A Beginning
There is an ancient song on Gaeth, which, translated to the common tongue, reads,
In the past lies a radiant flower,
Amidst conflict and war,
Ancient legend and lore;
Known only as the Ultimate Power;
A power coveted and feared by all.
Its wielder has control absolute,
Like the gods on high,
Who can never die;
All people will bow and pay tribute;
Attempts to own it fail; rise to fall.
Elves in their secluded forests of green,
Guardians of nature,
Smooth and soft of feature;
Their grip on the past unerringly keen;
But if action needed they do not stall.
In battle they claim to be without peer,
Masters of the bow,
Swordplay more than mere show;
Against Orcs and Drow they do not show fear;
Gaeth pained, they heed the clarion call.
Vast are their cities of metal and stone,
Dwarven things made to last,
Traditions of ages past;
Mountains grand, warm, and deep do they call home;
Treasure uncounted dot the ancient halls.
In majestic forges they make their trade,
Sword, armor, axe and spear,
Hammer and anvil held dear;
For smithing, lore, and battle were Dwarves made;
To guard the ancient past, they heed the call.
Manifestations of greed and hatred,
Muscular and savage,
Orcish delight to ravage;
For destruction and battle were they bred;
No prisoners have ever adorned their walls.
Sword, spear, axe, and club with fury they wield,
Made to deal the utmost pain,
To kill, annihilate, and maim;
When the smoke clears, bodies litter the field;
For Gorthak, their god, they will heed the call.
Humans claim that they are superior,
Seizing every last moment,
Far are they from adherent;
They deny that no race is inferior;
Their arrogance holds others in a thrall.
Warriors of both the light and the dark,
Champions revered and true,
Villains by many pursued;
Throughout history Humans left their mark;
If they deem it worthy, they heed the call.
Yet know this, creatures of Gaeth,
Young and old,
Both good and evil;
Forget not my words of which ye sing;
Lest damnation be the fate of all.
For from a golden age great darkness shall grow,
Gone will be the leaders of old,
From the ashes heroes unfold;
And Gaeth shall be torn asunder, laid low;
Unless the few hear, and heed, destiny's call.
Many races on Gaeth had forgotten the prophetic verse, and the majority of those that retained knowledge of its existence dismissed it as a silly beginning to an old story of days forgotten. But the Elves, who hold knowledge in high esteem, held the prophecy close to their hearts. Some believed that the prophecy had already come true during the Race Wars years before. Many, though, saw it as a foretelling of the future, of a time when the survival of the good people of Gaeth would depend on the actions of a few . . .
- - - - -
"Keep your guard up, Lothæsorun!" instructed the elder elf. "Keep it up, I said!"
The two sparring elves danced around each other in the secluded glade. The sparring swords, wooden, yet remarkably light by the flourishes and graceful strokes, could have been mistaken for tarnished metal at first glance. The elder elf obviously seemed more skilled with a blade than his younger companion. Still, the youth's agility made cause for the elder to bob from side to side out of experienced habit. Despite his mentor's prodding, Lothæsorun seemed to be mentally distracted.
"Auntæn!" ordered the elder elf as he lowered his wooden sword. "What's wrong with you today, Lothæsorun?"
Lothæsorun relaxed his already loose stance and turned his attention toward his mentor, but was obviously looking through him.
"I'm sorry, Taneisen, but I'm trying to interpret a dream I had during my meditation."
"What kind of dream?" Taneisen asked, walking over toward his pupil.
"It's weird," said Lothæsorun, recreating the dream in his head. "I saw a large, bronze-colored dragon, and a rather intelligent one, at that. I imagined it flying to the edge of a great forest, and change its form by means of a spell or something. After the green radiance dissipated, all I saw was the form of a tall, muscular elf."
Even as Lothæsorun retold his peculiar vision, the sky darkened, casting an eerie twilight upon the glade. The green, luscious trees and plants seemed to converge on the inhabitants, prevented their escape or interruption.
After a long silence, Taneisen spoke. "I cannot interpret your dream for you, Lothæsorun. If your mother were still with us she may have been able to shed some light on your vision. Alas, she was taken too soon from those who loved her.
"Still, I suggest you worry about your dream some other time. Presently, you should fret more about your reflexes!" Before he finished the sentence, the old centurion lunged at his apprentice, forcing him to raise his guard and resume sparring.
- - - - -
At the white marble shrine of Corthidian Isthærian, Lothæsorun sat cross-legged in prayer. He seemed dead to the world. The breeze blowing through the trees stirred him not. Nor did the play of Elvish children or the philosophy of elders walking and sitting on benches catch his ear. Yet despite his apparent ignorance of his surroundings, he seemed almost to radiate an aura of peace while he prayed.
"Grant me the strength and the wisdom," whispered the elven youth. Lothæsorun slowly opened his eyes, feeling the spirit of Corthidian Isthærian renew him. Gradually, with the unnatural grace of the Elves, he rose, looking over the city he loved.
Elves by nature do not build elaborate cities in the woods they love. By tradition, they keep their groups small, and their buildings in the treetops, to appear and disappear when they choose.
Foreen was the Elves' only exception. It was a metro-polis of greens, golds, and other earthly tones. Buildings of wood towered into the sky much like the trees that surrounded them. Elvish houses filled the trees, and stores both large and small, of crystal, wood, and all natural things dotted the landscape. Paths between buildings were faint, for all Elves are light of foot, even when bustling about. The ground was lush with grasses, and in patches the fallen leaves of yesteryear.
"Good day, Lothæsorun!" hallooed a vibrant elf.
"Good day, Raershen. How is the Wind and the River?" returned Lothæsorun. He had business to care for at home, but was obliged to see what his friend wanted.
"He is gentle and She flows the same," answered his comrade. "Are you busy later this afternoon?"
"No. Why, did you need to make a new bow?"
"I already made a new one, the day before last. She shoots even farther than the last. Actually, I was hoping that you would be willing to spar with me later. The tournament is the next full moon and I want to keep training."
"Sure, I can spar with you, Raershen," said Lothæsorun, "But I have some things to take care of at home first."
"No problem," smiled Raershen cheerfully. "I'll be in the glade beyond the largest oak. I'll grab some spar-blades, but when should I expect you?"
"An hour before sunset."
"See you then," said Raershen as he turned to prepare for sparring.
- - - - -
Lothæsorun shut the door to his modest home. Like other dwellings of elves not joined eternally with a partner, it was small and simple in design. A bed of grasses lay in one corner, with a few grass blankets and a pillow of still-green leaves. A small wooden table was situated near the opposite wall. A firefly lantern and quill and ink rested at one end of the table, across from the lone chair. The table served as such for meals, reading, correspondence, or what ever use he had need of it. Lothæsorun had also put into place a back door, so he could relax on the great branches of his tree, or to secret himself away to visit Rilistivætha River.
He sat down on his bed and looked at his hands. He knew what his hands looked like, but he wished . . . They were the slim, dexterous hands of all Elves, but Lothæsorun was different. He had known that he was different for the past 30 years. Like all Elves, Lothæsorun's 100th birthday was a day of celebration. Many Elves treasure their 100th year with little care for anything else in their lives, it serving as a landmark, but mere months after his 100th birthday, Lothæsorun began to notice some unsettling physical changes that were not common among Elves. His nails elongated, and became much harder, becoming more like the claws of a wild animal than a set of normal fingernails. They became sharp as daggers, and for fear of being separated from his peers, he cut his nails daily to a normal length. A few weeks later, he saw that his teeth were also becoming pointed and sharp. Lothæsorun grew very scared of what was happening to himself. He started to file his teeth down, and tried to act normal around others in his community, which was becoming increasingly more difficult. Days later, just when Lothæsorun couldn't think of anything else to separate him from Elven society, he woke up and went down to the Rilistivætha River to bathe; when he saw his reflection, he fell back in absolute terror. Trembling, he crawled to the edge of the river and looked again. They were! His eyes, once beautiful Elven green, now had a bronze colour, and a striking reptilian appearance. How could he hide his eyes? He had to think of something. What had caused this change? What had caused any of these recent changes? Magic? Magic! That's what he could say! And that is what he had said to those who asked. He said that a wandering mage had cast a permanent enchantment on his eyes to make him more ferocious looking. They did. So much so that they almost superseded his combat prowess in the community tournaments.
And so Lothæsorun had lived these past 33 years. As normal an Elven life as he could manage, considering his unique circumstances. And it was, inasmuch as he cared, a life worth leading. He used to worry daily about his abnormalities being discovered, and the possible consequences therein. Now he rarely worried about their knowledge being known, for they had remained hidden from the community already these 33 years. Rather, he daydreamed and pondered what it meant. Maybe it was a sign from the Elven god Corthidian Isthærian that he had a great duty to perform, or that his abilities were needed for a greater purpose.
Whatever the reason, he needed to focus on the present. He needed to trim his nails and get something to eat so that he could meet Raeshen in the glen for sparring. Lothæsorun looked outside his house, searching the heavens for the sun.
"Three and a half hours," he whispered to himself.
- - - - -
"Hey, Solaris!" Raeshen hollered as Lothæsorun entered the glade. "I was worried that you weren't gonna show!"
Raeshen smiled as his childhood friend strolled into the sparring circle. Raeshen was already standing in his starting position in the circle, hopping back and forth like a street brawler and twirling the two spar blades in his hand. As Lothæsorun stepped into his starting position, Raeshen threw the spar blade from his right hand to Lothæsorun, over two dozen feet away.
"Come on, let's go! I wanna get some good practice in for the tournament," said Raeshen as he and Lothæsorun began to circle each other.
"Raeshen," said Lothæsorun nonchalantly, "Let me ask you a question. Why do you care so much about the tournament? We have one every five years in Foreen, and I've won the last two. Haven't you even been just a little curious as to why I'm not participating this year?"
"Nope," said Raeshen matter-of-factly as he parried Lothæsorun's blows and countered with some of his own. "I figured you knew that you're the best sword fighter in your bracket, and decided to let someone else have the glory this year."
"No!" said Lothæsorun, blocking his partner's blows with the skill that he had demonstrated in the last two tournaments. "No, Raeshen. I'm not participating because the tournament serves no purpose!"
Adding emphasis to his words, he went on the offensive, forcing Raeshen back. "The most the tournament provides is a series of sparring matches."
Raeshen executed a turnover and resumed more aggressive maneuvers. "Like I said, glory."
"You're missing the point!" yelled Lothæsorun with a return offensive. Agitated, he thrust past his friend's guard, hitting him in the gut and ending the match. Lowering his spar blade, he tried to explain his reasoning.
"You have to earn glory. Giving the glory would mean intentionally throwing the last match, which I would never do. If I'm going to fight, I want it to be for a cause, not some community tournament. I don't know if I am the best fighter in my bracket, but I know I'm good. I want to use my skills to help somebody, not to provide entertainment."
Raeshen put his unarmed hand on his friends shoulder. Looking him in the eyes, he said, "You do help others, Lothæsorun. You provide the incentive for others to keep training. And you always spar with anybody needing a partner, helping them improve. Not an honest elf in Foreen would deny that you are the best fighter in your bracket, so stop being so damn modest."
Heaving a great sigh, Lothæsorun returned his gaze from the heavens to his friend. "I don't know, maybe I've just been tired lately. It's almost sunset, so I'm going to go home."
"That's a good idea," said Raeshen, "Get some extra sleep tonight."
"Will do."
- - - - -
The gargantuan dragon stared at the elf. The slim biped looked like a child's plaything next to the immense form of the dragon. The sunlight bouncing off the bronze-tinged scales forced the Elven female to shield her eyes. It had to be a female, he couldn't imagine a male elf with the flowing auburn hair. But where had he seen her before?
The giant bronze dragon passed its massive clawed hand over the elf, blocking her from his view. When the dragon's hand moved away, the elf was gone. The magnificent creature stood on its hind legs, rising to an unbelievable height.
Then the dragon sighed. From its maw pulsed a cloud of light, blinding his vision. When the light faded, the dragon was gone. In its place stood a male elf. A male elf that he had seen at Rilistivætha River. An elf that he knew very well . . .
- - - - -
"I was dreaming again last night, Taneisen," said Lothæsorun as he sparred with his mentor.
"How long have you been having these dreams?" said Taneisen as he returned strikes against his student. Just because he had lived for over five centuries did in no way imply that the old elf's reflexes were slow. In fact, Lothæsorun had to focus to keep up. The young warrior had not answered the question, so the elder asked again, "How long, Lothæsorun?"
"Since my 100th birthday," replied Lothæsorun coolly.
"That was over 30 years ago! Why haven't you said anything until recently if your dreams have been bothering you this long?" inquired Taneisen.
"Because they were never this consistent. Or vivid. I'm starting to see details in them. I begin to wonder if they are trying to tell me something."
"Who know," said Taneisen as he began a flurry of blows against Lothæsorun's defenses, "But either way, you need to stay focused!" Just as he finished speaking, the master's spar blade slipped through his student's defenses and struck him on the side of his thigh.
Lothæsorun dropped to the earthen floor, both because of the stinging pain inflicted by the blow (most Elven spar blades are made from wood that has aged so much as to be almost as hard as rock) as much as from his anger toward himself for not paying attention. In a rage, Lothæsorun howled in anger. The moment Lothæsorun felt the heat rising in the back of his throat, he shut his mouth, but it was for naught. In the instant it was open, a bolt of lightning shot from his maw and struck the massive oak fifty yards in front of him. The dumb-struck elf blinked his eyes; the trunk of the great oak, now charred black and smoldering. Taneisen stood petrified, his jaw slack with terror and surprise. Lothæsorun sat back on his haunches, staring at the blackened tree, his eyes filled with horror.
"Lothæsorun," whispered Taneisen with both fear and curiosity in his voice, "How did you do that?"
"I don't know," whispered Lothæsorun. "But I fear this shall be my last day in Foreen."
"Aye, lad," said Taneisen. "Aye. I shall help you prepare your leave. And I give you my word," he said as he turned to face his pupil, "That I shan't tell a soul of this the rest of my days."
"Thank you, old friend," smiled Lothæsorun mournfully.
- - - - -
Lothæsorun looked around his small abode. This morning it was vibrant, full, almost having a life unto itself; now it seemed quite barren and dead. The books had been locked away in a chest. His lantern and oil were packed in the small sack he was taking with him, along with some blankets and two skins filled with drink. He hoped he could reach the city of Polmas before they ran out. There he could hire himself out as a mercenary or find a trade to work until he found some answers. His hand-crafted bow was slung over his shoulder, his quiver on his back with only a few dozen arrows. The whittling knife he had used to carve it was in a small sheath aside his thigh, his only source of martial defense.
Sadness at leaving the only home he had ever known, he turned to leave. Just as he was outside the door, he paused. Bowing his head, he placed his right hand on top of his left, held them parallel to the ground, and said a short prayer. Lothæsorun lifted his head, and descended the great tree that had been his home these many years. He began his walk to the edge of town.
- - - - -
Lothæsorun looked over the city of Foreen. Standing at the limits of the Elves' expansion in this part Virian Forest. He had never seen the city often at this time of night, but now he saw it, and thought it remarkably beautiful. Various trees were lit by the small personal lanterns burning within. The large buildings on the forest floor had their magical lamps aglow, casting soft green spheres of light into the night. The crisp night air was filled with the voices of Elven minstrels and their instruments, singing of days long gone, of star-crossed lovers, and of forgotten heroes. Looking at the majestic tranquillity of the only home he had known, in all its beauty, and knowing that he might never look upon it again, brought a tear to his eye.
Lothæsorun wiped the tear away, and turned to begin the journey to Polmas. As he started down the dirt path, a voice from behind a tree called to him.
"Lothæsorun."
"Who is it?" Lothæsorun asked, curious to know who was observing his departure. His old friend and mentor stepped onto the path, a sword strapped to his back. Lothæsorun could only see the hilt and pommel, but he knew it most definitely was not of Elven make.
"Before you leave, I have something I must do." Lothæsorun was about to speak, but Taneisen held up his hand for silence.
"I must continue with you what my mentor continued with me." Taneisen slowly drew the weapon from its sheath, and performed a short display of his superior skill with a sword. He then unslung the sheath from across his back, and held the blade and its cover outstretched to his student.
"This blade was forged by the Dwarven smith Borain. Tempered in the flames of Mount Ærun, it has seen many battles. Supposedly, it has some magical quality to it, but the knowledge to use it has been lost to the Elves. I have faith that you will one day learn how to unleash that power, but until then, it shall be a fine sword for your protection."
Lothæsorun bowed in honor, and accepted the sword.
"And you'll want this," said Taneisen as he handed his former student a whetstone. "Keep it sharp."
Lothæsorun accepted the gifts with as much dignity and pride as he could muster. The two elves said their good-byes in silence, reading the words in their eyes. Lothæsorun then bowed again to his former master, and began the long walk to Polmas.
There is an ancient song on Gaeth, which, translated to the common tongue, reads,
In the past lies a radiant flower,
Amidst conflict and war,
Ancient legend and lore;
Known only as the Ultimate Power;
A power coveted and feared by all.
Its wielder has control absolute,
Like the gods on high,
Who can never die;
All people will bow and pay tribute;
Attempts to own it fail; rise to fall.
Elves in their secluded forests of green,
Guardians of nature,
Smooth and soft of feature;
Their grip on the past unerringly keen;
But if action needed they do not stall.
In battle they claim to be without peer,
Masters of the bow,
Swordplay more than mere show;
Against Orcs and Drow they do not show fear;
Gaeth pained, they heed the clarion call.
Vast are their cities of metal and stone,
Dwarven things made to last,
Traditions of ages past;
Mountains grand, warm, and deep do they call home;
Treasure uncounted dot the ancient halls.
In majestic forges they make their trade,
Sword, armor, axe and spear,
Hammer and anvil held dear;
For smithing, lore, and battle were Dwarves made;
To guard the ancient past, they heed the call.
Manifestations of greed and hatred,
Muscular and savage,
Orcish delight to ravage;
For destruction and battle were they bred;
No prisoners have ever adorned their walls.
Sword, spear, axe, and club with fury they wield,
Made to deal the utmost pain,
To kill, annihilate, and maim;
When the smoke clears, bodies litter the field;
For Gorthak, their god, they will heed the call.
Humans claim that they are superior,
Seizing every last moment,
Far are they from adherent;
They deny that no race is inferior;
Their arrogance holds others in a thrall.
Warriors of both the light and the dark,
Champions revered and true,
Villains by many pursued;
Throughout history Humans left their mark;
If they deem it worthy, they heed the call.
Yet know this, creatures of Gaeth,
Young and old,
Both good and evil;
Forget not my words of which ye sing;
Lest damnation be the fate of all.
For from a golden age great darkness shall grow,
Gone will be the leaders of old,
From the ashes heroes unfold;
And Gaeth shall be torn asunder, laid low;
Unless the few hear, and heed, destiny's call.
Many races on Gaeth had forgotten the prophetic verse, and the majority of those that retained knowledge of its existence dismissed it as a silly beginning to an old story of days forgotten. But the Elves, who hold knowledge in high esteem, held the prophecy close to their hearts. Some believed that the prophecy had already come true during the Race Wars years before. Many, though, saw it as a foretelling of the future, of a time when the survival of the good people of Gaeth would depend on the actions of a few . . .
- - - - -
"Keep your guard up, Lothæsorun!" instructed the elder elf. "Keep it up, I said!"
The two sparring elves danced around each other in the secluded glade. The sparring swords, wooden, yet remarkably light by the flourishes and graceful strokes, could have been mistaken for tarnished metal at first glance. The elder elf obviously seemed more skilled with a blade than his younger companion. Still, the youth's agility made cause for the elder to bob from side to side out of experienced habit. Despite his mentor's prodding, Lothæsorun seemed to be mentally distracted.
"Auntæn!" ordered the elder elf as he lowered his wooden sword. "What's wrong with you today, Lothæsorun?"
Lothæsorun relaxed his already loose stance and turned his attention toward his mentor, but was obviously looking through him.
"I'm sorry, Taneisen, but I'm trying to interpret a dream I had during my meditation."
"What kind of dream?" Taneisen asked, walking over toward his pupil.
"It's weird," said Lothæsorun, recreating the dream in his head. "I saw a large, bronze-colored dragon, and a rather intelligent one, at that. I imagined it flying to the edge of a great forest, and change its form by means of a spell or something. After the green radiance dissipated, all I saw was the form of a tall, muscular elf."
Even as Lothæsorun retold his peculiar vision, the sky darkened, casting an eerie twilight upon the glade. The green, luscious trees and plants seemed to converge on the inhabitants, prevented their escape or interruption.
After a long silence, Taneisen spoke. "I cannot interpret your dream for you, Lothæsorun. If your mother were still with us she may have been able to shed some light on your vision. Alas, she was taken too soon from those who loved her.
"Still, I suggest you worry about your dream some other time. Presently, you should fret more about your reflexes!" Before he finished the sentence, the old centurion lunged at his apprentice, forcing him to raise his guard and resume sparring.
- - - - -
At the white marble shrine of Corthidian Isthærian, Lothæsorun sat cross-legged in prayer. He seemed dead to the world. The breeze blowing through the trees stirred him not. Nor did the play of Elvish children or the philosophy of elders walking and sitting on benches catch his ear. Yet despite his apparent ignorance of his surroundings, he seemed almost to radiate an aura of peace while he prayed.
"Grant me the strength and the wisdom," whispered the elven youth. Lothæsorun slowly opened his eyes, feeling the spirit of Corthidian Isthærian renew him. Gradually, with the unnatural grace of the Elves, he rose, looking over the city he loved.
Elves by nature do not build elaborate cities in the woods they love. By tradition, they keep their groups small, and their buildings in the treetops, to appear and disappear when they choose.
Foreen was the Elves' only exception. It was a metro-polis of greens, golds, and other earthly tones. Buildings of wood towered into the sky much like the trees that surrounded them. Elvish houses filled the trees, and stores both large and small, of crystal, wood, and all natural things dotted the landscape. Paths between buildings were faint, for all Elves are light of foot, even when bustling about. The ground was lush with grasses, and in patches the fallen leaves of yesteryear.
"Good day, Lothæsorun!" hallooed a vibrant elf.
"Good day, Raershen. How is the Wind and the River?" returned Lothæsorun. He had business to care for at home, but was obliged to see what his friend wanted.
"He is gentle and She flows the same," answered his comrade. "Are you busy later this afternoon?"
"No. Why, did you need to make a new bow?"
"I already made a new one, the day before last. She shoots even farther than the last. Actually, I was hoping that you would be willing to spar with me later. The tournament is the next full moon and I want to keep training."
"Sure, I can spar with you, Raershen," said Lothæsorun, "But I have some things to take care of at home first."
"No problem," smiled Raershen cheerfully. "I'll be in the glade beyond the largest oak. I'll grab some spar-blades, but when should I expect you?"
"An hour before sunset."
"See you then," said Raershen as he turned to prepare for sparring.
- - - - -
Lothæsorun shut the door to his modest home. Like other dwellings of elves not joined eternally with a partner, it was small and simple in design. A bed of grasses lay in one corner, with a few grass blankets and a pillow of still-green leaves. A small wooden table was situated near the opposite wall. A firefly lantern and quill and ink rested at one end of the table, across from the lone chair. The table served as such for meals, reading, correspondence, or what ever use he had need of it. Lothæsorun had also put into place a back door, so he could relax on the great branches of his tree, or to secret himself away to visit Rilistivætha River.
He sat down on his bed and looked at his hands. He knew what his hands looked like, but he wished . . . They were the slim, dexterous hands of all Elves, but Lothæsorun was different. He had known that he was different for the past 30 years. Like all Elves, Lothæsorun's 100th birthday was a day of celebration. Many Elves treasure their 100th year with little care for anything else in their lives, it serving as a landmark, but mere months after his 100th birthday, Lothæsorun began to notice some unsettling physical changes that were not common among Elves. His nails elongated, and became much harder, becoming more like the claws of a wild animal than a set of normal fingernails. They became sharp as daggers, and for fear of being separated from his peers, he cut his nails daily to a normal length. A few weeks later, he saw that his teeth were also becoming pointed and sharp. Lothæsorun grew very scared of what was happening to himself. He started to file his teeth down, and tried to act normal around others in his community, which was becoming increasingly more difficult. Days later, just when Lothæsorun couldn't think of anything else to separate him from Elven society, he woke up and went down to the Rilistivætha River to bathe; when he saw his reflection, he fell back in absolute terror. Trembling, he crawled to the edge of the river and looked again. They were! His eyes, once beautiful Elven green, now had a bronze colour, and a striking reptilian appearance. How could he hide his eyes? He had to think of something. What had caused this change? What had caused any of these recent changes? Magic? Magic! That's what he could say! And that is what he had said to those who asked. He said that a wandering mage had cast a permanent enchantment on his eyes to make him more ferocious looking. They did. So much so that they almost superseded his combat prowess in the community tournaments.
And so Lothæsorun had lived these past 33 years. As normal an Elven life as he could manage, considering his unique circumstances. And it was, inasmuch as he cared, a life worth leading. He used to worry daily about his abnormalities being discovered, and the possible consequences therein. Now he rarely worried about their knowledge being known, for they had remained hidden from the community already these 33 years. Rather, he daydreamed and pondered what it meant. Maybe it was a sign from the Elven god Corthidian Isthærian that he had a great duty to perform, or that his abilities were needed for a greater purpose.
Whatever the reason, he needed to focus on the present. He needed to trim his nails and get something to eat so that he could meet Raeshen in the glen for sparring. Lothæsorun looked outside his house, searching the heavens for the sun.
"Three and a half hours," he whispered to himself.
- - - - -
"Hey, Solaris!" Raeshen hollered as Lothæsorun entered the glade. "I was worried that you weren't gonna show!"
Raeshen smiled as his childhood friend strolled into the sparring circle. Raeshen was already standing in his starting position in the circle, hopping back and forth like a street brawler and twirling the two spar blades in his hand. As Lothæsorun stepped into his starting position, Raeshen threw the spar blade from his right hand to Lothæsorun, over two dozen feet away.
"Come on, let's go! I wanna get some good practice in for the tournament," said Raeshen as he and Lothæsorun began to circle each other.
"Raeshen," said Lothæsorun nonchalantly, "Let me ask you a question. Why do you care so much about the tournament? We have one every five years in Foreen, and I've won the last two. Haven't you even been just a little curious as to why I'm not participating this year?"
"Nope," said Raeshen matter-of-factly as he parried Lothæsorun's blows and countered with some of his own. "I figured you knew that you're the best sword fighter in your bracket, and decided to let someone else have the glory this year."
"No!" said Lothæsorun, blocking his partner's blows with the skill that he had demonstrated in the last two tournaments. "No, Raeshen. I'm not participating because the tournament serves no purpose!"
Adding emphasis to his words, he went on the offensive, forcing Raeshen back. "The most the tournament provides is a series of sparring matches."
Raeshen executed a turnover and resumed more aggressive maneuvers. "Like I said, glory."
"You're missing the point!" yelled Lothæsorun with a return offensive. Agitated, he thrust past his friend's guard, hitting him in the gut and ending the match. Lowering his spar blade, he tried to explain his reasoning.
"You have to earn glory. Giving the glory would mean intentionally throwing the last match, which I would never do. If I'm going to fight, I want it to be for a cause, not some community tournament. I don't know if I am the best fighter in my bracket, but I know I'm good. I want to use my skills to help somebody, not to provide entertainment."
Raeshen put his unarmed hand on his friends shoulder. Looking him in the eyes, he said, "You do help others, Lothæsorun. You provide the incentive for others to keep training. And you always spar with anybody needing a partner, helping them improve. Not an honest elf in Foreen would deny that you are the best fighter in your bracket, so stop being so damn modest."
Heaving a great sigh, Lothæsorun returned his gaze from the heavens to his friend. "I don't know, maybe I've just been tired lately. It's almost sunset, so I'm going to go home."
"That's a good idea," said Raeshen, "Get some extra sleep tonight."
"Will do."
- - - - -
The gargantuan dragon stared at the elf. The slim biped looked like a child's plaything next to the immense form of the dragon. The sunlight bouncing off the bronze-tinged scales forced the Elven female to shield her eyes. It had to be a female, he couldn't imagine a male elf with the flowing auburn hair. But where had he seen her before?
The giant bronze dragon passed its massive clawed hand over the elf, blocking her from his view. When the dragon's hand moved away, the elf was gone. The magnificent creature stood on its hind legs, rising to an unbelievable height.
Then the dragon sighed. From its maw pulsed a cloud of light, blinding his vision. When the light faded, the dragon was gone. In its place stood a male elf. A male elf that he had seen at Rilistivætha River. An elf that he knew very well . . .
- - - - -
"I was dreaming again last night, Taneisen," said Lothæsorun as he sparred with his mentor.
"How long have you been having these dreams?" said Taneisen as he returned strikes against his student. Just because he had lived for over five centuries did in no way imply that the old elf's reflexes were slow. In fact, Lothæsorun had to focus to keep up. The young warrior had not answered the question, so the elder asked again, "How long, Lothæsorun?"
"Since my 100th birthday," replied Lothæsorun coolly.
"That was over 30 years ago! Why haven't you said anything until recently if your dreams have been bothering you this long?" inquired Taneisen.
"Because they were never this consistent. Or vivid. I'm starting to see details in them. I begin to wonder if they are trying to tell me something."
"Who know," said Taneisen as he began a flurry of blows against Lothæsorun's defenses, "But either way, you need to stay focused!" Just as he finished speaking, the master's spar blade slipped through his student's defenses and struck him on the side of his thigh.
Lothæsorun dropped to the earthen floor, both because of the stinging pain inflicted by the blow (most Elven spar blades are made from wood that has aged so much as to be almost as hard as rock) as much as from his anger toward himself for not paying attention. In a rage, Lothæsorun howled in anger. The moment Lothæsorun felt the heat rising in the back of his throat, he shut his mouth, but it was for naught. In the instant it was open, a bolt of lightning shot from his maw and struck the massive oak fifty yards in front of him. The dumb-struck elf blinked his eyes; the trunk of the great oak, now charred black and smoldering. Taneisen stood petrified, his jaw slack with terror and surprise. Lothæsorun sat back on his haunches, staring at the blackened tree, his eyes filled with horror.
"Lothæsorun," whispered Taneisen with both fear and curiosity in his voice, "How did you do that?"
"I don't know," whispered Lothæsorun. "But I fear this shall be my last day in Foreen."
"Aye, lad," said Taneisen. "Aye. I shall help you prepare your leave. And I give you my word," he said as he turned to face his pupil, "That I shan't tell a soul of this the rest of my days."
"Thank you, old friend," smiled Lothæsorun mournfully.
- - - - -
Lothæsorun looked around his small abode. This morning it was vibrant, full, almost having a life unto itself; now it seemed quite barren and dead. The books had been locked away in a chest. His lantern and oil were packed in the small sack he was taking with him, along with some blankets and two skins filled with drink. He hoped he could reach the city of Polmas before they ran out. There he could hire himself out as a mercenary or find a trade to work until he found some answers. His hand-crafted bow was slung over his shoulder, his quiver on his back with only a few dozen arrows. The whittling knife he had used to carve it was in a small sheath aside his thigh, his only source of martial defense.
Sadness at leaving the only home he had ever known, he turned to leave. Just as he was outside the door, he paused. Bowing his head, he placed his right hand on top of his left, held them parallel to the ground, and said a short prayer. Lothæsorun lifted his head, and descended the great tree that had been his home these many years. He began his walk to the edge of town.
- - - - -
Lothæsorun looked over the city of Foreen. Standing at the limits of the Elves' expansion in this part Virian Forest. He had never seen the city often at this time of night, but now he saw it, and thought it remarkably beautiful. Various trees were lit by the small personal lanterns burning within. The large buildings on the forest floor had their magical lamps aglow, casting soft green spheres of light into the night. The crisp night air was filled with the voices of Elven minstrels and their instruments, singing of days long gone, of star-crossed lovers, and of forgotten heroes. Looking at the majestic tranquillity of the only home he had known, in all its beauty, and knowing that he might never look upon it again, brought a tear to his eye.
Lothæsorun wiped the tear away, and turned to begin the journey to Polmas. As he started down the dirt path, a voice from behind a tree called to him.
"Lothæsorun."
"Who is it?" Lothæsorun asked, curious to know who was observing his departure. His old friend and mentor stepped onto the path, a sword strapped to his back. Lothæsorun could only see the hilt and pommel, but he knew it most definitely was not of Elven make.
"Before you leave, I have something I must do." Lothæsorun was about to speak, but Taneisen held up his hand for silence.
"I must continue with you what my mentor continued with me." Taneisen slowly drew the weapon from its sheath, and performed a short display of his superior skill with a sword. He then unslung the sheath from across his back, and held the blade and its cover outstretched to his student.
"This blade was forged by the Dwarven smith Borain. Tempered in the flames of Mount Ærun, it has seen many battles. Supposedly, it has some magical quality to it, but the knowledge to use it has been lost to the Elves. I have faith that you will one day learn how to unleash that power, but until then, it shall be a fine sword for your protection."
Lothæsorun bowed in honor, and accepted the sword.
"And you'll want this," said Taneisen as he handed his former student a whetstone. "Keep it sharp."
Lothæsorun accepted the gifts with as much dignity and pride as he could muster. The two elves said their good-byes in silence, reading the words in their eyes. Lothæsorun then bowed again to his former master, and began the long walk to Polmas.
