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Dusk

Chapter 1 (Written exclusively by A Little Bird, proofread and submitted by Something Awesome)

"The law is always upheld in Wirewood; innocence and guilt are minor details."

Lieutenant Vethalo stood watch over Wirewood Keep as he always did at this time, four o'clock to midnight, his usual shift. He was the tallest elf in Wirewood and at five feet, ten inches he literally stood watch over all of the prisoners. He had long, dark green hair that fell almost halfway down his back, pulled up in a ponytail, which sat comfortably under his leather helm, which in turn rested under the hood of his cloak. His skin was tinged green and he had very little facial hair to speak of apart from a thin moustache that most elves his age wore. He was fairly young, only about one-hundred-and-twenty, and looked even younger. All in all, Vethalo was a fairly handsome elf. Then again, it was rare to find an elf that wasn't. But even so, Vethalo had a built, almost muscular frame that the average elf lacked. He found it useful in law enforcement to be athletic.

Vethalo stood tall and shuffled anxiously in his leather armor, the earthy greens and browns of which kept him safely hidden from view. This, when coupled with the moss growing on it, made him nearly indistinguishable from the tree Wirewood Keep was built in, and in the waning light of the forest sunset, he would be surely be impossible to find. This was good, because all the day's congratulations were growing tired.

A few too many times during the evening a passing guard, lawmage, and even once the warden took a minute out of his or her busy schedule to congratulate Vethalo. He puffed out his chest slightly less than usual, in a vain effort to conceal the heroism badge he'd earned the day before. Vethalo had saved a visiting human woman from almost certain death. He didn't want the badge though. He had only been doing his job, as any other enforcer would have. But he was required to wear it, likely intended to boost the Wirewood Military's image.

Not that it needed that much boosting. And very few would see the badge, at any rate. Vethalo stayed, for the most part, right where he was at that exact moment, save for a ten-to-twenty minute sector patrol at the end of every hour. It was on one of these patrols that he had seen the human visitor in trouble. The woman had been in a losing tussle with a bandit who seemed intent on acquiring her necklace. The bandit had the woman pinned down to the platform; the wooden logs strapped together to make one of the many floors of Wirewood's treetop civilization. Vethalo had recognized the bandit as a Shadowclan Chief by his entirely black garb and white mask with an "X" written on it in wolf blood.

The Shadowclan were a relatively large bandit clan among the scattered gangs of Wirewood forest's floor. This was where basically every gang made their home. And who could blame them for it? They were thousands of feet below the treetop civilization, concealed from any unlikely invaders by the lack of light, but still illuminated enough to go about their fiendish business by what little light did manage to filter through the giant leaves and find its way to the moist earth. Coupled with that all the giant forest floor beasts a gang could ever need to eat and at the same time hone hunting, sneaking, and killing skills created the perfect environment for all this unlawful activity on the understory.

That is, the perfect environment to be a complete coward, as far as Vethalo was concerned. And, for that matter, as far as any respectable citizen of the forest was concerned. The Shadowclan and all of their minor offshoots were nothing more than scoundrels, despicable bottom-feeders, and Vethalo hated every last one them. That's why he had come in to work today, despite it being his usual day off, for as sure as Vethalo had seventy-eight years in law enforcement, the Shadowclan Chief would be back.

The sun was nearly set; only a hint of reddish purple remained, barely streaking the edge of the horizon. Vethalo anxiously thumbed the hilt of his dagger, occasionally pulling it out and running his finger down the edge, feeling it snake back and forth. This curved dagger was his favorite. Named Vaerdelyn, he had received it when he made fifty years on the force, and it had seen more fights, heard more screams, and felt more throats than most of the officers he worked with.

If the Shadowclan Chief would return tonight, it would be soon. Vethalo began to grow restless. Thoughts of the combat that may or may not have been right around the corner crept into his mind. He saw himself letting the chief slip away again, as he had the day before, an unacceptable failure in his mind. Suddenly, the anxiety overcame Vethalo and he began to neurotically check through all his equipment.

Sweeping his dark brown cloak aside, Vethalo checked through all his weapons. His thin-bladed longsword hung at his left side, as always, and his dagger was strapped to his right thigh. His bow and quiver were tightly fastened to his back by thick straps of leather, buckled across his chest. He reached his arm back to unnecessarily count the arrows in his quiver. He knew there would be twenty-four, as he always loaded to maximum at the beginning of his shift, and he hadn't fired a shot all day. Still, he thought, it was best to check. He was wrong.

As Vethalo lifted his right arm to count his arrows, a heavy black boot came crashing into his ribcage. It knocked him to the ground instantly, but he had his wits about him. On the way down, he grabbed the ankle of his assailant. He was not about to let the attacker go twice. The elf managed to kick free of Vethalo's grip somehow, but didn't flee. Instead he assumed a defensive stance, his sword drawn.

Vethalo saw the familiar wolf's-blood "X" and knew that this was the same attacker from the day before. He wasn't sure, however, how to take this news. While his attacker's reluctance to flee meant that he was not likely to lose him again, it also meant that the attacker wanted a fight, or at least whatever he was after was worth the risk. And the Shadowclan were smart, if spineless. A Shadowbandit, especially a Chief would not readily pick a fight with someone they weren't sure they could kill, or at the very least, direly maim.

Vethalo decided at this point that only one of them would walk away from this fight. He took his longsword in hand and waved it back and forth, in what seemed to be a menacing style, for the assailant backed off ever so slightly.

Vethalo decided to go for a trick. He altered his stance, bit by minuscule bit, until it was a completely offensive stance. Then, he lunged with his sword. Not nearly enough to actually make contact, but enough to spark a self-preservation reflex. As he had been counting on, the bandit, rather than retreat, leaned back, and safely out of the blades path. Right behind the whoosh of the blade, Vethalo kicked his foot out and swung it behind the bandit's rear ankle. The bandit, who was already leaning backward, fell flat on his back.

Vethalo flew down onto his attacker, dropping his sword and planting the heels of his hands firmly on the wrists of his opponent. Now, it was a wrestling match, and one where Vethalo was clearly at an advantage. He had six whole inches on this elf, and probably forty-five pounds, by his estimate. The elf was surprisingly strong, however, and reversed their postures, albeit with a great deal of effort. Vethalo rolled them over again, to where the fight was now dangerously near the edge of the platform, and he found himself once more staring down into the haunting, off-white mask he had so long been trained to hate.

With a sudden surge of adrenaline, Vethalo felt his feet leave the ground, and his attacker's feet meet his stomach. He was in the air, and then suddenly on his back, with his head hanging over the several thousand-foot drop to the cold forest floor below. He quickly got to his feet, and made his way over to his sword. His opponent, now back on his feet, had long since recovered his own blade.

The unnamed attacker lunged, sword first, and Vethalo's blade met his with a clang. They were locked now, Vethalo's right hand on the handle of his sword and his left hand palm up, wrist reinforcing his pressure against the bandit's grip. The bandit pulled his sword away, expecting Vethalo to stumble forward, but no such luck. At this, he ran the last few remaining steps to the edge of the platform, and leapt across to another platform, the Roc landing platform, some forty feet away. Vethalo was stunned, but continued to pursue, using the rope bridge while his foe untied a Roc from its perch.

The giant, blue and white bird's feathers ruffled and it spread its wings to their full twenty-foot wingspan. Vethalo didn't make it to the platform in time to board the same Roc, but he slashed the ropes on another one and followed close behind.

It wasn't long before the two fighters were above the treetops. Vethalo looked back briefly and saw the shrinking tower that was Wirewood Keep, reaching up, even through the clouds above them. As he dipped, dove and swerved to keep up with his attacker, he realized what he was dealing with. This was an experienced fighter and a skillful Roc rider, and Vethalo was starting to doubt that he could keep the pace, even if they did land again. He was losing this race, and the gap between him and the bandit was rapidly widening. He could see the attacker's silhouette against the glowing white of the waning moon straight ahead.

Vethalo spurred his bird onward and was closing in on the enemy Roc when its rider turned around and fired one single arrow behind him and into Vethalo's Roc's wing. Then, satisfied that Vethalo was to crash and die, he squeezed his own Roc with his knees and dove beneath the treetops.

Vethalo began to think that this was not the experienced combatant he had previously thought. The smart thing for his enemy to do would've been to pull up and make for the clouds, as Vethalo was losing height and this would have put distance between them. As it was, the bandit didn't do the smart thing, and Vethalo certainly wasn't complaining. His Roc, struggling to remain in the air, was now almost directly above the bandit's.

Vethalo made his move. He stood on his Roc's back and jumped, feet first off of it. He aimed to land crouched on the back of the enemy Roc, aware of the pain landing sitting would cause. As gravity closed the gap between him and his target, the Roc took a nosedive, and it became clear to Vethalo that he was not going to hit his target. Instead, his heels crashed into the upper back and neck of the bandit, and they both continued to fall down into the forest.

Vethalo half-somersaulted in the air, and dove the next leg of the way down. Looking to his immediate left, he saw his enemy, and his enemy saw him. The bandit was falling feet first, and Vethalo head first. They could both now see the forest floor.

Vethalo fastened his hands around a branch, and swung around it completely, trying to ignore the wrenching pain that accompanies almost having one's arms ripped from one's sockets. This was good for two reasons: it slowed him down and allowed the bandit to land first, but without enough time to avoid Vethalo, and it also let Vethalo turn over and hit the floor feet first, and with much better aim.

Vethalo landed on his assailant's neck a second later. Hard. The ensuing crunch nearly made him vomit. The good news was the attacker was dead, the immediate threat, gone. Now Vethalo felt he had truly earned the badge that sat on his chest. He removed the mask from his foe and saw to his horror, that the elf had four eyes with red irises.

Surveying his surroundings, Vethalo's mood took a turn for the worse. He was on the very floor of the forest. He had never been there, but he knew it by the giant roots of his home city and the brown, chunked powder that could only be "dirt." What if this chief's subordinates appeared and saw Vethalo standing over his corpse? Worse, what if he never found his way back up to civilization, and out of gang territory? Suddenly, those issues were pushed to the back of his mind by a pair of giant yellow eyes piercing the thick fog that surrounded him.

Vethalo didn't like the sound of that growl. He backed up nervously, drew his bow and cocked an arrow. The tall elf tripped backwards over his fallen foe, and saw from his position that the body turned to wisps of black smoke, perhaps even literally to shadow, and became lost in the night. That was good, he guessed. Then the eyes came closer, and two rows of seven inch teeth appeared out of the fog.

Things were not looking up for Lieutenant Vethalo.