Topic: A Wandering Elf

Eletil

Date: 2009-06-11 02:54 EST
Settlements dotted the northern island of Silverfrost, a large bit of land covered primarily in cold, barren tundra, with few forests, and dangerous conditions. But, despite the hazardous environment, it still held plenty of thriving communities, plenty of citizens, all working to find their place in the realm.

Toward the center of the tundra island, rested a small, unnamed town that comprised mostly of elves, humans, and half-elves. A tight knit community, that lived relatively comfortably despite the constantly assaulting weather, and peacefully. Amidst the community was a wizard by the name of Gillfaern Norrenddare, married to a Cyanna Norrenddare, father of Eletil.

Because his work often required him to conduct experiments that could prove dangerous to the town if done incorrectly, Gillfaern and his family lived apart from the town, not incredibly far, but a bit of ways away so as to not endanger the townsfolk with his tests and experiments.

And delighted, was Gillfaern when he realized his son, like him, had a knack and keen interest for the arcane ways. Yet Eletil's power came from a different source. Whereas Gillfaern's power came from study and training, Eletil's was a purely innate thing, the kind that sorcerers are born with, the magic that can be used by all, but comes second nature to some.

But still, proud, excited that young Eletil was just as interested in the arts of magic as he, Gillfaern did all he could to instruct and train the boy, to teach him what he could, in the years that followed.

But to the north, far off from civilizations, lurked a pack of vicious lycanthropes, werewolves that had lost all semblances to humanity, and reverted into savage beasts. They were on the move, tasting the blood of hunters, and thus spurred on toward civilization, where more man flesh was to be consumed. _____________________________

Eletil was in front of the home, no longer a child, but a young elf on his way to adulthood, not quite there yet, practicing minor incantations, as he often did to pass the time when not in town. Bits of snow were melted, only to be frozen again in an instant, as he lounged on the front porch of the wooden cottage that served as his and his family's home.

"El, careful, don't melt the snow too much, else you'll flood our basement," his mother was quick to warn him as she stepped out, hands dirty from the potions she made, and herbs and other ingredients she worked with.

"Don't worry," was all he replied, dry and unenthused, as he often was when faced with a boring, and uneventful day.

She smiled, shook her head faintly, and headed back inside to wash up and prepare dinner for the evening, leaving Eletil to sit and melt things, from the porch.

He heard the back door open, the light footsteps of his father's booted feet clunking faintly off the wooden floorboards, and stood, preparing to go inside.

But the sound that came next froze him in his tracks.

A howl split the air, a haunting thing, chilling him to the bone, making his soul feel as if it had been ensnared in icy cold fingers. Eletil had never been one to startle easily, doing so could mean death in the tundra, but this howl held some deeper, more profound meaning, than a simple wolf's, and when it was accompanied moments later by a myriad of others, dread began to seep in.

Luckily, he wasn't the only to have heard it, and quickly turned for the door as he heard his mother's demands for him to go inside.

But before he could even reach the door, the click clack of claws against wood sounded off right behind him, and slowly, with a thumping heart and shaking hands, Eletil turned to find him face to face with one of the white werewolves from the north. He gulped, even as the monstrously large beast stalked toward him, bearing it's fangs for all the world to see, it's body rippling under snow white fur, with taught sinewy muscle.

And, the beast lunged. Eletil though, was nimble enough to leap out of the way, but sadly, this ended up with him being put into an even greater disadvantage than before. Because he couldn't lunge to one side, due to the fact that there was a wooden wall in his way. Thus, he had to leap over the banister of the porch, and tuck into a roll that had him standing outside, in front of his cottage, farther than before.

Much to his dismay, others soon arrived. More great and ferocious lycanthropes stalked from the nearby shadows, snarling viciously at him, as they circled. He was going to die, of this, he was sure. But at least he could take out a few with him.

Even as the one on the porch, obviously the alpha of the pack lunged toward him, Eletil fell into the throws of spell casting, conjuring up the innate magical energies that set him apart from his father, and let loose a devastating fireball. Simple, the spell may have been, but fire always burned, no matter how simple it could be. And unfortunately for the alpha, the fireball's main point of impact was the snarling beast's face, which exploded into a burst of flames a moment later, sending fiery death along his body.

It slumped, died, and burnt, but the others were un-phased, were still hungry. Before they could act, however, a lightning bolt split through the air, and slammed into another one's ribs, sending it flying back into yet, another of the lycanthropes, the electrical current jumping from one body to the next. Those two were out for the count, but four remained.

Eletil paused, to spare his father an appreciative glance as the older wizard hurried from the porch, preparing a second spell even as he reached his son's side. Following Gillfaern's lead, Eletil fell back into the throws of casting a spell, and soon loosed a follow of magic arrows, sent to pierce the heart of another of the beasts, while his father simultaneously had a spray of acid flying through the air, splashing onto one's face causing it to howl out in response to the searing pain that followed.

Not a second later though, he heard a grunt as something, or rather, someone hit the ground behind him, followed by the sickening crunch of bone. Turning, he saw the form of a great, white beast towering over the body of his father, its jaws clamped tight around the man's throat.

In a fury, Eletil all but tackled the beast, throwing himself at it with abandon, fists balled up and smacking with as much force as he could muster, attempting to throw the beast off, to have it release his father, even though life had already fled the man's body. When the beast did not relent, he stumbled back, and fell into another spell.

Eletil had crouched down at that point, scooping up a handful of snow while his mind raced, drawing upon the reserves of magic, lips silently mouthing the incantation committed to memory. Standing, the young sorcerer tossed the snow into the air, mouthing the last bit, before releasing the built up magics. Snow flakes turned into dangerously sharp blades of ice that hurled through the air toward their target, the lycanthrope that had paused to look up at him in confusion. The last sight the beast had was the vision of ice flying into its face, with the blurred image of the angry elf in the background.

Even when he thought it was all over, a shriek pierced the air, and Eletil turned, darting straight for his home upon hearing his mother's cries in terror. No, not terror he realized, but rather, pain. Barreling through the door, again, he'd come to realize he was too late, seeing the already dead form of his mother, her abdomen torn to shreds, nearly ripping the delicate woman in half. And there it was, the last beast, a hulking thing, its white fur stained in blood, his mother's, he realized, which fueled the anger all the more.

Adrenaline rushed through his veins as he darted off to the side, toward the glass casing that held the shining blade his father once told him stories of when he was smaller, its silver hilt glinting like a beacon of light in the suddenly dark room. Even as he smashed through the glass, and wrenched the blade free, the beast lunged at him with surprising speed, barreling him to the ground and slashing with its claws.

It was a gruesome display, the lean elven man under the heavy weight of that great wolf, slashing away with powerful legs and razor claws, snapping its fangs hungrily at his throat, where it not for the silver blade that rested between him and it, Eletil would have died then.

Using all the strength he could muster, he shoved up, the hilt of the silver weapon prodding the beast painfully in the eye, with a sickening squishing sound, followed by the hiss of something burning, like water on a hot stove. The beast winced, falling back a step to paw helplessly at its face, and that's when Eletil struck.

He rushed forward, bringing the blade up over his head as he swiftly reclosed the distance, only so that he could bring it straight down, with the tip first, and drive it up to the hilt, into the beast's skull, brutally impaling it. It dropped then, a limp, lifeless bulk of fur, flesh, and blood.

It was over; he'd won the battle, yet had lost so much more.