Of Elves and Yearning; Doc. XII

The 323rd Year of Man, on the Day of Harvest numbered the Third.

Your Grace,

         It would seem that the Recent Invasions from the South are placing an Enmity between the Elves and Our People. I have heard countless Complaints and Reports from Villagers and Soldiers, respectively, voicing that many Elven Arrows have been recovered from Barrack Posts. I cannot help but wander if We are wise to resist these Snekks – even though they outright threaten Our People. I have by Chance spoken with an Elven Chieftain, who was very disdainful of Our Presence in the Foothills of Andulusia. We convened as thus.

         After a Day of Hunting, there was an Air of Tension around the Company. Arbur, the Tinkerer, noted an Odd Display of Lights from the Forest Canopy. Curious and Cautious, the Captain of the Company – Yours truly – deemed it necessary to pause, and take Our Bearings. The Wood was calm, and The Father shined down upon Us with all His Glory. But, We were deceived.

         From the Canopy shot Three Arrows, Each dripped with a Poison of Sleepingdraught. Of these Arrows, two landed into Our Men, who fell from Their Feet to a Floor thick with Fallen Leaves. Three more Arrows were fired as Our Men tried an Escape Route – but, again, the Forest deceived us with its Wild Roots and Shrubbery.

         We were struck with Sleepingdraught, and awoke in the Elven Realm. It was like No Other Realm I have ever experienced, Your Grace. They have stationed Themselves in such a way that the Heart of the Forest is bountiful with Harvest and Jewels. They must be Cohorts to the Dwarves, It is the only Explanation I can make. It was a Wonderful and Terrifying Sight to behold, Your Grace.

         We were clad in Elven Robes, and stripped of Our Hunting Gear and Weaponry. Two Elven Archers, Each adorned with Eight Beads on Their Braids led us to the Chieftain. His Entire Court was present, Your Grace, as They knew that Your Grace was to be honored. How they danced, Your Grace; Their Women are the finest Acrobats and Dancers of Aethor. I felt, in a Queer Way, spellbound by Their Movements, and wished They would never end.

         But end they did, and the Chieftain began to speak.

         “For Many Moons, We have welcomed Few Guests. Tonight, We welcome Three-and-Thirty! The Finest Hunters of the Wood!”

         There was much Laughter and Tidings of Happiness at These Words. I had never seen an Elf, nor had I seen an Entire Court filled with Mirth at Our Presence.

         He motioned for Silence and continued.

         “At this, I say directly: Leave Our Forest, Men, and forever give Us Peace!”

         The response from His Court shook Us to the Core. The once Entrancing Elves raised Themselves up and stomped the Ground as They spat at Us. They spat in Their Tongue, which I know of not. And, as We cowered, We again met Sleepingdraught and woke up in Our Barracks.

         I have meditated on this Matter for many a night, and, from The Father, I receive only Tidings of Flight. Many of the Native Animals of Creakwood are fleeing a Specter of sorts. No Soldier nor Villager has reported a Sighting of Unusual Sorts, but Captain Fertherly, a Stoic Man if there ever was one, has been confined into His Room for the duration of This Invasion, until we can safely transport Him back to The Capitol. Your Grace, I have never seen a Man so distraught. He weeps openly, though He has lost None; He stammers out commands to build a Tower to the Sky; He attacked a Young Recruiter the Other Night, for which We have lashed Him; This is not all. My Prayers for His Well-being fall on Deaf Ears – wherever Our Father is, He is surely not here. This must be addressed.

         As I write to Your Grace, a Yearning in My Heart pangs Me so. I long for the Tall Cathedral, where I meditate for Hours upon Hours; the Touch of My Lover, Johanna; the Smell of Sweetwine from the Counties in the East; it is all so near to Me, yet, so far from Me.

         Send Tidings of Love to Yours and Mine, Whom are Yours, too, Your Grace. Love Them, for Drontius loves Them, too.



In the Name of the Crown, and Your Grace Who Wears It!

High Priest Drontius

From the Southlanding