A young elf with long flowing hair as light as the sun and shining like the stars themselves, though eyes as black as coals showing no emotions whatsoever and a proud gate which shows dignity enters the tavern on the lookout for one of her kin.
With her she carries a note with few names on it. “Aerion, Siltaris and Damien” are noted in an old elfin dialect. All but the last have been seen and none could help her.
Another piece of parchment describes the surrounding land and towns this also is written in the old and nearly forgotten language.
She approaches one of the few elves in the abode, determined and resolute. Merely a few whispered words in a language known to few and understood from less are uttered as the tall handsome elf leaps to his feet with his hand already placed on his sword, ready to defend himself.
No more than a heart beat has passed and before he has the chance to draw himself up to his full height he finds himself looking at an arrow, drawn taught on a bow made of wood unknown to this land, a bow which has a faint glow and appears to emit a calm hum.
The elf recognizes this bow and the sound. It is the sound of death.
With an awkward laugh and panicked expression he seats himself again releasing his sword.
Apologetically he motions his head northward beyond the Tavern mutters a few words and grabs hastily for his goblet taking a deep draught.
The young elf nods curtly, lowering her bow turning on the spot with the grace of a dancer. Upon leaving the Tavern she notices, not one elf is left in the building.
With a quick smirk she acknowledges the flight of her kin from questioning.
Given another address she now heads toward the building known as the library. Hopeful of finding the one she has been searching for.
With her bow at the ready in her hand and a quiver full of deadly arrows on her back she enters the Library cautiously. In the last row she finds him.
A proud elf, worn but wise, older than she but with the look of youth in his eyes sitting solemn, devouring the pages of a book which only few could read.
He glances up at her, no fear is to be read in his face as he smiles at her. In the language of the common folk he addresses her wishing her a good day. As she looks at him with a questioning eye he repeats the greeting in elfish at which she nods curtly. All to suddenly he stands up.
Having drawn her bow faster than light would permit to see, an arrow already drawn taught she braces herself for……nothing.
The grand elf smiles relentlessly, reaching out slowly to touch the weapon of destruction as the deadly hum changes to a sound of tranquility. Lowering the bow, the young elf breathes at ease. For the first time since entering the land she is eat ease.
As a single tear rolls down her cheek, she sits down to talk to the elf. She has found who she was looking for. He, the elf known as Damien would be the one who could teach her the old ways. Only he could show her what her departed mother failed to give her.
The art of defense. The wisdom of a warrior. The magic of the world.
The way into becoming a war-mage.
Elaral
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