Legends of Belariath

Ehlanna

"My birth was hailed by my people, congratulations being heaped upon Ryshiera and Gwyddion, my mother and father. My first few years of life, I am told, were full of pampering and the adoring attention of parents, relatives, friends, although I feel that this may be over-stating the case somewhat. What was to celebrate about the birth of a Sylvan Elf girl child? Nothing beyond the normal happiness of a new life brought into the world, except that I was the first to be born for a number of years. The long lives of the Elven people does not lend itself to multiple births, in number or frequency, but even for us this was, by all accounts of my elders, a long and worrying time. Not only had our forest city been childless for some years, we were also suffering the depredations of Drow, in league with Goblins, at our borders.

All this I have, of course, from the bards and my parents and relatives, and indeed it sounded a bleak time. What was not known at the time was that the lack of births was down to an unclean enchantment cast by the head Drow mage to both cause despair amongst our people, as well as preventing the eventual replacement of combat losses.

From the beginning I had been ear-marked as a potential Mage and the majority of my toys reflected this. My earliest memory is of the satisfaction at solving an intricate puzzle involving intricate inter-twined osiers and a piece of elm carved into a bizarre shape, all of angles and loops. I must have been about seven when my parents rushed into my room to see what all the noise was about. Their faces lit with joy, I can still recall the radiance of my mothers beautiful and the proud gleam in my fathers eyes as I held up the elm and willow in separate hands. This sealed my fate and on looking back I can see now all the little things that that were said and done, just to pique my interest in the magical arts. Since my mother was a renowned weaver and father a stalwart guardian of the forests I assume that they were under instruction from the ruling council. That august body must have been giving them hints and tips on just what to say. Whatever the case, it worked.

Until the age of my majority at 35 I was fascinated by magic and could normally be found badgering one poor mage or another. Despite being insufferable, they answered my questions, albeit obliquely. Each answer was followed by a period of contentment as I digested the knowledge. But, as is often the way with mages, each answer, when examined in depth, led to more questions - if this is so, then why this? And how does? And what about -? At the, relatively, mature age of 135 I can smile now at my memories of the hectoring I gave them, grin even, since it was all their own fault. They had decided I was to be a mage, so they created a little question-asking monster with limpet-like tendencies.

Once I reached 35 I was immediately inducted into the school of magic. The initial classes were, to me anyway, just a recap of all that I had learnt over the past decades. Still, the lessons reinforced the knowledge and gave me a firm understanding of the basic structure of magic. So caught up with basking in the seemingly bottomless well of information it took me some years to realize that I was being groomed as a combat mage - the spells I had been taught leaning heavily to the offensive. Despite my having immersed myself in my studies I was not blind or deaf and tacitly welcomed the polarized knowledge. From this point the focus of my attentions shifted from all out study of magic and started to wander into the sphere of our enemies. I began to hunt out our guardians, especially my father, to gather as much information about the Drow and Goblins, their tactics, strengths and weaknesses.

By the time I left the school of magic, a mere 50 years of age, I was content that in any conflict I would emerge the victor. This was soon put to the test as I was assigned to a roving band of guardians whose mission was to stalk the forests edge to provide advance warning of an incursion, or if the marauders were small enough in number to persuade them not to come back. During the evening, some five weeks into our patrol our primary scout Tolwen reported that he had seen camp-fires out in the plain. Ysane, our leader, decided that we would tarry where we were as she thought that we would, the following night, see an attempt to infiltrate the forest.

Ysane was half correct. In our arrogance we had been drawn into a trap. The following night we did indeed as a group of Goblins sneaking into the forest. As there was only six of them Ysane decided that the five of us would ambush them. Forming a loose horseshoe with me at one end and Tolwen the other we waited in silence for the Goblin to walk into our trap. Being Goblins they obliged, and two dropped dead where they stood as arrows cut them down. A third screamed as I used an Energy Bolt spell for the first time in anger, wincing inside as he writhed in burning agony and died. I remained in cover as the other four of our patrol drew their swords and engaged the out-numbered, cowering Goblins.

It was then that the enemy sprung their own trap. The first I knew of it was when I felt the magical attack. Flinging up my defenses I screamed in agony as the spell bit into my body. I staggered forward and turned on shaking legs to see a Drow, sword swinging, leaping at me. Stumbling backwards I tripped and fell flat on my behind, the ungraceful move probably saving my life as the sword swept over my head. I drew my dagger and prepared to sell my life dearly. The Drow grinned and drew his sword back, preparing to run me through with a lunge. My hands raised in a warding gesture, mind trying to grasp the threads of my magic but all I could do was stare in horror at the blade. There was a sudden blur of movement from my left as the Drow lunged. Instead of driving his sword deep into my body the Drow eviscerated Tolwyn as he leapt between me and the Drow. Tolwyn uttered a low groan of pain and fell to the forest floor, entrails and blood poring out of his mid-section. With a small shrug the Drow prepared, once again, to dispatch me. I was lost, all I could see was the mutilated body of my dear Tolwyn, the Elf who had introduced me to the pleasures of the flesh, the one who had so sweetly and slowly taken my virginity three years ago. Never more would I moan in rapture at the feel of his velvet-skinned penis sliding slowly into me, nor taste the delightful saltiness of his semen. I closed my eyes to drive the gore-splattered remains of his body from my mind and tried to concentrate on that fateful day when, over the process of seven hours, he had driven my body wild with desire and lust before he finally obeyed my gasping demands that he made love to me.

My body felt warm as my thoughts returned to that happy day and despite the prospect of my imminent demise I could feel my nipples hardening and my pussy becoming moist. “Get up you silly girl.” Slowly opening my eyes I realized that I should be dead by now. Instead, just a few feet away was the smoldering body of the Drow, an arrow jutting from his left eye. “He decided to burn you girl, so I dissuaded him,” continued Ysane, “and he lost control of the spell as he died.”

We returned Tolwyn’s body to the forest and mourned his loss in the Elven way, singing songs of his bravery and his life. After we moved away Ysane told me in no uncertain terms that if I was to freeze again during combat, not only would she not bother to save me, she would personally see to it that I would be unable to sit again in comfort for some months.

The rest of our patrol was spent under the cloud of Tolwyn’s death, but was un-eventful. On return to the city I immediately applied to join the combat school to train as a ranger. If I was to be the scourge of the Drow I wished to be I had to be able to stare a naked blade in the hand of an enemy without flinching. I owed it to the memory of my beloved Tolwyn.

The years of combat training smoothed out a lot of rough edges I was not aware I had. Ten long, hard years of cuts, knocks and bruises, suffering the mocking scorn of the trainers as yet another cut or lunge went un-parried, slowly became knowing nods of approval as I parried and sent back a lightning riposte. After being beaten in the final of the annual contest I was judged safe to be let loose on the world again. The only problem was wherever I looked I saw something that reminded me of Tolwyn, and I spent most of my time with a fierce grimace and in a state of depression.

My mother had finally had enough of my moping and on my 65th birthday gave me what she called a going-away present. As I unwrapped the green silk skirt that my mother had woven with her owns hands she explained that if I stayed I would fall into depression and probably become harsh, and possibly even evil in nature - she had seen it before when a young Elf had lost a lover. Kissing my eyes softly she handed me my traveling pack and told me to go away for a while, to try and come to terms with my loss in a place I was not constantly reminded of it. My father grasped my wrist in the gesture of respect between warriors and then pulled me into a tight hug. When I had got my breath back I kissed them both farewell and, carrying my pack and new skirt, slipped out of the city into the dusk.

Many years and adventures later I found myself somewhere in the center of the land known as Belariath at the place known as The Lonely Inn. With a forest and Dryad’s grove just outside it seemed a perfect place to stop and rest a while. Somewhere to give me time to reflect on my short life thus far.

The continuing story of Ehlanna can be found in Legends.

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