05-23-2017, 12:32 AM
(This post was last modified: 02-12-2018, 01:41 AM by 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.
Quote: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.