Elves of O'tenka

Running through underbrush, thoughts of her plan flooded Tara's mind. They fueled her aching legs; she had been running for at least an hour. Pale rays of moonlight had begun to burst through the verdant foliage of a towering canopy, lighting a walkway across the leaf-littered floor. All around her, tall oaks and thick shrubs hindered her progress. Twigs snapped under her leather boots, and a cacophony of nighttime sounds assailed her senses.

In the distance, a broad-trunked tree covered in vines stood alone in a small thicket. A rotted log rested at the base of the trunk, and Tara spotted small clusters of mushrooms sprouting from patches of moss. Panting and in need of water, she sat, throwing off a wave of revulsion at having to sit on such filth.

This was one aspect of her would-be profession she detested. It wasn't that she was fussy. After all, she could appreciate nature as depicted in works of art. Those scenes were absolutely beautiful. Reality, however, was not so pretty. Tara had grown quite accustomed to exposed roots that threatened to snag her legs, and pouncing insects that waited to bite into her smooth flesh. These things made traveling a hassle, and despite being a short distance away from her grandfather's house, she still felt uncomfortable and slightly disgusted.

To make matters worse, this could be her last chance to prove she had what it took to be a successful cartographer. Ever since she had been given away-- stripped of everything and sent away from her village, Parni-- to her grandfather, Browen, she seemed to believe his legacy was hers to inherit. At fifty-five, Browen had made a reputation for himself renowned throughout all of Vridja, and even other outlying regions. Tara wanted this recognition as well. However, her skills were mediocre at best, and this irked her.

Pulling a flask from a canvas bag draped around her neck, she uncapped it and swirled the crystal clear water within. She pulled the liquid to her lips and took a powerful gulp, not caring that some dribbled down her chin onto her purple flannel shirt. The beverage felt cool and refreshing as it slid down her throat, and she took another two swigs before capping the flask and placing it back in her bag. Rummaging through other trinkets stowed away there, she procured a compass and a roll of parchment. Tara unfurled the parchment and placed it along with the compass on the log. A map of the surrounding area was scrawled in ink, and the compass' needle pointed stark north.

Earlier, she had left the manor with one thing on her mind: Run. For a complete hour she had sprinted through the forest, losing herself among low-hanging branches and leaves. Her goal was to lose herself, become completely unaware of her position within the forest. Sitting on the log, she had been successful, and surveying the dark-tinted trees, she could honestly say she had no clue where she was.

But that was what the map was for. She had taken a full moon to complete it, and although it was but simple scratch-work still, it was her first creation. The compass would help point her in the direction of the manor, which was due west from where she was.

A problem still wormed its way through her thoughts, though. What if she stumbled on the main path? The trading route that connected Aaroth to the southern kingdoms had many branches, like tributaries in a river. One such branch snaked its way through the forest and led to Browen's manor. The easy way out would be to find the dirt-worn path and follow it back all the way to the manor. That was too simple. If Tara wanted to prove she could navigate her way out of a forest, she would have to take the long way out. Browen's property was basically an over sized glade, so the forest surrounded it on all sides. If she just followed the map, she could make her way around the perimeter and enter from the back gardens without ever setting foot on the main road.

Compass poised, feet somewhat rested, she trudged off in the direction her compass indicated was west.

As she pressed on, the more weary she grew. Looming branches taunted and jeered at her, telling her she wouldn't make it, or should just give up. For the first time while doing this job, she felt scared and alone. It was a mistake for her to have come, to so foolishly believed she was worthy. Always the hard way, never anything simple. All she had to do was walk a few yards to the main road, and she would have been safe. But no, she had wandered in even deeper, and she had even begun to doubt her map's dependency as an owl hooted a quick, low-sounding strain.

Exchanging the compass for the map, she unfolded it again and strained to make out the faint lines of trees and boundaries. Apparently, she was closer than she had thought, yet still quite a ways away from the gardens of the manor. The compass had been right, and she had moved west from her starting position, however she had been wrong in judging where the thicket was, and was actually several yards south of what she originally anticipated.This was no problem. The night was still young, and Tara had all the time she needed to find her way back. As far as she knew, Browen was safely studying elves in O'tenka, and his assistants usually paid her no attention.

Guilt hit her for a moment as she thought about Browen and O'tenka. He had asked her less than half a moon ago to accompany him, but she declined. He took one of his newer assistants instead, and Tara had grown to regret feeling so inadequate she would turn down the one chance she would have to see elves and their homelands. But then, feeling comforted that someone better had taken her place, she wasn't so sad anymore. If one day she were to become well known, wouldn't she be presented with the same chances Browen was?

Just moments ago she had used her plan to feed her movements, but now, all that expedited her was the thought of getting home.

---

The wooden floor of the inn was cold, and Kèth had to hurry and slip his sandals on before they froze. It was morning, and the sun had barely risen over the Béranis Mountains outlined on the horizon. Wiping sleep from his eyes, it was time to start a new day.

Drudgery was all he could think to call it. Ever since he had been removed from the noble half of Lutélis, his life had been reduced to feeding squealing pigs and serving drunken men. Every day he would rise and feed the swine, followed by making breakfast for everyone in the house. Including him there was only two other people that lived there, an elven man and his wife. Of course, feeding everyone meant those who had payed for room and board; not that anyone ever stopped to stay. Not many wanted to stay at a place called "Li Baçva Gràs" -- The Fat Cow.

Pulling on a brown tunic and breeches, Kèth tip-toed his way upstairs. For reasons unknown, the owners had built all of the rooms-- including guest rooms-- in the basement. Even more bizarre, the stairs led to the kitchen. The belief was that customers deserved to walk right up to their breakfast. Kèth, of course, found the notion ludicrous, but stifled his complaints out of fear of being thrown into the streets. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go. Like so many other peasants that roamed the right bank of the river road, he was stuck doing whatever he could day to day in order to stay alive. And it sucked.

Ignoring waves of frigid air as they blasted him from the kitchen entryway, he stepped across creaking floorboards. It was always so cold in the mornings, and because it was normally his job to warm the inn up, he was stuck suffering the brunt of the cold. Two hearths lined the back wall. One was used for cooking things like bread, and had racks set up over a pile of stacked wood. The other held an empty kettle. Kèth lit both of them quickly, and then headed for the outside.

The air outside had a chill that touched his bones. He regretted not wearing something a little warmer, like his cloak or a wool sweater. A bucket by the door contained somewhat frozen leftovers from the previous night's meals, and Kèth gave a cursory glance at the contents before picking it up and and walking into the pig pen. The pen was made of simple wooden fencing, a small enclosed space that almost gave the pigs no room to move. This ensured they'd get fat quicker. Pouring the slop into a trough, Kèth squished his way back through mud and waste to the inn.

There wasn't much to work with for breakfast. They had pigs, but no chickens, which meant that for the most part all meals consisted of dried fruit, steamed vegetables or slices of bread. Kèth found dried apples in a pantry hanging from the wall to his left, and ended up throwing them into wooden bowls along with sliced bread. It would have to do. This was another reason The Fat Cow didn't see many guests. Money was so scarce that Kèth was only able to purchase fresh goods from the market once, twice maybe even three times a moon. Even then, the food would disappear during the next meal-- no thanks to the owners. It was odd to him that they would value themselves over their customers, but since elves were all about self-preservation, it did make some sense.

Mud caked his sandals, so he took them off before entering the kitchen again and left them by the backdoor. Walking around in his bare feet was uncomfortable to say at the very least, but the wooden floors were smooth, albeit old, and wouldn't give him splinters.

The smell of fresh bread began to waft through the house as he carried bowls of his concoction through burgundy curtains-- probably the most expensive things in the whole building-- to the parlor, where many broken down tables littered the room with rough, squat stools. Everyday he brought something similar here, and everyday he shook his head in mild disbelief that the place was still legally allowed to exist. Even the bar in the corner was dilapidated, and all of the bottles of alcohol on display were empty, while kegs of ale were almost barren.

He heard a faint stirring downstairs; his elven heritage allowed him to hear beyond what humans could, although he had never actually met a human to know if this was true.

They must be awake, he thought, and hurried out of the parlor back into the kitchen. Over the years, Kèth had tried not to think of the owners as just that-- The Owners. His work was well cut for him though, as they were just as bitter as any noble would be. He kept out of sight as often as he could, and only spoke when spoken too. Still, he considered himself abused by the verbal lashings they'd give him whenever he was caught out back resting, or sneaking a nibble of soup. It was almost as if they were just barely allowing him to live, letting him slowly deteriorate just like everything else within their walls. Being twenty-one, he was still considered young by elven standards, yet he wasn't a kid.

But maybe there was hope for him yet. In just a few more years, he'd be old enough to enroll in a university far away in another city. With a room, a bed, and pretty much anything else he could want, he would be able to study elven lore like he wanted as well as escape the clutches of his seemingly doomed life.