This is a short story that I'm writing. Right now it's about five pages, but when I'm done it's going to be about twenty five, or so. I just want to see what people think. I hope your like it. Let me know if you have any questions, comments, or ideas to help me out. Thanks!
PRONUNCIATION: Yyvellian = Yev-yeel-lin; Kallick = Cal-ick; Bastille = Bast-eel; Everything else is how it looks.
Festral Dominions
By Adam Gonzales
Throughout the course of his existence, Yyvellian considered his luck to be close to nonexistent. Not only was he tall and brown-haired unlike the rest of his kind, but he often found himself creeping into troublesome situations. Of course that was expected of someone Yyvellian’s age, but not on a continual basis. The rest of the elves living in Oglandador lived for the thrill of a good scam or dangerous escapade, like unto himself, but Yyvellian was constantly bending the oaths that they had made upon settling in their great city. Exploration was permitted, and even encouraged, within the boundaries of the Elven Kingdom, but journeying outside the caves of Oglandador was strictly unacceptable. It was known throughout the Kingdom that the elves had lost the Great War and had been forced to the depths of Festral’s bestial caverns as punishment, but Yyvellian had always suspected that it was all a hoax; after all, the elves were a mischievous race. Possibly this was the reason other elflings his age looked up to him, but then again perhaps not. But either way Yyvellian knew one thing: sooner or later he would be victorious in his endeavors of finding a way out of Oglandador.
Herder spent most of his days bounding from tree to tree, scouting for new hunting grounds and mapping new landmarks. True, the city of Bastille was a sight to behold, but Herder had always wanted to discover something new—either that or find somewhere where he wasn’t constantly bombarded with requests from the Dwarven Council. Herder was the Master of Game in Bastille and found that the Council was consistently pestering him with demands and questions. Were they going to have trouble during the Cold Season? Had the tesslir doves made their yearly pass yet? Was it safe to travel on the forest floor, or did they still need to be wary of gollan hounds? Of course, Herder would answer their questions with respect and then continue on with his day. He would climb the thick, wide branches that served as Bastille’s treetop city streets until he reached his small thatched hut where he would turn in for the night. If he was lucky, which he rarely considered himself to be, Herder might sometimes find himself camping on the forest’s balcony while on a particularly long mapping quest. It was those days that he would lay his strong arms under his short red hair and look at the starry sky, wondering if there was something greater in Festral waiting for him out there.
Sometimes Kallick simply wanted to die. Not because he thought his life ghastly or depressing, but more that he considered it horribly boring. Well not too boring, just boring enough. Yes, he had Estra to keep him company—and he never minded her company—but it was rather his daily routine that he wanted to escape. He was the horseman’s apprentice in the grand human city of Regral, and despite his greatest efforts to entertain himself between the gaps of the labor hours and his home life, Kallick never felt the true thrill that he was searching for. Admittedly Estra, yet again, helped fill that void in his life but Kallick believed in something much greater. True, he was not quite old enough yet to know what, but the fact that he knew was all that mattered. The cramped city nerved him to no end, and although he found some solace in knowing that no matter what happened, Estra would be with him, Kallick decided for once to be illogically rash. He was going to leave the city. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew that he was going to and that was that. So when Estra came bringing news of Regral’s Naissance Celebration, Kallick couldn’t have been luckier. It was finally time.
It was a cold day in Oglandador; the torches flickering bluefire—a sign indicating the holiday of the city’s founding. Yyvellian’s stomach swelled in excitement as he scrambled through Oglandador’s large and spacious streets, bumping into no one due to their emptiness. Founding Day was one of the few holidays that the elves celebrated indoors. It was commemorated with heavy drink and thick pastries within the warmth of their private homes, and each family stayed inside in order to observe the holiday’s message of solitude from the proud races that had confined them to the caverns of their dominion. It had been well over a thousand years since the passing of the Great War, but no one forgot the harshness and cruelty that the elves faced during their sentence of seclusion; a fact that Yyvellian planned to exploit in his escape. Throughout the previous couple of weeks, Yyvellian had delved deeper into the caves of Oglandador, in hope of seeking a new tunnel that led to the outside world. And, although he had been close to ultimately discarding his freedom initiative, Yyvellian had actually found something new. Past the back alleyways of Oglandador’s industrial precinct, Yyvellian had noted that the caverns grew increasingly wide and dark, eventually leading to a black vertical crack in the far side of the wall. It had taken Yyvellian almost two hours to reach the opening, when he was eventually caught off guard by the loud chattering voice of a City Guard. Yyvellian had not been expecting anyone to be on duty during Founding Day, and began desperately racking his mind for some clever trick to distract the guards’ attention. He slid behind a particularly large stone and slid his hand into his pocket, pulling out his elfish sling that he had made years before. A smirk slipped across Yyvellian’s face a he slid a small stone into the sling and hurled it past the guards. The stone snapped across a pile of rocks in the distance, and the sound became amplified in the empty cavern. The two guards shifted uncomfortably as they turned towards the sound. Probably they thought it to be nothing more than it was, but Yyvellian decided to toy with their emotions and try to intensify their inner fears. Breathing deeply so as to make it look like he had been out of breath, Yyvellian turned from out behind the rock and began running towards the short blonde-haired guards.
“Hurry,” he yelled desperately, waving his arms, “the Elder says to get back into the city! She says that there are giant gworms on their way!”
The guards did not need any sign that what he said was true. They had already grown paranoid from Yyvellian’s stone. Barely even acknowledging Yyvellian as they passed, they began rushing hurriedly into the stone city. Yyvellian grinned as he watched the guards scamper away. He had acted characteristically elfish and had pulled a masterful prank—a prank that had granted him the opportunity of freedom.
Herder was finally alone. He had been completely overwhelmed while in Bastille’s Council Hall, and now that he was home he could finally relax. He had hoped that the day would have gone by rather uneventfully due to Bastille’s Dawn Festival, but he had been wrong. The Dwarven Council had directed swarms of concerned tree farmers and spring hunters to his cramped place of work. He had done his best in denying their fears and confirming their hopes, but by the end of the day he had found himself completely drained. He must have been one of the few dwarves staying indoors for the Dawn Festival. The grand tree that supported the city of Bastille would be filled with bustling vendors and enthusiastic merchants selling food, toys, and lightsticks. The lightsticks would be used to spray burning colors throughout the night sky, and the noises from the jovial games and contests would undoubtedly keep Herder up through the night. So for once in his life, Herder decided to do something different and impulsive. He gathered a small pack of food and clothes, slid his bow and quiver across his back, and slipped out into the crowded branches of Bastille. It took him nearly half an hour to reach the edge of the city, what with the lively throng of people filling the streets. But by the time he finally did make it out of town, he had gone by unnoticed—just as he had hoped. He reached a wide branch that angled north out of Bastille and tightened his pack and bow before leaping off towards a tree below. He reached out instinctively and found hold onto a branch that had been smoothed by use, and began to let his weight slide him towards the tree’s center. He slammed into the tree’s trunk with his feet and then hurriedly made his way up an additional branch that reached out to another nearby, level, tree. Herder continued on like this for over an hour before his arms began to feel sore, and before he finally couldn’t see the bright lights or hear the loud thumps coming from Bastille. It was in the canopy of a massive oak that Herder finally found himself deciding to turn in for the night. He smiled slightly to himself as he pulled out a small bedroll out of his pack and placed it across the branch’s flat surface. He took in a deep breath and looked up into the night sky, smelling the clear air around him—smelling the air of freedom.
“Kallick, I don’t like this.” Estra’s blonde hair whipped in front of her face as she did her best to hide against the side of the stables.
“Hush, Estra!” Kallick kept his eyes forward, not daring to let them stray from the stone road of Regral’s main street.
Estra tugged him backwards, causing his brown hair to toss to the side. “Don’t you ‘hush’ me, Kal! I want to leave the city just as much as you do, but I just don’t like what we’re doing!”
Kallick rolled his eyes. “It’s not stealing.”
Estra stamped her foot and gave him a stern look.
“Well, it’s not. Coppercloud is my horse. I should be able to take him whenever I need him.”
“And the field lance? Is that yours?”
“Not exactly. But Master Youtle won’t be missing it. Besides, we’ll be needing protection once we leave,” he tried to rationalize. “We can’t go stumbling into the woods unarmed.”
Estra pursed her lips and tilted her head to the side. “We won’t be,” she said, rubbing her hands together.
“Right,” Kallick acknowledged. “Speaking of which.”
He tilted his head to the chain wrapped around the stable door. Estra sighed heavily, shooting him an annoyed glance and braced herself against the stone floor of Regral’s grand city. Then a bright blue light flowed from underneath her feet and began to wrap around her hands, and in a single burst of white hot energy the light whipped out against the metal chain. And it fell, broken, to the ground. Estra stepped backwards and patted her hands lightly against her side. Kallick gave her a curt nod, and then stepped into the stone stable house, looking to the end of the large room. Coppercloud was a brilliant mahogany horse with a stark white mane. He whinnied slightly as he sighted Kallick, but quickly quieted himself upon noticing his master’s stern eyes. Kallick quickly saddled Coppercloud and had the horse out of the stables in under five minutes. By then Estra had grown noticeably impatient.
“The grand horseman has returned,” she muttered sarcastically, trying to get Kallick to take her bait. He couldn’t refuse.
“Horseman’s apprentice…ma’am.”
Estra twitched at Kallick’s subtle prod: she detested being referred to as ‘ma’am”. Kallick initially said it out of respect, but when he had realized that Estra found the word to hint towards age, Kallick had begun using it as a sort of joking affront. He helped Estra onto Coppercloud, and then veered them into the stone backstreets of Regral. They were lucky; most of the city had filed in to the center square for the Naissance Celebration—they did not encounter anyone particularly noteworthy on their way out of the city until they reached the wall gate. The armored men guarding the gate gave them a suspicious glance as they approached. But before they could even raise question to their business, Estra sent a green pulse of light in their direction with her hands. The guards instantly stepped aside and opened the gates for them as they made their way out of the great stone city of Regral.
Kallick kissed the side of Estra’s head. “Have I told you that I simply love you?”
Estra smiled. “You can stand to say it more.”
Kallick grinned as they headed steadily forward into the forest—as they headed steadily towards freedom.
Yyvellian was too preoccupied to even consider feeling scared. Sure he was deep within the cracks of an unmapped cave, but the things that he was finding kept his mind from wandering on things like monsters and darkness. Not that it was too dark, anyways. There were tiny mushrooms that lined the different tunnels within the cavern that shone faint green and red lights. And so Yyvellian was able to make his way through the winding passages, using his hook and chain to lift himself when the tunnels grew too high for him to reach. He knew that he hadn’t thought his escape plan through carefully, and that it was only a matter of time before he needed to reconsider actually going through with it, but for the moment he enjoyed the light thrill of a potentially dangerous escapade. Then he heard something. It wasn’t the occasional clack of a falling rock that he had grown accustomed to hearing, but rather a flurry of unmated movement coming from a channel that bent a little ways off to his right. Yyvellian stopped short, pressing his body up against the rugged surface of the stone tunnel. Voices began echoing throughout the cave and it didn’t take long for Yyvellian to notice that they appeared to be clicks and hisses instead of actual words. Yyvellian’s eyes widened as two slimy, bald, reptilian creatures with nostrils stretched across their brown and red snouts turned the corner. They had wide flat feet for gripping loose rocks, and long, knobby fingers and tails for keeping their balance in the dark. Their eyes were massive and glowed a dim and pale green—almost useless if it wasn’t for the fact that they were coupled with the gaping holes in the side of their heads that served as ears. Yyvellian swallowed a gasp of fear: kobolds. He turned around swiftly, careful not to make any loud noises, but was shocked to find another kobold blocking his path. Yyvellian froze fearfully as the creature issued a shrill screech that bounced off the caverns serrated walls. Yyvellian didn’t need to look behind him to know that the other two kobolds had their eyes fixed on him; it would be foolish to think otherwise. He didn’t know what to do. True, his body screamed for him to flee or attack, but he was cornered and elves hadn’t trained in combat since the Great War—they were not warriors. But, then again, Yyvellian never considered himself a normal elf. In a quick flurry of movement, Yyvellian spun his hook and chain over his head and swung it to the cave’s ceiling overhead. It grasped a firm chunk of rock and he speedily climbed the chain just before the kobolds pounced on his position. He didn’t have much time; clinging to the ceiling would only prove a temporary respite from creatures that spent their lives climbing sharp rock. The kobolds hissed irritably, trying to reach Yyvellian with their short pointed sticks that they carried. Yyvellian breathed in deeply. He didn’t have the liberty of planning what he was going to do so he simply acted. He yelled loudly as he dropped from the ceiling, smashing his feet into the kobold directly underneath him. Yyvellian heard a disturbing crunch as the creature’s head splintered against one of the caves many rocks—he was dead in an instant. Yyvellian didn’t allow himself to settle as there was a blur of motion as the other two kobolds began reaching out for him. But Yyvellian was quick in getting behind one of the rabid creatures and making sure that the other one lined up with him. Then, deciding to use his hook and chain as a weapon, he reached out for the far kobold and yanked hard. The kobold screamed as he was pulled, keeping his sharp stick pointed forward. The other reptilian monster turned to Yyvellian, ready to strike him down, but was met with a searing pain as the other kobold’s stick slammed through his body. Yyvellian smiled despite himself—he had pulled the far kobold into the other one with the hook, causing his sharp staff to pierce through the other’s slimy skin. Yyvellian finally paused. There were three dead bodies lying around him, each oozing out splotches of black blood. He walked over to the kobold that had the hook pierced into his back and tugged it out. There was a hissing sound as blood began to pour freely from the three pronged wound, and Yyvellian found himself calmed in spite of the bloodbath in front of him. He pulled out a linen cloth from one of his pockets and wiped his hook and chain clean. Then, in an attempt to walk off the adrenaline pulses that were overwhelming his body, Yyvellian began to continue to walk down the cave. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew to follow the fluorescent mushrooms that were dimmer than the others; the deeper they were into the cave, the more they shone. By the time he had shaken off his initial shock from killing the kobolds, Yyvellian had wandered quite far into the caverns. He wasn’t sure how far he had gone, but he knew it was significant. Angling his head up as he scampered up a particularly large pile of rocks he was able to make out a distant glow. It was bright and yellow—unlike any light he had ever seen. And he longed for it. So without questioning its origins, Yyvellian raced through the cave as the light got increasingly brighter. When he finally reached it, he was dumbfounded. The cave opened into a lush, green, bright world that he had never seen. True, he had heard tales from the stories of the Great War, but he had assumed them to be nothing more than a hoax, just like everything else the elves said. The light burned his eyes at first, but he slowly began to grow accustomed to it and was able to make out the beauty of the landscape around him. Bright green carpets smothered the ground and shot out of the earth, clumped together on top of massive wooden posts. Except they seemed…natural. No one had made these odd plants; they simply lived this way. Yyvellian smiled hugely, aware of the wave of freedom pouring down upon him. Then he paused as his ears picked up something strange and remote. He pricked them up, trying desperately to make out the soft and soothing sound that seemed to whisper for him. And when he was finally able to make it out, he was surprised at what he heard.
My Gatherer, the voice called, I seek your aid.
Yyvellian’s brow furrowed. Gatherer. That was the meaning of his name in elfish. An ancient tongue that was all but extinct. And yet he somehow knew that this voice was to be trusted—that it really did need his help. And it called again.
My Gatherer. I seek your aid. Come to me and you will find what it is you are looking for. You will find your sovereignty.
Yyvellian smiled as the sweet voice enveloped him. Then, thinking of nothing else, he followed the Call.
