Hatred Cast

[BubbaCornbread]

I sat within the dark, smoke filled tavern, a rather dry and tasteless wine still staining my tongue. My cloak hung upon a peg by the fire, the thick, wet wool beginning to steam. The Humans about the common room stank of garlic, meat, and sweat, their braying laughter causing me to wince.

The barmaid had given speculative glances when I had first arrived. I gave her not a glance as I ordered food and drink, hoping that she would soon forget my presence and leave me to my thoughts. Thankfully, a strutting peacock of a man all dressed in lace and ribbon, strode into the inn and all attention drifted to the newcomer.

I glanced about the room one more time, ensuring no undue attention slid my way. Convinced all about the inn were listening to the colorfully dressed man, I pushed back my chair, stretched out my long legs, and drifted back through time.

The trees were vibrant this spring, the leaves resplendent in all their colors. The sun filtered through the thick canopy, providing just enough light to see without undue effort. The smells were all there; maple, birch, oak, earth, and bough. All the manifest odors of the High Forest permeated, soaking into my sense laden mind. I was alive!

"Do not hold the shaft so tight Erolith," my father instructed. "Your arrow will stray and miss the mark." So saying, he loosened my grip, straightened my arm, and then gave me a wink and nod.

I smiled and focused, letting my mind capture the image of my target, willing my muscles to perform as they had countless times before. With the release of my pent up breath, I slipped loose the string and let the shaft fly. It ran straight and true, striking the target dead center.

"I think you understand the bow Erolith," My father said as he patted me atop the head and ruffled my hair. "Let us see if we can collect a few delicacies for the table tonight.

[BubbaCornbread]

It was almost dark and the leaves rustled ever so slightly with a westerly breeze. We were downwind of the beasts and could smell their stench from a league away. The brutes had come down from some foul cave high atop the Lost Peaks, in search of what we did not yet know. We had been following them for nigh onto two days now, tracking their blundering path, a more than easy feat. Villages along the way had been warned and all the fiends found along their route was forest, for we could camouflage our homes so that an untrained eye would pass without notice.

We were close to their camp now, their high burning fires creating small pools of light. We had felt the pain from the trees cut down, their misery shaking the very foundation of the forest. It felt as if a headache were just then fountaining, never taking complete hold, the burr of pain hidden in the back recesses of the mind. More than once the elders had to hold back we youth, who like all untried warriors bridled at inaction, chaffed at the leash thrown about our necks. We had their scent, our hackles were raised; we were ready for battle!

The plan was simple. We would feather those yet awake and then wreak havoc on the blasted Orcs, taking them before they knew an enemy was about. We were confident, since the band was a bit smaller than usual, a mere thirty warriors with one small and dirt encrusted shaman. A poorer beast I had never before beheld, what with stinking and rotting leather garments, lank green hair, and scrawny arms barely able to hold onto its gnarled staff. It mumbled incessantly, twitching and cavorting as it followed the group through the thick forest.

The first arrows pierced the night, only grunts and the clanking of armor as the bodies fell marking a death. All at once, we were rushing towards our foe, swords out, teeth bared in feral grins; the hounds had at the last been released. I charged into the circle of firelight, my favorite weapon, a gleaming Dwarven made falchion, snug within my calloused palm. With a glee shameful in its pureness, I cleaved through the first beast to raise its ugly head, splitting its skull in twain before it could even acknowledge my presence. A kick, dodge, and another fiend lay twitching upon the earth, its blood pouring forth in such a torrent that I almost lost my footing.

The slip saved my life, for a giant from the fell stories of my childhood suddenly appeared, a great axe whistling above my head. I looked up to see three strands of fine Elven hair float upon the air, the only damage caused by the tremendous blow. With a grunt and curse, the Orc twirled his axe around his head and then brought it down in a massive overhead strike. I quickly moved to my left and brought mine own blade around, striking through the thick leather armor about his leg, causing a grievous wound. With only a curse to mark the strike, the Orc turned, bringing his axe up and under my guard, causing me to jump back or be eviscerated. The beast followed up on his attack, giving me no chance to counter. Yet, instead of backing away, I dove between its wide braced legs, coming up behind. Coming to one knee, I twirled and sliced, cutting through the Achilles tendon on his left leg. It screamed and fell heavily to the blood soaked earth; it was but a moment to still its malice ridden heart.

We destroyed the Orc Warband that day, my first day of battle. After we had burnt the foul bodies and repaired what damage we could to the forest around, we drank into the early hours of the night. I, half drunk on an aged Elven red, sat upon the dew rich ground and watched the first rays of the sun mark the twin peaks. It had been a good night!

[BubbaCornbread]

I sighed and looked around me, feeling the heat from the fire, smelling the many scents wafting about the common room. I fingered the jeweled hilt of my sword, the large emerald glinting in the meager light provided by the fire in the common room. How had an Elf from the High Forest come across such a magnificent weapon? That was a fateful day.

We could hear the noise of battle from two leagues away. Our patrol, planting ear to ground and bole, learned direction and distance. Soon, we were running swiftly through the thick forest, using tracks only we knew. We were ten, moving silently through the High Forest at the base of the Lost Peaks, searching for the few Orcs and Goblins foolish enough to come down from their foul mountain caves. Perhaps we had come across just such a group that had been engaged by another Elven troupe from a different village. I did not know and care, for battle was close, the excitement of such an encounter carrying us swiftly to our destination.

We stopped a mere twenty feet from a glade known simply as the Circle. Long ago druids had created an oaken barrier within the thick foliage, casting their magic, its tendrils carving out a perfect circle within the unbroken forest. They had then planted a seed, that of an ancient oak. The tree grew without restraint, without struggle, is massive leaf strewn head pushing fully thirty feet above its brethren. It was here that the druids of the Lost Peaks came to nourish the High Forest, it was here they worshipped all the Elven Gods, giving each their due.

Looking out from behind a thick oaken sentinel, I spied three Dwarfs standing back-to-back, their gleaming blades causing havoc amongst a large group of Goblins. As I watched, a short, burly Dwarf with a beard reaching down to his knees decapitated a Goblin with the swipe of his sword. It took me a moment to realize the impact of such a fact, for legend was replete with Axe wielding Dwarfs. It was such an incongruity that I hesitated, faltered for just a heartbeat. It was a fatal pause; my wonder at encountering Dwarves for the first time and a swordsman at that, caused a death.

Suddenly, an Orcan war cry erupted from the trees to our left and a band of fifteen foul beasts crashed into the sacred circle. Distracted and beset on all sides by Goblins, the sword wielding Dwarf was pierced by two short swords thrust up under his breastplate. His sword took the head from one Goblin before he swayed and fell amongst his antagonists. With a cry of horror and disgust, I rose and sprinted into the glade, a string to my cheek and arrows pouring forth in a torrent. I took three of the fiends in the back before they realized a new enemy had appeared.

At the end, we slayed the miserable creatures, dragging their foul carcasses far away from our sacred circle, leaving them for the many scavengers of the forest. Of the Dwarves, two survived and followed us to our village. It was difficult at first, for we Elves living in the High Forest do not fully trust other races and the affinity of Elves and Dwarves have always lacked. Yet, we brought them nonetheless, providing succor. They never did tell us why they were in the High Forest and decorum dictated we respect their privacy.

A month they stayed. Fixing armor and sharpening weapons. They were indeed handy to have around, for we had no true armorer within our village or even near to where we lived. We escorted the two Dwarves to the Lost Mountains and it was there that the taciturn Balin Ironforge singled me out.
"Ya saved our lives Erolith," He said in his gravelly voice. "Me and me kin can never thank ya enough."
"We have common cause against such filth," I replied a bit shyly.
"That might be true ya damn Elf," he replied affectionately. "It still marks ya and I wish ta give ya a prize for your help."

With that he presented the falchion his kinsman had crafted and carried for almost a hundred years. It was with a tear and thanks that I had accepted.

[BubbaCornbread]

I took to the falchion like a fish to water. It helped that the Dwarven forged sword was so well balanced the merest thought propelled the blade smoothly to its intended target. After only three weeks of practice, the falchion was like unto my own arm, an extension of my mind. The blade reflected my thoughts, the track of each and every opponent. It was a lethal dance, the bright adamantine weaving defense, then suddenly striking.

Salvinas Oakenmeet took notice of my skill. He was our only blade master, an Elf that had left the High Forest in search of adventure and fortune. Adventure he found; what he brought back was not gems and gold, but an empty left eye socket. Like most Elves, he was conscious of his appearance and thus wore an elaborate patch, colored to match his many outfits. He was now five hundred years old, spending his time growing tomatoes and teaching the young of our village the use of the blade.

We danced for many moons, my skill increasing with each lesson, each bout. Many of the young would come and watch to see who would gain the first mark. It was Salvinas that usually struck first mark, yet, I was beginning to ascertain his tempo. I was anticipating his moves, the way he flowed from defense to attack, his cut and thrust. After the fourth month of my training, first strikes in my favor began to increase and by the sixth month, I dominated. It was then that my mentor changed my training.
“You must turn your left shoulder so,” Salvinas said in exasperation. “Only then can you brace your legs and become immovable. You must become the boulder in the river; make your adversary break upon you and flow to either side. You can then slay them at little risk.”
“It is easy for you to say,” I complained. “I must readjust my combat style; bring my mind into alignment with my body yet again.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “It will take time Erolith, but once you have mastered your stance, nothing will be able to move you. Blades will merely glance, causing no harm, bringing your adversary into easy reach.”

It took almost three moons before I was comfortable within my new stance, my new fighting style. Again, my blade sang of triumph, the bright adamantine sparkling in the noon day sun as we danced.

[BubbaCornbread]

I was nervous, sweat beading upon my brow and under my already soaked underarms. I was aware of the stares as I walked through the village and felt naked, even though I was wearing my best clothing. The simple white daisy was ensconced, laced within the intricately woven collar of my silken doublet. My boots were highly polished and the ceremonial silver dagger given to me on the day of my ritual passage was attached to my leather belt by a silver chain.

For the hundredth time my hand fluttered to the delicate flower, ensuring it was fully visible. I knew the presentation was immaterial, that my intent would be self-evident, the token of my desire successful or an abysmal failure. Yet, I was nervous and knew not whether the woman I had fallen for would accept my invitation. I had already replaced the flower three times, the object of my affection disdaining my previous advances. But, I was determined to win the woman that had enchanted me a year ago and nothing would gainsay my attempts.

As if on cue, the Elven maiden that had captured me so thoroughly emerged from the gardens spread about the center of our village. She was accompanied, as before, by her three dearest friends. Their heads were together, conspiratorial whispers surrounding their close knit bodies. Nervous and a bit flustered, I bowed to the ladies and straightened, ready to move past in another futile attempt to garner my loves attention. Yet, a low whisper brought me up short, for the friends smiled and laughed, then moved ahead, leaving Vanya alone for the first time since my clumsy attempts at courtship.
“The men about the village usually ply me with love poems and sweets,” Vanya tempted.
“I am a not comfortable with verse, rhythm, and meter,” I replied. “As to sweets, I could not find a morsel as sweet as you.”

I cursed myself inwardly at the cloddish attempts to flatter. I felt the heat stain my cheeks, my color no doubt rising; making me look more foolish than usual, if that was indeed possible.
“I do like the lilt of your voice,” she said, laughing gaily. “Even if the words are mere flattery.”
“No my lady, they are bare truth,” I countered. “Every time I glimpse your form, my heart bursts anew. It is most disconcerting.”

She laughed again and plucked the flower from my breast. As she did, the breath caught in my throat and my legs almost buckled. It was then that I knew we would wed, that we would be together forever, our love never ending, only growing as our thoughts became one. I walked away to where I do not know; a stupid grin plastered upon my bewildered face.

[BubbaCornbread]

I was nervous, sweat beading upon my brow and under my already soaked underarms. I felt as I did the first time I met Vanya those many years gone by. It was a bit different, for this day we were about to embark on a new journey, that of bonding for life. It was a solemn and life-changing event and I was more nervous than when I had first gone into combat, killing my first Orc.

Looking back on the five years of our courtship, I could only smile. I composed poems that were so terrible; it brought laughter, almost to tears on occasion, to my love. Red-faced and chagrined, I would back away and take up the task once more. Of course, the songs grew even worse as time and my dwindling skills passed. I soon changed tack, as would a good warrior finding a worthy opponent; I put my hand to composing songs of my undying love. At the time I thought them masterful and without compare, my voice winging its way to my beauties delicate ears. This time she did not laugh, but I could tell the songs were not of the quality she was used to receiving. After three such attempts, I threw ink pot and parchment into the refuse barrel and almost gave up my desires. Had she not taken my flower and proclaimed interest?

One fine morning I decided on one last ditch effort to forever capture my heart's desire. I spent two months gathering the necessary gold, jewels, and implements. I then spent a year under the tutelage of a renowned jeweler. My first attempts were clumsy or oafish as my mentor would say. Yet, I persevered, at the last recreating the flower I had worn the first time she noticed and accepted. The delicate gold petals glowed in the moonlight as I opened my palm, showing the depth of my love. I do believe my throat caught and my breath stopped as she looked at the small token. It was with a deep sigh and a silver chased tear that she clasped the gold-crafted bloom to her bosom. That was the first night we kissed; she tasted like honey and moonbeams.

The marriage ceremony itself was typically formal and was presided over by an Elven priest of Helani Celanil. I remember that we stood under the glistening branches of the sacred tree of life or Avendesora. He wore a long white, flowing silk robe marked in silver and gold with the sacred symbols of the Gods of the Seldarine and of the elements. In his hair was a woven crown of silver flowers. He greeted those gathered for the wedding and then brought us forward for introductions.

The priest began thus, "Sahla mia ellilra, we gather in this sacred grove, blessed place given to the Tel'Quessra by the Seldarine, this most cherished place of the Tel'Quessra to celebrate the Leutha'Tala of two beloved friends. Let they who seek this blessed union be named and brought forward under the loving branches of this most sacred tree."

To be honest, I do not remember the rest of the rite. What I do remember and cherish is the first time I gained access to Vanya's inner self or Leutha'tala. From the moment our vows were complete and the rings I had crafted placed upon our fingers, I was aware of my partner's needs and emotions. From the look in my love's eyes, I could see she felt the same. It was a most momentous awakening and one I will hold close, never to part until I am reunited with my Vanya in Arvandor.

[BubbaCornbread]

The sun was just rising, the night giving way to its life giving rays. It had been a long night, we twenty Elves hidden among the rocks and sparse vegetation surrounding the cave entrance. The cavern gave forth onto a large Goblin haven, one from which a war party had launched, wreaking havoc on two Elven villages. We would remind the vermin that we ruled the High Forest and their ilk were not welcome; retribution would be swift and unmerciful.

As we waited for the dawn and its welcoming light, I could not but wonder how the wretched creatures could stand their own smell. The odor of rancid meat, unwashed bodies, and something undeniably rotten permeated the area some one hundred feet around the cave entrance. It was only with the utmost willpower that I was able to maintain my place among the warband and not run screaming into the night, in search of a bath and smelling salts!

A thrush sang the signal to move forward and into the cavern. We knew from experience that the foul creatures would sleep once the sun came up, even though they rarely glimpsed the golden orb. This would be our chance to take them unawares, especially since the few guards they posted were lazy, most likely sitting in an alcohol induced lethargy, easy pickings for our advance scouts. A sigh, the slight noise of cloth rustling, and the three goblins that had been posted not far from the cave entrance were dead, their blood quickly soaking into the bone laden floor.

We quickly moved deeper into the tunnel system, our keen vision penetrating even the darkest shadow strewn corner. The smell grew even worse as we moved on, ever downward, towards their main village, or so we thought. The scouts dispatched five more goblins, their corpses cast aside, lying splayed in hidden crevices found throughout the many caverns we traversed. We crossed one such chasm, the narrow rope bridge swayed frenetically as we marched forward, the frayed and rotting ropes barely holding our weight. I hoped the bridge would hold when we retreated, for we knew no other path to light and safety.

Suddenly, the scouts were running back towards us, the cacophony of many screeching voices hastening their retreat. Something had gone terribly wrong!
"We ran into a band coming back from some forage or such," breathed our lead scout, Terlandel. "There must be at least forty of the filth. They saw me; I know not how and they are but minutes behind us."

The revelation was dire, since we were at least an hour from the cave entrance and knew not of another path of retreat. As we held council, the noise of many rough shod feet grew, the ever present screeching that always presaged a Goblin attack increasing in tone and fervor.
"Go back to the narrow bridge," I finally said, asperity lacing my words. "There we will hold them and make them pay. Once they retreat, we will hasten to the light of day."

All saw the plan as our only chance and so we hastened back down the path we had just then traversed, running quickly through the narrow and dank tunnels. It was but moments before we reached the span, quickly negotiating the threadbare channel, one rope snapping as our rear guard jumped onto the other side.
"Array yourselves about the bridge, bows out. I will hold the bridge," I commanded. "When I tire, another can take my place. We will fight thus until the bastards are all dead or see prudence and run to escape."

When the first creature arrived, its bulbous eyes casting a greenish light, we were prepared. I pulled forth my Dwarven forged sword from my back and set my legs, my left side pointing towards the bridge as Salvinas had taught me. I planted my feet and then looked to my enemy. They stood there across the chasm, their slavering mouths emitting a piercing screech, their eyes shining with an evil luminescence. They held weapons of all kinds, from rust encrusted short swords to jagged toothed spears. At the first, they hesitated, wary of a lone Elf, not seeing my companions hidden in the far tunnel. They looked about and yelled, gnashing their teeth in consternation; I smiled.

As if they were connected by mind and body, they all at once tried to access the narrow bridge, their nerve wracking ululation grating upon my sensitive ears. The first three creatures were feathered before they reached the middle of the span, their bodies falling lifeless into the dark and threatening chasm. Two more fell before the horde came within reach of my blade. The first was cut in twain, the head flying to my left and the trunk falling back amongst its brethren behind. The second screamed as its entrails poured forth, my blade easily slicing through leather, skin, and bone. The third beast that made it through the hail of arrows my kin were sending from the tunnel mouth died, its heart pierced through. The creature was dead before it toppled from the narrow span.

We killed them all that day. You may ask why we did not merely cut the bridge and run for safety? Why risk our deaths in those lightless tunnels? We are masters of the forest and all about. No creature, be it Goblin, Orc, or Giant will kill Elves with impunity, for the first such atrocity that is not met with equal measure will be our last. We hold sway through combat prowess and community. All Elves throughout the High Forest band together to destroy any and all threats, it is how we have survived for thousands of years. It is and will forever be or so I thought.

[BubbaCornbread]

I looked around the dim tavern, my eyes stinging from smoke drifting from the poorly made chimney, its bricks ever leaking a solid stream of dust and detritus. All the tables were full of sweating men, sleeves rolled up after a hard day, work roughened hands grasping ill-made and chipped clay mugs of ale. I was alone at my table; for it appeared the locals would not countenance my presence, refused to sit next to an Elf. Their ignorance benefited us both.

Rolling the cracked glass half full of some atrocious wine along my hands and fingers, I thought back to those heady days within the High Forest. I had gained renown as a stalwart swordsman, my married life was full of passion, and the Forest was for the time, tranquil. I whiled away the days working in my garden, training with Salvinas, and at night, lying in the arms of my beloved Vanya.

It was but six months since our last excursion into the mountains to ferret out a most horrid band of Orc miscreants when word was passed of another warband wreaking havoc amongst the Elven villages along the Dessarin River. Girded for war, I kissed my bride and moved off with twenty of my kin. We were to meet a larger band further down the river, near the foot of the Lost Peaks. It was there that we would pick up the foul scent and track the beasts to their lair.

It took us three days to find the half-heartedly covered cave entrance, still reeking of Orc filth. From the many boot prints strewn about, we estimated the warband had been rather large, perhaps fifty Orcs. We were but forty, yet we were determined to wipe out the fiends once and for all. Checking our armor and arms for the last time, we passed within the cave mouth and into the foul tunnels covered with the bones of Orc victims.

One ingenious trap took a companion. Another broke his leg negotiating a climb. The rest doggedly moved forward, ever present of ambush and attack. It took us over two hours to find the village, the tumbledown huts clinging to a steep cliff within an immense cavern. A river ran through the space, time and erosion cutting into the cavern floor. Grotesquely hunched Orc females, clothed in ragged filth grubbed along the river. They pulled forth dimly glowing worms and the occasional bone white fish. A smoky haze lazily wafted up towards the darkness that concealed the high ceilinged cave.

We took the village completely unawares, killing more than half of the beasts before alarm could spread. No mercy was shown, no quarter given. We slaughtered them all, leaving behind bloody ruin. I looked back once, gazing upon the burning huts, the light from the many fires at the last providing glimpses of the stalactite cluttered ceiling. They hung there, bearing mute testament to the acts we had just committed. It brought a shiver to my spine, as if a cold wind from an open grave had swiftly cut through my very soul. As if transfixed, I stared upon the grisly scene, my hand clamped tightly upon my sword. It was then that my heart leapt and a pain seared across my brow, a burning fire that brought me to my knees. After what seemed an eternity, one thought fought its way through the turmoil within my mind; Vanya!

[BubbaCornbread]

I do not remember the long frenzied retreat from that horrid cavern, the many miles of animal trampled paths, my mind swirling, turmoil creating images of blood and death as we ran. Five of my companions were struck as was I, tears streaming down their expressive faces, only their determination to hold loved ones in trembling hands keeping them moving forward, ever forward. Of course there were questions from our brethren, hollow queries that we savagely silenced with look or word. Did they not understand that something terrible had happened in our village? Could they not comprehend the growing knot of fear that grew with every mile we traversed, a cancerous, pulsating creature that gnawed relentlessly within.

I tried more than once to reach out and touch my beloved's thoughts only to receive jumbled and chaotic images of pain and terror. It was at such times that my legs would move with a bit more strength, my labored breathing catch and then continue, my fear laced exhalations harsh against the green and verdant forest. At the last, it was all I could do to stumble forward, my legs heavy and lungs burning, mind entangled within mine own induced nightmares. Images surfaced and then fled, my thoughts touching one revolting sequence to the next, my so expressive imagination conjuring one horrid scenario after the other. It was as if I were caught within an Orc Shamans curse, forced to relive one dreadful scene and then the next, without end.

We had been running without respite for two days, our haggard band finally reaching the outskirts of our village as the sun's rays began its long descent behind the Lost Peaks. As I gazed at the ruin of our once beautiful town, the dread that had captured my heart within the squalid Orc hold finally brought me to my knees, dirt spraying up from my abrupt halt. My cramped and sweating hand, holding desperately to my Dwarven forged blade, as if the metal spar could save me from drowning, at last fell into the welcoming loam, a mute testament to futility. It had been all for naught, my mind screamed, as I searched for any sign of life, for children playing their games, mothers laughing and singing, men fletching arrows and sharpening swords, for anything but the desolation that lay before me.

The once idyllic setting was broken. Homes grown from the very forest, their many gables, windows, and doors all part of a grand design was shattered, bearing mute testament to brutality. The many gardens, resplendent in chaotic infusions of color and life, now lay in ruin, the smoke from long lost embers lazily reaching for the sun-tinged sky. As I looked about a question surfaced; where were the many Elves that had called this place home? Scanning the forest glen, tears and exhaustion blurring my vision, I searched for some semblance of life, a cry, sigh, or laugh. I found nothing, not a sound echoed about the many leafed trees.

There were ten of my warband that did not lose loved ones and could thus function with some sort of normalcy. It was they that searched the village proper, bringing forth thirty bodies in different states of death and decay. Where was I while the grim work commenced? I was bedeviled; my mind awhirl with memories of life, love, and all that was lost. My knees still clutched the once verdant soil, my hands resting lightly against the blood soaked leaves, my memories lain about my mind, as would an old and comfortable cloak, protecting me from the elements. My friends later told me that I knelt so for three days, my eyes blank, back rigid, teeth bared in a horrific grimace. It was only when Salvinas staggered from the forest, his blood soaked garments and gore encrusted blade marking him from the pristine forest that I came out from underneath the weight that had kept my mind trapped.

[BubbaCornbread]

We placed the beleaguered Elf upon a bed of leaves, a large toadstool secured for a pillow. As my compatriots gathered wood for a fire, I leaned close to my mentor, whose pain ravaged face bore signs of more than mortal wound. It was almost too much to behold, for the left side of his face was horribly disfigured. It was as if his face were like the ripples from a turbulent lake gripped in an icy embrace. At first, I had thought he had been horribly burned, yet when I looked more closely, jaw clamped to hold back cry and imprecation, I saw that some spell or poison had taken his sun-roughed skin and molded it into a sickly twisted caricature of normality. The wounds did not stop there.

His left arm had been severed at the elbow, only a tightly tied cloth torn from the hem of his once glorious cloak stemming his heart's pulse. Looking down the length of his body, I spied more than ten slowly bleeding wounds, one more lethal than the next. I ended my inspection at his left foot, which had been crushed by some immense pressure, by what, I could not guess. As I inspected his wounds and sought ways he could be saved, a part of my brain, that most analytical of sections, marveled at his stamina, that one could still live with such heinous wounds. Sighing, I turned to gather what I could from our burnt and desecrated village when a strong, slim hand stopped me.

"You must hearken to my tale Erolith, for I have little time left within my mortal body," he rasped, his wound causing the words to slur.

I looked down quickly, only to see his face relax, eyes closed in what appeared to be a tranquil pose, yet made macabre when left and right side were compared. I was again about to rise and seek assistance when Salvinas' eyes flew open, the power of his gaze holding me fast.

"Foul necromancy," he spat. "We were dead before we even knew danger lurked within the sweet scent of pine and flower."

He again closed his eyes, a long sigh escaping his emaciated lips. I thought to provide what comfort I could and so removed my green and brown stripped cloak, placing it carefully onto my friend. He opened his eyes and I saw the old mirth return, his gaze sparkling, the blue orbs shining forth with the old fire that had captured me so many years before.

"I thank you for what little kindness you can offer, yet I doubt it will do much good." he said, chuckling.

He again held me fast with that intense gaze and said. "The Human killed our scouts with a stealthy and lethal poison. They fell without uttering a sound of alarm. It was then that fire rained down upon our village, killing indiscriminately. I do believe many died within moments of the attack. I was near the river, seeking that rascal of a catfish, the one that has eluded me my entire life."

He began to laugh, for he had been stalking that catfish for many years. The laughter only made him wince and then fall into a coughing fit, an attack that brought thick black blood to his lips. It was then that I knew he would die, his soul winging to the halls of our Gods, Correlon at the last welcoming him to his hall. At that point I wanted to flee, to bury my pain in blood, vengeance grasped within my crushing grip. Yet, I knelt there, feeling helpless and already alone.

"I heard the explosions and the screams," he continued. "I ran as fast as my old legs could bear, my hands grasping the sword I always carried upon my back. When I burst through the trees, it was almost done. The trees about were afire, most homes merely smoking hulks devoid of life and laughter. Only a few men were standing, their bows working to no avail, for the creatures that capered about the dead and dying were already decayed, their withered faces wreathed in malicious dread, their mal-intent writ upon their putrescent features. It was then that I knew dread; naked fear gripped my heart. How could I combat those that were already dead?"

Here he paused and asked for water. I rose and sought the cleansing water from the village well, the earthen cavity that had produced clear and sweet water for more than two thousand years. As I neared the wood and brick constructed house built those many years ago to protect the precious resource, my throat caught and my step faltered. I could now see that no longer would my village thrive, no longer would Elves live upon this sacred ground! What remained was rubble and something dark, something black and writhing that fed upon the sweet nectar, tainting not only the water but the trees about. Cursing, tears streaming down my dirt and ash covered face, I turned away to hear the rest of my friend's tale.

"The necromancer was a Human or at least I so thought," Salvinas continued. "He was tall, wraith thin, and wore a long black cloak with a deep cowl. He was surrounded by five brigands, fierce looking men wearing serviceable armor and carrying weapons as if they knew their use. In front of this group limped, shuffled, and capered no less than twenty undead creatures. Some gnawed on already dead or fallen Elves. Others moaned or screamed, staring off into empty space. Five slowly made their way towards the Elves that still stood their ground, purposeful and grim of face. Three of the fiends were laid low by bow and fire before the Necromancer took notice. With a cackle he raised hands high, claw like appendages twisting in arcane designs. In mere seconds, all were destroyed, the same spell that ruined my face dealing pain and death. For some reason, perhaps my distance from the spell, I was saved from its most insidious intent, only to receive what you now see. When I awoke, more than thirty bodies that had lain strewn about the village were gone, as were their assailants."

Here he paused and coughed, his battle ravaged throat working to provide enough saliva to finish his tale. Blood again coated his lips and I wiped away the telltale color. Expectant, I waited for him to finish his grim tale.

"I followed their trail for twenty miles through leaf and bough," he continued. "At the last I caught them as they reached a newly made tower in a burned and desolate clearing. I tell you now; nothing lived within miles of that tainted land. I could feel the forest dying, its screams echoing within my mind as I made my way into the glade. At the last, I had to retreat, the fortifications and ability with crossbow and bolt forcing me back and to our village. I hoped to find you and your companions, to impart my knowledge before I died."

He closed his eyes and rested more fully within the enclosing leaves, his tale at last bringing exhaustion and much needed rest. I believed him done, his tale told, yet when I tried to rise and seek fresh water and food, his iron grip persuaded, my knees resting where they had been entrenched now for over an hour.

"Your life is done here Erolith," my mentor rasped. "Your soul will no longer find solace within the High Forest. You must seek vengeance and then leave this land. Perhaps you can come back some day, but you will travel many a road before you feel the spirit of this forest within. Go, find my house and delve underneath the trunk. I placed a leather wrapped package there long ago, something I gained from an old friend that I now place in your care. Once you are done with your task, seek out a place called Sundren and an old Dwarf by the name of Thuld Grimhammer. He is an old companion who owes me a life. He will complete your training, give you the instruction you require to become a master with sword and stance. It was he that taught me the skill while we were mercenaries all those years ago. I am sure he will remember the name Silvanus Whiteoak and the day an arrow marked for his heart struck my shoulder instead. Mark me well Erolith, you must leave this land for your own sake or madness will be a surety."

"And what of my wife," I reluctantly asked, fearing the answer.

There would be no answer. Salvinas, mentor, trainer, and friend sighed one last time and was no more.

[BubbaCornbread]

My mind awhirl, jaw clenched, tears cascading down my dirt and grime encrusted face, I blundered about the smoking ruin that had been my life for over four hundred years. My companions floated about the periphery, some sitting silently as they stroked the hair of a loved one, others attempted to clear the detritus of battle, while a few stared off into the distance, their minds frayed, a pulsing nerve ready to burst into violent life. We were all lost, bereft of tree and bough, of the life giving soil that had nourished us for so long. It almost seemed as if we were the dead.

The final tragedy was the forfeit of our most cherished customs involving the death of loved ones. Only through tales could our fallen live on in spirit and there were but few that could now recount the memories and deeds of our kin. Our brethren's lives were cut short so quickly that they could not perform the ritual of Everlife. They would never spread the word of their impending death so that their families and friends could more easily prepare for their passage. The only surcease to my pain as I thought of those that had fallen and their wandering spirits was our survival. It was said and forevermore known that if only one of us survived the coming ordeal, all of our loved ones would live in spirit. Therefore, it would rest upon our shoulders to remember them in thought, word, and deed.

It was with such thoughts churning that I at the last fought through the fog that had enveloped me. I do believe it was the song of a meadow lark that caused the transformation that brought me from the torpor, the clinging lethargy that had prevented me from gathering the fallen and preparing them for their passage. With renewed energy and purpose, I strode about kicking and cursing my companions. It was slow work, for they were still caught within grief's all engulfing web, playing out I know not what horrors within their tortured minds. It took me more time than I wished, but slowly our group again took shape and resolve. Quickly we gathered the few bodies that were left within the village, carrying each and every one to the deep forest, far from any village or habitation.

It was there we bathed them, placing what clothing we could find that was not torn, burned, or blood soaked. We placed them at the foot of a great oak tree, their heads touching the thick lichen-encrusted bole. There we sang songs of memory, our broken voices floating about the mighty tree, gossamer threads quickly lost to the coming night. At midnight, we grasped the candles we had salvaged from a cracked and boot-trodden trunk and held them aloft in the deep dark night. It was then that we began our litany; it was then that we shared our favorite memory of the departed. As each Elf spoke, he lit his candle and talked as if the departed were still there, watching, smiling down upon the ritual old as time itself. We spoke thus for hours, our throats raw from emotion and fatigue. When the last bit of memory slowly faded into the lightening sky, we extinguished our candles and turned away, the darkness a comforting shroud for our departed kin.

[BubbaCornbread]

We strode about the ruined village in search of anything that could be of use. As my friends rooted about the ash-layered mounds that had once been homes, I made my way to Salvinas' tree. To my surprise his dwelling was mostly intact, although with door ajar and leaves scattered about in disarray, it looked forlorn, as if one's favorite toy had lost an arm and been abandoned for brighter prospects. Ducking under the shattered lintel, I abruptly stopped, for it appeared as if he had just then left on some chore or errand. All was in place as it should be, his practice swords hung above suites of leather armor, a table still laden with now shriveled fruits and vegetables waited for the knife, and his favorite chair, hand-made from a single massive limb, rested against the far wall. The normalcy thus granted almost brought me back to the verge of inaction, my limbs paralyzed; I stood rooted as if I had just spied a Gorgon. I was still for perhaps twenty minutes until the sun's rays struck me full upon my face, causing my brain to once again activate, the oh so sluggish membrane at the last shedding lethargy.

I pushed the chair aside and dropped to my knees, my keen eyes searching for the telltale sign of a hidden door. I held my pose for over a minute before spying the minute crack running along the edge of the wall. Brushing aside the dirt and detritus left by the moaning wind rushing through the broken door, I was able to uncover the outline I sought, the door that held Salvinas' last wish. Using a dagger I typically keep secured within my right boot, I pried loose the thick oaken panel, revealing a cavity four feet by three and perhaps two feet in depth. It was lined with brick and mortar, providing a safe haven from the elements. What I found within was a leather wrapped bundle that clinked when touched, as if metal were brushing against metal, antagonist's playing at battle. I quickly pulled forth the prize, resting it against the wall while I searched for anything else of use within the secret compartment.

Satisfied that nothing else of note was secured within, I turned and began to unravel the leather lacings. They had shrunk a bit with age and so gave my fingers a few aching moments. With expectant breath, I unwrapped the leather covering, at once revealing a suite of fine armor. The workmanship was more delicate and intricate than I had ever seen! With wonder I caressed the cold metal, marveling at the breastplate and many connections linking chain, arm, leg, and elbow. I could at once ascertain that the armor was Dwarven made and of that ever so precious metal, mithril. When I turned the armor, catching the waning sun, I spied Elven runes spread forth upon the breastplate, golden letters glowing in the dying light. The words spelled Bark and Bough, Salvinas' favorite saying. I stared at the gleaming armor for I know not how long, trying to gather the courage to don my prize.

"Could I accept such a grand gift, an artifact so wrought by skilled hands?" I thought.

With trepidation, I stood and began to don the metal carapace. I at once wondered at the lack of weight, bulk, and constriction. It was as if the armor had been custom made for me, that my arms, legs, and chest had been measured by the craftsman, the armor smith jotting down measurements as he tisked and tasked. I was astonished and once upon me, grateful for the magnificent gift, for I knew it would bear scars upon the morrow.

I strode forth into the last rays of the everlasting sun, echoes of life ebbing as the night crawled inexorably towards shadow. There my astonished friends gathered, each and every one touching the gleaming armor as if their eyes betrayed them. I let the moment pass and then signed for them to sit. It was but seconds and they were all seated, making a circle about me, all intent upon the words that would soon pour from my mouth. The oaths that would soon bind us until our quest was complete or death had enveloped our mortal coil. For, we Elves tend to be peaceful folk, yet if we or our friends are grievously injured or killed, we swear a sacred oath of vendetta. So we waited in silence until the darkest hour before dawn. There we swore a terrible promise to forsake all other pastimes to seek retribution. We would avenge our loved ones; we would hunt down the offender to exact vengeance. We thus bound ourselves irrevocably; nothing less than death would satisfy the demand of our blood oath!

[BubbaCornbread]

We looked down upon an area of desolation, a man-made clearing devoid of life. As we scanned the valley, we could see the blight grow, to pulse, as if it had a life of its own, inexorably devouring all that stood within its path.

"How could this happen within the High Forest," I thought. "No Elf, tree, or sprite had given warning."

This was most strange, for all within the forest were inextricably linked through bonds going back millennia. How could such devastation be wrought without word or thought?

"It must be sorcery," I thought. "Only such malign power could disrupt the natural order of things."

I turned to my companions, all grim of visage and ready for war. "My friends, we have come upon our death. Fear not, for we have sent one of us to the villages of the Forest, to come and make all whole after our fall. He will ensure the memory of our loved ones persists, it will be he that recounts our exploits about the fire, who holds candle aloft, high and clear voice piercing the darkness. So, set your feet, grasp your sword, and string your bow; we go into battle and none may know if any will survive!"

With the barest rustle of cloth and brush of metal, we descended down from our perch high along a tree covered hill, full of harsh intent. As we moved ever closer to the diseased wrought land, the pain began, a minor irritant at first, but then a fully fledged pulsing mass. It was but grim determination that kept our feet moving forward, our breath rasping at each footfall, the strain apparent, every muscle etched in purposeful resolve.

We were now within the ash covered boundary between the vibrant forest and death itself. Ahead, perhaps a hundred paces rose the wizard's tower, set in malignant relief to the abundant life about. It was no more than four stories high, with a high domed top and crooked crenellations set around as if a crown adorning the head of some mad king. The stone edifice was black as midnight, so dark that it seemed to suck in all light, causing shadows where none should be. Set along the base of the tower were a few crude huts made of stone topped with crude brush. Not one was built the same, a chaotic jumble of rock, wood, and leaf; a tortured tribute to the lone needle reaching for the sky with malevolent intent.

We were perhaps forty feet from the tower when bolts rained down upon our heads. All missed their mark, as we were ready for the attack and sought shelter as soon as we had heard the song of murder. At once Elven archers, some thirteen of our number, responded with speed and skill. It was but moments and the first Human's scream echoed through the clearing, followed by the thump of a body hitting hard packed earth. It took us a mere five minutes to scour the tower top, killing some ten crossbowman, the rest either fleeing or seeking better vantage to continue the melee. We moved quickly to the first crude caricature, breaking the flimsy door and rushing in, only to find it empty. As we searched, we found all devoid of habitation, not a table, chair, plate, or hearth. They were blank slates not yet painted with semblance of life and all it entails.

So it was the rush and tramp of feet, the heavy timber braced in our sweating hands crashing against the stout oaken planks that had been cobbled together to make the tower's only access. Once, twice, and three times we braced for collision, the booming voice of the once living wood echoing about the stone. As we shifted for a fourth attempt, the hairs upon the back of my neck stood erect, as sentries perceiving danger.

"Move," I shouted, letting loose my grip and diving to my left and out from the door.

It was fortunate that we Elves are fleet of foot and quick to action, for it was only two of my kin that took the ball of fire full upon them. It was a quick death, their scorched bodies falling away from the now burning battering ram. Cursing our ill luck and sorcery, I ran headlong into the weakened timbers, turning to my left so that the thick armor emplaced would add power to my attack. I know not if the planks had been thus weakened or madness lent strength, but my tempestuous assault succeeded, forward movement catapulting me through the now shattered timbers and into a dimly lit stone encased corridor utterly lacking in decor. Soon, the remaining members of my warband were within and rushing up the narrow brick lined stairway, my sword testing the air as we took stairs two at a time.

We met the remaining Humans at the first landing, a space only ten feet by seven. With one swipe of my blade, a man was down, his severed leg pumping black tinged blood onto the stone, his cries mingling with savage curses and hastily cast prayers. A jagged sword cut along the thick mithril at my shoulder, rebounding from the stout metal, giving me a chance to bring my sword crosswise to my waist, gutting the bastard. He looked at me, astonishment writ upon his face, and then fell with the others, his entrails cascading out from his grasping fingers, causing an already blood-slick causeway to become even more difficult to maneuver. With a curse and scream, one of my kin fell, his bow launching one last arrow as he faded from view, the lethal wood piercing through helm and eye of a Human trying to push me back down the stairway. I pushed him aside and skewered the last remaining man, my blade grating against the solid rock wall as it slide two inches and stuck fast. With effort, I wrenched my blade free and kicked the writhing mercenary down to rest with his brethren, the twisted forms creating a chaotic swirl of metal, blood, and bone.

We ascended two more flights of stairs; there were now ten of us left. Nothing untoward happened as we made our way to the top and the confrontation we had pictured in days past. At the last, we stood before a tall metal door, perhaps twelve feet in height, all aglow with magical sigils. I know not what they represented and did not particularly care, for I knew the necromancer was beyond and I would not be gainsaid revenge. I reached out to push open the door, yet before my metal shod hand touched, the portal opened without a sound. Turning to my companions, I shrugged and strode over the threshold, determined to end this charade, to send the sorcerer to the ninth circle of hell.

What I beheld that day will forever haunt my dreams, if one can call the nightmares that regularly visit during the long hours of dark dreams!

[BubbaCornbread]

I looked in upon a scene from the ninth circle of hell! The room in which I peered was much larger than the stone tower warranted, a full sixty feet in circumference. In the exact middle stood a throne made of some glistening black stone. Surrounding the ebony monstrosity were at least fifteen creatures in various states of decay. Some looked hale, almost alive, rosy cheeks exuding health. Others looked as if they had been festering for some time, their flesh torn and hanging loose, eyes vacant and seething with maggots. Then there were a few, completely stripped of all mortal tissue, their white and gleaming bones covered with leather and chainmail. They were the only ones of the group that carried weapons; three with swords and two with crossbows. Their eyes locked onto us as we spilled into the room, blood red orbs shining malevolently.

To add to the macabre atmosphere were murals painted in what looked to be blood, reliefs depicting torture and evident death. The friezes swirled about the circular walls in chaotic profusion, casting lurid glimpses of a most tormented mind. It was all I could do to stand firm in the midst of such malice, for my instincts screamed "flee," with every beat of my labored heart. Yet there I stood, eyes intent on the seated figure, watching for any movement, waiting for the act to start, for the end of this sorry charade.

It was the skeletons wielding crossbows that began the melee. Within heartbeats two of my companions were down and dying, the rest panicked, beginning to edge back and through the door. With no thought but hatred I lunged forward, my locked knees at last giving way to momentum. Voicing a savage cry, I plunged into the first line of undead beasts, my sword cleaving arm, leg, and head alike. Three creatures were down, their cast off limbs still writhing, still attempting to throttle, rend, and maim. I dodged two more zombies attempting to grapple and then almost lost my sword as I looked into their opaque eyes; they were from the village!

My horror and panic stricken flight saved me that day. Stumbling back, I tripped upon a still moving limb, lost my balance, and fell heavily to the floor. It was then that the man sitting upon the throne acted. He rose and gestured, arcane words echoing about the stone-lined chamber. Within seconds a ball of fire appeared and was hurled, quickly striking the door, instantly obliterating wood, stone, and two more friends. They died slowly, their burning bodies incandescent in the gloom-laden room. Sensing an opportunity, three of my brethren placed arrow to string and struck, only to see their arrows bounce off some invisible barrier. With another gesture and a few quick words, green glowing missiles shot forth from the necromancer's fingers, moving so fast that none could duck, dodge, or hide. The archers screamed in agony and fell as one; their breasts ripped open by some acid-laced spell.

I rolled from underneath a cadaverous Elf that was attempting to bite through my armored leg and chopped sideways, separating head from festering body. I looked around as I gained my feet and saw that there were only four of us alive. Three of my companions were surrounded by the last remaining undead, their swords wreaking havoc among the rotting cadavers. Judging them safe for the moment, I turned towards the wizard, only to duck and scramble back as two of the skeletons assailed me from the side, their lurid eyes dancing amidst shadow shrouded sockets. I was hard pressed and could only back away as their swords twirled about me, my armor and sword absorbing blow after blow. In desperation, I knelt, their blades caressing my hair as they passed. I swept my blade sideways, cutting through bone and magical energy. With legs shattered and dark energy cascading from their torsos, I deemed them no longer a threat.

I rose from my crouch and looked squarely into the mad eyes of the necromancer. I could at once tell the man was touched, for his eyes seemed to squirm of their own accord, sometimes staring into mine own and seconds later vacant, peering at some horror I knew not what. At the last, he grinned and pointed one long and narrow finger at me.

"You shall die most horribly Elf," he intoned in a sibilant voice. "None tread within my tower and live to tell."

Without another word, he rose and thrust out his palm, a litany of words cascading from his noxious mouth. I quickly dove forward and rolled once, coming up on one knee. I felt the hair upon my head stand on end as a lightning bolt the width of my arm shot through where I had just been. The bolt, pure energy and deadly as a striking cobra, hit the wall behind me with a loud explosion and rebounded, hitting another wall and then careening through undead and Elf alike, instantly killing all but we two within the room.

I rose not five feet from the wizard. "You will die this day bastard," I exclaimed. "Your evil will stop here. Never again will you defile another being upon this mortal plane!"

I smiled or so I thought. More likely it was a facsimile, a barely recognized motion that conveyed no meaning at all. The man raised palm again as if to strike but before his foul mouth could exude more mal-intent, my blade was into and through him, the point fully piercing the malignant heart. Yet, before eternal breath escaped and his soul plunged to whatever horrors awaited, he gave one last gasp, one last word. All I remember is bright white light and then oblivion.

[BubbaCornbread]

I awoke to the stench of decay underlined by the scent of burned flesh. I was prone on the floor, perhaps ten feet from the necromancer. I attempted to turn my head and gain my bearing but stopped as pain flooded my senses, causing me to momentarily lose consciousness. It may have been but moments or hours when I regained my senses, I know not. This time I opened my eyes before endeavoring movement and was dismayed, for all was blackness about me, not a hint of light was betrayed. Had I been blinded by some maniacal spell cast in retribution or had my head struck the floor so solidly that it caused irreparable damage? My lack of sight was disconcerting to say the least and my heart pounded harshly in my mind as alternatives came and fled in rapid succession. Panic quickly spread, its gauntleted hand crushing my resolve, causing despair to drive me beyond normal limits. I screamed in anguish and thrashed, my limbs moving woodenly, as if I was a mere puppet and the strings holding me aloft were tangled, entwined in a dance macabre. I lost consciousness for the second time that day.

This time my senses did not detect the scent of burning flesh as thought flared anew. Instead, decay had conquered the very air itself, making it hard to breathe let alone conjure rational thought. I lay there, body wracked with pain, mind reeling from the sights remembered during that desperate fight, hoping beyond hope that my eyesight had returned. For a time terror enveloped me in its cloying tendrils, forcing my mind into chasms I thought to never escape. At the last I did open my eyes to behold a rather mundane wood beamed ceiling. At once, relief flooded my being, my once ragged breath slowing, my hammering heart ceasing its mad gallop.

I struggled to my feet, my body a lumped mass of pain. I looked about the chamber, now a mere thirty feet in circumference, a charnel house bereft of sanity. “It must have been an illusion,” I thought, as I scanned the room, noticing the once beautiful furniture as old and rotten and the now bare walls standing mute testament to all the horror that had occurred within. I touched my brow and found it crusted with dried blood, the stain reaching my shoulder, a turgid puddle crouching upon the floor where I had once lain. I know not what spell the necromancer had set loose from his dying lips and cared not, for I was alive and vengeance was mine!

I slowly gathered the bodies of my kinsmen, carrying them out and away. I carefully placed them within a circle of stone and heaped stout limbs about their forms, wood that had been cast to the ground from some raging storm.

It was while searching the lower room for striker, oil, or flame that I could use to set fire to my kin that I heard the moan. Instantly I was alert, my blade grasped, eyes scanning for danger. It was then that I spied the hidden panel under the stairs. Girded for battle, senses alert, I sought the latch that would free the wooden barrier. It was but seconds and I was kneeling upon a set of old and lichen covered stone stairs. It was dark as midnight within the chamber below, my keen Elven sight only able to discern perhaps twenty feet of the room below. What I could see were three benches full of an assortment of glassware, metal tubes, and odd misshapen cylinders. On one bench lay a profusion of documents, some held down by beakers, others pinned by dagger or stone. Directly below me stood a large wooden wardrobe, ornately carved, its existence at odds with the bare furnishings.

I crept down the stairs, ever watchful for trick or trap. When I reached the dust laden floor, I could see the chamber was perhaps forty feet in circumference and filled with a chaotic assortment of old discarded furniture, fully formed skeletons hanging from chains attached to the ceiling, and the benches I have already described. Almost directly across from the stairway was a heavy oaken door secured by a thick wooden crossbar. It was from this barricade that the moan drifted. Ears attuned to danger, I first inspected the benches, finding little of worth. A few bits of bark that looked to be wands caught my eye and I placed them within my belt pouch for further examination. I turned back to the wardrobe, opening the well-oiled doors and peering within. It held a few weather-beaten garments, three more wands, and an elaborately decorated sash. I took the wands and the sash, thinking the garment looked to have some magical properties, what that might be was beyond my abilities.

It was then that I turned to the door, placing ear to wood. I heard the rustling of clothing and the occasional moan, as if a soul were in torment. I could not tell how many were beyond the door and without hesitation, before my fears could assail me yet again; I threw off the crossbar and yanked open the door.

Can one describe horror in its true context?