AUTHORS NOTE: I continue to right the story, despite the lack of reviews. I have around 100 hits a week, so obviously someone somewhere is enjoying the tale of Fitz and Felix. I will continue valiantly to tell the story I have to tell, although reviews would be greatly appreciated at this point. Read on, fans, read on.

-NetherscreamNordune

CHAPTER SEVEN: HALFLING

The jungle filled Jokoto Islands are an odd place. A collection of islands near the southern tip of Raenlyn, they are known for the Red Ship Raiders. Most of the Red Ship Raiders don't actually raid at all, instead smuggling Jinni into Raenlyn and Greyjoy—an illegal plant used by monks to conjure "spirits" and used by goblins to invoke berserking. Not all islanders are hated, however. The famed warriors of Jinrabash are respected from everywhere in the great nations. The prosperous people of Tojo are also respected; a free utopia where all weapons and hate are banned from the public.

Greenskins usually lead a very aggressive and war like life-style. Because of this, there are limited amounts of Greenskins living in the jungles of Tojo. They migrated there in ancient times, their bodies eventually adapting to become taller, semi-purple, stronger, and smarter. There they build primitive settlements and thrive off the abundant mushrooms. Greenskins that live in Tojo are deemed "Trolls". Half breeds of races also live here, unaccepted by either of their parent's nationalities. There are rumors of extremely rare races living here, including mountain giants, talking trees, untamed wizards, and dragons. However, by the time the truth leaves Tojo and rumors spread across the nations, it's hard to tell which are lies and which are true. Only the inhabitants of Tojo know the truth of their exotic land.

The first thing he was aware of was the sensation of his hand dragging through the hot desert sands; his eyes slid open enough to view the surroundings. It took his mind a while to comprehend what he was seeing. The bars of a cage surrounded him. He was dreaming; but had awoken so fast he wasn't sure if he was awake. He was lying on his stomach, and tried to move; but his mind swam, and his limbs didn't respond to his will. He looked around, coughing and sputtering, with cold sweat running down his head. A dark skinned man sat near him, wrapped in a turban, pocketing a sowing needle. There were bristling lions all around them in cages; the sand was soft and warm under the cart Fitz rode in: a caravan of sorts, with lions, elephants, and men in cages wearing ragged loincloths. The sun beat down on them harshly; he was filled with the smell of heat, rotting meat, and sweat.

His voice got Felix's attention. "Don't die, they'll feed you to the lions;" he said with a heavy foreign accent through the turban," They're worth more than us." Felix looked into his brown eyes, his brain not comprehending where he was or what this man was doing. The man in the turban tore open Felix's ragged shirt and smeared a lime green paste on the puss filled scar on his back. The wound had been sown up, but had apparently festered. Felix's hand sluggishly groped around for something to defend himself with; instead, he reached up and began to wrap his hand around the man's throat and stop him, but the twinging pain of the scar as he turned hurt just a little too much; his weak body easily gave up, letting his head fall back, drifting once again into unconsciousness. The last thing he thought of was his father.

His parents were ravaged by the panther as he watched.

It was a large panther, larger than a man, with an albino coat. His father, the only one able to defend them, was caught unaware and clawed to death. It turned its attention from his fathers corpse to them…his mother sharply inhaled, turning and fleeing through the brush. Fitz, still in her arms, cried. But she wasn't fast enough, or strong enough, so all she could do was scream until she too was shredded, clutching her son to her chest. Her eyes darkened, the light of life leaving them,

Something told him to be completely still, and that's what he did; looking into his mothers dead eyes as the panther tore chunks of bright red flesh from her back, slinging blood against the surrounding tree trunks. He shuddered with fear, and the panther stopped. It was silent for a second, then pawed her mother off him. A red bestial eye settled on Fitz before it bared its teeth to him. It roared and slashed at Fitz, tearing ribbons of flesh out of him. He knew he was going to die; in fact, he didn't even feel pain anymore. Hazy and lightheaded, he held out a single hand.

Lightning came to life and flashed from his palm, rushing out to meet the panther. It roared a death roar, clawing at the air as it fell on top of him. He lay there, in the forest, surrounded by his fathers death and his mothers blood, an albino cougar on top of him, Magicka whiplash tearing at his sanity.

Fitz awoke from his nightmare, vaguely aware of riding on the back of something hairy. A horse, perhaps. He was blind, mouth gagged with cloth, and his hands were behind his back. He tried to free his hands. They were tightly bound by something that rubbed his skin raw. He could feel the rain beating down on his head, and his clothes were heavy with water. His face was pressed into the wet cloak of another person who was more than likely guiding the beast. Fitz struggled to sit up on his own, pressing his chin into the other's back and gritting his teeth.

"I see you've awoken… "The male rider said, his voice clear and smooth as water. He said nothing more, and Fitz sat there listening to the rain beat down. He heard much more rain than he felt, so he assumed that he was under trees. He had been fed since his capture, he could feel it. What used to be a headache was still a dull throb behind his eyes. And his legs weren't tied together. He could escape. Other than that, he knew not where he was or who his captor was—whether friend or foe.

He sat there, blind to the world for what seemed like forever. Hours turned into days, how many Fitz couldn't tell. The horse steadily plodded on continuously, never stopping. The rider never rested or went for food, his back as rigid as the moment Fitz first woke up. After staying in this darkness for what seemed like forever, Fitz decided to take control back.

Fitz suddenly reared back and slammed the back of the riders head with his own forehead. Both of them grunted in pain as the horse lunged with surprise, toppling both of them off balance. Fitzlanded with a thud in the wet grass, and eventually managed to stand without using his tied hands. He made a mad dash for freedom, not sure which direction he was going.

He barely went ten feet before tripping.

He landed on top of a particularly jagged rock which effectively gashed his stomach. He rolled off it into the grass. Suddenly realizing he could free himself, he began rubbing the rope on the rock. A sudden hand grasped his hair and pulled him to his feet while Fitz struggled to free himself. The rope hadn't been cut, but it was weakened enough for him to break. He tore his hands apart and swatted away the hand holding his hair. With the other hand, he tore at his blindfold.

Hooded figures stood around him in a half circle with longbows nocked and pointed at his face. An oddly docile albino bear pawed around in the high grass behind them, with a saddle on it. The bowmen stood motionless in the almost horizontal rain. Fitz's back was to a rock, and he had no way of escaping. He backed to the wall even more, and the faceless archers neared him slowly.

He reached down to his side to realize the sword he'd stolen no longer hung there. His body, driven by the instinct to survive, dove headfirst into the mental river of Magicka. His hands fizzled and sparked in the rain, glowing a dull white, the lightning he only saw once before making an attempt to survive in the heavy rain. He concentrated, taking as much of the power into him as he dared. But still, the rain fell and snuffed his Magicka. Fitz was dully aware of the leftmost man lowering his longbow in confusion, then dropping his bow completely. He held his own hand out, palm up, as if he held a ball.

Fitz blinked with shock as the power he was building left him completely. It flowed out of his palm to the man's outstretched hand, a glowing crimson stream not unlike if someone were sucking up steam. Fitz slapped his wrist, grabbed it, and tried to block the flow, but still it flowed through his attempts. He felt his legs give out, his heartbeat slow, and the edges of his vision dull. He no longer felt the blades of grass under him or the rain falling as much, but struggled to avoid going into unconsciousness again. This might be his only chance to escape alive.

"Sin dorei, lan vorei anadorei Rumil!"

The draining stopped. Yet another hooded figure strode out of the forest, out of the protection of his shadows. He wore a clasp that was silver, and Fitz assumed that he was the sergeant. The man that drained him turned to face the captain.

"Yerslovi baracht mudlimi ahlum, lullium berast! Atonse, persei apenonei PERDONETE!" the sergeant yelled at the scorned bowman. The sergeant, seeming to just notice Felix, turned to him. "I'm sorry; our people are very….drawn to the Magicka they themselves cannot conjure. My name's Valandil of Mithrandir and I am the leader of these scouts." Fitz looked at each of them, confused. They began talking lightly amongst themselves while still holding the bows strung, like hunters discuss about a fawn before they kill it.

The sergeant pulled back his hood to reveal eyes that shone with dull silver light, as if a piece of the moon were contained in his pupils. His face was as perfectly sculpted as imaginable, and his ears were long and pointed and hung back from his face. His hair was lightly braided and in a ponytail, and he had a silver circlet around his head.

"Elves…?" Fitz muttered.

"Yes, they are Elves," said Valandil; "And they say that you breathe so loud they can shoot you in the dark. Lucky for you, I am part human. You would've otherwise been killed the instant your blindfold fell." His voice was even and smooth, but his words came in clumps. Fitz could tell he wasn't used to speaking Common.

Abruptly, Fitz couldn't hear anything. Instead, he heard a low rumbling that slowly increased. He now knew the silence before the storm, the storm being the Magicka whiplash that would rend his mind in two. He held his head, and got down on his knees. One of the elves dropped their bows and screamed soundlessly in slow motion at the captain, who came rushing over with a purple paste on his finger. He thrust it into Fitz's mouth and smeared it in his gums.

White pain filled everything he knew, until his brain couldn't comprehend it. He had no sense of where he was or who he was, except that his mind wanted to flee his crippled body. Pain wasn't a concept, his name wasn't Fitz. He wasn't in the forest and he wasn't suffering from using Magicka.

All that existed was searing pain.

Fitz was aware of a release, a haven from the pain. A mental river of sorts, of which all living things are part of. He longed to throw himself into it and become one with the world; he edged near the river and was filled with a sense of danger, like a hand shying away from a fire. He drew back, and searched for a vessel to place his soul in. He was a swallow looking down on the elves bent over his former self and was himself at the same time. He was a wolf that stalking through the forest, but his soul told him that was wrong. And so he grudgingly went back fully into his own body where he belonged.

He was on the ground in the fetal position still clutching his head. His muscles were cramped and his wide open eyes were sticky. He forced them closed and inhaled like someone emerging from water. His heart starting beating again and his muscles were cramped. He managed to get one hand to his eyes and knuckle them until relieving tears ran, restoring moisture to his dried pupils. He coughed a bug out of his mouth, and rolled over. The Elves still stood over him, worried faces and all, and helped him to his feet. It still rained.

"Venn dai le luun, sercasten sabrei." One of the nearby elves, which Fitz now saw was making a campfire, stood and ghosted into the woods, bow in hand. Fitz's head sagged on his shoulders, so he could only manage to look at the captains leather boots as he spoke to him.

"You almost killed yourself…" Fitz tried to reply, but all that came out of his dried throat was a croak.

"The Magicka you drew was far too much for a human to handle… your mind would've been split in two had I not used Lillroot." He took a vial of the paste out of his vest pocket and spun it skillfully in Fitz's view. "Lillroot…It's amazing, the only herb known to dull pain from Magicka. I used too much; your body was frozen for hours. Your heart beat once a minute; you were on the edge of life… but you seemed to recover fine." He stuffed the vial away.

"We're going to have to blindfold you again;" He said as he walked away;"we can't have humans knowing about the location of our Galadriel." He shouted "Vashienen palene valanash alanore!", and a weak Fitz was blindfolded by his men and sat back on the albino bear.