In the dark grove sat a lone figure, awaiting his final breaths. I could see only his fluttering cloak, the silhouette of jagged antlers, and glowing violet pupils which pierced the shadows.
The Muhari edged closer, their winding weapons drawn, glinting like the crescent moon above. The figure was tired, but his vigorous panting had begun to calm. A pale hand of the Muhari general was held up high as the warriors gripped their weapons tightly. With dying, grey eyes they scanned their prey up and down—awaiting the signal. The figure finally calmed, and the last warriors converged on their positions, he took a long, slow, breath. It was contagious, after hunting him for so long we all followed suit.
Breathing in…
…and as breath left our lungs—the hiss of a blade sprang from the grove, and a new shine glinted from the figure. The general’s hand sealed into a fist, as warriors leaped out of hiding—all at once, attacking the now visible rogue Elf, who’s twisting blade shone upon him a sharp light.
Bright sparks blinded me, the ringing of steel rattled my hearing, innumerable movements and sounds in mere moments. It was as if two storms had clashed, the air itself weighed me down as I turned to the general, who watched intently with eyes darting around the chaos. His face suddenly hardened as he nocked an arrow upon his bow and pulled the string, his severed ears twitched, listening out for something.
As I focused my hearing, I could faintly make out words. Not yelling, nor the grunts of battle, but a whispered chanting like the weaving of a spell. My eyes adjusted to the flashing lights, and I saw it—his battle movements formed ties and knots, they began to form a twisting symbol in the air of battle. Sweat trickled down the general’s face, he clenched his jaw, desperately keeping the bowstring pulled. The symbol shined brighter. I held my breath, but suddenly the general’s arrow cut through the thick air. The Elf–noticed it at once, and snatched at one of the Muhari, holding him as a shield.
But the shot hit its mark. Through his own warrior’s neck—the arrow pierced the lone Elf’s eye. As the air of the grove finally calmed, seven Muhari corpses appeared, strewn out amongst the trees and bushes, their bodies disfigured by seemingly endless cuts. All surrounding the now dead rogue Elf.
Only me and the general remained.
Legends of the Alfen, by Komas Ganios
