I've written enough of these now that I think I want to keep the chronology more streamlined. It's been a bit all over the place up until now. I do like the flash forwards into Wilred's future, but I need to figure out how much time is passing. Or perhaps the vagueness of it is what keeps it interesting?
I mean, you guys can let me know how you feel about it. I'm open to suggestion. You wanna hear more about the Lonely Old Wizard? I can do more of that. It was just getting a bit sad to write.
So here's a wee look into his early life, through the eyes of an Elven tourist. Enjoy!
Chapter Four: Exotic Studies
Not many elves ventured from their forest kingdoms on the edge of the world, and everybody’s eyes were on Elenor of Belondir. Blacksmiths, bakers, fishermen and farmers all eyed him with a distrusting gaze, while their wives and mistresses whispered and giggled amongst each other. The Elf was drawing a lot of attention to himself. He loved it.
“Mummy what’s wrong with that man’s ears??” One of the smaller humans pointed straight at him before getting clipped on the ear and ushered away by its mother. Elenor gave her a wave as she disappeared behind a veil of nightgowns and undergarments, hung out to dry in the early summer sun. They actually do their own laundry. He thought. Brilliant. It seemed there were no service gnomes in the realms of men. He loved that.
There was no art in the architecture of the human world. Everything was built to function - from clay, wood and in some cases literally just mud - as nothing more than protection from the elements. Elenor saw no beauty in the simple structures built by mankind. And he loved them!
Elvish culture was so pretentious. Sleek, elegant temples that looked like giant trees or ancient gods; Poems that took several months to recite and plays that lasted at least a year; Tiny, bland meals served on leaves instead of crockery. It came with the lifespan. If Humans lived for thousands of years, they’d probably start bickering over petty bullshit like architecture and literature, too. But the short life of a human was a mere eighteen years… Or was it eighty? Elenor tried to remember what his Exotic Studies teacher had taught him in twenty-first grade…
Either way, it was a short - and frankly terrifying - amount of time and therefore, Humans focused on the important things: Food and shelter. Any creature that came between a Human and it’s food and shelter was usually dead within the week. They were anxious, territorial, and incredibly interesting creatures. Elenor couldn’t get enough of them.
The village smelled so alive, so… Pungent! From every direction he could pick up hints of rotting fish, stale beer, fresh manure, sweat and… blood? Elenor’s enthusiasm slowly turned to caution as he slowly put his hand to the hilt of his blade. The scent was coming from around the corner. He could make out the sounds of raised voices and mugs breaking; Old wooden furniture scraping across worn stone tiles; Bones being broken before…
KERASSSH!!
A young man (Or was it an old woman? Elenor found it hard to tell sometimes) burst through a glass window and tumbled into a stack of empty barrels. An unusual way to exit a building, Elenor noted, there is a door just there. Looking through the window, it became clear what all the noise was. The Elf could hardly contain his excitement. He had read all about these rituals in his textbooks hundreds of years ago when he was just a boy. A Bar Brawl!
“Barbaric.” his father would call them. “Like stags over a doe. Although most of the time, it’s not even for a mate.”
But Elenor could sense the passion in the Humans’ wild swings and raucous bellows. He could see that dominance among these creatures was of great importance. Somebody had questioned somebody else’s authority, and the rabble would not rest until a leader had been crowned. Squabbles like this were common among the Human-folk. They were quick and efficient and terribly exciting.
As Elenor watched from outside the tavern, he thought of the decades long meetings that took place back home. Meetings to discuss the state of the plumbing. Meetings to decide where the next fountain should be built. Meetings where the only issue seemed to be “Who has the nicest shoes? And should we all be wearing shoes like those?”
“Elenor?!” A familiar voice rose above the commotion. “What are you doing here??”
Elenor recognised his former partner-in-adventure immediately. “Wilred! I got your letter!” He shouted, producing an envelope from his long coat and waving across the tussling mass.
The young wizard ducked past flying chairs and fists towards the exit, where Elenor was watching the through the window as if he were watching some berserk amateur theatre production. “I told you to meet me with Old Man Ambrose.”
“Are you taking part in the Brawl?” Elenor asked, hardly able to take his eyes off the mayhem.
“Absolutely not…” Wilred felt a bruise forming on his lower lip. “Well not anymore anyway.”
“Mummy what’s wrong with that man’s ears??” One of the smaller humans pointed straight at him before getting clipped on the ear and ushered away by its mother. Elenor gave her a wave as she disappeared behind a veil of nightgowns and undergarments, hung out to dry in the early summer sun. They actually do their own laundry. He thought. Brilliant. It seemed there were no service gnomes in the realms of men. He loved that.
There was no art in the architecture of the human world. Everything was built to function - from clay, wood and in some cases literally just mud - as nothing more than protection from the elements. Elenor saw no beauty in the simple structures built by mankind. And he loved them!
Elvish culture was so pretentious. Sleek, elegant temples that looked like giant trees or ancient gods; Poems that took several months to recite and plays that lasted at least a year; Tiny, bland meals served on leaves instead of crockery. It came with the lifespan. If Humans lived for thousands of years, they’d probably start bickering over petty bullshit like architecture and literature, too. But the short life of a human was a mere eighteen years… Or was it eighty? Elenor tried to remember what his Exotic Studies teacher had taught him in twenty-first grade…
Either way, it was a short - and frankly terrifying - amount of time and therefore, Humans focused on the important things: Food and shelter. Any creature that came between a Human and it’s food and shelter was usually dead within the week. They were anxious, territorial, and incredibly interesting creatures. Elenor couldn’t get enough of them.
The village smelled so alive, so… Pungent! From every direction he could pick up hints of rotting fish, stale beer, fresh manure, sweat and… blood? Elenor’s enthusiasm slowly turned to caution as he slowly put his hand to the hilt of his blade. The scent was coming from around the corner. He could make out the sounds of raised voices and mugs breaking; Old wooden furniture scraping across worn stone tiles; Bones being broken before…
KERASSSH!!
A young man (Or was it an old woman? Elenor found it hard to tell sometimes) burst through a glass window and tumbled into a stack of empty barrels. An unusual way to exit a building, Elenor noted, there is a door just there. Looking through the window, it became clear what all the noise was. The Elf could hardly contain his excitement. He had read all about these rituals in his textbooks hundreds of years ago when he was just a boy. A Bar Brawl!
“Barbaric.” his father would call them. “Like stags over a doe. Although most of the time, it’s not even for a mate.”
But Elenor could sense the passion in the Humans’ wild swings and raucous bellows. He could see that dominance among these creatures was of great importance. Somebody had questioned somebody else’s authority, and the rabble would not rest until a leader had been crowned. Squabbles like this were common among the Human-folk. They were quick and efficient and terribly exciting.
As Elenor watched from outside the tavern, he thought of the decades long meetings that took place back home. Meetings to discuss the state of the plumbing. Meetings to decide where the next fountain should be built. Meetings where the only issue seemed to be “Who has the nicest shoes? And should we all be wearing shoes like those?”
“Elenor?!” A familiar voice rose above the commotion. “What are you doing here??”
Elenor recognised his former partner-in-adventure immediately. “Wilred! I got your letter!” He shouted, producing an envelope from his long coat and waving across the tussling mass.
The young wizard ducked past flying chairs and fists towards the exit, where Elenor was watching the through the window as if he were watching some berserk amateur theatre production. “I told you to meet me with Old Man Ambrose.”
“Are you taking part in the Brawl?” Elenor asked, hardly able to take his eyes off the mayhem.
“Absolutely not…” Wilred felt a bruise forming on his lower lip. “Well not anymore anyway.”
Elenor noticed his Human friend stuffing a fat coin purse into his jacket before making a break for the nearest alley. "Are you coming, or what?"
A Bar Brawl. Elenor had only been away from Belondir for a week and already he was a spectator to of one of Humankind's most prestigious past-times. What a story for Mother. Just as he turned to follow Wilred, a heavy clay drinking mug crashed into his jaw and sent him stumbling into the mud.
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