Legends of Belariath

Mozenwrathe

Green Vases Overturned, Part I

Lurking in the darkness is not what I would call a more positive aspect to my life. I much prefer to deal with my difficulties head on, but some times that is not a thesible course of action. Other times, one can hide in plain sight - much more reliable a disguise when your prey does not know whom you are, or where you intend to strike from. Although I may speak like a common cutpurse, I am no such thing. My blood is from high elven stock, my gifts were from those goddesses whom my people treasure. I was volunteered from my peasant beginnings for the Vermillion Brigadeers. For those whom do not know that name, you may have heard of the Redcloak Guard. We, much like the Brethren of the Emerald Glade and the Greensteps of the Voidless Forest, have dedicated our lives to the finding of lost knowledge, the defense of our homelands... and the hunting down of those whom seek to assail the good people of high elven heritage. (Those in the Brethren of the Emerald Glade are primarily of sylvan elf heritage. The members of the Greensteps of the Voidless Forest are many, and accept any whom claim the woods as their home, from rare wolven to nymphs. I have even seen a few rogue beastmen in their numbers from time to time over my two hundred years, and more noble a group I could not imagine.)

Now, I should formally introduce myself before I tell you more of what I have witnessed recently. My name is Tayrin Lankshaft, fifth born child to loving high elven parents, the middle of nine children. My parents were unusally blessed with children, each of us coming withing twenty years of the next. We have all found good careers for myself, but I am the only one who opted for danger and excitement. My oldest sister is a priestess in the service of Morpheus, while the youngest is also a priestess, but she worships the goddess of the hearth instead. It makes for spirited conversation around the table when the whole family congregates for monthly repast together. My eldest brother went off to Unigo to become a wizard, so he could bring spells back tothe smaller villages to make life easier. The rest of my siblings have taken to the scholarly arts of accounting or scribing tales for the youngsters. My younger brother, apparently, wants to become a bard in a few decades - after he has learned enough about telling stories, he says. Being a farmer or a scholar did not interest me, not when marauders and creatures of hideous nightmare still walked the lands. Much against my father's wishes, I took up the bow and shortsword instead of the inkwell and tallow-dipped candle. Even so, they have been supportive of my wish to defend our home against those whom seek easy prey amongst our proud and beautiful people...

Those like the soot-skinned, dark-souled, flat-footed, overly large, wicked-tempered bastard I now seek. He name is lost to me, but his form is not. He would be the perfect archtype for a Dark Elf, had he been born one. He, however, is far worse than any of the Fallen Elves could ever be, for he is human. I bear the humans little love or respect, for they seem to show naught but callous disregard for everything good within this world. A few have proven themselves worthwhile allies, and they have been those rare breed whom become part of the Vermillion Brigadeers or a similar association. All of those whom I have conversed with about the scroll-fleshed defiler have all stated that he cannot be truly human, for what kind of man would - nay, COULD - walk through an elven outpost and slay all those within without blinking an eye or turning a head in shock or disgust? Surely he must be touched with the tendrils of Chaos, for no thinking being would do such a thing without knowing sorrow and remorse. I, however, am not the only one who stalks him, but I believe my arrows shall find his heart - or what he would refer to as one - soon enough, and so him for the void-serving vampire he is.

*****

How incredible can it be for a single snowflake to be the cause of an avalanche? One might not think it possible, but on occasion the balance between two or more objects is so precarious, only a slight gesture will tip the entire platter on the floor. If you do not believe me, try to make a house of cards, then place a cricket on one side without anything to counterweight it on the other. Whether it be a snowflake, one butterfly, or even the words "I love you" spoken a moment too soon - or in some sorrowful moments, too late - the fragile harmony is forever disturbed, causing a self-destructive chain reaction which may easily sweep away all the hard work nature or other forces have placed into their masterpiece.

Such was not exactly the case here, but the analogy would suffice. The snowflake would be called a catalyst in the dusty tomes of philosophers and magisters. In this case, however, if the snowflake weighed shy of 100 lbs, and the mountainside in question was the fate of at least two warlords, you may want to call the avalanche fallout instead. Okay, mayhaps the people I refer to would not qualify for warlord status, but with the amount of blood each has shed of their foes, is only truly inclined to debate semantics with them? I thought you would see my point in this.

A few days previous, a young, disoorganized, chaotic, and none-too-bright human would-be thief known as Dani Quik had vanished suddenly from the Lonely Inn. Her presence would not be sorrowfully missed by many, due to her need be, well, her obnoxious human self. Not that she could inflict much physical damage to any of the other occupants or visitors, but her manners and general behaviour left much to be desired. (Most of my people would have dubbed them barbaric and deplorable, but I have seen REAL barbarians, and so I will leave them out of it.) In no way was she universally reviled like the sadistic slave-raping dwarf Lokar had been, but she was not close to being the most endearing of characters.

To be certain, her human physique was nubile and svelte; very comely a lass was she - for one of the short-lived races. If she had set her mind to such, her winsome hips and pouty lips could have garnerd her a small faction of suitors or protectors. I even caught myself staring at her waistline once or twice, forgetting myself and my purpose. There is, of course, the problem corncerning her mind - itwas so focused on "going big time," so terrifying mistrusting, almost inconceivably berift of proper learning, and quite frankly underused. For a child with so much potential, she was a real waste. In essence, the average human. There is an old saying: "Youth is wasted on the young." Dani Quik exemplified this to the utmost letter.

Her thieving ways had earned her the dubious honour of four highly diverse individuals trying to show her a better way of life - all of which amounted to immense frustration, at least three near brawls, and a blood oath being sworn to keep one from killing her outright. (And oddly enough, it was not the Fallen Elf Shaka Selu whose patience and tolerance had been shattered either. I, for one, was surprised. Still, I have an arrow meant for his left eye, as he has dared to seduce and claim to desire marriage to one of my own race, the fair Nidawi. That , and the fact he has forced her to breed half-dark elf get shall earn him death sooner than he possibly believes.) Dani Quik, in her unforgettable fashion, had also managed to arouse the ire of at least several patrons of the inn, a few of the cooks, and even the proprieter of the inn itself, Elowyn Brightbranch. For a young lady of less than twenty summers, she had a knack for evoking the worse possible reaction from people. Her petty larceny ranged from raiding the larder of the inn, all the way to stealing drinks or even coin from drunk patrons. Some times, the patrons were not all that tipsy, but she would make her move anyway, youth and disregard for sanity making her bold. The street rat made due with her meager talents, and when caught used belligerence, natural dexterity, and a little magic to get her free from dire consequences. (Being a very LOUD liar did not hurt that much, either.)

Now, I am sure that keeping an eye on her was not what I had originally intended. There was the fact, however, that that damned frost mage chose to get involved with her, and that is what interested me. His motives, at least for a short while, seemed to honestly be trying to aid her. I have not yet fathomed why he would, other than the fact he may have started out the same. I know very little of his history, but it appeared for a brief while he empathized with her plight - until she drove out what remaining noble sentiment he may have absorbed from being around high elves and caused him to revert to form. During the few days he spent trying to assist Dani Quik, the mahogany-skinned minion of wickedness was seen occasionally leaving the inn and returning. Each of those trips, there was one of the Vermillion Brigadeers following him. Each time did he go to the river close by and merely peer into it, as if scrying something within himself. Although we should have struck him down then, we would rather capture him alive and cart him back to the High Elven Courts, where he shall be properly punished for his crimes.

Finally, Dani's thieving ways ran her afoul of the barbarian chieftan K2`. Now for those whom have not heard the tales of this woman, K2` is a very attractive human female, whose axe can (and has in past weeks) cleave a foe's head clean from his body. All high elves in this realm know well to steer far clear of her, and perhaps misdirect bandits and thieves to her person. Her temper is already the stuff of legend, and few whom choose to oppose her mercurial whim dare so again, or even remain unscathed. Most sane and thoughtful people would not - nay, could not - fathom stealing from her, such would her wrath be. Her dedication to avenging even imagined slights with sadistic relish was well evidenced. Most whom had suffered the misfortune of dealing with her on a vengeance kick were deceased, resurrected recently, in hiding somewhere, enslaved, insane, or curiously missing limbs. Normally, it would be a combination thereof. A highly limited number had ever bested her in combat, and that number was not likely to increase any time soon.

So as you now witness for yourself, Dani's flight for parts unknown was very fortuitous - at least it was for her. One of those brave souls whom sought to guide Dani's footsteps along a better and brighter path, however, was not so fortunate. Young Aphris, whom had witnessed the darker side of Belariath against her will, still believed Dani Quik had enough goodness and potential in her to deserve another chance. This selfless young human, whose beauty and innocence could never be marred by mere callousness, was the same woman whom sought to impose peaceful relations between blood rivals by interposing herself between their blades. Tymora and Fortuna both must love her, as Aphris managed to survive that experience unscathed. (I am certain in a past life she was a high elf, for no other explanation can suit her marvelous talents.)

Then again, her first meeting with bastard sorcerer and his Fallen Elf comrade-in-arms, Elthorion, was almost her last. She had sought to walk in on what would be Lokar The Abuser's last stand against the enraged dark elf. The damnable soul with the chesnut complextion threatened to hurl the maiden Aphris into a tree with no common decency, in order to "keep her safe." This was while Aphris was still under the oppressive yoke of the the Fallen Elf Shaka Seku - of which she is no longer. One can only assume the Dark Elf-candidate's concept of valor involves the choices between a quick and painless demise, or a torturously elongated and fair gruesome death. Then again, he never -has- called himself a "hero." The ploy worked, and Aphris was saved having to be skewed on the edge of Elthorion's blade - if that is what he used on Lokar. (This is not to say I sympathize with Lokar's plight at all. I was more than pleased to hear he was sundered and cast to the four winds. I merely wish the same were true with that devilish bastard in human form.)

In the case of Aphris herself, she threw herself wholeheartedly into preservind Dani's life - by presenting her own body to the barbarian K2` in trade for the duration of Dani Quik's disappearance. Of course, she had good motivation, for K2` had placed a bounty on the head of young Dani Quik, stating that both she and the ring be returned to her for a grand sum. K2` had gone so far as to offer a bonus if the finger of Quik was still within the confines on the ring - but not still affixed to her hand. To persuade K2` to soften her contract on Dani's life and health, Aphris offered her body and her word. Amused by such sentiment, the barbarian chieftan accepted Aphris' deal in traditional fashion for a barbarian - the exchange of a lock of hair. Seizing this opportunity, K2` made plans to properly "break in" her lovely new vassal, for Aphris (as I have stated before) was quite the sweet-looking damsel, indeed. Aphris, however, being as naive as she was selfless, never truly fathomed how dangerous a deal with K2` might be until after she accepted.

To be honest, humans have a habit of doing extremely foolish things for the wrong reason on a regular basis. This was just one of many things I observed at the Lonely Inn. Humans, on the whole, tend to perversely enjoy doing things to themselves that must end badly for them. On top of that, then the aspire to use wiles and human ingenuity to find loopholes in fate in order to extract themselves from said horrendous situation. Life would be so much simpler if they kept themselves honest and out of trouble. Then again, they would be all better off dead, but that is the way humans are - ruining everything for decent elven folk. In some ways, they are worse than orcs, for orcs have the excuse of being mindless, malformed savages.

Now, this is not to say Aphris' plight had fallen on uncaring hearts.It turned out, in face, she had those willing to challenge K2` for her "freedom" lined up without ever asking or desireing their collective assistance. And challenge her they did, whether directly or through other means. Finally, after being denied her "personal bounty" once too often, K2` released aphris of her binding word, burning the lock of hair which represented aphris' oath to K2`. Aphirs herself, however, did not do the same, therefore keeping K2` to her promise of not hunting Dani Quik herself. I am sure if they made easier and more acceptable bargains, a lot of inter-human strife would go away, but we elves are always ignored when it comes to logic for some reason. I think it is human stupidity, masked as pride, that keeps them from truly learning from their betters.

That brings now into the picture, the events of more recent nights. Long has it been known of the Magi's superlative magical nature. I, for one, have never dealt with one of their race, but I know the legends as well as any far-venturing elf. Some of that sorcerous background was faced when Caterinad (a slave of the sylvan elf Ehlanna), along with the Fallen Elf Shaka Selu, the healer Kitrian (one of Shaka Selu's former vassals), the slave girl Aria, and a few others faced off (along with Alissia, an associate of Caterinad's) against something so powerful, their combined might was only enough to ward it off for another night. The fighting was apparently fierce and tragic, for one of their number was struck down in the midst of the battle by multiple tentacles, but that is all the rumour mill would give me definite answers on.

Kitrian, another human, was mortally wounded in the fray - burned so horribly it was believed if she did survive, only the most powerful of sorceries would keep her from permanent, groteseque disfigurement. Inspired by Kitrian's own efforts to save lives, even the tactiturn newcomer Zan Roderick had followed the accursed force mage with Aria to find their comrades - or the remains thereof. At that time, they did not know. I thought briefly of accompanying them myself, but I felt it would be best to keep my presence still unnoticed by that ebony-touched marauder. The battle had finished moments before they arrived, but while the Dark Elf-hating human took rear gaurd, and helped to move Alissia, the black-tinged soulless fiend used his long arms and well-noted strength to carry another one of the ill-fated group back to the inn, where Kitrian (the only healer present at the time) lay dying unless properly tended to.

Here is where things begin to interweave in unusual directions. The ironwood-shaded traitor of the soul called Shaka Selu to him in the kitchen. When the dark elf left the pantry and larder, his arms were laden with spices and leaves to make poultices. That evil excuse for a sentient creature came out next, carrying a huge cauldron of tenderizingly hot water with one hand per handle - and managed not to singe himself in the slightest or break his spine. I, for once, was impressed. I also, however, was very disappointed. Next, while Hanna Ashengrail - a sylvan elf ranger recently returned from an extended sojourn - and Aphris herself with her limited medical skills, were tending to Kitrian, that sable-haired fork-tongue bade Eirik Bladesong lend him his sword. Using the sharp edge to cut both his wrists and the palms of Kitrian's hands, he invoked her powers of healing in order to use blood socrcery to transfer his health into her, and Kitrian's torment into his own flesh. Now this was an unexpected development, for somehow the damned one managed to call upon some past experience or sealed off memory to use that kind of highly volitile magic. At least it was in order to save the life of someone whom was not a miserable waste of flesh and bone such as he.

This "noble sentiment," however, cost him dearly. As though Mielikki Herself saw fit to punish the forsaken one for past transgressions, the burns which should merely have been shunted over transformed into partial conflagrations of his body. In fact, fires positively erupted from under his skin, setting the night-driven madman ablaze for a small time. Suitable retribution, I feel, for someone who prefers to slay innocent elven citizens with blistering fragments of ice. Much to the chargin of the barbarian chieftan K2`, whom chose to enter the inn at that moment, he survived. This included attempts to douse the flames with water, Ice Shards, and beating it out with fabrics, all of which did not succeed too terribly well. Kitrian's ailing frame though supple and graceful - was well served by that dastardly villain's uncharacteristic intervention.

The last I personally witnessed of the wicked sullreaver's fell carcass was when a hobgoblin carted him off. Apparently, the hobgoblin was well known to that foul fingered fiend, which does not surprise me at all. Leseer beings do congregate naturally, after all. Not to say many were worried about his well-being (as well they should not), but when that raven-coloured backstabber of children was bleeding on the floor, his wounds healed themselves and formed new writign on his apparently unmarred flesh. The exhaustion, pain, and wretchedness that comes with being thoroughly put to the torch still plagued his miserable mind, but the red-veined raspcallion's body -looked- fine enough. That is, until blood began to seep out of the brass coloured script. Now this beggars investigation...

I know now that I am seeking the downfall of the right enemy of the high elven people. His allegiances, his goals, his powers - all of them must be torn down and shattered before him by high elven might. Then, perhaps, he will confess to all his crimes and seek the hangman's noose himself. Barring that, there is no law stating that he must be taken alive. We can always resurrect him for his trials and have him slain before the justice-starved populace by beheading - and then have his body decimated by fireball. Nothing of him shall remain when I am done - not even his legacy of blood carved over almost fifteen winters. This I swear.

*****

After the events of that night, I left the inn for a while. I knew there was much I had to contemplate, and that could not be done in the presence of others - especially those loyal to that demon-forged detriment to society. The forests around here were hostile to all people, given the amount of rapists, thugs, and murderers that lurked within here even throughout the daylight times. My bow was notched, and my longknife was unknotted and ready for use in case a well-shot arrow was not enough. My senses were tuned for the actions around me, and I was hoping for something to use a few practice shots on.

And I was not even trying to refer to hunting some innocent and quivering doe, either. I wanted prey that deserved to perish - someone that I could feel no guilt in watching my wooden shaft lance the side of, and my dagger plunging into the chest of. In short, I needed someone to fill in for the dark mage whom was beyond my grasp at the moment. My blood was singing to me in that ancient battle hymn of the gold elves, a melodic and sinew-strumming song that heightened my responses and caused my breathing to excite. For those moments when the battle hymn enveloped me, I was unstoppable, as any high elf would be.

Then I heard it, just as the glow began within me. The unimitable shriek of a maiden about to be ravaged against her will. All I could do is pray I got there in time, but with the battle hymn pacing my stride, I need not have worried. Every step was like a full run for me, but without the exhaustion that would normally come from it. My motions were like water - unstoppable, unreadable, ever beautiful. I would have wept if it were appropriate, but my mind was on the kills ahead. As I came upon the scene I was appalled, for there were seven dirty humans - bandits all - slapping and tearing at the clothing of an hapless nymph. Her skin was rouged from the rough treatment, and there was barely enough covering her to hide her prominent nipples or her smooth buttcheeks. Her pussy was clearly visible, and some of the men had already pulled out their tools to work her over properly. My scream of rage filled my head, but I did not release it, instead using that first arrow to shoot the largest man through the meat of his ass, the arrowhead cutting off his prick at the source.

That woke them up.

By then, however, it was far too late, for my arrows were in my hand and then into my bow. My cover was perfect, for I was at least twenty long yards away, and they were in a small clearing so they could have raped the little nymph far easier. The screams of the first man, as well as the events his body created, caused me the best distraction I could have hoped for. A second, a third, and a fourth arrow filled the man's ruddy form, piercing his spine, his lungs, and then finally his throat. A final gurgle, and he fell to the earth, stone cold death. My heart lept at the sight, knowing another brigand would never walks my woods again. The second man tried to dash away, but his pants were around his ankles as he was going to have the nymph suck him off. The arrow meant for him missed when he fell unpredicted, but sunk itself dead in the left eye of the fifth man, pinning his skull against a tree. Two more arrows later, I corrected my previous error by pinning the man to another tree through the left side of his ribcage.

The remaining four ruffians brandished weapons and one was brave enough to hold the young nymph as a hostage. Not that I was afraid, but that did give me a higher priority as to whom to fire on. The would-be hostage-holder learned what how much two arrows to the arm can do to a man, especially when one sinks into the elbow itself, and the other into the shoulderblade. I could not spare arrows to kill them all yet; my first concern was to make sure the nymph got free. Her short legs helped her scurry away from the now weakened grip of her previous captor. A loud shout to her got her moving in the right direction, while more arrows flew to their marks - cutting into flesh, cartilage, bone, and fat. That human rabble scum tried to follow her stabbing at her with longswords or reaching for her with grubby hands, but wooden death hailed upon them like vengeance from on high. My shafts struck clean and true each time, removing more life from each and every one of those bastards.

Finally, the nymph had managed to reach me. At that point, I had used every last arrow from my quiver, and those which were not soiled by blood too thoroughly had been broken by the falling of dead weight. When I looked upon her, that nubile flesh inspired such thoughts in me, I could for a hot moment understand why the men wanted her so sadistically. Giving her my cloak, I walked her back to town, whispering words of comfort in her ear. Before we reached the town itself, she cried in my arms, her fear and shock finally crashing in on her. Carrying her flighty body, I took her to a local clothing shop and acquired her new garments to wear. The only wound I had suffered was knowing that the men whom I had slain in cold blood were not the devil-worshipping bastard son himself - but soon it would be.

There are times I truly love my work. When I went back later that night after finding the nymph a safe place to stay with fellow elves, I saw a wonderful site. A pack of dire wolves had torn into the men, ripping them to shreds in their hunger. There was so little left of the spiteful rockfuckers that only an expert would be able to make up a single man from the blood and bones of what once were seven fully grown victimizers. Nature had once more laid claim to its own, so there was no possible chance of resurrection. Later on the next day, I discovered they were actually guards of a baron a few leagues over, and had come down this way on "vacation." The baron was not known for his sanitary habits, or his decency. Perhaps, I thought, after capturing the dark-souled mage, this baron would make for good sport of my own. Maybe, in fact, I should hint to the others that we should bring down this horrid man BEFORE Story - as practice.

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