A Failure of a High Elf (Book One)

3.3

Written: 8/4/23
Word Count: 1,059

Folk, whether Elven, Nymphen, Pixen, Gnomen, Mermaidien, or even Brownien, only chased after dangerous dragons because of greed and desperation. Elfsbane was a product highly corrosive to the brain, but it had nothing on Dragonsbane. And unlike Elfsbane, which was only named after the creatures who'd invented it, Dragonsbane required ingredients from the winged monsters themselves.

Drug dealers, addicts, gang lords, their cronies, and even adrenaline-junkie, hunting enthusiasts followed the dragon migrating cycles out in the wilds. The entire Western Sector was one poorly-made encampment after another, with smidgens of regular folk just trying to eke out their existence while not being devoured by the oppressive black market. The Dark Elves from Aunt Rosetta's village, mere miners...should hopefully be some of those "regular folk."

Alas, I'd never met a Dark Elf, either, so I was more than a little distrustful. What if they'd killed her?

Why were they even called "Dark" to begin with? Ice Elves worked with ice, Wood Elves with wood. Those were no-brainers. High Elves had historically held powers from the heavens—their element was air, after all. But "Dark?" What even was dark? Could they touch it? Could they manipulate it?

Dark Elves had grayish skin, like they were constantly parched and seconds away from withering into dust. It was hard to correlate the concept of "Dark" with the color gray.

While I couldn't understand how Dark Elves derived their power, I'd grown up in a place that constantly tried to dismantle the High Elf hierarchy. Not a full revolt, just glimpses like a random pamphlet poorly placed in front of the Palace's employee daycare quarters. Instead of questioning the more pressing matters—in my humble opinion—of High Elf dominance, such as recording only High Elf history in the Ancient Redwood or the types of jobs available to non-High Elves, the pamphlets tend to take on more...interesting topics, like:

There are High Elves with incredibly dark skin; where does their power come from? Air isn't dark.

All it took was someone pointing to the sky on a cloudy day, storms merging on the horizon, and the word, "Storms," to debunk their churlish question.

Why get so caught up in all the colors, anyway? Nobody had the full range of the powers of their ancestors, so who cared why all the folk looked the way they looked?

A troupe moving a trundled-up pack animal appeared in the distance. With the daylight fading and our steps nearing ever closer to the marshy area that awaited us at the bottom of this slow-winding slope, it was difficult to make out just who was walking toward us.

But if they were coming from the bottom, then surely, they could spare a couple of hints about the spots I was most likely to die at from here to the edge of Disastraveritous?

Runy and I stopped, edging toward one of the cliff sides of the skinny claw mark. We waited patiently. A snort accompanied a tail flick to the back of my head, just brushing against my traveling cloak, some sort of heavy poncho Cauline had given me.

Alright, so not everyone was waiting patiently.

"Hello, travelers!" I tried stretching my voice as the figures ambled nearer. Three elves and a burdened donkey.

What could go wrong out here, in the middle of nowhere, when confronting strangers?

The elves were burdened by their own packs, their postures slumped toward the incline. It wouldn't be a surprise to see them crawling up the slope in a few moments.

A strange tingle of alertness itched at my scalp, but I forced my folk-pleasing smile to stay put. It stretched at my cheeks, quivering against my chin. I wasn't used to using this particular smile.

I'd seen the expression once, reflected in a pond at a neighboring mansion during a birthday party of some sort. Then I'd thrown a couple of chairs—and a wooden cat—and called it a day.

Those moments of madness I'd endured as a child were so hard to wrap my mind around now. I should've known even then that throwing a tantrum would get me nowhere. Yet, I'd freaked out in pretty resounding ways. Almost as if I was someone else—something else. I couldn't even remember the feelings that would lead to a tantrum; too much time had passed. Now, the Beckett from before is something only to take out of a box, dust off, and feel waves of embarrassed revulsion. Regret is one of the most painful things I've ever experienced.

That's right. I let my smile fade, suddenly unable to keep it splayed across my face any longer. My cheeks fell still just as the burdened men approached.

Two of them were, indeed, elves. High Elves, both with skin as peachy as my brother's. The third folk, however, was a very tall Brownie.

Covered in furs even in this nice weather, the Brownie fellow stood taller than I'd ever thought a Brownie could be. They mostly lived underground and were sensitive to the light. How did he fit in his folk's intricate, winding tunnels, if he stood that tall?

The Brownie stood beside one High Elf, who was wearing a bandana as a hat. The second High Elf had the donkey's rope secured around his whole body. He trudged forward at a snail's pace. Both he and the donkey looked on the verge of collapsing at any moment.

"A word, if you would," I said, the chipper, folk-pleasing tone from my greeting long, long gone. I simply couldn't summon it any longer, just like that ingratiating smile. "Would you care to enlighten me on what awaits me down this slope?"

The High Elf wearing the bandana stumbled to a stop, his heavy load taking him several steps further as he slowed. My brow creased, though it quickly smoothed itself out again. I'd had half a thought to care, but the fleeting emotion had drifted away, caught up under the gales of the ravine.

Lost.

"Right," the High Elf said, his voice buttery smooth as he cocked his head one way and then the other. This elve's color-scheme was gold, from his thin eyebrows to his nails, their gold paint chipped. "I know you. We're just heading to the Capital, and we'll have to pass transports. Might even see your brother. You're little miss Charlotte of the Swanmeres, aren't you?"