Legends of Belariath
Mozenwrathe
From The Branches: Whats My Name
*once more does Ehlanna wake up in the day with at least one female body beside her. this day it happens to be both Kitty and Sarai, the young catgirl slave of the drowess Cleothina. smiling at the enjoyment she had with them the night before, she distinctly remembers the conversation she had with the pair of them before her "evening exercise." somehow, the talk had strayed from needlepoint to those who were in constant need of a seamstress. starting from those in the far past, they managed to go over the legendary slaver Slag, the young slave Amelinda, a rather strange minotaur named Vandurin who none of them could ever remember him mentioning exactly HOW he made his money, as well as the seductress alissia. not even Ehlanna could fathom what she did with all the outfits, or why she always had a smile on her face whenever she was in the process of purchasing one. (at least, according to Ehlanna, the times that she had not been busy "getting the lowest possible price" for her money.) finally, the topic reached a rather recent acquisition to this area of Belariath: Prydain.
if ever there was an excuse for a man to wear chain mail all the time, he was it. within the matter of four months, Ehlanna's coffers had seen ebb and flow because of him alone to a greater extent than when she had regularly offered sales in order to encourage business. the man knew not how to take care of clothes. in fact, he went through half of his wardrobe faster than it could go out of style. Kitty and Sarai both noticed almost none of his clothes seemed to be off the rack, nor items the average human would choose for themselves. Ehlanna chose at that moment to begin stroking the two catgirls, but kept on with the conversation, mentioning how Prydain would almost invariably go for clothes not meant for humans and have them altered to suit his purposes. it would have him at least ten Mehrials a visit - and that would be after the alterations, of which there always were. still, it DID remove much of the older stock she was always getting in from other clothing stores throughout the area - even the clothes of dead men. (some businesses were very unscrupulous in how they acquired or created their garments. Prydain just happened not to care as long as the blood came out and it could be altered. a lucrative situation for Ehlanna in the long run.).
the trio - all thorougly enjoying the mutual groping session that was coming about while discussing Prydain (which does not bode well for his immediate future, either) came to the conclusion that Prydain's lack of concern for his clothing stemmed directly from his lack of concern for his own well being. something about his mentality refused to worry itself on how badly he was wounded in a fight, as long as he won. not quite a berserker's mentality, but definitely not a positive outlook on life. Kitty's fretful look as Ehlanna mentioned that also broadcasted quite clearly how she valued Prydain's continued existence.
of course, that was the night before, and this was the day after. by herself could Ehlanna comtemplate the enigma that was Prydain without any pleasant and tasty distractions. given the fact she employed a dark elf - a member of the same race that slew her beloved Tolwyn, she figured that one lone human could not post that much of a threat or a conundrum. then again, that same darl elf who even now would be on his way in to work on the books was a one-time ally and friend to the most disturbing MALE human Ehlanna had come across bar none: Tophet. with this in mind, she was shocked to see a scroll sitting on her windowpane. going for the scroll itself and preparing a spell, she noted there was none around who could have left it there naturally. and even if the human Prydain seemed to be in possession of a great number of the scrolls sealed such as this, even he knew not where she lived - he barely knew who she was.
still, there it was - a scroll with the seal that was burned into her memory forever. for over a quarter-century had she sucessfully submerged her emotions when it came to Tolwyn, but over the past five years did they all resurface in some way or another. in some of the more erotic and burning dalliances she had with males, did she almost find herself calling out Tolwyn's name in the throes of passion. With women, could she almost feel Tolwyn's touch on the tips of the fingers who moved her most. Even when alone after a particular memorable tryst here and there, Ehlanna felt almost forty-five years just vanish in the blink of an eye; sleeping in the arms of her phantom paramour as if the decades between her first seeing him as a true man and today never occured. without a doubt, the deadly asp that coiled around her breast that was the memory of Tolwyn would bite her surely if she did not open this scroll.
and open it she did. after all, she had no love for serpents that sought out her flesh. sithians maybe, but they were not REAL snakes...*
***
Today is a Rest Day in our village. A brief drought has just ended, and rain covers the forest in a field of mists. The legends of the waterfalls after a drought breaks lured me to them, and it is there where I make my rest for now. In the shade of a massive overhanging of stone in a natural cave do I even now dip swan-feather quill to ink in order to practice my third favourite craft - script. It provides this one elven youth with an outlet neither archery nor sorcery give me enough leeway in - creativity. Here at least on my parchments might I create elaborate wars and horrific legends all to be won by the true heroes of this realm - the sylvan elves.
All races have their tales to spew forth about the great accomplishments of their forefathers. The dwarves have make an entire craft of just that, as have the minotaurs and the humans. It almost seems appropriate those whom are more adept with destruction would insist so harshly on being remembered for more than their ruination of the lands. Still, the minotaurs and dwarves combined could never hope to be as twisted as the humans often prove themselves to be. I have no idea how any of them grow to the age of maturity - if one could call a fool that baits a sea serpent to attack their ship with the rotting carcasses of fallen foes dragging behind their boats mature - even if they take less than two decades to do it. The amount of insanity they package into their short-lived bodies is naught short of incredible - if not sorrowful.
Of all things to see this morning as the trickle of moisture in the sky transformed into the downpour I now avoid with fire to my back, I had the rare opportunity to watch Ehlanna practicing her sword technique. Her blade whispered forth from its sheath silent enough to rival the ruffling of feathers as a bird warms itself on a cold early season morning. In the hands of a barbarian or a ruddy-faced halfling, the shortsword would have seemed like a cleaver - unelegant and ugly, only good for carving up one's opponent. The steel glistened in the dawn's distilled presence, yet did it carry a dullness that can only be lifted in the hands of a proper warrior. Ehlanna is one of those born and bred, completely unlike myself. While she held that sword with one hand, could she gesture and pose with her entire form as if dancing. It was more like an epic sage told only in actions, the words long since been lost in antiquity. Rolling the hilt from one hand to the other in an elongated juggle, her hips swayed to a beat unknown to me while her feet glided along the long grasses as if they were ice. Rhymthic like one who was performing to an audience, Ehlanna was a magic lantern who cast her glow through the echo of her motions. It hurt to watch her, and it hurt far more to creep away to find my way here and be far from her.
Something about Ehlanna intrigues me as well as bothers me. After so many years, I have found myself hounding her shadow with my thoughs more often than I ever did as a child. Even then, however, had I excuse: she was older than I and my mother wished for me to emulate her. I could not be allowed to mimic the ways of many of the other boys in the village, as most of them were wishing to become farmers or soldiers. My mother has always wanted for me to become greater than anyone else in the small village of my birth, yet she insists I will remain humble and not forget my family. It is a hard path to walk, that which she sets out for me. Yet was she one of the first to believe that my patterning my own work ethic after Ehlanna's own would lead to my own personal prosperity. From one of the older children new to the village, to a leader of training has Ehlanna grown to, and only the most dour of elders frowns upon such a rapid climb. They say nothing to her about her various ambitions, however, with my own burgeoning dreams do they insist they know far better than I or my mother, informing me on how I should take up plough and crossbow both in order to become part of the local militia. How is it that she may be allowed to follow her dreams, yet I must be held back? It is not fair, and it is not right...
For the life of me I know not if this cave is inhabited further down. Using the most basic of incantations, I did make an attempt to see if anyone or anything had made its home here, but I found naught but ashes and old bones. Perhaps something once used this as its lair a long time ago, as the piles of refuse and rot seem typical for an animal's eating habits. And those piles were not organized enough to have been swept together by any intelligent creature, so I doubt I will be seeing any visitors while the sheeting rain passes through my part of the forest. There are enough hiding places in the woods and around this waterfall for many to hide and hovel together for warmth without a single soul coming into my chosen spot, so I feel more open to relaxation. The fact I dragged many older logs and branches into here and then used my magic to set them alight for two bonfires adds to my security. Not that I have much affinity for fire itself, but the smell of burning wood and the smoke of the pine needles wafting out of the exit reminds me of home and hearth in a way.
Who am I, really? It is a question I have been forcing to ask myself over and over again since my most recent anniversary of becoming. I cannot be the powerful magus my father was, for adopting pure sorcery will lead to nothing but ruin. I cannot be the bladesinger of the legends the bards who pass through our village always tell of. My hands do not like the feel of steel beneath my fingertips overly much, and my fanciest footwork would leave a fox rolling in the soft clovers howling at my clumsiness. No berserker or warrior mage I either, for many of the same reasons, as well as the task of slaying for a living does not appeal to me. There is not much else for a farm-bred boy to do around here, even if there is a lot of forest. The thought of becoming a druid or priest once called to me, but then supper arrived and it was all better. No, there must be something I am good at which will carry me through my years. All this playing at being an archer has sparked my interest and kept it over the past five years. I have managed to beat out many in my village, and won a few impromptu contests held in the surrounding villages and town. The only person whom I have never outnotched even once is Ehlanna, and there are many things which suggest she only tries to win that hard when she knows I am competing against her.
Maybe... maybe I ought become a ranger. It is not as if I do not know the forest as friend and sanctuary from those hounding me. I have spent a good deal of time wandering through the woods close to my village - and huge labyriths of trees and shrubbery twice as far as the waterfall is. The only time I feel truly confident is when I am alone in the forest some days, or close to it and just allowed to do my own thing. Once I was to hunt down two wild boars for dinner with my friends for the village's feast. I took off and vanished into the woods for hours, as I wished to slack off and finish a poem I had been working on for my mother. By the time I came home, they had found two boars for the village... and I had one completely of my own I was carting back on a makeshift cart without wheels.
A ranger it must be then, for I cannot fathom anything else which will give me the freedom I desire. Besides, it is not as if anyone else in the village will even think of taking that route. Even though we are sylvan, not all of us find ourselves at home within the leaves and branches. In time I shall discover why that is, but for now I will merely take advantage of my situation, and find myself as far from my peers as I can be whenever I require time alone. I will have to tell my mother of this, or she will worry so whenever I go away.
***
*Ehlanna, judging the style of script and the age of parchment, figured this one scroll must have been months before she announced her inital decision to become a ranger - just days before Tolwyn was to say the same thing to the village elders. snickering to herself in remembrance, all she could visualize was the sheer wall of frustration the youth who would eventually become her first true love smashed his fists into repeatedly when she said that. If only she had known then what she knew now, could she have waited to tell the elders her choice on the same day. since she said it first, it was commonly assumed that "little Tolwyn is following Ehlanna like a wolf cub does its mother," which did nothing for Tolwyn's confidence. In fact, it was Ehlanna who was sent to find him when he took off for five days shortly after a huge public argument with some of the older damsels in his village. Yet was it not Ehlanna who found Tolwyn, but the other way around...*