A Spot of Silver
Protecting Forests by Using Axes on Monsters instead of Trees
An excerpt from the early life of Vamaniel
Soft rain sinking into the viscous mud and forming puddles nearby. The curled ball of thin limbs, barely recognizable as a young elf, was aware of little else in the opaque darkness of the pit. Well, that and the cold. A shiver ran through his body as he shifted slightly to look around and he gasped as the fresh mud, unwarmed by his body, caked further up his ankles. How long had it been since the ground had disappear from beneath his feet, sending him into this hole? “Long enough that I’m p-practically starving down here,” he sulked through chattering teeth. He closed his deep green eyes, his thin brown creased as he tried to think back.
It had been just before dawn when his mother had pulled him from sleep. She had seemed so afraid: the joy in her lively face absent as she gripped his arm from beside the bed and gestured him to silence. There had been strange sounds outside their longhouse, far off due to the size of his father’s tent but echoing in the absence of the usual camp sounds. As he dressed, he could hear a man’s voice, deep and vicious, speaking a language he didn’t recognize, but his mother was already putting a pack in his hand and slitting the back wall of his room open with her small knife. They slipped out together, padding softly along the edge of camp in the direction of the main road. He followed his mother’s tense, purposeful footsteps closely, but something had caught his eye…something was happening in the center of their ring of tents. His father knelt in the mud with a shadow towering over him. Bone-white hair over coal-dusted armor. Dawn’s first rays flashed on steel.
His eyes flew wide open as lightning flashed into the pit, illuminating everything before sheathing it in a deeper black. He ground his jaw against the cold, but his lips formed the word: “Drow.”