Elves of O'tenka
Prologue
The boat slid through the water at a leisurely pace, there was no need to rush. Browen sat in the back, Nela at his side. At fifty-five, Browen was a master cartographer, known throughout his homeland of Vridja for his many travels-- namely the mapping of the Faren Range. Old age had barely left its mark upon his youthful appearance, with cropped black hair peppered with gray and chestnut brown eyes framed by small glasses. Nela on the otherhand, was still obviously younger by comparison, being in her mid-twenties and full of life and energy. Her long black hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, and she wore a simple red kirtle and a brown-hooded cloak. She was but a simple assistant.
Forest foliage and wild animals passed them by as they continued through the river, an elven ferryman paddling ever so gently through the slow-running water. They were traveling the River Road, a magically constructed river that began in the elven capital of Lutélis, and wound it's way through the elven lands of O'tenkà.
It was a miracle the couple was there.
The elves were so reclusive, Browen assumed he would never be granted access. Among his travels he had documented enviroments even the toughest of men wouldn't enter, but no one-- not even an expert like himself-- had mapped O'tenkà. Perhaps the elves were just tired of their closed doors, or wished to know more about humans. Browen rather liked the idea of being interviewed by these people. He received a letter with papers allowing him to come to the capital just last week, and although he was still unsure why exactly they were giving him safe passage, he couldn't resist the urge to explore the most clandestine region in all of the world.
A small wooden hut in the distance denoted a camp for the night. The River Road was so long, it was impossible to get from one place to another in a single day or night. The elf pulled up to a dock near the entrance to the hut and the boat came to stop, rocking gently in the water. Everything these elves did was graceful, Browen had noticed, even their work. From the moment he and Nela had met elves in the port town of Nalöck, he had noticed their serene gait and graceful movements.
Leaving the boat, the tall, slender figure of the elf disseappeared behind the hut and came back with a coiled rope. He tied the small boat (which actually was more of a canoe) to the dock, and motioned for Browen and Nela to follow him away from the boat into the hut. As they left, Browen caught the elf giving him an odd, scrutinizing glance while feeling the tips of his pointed ears. The stare made the hairs on the back of Browen's neck prickle. He would never get used to this races' unsavory opinions of humanity. For now though, the door to the hut was just a few yards away, and the pleasant thoughts of a warm bed and a hot meal outweighed his unsettling feeling.
Just then, a noise whizzed passed Browen's head. He looked around, suddenly panicked, and spotted an arrow lodged in a nearby tree. Someone was shooting at them from within the forest.
Nela screamed and ran for the door as a man rushed through the foliage, clad in the blackest of garments that covered his entire body from head to foot. He held a long, curved scimitar in his hand. Another arrow whistled through the night and embedded itself in Nela's shoulder. She shrieked again, this time in pain as blood trickled from her wound. Collapsing to the ground from the impact, her eyes were wide with terror.
Browen continued searching for the hidden archer, not failing to notice the man with the scimitar approaching both he and Nela. The ferryman was nowhere to be seen, and for a moment he cursed himself and all the gods of Vridja while wondering how the elf could have possibly slipped away so quick and gone unnoticed. He was a cartographer, afterall. A navigator. Wasn't he paid to know what was where?
"Hold on Nela!" he shouted, running to his assistant's side. She was leaving a trail of blood in her wake as she crawled along the ground, her face turning pale. The elf with the sword reached her first, and as Browen came close, an arrow whistled by, but missed and flew somewhere into the copse beyond the hut. The elf turned to Browen and smacked him across the face with the blunt side of his sword, and Browen fell to the ground feeling the world spinning. Darkness consumed his vision.
Nela inched toward the door on all fours, or rather three since one of her arms was out of commision. The handle was so close...mere feet away from her. All she had to do was reach it. She didn't know why, but something told her if she could just make into the hut that she would be all right. She would find a weapon, or someone sleeping who hadn't woken from the debacle. Yes, everything was going to be alright, she just had to make it to the hut. Wrong.
The elf grabbed her long black ponytail and jerked back, exposing the soft skin of her neck. With a quick swipe, the blade ripped through flesh and blood instantly fountained from the wound. The elf let her drop to the ground, and blood pooled around Nela's corpse. Then he went to Browen's unconscious body and sheathed his weapon. The elf picked up Browen around the waist and hoisted the man over his shoulders with dexterity and little effort. Vanishing through bushes and trees, it was all over. Nela was dead, Browen was abducted, and the forest resumed buisness as usual with crickets chirping and the lazy rhythym of a slow-gushing river.
Forest foliage and wild animals passed them by as they continued through the river, an elven ferryman paddling ever so gently through the slow-running water. They were traveling the River Road, a magically constructed river that began in the elven capital of Lutélis, and wound it's way through the elven lands of O'tenkà.
It was a miracle the couple was there.
The elves were so reclusive, Browen assumed he would never be granted access. Among his travels he had documented enviroments even the toughest of men wouldn't enter, but no one-- not even an expert like himself-- had mapped O'tenkà. Perhaps the elves were just tired of their closed doors, or wished to know more about humans. Browen rather liked the idea of being interviewed by these people. He received a letter with papers allowing him to come to the capital just last week, and although he was still unsure why exactly they were giving him safe passage, he couldn't resist the urge to explore the most clandestine region in all of the world.
A small wooden hut in the distance denoted a camp for the night. The River Road was so long, it was impossible to get from one place to another in a single day or night. The elf pulled up to a dock near the entrance to the hut and the boat came to stop, rocking gently in the water. Everything these elves did was graceful, Browen had noticed, even their work. From the moment he and Nela had met elves in the port town of Nalöck, he had noticed their serene gait and graceful movements.
Leaving the boat, the tall, slender figure of the elf disseappeared behind the hut and came back with a coiled rope. He tied the small boat (which actually was more of a canoe) to the dock, and motioned for Browen and Nela to follow him away from the boat into the hut. As they left, Browen caught the elf giving him an odd, scrutinizing glance while feeling the tips of his pointed ears. The stare made the hairs on the back of Browen's neck prickle. He would never get used to this races' unsavory opinions of humanity. For now though, the door to the hut was just a few yards away, and the pleasant thoughts of a warm bed and a hot meal outweighed his unsettling feeling.
Just then, a noise whizzed passed Browen's head. He looked around, suddenly panicked, and spotted an arrow lodged in a nearby tree. Someone was shooting at them from within the forest.
Nela screamed and ran for the door as a man rushed through the foliage, clad in the blackest of garments that covered his entire body from head to foot. He held a long, curved scimitar in his hand. Another arrow whistled through the night and embedded itself in Nela's shoulder. She shrieked again, this time in pain as blood trickled from her wound. Collapsing to the ground from the impact, her eyes were wide with terror.
Browen continued searching for the hidden archer, not failing to notice the man with the scimitar approaching both he and Nela. The ferryman was nowhere to be seen, and for a moment he cursed himself and all the gods of Vridja while wondering how the elf could have possibly slipped away so quick and gone unnoticed. He was a cartographer, afterall. A navigator. Wasn't he paid to know what was where?
"Hold on Nela!" he shouted, running to his assistant's side. She was leaving a trail of blood in her wake as she crawled along the ground, her face turning pale. The elf with the sword reached her first, and as Browen came close, an arrow whistled by, but missed and flew somewhere into the copse beyond the hut. The elf turned to Browen and smacked him across the face with the blunt side of his sword, and Browen fell to the ground feeling the world spinning. Darkness consumed his vision.
Nela inched toward the door on all fours, or rather three since one of her arms was out of commision. The handle was so close...mere feet away from her. All she had to do was reach it. She didn't know why, but something told her if she could just make into the hut that she would be all right. She would find a weapon, or someone sleeping who hadn't woken from the debacle. Yes, everything was going to be alright, she just had to make it to the hut. Wrong.
The elf grabbed her long black ponytail and jerked back, exposing the soft skin of her neck. With a quick swipe, the blade ripped through flesh and blood instantly fountained from the wound. The elf let her drop to the ground, and blood pooled around Nela's corpse. Then he went to Browen's unconscious body and sheathed his weapon. The elf picked up Browen around the waist and hoisted the man over his shoulders with dexterity and little effort. Vanishing through bushes and trees, it was all over. Nela was dead, Browen was abducted, and the forest resumed buisness as usual with crickets chirping and the lazy rhythym of a slow-gushing river.