Axelraynn Liaimion: Words Fall Through Me

Dear, sweet Kyla Amastacia now stood in front of me, dressed in her usual spritely attitude. She swiftly lunged at me, wrapped her arms around me in the warmest, most soothing grasp. Tears streamed from my eyes, and I let out a gasp, not able to comprehend this overwhelming surge of unidentified emotion.

It seemed like ages since I had felt a comparable level of sincerity, and, in reality, it had only been days.

When she realized tears had imprinted themselves upon her left shoulder, she whispered in Elvish, “Let the waters flow, Dear One. Let the words fall through me,” an ancient Comfort long passed from one generation to the next by the turns of time.

I lost myself in the confusion, the ghastly physical exhaustion. And we stood there, tangled together until morning had shifted to noon and shadows had outstretched their hands to Nature. The winds begun to blow the leaves, as a lover who sighs.

Once I gathered the courage to speak without trembling, we sat down amidst the undergrowth, our backs resting on a nearby fallen oak. She tied her hands into mine, staring at me with weighted eyes of strength and comfort.

Before I spoke, she softly began, “If you have something to say…”

“I do.”

“Say it to me quickly. We don’t have much longer.”

I looked at her, inquiring.

“I must report back to the group before the sun sets, and with the amount of time we spent on hugs, we have little time for conversation.” She chuckled and looked over her left shoulder, away from me. “Do you have questions? I hope to have answers.”

“I cannot explain what your presence means to me,” I said.

“I, too, cherish you. Why else would I risk being accused of treason by abandoning my post?” She pounded my right arm with her closed fist, filled with just enough love to draw a bruise in the coming hours.

I let her love sink into my heart, and then we began the fateful questionnaire: “First, has there been any sign of your mother?”

Kyla sighed and shook her head.

“Second, how is my father?”

Kyla hesitated, “He mourns your mother, but he attempts to wear a mask about the people. We have had such little time together, in all sincerity. I fear your banishment and her passing will harden him.”

Here she stopped, searching for the right words to say. “Silverdew, I need consolation.”

“I do not take your meaning.”

“I long for answers as well.”

And the fact of the matter overtook me. The obvious had escaped me. I apologetically said, “You lost a mother that day, too.”

“Indeed.” A brief silence followed.

“Kyla, I regret your current circumstances, and I hope the High Truth doles out consolation, for your head and heart’s sakes.”

“I, too, regret your situation,” she rested her head on my shoulder. “Do you find comfort in knowing you can worship the High Truth in the way He intended – in the wild, free from the structure of a clan and people?”

I had never considered my exile a freedom, but she always had a way of twisting pain into Light, a quality I, myself, lack. And I smiled. “My loneliness has wrenched up its own struggles. I fear my pride has closed me off from Him.”

“He is always with you, Axelraynn Liaimion.”

I jumped at her use of my personal nomenclature, and she giggled, her voice echoing off the branches.

“Let me take some of your burden, Friend.” She stood up quickly. “Do you have any more questions? Do you need anything more from me?”

Shame swelled within me, that I had lost track of time in my emotional dizziness. “How many days has it been since I set foot into the wild?”

“Today marks your thirteenth turn of the sun,” she said in a certain manner, as if she had counted every day until we could meet again. And we had no inkling of knowing that our days would always be counting, counting, until our next passing moment in the woods. “Stand with me.”

She offered her right hand; I grabbed it; and I was on my feet in no time.

“I have a surprise,” she said with utmost joy. She began walking away, weaving through the various greenery. I attempted to follow while she muttered to herself. “It must be here somewhere.”

“What? What do you seek?” I laughed a little at her frantic meandering, as she pushed aside branches, undergrowth, bark, and rubbed her hands along varying stones and moss.

“Here!” She found a stone, covered in graying moss. When she lifted the moss, on it was etched a symbol I could not decipher. “Messengers’ secrets,” she smiled at me. “You might want to squint your eyes, if you intend to stare at it.”

I closed one eye, attempting to squint the other. “What is happen– ?

The foreign symbol began to glow as her hand approached it. I thought I heard muttered words under her breath, but the words were lost to my ears. Bright, brighter, and brightest, and I quickly decided to close my eyes before I heard another loud pitch reverberate off the encompassing trees.

The brightness shed, and I opened my eyes again, gently so as not to harm them.

“I brought reparations – a gift from our people, whether they know it or not.” She laughed again. “If they learn that I have offered this to you, they will call me to Counsel, most assuredly. These foods should be enough to get you to the Southern edge of the Lake of Dragons.”

I stared at the parchment-wrapped rations in her arms. “How did you manage to get this all the way down here?”

“Simple.” She smirked. “There are things you can not know about the Messengers just yet, but I hope I can share some words with you again in the future.”

“Do I get any clues?” I longed for this day never to end, but I gathered our time together was drawing to a close.

“Know I will be with you, just as the High Truth is with you.” She pressed her arms forward. “Please, take them. Add them to your pack.”

I took them and set the wrappings on the ground, unsure what to say now.

She spoke first, once more, “Shall we pray together?”

And so we did.

When the prayer was over, I felt closer to her and closer to Him. I felt a smile spread across my face, and true Hope entered my being for the first time in thirteen days.

“I must away, Axelraynn Liaimion.” And she turned, ready to head North to her clan.

“Wait,” I lunged forward, and she turned.

“There can be no more waiting,” she said with sorrow.

“I love you, Kyla,” I said confidently.

“I, too, love you, Deldorn Dundragon.” She fled.

As a young man who knew little of Love, at that time I could not comprehend that the phrase, “I love you,” would become our novel way of saying, “Goodbye,” and only that, nothing more.

Axelraynn Liaimion: O Mighty Marksman

Fatigue.

All I feel is a weakness in my body, soul, mind, and spirit. This imbalance has made the last fourteen days and fourteen nights most difficult. My joy and wonder has slowly dimmed. I find that the more I try to forget my mother’s death, the more I am reminded of it.

The lullaby that sang me to sleep on my first night of travels has deserted me. That tender caress has warped sharp and painful.

Repetition.

I relive that moment time and again. Time and again. And as the arrow hits Mother’s chest, I am reminded of Father’s hunt.

And with that, I notice the precision of Death. Death is a great marksman. He never misses his target.

“Mark me!” I screamed into the late night. “Mark me, O Mighty Marksman!”

My shouts were lost in the ether.

My footfalls are weighty, I gather. And although my rations ran out three days ago, in my secondhand death, I am overwhelmed by the notion of grief.

I do not want to eat.

I am unconvinced anything could cure me now of this ailment – a poison of the mind.

While the sane part of me noticed I was not standing near the fountain in Battle Creek and I had not suddenly been transplanted to a different time, the part that refused to take care of my physical being taunted me with much vexation.

The Healers, why were they not strong enough?

Why was I unable to halt Mother’s descent into the dark unknown?

Where is my mother’s murderer Breggel? Running around these woods, taunting me, ready to end it all here and now in the open – away from the oversight of her fellow Elves?

Six days ago – the last time I had consorted with the High Truth – I had begged for a trade. A soul for a soul, but knowing His merciful reasoning, I determined he would turn a deaf ear upon me.

Surely, as Mother might have said, He has his reasons for dark times such as these.

Anger and desperation.

I yearn to die, to lie down in the wild and see her shining, smiling face once more in the Endless Night.

That night, I tried my best to trudge forward, but, instead, in the late hours of the night, when my cot would normally have been set, a fire would have already been made, and I would have made sure to keep my guard up in order to be prepared for creeping dangers, I continued hobbling in unclarity. I could not tell the difference between North and South suddenly.

The lack of food was overtaking me. The lack of water was defeating me. And the stubbornness of my Father was guiding me. Where? I did not know anymore. I could faintly recall the destination Tethyr in my mourning.

But I fell. To the ground I fell. And what seemed to be mere seconds turned out to be a few hours.

Shock.

I woke with a fright, hearing the distant dream-voice of my father accusing me of the murder of his beautiful bride. As my eyes opened on a clearing in the woods, I grasped for the closest weapon I could reach. My staff was to my right, and my cheeks were stained with tears.

But to the naked eye, there was no threat. The morning larks had begun their songs, and the sun rose once again.

I sat still, breathing in, breathing out. I gathered my reality.

I was weak. I was frail.

I was the meekest target to the Mighty Marksmen.

Blinking away the rough night, I heard a faint meow and narrowed my eyes in its direction. This was no roar; it sounded like a soft creature. And then there was a rustling in a nearby brush.

I jumped to my feet, took guard position with my staff, and a gentle, padding white cat slinked toward me slowly.

It stopped about six feet in front of me; I could hear it purring. And as we stood, staring at one another, I recognized the glint of luminescence in her eyes. I guffawed loudly, uncertain what to do with this feeling of familiarity. I let my guard down.

She stepped toward me slowly. And doubt washed over me. This couldn’t be… Could it?

She rubbed her side against my right leg, circled me, comforting me. And then she stopped to look at me, letting out a single, minute, “Mraaow?”

“No way,” I said with exasperation.

The cat backed up and perched herself in the same spot six feet to my front.

A bright, blinding light formed at the creature’s heart. And I took my guard again, ready for an attack. The light conceived a hot warmth and swift, ringing pitch; I immediately covered my ears with the palms of my hands and had to turn away from the light.

Before turning I saw a shimmer but could not look in my peripherals for too long – unless I might regret that choice for the next few hours.

“Silverdew, it’s alright to turn around now,” the familiar voice giggled.

Axelraynn Liaimion: Songs of the Wood

The first evening of my southwest-bound journey was one filled with awe, wonder, and inspiration. While I was excited to step into worlds I had only viewed on parchment previously, I was also overcome with such elation to the point of self-denial. I stepped into the wild and forgot the miniscule war that lay behind me.

I forgot, for an evening, the wreckage that someone’s selfishness and misunderstanding had wrought upon my home. I carried forth in headstrong earnest, bearing my chest to Nature and thanking the High Truth that I would view the mysteries of our lands with my own eyes, making tangible the two-dimensional accolades of our modest scrolls.

I told myself, despite being disowned by my people, I never really belonged to the Elves. That had been made clear, quite violently, so as I set my foot into the unknown, I gleamed with forethought and a higher purpose. What might that higher purpose be? Only the High Truth could know.

And that enigmatic notion in itself was enough to press my spirit forward.

Fortunately, the High Truth had granted me the knowledge of this land, so first I headed southbound, making sure to remain in the open grasslands between the caverns to the west and the uncultivated wheat fields to the east, until I found roads by which few travelers move.

The smells of the open world in my lungs inspired, and I trekked toward a somewhat familiar wood, hoping they were the Spiderhaunt Woods. I chuckled to myself, remembering the origin of its name. No, the woods were not haunted. Spiders did not dwell there; the lore grew from the closeness of each trunk’s root systems. The trees were understood to be so old that the very root systems actually interlocked to form a singular large tree, hence the idea of webs working as one. Some passersby took this to mean: the forest would take visitors as its prey. Every night, the branches whispered to their visitors and howled to the moon, echoing off the neighboring caverns.

I determined that this would be the first wonder of the world I would experience.

After several hours of travel, my spirited endeavor waned, and as I reached the Spiderhaunt Woods’s edge, I noticed that the power in my legs were growing weak. My stomach growled, and my hands instinctively clutched my abdomen. The sun began its inevitable descent, and so time to set up camp was nigh.

I climbed over trunks, being careful to keep an eye on my next step, as my father had taught me to do. I looked up toward the sky, seeing the last of day’s light fading into the vastness of time. The stories of the Wood were true; there was hardly any ground upon which to set my boots. It seemed the further I delved into the forest, the less ground I would find. Even the upper canopy seemed to meld together, as if the branches were holding one another’s hands. No climbing for me.

I endeavored to find a single opening where I might sleep for the night, but as the hunger overtook me, I decided to simply set my bedroll upon one of the larger roots. There would be no fire tonight, but with the cover of the trees, perhaps I would not need one. I opened my backpack and pulled out a ration of jerky.

In the still silence, I wondered. I masticated upon the ideas of my future, still forgetting the immediate past.

What worlds would I get to see? What sorts of people might I meet? Will this journey be more than I can handle? Will I find my place in this world? Will there be art? War? Danger? Will there be romance? Maybe I will get to meet other Half-Elves. Might they know my pain and empathize?

Pain. I shook myself at the word. Will my grandmother be inviting despite not knowing me? Despite not seeing my mother for, at least, twenty-one annuals? Will the Humans respect my mother’s remains with a proper burial? Will I be welcomed in Tethyr, the land of wild multiculturalism?

And then the singing began.

Winds swept through the branches, rocking the entity who now cradled me. The thinner the wind, the sweeter the tune. And when harshness pressed down through the canopy, the melody descended until a saccharine song emerged from the depths of nowhere. On and on and on the lullaby preened and caressed me.

I did not know what lay ahead of me, but for a moment, I took a breath, remembering all my mother’s teachings. I took a second breath remembering my father. I took a third, enjoying the present, smiling up to the green and listening as the High Truth sang me to sleep.

I would not remember the tragedy of Battlecreek until the next morning, but tonight I slept as if Mother and Father were with me. To my heart, we were back in our cot. To my heart, Mother had just told me of Este’s fierce accomplishment over the tarnished Silver Dragon. To my heart, these songs were the fuel of my next chapter, and they were greater than I could even fathom.

Deldorn Dundragon: Naming Day

Typically, Elves declare themselves adults roundabout their one-hundred-year breath, but, in my case, an exception was made.

After murdering my mother, Breggel Amastacia took to the wild, and no one saw her again. The purpose in her heart – to divide the people of Battlecreek – had come to fruition. Her masked sympathizers had not come forward to reveal themselves. And Elves kept secrets very well hidden, so it was unlikely that anyone would reveal themselves.

Chaos, because of the uncertainty in whom to trust, spread like wildfire amidst the clan. And eyes were hunting for someone to blame.

I was the one to blame.

In the minds of the people, if I had not been born, there would have been no purpose for my mother to stay in Battlecreek with my father. If I had not been born, she would have grown tired of this place and left timelessness years ago out of boredom. If I had not begun to breathe, Human sympathizers would not have paid any amount of attention to the god of the Humans, the High Truth.

A week after Breggel had been declared vigilante, I steeled myself in my anger and self-pity. My mother’s death still flashed before my eyes, fresh with every new breath.

I did not want to keep her name.

So, I called a meeting with the High Council, and now I stood before them once again on my Naming Day.

Master Delsios spoke first to the clan, “Welcome, all, to the Naming Day of Deldorn Dundragon.”

Few people in the crowd clapped. Others remained silent. I looked over my right shoulder toward my father and Kyla; both had weak smiles on their faces.

“We will keep the ceremony brief in light of recent events,” Delsios spoke and then stepped back to stand next to High Elf Qinren.

Qinren spoke from his throne, “Deldorn Dundragon, you claim to be ready for conversion to adulthood – no longer to be seen as a young one. You truly feel confident you can claim to be an adult? You know I acknowledge you for what you are, an Half-Elf. I would never ignore it, and yet I have always had quite a fond place in my heart for you. I do not deny it.”

The crowd behind me hummed with both delight and uncertainty.

“What, now, do you wish to be called, if you so truly believe you can be considered an adult?” He glared.

“High Elf Qinren, I wish to be named Axelraynn Liaimion.” I simply bowed my head.

The crowd grew in frustration, upset that I would claim my father’s name.

Qinren waited for the crowd to go silent. “Very well, Axelraynn Liaimion, I acknowledge your naming.” And at these words he stood. “Welcome to adulthood. Since a majority of the clan is here, I must address the issues that have arisen as of late. With Cia Dundragon now at rest, her body on its way to her family’s burial grounds in Tethyr, and with Breggel Amastacia roaming the wild as a vigilante, I speak to you all here in the aftermath.”

Qinren’s words from the past echoed in my mind, If war is incited today, it will not be among my people. We fight wars with those who threaten us from without.

“Never again will my people be so torn apart by strange ideals – religion taking precedence over the duty to family. Never again, not while I sit upon this throne. The High Council is in agreement that there is only one way to appease both sides of this brief battle.”

Qinren looked over the crowd, examining each face as best he could, and then he continued, “Peace will be had. Provisions will be made. Protection will be reinstated. I need this clan to function as one. And, so, with great regret in my heart, the one thing that reminds us of such pain and division must be cut out.”

Now, Qinren looked to me, “Axelraynn Liaimion, I hereby name you exile. Wander the realms, knowing you have no home here. You must never return. Never betray us. You will be watched; that is my mercy. Messengers will keep watch over you as you travel the vast material plane.”

My heart sank. I turned to meet Kyla’s eyes, and she began to sob. My father, next to her, went pale, as if Elves could get any paler.

Qinren caught my ears’ attention again. “Immediately after this hearing, Axelraynn Liaimion, go to your tent one last time, gather some things, and head out into the wild. My eyes shall never rest upon your face again.”

My heart raced. Tears filled my eyes. I thought I could not stand.

“My final proclamation on the matter,” the High Elf said, “News will spread to the other High Elves. They will each receive this message: ‘Keep watch of the one who calls himself Axelraynn Liaimion. This Silverdew was born Deldorn Dundragon by his mother. He has been cast out in adulthood.'”

At the final word, the High Council left through a chamber door behind the glass expanse of thrones. The clan filed out of the Quarters in complete silence. And then I headed home, meeting my father inside.

He said with ease, “Kyla could not bear the emotion of it all.”

“I understand,” I said, still longing to have one last look at her.

“Son, I. . .” Father had lost all use of his tongue through grief on-top-of grief. “Son, your mother and I thought you might prefer wandering the realms instead of staying in Battlecreek, but we never considered that you would be cast out.”

I sat down at our little dining table, completely exhausted.

Father continued gently, “We had been preparing a little gift for you in case you did decide to wander the realms. I just had no inkling it would come to be needed this soon. . .”

He left me at the dining table and went back to his chamber. When he came back, he carried a few things with him.

“You are disciplined, my son,” he whispered. “Remember what we have taught you, and you will do well. Cling to the High Truth as your mother did. And do your duty. Remember what you had here before it was all taken away so abruptly.”

I said to Father, hoping to console him, “Doors only close by the one who made them open in the first place. It simply means he can open other ones when they are jammed shut.”

Then Father laid out everything on the dining table for me to get a better look at it: a light crossbow with twenty bolts, a Dundragon dagger, a Liamion dagger, a backpack, a bedroll, a mess kit, a tinderbox, ten small torches, ten days’ rations, a waterskin, a fifty-foot-long hemp rope, a slender staff made of rowan wood which was inscribed with Elvish protection runes and embossed in silver, a hunting trap, a pair of traveller’s clothes made by the finest Elvish tailors, and a belt pouch containing ten small coins.

“This is all I could put together for your travels in such short notice,” Father sounded apologetic.

This is fantastic, I thought. And then I began to play around with everything, examining it all. I changed quickly into the clothes he had provided; they had the Elvish sheen of silver as well. I loaded up all my gear, and then Father asked, “Where will you go first?”

“I think I will head West first,” I said, reflecting on all the maps I had looked at throughout the years. “I wish to visit Mother’s grave.”

I gave Father a hug and headed out into the wild.

Never look back.

Deldorn Dundragon: Ambush

In my twenty-first year of breath, the congregation that met to worship the High Truth had grown exponentially, almost to the point of being half the clan. So, we started meeting at the Fountain every seventh day, no longer in a secret location.

My father and a few of the other Hunters stepped up. Cyclically they began to give their testimonies about how the High Truth had opened their eyes to His Light and Grace and all the inner workings of the soul.

The clan was changing for the better. No longer was everyone simply going about their daily routines; they were growing together, becoming fond of one another, serving one another where there was need.

And today my mother stood to speak of the provision that the High Truth had provided despite her many doubts, encouraging others to believe in Hope. But just as my mother was concluding her message, an arrow shot above the rest of the congregation and just past her. Her line of sight followed the passing arrow, and then another one, as she was turning, struck her just below the heart.

No one in the congregation was armed, for this was a peaceful time. Therefore, no one could defend. But a mass of masked faces rushed in on the congregation, surrounding them. Those who had been trained in hand-to-hand combat tried their best to fend off the assortment of invasive Elves.

After much fighting, I rushed to my mother’s side. Father stood his ground and fought the hoard. Head Healer Finenda had Mother resting flat on the ground beside the Fountain. A stream of crystalline water flowed from the Fountain at the movement of Finenda’s hands, and she directed it straight at the wound.

Mother was breathing hard, and there was nothing I could do to help. There was no purpose for me in this moment as I racked my brain for helpful scrolls: languages I had learned, poems I had memorized about hope and love, maps, anthologies. In that moment, I became fully aware of my helplessness — that I was not truly prepared to battle Death itself.

A scarlet-brown liquid surfaced at Mother’s lips.

Finenda chanted some unknown incantation, and the crystalline liquid flowing through the wound began to shift and change to the color magenta as the hoard crept closer to end my mother’s life. And then her breathing relaxed. The healing spell was complete. Mother looked at me intently, and whispered, “See, little Delly, the High Truth protects.”

And Finenda said, “That he does, Cia. That he does.”

But in another instant, her veins began to expel outward from within her skin, turning a graphite silver. Her muscles tensed. She groaned a high-pitched squeal and writhed in pain on the ground.

Father rushed over to be with us. He tilted her up in his arms. Looking at Finenda, he begged, “Is there anything to be done?”

“I’ve done all I can,” Finenda was defeated, having used all her healing ability to save my mother. “Poison.”

The other Healers who were caught in the battle looked drained as well. And the battle had overtaken both sides. Some of my mother’s closest Sword Dancers stood as the last defense against the enemies. But the true enemy was within her bloodstream.

With my mother’s last agonizing breath, she whispered to my father, “Don’t let this be your memory of the High Truth. Carry on.” And her eyes were closed.

The fighting stopped. The purpose of this ambush was made clear as the masked Elves rushed back toward the wild, and the congregation, despite the bewilderment, was left to pick up the pieces of the attack.

The message: Breggel had gotten her war; she believed she had won.

Deldorn Dundragon: Rumors of War

Twenty years of breath — that was when my life really changed for the first time, and it has not stopped ebbing and flowing since that dreary seventh day.

I awoke not to a peaceful sunrise, but I woke to the blood-curdling scream of my mother. Two Elder Warriors had come into our family tent and dragged my mother out of her bed. Father had already gone into the wilderness with a few of his fellow Hunters to meditate with the High Truth in mind and heart.

It seemed to me that fear and bitterness had finally overtaken the Corellon Larethian elitists.

At the break of day, I now stood with a vast number of our clan in the High Council Quarters. But this time I stood where the rest of the audience stood, surrounding the focus group as they stared up at the High Council for questioning.

My mother was on trial.

And not too far to her left stood an Elf all too familiar to me — Kyla’s mother, Breggel Amastacia. In all the ways that I admired Kyla, I had the opposite feelings toward her mother. She was a harsh, crass individual who longed to serve herself. And yet in public she determined to put on an air of sophistication, a sharpness that mirrored her heart.

High Elf Qinren first spoke to Breggel, “Fond Breggel Amastacia, you have asked to bring about an emergency High Council meeting, swearing up and down that Cia Dundragon has planned a coup. First, I would like to ask, do you wish to amend your statement?”

“I do not, High Elf,” She gave my mother a harsh look over her shoulder.

Qinren carried on, “Second, I would like to know, on what basis do you make your claim?”

“This human is a heretic,” Breggel spit out; it cut me deep. “She longs to destroy the legacy of Corellon Larethian.”

Master Delsios stepped forward to speak with Qinren, not minding that we hear, “High Elf Qinren, I trust that Cia’s motive is only that of love. She would swear to it, and we have seen collectively that there is no reason to charge her nor treat her as a heretic. These rumors have been whirling about for years.”

Qinren gave a nod and then asked Breggel, “What is the difference now?”

“Now?!” For an Elf, Breggel seemed uneasy and shaken to the core. “She amasses followers for this false god the High Truth.”

Qinren continued, “Have you seen her with any such scrolls that she would be teaching the people anything but the legacy of Corellon Larethian?”

“I have not,” Breggel was shaken with anger. “But my daughter — My daughter constantly speaks of the kindness of this High Truth. She insists we pray to him, meditate with him in mind. What has this so-called High Truth ever done for me?!”

“Young Breggel, you forget yourself,” Qinren said. And then he sighed as he turned to my mother, “Cia, my young Sword Dancer, Master Delsios mentioned your motive is love. Is this true?”

I looked to my mother, still wearing her night gown, hair tussled from her early morning upheaval and struggle. She was the prime example of a broken woman, clinging to a rock as the storm beat her down. “Yes, High Elf Qinren, this is truth. I only wish that others would know they are loved, that they can be freed from the bonds that claim hold of them.” She did not even lift her head.

“Bonds?” Breggel whispered harshly. “We are a free people!”

High Elf Qinren raised his hand to silence Breggel. He turned to the rest of the council, “Does anyone here see this young woman as a threat to the clan’s livelihood?”

No one spoke up.

“So be it,” Qinren stated. “I suggest, Breggel Amastacia, that you check your heart before you call an emergency High Council meeting again. No threat is detected among the sect of the High Truth as of yet. Gods come and gods go in time, but in timelessness there may never be one who overtakes Corellon Larethian. The High Truth may fade from our ears’ memories, but perhaps not. Perhaps not; only timelessness will tell.”

“Mark my words,” Breggel directed her voice toward the crowd. “A war is coming! This woman threatens tradition.”

The crowd broke out in an uproar, and then my father and his Hunters crew burst through the High Council Quarters’ doorway. Father looked enraged, and so did his crew. Father made his way through the crowd up to his wife and swooped her up into his arms.

Qinren stood up fiercely. And he projected his voice, booming, “There will be order in this place!” The crowd froze in awe and respect. “Cia, go home and rest. Breggel, I suggest you do the same. I am through with this nonsense. If war is incited today, it will not be among my people. We fight wars with those who threaten us from without. We must remain mature and handle petty issues among ourselves. Everyone go home. Corellon Larethian be with you all.”

Deldorn Dundragon: Blood Moon

During my nineteenth year of breath, the rare Blood Moon was promised to pass above our wild, Elvish skies. On the day of the Blood Moon, instead of heading out with my Father on his hunt, I prepared myself to journey to the Cloven Fields in order to view the galactic event with Kyla.

But before heading that way, I fixed two mesh kits with an assortment of fresh strawberries, blackberries, gooseberries, cloudberries, mulberries, bearberries, and blueberries. I coiled up a blanket to cram inside a backpack, and lastly, I carried four rations of turkey jerky — turkey that I had killed and smoked myself just two days before.

I arrived at the Cloven Fields just before Kyla and set everything up for our early morning picnic. As little critters chirped about me, I stood admiring the slight purplish tint of the mystical morning and the graces that the High Truth had provided for me personally.

The land was not worn down by passersby, because the clan only used this land for special events, and “special events” were becoming a rarity these days since we had recently become involved with two other clans’ judiciary planning.

Hunters did not prowl this land either, knowing it to be festival-specific. Warriors would not travel this far out without having good reason. So, this morning it would solely be me and Kyla viewing the wonders of the sky.

She arrived at the Cloven Field, and exclaimed in Common, “This is amazing! Look at the clovers, Deldorn.” She let out a slight giggle.

And then I reminded myself that fifty years of breath to an Elf is still some form of childhood. Granted, in my eyes, she was just the same as me, still figuring out her place on the material plane.

I admired her sharp features, her bright yellow eyes that glowed purple in the light of dawn, her cute Elvish height, and the flowing braids of lilies in her dirty blonde hair. But most of all, I admired the fire within her, her kind and yet fierce heart, and the gentle woman that she had become in the recent years.

This morning she wore a knee-length, light satin, flowing white dress, laced with a silver that only Elves would notice. Her hair danced over her uncovered shoulders. And I noticed her brown, leather Messenger boots, laced up to the curve of her calves. But I knew today she was taking it easy, no business.

Stunned by her radiance, I said, “You look beautiful, Starflower.”

“Still so forthright, Silverdew,” she said. And we walked over to the blanket to begin our breakfast.

In my discomfort at her calling me by my father’s name, I said, “You know it’s improper to call me by Silverdew.”

And then she switched to Elvish, “Your birthright is in the blood. You were born of a Liaimion, so I will call you as such. To me you have been and always will be a Liaimion, even when the others see you as a Dundragon. I have watched you breathe this world in and out, and, as far as I can see, you are more Elf than plenty of the others in our clan who claim to be.”

I aimed to change the subject, “How is training going recently? Have you been named Messenger yet? Or are you still a student?”

She switched back to Common, “I mean, it’s tough. Each day has its challenges, yeah. They hope to name me Messenger officially by the turn of the year. There are still some tracking studies I need to get through. And apparently I need to get serious about learning another language. . . Honestly, the others say I have a long way to go. That’s all I can really say about it right now. What about you? Are you a Keeper yet?”

“Did I not tell you?” I whispered, “Master Delsios finally moved from calling me ‘Keeper in Training’ to ‘Somewhat-Keeper.”

A laugh burst forth. And then she asked, “You learned Infernal, right? The other Messengers told me about what happened — said it was the strangest thing they had ever seen. Apparently their eyes glazed over, went completely dark, and they just slit each other’s throats.”

“Yeah,” I was unnerved. “Master Delsios mentioned they slit each other’s throats.”

“What do you think it was?” She pondered more to herself than to me.

“The higher form of the Infernal language drives people to rage for some reason.” I shook at the thought that I would ever have to see someone become enraged simply at the sound of my Infernal tongue.

“Can I hear it?” She asked.

I jumped, “Not the higher form, no!”

“How about the lower form?”

And I said in the second tongue of Infernal, “I truly doubt your mind could comprehend it.”

The critters grew louder, chirping in response to the alien obstruction flowing from my mouth.

Kyla leaned in to me, amazed, and said in excitement, “It’s almost like music! It’s so strange and beautiful!” And then her excitement faded, “I wish it was that easy for me to learn a new language.”

“Give it time; I’m sure you’ll get a hang of the language the Messengers want you to learn.” I said as sincerely as I could, but she still looked unconvinced.

And suddenly the violet sky around us became darker.

“I think it’s happening, Deldorn!” Kyla exclaimed.

As it passed above us, the Blood Moon turned an odd shade of orange and then reached darker hues. Looking around the field, I noticed the clovers began to glow a luminescent yellow, shining and shimmering in reaction to the phenomenon. And the critters went completely silent with awe.

I looked over at Kyla who was looking over at me, and her eyes echoed the faded moonlight. The yellow in her eyes matched the blood fire of nature, and the violet burst forth, beckoning me.

At that moment, I kissed her. And I believed the rest of my days could be just as fantastical.

Deldorn Dundragon: A Deal

Walking up the Library’s winding staircase and exhausted from a long trek of scouting with Father, I caught my breath as the air began to cool around me.

The torches flickered as I heard a small but invasive voice in my mind, Dare to trust to the blood.

With my sight fading from exhaustion, I smacked my hand on the stone, trying to stop myself from falling down the winding staircase.

And then suddenly my energy returned. Inexplicably, the lights around me grew bright as well, and I shook the curious feeling out of my bones.

I made it to the study, but before I could reach my desk, Master Delsios lurched forward from the shadows. “Deldorn, your studies have impressed me. Your willingness to pursue and seek information for the safety of the clan is unmerited at such a young age. Perhaps we can take a break from our regular studies and chat?”

Completely taken off guard, I stood still, amazed that he would offer me a chance to relax.

Master Delsios motioned for me to follow him back down the winding tower of the Library, and we went down to his personal study.

As one would imagine, it had all the makings of a regular study – a large, high-rising central oak desk, paintings of Elves from the many generations along the circular stone wall, shelves and shelves of freshly-catalogued scrolls, and some of the Master’s very favorite scrolls and maps sprawled out along his desk and scattered about the floor. What was curious: there was no chair behind the desk, only one to the right of the doorway.

As the torches began to burn brighter, Master Delsios said, “Have a seat, young one.”

I took a seat, and questioned, “Why let me into your study today?”

“Always the curious one,” he chuckled. “You know, you lack tact, Deldorn. However, I ask you a question in return. Why not let you into my study today?”

“I see your point.”

“Here’s a deal, young Deldorn, my Keeper in training,” Delsios began to pace behind his desk, his pale hands clasped behind his back. He continued, “You ask me any question you wish; I ask you a question in return. Complete honesty, mentor and student. Do we have a deal?”

He should know he has my complete trust. I would never lie to him, I thought, but now I grew suspicious. And yet something within me dismissed the intuitive stab — something of selfish ambition that had been eating away at me for years.

I said, “We have a deal, Master.”

“Very well, Deldorn Dundragon,” Master Delsios smiled. “Ask away.”

With no hesitation, I asked, “Are the stories of the Glass Keep true?”

The Elf stopped his pacing and cocked his head toward me, narrowing his eyes with a slight smile. “Young one, you are going to have to be more specific than that. My turn. Does your mother still have her scrolls?”

“Master, my mother has many scrolls,” I kept still in the chair, having learned from the best. I noticed that Delsios was metaphorically kicking himself for trying to play me a fool. Again, I asked, “Is it true that our clan’s village rests above a crystalline watershed, something of a lair, called the Glass Keep?”

“To my knowledge,” Delsios was careful to give me little information, “at one point it was possible that we may have settled above such a place. Once again, my turn. Is it true that your mother still meets to discuss the teaching of a heretical god called the High Truth?”

“To my knowledge,” I echoed, “we live in a village where anyone has the freedom to believe in whatever and whoever they so desire. Master, do you know anything of the Silver Dragons?”

“I know quite a bit about Silver Dragons.” He kept the answer simple. “Do you, Deldorn, know anything of your mother’s intentions with the clan?”

“Her intentions –” I let my guard down.

Is this Elder accusing my mother of treason or something unlawful? I sighed as I thought of the dangers involved with such an accusation. This is her home. She only wants to bring light into the darkness. I knew, if she dared not be careful, then this might happen.

I drew in a deep breath to settle my nerves, and said, “Her intentions are to love, and, as for who and what she is, she is a Dancer of Swords, one training the many Warriors of our village, taking care of the spiritual well-being of those whom she can.”

The rougher edges of Master Delsios’s face faded to something apologetic, “I do believe it is your turn to ask a question, Deldorn.”

“If we have Dragon Scrolls, might I read them for my next study session?” I desired to share the information with my father as well as become more acquainted with my own twisted lineage.

“Yes, you may,” Master Delsios walked to the furthest turn of his study, withdrew eight scrolls from his shelf, and walked back toward his desk, gently placing the scrolls upon it. “One last question, and then you may have the scrolls to take them to your desk. Are you completely sure of your mother’s intentions? Love?”

I nodded confidently, got out of the chair, took the scrolls, and left Master Delsios to his studies in silence.

Deldorn Dundragon: Routine

At about the time I had sixteen years of breath, my father had taught me to be a disciplined young one. And since my studies were getting heavier, now that I had mastered the Infernal language and studied several Faerun maps, making sure to catalogue as best I had learned, Father and I were losing precious time together.

The clan could see my human features more clearly. Puberty had all but passed, and I was getting taller with awkwardness. But my mother’s features were dulling the sharp nature of my Elf blood. And the clan were not too fond of my mother now that she was more dedicated to her seventh day studies of the High Truth.

With High Elf Qinren’s approval, Father invited me to join him on his hunts every morning. I agreed to join him, knowing my father would enjoy the chance to teach me his trade, and I could finally stay outside the clan’s ever-growing suspicious watch.

This morning I had woken up at precisely four hours and a half into the day. I met father in the North, and now we stood on the branch where we had stood so many turns of year before — the place where Father killed the wild stag.

“Son, today I teach you the art of trapping. Hunting traps are beneficial in times when you desire to show patience with a target, times when you have rations prepared for at least ten days. And lucky for you, the clan is doing well this season with its rations.” Father smiled and leapt down to the ground.

I followed as he walked the winding path to the flowing waters.

I wonder if these waters lead to the Glass Keep, I thought to myself, and then I shook off the old fairytale.

He pulled out the hunting trap from a pack. And then he found a large tree and attached the trap to the tree by a four-foot heavy metal chain.

“You need to make sure the beast cannot get away before you can come to retrieve him,” Father gave a slight smirk.

Father drew back the saw-toothed clamps on both sides of the trigger, and then he locked the trigger in place. Then he said, “Watch.” And after that he pulled a bolt from behind him, set it upon the steel pressure plate, and pressed it.

“Snap!” In a swift move the bolt broke into pieces.

“Deldorn, make sure not to set foot in the wild where you have not yet looked,” Father warned. And we spent the rest of the morning setting traps in the North.

We had lunch at the eleventh hour as usual, and then I went to the Library until the eighteenth hour.

After my studies, it was my eighth day training with Mother, preparing to become somewhat proficient in sword-dancing.

Because it was so late in the day we met in her secret place. Mother’s age was showing in her skin, but her spirit was as fierce as ever.

“Do we get past the breathing exercises today?” I asked Mother, “You know I’ve been meditating since I had three years of breath.”

“Deldorn, quit the whining,” She was sharp. “You want to learn the art, you start where all my students start.”

And there was silence as we meditated a few moments more.

And then out of the silence, Mother said, “Yes, today we begin physical training.” I opened my eyes as she stood up. “Stand up.”

I stood up, “Okay, so what? Are you going to come at me?” I laughed.

Mother stood still. “The reason we focus and meditate is not to become one with the High Truth, at least in this case. This is survival, and, yes, the High Truth has a plan. But we have a responsibility to protect ourselves, and the first step in self-preservation, at least in combat, is overcoming fear. Breathing is imperative.

“Avoidance is the next option, but that takes clear, concise thought, which means that you should already have been focused to the point that you have found all escape routes.

“But in serious situations when the best you can do it fight, anything can become a weapon. First, your body. Today’s official lesson: a fighter’s stance.” She finished.

“All this talk today. . .” I muttered in irritation.

I study all day long. I need action, I thought.

“Can we just get a move on?” I sighed.

“Deldorn, if you can’t handle this, then you don’t deserve to fight. You don’t deserve to be taught. Walk away if you want.” She had a stern look on her face.

“Mother, you know that’s not what I want.”

“Then, be still, Deldorn,” She got in a fighting stance. “If an attacker sees that, at least, you know how to stand in a fight, then you already gain some merit of intimidation. Charisma and conviction are key. Win the battle before it starts.”

I followed suit, trying my best to mirror her stance.

Mother, unconvinced, said, “We will spend the next seven days going over these basic lessons. Maybe longer.”

I let out a groan.

Deldorn Dundragon: Infernal

Standing in the dim candlelight at my desk in the Library, I scanned the maps of Faerun, making sure to get acquainted with every inch of the land.

At the corner of my desk, there lay a list of all the hidden Elf villages in Faerun.

And looking to the South of the map, I reached to mark the hidden village between the Mhair Archipelago and the Akhlaur Marsh. However, before I could mark the parchment, Master of Scrolls Delsios stepped forward from the shadows.

“Young Deldorn,” he said. “Put away the maps for now. There will be plenty of time for that. I have a new task for you.”

I noticed he was holding a small box, constructed from Rowan wood. On the outside of the box someone had inscribed protective, druid markings. I narrowed my eyes, examining the markings, and asked Delsios, “Master, what awaits inside the box?”

“Keen eye, Deldorn Dundragon,” He set the box upon my desk, and then he explained in a controlled tone, “A week ago the Messengers from Thay returned with four scrolls. They obtained them from a dead warlock in the aftermath of a great human war. Six Messengers left Thay with the scrolls, but only four returned. Before their return to Battlecreek, it seemed that two of the Messengers took it upon themselves to read the scrolls instead of obeying direct orders from the High Elf never to read foreign scrolls before entering the safety of the clan.”

Here Delsios let out a sigh of pity, “A fight broke out between the Messengers, and the two Elves who had read the scrolls slit each other’s throats. At that time, the four scrolls were split among the remaining four Messengers. And once they crossed into the safety of Battlecreek, the scrolls were placed inside this protective artifact.”

Checking over his shoulder, Delsios took a moment to gather his thoughts.

Unusual for an Elder Elf to act in such a manner, I thought. What is inside this box?

“Deldorn, I need your help. We need — How else do I say this? Deldorn, the other Keepers and I have looked upon these parchments,” He looked to be full of shame. “When we looked upon the pages, immediately we grew heated with one another. And we need to know if these negative effects are only because we are Elves. Essentially, what we must come to know — Perhaps your Human eyes can handle reading the scrolls, whereas none other in the clan can.”

Dumbfounded, I asked, “You want me to read the scrolls?”

“Indeed,” Master Delsios said. “I will leave you to your task. It’s better you read them alone. May your studies be efficient and effective. Corellon Larethian be with you.”

Master Delsios stepped back into the shadows.

With shaking hands, I reached to open the box and settled into my stool. When I opened it, I heard a hypnotic and beautiful whisper, something foreign and alien, like a constant chirp.

And suddenly the sound was gone, but the light in the room grew brighter in an instant. And then another unfamiliar whisper arrived; I heard it in my mind, Dare to trust the blood.

The lights grew dim once again.

Shivering at the touch of the first scroll, I opened the parchment, and my eyes scanned something completely unfamiliar in dialect. There was no reference point to be made. Most of the writing was bold. The sentences were brief, the words enlarged irregularly. And then something in my sight seemed to shift. The ink grew bright and scarlet. Blinking harshly, I looked up into the fire emanating from my candle. And then when I glanced back down, the letters seemed to shift into Elvish.

This cannot be right, I thought to myself. This cannot be Elvish. It’s — It’s something entirely different. It’s unnatural; it’s Infernal.

The first emboldened word read in its simplicity, “Retreat!”

I closed the parchment quickly and put it back inside the box. The hypnotic chirping began again.

I pulled out the second scroll. The same visual effect danced across my eyes, but I could see the slight difference between the first scroll and the second. It glowed scarlet again, shifting into well-perceived Elvish, something closer to Human speech. The first sentence was a brief construct defining the ever-growing battle between Light and Darkness.

I closed the second scroll and rested it back inside the box. My mind was reeling. I was not angry like the others had been. And my fear was fading. No, I was confused and mesmerized.

I pulled out the third scroll. The text upon this parchment, at first glance, seemed to be written in reverse compared to the other two scrolls. But then, as it glowed a bright scarlet once again, the ink took the form of a well-written and beautiful melody. Only a few sentences were incomplete. It seemed a bit more formal than the previous two scrolls and inspired a sense of familiarity, but every sentence always ended abruptly.

I read something like, “Gazing at the daisy in the whispered wind of  timelessness, an age”

Intrigued, I closed the parchment, put it away, and pulled out the last scroll. My eyes rested upon the page for an instant, and suddenly there was a great burning in my eyes, like fire was lighting me up from the inside. I heard a monstrous roar in my mind, and then suddenly all I wanted to do was set fire to everything around me.

But through the rage, I heard the whisper again, Dare to trust the blood. So, I called forth the power of the High Truth. And my nerves were settled within me.

The text upon the parchment danced and raged, and it seemed not to take much form of language at all. But it evoked great strife within its characters, and emotion filled the scarlet lettering. The only messages I gathered from the last scroll were malevolence and despair.

I placed the last scroll back inside the Rowan box and sat stunned at the war waging within the wood.