Even in this age, the humans, the pitiable day spawn, as they were called by the true elves, still had the foolish habit of spending what little time they were allotted on frustrating her people.
Still, in the end, it was she who had sin the champion of the day spawn, the ancient enemy of her kind. To her knowledge, only he, the sum of all men, had overcome death’s shadow. For him, and him alone, that dark spectre was nothing more than interlude. He was an existence that would come back again and again, like some persistent, loathsome mold. A soul that refused to pass across the Shallow River and into the Long Dream.
It was a feat that none of the First Children had been able to replicate.
To all intents and purposes, it had been the crowning triumph of her life, marred only by her failure to kill the half-blood. She had called to the spirits and they had answered her. She had formed the spirit of winter into a spear of ice, smashing through his frail heart and ending the day spawn’s life. Almost as if answering a terrible bsphemy, the Alchemist's shop erupted in a massive explosion that bsted her off her feet.
But for all of her efforts, if the legends were true, were for naught. The human Hero would return.
She touched the burn marks along her bare left arm, her marble skin blemished in several pces with ugly scars that no amount of Elven sorcery could heal. Damn the humans and their pointless defiance. Could they not see that the First Children worked to stop another Cataclysm?
Ever since that fateful day, and for mysterious reasons unknown, she felt that her connection to the elemental spirits of the nd had grown stronger. She could summon the spirits faster and guide and direct them with even greater precision. Through this communion, she felt that she had come closer to finding the true meaning behind the song of the spirits, the song of Mana, or simply ‘magic’ as the lesser races called it. It gave some credence to the old theory that the gods rewarded great deeds.
But these were old compints and best left for another time. She could dey the direct summons no longer and she needed to focus on the now.
She departed her chambers, making her way through the summer pace, the train of her formal dress unfurling a crimson wake behind her. Sunlight filtered through high-arched windows, acting almost like beacons that guided her steps. No one would meet her gaze, not Lady nor Lord, nor master or servant. All eyes were downcast in her presence. They all had, of course, had heard of her. The chittering whispers exchanged behind delicate fans that followed her passage were proof of that.
Finally, she reached the oaken doors that led to the Court of the Ancestor Trees. Trees, as she had been told when she was young, by one of her tutors, were the only things that elves had any real affinity for. For only the stoic giants of the forest could hope to st as long as the First Children.
But why not then the long-lived Dragons, why do the elves feel no affinity for the scaled tyrants of the skies? Why was their mark not on any elven design or heraldry?
Her inquiry had earned her a casual sp for her impiety. The elves had no affinity with the dragons, and that was that. Further pursuit of the subject was met with cold stony silence at best and violent deflection at worst.
She had felt that the answer had been a poor one, and the delivery poorer still, in its ck of respect for her station. Years ter she had set matters right.
Arimea smiled at the memory, savoring it like fine wine. Her vengeance had been a subtle one. A few well-pced rumors here, and a few pieces of ‘evidence’ pced there, resulted in her former teacher being accused and then judged guilty of trading in Witchwood with the humans. A most cardinal sin and crime. She had enjoyed watching him break under exquisite torture.
As to breaking, it seemed the insolent guards lining the door to the Court were in dire need of it. They regarded her with disdain, their eyes passing over her as though she were naught but a fleck of dust, utterly unworthy of even a modicum of respect befitting her station. A woman of high birth such as herself should have been met with bows and deferential gestures, yet they stood unmoved, defying the very order and decorum upon which elven society thrived. It was yet another insult she was forced to bear.
Just as she thought of unching a scathing verbal attack, the guards, cd in intricately crafted armor of spelled bronze, finally parted the heavy oaken doors. Ignoring them completely, she stepped forward into the king’s court.
It almost seemed as though she had stepped into a great gde of an ancient forest. The elven court spread out before her, a space that dwarfed even the grandest of human cathedrals. At the far edges of the gde, giants stood sentinel, their bark and trunks conjoining to form the boundaries of the elven court. They were of the Witchwood, ancient magical trees, that seemed to almost bleed Mana, infusing the air with their pure energies. Above her, great leafy boughs arched and formed a canopy. Adorned with a mosaic of vivid fabrics, they cast dappled shadows upon the assembly below. Long banners hung from the lower branches, each representing one of the noble families. The very roots of the Witchwood twisted into seats for the court's esteemed members, while between them, a lush carpet of emerald grass sprawled.
A mixture of naturally and patiently guided growth, the heart of her people’s realm, never failed to impress her.
Then a great hush fell upon the court as the assembly noticed her presence, snuffing out any lingering murmurs of gossip. She was like a gust of wind, extinguishing a feeble candle's fme.
