*note that this is a draft. Errors will occur and the story is subject to change*
Jarrer pushed his mount a bit harder. "I know you're tired girl, but you can spare me a bit more." Grudgingly, his narneck lowered her head and galloped through the heavy trees. Almost there, Jarrer thought. He hadn't seen his former home since he'd left to fight in the first war. He'd missed it terribly when he'd first come to the BloodMountains. That's why Bomin had sculpted his walls into a replica of his home. In time, he'd come to love the desert, but every day that drew him nearer his former home had awakened the Elve in him.
Easing back on the reins, Jarrer dismounted to walk beside his narneck. She needed a breather. Now on foot, his Elven pace quickened, as the mare dutifully followed behind him. He could feel it in the very air around him—Elvendom was near. Finally, Jarrer crested the last line of trees before the vast open meadow of Urelle, bordering the forests of Lourel. Stretching as far as even his sharp eyes could see, the Meadow of Urelle would never grown anything taller than high grasses, for the trees of Elvendom were jealous creatures. They would permit nothing as base as an ordinary tree to approach their enchanted forest and so snuffed out every sapling that dared breach the space between the enchanted trees and the regular ones.
At the other side of the meadow, Jarrer paused for a moment—well aware that many an Elven eye fixed their gaze upon him. He breathed deep the heavy air. His desert home only hung with water in the moments before a storm, but he was about to enter the lush vegetation and thriving forests ingrained into the very fabric of his soul. The ocean! He thought. Oh, to see her powerful vastness spread before him again! To feel her waves against his flesh! "I would speak to your Queen!" Jarrer called loudly.
He had hoped they would answer his cry, but only the stillness of listening reverberated back to him. "Very well," he said softly, knowing the breeze would carry his words to his fellow Elves' sharp ears. "If you'll not welcome me, I'll find my own way through." With that, he remounted, clucked to his tired narneck, and stepped into the Elven realm.
The Elves were masters at their Gift, for they'd had centuries of practice to perfect their art, but Jarrer was no Ungifted fool. Any other would quickly become hopelessly disoriented in the ever shifting trees. But Jarrer knew the forests secrets. Instead of focusing on the tree's as landmarks, he watched the ground or the sky, or simply relied upon his instinct to tell him where he was.
Jarrer traveled that way all day, only stopping when the deep of the night settled upon the land. Wishing desperately that he could spend the night in the safety of the Enchanted Tree's boughs, as he had so often as a young Elve, Jarrer searched the area for the Gifted animals that called no one king. He found no immediate danger. Wrapping his cloak tightly around him, he rested, but did not sleep. Ever watchful of the treacherous wood, he waited for the light of day to send the terrors back to slumber.
Fortunately, Jarrer passed through the night without encountering any of the perilous dangers that often accompanied the darkness in Lourel. However, when morning came, the yellow eyes of a she wolf bore down on him. He felt the ticking of fear tear into his heart, for these were not like the wolves that roamed through Nonae. No these were descended from a more ancient race. Their coats were spinier, and they were much, much larger. Easily half the size of a full-grown horse. "What manner of Elve dares transverse our land in such pitiful numbers?"
Undecided whether she be a threat or no, Jarrer kept his words noncommittal, "True, only the most desperate of my kind would accept such risk."
"Shall we have a chase then?" she said playfully.
Jarrer knew this chase would be no game, for it meant his life if he lost.
Without waiting for his answer, she lowered her head and then tipped it back, letting out a long mournful cry that chilled Jarrer to the core and frightened his narneck out of her wits.
