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Questing Sucks! (book 1 completed, book 2 in progress)


Copyright 2011-2012 Kevin Weinberg AKA Parogar


Chapter 1: The Elf with the Human Tongue.

The soft breeze rustled the trees. The wind picked up leaves with invisible fingers, twisting them in majestic hands before setting them down on soft dirt. Livestock went to and from, roaming freely until the time of their slaughter.

Two elves sat on a cliff overlooking the ocean, their fingers twirling and intertwined, passionate kisses exchanged. They were young—far younger than the age permitted by the Elders to be sharing in each other’s passionate lust.

The male, a young swordsman from the Naris clan, narrowed his eyes as he drank in the intoxicating scents of his mate. She was a prime female. Her delicate features covered her pointed ears. Her smooth nose added to her perfection.

The male pulled her closer and placed his mouth over her ears, whispering, “You are my heart. You are my love eternal. You are all that was or will ever be for one such as myself.”

She smiled back at him, her beautiful radiance casting an outward projection of her eternal love.

“And you are my hope. And you are my love eternal. You are all that can ever be or all that ever shall.”

They kissed again. Their lips collided in a vibrant display of passion.

“Aww, will you two just fuck already? I’ve been watching this boring shit for hours.”

As if struck by lightning, the two broke apart. Their eyes scanned the forest below them.

“Se-Sehn, is that you?” the male shouted down.

Ah well, jigs up, Sehn thought.

Sehn pushed off the covering of leaves on top of him and then crawled out of his makeshift hideout. The look of fury and outrage on the two elves was nothing short of fanatic.

The male cried out, “Sehn … I shall have your head for this! You dried out pair of Wibbledoms! You Mountain-Lanx pot of rotten stew!”

“Your mother,” Sehn retorted.

The male, Calen Ariat, first son to the chief of the Naris clan, second in line for Sword-Dominion of Elvar, leaped down from the opposite side of the cliff with a thud, crushing leaves under his feet.

“I challenge you to a duel, you buffoon! Knoweth you this. Despite all treacheries prior, now is the dawn upon your last sacrament act. For no longer shall it be, that whilst mine own rage thunders over this land, too shall yours be concluded!”

Sehn blinked. “What in the holy fuck are you trying to say to me? I didn’t catch a word of that. Ah well, my Human buddies are coming over for drinks. I don’t have time for this, Calen.”

Sehn laughed at the partially nude Calen, who hissed and turned around to reach for his blade.

“Flee from me shall you not, Sehn, son of Suhn!”

“Flee from you shall I so, Calen, son of goatpenis!”

With that, Calen raised his blade. It was pure Elvin steel, the highest quality in the world. Neither Dwarven nor man-steel came close to replicating its utility and power in battle. For many years, the Elves had lived in prosperity from selling their tools of war. Their weaponry and armor were second to none. Calen charged with his blade raised and ready to kill.

With an audible sigh, Sehn chanted, “Ralos MAHR.”

The ground below Calen exploded, sending rocks and dirt scattering. His feet were knocked from under him, and he fell face-forward into the mud. His jaw clipped a rock during his fall, and he moaned as he rolled over, grunting in pain. The sword slid out of his hand.

“I’ll be taking that,” Sehn said. He walked over to the groaning Elf. Reaching down, he retrieved his shiny new prize. It would fetch quite a price on the market.

Calen grabbed his foot, and his eyes took on a pleading gleam. “You mustn’t. Please, I have already lost. ‘Tis the blade of my father that now you sully. Taken by you, so too must it not be, that along with my honor has fled me my faith!”

Sehn reached into his pocket and revealed a small metal flask. Kneeling down, he displayed the contents to the fallen Calen.

“Do you see this? This is my care-cup. What can you tell me about my care-up?”

Calen paused before speaking. His eyes filled with confusion. “Well, I … Must so it be said, on first appearance its contents would be naught.”

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