Vel’lanna forest: gateway to the Eastern Wilds...
Radiating a faint, azure glow, Leth’tharnian Bol’ittha, elf’na-ven and noble scion of the line of Fraxous, drifted through the stagnant, humid air. His posture was relaxed, as if floating a few dozen feet above the mire was but an effortless feat to one such as he.
Feigning calm, his stern, detached gaze drifted down to those that marched below.
For spread out beneath him was a crawling column of horse, metal, and man, stretching long through the muck and gnarled briars of the eastern wilds. It was an army. ‘His army,’ he thought, pride swelling in his chest as he watched them advance into the vast, verdant forest—that impeded their march.
It was an imposing force of thousands, all clad in dark, boiled leather that drank deep the light; its gleam reflecting only a faint polished sheen. Great silken banners of red and gold danced high above the moving sea of infantry.
Oh, how it pleased him to see the burnished, golden ash tree of his line—commanding such a respectable host.
After a deep, greedy breath, he smiled. It was truly a glorious thing, representing years of invested wealth and almost all of his family’s political capital. He had near bled his coffers dry to forge this instrument of conquest, and seeing the sheer scale of the investment carving its way into the thick wilderness felt like watching a masterpiece crafted by his own hand, all but proclaiming his greatness to the world.
Whilst he observed their march, he spotted a small, curious knot of men sneaking a rest at the side. He was about to order them flogged, but when he caught sight of the awe, he held his tongue, choosing instead to bask in their worship.
"Keep the pace! You, get up! No resting! Back on your feet, NOW!" barked a particularly arrogant elf from amongst his noble retainers.
Irritated by the interruption, Leth’tharnian glared down at the haughty elf’na-ven that yapped below; his heavy, hostile gaze—almost instantly quelling the ven’s over-inflated sense of self-importance.
Pleased with the elf’s reaction, Leth’tharnian lifted his chin and harrumphed. ‘I’ll forgive you this time,’ he thought, his focus returning to the horizon. ‘Now where was I?’
He tried recapturing that fleeting feeling he felt whilst basking in his own greatness, but the moment was lost. He shot a second glare the elf’s way, swearing his own petty vengeance down on the tak-ki unlucky enough to earn his ire.
With a click of his tongue, Leth’tharnian sneered.
The ven was distant kin, ordered to serve under him by his dear mother: the matriarch of their line. There were near a dozen of them spread out through his army—acting as commanders amongst the rabble. He thought them a loud, irksome lot; always so eager to remind him of their shared blood. It was truly a shame that they were necessary to keep the mob in line; else he would be rid of them, saving himself the headache that was their presence.
Quashing his brief annoyance, he drifted higher, subtly adjusting his posture into something he thought regal. Though maintaining such magics was spiritually taxing, he found such displays tended to quell the more noble of his servants, whilst reminding the masses of those that existed above them.
He saw it as his duty: a unique burden borne by those destined for higher station. By his reasoning, the fact that he enjoyed it was but a bonus.
"Ahh, they gaze at me as if I were the new dawn rising over Leth’thindor itself,” he muttered, as he relished in their jealous admiration.
‘They need not know of the anchor tethering me to my servant’s destrier,’ he mused, chuckling as he imagined himself as a rather opulent white kite, merely bobbing above the army.
In Truth, his levitation was a simple trick, something performable by anyone who had completed the requisite trials in the tower. By manipulating one’s own weight with the glyph of [Shifting Mass] sleeping within his core, he was able to move his mass into the realm of spirits, rendering his body as light as a drifting leaf.
Pleased by his own brilliance, he took a deep, greedy breath. And with his fair skin soaking up the last of summer's warmth, he spread wide his arms and floated higher, basking in the glory of the moment.
From the vantage his new height offered, he surveyed the wilds: the towering forest that stood before them. All those ancient oaks, great looming sentinels amongst the endless stretch of pine. These glorious, lush lands that were once his people’s home; that is—before they were stolen away by the festering rot of the cursed Tide.
And he—he would see it theirs again.
He smiled as he swelled with pride and purpose.
For he, Leth’tharnian Bol’ittha of the line of Fraxous—would march this army into the heart of the shadow, deep into the corruption-choked ruins of Leth’indor itself. And there, they would fight; they would reclaim the lost elven capital. He would retake the once great seat of his people's power. He would see their home reclaimed, for himself, for his people.
It was his dream.
His mission.
His birthright.
He could envision it now, the moment he finally finished his great and noble quest. He would march at the head of his army through the gilded gates of the capital. He would return to those council chambers, not as a scion of one of the twelve, but as a savior, as the great reclaimer of all that they had lost.
He would not fail.
—No, no, he could not fail.
With ambition’s fire burning bright within his eyes, he stared out into the thick brush before him. He felt almost giddy as anticipation built.
He could all but taste it.
Victory would soon be his...
And with victory, he would have the adulation he so craved...
Suddenly—
“My lord, another messenger from the Council,” interrupted a voice below.
He grimaced; his pleasant mood all but evaporating with the news. Looking down, Leth’tharnian spotted the captain of his guard, Er’rindel Vil’fráth, astride a mighty destrier.
“I see... And what news might this messenger carry?”
“I never asked, my lord.”
“Oh, and what of the messenger himself?”
Though he tried, the stoic ven could not hide the deepening of his frown and the straightening of his spine as he curtly answered: “In truth—my lord, I can not say...”
‘That bad, huh?’ he thought. ‘The Vil’fráth really are such terrible liars...’
“...Very well, Er’rindel.” With deft control, the displeased son of Fraxous made his descent, and once his feet returned to the ground, he mounted his own horse and was led to meet this messenger...
Maintaining an air of practiced indifference, Leth’tharnian entered the large, yet to be dismantled tent they used during muster. However, his mask all but shattered when he lay eyes upon the would be messenger. For this messenger was but a boy—and a human at that.
‘How dare they,’ he thought, all but recoiling at the affront.
Though not the true heir, he, Leth’tharnian Bol’ittha, was of the alf’na-far, and was a true-born son of the matriarch of the mighty Fraxous. For them to send a mere boy born of such a lowly race as a messenger was the height of insult.
Why—he almost fumed at the slight.
Gritting his teeth and swearing in his heart that his mother would hear of this, he asked with heat: “What is it, boy?!”
The child, as if not noticing his displeasure, performed a perfectly respectable bow before delivering his message. “My lord, my master: Patriarch Pynous, chairman and leader of the governing Council, wishes to once more plead that you abandon such folly. He says he is willing to offer you, a respected Vi’ren-tee, a position serving as one of the Council’s lead enforcers. He says that given your potential and birth, it would be a waste for such talent to be lost attempting such folly as to retake Leth’thindaria.”
The boy paused, as if only now realizing just how impertinent his message. “My—My lord says such a feat is beyond you, and will only see the disgrace of your line... He asks why you risk the many alf’far and alf’na-far under your command pursuing such folly...”
Leth’tharnian was near blown away by the child’s audacity. The boy could not be more than fourteen summers old, yet he dare spout such drivel in his presence. Why—he was tempted to see the boy hanged for the slight.
But no. No, though enraged, Leth’tharnian was no fool. This was no message. This boy was sent with the intention of goading him into rash action; his words carefully chosen to evoke his pride so Leth’tharnian dare not consider retreat.
‘They wish to see me killed by a borrowed hand,’ he realized. ‘Do they truly have such little faith in my quest?’ For the first time since embarking on this venture, he reconsidered the feasibility of his ambitions.
‘Perhaps retreat?’ No, he was too invested to turn back now. He could face failure and ruin, but not the thought of cowardice before the taunts of his enemies.
Swelling with resolve, he released a fraction of his might, making heavy the air. “Boy, I too have a message for your master... Tell Fel’rathin this: I, Leth’tharnian Bol’ittha, scion of the noble line of Fraxous, am thankful to be thought worthy of such targeted considerations, and I can only hope to prove worthy of his unfathomably high esteem. Yet regretfully I must inform him that I am bound to a higher calling, and therefore cannot hope to heed such pleas... Have your Master know that I will be expecting quite the welcome upon my triumphant return.”
The boy, sweating and struggling to stand, stuttered out, “Is—is that all, my lord?”
“Yes, that is all. You are dismissed, boy...”
“Aye, my lord,” the boy said, snapping out a bow before scampering off.
Leth’tharnian knew full well the boy would likely give a curated, more palatable accounting of his words. But at this stage, he didn’t much care. For him, his victorious return would be the beginning of his retribution. And once he receives the prestige he is owed, then he can go about avenging such slights.
With interest...
But before that...
“—Er’rindel?”
“Yes, my lord...”
Leth’tharnian turned to his most loyal retainer. “Send word. I wish to hear of that child’s gruesome demise upon our triumphant return.”
“Yes, my lord,” the elf’na-ven bowed, before exiting the tent to see it done. Yes, terrible liars—they may be, but the Vil’fráth were reliable in every way it mattered...
Leth’tharnian sighed. “And I was in such a good mood too...”
His eyes drifted to the golden tree of his line decorating the tent's walls. “All for the glory of Fraxous,” he muttered, before taking his leave...
“Not a day goes by that I don’t silently curse the vindictive, capricious, and spiteful temper of elves. For despite how noble they first appear, they are not above such baser things as petty vengeance when they feel but a modicum of offense at a perceived slight... So much suffering and tragedy, all for the sake of their precious pride...”
—Lord Viscount Bendarol’s thoughts on the nature of elves
Tak-ki is an elven insult. To call a person a tak-ki is to imply they are a young, inexperienced fool and/or idiot.