Chapter 1

"If it's a dream, now wake me up,

if it's all real, just kill me."

-Art of Life, X

+++

Marcel rummaged through the flaps of his tent, and felt the deathly quiet of the forest about him.

It wasn't entirely quiet, as he observed a pair of fellow workers in a short distance, cooking what seems like their morning meal. One of them, dark-skinned and thin, was looking intently inside the small, black cauldron, stirring and clanking the pot of contents. His partner appeared to be washing up, and both were musing over something funny.

Groaning, he flexed his joints and felt them making all sorts of weird noises around his body.

"Damn the night!" he exclaimed bitterly. That, and his weird noises seemed to catch the two's attention.

"Hey, you're going to scare away the rabbit in this pot!" he bellowed over. His buddy, who was a bit more plump and wore a much thicker wave of hair, gave a good, hearty chuckle. He ignored them and proceeded to finish dressing.

These few weeks were a bit…hectic, for all of them. Short on supplies, men, time, everything… it was just a bit short of glorious and patriotic, as that was what the poster had offered to make them. And of course, there was the money factor.

They were waved and looked up to when they left that port: men too young, too old, or too poor, but now with the new title of 'Pioneers'. Big and glorious Pioneers, serving their kingdom, serving their countrymen. Now, stranded on an island filled with nothing but trees, where did the glory go?

"Oh, where did it go," he murmured under his breath. Just as he was finished dressing, two more men joined the pair over the steaming pot. Quickly, they spotted him in the distance.

"Well, look who's finally awake!" one said.

"Did Prince Marcel have his beauty sleep?" the other mocked.

"I'll tell you what though, even a prince can't stop Beefhead from tearing him to pieces this time," the chubbier one replied resentfully. "I reckon you better run, Marcel."

Beefhead. He had completely forgotten. The thought brought dread to him. As loud and foolish these men were, they were right, he reckoned. He frantically put on his shoes, and ran full speed towards their working area. He had no idea what time it was, but it did not matter now. Beefhead, their leader, was going to have his head this time.

Marcel slowed to a slow walk now, approaching the camp's centre with much caution. This was where Beefhead began everyday's schedule. It's where they would all meet, except for their two soldiers, of course. They would be patrolling the camp, and rarely seen.

As he neared the big, signature fireplace, which was now dying down from the morning's meal, he observed that the area was deserted. He knew everyone was out in their designated groups, gathering wood, clearing areas or scouting the land. But Beefhead was almost always here, doing something. But now he was gone.

He looked around again, more closely this time, almost certain that Beefhead would ambush him with a club. And wouldn't that be funny? Him, being publicly humiliated in front of these lowlifes… Ha ha, jokes on you, Marcel!

And why was he always trying to get on their good side? They were only mere peasants… peons, he had always told himself. And several times now, 'Beefhead' would do try for their respect at his expense.

Beefhead…what an idiotic title.

But he only saw the same low fireplace, the piles of wood, and the piece of half-eaten bread left carelessly on the grass, just as before. And just as before, no sign of their leader.

Once again, Marcel stood alone, facing the endless trees that surrounded their little encampment.

He decided to look for them, anyway. They were probably off to that new area they had recently discovered. Well now, that lumber isn't going to cut itself, a voice said in his head. Marcel shook his head. Beefhead's stupid lines were getting to him.

What happened next was a blur of confusion and madness for him, though.

A man suddenly appeared in sight, running, as he turned a corner. Panting, and…bleeding he ran very quickly towards him.

"We're under attack!" he said, panting heavily and gasping for air. Marcel walked up to him.

"What? What manner of nonsense do you speak?"

"I ain't lying!" he pleaded. Abruptly he lunged forward and grabbed his shoulder. "You've got to come now and believe me…you!"

"Yes, yes I believe you," he replied, slightly annoyed that he didn't know his name. "Calm down and tell me what happened."

"There's no time for you to be calm! Men are dying up there!" he shouted. "Beefhead told me to hurry and rally all the men. He needs everyone to fight 'em off, he says. So take up your pick and hurry!"

"What, where?"

"Up the back-front! You know, the new place we found a couple of days ago. Apparently, they dug up something big… I got to go! You hurry!"

With that, the man sped away again.

More curious then frightened, Marcel hurried towards the area. Something big? he thought. Despite the man's warning, he passed by an abandoned axe without picking it up.

But when he arrived at the scene, he regretted the decision dearly.

What he witnessed then was something meant only for a military man.

They were literally slaughtered like sheep by these…bear-men. Towering over them by twice their heights, these massive creatures ripped through the men with their equally massive claws (dark, thick things that protruded out around half a metre). Each swipe was like a crash of a waterfall: these creatures were lumbering mounds of muscle, and evidently were experienced killers. Each strike was backed by a hulking yet fluid body motion.

For a moment, he just stood and watched, horrified by the butchery (if there ever exists a word to describe the image). He watched the claws tear and rip through bodies protected only by mere rags, saw the claws pierce into unarmoured skulls, and bore mute witness as teeth dug into bodies, flinging them about like lifeless dummies. There was no fight here: it wasn't a two-way argument. No exchange of words took place. Instead it was a bitter lesson, with only one person lecturing the other, only one person to do the talking.

Only when he felt eyes land on him did he finally move.

He saw, for the first time, Beefhead and the other men holding up a front. He could see one soldier with the group, his armour and shield offering whatever hope they would muster. The other, he quickly noted, lay in pieces just several feet ahead.

Of all of them, only Beefhead and the two soldiers could actually fight. Beefhead was in the Alliance's Forces. A captain even, the men said. But even his skills would prove to be useless now.

Marcel found his feet carrying him towards the small crowd, even though his chances of survival were probably better if he had just ran off. They spotted him quickly, and despite the situation, cheered somewhat contently. Someone handed him an axe with a grin. Have they gone mad already? he thought. Then he realized it was one of Beefhead's damned mind tricks again. But, they were as good as mad, anyway.

The bear-men finished off the others and turned upon them. The men grunted in unison, holding up their weapons with fierce looks on their faces. Marcel saw them turn from weak peasants with picks and axes…to angry barbarians, though still with picks and axes. He found himself holding his own axe stupidly. From the looks on their faces, he knew they would go willingly to their deaths if Beefhead had led them.

"Aldrac Cessius, you don' have to lead your men to death!" a voice boomed. Marcel looked down at the source and found that it came from a dwarf. The dwarf, actually, as there was only one in their group. He wasn't really a good dwarf though, a good representation of their people that is, as he was almost always drunk, and in either state, awake or intoxicated, had an especially bad speech problem. His line came out more like 'Audrac Sisus, cherdun haftoo lea chur men todeaph!'

No one here could understand him fully. No one except Marcel that is, whose studies back home included that of dwarves, and the nature of their native tongue. Thus he was able to make through his accent.

"What? What did you say, dwarf?" Beefhead replied, only able to make out the part with his name.

"He said you don't have to lead them-"

"I think I know what I'm doing," he cut in sternly, eyeing him, probably aware of how the sentence would have ended, and how it could have damaged their state of mind right now.

Then abruptly, Cessius smiled. "Probably should have stayed in bed today, huh?"

So he's not going to burn my tent? he thought quickly. Then suddenly taken back, Marcel looked intently at the man's face. Calculating bastard, Marcel thought, a little amused, as he felt the man's effects starting to work on him.

Fairly young, having seen about 30 something years, he had a roughly shaven head and beard. His face was naturally pale and thin. Physically, their leader wasn't a frightening or imposing character. But somehow, he commanded admirably, and even their biggest crewmen were intimidated by him. Beefhead… the title had absolutely no relation to the man that it was almost obscurely funny. Just another one of his damned mind-working tactics.

Marcel looked at his angular face again. Yes, Cessius was a more suiting name.

Cessius clapped his shoulder and turned to face the beasts. Again, Marcel watched, dumbfounded, as he led them into battle, a shepherd (ever smiling) leading his sheep into the hungry mouths of wolves.

"C'mon 'lad," the dwarf said through the screaming. He gave the charging men one final look. "This way, quick."

"Wh-what?" he said. Then he caught on. "Surely, we can't just abandon them! I mean…where shall we go?"

"Certainly not to our deaths! That's for sure!" The men started hacking at one of the bear-men, like ants trying to overcome a beetle. "You comin' or not?"

A moment. "Yes. Sure…lead the way…" he managed to say, still in shock. The old dwarf saw his reluctance, and grabbed his arm with a grunt, muttering something under his breath.

Marcel wasn't sure where he was being taken, or whether or not the dwarf knew what he was doing. Actually, he found that he did not care for the matters much. One did not see what he saw everyday.

His mind was wandering. He thought he heard a high-pitched whisper. He had good ears, yes he did. Aye, that he did. Was the ground spinning, or was he? Female perhaps? It didn't matter.

+++

He began to regain consciousness as a rough hand smacked his cheek repeatedly. He found that he was sitting down. How much time has passed? He felt a sudden urge to snap at his provoker.

"Hey laddie, wake laddie, wake!" said a rough voice. He looked up. It was a dwarf with a wave of short, red hair, and an unkempt, thick bush of beard. "Good, yer finally awake! Been dreamin', have we?"

He muttered something and chuckled. Marcel was now more curious than dazed. Was he not afraid? This short man, has he, too, gone insane?

"Hey lad, look what I've got here? Pretty good, ya?"

He was holding a bag. He grinned as he rummaged through it, self-absorbed. From it he produced several tools, some food, thick sheets of fabric…

Marcel was again intrigued by the short, bearded man before him. Where did he get those? From camp? Moreover, he wondered if he was looking at the right dwarf. It was hard to picture this one drunk and yelling angrily at some imaginary enemy, as he was known to do.

"I reckon we've got everything under our belts…pre-tty much! Next, a place to settle the night. You agree, lad?" He was finally aware of Marcel studying him. "Quit starin' and make use of yerself! Never seen a dwarf before or somethin'?"

He did not understand. Why had this creature cared for his life? He had even insisted upon him coming along. If he had not taken him by force, he would have still stood there, with that dumbfounded look on his face, even has his body was being torn apart. The dwarf's chances of survival were increased, he presumed. But why him? Why not the others? Why?

He did understand, though. A part of him did. Back there, along with all of them in their encampment, they were the loners. The only two people who sat alone during meals, the two that people either whispered jokes and cracks about, or ignored entirely. The dwarf for being a dwarf, and him for being him. He supposed it was partly his doing, but who needed to associate with people who acted so like their very own livestock?

He had helped him on several occasions. Moreover, he was almost a friend. He had sat with him during meals, and occasionally, had talked with him. For one, the dwarf to him was intriguing. He was old, had probably easily doubled all of their ages, though the respect he was shown was no such indicator. Upon closer inspection, which none of the others took the time in doing, (probably expect for Cessius, who if one didn't know well, would seem like he had 'gone the other way' from the way he studied his workers) the dwarf bore a face of pained experience and hidden knowledge. That was, when he was not drunk and had not lost control of his saliva.

Marcel thought that this was, somehow, a way of repaying him for the kindness he had shown him before. A pretty good deal, no?

+++

"Ho, ho! Look here, lad! Come, come on!" the dwarf said, gesturing wildly. "Look what I found us, eh? A perfect sleepin' place!"

Marcel approached cautiously. "Damn it Bukloc, of course it's a good sleeping place! It looks like there's a huge bear sleeping in there, ready to rip us apart if we shall ever be foolish enough to wake it! It's built by another creature, can't you see that?"

"That's Bukloc Foambeard to you lad, and yes, I have seen my share of bear dens, and I can tell you, it isn't one!"

"But you know not about the creatures here! And keep your voice down," he whispered. "Have you forgotten the manner of beasts we had encountered?"

"Of course I haven't already furgotten! What do you take me for, a bearded elf?" he said loudly. "How can anybody furget somethin' like that?"

"Didn't I just say to keep your voice down, dwarf?"

Just then, a growl emanated from the den of fallen logs and leaves.

Bukloc slowly paced back while Marcel, again, froze. From the darkness of the nest, a humanoid emerged. It was gigantic, not packing as much mass as the bear-men earlier, but tall, deathly tall, and well-muscled.

He was purple-skinned all over, wearing only a furry set of pants made from dark coats of seemingly many wolves. He was colossal, looking down on them with a dark expression. They had never seen this type of creature before, but they knew right then it wasn't a friendly species. Judging from his muscled hands and thick claws, he looked like a vicious predator.

The dwarf wasted no time, and quickly plunged into his bag for a weapon. But the creature saw this, and with speed frightening for something his size, slapped bag away.

Marcel studied its eyes. There was intelligence in this creature…and wisdom. It was very old, ancient perhaps, as there was much learned wisdom in its composure. He might have liked to study it, if the situation was different.

The thing suddenly moved from his standing position, stepping towards the dwarf. Shocked, Bukloc tried to run, but his short legs were no match for the thing's giant strides. With just a few steps, it came in reach and batted the dwarf with the back of its hand. Literally, he went flying.

Now it faced him. And as always, he froze.

A loud swishing sound broke the silence. Someone fired an arrow, and it hit the thing on one of the horns on its head. It didn't seem to suffer any pain from it, but nevertheless, it looked very annoyed.

They looked at the source of the projectile, and to both of their surprises, they were surrounded by archers, mounted on the tree branches, their height camouflaging them.

They were elves, all female, except their skin bore a foreign hue, and their features were different from what Marcel was used to at home. One of the warriors spoke quickly.

"We do not want any trouble Satyr, just let the human pass. He means no harm," she said. Both Marcel and the creature looked up at her. Her garment was different from all of theirs, he noticed. She wore a silvery cloak, quite decorative, while the rest wore dark ones, probably suited for better cover in the dark.

Besides looking distinctive, he noticed she was strikingly beautiful. Though her face was hinting of age, her features were small and delicate, much more refined than anything he had seen. Sure, he knew elves were innately more pleasant than humans, but this was something else. He looked to the other elves to see if it was a racial thing. And although all of them had attractive features, it seemed that she was much prettier than the rest. As he stole another glance at her, he felt his heart pulse.

The thing laughed quietly in response. "I know he means no harm, I just thought his skin would make a good scarf."

He shuddered, then turned to see her response. She seemed to have ignored him, and proceeded to slide down the tall trunk carefully. The rest followed suit.

A few of the elves helped Bukloc to his feet, and the rest, including her, headed towards him. He studied their expressionless faces. He stole another glance at her again as they came close.

"Follow me, human," she said in a slightly demeaning manner. He caught himself taking the order wordlessly.

Shocked, he stopped in his tracks. He replied, quite timidly, "Who are you creatures? And why do you speak my tongue?"

She quickly grabbed him and ushered him onward. She was evidently smaller than him, yet her strength surprised him. He was even more surprised by her abruptness. Her touch… even through her glove and his garment, sent a sensation through his body.

As he was about to pose another question, she quickly turned around and steadied her bow. Apparently the satyr had conjured up a snake from his clutch, and had launched it at their backs. And apparently, she had shot it out of the air, where it exploded into shreds.

"By gods, how did you do that?" he exclaimed.

She looked at him, and smiled sadly. "If you had been holding a bow for centuries, you too would be able to shoot like this." Then she turned and shouted something to the satyr in a foreign tongue, who in turn went back to his den.

He knew elves lived a longer time than humans, but… centuries? Then, he studied these elves, and knew that they were not simply just another species of intelligent beings, but ancient creatures far beyond him. They were definitely not equals (perhaps the dwarf and them came closer), and he felt foolish, and childish next to these old beings.

Yet his initial question still stands. Why had they come to his rescue? It had been twice already that his life had been saved today by unexpected friends.

Friends? No, to her he must only be an inferior being.

+++

After a long, silent walk, they departed, as abruptly as they had appeared. The walk was uneventful, and they brushed off most questions he had for them, somewhat politely, but leaving him more unsatisfied than before.

They had left him instructions, how to get back to their docked ship, and areas and habitants to avoid. But these mattered little to Marcel.

Throughout their wordless hike, he had studied them, specifically the priestess (as he heard them address her so). A great deal of things went through his mind. He gathered a little background information from studying their garments and ornaments, but these were only assumptions. Most of the time though, he was looking intently at her.

Her composure was one of confidence, experience (almost boredom) and absolute command. Several times she would return his gaze, expressionless, which would cause him to look away nervously. Then, the process would be repeated. He thought he caught a few smirks from the others.

But now he sat on a rock, left with his thoughts and a half-dead dwarf. The whole instance was such a blur that it left him wondering if those strange elves were ever here at all. The total stillness of the forest was no help, either. But then he only had to listen to his heartbeat for the answer.

+++

"Let's move it, dwarf! Come on, let's go!"

"Erm… ya sure? Didn't those folks say to head down ther?"

"Since when did you listen to a bunch of damned elves? And women, Bukloc! Women!"

A little taken back, the dwarf eyed him with a tired expression. Then he smiled, "Aye! I may have been smacked around a 'lil bit today, but I ain't mad yet!"

Right then, something dawned on him. He had finally comprehended the feeling he'd always had ever since he'd set foot on the island: it was one of being watched.

"So where are we going, lad?"

"On an adventure, my friend."

"Ha! Sounds good t'me!"

He caught himself descending into a cave-like tunnel, leading underground and into complete darkness.

"What are we goin' down ther fer? Y'know, one more smack and I'm done for, lad."

He caught himself looking for danger, so they might show up to save him.

He stood at the entrance, looking down into the tunnel. Then he looked up and around him, checking to see if they were anywhere in sight. No, but he knew they were there, hidden too well for his eyes. He knew.

He caught himself going in. He would do anything to be able to see her again.

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Author's Note: Finally, the first chapter. It has been a long time, but it feels good to be back.

Firstly, I feel I must express my thanks and deep appreciation for those few faithful ones keeping with me. Thank you.

Secondly, I ask of you to tell me- what the hell is wrong? To me, there is something dull and unexciting about this, something either missing or terribly wrong with my entries so far. If you didn't catch it, good. But if you share my sentiments, great, and share your thoughts.

Sincerely,

Endearth