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Siltran's story stirs deep feelings in Darmon. What had life been like
for the Elves, all those many years ago? Terror had been their
confidant, with death always an active listener. For years they had run
from a foe created by their own thoughts, their own secrets. It was
what lay hidden that spawned a nightmare 1,000 years old.
For on the outside, the Elves have always been a well meaning race.
Their inventions and ideas created a better life for themselves and for
their descendants. But, as in other races, there has been feelings that
lay hidden beneath the outer costume of well being. Siltran had said
just as much, though it was obvious how much it had pained him to admit
it.
Elves are, by nature, a proud race. They have always fancied
themselves the superior of humans and, more likely than not, are just
that. But pride, even when justified, brews a stew of self
destruction. If nothing else, the past exists to teach them that. If
only the past had been content to stay where it belonged... Now they
again face their troubles. The pride of their ancestors returns to
haunt the beneficiaries of the knowledge earned with the lands and lives
of countless elves.
Darmon gives himself a moment to consider that thought. The elves have
obviously learned from their mistakes. No longer is their learning set
at the pace it had seen in the past. While they hold many of the
traditional ways and customs, it can hardly be argued that they are the
same people that their ancestors were. After all, for such a learned
race one cannot expect complete ignorance towards the inherent problems
of success.
The past is indeed a horrifying foe. It is a relentless stalker, never
ceasing in its unending mission to follow you to the ends of the earth.
It is a truth that cannot be fought or defended against. Neither swords
nor arrows nor the strongest of magics can change it. All we can do is
accept it, and learn from its examples.
So why then, does the phoenix continue to stalk his victims? If the
elves have truly learned their lesson, what reason does he have to
return? The answer seems simple enough, but Darmon hesitates to accept
it. Simply put, Tar-Rael continues to hunt the elves because they have
not ventured away from their old ways.
But that hardly makes sense. The elves are a fairly peaceful people.
Though he hardly knows them, Darmon still respects and admires them for
their grace and strength of character. This would hardly seem to mirror
the elves of yore, continually perusing knowledge that they were never
meant to have. Elves that thoughtlessly denied the warning signs until
it was too late. A race that gave all so that they could end up with
nothing. Darmon can't see any of those traits in the elves of today.
He continues along this same line of thought. After much
consideration, he finally comes to a conclusion. Darmon simply doesn't
know enough about these people to judge them to such a fine degree.
After all, nearly all of Darmon's knowledge concerning the race comes
from Garem's stories and legends. Such information can hardly be
considered accurate. So, although he gets a very strong impression from
his guide, Darmon decides to hold off such judgement until he has time
to better consider the different sides. This will only happen when they
finish their trek to Siltran's village and he has had a chance to
observe the inhabitants.
As if reading Darmon's thoughts, Siltran suddenly hops onto his feet
and motions to Darmon. "We must go if we are to make the village by
nightfall," he says.
"I understand. How far must we still travel?"
"Seventeen miles."
"Seventeen miles?!? But that's impossible! There is no way you
can expect me to travel that far in the few hours of daylight that
remain!"
"And why not? We elves do it all the time."
"But I'm not an elf..." Darmon replies. Siltran stops for a moment.
It appears that he never considered such a possibility. How had humans
spread across Dominaria if they couldn't even stand to travel a few
miles??? It made no sense.
"Hmm... looks like there will have to be a change of plans," Siltran
says simply. Darmon mumbles something incoherent.
"Yes, I did arrive at that conclusion all by myself!" Siltran
retorts.
"What???" blurts Darmon.
"I heard what you said. Not only are we elves superior intellectually,
but we are also superior physically."
As Siltran finishes the statement, a blinding blast of light erupts in
the surrounding forest. All around them, tongues of flame lick at their
clothing while ancient trees collapse from sudden exhaustion. The world
is thrown into a state of utter chaos as each forgets the other in blind
attempts to escape.
Siltran attempts to take to the trees, but finds no branch free of the
flames. Darmon tries to hide, but sees no spot unscathed. They are
trapped, and they know it. The sudden realization turns their attention
back to each other. In a moment of silent agreement, the two huddle
down near the ground, in one of the few spots sufficiently distant from
the fires.
But even then the heat remains intense. The hairs on the backs of
their necks shrivel from the heat and for a brief flash of time,
Darmon's hair catches fire, only to be swiftly put out by the able hand
of Siltran. The heat is so great, their epidermal skin instantly dries
and flakes off, leaving tender, exposed flesh to take on the punishment
of the flames. Their lips bleed as that skin too is singed and cracked
by the unrelenting heat. And then, suddenly, the heat ends.
The fire remains, burning as fiercely as before, but the horrible waves
of heat are gone, replaced by a taunting chill. They try to sit up, but
find themselves too weak to accomplish even so simple a task. Both
resign themselves to the ground, unmoving even as the voice opened up
from the toothless flames.
"The time has come..... I have waited so long..... The sickness of
the elves has spread to the other races..... All shall be punished for
your crimes..... Live the next few days well..... They will be the
last memories you carry into the afterlife.........." And then, just as
suddenly as the voice appeared, it stops and the flames die down to hot
coals, and the coals into dust. In but a few moments, all traces of the
fire are gone save the noticeable absence of trees and the peculiar
stench of burnt flesh in the air. All traces, that is, save the crisped
skin and pale complexions of Darmon and Siltran. Neither can speak for
lack of words.
For what seems like days the two lie there, unspeaking and unmoving.
Neither can find the words to express their thoughts, nor the strength
to move their bodies. Eventually, with an effort that is agonizing to
watch, Darmon manages to convince him mouth to form words.
"Why didn't he kill us?" Siltran follows his lead and responds.
"Perhaps we are to spread his message around. In the past, he thrived
on terror. I see no reason why that might have changed. These flames,
the voice, and our painful burns. All are meant to terrify us into
submission..." And with those final words, the two collapse once again
into unconsciousness...
Hours pass. Midday becomes afternoon and with afternoon comes
nightfall. The pitter patter of tiny feet and the songs of birds cease
as a new scene unfolds. As the last patch of light is consumed in
shadowy darkness, the nocturnal dwellers of the forest come to the
surface to live their sunless lives. From the trees emerge the rustle
of the night owls, their eyes cast alertly into all directions. The
ground is alive as well, hording the vast majority of midnight
creatures. Mice, worms, rabbits, and larger game spring out of the
woodwork to feed. However, such plenty brings predators, as is the case
of the wolves.
Still unconscious as if under some demonic spell, the two travelers are
unaware of the swift approach of a small but aggressive pack of Timber
Wolves. In fact, it is not until the creatures are a mere fifty yards
from the pair that they pull themselves out of the peaceful slumber. By
then, they have but moments before the pack sets upon them.
"Ugh..." mumbles Darmon. "What happened?"
Rising up into sitting position, Siltran tries to collect his thoughts.
"We must have passed out. So much time... lost." A worried look begins
to enslave the face of the elf. "We have to go. Now!"
"What? What's happening?" Siltran jumps to his feet with Darmon
following suit in alarm. Grabbing him by the hand, the nimble elf pulls
Darmon into a quick gait.
"What's wrong???" Darmon's voice now displays undeniable alarm.
"Wolves." Siltran stoicly replies.
"You mean we are being..."
"The word you are looking for is 'stalked', and you are correct."
"Where are we going?!"
"To safety. Don't worry, just keep up!" That is all that answer that
Darmon receives as the duo rushes blindly through the lightless
thicket. The howls of the wolves now becomes obvious as they pick up
the fresh scent and begin chase. By the sound, they are just seconds
behind.
"Here!" Siltran yells. Still holding Darmon's arm, he throws the
youth up into the branches of the first tree unharmed by the earlier
blaze. That accomplished, Siltran scrambles up behind. Searching
quickly for hand-holds, he pulls himself up into the lowest branches,
but only to have his progress stopped suddenly. It takes him a moment
to realize the cause of his halt. Looking down, two wolves had their
teeth on Siltran's leggings, gripping stubbornly to the rough fabric.
Three more wolves ran forward to join the effort.
Taking quick action, Darmon breaks off a large branch and sends it
hurtling down towards the skull of the nearest wolf. In a moment of
personal sacrifice, that wolves accomplice throws himself in front of
the flying beam. It falls to the ground, skull crushed, while the other
escapes unharmed. Darmon and Siltran take the opportunity to climb high
into the canopy and escape their deadly escorts. Later that night,
Darmon brings up the event.
"I've never seen anything like it. That wolf let itself die in order
to save the other. I didn't know animals had the intelligence for
self-sacrifice..."
"The Timber Wolves are rather unique in that way. Unlike most animals,
their society is very structured. The wolf who was your intended victim
was most likely the pack's leader. The wolves realize that there are
times when one must die for the good of the many. That is simply the
way it is, and the way it will always be." Siltran responds.
And with that, the two retire to sleep...
The next morning. The wolves have given up the wait, preferring to go
off in hunt of more accessible prey. Siltran and Darmon rise as the sun
peaks its glowing face up over the horizon. The canopy is bathed in
light, allowing a new view of their unexpected camp.
The forest drifts off to all sides, unending to the north, south, east,
and west. As the eye travels through the thick patchwork of branches,
one cannot help but notice the horrible scar left from the raging
inferno of the previous day. An area seventy five meters in diameter is
torn away. All that remains is the ash surrealistic shadows formed by
clouds of rising dust. There is no life there. Not one tree, shrub, or
animal survived, nor have any other animals moved into investigate. The
only sight is that of decay. And it is spreading...
"Siltran?" Darmon starts.
"I know. I see it too..."
"Those leaves near the edge. They are wilting... rapidly..."
"Tar-Rael's presence has infected the forest. He is a disease... and
he is spreading."
"You can't mean..."
"Yes, I do. We must hurry to the village. Another day cannot be
wasted."
The two hurry off, aimed in the direction of the elven village. Both
know it will only be a matter of days before the rot spreads through the
remaining seventeen miles between there and the village. Time is of
importance, and it is the one commodity they don't have.
The hours pass quickly as the pair travels. No stops are taken for
breaks. Neither thinks of looking for a meal, though it has been more
than 24 hours since either of them last ate. The only thought on their
minds is reaching the village, and the infection that follows closely
behind. Was this how the world was to be punished, by the gradual
extermination of ALL life? Would Tar-Rael never show himself in the
flesh? The very idea strikes fear into their hearts. How could they
ever fight an invisible foe?
The day draws to a close when Siltran slows to a stop. Darmon looks at
him quizingly, but Siltran seems to be unable to understand the meaning.
"Why are we stopping?" Darmon asks at last.
"What do you mean? We're here."
"We are? But where is the village???"
"Your eyes are indeed weak, human. Look around you." Darmon follows
the instructions and looks around. Seeing nothing, he turns back to
Siltran.
"Is this some kind of joke???" Darmon asks. But his answer is
interrupted when elves begin to appear from out of the woodwork. The
forest comes alive as a hundred or more slide out of the forest itself.
What appeared to bushes or trees, logs or stones are revealed to be
elven dwellings under the guise of camouflage. Never before has Darmon
witnessed a sight such as the elven village presents.
Amongst themselves, the inhabitants explode in talk. So many voices
speak that Darmon gives up hope of singling out a single conversation.
It is obvious enough that the subject is him; it is the content that he
wishes to uncover.
That line of thought drifts off with the breeze as an ancient elf
emerges from what must be the central dwelling. He carries in his right
hand a withered staff, carved with symbols of magic and timeless runes.
The elf wears finer cloth than the rest, it being unmarred by the daily
rituals of work and play. His eyes are sunk deep into his forehead; his
brow is permanently wrinkled in the fashion of deep thought. By the
sudden silence as he emerges from the hut, it is obvious that this man
is their leader and commands a deep respect from the rest. Darmon
focuses his attentions upon him, knowing this is the elder of which
Siltran spoke. This was the man who held the answers to his most
nagging questions.
"Welcome," begins the aging elf, "to our village. We have eagerly
awaited your arrival. Make yourself at home here. There is much work
to be done..."