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Champion of Silverwood
"My friends," the Bard said, taking his seat at the hearth of the Quill and smiling broadly. He held in his bright-eyed gaze six inquisitive Ascended and at least ten other patrons, students of Quicksilver College. "It is not a song I strum today, nor a poem recited, but in fact a story told. A story that perhaps will invoke some thought."
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"You will leave the sacred forest of the Elves, Ethians," the Elf had said, squaring up to the two Defiant. In his right hand was a large, ornate axe, and in his left he carried a simple buckler shield. His hair tumbled back behind his ears, the color of the shadow that curled at his heels. A single hawk's feather was placed behind his ear, and his piercing pale eyes fixed upon the duo.
One of them was a warrior, the other a magus, his robes swirling around him like a tornado's vortex. "I'm afraid we won't leave," the warrior said stoutly, his gaudy golden armor the exact opposite of his comrade's dark dress. "And we do not care who you are, but it is you who shall leave us alone."
And the Elf shook his head slowly; wise as he was, he was quick to come to fury and yet quicker than that to come to blows, for his long life had affected him in such a way that he was zealous, single-minded, and somewhat jaded. He shrugged and replied, "Then meet your death." With that he came upon them, a tumult of blows whirling from his shoulders.
Despite his heavy armor, he leaped backwards from the Eth warrior's claymore, and the human pressed his advantage, thrusting. The Elf lifted his shield to block it, and the Eth's arms shuddered like the prow of a ship in a storm. Despite his weakness, a bolt of flame shot over the weakened warrior's head, moving straight to the Elf.
The Elf, mighty as he was, thrust his chest forward and absorbed most of the blow, his eyes flashing as pitch as his hair before he closed them. The two Eth froze, thinking him finished for, dealt a mortal blow by the bolt of fire.
In a gruff voice, the Elf rejoined, "I am the claws of the tiger that rush to dig in. I am the talons of the primal troll that dig into your heart and fling you away. I am the water that rushes over you in a tsunami and leaves you naked and shivering for my beasts to kill you. I am the inferno that rages, sucks you and all else up and spits out charred bone-dust.
"I am the Champion of Silverwood and Tavril's hand."
And the Elf swept into battle, a testament to his power and bravery, and his gilded greataxe slid down upon the Mage's visage, and cut his neck so badly his head nearly fell off. The mage stumbled, then fell onto his back, gurgling like a babbling stream. The warrior let loose a tortured scream and fell upon the Elf with blow after blow from his claymore, but the Elf gave no quarter. Indeed, he seemed to get stronger as he blocked and dodged the Eth's attempts at killing him.
And then without warning, no preamble, no witty banter, the Elf curved his wrist, flicking it outward and catching the pommel of the claymore. Without effort, he adjusted his hips and then bashed his shield forward, causing the Eth to fall backwards and release his grip on the claymore. But the Eth was smart and raging and he sought vengeance for his fallen friend; bloodlust reigned supreme in his eyes.
With a shout and a battle-cry wrought of Raven's caws and the Wolf's howls, the Eth dove at the Elf, grabbing his shoulders and flinging him into a tree. The Elf, shocked, dropped his axe, and the Eth drove a knee into his face as he reached to get it. Then, with a great tug, the Eth pulled the Elf warrior's shield off, and drove it into his stomach.
Hatred faced impassiveness, and the two were eye-to-eye, the Eth's chocolate brown ones swirling with an angry golden abomination, a mutation from fury to a murderous hate. The Elf faced him with a face devoid of any emotion, his high cheekbones raised, scars prominent. Then with no warning the Elf struck, a gauntlet hitting the Eth in the nose. Then an open palm came down upon the back of the Eth's neck, tugging him forward, and into a fist to the throat. Without effort, the Elf snapped his leg with one sabaton kick and then wrung his neck.
"May their blood feed the roots of your trees, Mother," he prayed, lifting his fingertips to his lips and then brushing them to his forehead. "And may you two nourish the Wood you tried to desecrate well and with great fervor," the Elf spat, walking off and towards our very Quill.
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"Well that was a depressing story, Bard," a scholar said, not sure whether to applaud as the others did or stomp out.
"You are right, it is not my normal fare. But I felt it was important to go over the deeds of an Elf we all know, and for you to see if you supported him or if you disliked him for his ruthlessness."
As one, they canted their heads and scanned the Quill, alighting upon a figure who spoke quietly with Davek. An Elf in the heaviest of armor, with pitch black hair pulled behind his head and a hawk's feather tucked hidden behind a single ear. An axe and a shield were of course held.
And the Elf himself, Champion of Silverwood and the hand of Tavril turned to face them in all his glory.
"Pardon me?"
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