," I announce, showing my fangs. "Open the door."         

He doesn't argue - though he drops the keys twice before the lock clicks open. Making a mental note to track him down later (to learn more about how someone so unsuited to the job becomes a soldier, and what secret dreams he clings to) I mount the stair and step inside.

The gatehouse is sparsely furnished (which is a word whose precision I admire), and reeks of unwashed humanity. There's a stone staircase leading to the parapet, a splintery wooden rack filled with useless weapons, and a thick piece of iron propped against one wall, forged in the size and shape of the door I've just come through.  Another door presumably leads to the castle grounds, a table and chairs are pushed up against the staircase, and a lantern hangs from a hook upon the ceiling, casting soft, smoky light throughout the little room.

I slam the door offhandedly with enough force to crack the frame and shatter the lock.  Behind me, and just slightly to my left, someone sighs. I whirl, nearly tripping, and astral charge rises in my gullet from the sheer indignity of surprise. A short, gray haired man is leaning in the corner. He was hidden by the open door, and now that I've closed it he stands revealed.  

"I suppose we were going to replace that anyway," says Chatterly. "But you and I really should have a talk about not damaging the Duke's things."

[King Ghidorah]

"You can talk about it all you like," I hiss, flexing my clawed fingers. I can't help wondering if Chatterly is faster than Brock Coxley was. "I'll do as I please. Now. I believe we had a deal."

"Yes," he says, adjusting the fit of his black leather gloves. "However, you'll recall that you were supposed to ask for me when you reached this place - Not the Duke. Do try and remember that the ability to follow basic instructions is part of what separates us from the stolid masses, hm?"

I grimace as my irritation increases. The suggestion that Chatterly and I are even remotely comparable, let alone that we exist on the same plane, is as laughable as it is demeaning. Fortunately for him, my self-control is increasing with practice. The last person to make such an insinuation was Dawnika Snow, and while her abominable notions of kinship were't the main reason I killed her, they certainly didn't make me want to kill her less. 

"I don't see the difference. You work for the Duke, and you said that if I fulfilled my side of the bargain I'd get to meet your employer. So I am here to see the Duke."

Chatterly nods, and makes a small bow, his cloak falling open very slightly to reveal a sword at his hip. " It's true. I am an agent of His Grace, the Duke William Conrad von Harnburg,  master of this castle and its lands. However, my point was that the form of these things can be important, no matter how trivial. Especially when dealing with nobility, one must appreciate the details."

I can't help it - I laugh out loud, my warbling cackle echoing in the tiny stone room. The self-proclaimed agent has just hit upon the very heart and soul of his continued existence; My need to observe and understand the finer complexities of this doomed valley is the only reason there's still more to him than a set of blackened bones, and the irony is sheer perfection.

"Of course," I agree, reveling in my secret joke (a strange and intriguing concept, jokes - one I feel I don't entirely understand). "Everything is in the details. Speaking of which, you said you'd tell me about the reasons for our previous arrangement - and your servant said you had another task which I might enjoy."  

"Indeed," says Chatterly, straightening up and crossing to the far door. "I'll fill you in while I show you to your room. Dawn isn't for some hours yet, and while he's eager to meet you, His Grace the Duke is a man who prefers to sleep through the night." 

The agent's cloak whispers as he opens the door, and I picture the surprise on his long, narrow face if I were to just kill him, right now. Betrayal: the more I think about it, the more appealing the shape of thing grows, but this isn't the time. 

Together, we step out onto the flagstones of the torch-lit yard beyond the curtain-walls. The flat, cool tiles chill the bottoms of my golden feet. Chatterly begins to speak, and a fascinating picture unfolds. 

"The first thing you need to understand," he says, adjusting his scarf, "Is the economic background. The Duchy of Harnburg and the County of Shatterdun - the province for which the caravan you intercepted was bound - compete directly with one another to export wool, barley, and quarried stone to the larger Duchies to the west. If Harnburg can corner those markets, the Duke hopes to weaken Shatterdun's tax-base enough to cripple them militarily, and annex much of the Countess's territory in the highlands. That would make Harnburg the fourth-largest Duchy in the region, and provide an adequate industrial base for grander ambitions. Do you follow?"

"Yes." I nod, my mind churning as this latest addition to my understanding of the valley snaps much of the information I've already absorbed into stark, shining context - all of the little lives, activities and hopes, laboring towards the larger dream of their master. Many of them probably aren't even aware of the goal, but they pursue it regardless in the success of their own daily struggles. I'm so delighted at the hierarchical synergy of it that I practically float. 

"Good," says Chatterly. We arrive at a second set of walls, higher and thicker than the last, and with a more imposing entrance - nested portcullises instead of gates. Currently, however, they stand open, and we simply stroll through. The agent waves idly to the two bored guards who flank the barbican (a highly specific word that I'm shocked I know, though not an unpleasant one). The men stand a little straighter as we proceed through a narrow stone passage and into the inner courtyard surrounding the keep. Dark and brooding in the faint light of dozens of wall-mounted torches, orange and black and red dancing upon its bloody crimson walls, the heart of the castle looms above us. It's easily the most intimidating structure in the entire valley, but in the dead of night its a thing of shadows. 

I can hardly wait to bring it crashing to the ground, to stand in its place, shining in superior golden grandeur. 

"The caravan you destroyed," Chatterly continues, pitching his voice lower, "carried vital supplies for Shatterdun's quarries and farmers - and would have served, on its return trip, to carry their goods to market. Three or four more incidents like this one, with the addition of some clever sabotage, and their barley-harvest will rot in the silos. Their quarries grind to a halt, deprived of replacement spars, tools, and life-giving revenue. You see?"

I do see - more  than he expects me to. There's an opportunity here for me to ruin not just this valley, but its rival polity as well. I will raise Harnburg up only to destroy it, and in the process reduce Shatterdun to an impoverished shell.

I'll have to find out more about them, too.

This just keeps getting better. I don't think I'll ever return to that strange place of uncertainty regarding the smiling bastard who brought me here - he'll die in his turn for the peerless indignities to which I've been subjected - but its not as though there's been no compensation. Still, the sublime agony of waiting! If I don't ruin something soon, something better than just another caravan (though I am looking forward to doing that again) then Harnburg is going to burn regardless of my preferences5.     

"Of course," I say, my hands twitching in time to imagined bolts of cosmic destruction. 

Chatterly leads us around the side of the keep, away from the main entrance, past several small outbuildings - a chapel, a smithy, a walled garden - until we reach a servant's entrance. It's on the second floor, accessible by a high set of stairs built into the stone the facade of the castle, and the agent unlocks it with a large iron key. I have to duck in order to make it through the tiny frame.

"Excellent," he proclaims. "We will, of course, want your assistance with the remaining caravans. Your next task, however, the one which the Duke wishes to discuss with you personally, is something more complicated."

I smile, and I almost fancy that I can feel my eyes flash. 

"Tell me." 

Chatterly locks the door behind us, and leads me down a stone-built gallery. It's lit by candles and lined on the interior side by windows, looking down into a vast, darkened chamber. My guide removes a candlestick from its holder, to better light our way as we walk. By its flickering light, I'm extremely aware of the difference in height between he and I. The shadows, which in the outdoors seemed somehow to enhance his stature, in these narrow spaces reduce him to a stump.  
  
"Harnburg's own economic interests," the agent continues, "not to mention the fabric of its civil society, are being threatened. A tribe of elves has moved into the western forest, just outside the valley, beyond the falls. People don't like them, merchants don't trust them, and we can't convince them to leave. They need to go away, for the sake of the general peace. It's the Duke's hope that you can be persuaded to assist. You will, of course, be handsomely paid."

Stalking like a golden wraith through the corridors of Harnburg Castle, led by the shade of man who doubtless believes himself clever but offers me all I desire, it's all I can do to keep from laughing again. 

Everything is falling into place.

[King Ghidorah]

As the night wears on, the fact that I'm being made to wait, that the Duke's repose is considered more important than my immediate desires, is a source of irritation. If the implied insult were given a chance to fester undisturbed, I'd probably tear the building down, but fortunately for my designs, the room which Chatterly has given me keeps we entertained until well after the sun has risen.  

I spend an hour on the tapestries alone. The first one I simply tear to shreds, reveling in the sensation of grasping  and control - for all their hideousness, hands have turned out to be a great deal of fun - but then I notice the frayed ends of the broken threads, and I get a better idea. The others I unravel, one thread at a time, picking and pulling. I watch as intricate scenes of nature and city life, battle and wealth, woven in gold and red and black grow fuzzy and then dissolve into a formless mass of loosely knit fibers. It's like melting a tiny world. 

When the last of the wall-hangings is reduced to a tangled mess, I move on to the carpets, little more than the flayed and cured skins of rams, easily rent asunder. After that, I destroy the cabinetry and smash the chairs, pulling the hand-made furniture apart and listening to the wood as it squeals, groans and pops. Leaving the fractured timber in a pile on the floor, I rip into the bed, shredding the sheets and tearing open the mattress, pulling down the curtains and ripping them into pieces no larger than the palm of my hand. 

The real treasure, though, the great discovery which changes everything, is the book. 

I find it in the ruins of the bedside table - a volume of poetry and religious verse (which is an idea that confuses me. I'm familiar with the concept of gods, but religion? It seems like little more than begging). My first thought is to simply break its spine and tear out the pages, but on impulse I open it, and I read. 

Such words! 

I didn't know language could be used like this, to create such vivid pictures, to open such mental vistas. Much of what the book contains makes no sense, appealing to emotions or ideals that I have no use for, but even so I can see the structure of it, fit to evoke great depth of feeling, great sorrow and anger. This isn't simple communication - it speaks to something more fundamental than mere collections of syllables. 

Every page I finish, I tear from its binding and eat. The act lacks scale, but in the destruction of words, especially words of such quality (and more importantly, words that I have just read) there's a subtle declaration which calms me.  It fills me with peace and contempt. 

  

Post 3: 529 words according to wordcounter.net
Post 4: 1425 words according to wordcounter.net
This Post: 475 words acccording to the usual. 

 2429+1094 = 3523 words total. 

[King Ghidorah]

I haven't quite finished my book yet when a dark-haired young servant in a gold-trimmed black dress comes to notify me that the Duke requests my presence . She freezes when I open the door to her knocking and calling, stunned by the sight of my lustrous grandeur. I can't help but take note of the expression on her face - a mixture of wide-eyed fear, which is familiar, and other emotions which I can't place, a species of uneasiness I've never seen before. 

I suffer a moment of indecision. The truth is I'd like to finish reading,  but as pleasant a distraction as this room and its contents have been, the prospect of the unique insights to be gleaned by speaking with the one at the top of this valley's social hierarchy is a much sweeter lure. 

Besides, the sooner I visit the Duke, the sooner I can move on to more immediately gratifying pursuits. 

I drop the mostly-empty book, the few remaining pages rattling as it falls. They remind me of the sounds Dawnika Snow made when my hands were around her throat, and the recollection makes me smile. The servant-girl takes a step back, the balance of her expression shifting more firmly in favor of terror at the sight of my teeth. She's entirely eclipsed by my shadow.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" I demand, stepping into the hallway and cornering her against the wall. "Take me to your Duke... And while we're walking, tell me everything there is to know about yourself."

***

As it turns out, the walk from my room to the Duke's hall is a short one. I barely have time to pry any information from the servant at all – just her name, and that she spends most of her time running errands throughout the castle. Her nervousness and constant humble courtesy make even the simplest exchange a chore (though I do look forward to exploring the root of such deferential behavior. What is it like to be a servant? I can't even imagine, but if I'm to thoroughly appreciate the ruin of Harnburg Castle, its something I need to understand).

The girl – Annette – leads me through a short series of increasingly opulent corridors, stone giving way to wood paneling and burgundy carpets trimmed with gold, until we reach a set of finely crafted wooden doors with a guard beside them. Annette curtsies (which is bizarre little word for an equally strange custom), and hurries away to perform some other, less important task.

The guard moves to open the door, but I've waited long enough already. I shove the man aside, and I shoulder my way through. The doors bang open, leading to a little sun-lit sitting-room the color of sea-foam, furnished with a low ivory table hosting sofas and chairs in deep-ocean shades of green. It reeks of lacquer. The walls are home to expansive paintings and tapestries – and one in particular to a bevy (an odd little way to say 'group', but one I think I like) of clear crystal windows, opposite the sofa. The ceiling is blue, and the carpet is flecked with gold.

It's a triumph of interior design, synergistic and insightful, and my need to set it on fire is very close to overwhelming.

Rounding out the furnishings is Chatterly, standing in the corner, sinister and silent, but it's the other man in the room who draws my attention. The Duke is thin, with a large head, messy hair, and a pinched face. His clothing is fine, though too large for him, shimmering black with little patterns of gold. There are rings on his fingers, and a jade pendant around his neck. He's reclining on the sofa, with one booted ankle crossed over the opposite knee and his arms extended to either side, resting on the back of his seat. 

“Ah,” he says, apparently unfazed by my sudden entrance. “This must be King Ghidorah, then...You are quite a specimen, aren't you. Would you like to sit down?”

“No,” I tell him, unimpressed. The Duke's expression wavers slightly, and his muddy brown eyes gain a sharpness that wasn't there before.

“Very well,” he says. “Though I feel it behooves me to mention that when one is offered a seat by a peer, it's usually wise to accept. Has my man filled you in on what it is I require of you?”

“If you're talking about Chatterly, and your designs for Shatterdun, and the elves, then yes. He's given me the broad details - and provided you give me what I want in return, I wholeheartedly accept.”

The Duke smiles, and folds his hands in his lap. “What is it that you want, then?”

It's my turn to smile, and I'm heartened to see his shrink in response. “I want to know about life in your valley - All of the little nuances and subtleties of the people's lives, and how they come together. I want power – and towards that end, I want Omnilium, as much as I can get, as much as you can give me... also, I want to eat more books.”

William Conrad van Harnburg's smile collapses altogether, and his brow furrows. “You mean read, surely.”

“That as well,” I respond. The Duke just stares. Chatterly clears his throat in the ensuing silence.

“I believe, my Lord, that that can also be arranged.”

“Excellent,” says the Duke, recovering his composure. “In return for your services, then, I will provide you with a handsome bounty, and free reign to satisfy your curiosity. Within reason.”

I scowl, stalking over to the nearest window and looking out at over the lake. “What does that mean?” I demand. “I don't like limits.”

“It means”, says the Duke, patiently, “That you not terrorize my serfs. I've heard about what you did to those men from Holmwood – do what I ask of you, and I guarantee the people of Harnburg valley will answer your questions readily.”

I scrape one of my fingernails down the windowpane, admiring my golden reflection in the glass. It's hideous of course, but still far more beautiful than any of the other creatures in this valley. My claw scores the glass, giving forth a grinding screech, which I find I quite enjoy.

“... fine. So long as they co-operate, they won't be harmed.”

It's a shame – I was looking forward to leaving more walking ruins in my wake – but there will be other opportunities. The details are what's important here, not necessarily the method of acquiring them. The final fulfillment of my grand canvas of destruction upon these lands will require appropriate consideration and execution, of course, and careful selection of sequence and method, but that's a different part of the process entirely.

“Then we have a deal.”

I turn away from the window, facing the Duke, and imagine the look on Chatterly's face if I were to just vaporize him. I don't, but the idea is beginning to dawn that his doom in particular is going to require some extra element of sophistication.

Even moreso than other people, I don't think I like him.

“My man will escort you to the edge of the Western forest, and give you all of the specific information we have on the elven squatters.”

He pulls a handkerchief from a pocket and sniffs it. I catch a faint whiff of something rancid. He smiles placidly.

“What you do after that... well, I'm sure I have no idea.”

[King Ghidorah]

Compared to my last errand for Harnburg, the journey to the Western forests takes almost no time at all.

After some brief parting words with the Duke, Chatterly ushers me out through the castle's corridors and halls. It's much busier during the day - we pass servants rushing to their various, tasks and armsmen standing guard, messengers carrying packages - and, on one fascinating occasion, a fair-skinned girl in a green silk dress, with flowers woven in her auburn hair. She's accompanied by finely appointed but slightly-less-expensive looking handmaidens. A relative of the Duke, perhaps? She's clearly privileged. What role does she play in this intricate social web?  

Her entire retinue stares openly at me as we pass. Interesting - other than the girl who fetched me from my room, the servants and guards I've encountered within the castle grounds have restrained their wonder at my unbridled glory to furtive glances and lingering looks. 

Our route takes us through passages that grow progressively less extravagant (a word that almost sneers), and as we go, I question Chatterly about the role and purpose of everyone we see. He answers with phlegmatic patience, only deflecting when I ask about the girl in green, explaining instead the function of her entourage - an idea which is fascinating enough to distract me for some time. The lengths to which these mammals go to elevate those they consider important are laughable - in the end, after all, they're all dust beneath my feet - but the illusions woven by circumstance and choice are so multifaceted that I can't help but wonder at the sheer variety. Luke Darby and these people live less than a day's walk from each other, yet their deeply connected worlds seem, at a glance, entirely separate.

Eventually, we leave the building through a hidden route in the back of the kitchens -  for all intents and purposes a much more spacious, cleaner version of what I saw at the inn back in Holmwood. From there we pass through a dark, damp passage constructed of heavy brick, and emerge via staircase from a heavy trapdoor. A layer of needles and dirt tumbles from the edges of the metal slab as Chatterly pushes it back, revealing our destination - the forest around the lake's Southern edge, a flat landscape of widely-spaced pine-trees. The air here is cool, the aroma fresh and flammable. 

Freed from the distractions of the castle interior , I immediately ask him again about the girl in the green dress. 

Chatterly is silent for a moment, choosing his words carefully. I feel a twinge of delight at my increasing ability to parse his motives. 

"That was the Lady Isolda van Harnburg - the Duke's niece. I'd advise you, as your appointed handler and also purely in the spirit of friendly advice, not to go anywhere near her."  

"If I want your advice I'll demand it. I want to know more about her. How does she fit into the structure of this valley? What's her role in your politics, and elsewhere? Where does she come from? What does she want?" 

Chatterly puts up the hood of his velvet cloak, covering his slicked-back hair and casting his face in shadow. "You want to know more about everybody, Ghidorah - don't think I haven't noticed.  It's a very... unusual trait. Information is more than half of my job, but your curiosity seems almost innocent. And yet, every time you ask me a question I feel as though by answering I'm digging one more spadeful of earth from my own grave."

Standing amid a carpet of sun-dappled pine-needles, he turns to face me squarely, staring out from the shadows of his hood, and for the first time I notice that his eyes are as grey as his hair. "I wonder why that is." 

His insight surprises me. Does he suspect why I'm really here? Impossible. Still, I may have to do away with him sooner than I'd expected - which makes learning about him all the more urgent.

"It occurs to me," I tell him,  "that I still don't know much about you, Chatterly. I'll stay away from Isolda - but in return you have to tell me about yourself."

Of course, I have no intention of honoring any such agreement - but if it gets him to talk, all the better.  

He turns away from me, setting off through the forest. "I'll tell you some things," he says. I fall into step at his side, feeling the satisfying crunch of the dry needles and twigs beneath my feet. These woods are a tinderbox - a detail I'll need to keep in mind for later.

 "You already know that I'm an agent of the Duke, and you've likely inferred that he trusts me implicitly. I'm no simple errand boy - rather, I am his grace's primary intelligencier. This, also, you could infer from information you already have." 

"Yes," I hiss. "I know what you do, Chatterly. But why do you do it?" 

"Where I come from is nobody's business but my own. As for why - you could say it's a higher calling. There are certain unpleasant jobs that must be done in order for sane men to lead, and society to prosper under their guidance. I do them, and I find it quite fulfilling - though the gold, rich food, and fine clothes don't hurt either."

The ground begins to turn rocky as the trees thin, throwing up great crimson boulders as we approach the southern cliff-face. There's a steep stairway carved into the rock, zig-zagging (an illustrative but profoundly stupid expression) up the side of the valley, complete with a rope handrail secured by rusted metal studs. Chatterly mounts the steps, climbing rapidly, the staccato clack of his boots surprisingly soft against the stones.

"So you have no dreams?" I ask, incredulous. "No imagined shining future?"

Chatterly releases a cold chuckle. "Nobody has ever asked me that before," He says, between breaths. We're halfway up the cliffs already, and though he hasn't slowed his pace I can hear the effort in his voice. "I'm not so naive as to dream of peace, but I suppose I wouldn't mind a Kingdom with fewer fools among the peerage. That's a large part of why I've cast my lot with his grace. The Duke, despite his affectations, is not a fool."

[King Ghidorah]

We're just shy of the top - and I'm about three seconds from throwing Chatterly off the side - when he starts to tell me about the elves. 

"They're a rare breed. Wood elves by way of some byzantine high-born bloodline - magically adept and highly cultured, but averse to building permanent settlements or cities. Rather than fleeing into the Green, settling, or attempting to integrate, they've been traveling around Camelot since the end of the War forming temporary camps - sometimes for as long as a year."  

"What makes them 'wood' elves?" I demand, my curiosity overtaking my desire to see the spy splatter. We crest the lip of the rock-face and step out onto a broad, grassy plateau dotted with  expansive, solitary trees.  It reeks of sun-baked stone and dry grasses. In the distance, to the North, beyond the river which feeds the waterfall as well as to the west, the trees grow thicker, overtaking the grassland entirely.  "Why don't they build cities? And what war?" 

Chatterly takes six quick steps away from the edge and then turns to face me. 

"It's simple, dear fellow: They are wood elves because they are found nigh-exclusively in the woods. They don't build cities or permanent homes because they value the natural order even moreso than others of their kind - although personally I question whether any such thing as a natural order exists in our world. As for the war... that would be the war against Diablo. Ask around, and I'm sure plenty of people will be perfectly willing to tell you about it. Or even better, I'll get you a book on the subject. I imagine you'd find that... palatable." 

I hiss, clenching my fists. In the name of edification I've endured a great deal of indignity since coming to Harnburg. I've allowed others to believe I would serve their causes, that I would grant priority to the whims of anyone save for myself - practically blasphemy, but a necessity of this great work I've undertaken. Still, there is a limit to my indulgence, and Chatterly with his casual refusal to fear me is near to reaching it. "Are you mocking me, Chatterly? Do you think that's wise?" 


He shifts his weight, rippling his cloak. A wind blows from the west, rippling the grasses in amber waves, and carrying with it the smells of unburnt forest. The dirty white hems of my ridiculous trousers (still a necessary evil, sadly) flap and flutter loosely around my shins. 

"I was merely making an informed observation. I'm well aware that you could probably kill me if you decided to, though I expect you'd find it more difficult than you imagine - But I invite you to ponder the potential consequences. I already explained to you that the Duke isn't a fool."

He looks at me from beneath the ridge of his brow, within the shadows of his hood.  "And despite what you may think, neither am I."

Abruptly I feel cold, as though frost has infiltrated every nook and cranny of my golden carapace, clinging to my scales. It's the same feeling I got from the barkeep in Holmwood, the same thrill as when the standing-stone came so near to injuring me. 

Fear. For just a moment, something in his stance, something about his confidence - this gray-haired pygmy frightens me! But it's different somehow, having little to do with the threat of physical harm. How much does this man know? How much does he control? What power does he hold? 

I wrestle with the urge to destroy him here and now, to call his bluff, to establish my dominance, shining in the sun - but I don't, and I think I'm more surprised at my own restraint than at the agent's sudden air of menace. The wind shifts. 

"Who are you really, Chatterly? Are you a Prime?" 

He smiles without humor, and the tension is broken. The sun disappears behind a cloud. "No. Now, if we're done posturing, there's more you should know about the elves." 

I turn and scowl, pacing to the edge of the cliff and back. I'm experiencing something I've never considered before: I think I've been outsmarted, though I can't say when or how, and I'm stumbling over the very idea.

"...Alright," I growl. "For the sake of my payment... and other things. But don't think this confrontation is over."  

He goes on to explain the known elven defenses, their economic position and attitude towards intruders, but I'm only half-listening.
My mental model of Harnburg has just changed, in tone if not in actual content, and the composition of its final destruction has shifted accordingly: Chatterly, even more than the Duke, must be humbled before he dies. Still, in discovering this strange streak of inexplicable menace within the Duke's agent I believe I've uncovered a new layer to this society - a streak of malignant pride and purpose that's almost respectable.

I need to learn more about the court of Harnburg, and I get so absorbed in my musings on the topic, that I don't notice Chatterly has left until I realize he's been silent for several minutes. Alone in the grasslands, I put the valley at my back and I walk towards the forest. The multitudinous sun-dry grasses rustle around my feet, brushing my knees as I stride majestically on. 

I use a handful of golden lightning to set them on fire. It improves my mood tremendously.

[King Ghidorah]

Just keeping up the tally. 

According to Wordcounter.net:

6,811 words so far.
38,277 characters.

-journey to Harnburg: accomplished
-Accept the assignment: accomplished
-Get the elves to leave: In progress

[King Ghidorah]

The fire spreads quickly, consuming the dry grasslands in a cauldron of orange flames. Constellations of embers spiral skyward, born aloft on smoky tendrils, drifting out over the edge of the cliff to settle on pines below. 

Sadly, the blaze doesn't spread beyond the forests edge. The deciduous specimens atop the plateau are broad and healthy, and well-fed by the river and its tributaries - too moist to burn without serious encouragement. Besides which, they're very territorial, with expansive root-systems stretched nobbly and sprawling across the forest floor. Each tree claims a wide area, strangling the earth with its gnarled wooden tentacles, leaving practically no room for lesser growth within their realm. 

I grin. Flammable or not, they'll have their turn. 

I enter the forest just ahead of the fires I've started. The sense of claustrophobia remains to some extent, but the knowledge that I can shed it at any time and assume a more fitting stature makes it far less irritating - besides, relative to being indoors, being in a forest is far less confining. I move easily through the broad spaces between the trees. Their bark is like the rutted hide of ancient beasts, stretched taught across their wide trunks, and the air is cool beneath their shade. Insects buzz and caper in abundance, tiny and diverse. Some of them even light up, glowing brilliant shades of yellow and green, though to what purpose I couldn't possibly guess. 


I'm struck again by the sheer diversity. This is the third forest I've been in since arriving in Camelot, and each one has been markedly different from its predecessor. I make a challenge of spotting the discrepancies among the different creatures and plants, each one new, each a part of the whole.

Almost an hour passes, wandering, cursing, and roasting insects with my crackling pseudo-electric breath, before I actually find any elves. 

It happens fast. Six of them melt from the shadows and descend from the canopy, barefoot men and women, dressed in tanned hide trousers, bits of leather and woven green fibers. They all wear jewelry, beads and bracelets threaded with leather and string, odd pieces of metal and shiny rocks, and every one holds a weapon -  steel-tipped spears, staves and swords, intricately carved and decorated with exquisite arboreal motifs. They surround me before I quite realize what's happened, and I take a moment to study them, fascinated. 

They look like me! Or at least, they look a lot more like I do than the dull-skinned mammals I've moved among up until this point. Their skin, though obviously pitifully soft and lacking my scales, shines a lustrous gold, and their eyes are red. Their ears are pointed, and almost as long as my own, and like me their faces are narrow and sharp. Their hair is long, worn in braids, silver, gold an green. One of them has shades of all three in streaks atop his head, braided out into individual tones and woven with feathers and beads of colored glass. They're all regrettably short, no larger than the humans, and their bodies are thin, fit but almost frail-looking. Still, they're the least ugly people I think I've ever met. 

And I'm going to get to kill them all. A rumble of deep future satisfaction, a dark cloud of impending aesthetic fulfillment, begins to grow within me.

The elves regard me with equal curiosity. I get the feeling they're trying to decide whether I'm one of them or not. 

"Take me to the rest of your people," I hiss.  

They look disturbed, adjusting their grips on their various weapons. They begin to talk to each other in a language I don't understand, high and warbling, like flowing water or strong wind among trees. It's extremely frustrating. Communication is one of the best parts of this new, diminished mode of existence, and now they're doing it in a way that excludes me!

I'm about to show them the depths of their folly, but then the one with the multi-colored hair sheathes his longsword and addresses me in more comprehensible tones.

"You are half dragon?" he asks. His voice is smooth and low. 

Dragon. 

Dawnika Snow used that word, but back then it passed unnoticed, lost amidst her meaningless ranting. This time it echoes in my brain, resounding through my vocabulary, unlocking conceptual doors. There's so much tied up in it, so many ideas - pride, fury, greed, cunning, power - unrivaled power... its a word that growls, and broods, threatens and bellows, lays claim to all it sees. It demands tribute, and gives nothing in return save for ruin and regret.  

I like it very much, though in my current form - as compared to my true glory - it does only half-apply. 

"Yes," I respond, my frustration quelled. Beyond the canopy, the sun emerges, and little rays of light shine down between the boughs, penetrating the deep-forest gloom with tiny pools of gold.  

The elf I've been talking to frowns. His fellows talk among themselves again, a brief flurry of sharp words. One of them, a woman with a spear and an impressive collection of necklaces and talismans, doesn't sound happy. The leader - for such he seems to be - addresses me once more.  

"You are a curiosity," he says. "Come with us. Don't try to use your lightning - we've warded ourselves against it. Our executor of the Watch will decide your fate."

It's all I can do not to laugh in his face.

[King Ghidorah]

The elves lead me deeper into the forest, keeping at least three of the their group at my back at all times. They move like serpents, or wind through the grass, utterly silent in spite of their many charms and bangles, never tripling or stumbling over the tangle of roots upon the ground. I ask them a lot questions, about themselves and about their people, but the only one who answers is their leader, and the others are clearly annoyed by my endless inquiries. 

I discover that they live in this forest because there's a river nearby, and its close enough to several small villages that they can trade when they need to without having to travel very far. Their jewelry denotes family affiliations and professional aptitude, and they're distrustful of strangers. They know that the humans don't like them, but also don't much care because they don't like humans very well either. The forest provides them with very nearly everything they require. 

It doesn't take very long to reach their camp, emerging into a broad clearing beneath a massive fallen tree. Easily the largest thing in forest, five or six times the size of its lesser cousins, its bleached skeleton lies half-sunken into the earth, forming a shaded area almost a hundred meters long and half that wide where little else grows. Within this shadowed glen, the elves have constructed huts and lean-tos from fallen branches and living saplings, creating a temporary village among the ferns and giant mushrooms that have arisen in the perpetual twilight beneath the fallen titan. 

Children wearing smocks made from woven grass run and scamper between the huts. Warriors train or stand watch, leaping between the trees and sparring in a ring of stones near the edge of the camp. Artisans wielding some manner of arcane secret bend living wood to their will, weaving pathways and shelter among the treetops at the edge of the clearing. Mostly however, there are simply many elves, golden people in loose-fitting clothing, male and female, going about the business of living - preparing food, constructing shelter, making weapons, tools, clothing and medicine. Their voices are quiet, blending with the sounds of the forest, and their reaction to my arrival is subdued, a ripple of interest rather than for fear or apprehension which peters out far more quickly than its human-village counterpart.  

I'm lead to a sturdy wooden hut constructed from woven branches, near the edge of the encampment. The hide flap which serves as a door is pushed open, and I'm ushered inside. There I find a number of blankets , and a low sort of slab of polished wood. The floor is covered in furs and woven rugs. Several baskets containing elaborate glass bottles are scattered around, as well as a bowl containing a variety of fruits. An pile of scrolls and charts lies strewn haphazardly in one corner. 

The leader of the merry band who discovered me tells me to wait, and leaves his fellows to watch over me, taking up stations all around the edges of the room. 

I could finish this now - in fact, I'm itching to do it, practically  vibrating with anticipation. I open one of the bottles, sniffing its contents. It smells like rotten fruit. I squeeze it in one hand until it shatters, dripping sweetly sour-scented juices on the rugs. My minders begin to react, but then the door-covering is thrust aside. 

A tall, white-haired elf wearing silver-lined cloak seemingly woven of living leaves stands gleaming, his leather armor braided with argent traces that seem to shine with an inner light. 

The same light blazes in his eyes as he stares at me, and I get the strange feeling that he's looking through me, beyond this tiny wingless shell I wear to the furious astral storm that rages within. He whispers something, and even though I can't understand the words, the meaning is clear. 

You benighted fools. You've killed us all. 

He reaches for his sword, a line of liquid moonlight strapped to his side, and the other elves in the room come at me with their weapons, slashing and thrusting.

It doesn't matter. 

I look inside myself, and find the other, truer form sleeping there. Laughing, I drag it out into the light.

The power raises me up within a cyclonic tide of fire, an inferno born in another universe, across interstellar space and eons of time. My awareness becomes our awareness as three triangular, horned heads rise above the canopy atop a trio of beautiful, serpentine necks. Returned to our proper, titanic stature, imperfect and immature though this form might be, we spread our wings.The backdraft knocks half the elven encampment flat as we leap into the air and hover, warbling with dark joy as our two sinister tails flex and flow behind us.

Below, the elves scamper and scurry, scattering into the woods. A storm of arrows erupts from the trees, mostly falling short, but some shatter against our golden scales.  

We open our mouths and unleash our lightning. Golden bolts of cosmic energy, wider than the trees rip into their shelters, turning living wood to ash and hurling great gouts of molten earth into the air! The trees, sturdy and ageless, wither at the touch our peerless power, branches and bark blasted away, leaving only steaming husks! Giant mushrooms boil and explode! Roots are ripped and torn from the ground, tangled and burned amid the wreckage of their world, and still we continue, bathing the clearing and the surrounding forest in solar heat and crushing force until all that remains of the area are the blackened skeletons of the trees, to hardy for this reduced form to destroy completely, lurking amid a drifting fog of smoke and rising steam.

We don't see what happens to most of the elves, though some are caught by our lightning, turning to bones and then to ash, but its not hard to guess. They disappear with the green, mingling with the steam and the tiny fires as the thrill of it rises - such grace, such artistry, such harmony with forest, these golden people. What knowledge did the possess? What secrets did they keep? Gone! ALL GONE! Lost forever, and WE are the agent WE are the artist! The desolate beauty as they depart is simply sublime - the hole the wood-elves leave in the world nothing short of ecstasy. It floats within us, a dark cloud of brilliant excitement as something unique and timeless comes eternally undone.  

We descend upon the clearing, now a cauldron of vapor and small fires, and below in triumph! The smell of scorched wood and cooling glass is heavy upon the breeze. We breathe deep, cackling, and stomp our feet. 

The clouds in the sky overhead grow darker, rumbling - and then without warning, we're struck by lightning!

It's happened many times before throughout the eons, whether by accident while soaring the the clouds of some doomed world, or as the result of a weapon-system intended to destroy us by harnessing a rival force of nature, but its never hurt this much before! The violet-red shock travels down our central neck in arcing tongues of spasmodic fire, and we scream, jerking and twitching as we tumble to the ground. 

The earth shakes, echoing the thunder, and the wind our fall sets the steam swirling. We begin to roll over,  to bring our wings to bear and use the power of flight to set ourselves to rights - but then it happens again! The bolt strikes one of our tails this time, and our legs kick uncontrollably, tearing several desicated trees from the glassy ground.   

A third bolt strikes just as we finally regain our footing, very nearly sending us sprawling again. By now there's no question: we're under attack! It has to be the elves. Their mastery of nature must extend further than we suspected. But where are they? Even with six eyes, we can't see them beneath this pall of cursed steam!

The sky opens again, but this time we shrug it off, the electrical discharge neutralized by our own cosmic energies.

Enough of this! 

We roar and stomp through the forest, a three-headed thresher one hundred feet tall, kicking over charred trees and sweeping our sinuous tails through the debris, flapping our wings to clear the steam. We work in a circle, spiraling outward from the ruined encampment, bellowing anger and dark promises as blue forks of skyborn power begin to fall all around us. 

It's hard to say how long it takes, but by the time the lightning stops, almost half the forest has been destroyed, and we hurt all over. Our golden scales, already dull and leathery in this adolescent body, are blacked and cracked from the heat. The bone spurs which line our necks and adorn our knees, and even the horns upon our heads are charred. The repeated shocks have left us dizzy - but the fact remains: we have won. 

We tower above the wasteland we've made, a haggard monument to Ourselves. No trace of the elves remains. 

 ***

When I return to Harnburg, once more wearing my humanoid form, Chatterly is waiting among the crimson stones at the bottom of the cliff, leaning against a particularly large boulder. 

He inspects my blackened countenance, my torn and burned trousers (I don't know where they keep coming from) and slight limp, and raises his eyebrows inquiringly. 

"You didn't tell me," I hiss, "that they could control the weather!"

He rubs his clean-shaven chin with one gloved hand and frowns without sincerity. "I didn't know they could control the weather. That's very interesting. I assume the thing is done?" 

"Yes, damn you. Now what of my payment? I'm not in the mood to humor your muse, Chatterly." 

He turns on his heel. "Very well. Let's return to the castle. I'm sure his grace will be only too pleased to honor your agreement."

His thin face betrays not a single hint of amusement, but I would almost swear the man is laughing at me.

Stalking along behind him, shocked-addled and aching, I look at the lake and wonder if he can drown.

According to Wordcounter.net:

9427 words. 
53334 characters.

-Travel to Harnburg: Accomplished
-Accept the assignment: Accomplished
-get the elves to leave: Accomplished 
-return with the news: Accomplished

Cue theme ! Time to turn this bad boy in.