"Why now? We have so much to do. Not all our companions are trained yet—some do not even wish to be Dark Elves. We forest elves were called. Now those of us who dwell in the mushroom forests are Night Elves. The rest—out of fear, love for the past, or simple desire to serve the new lord of the keep—decided to remain Forest Elves. The mushrooms continue to reproduce, providing a kilometer of radius with a fresh, dark forest, and by the time a decade passes, it will have the lushness of our old home... And it is precisely at this moment that the Blood Elves decide to come!"
They arrived seven days ago. They are not like our former enslavers. These are small and distinguished by their low magical level. A group of twenty, most of them appearing to be children of the old Blood Elves, clad in fine clothes, arrived at the forest with bravado. They camped outside and then, armed with courage, entered two days ago. Some shouted that they were the rightful owners of these forests, that we had to surrender and hope the punishment would not be so harsh that it would prevent us from serving them within a week.
Now that I think about it, there were those who felt tempted to obey authority. Once again, our forest-dwelling brothers considered that having someone tell them what to do was better than facing the mute terror of not knowing what to do with their lives now that no one told them anything. It will take several years before the culture of servitude changes—now that they must harvest food for their own sustenance and not because some fat ambassador is coming to visit. At least those of us who chose the night are not like that. At my command, the Dark Elves launched the attack.
It would be an insult to call this vengeance. I had waited more than two hundred years. My younger brothers still had in their eyes a fresher hatred—the anger of one who discovers the misery in which they lived and the possibilities of simply being: alive, an elf, a society that serves no one. After we discovered these forests, we never stopped practicing. Bows and arrows are typical weapons for us, but now we also had some light swords and the magic of the forest. It was not free, but we gladly paid ten percent of our life force to nourish ourselves with these mushrooms—which we had planted for years without knowing how beneficial they truly were.
The first arrow was loosed by the youngest among us, a boy of seventy human years. The shaft flew without elegant fletching, without the whistle of feathers to give it stability—just a hard piece of wood launched from a longbow, embedding itself in the eye of one of the attackers. Discovering that they were neither as respected nor as popular as they believed, they pulled out many scrolls and began casting spells. Bad luck for them. The Dark Lord had foreseen this.
We spent three months unable to leave. The Dark Lord invoked long, complex spells, more complicated than those used by our previous masters. Then he chose a few of us—I was among them—and asked us to transport some of the mushrooms we cultivated for our own consumption and for the castle's. They were planted at a location he had chosen. Then he used his sword and struck with incredible force. The blow pierced down to the lowest strata, where an underground lake lay. He told us that our rivers had dried up because the ancient masters of the keep had collected all the water for their own use, letting vast ecosystems die. Thanks to the water emanating from the rift made by the Dark Lord, the mushrooms were planted at night. In that moment, I saw the power of that human. His aura radiated—a bright field, full of hope. When he wears it close, it is dark, grim. But here, working in this forest that grew by the moment, he looked relaxed, happy. In a single night, the mushroom sprouts grew a meter. By morning, the responsibility of hydrating them fell to us. No matter how heavy the labor, it was a dream to be able to do it with the wind striking our faces.
In the following weeks, the Dark Lord spent his nights making the mushrooms grow and his days leading a society determined to grow further. They wanted to experience what they did not know and had never seen. We all feared he would collapse from exhaustion, but he did not. When a month ended, the forest had canopies that vanished into the heights. At shoulder level, clusters of various mushrooms formed bushy thickets, storing rich flesh in their protrusions. Of course, we knew poisons, and many of the mushrooms were not edible. But the rest were, and that night we dined sumptuously. The best part, however, was the tattooing ceremony.
That night, as we gritted our teeth against the passage of his fingers marking runes across our bodies, he spoke to us. He said those tattoos were a contract with the forest—that we were part of the forest. He warned us that we would live somewhat less than the rest of the elves. In return, he pointed to our tattoos, telling us they would draw energy from the forest. As it was a proper contract, we were to defend it from physical attacks, but magical ones would be stopped by the atmosphere of the place. Its trunks were immune to most magic.
The fireballs hurled by the young Blood Elves—now hysterical—attacked us more as a gesture of disbelief, hoping for some result. Little by little, my hunters and I eliminated them. The magic the Dark Lord had promised us was still elementary; we did not yet know how to invoke it in pure form. But we could coat arrowheads with ice magic, so they penetrated and froze the muscles of those who suffered such wounds, giving time for the warriors hidden among the thickets to deliver the final blow.
The last of them—his robes more splendid than the others, though indistinguishable now, soaked with blood—had an arrow in his thigh and another in his side. He pulled out a scroll wrapped in gold leaf and began an incantation of lava magic. This was difficult magic, rarely used in the past. The temperatures were so high that the spell was not meant for capture—only for annihilation of the unfortunate enemy. The flames shaped themselves into an intensely hot beam. Had it struck one of us, we would be dead. But the spell struck a trunk just a few centimeters from my face. The heat was so strong I could taste it.
I raised my bow. So angry was I at the power he possessed merely for being a wealthy elf that I drew the string without an arrow. My eyes focused on him. I felt something in my hands—cool, like the night breeze. A faint glow formed between my fingers and shaped itself into a bright shaft. Even as I released, I could see the beauty of the arrow: silver, with feather vanes like those of a phoenix. The shot struck his chest. He still managed to shout, "They will avenge me!" Then he began to tremble and murmured, "...so cold," before collapsing to the ground.
The battle ended with no casualties on our side. The bodies of all the Blood Elves were unmarked, without scars or any trace of training. Some still carried several scrolls. We stripped them of these, as they might be of use to our lord. Finally, I went for the "general"—or rather, the one who had been in command. As I approached the body, I noticed a faint smoke rising from it. Fearing some trick, I approached alone. When I looked closely, I could see that his clothing was neither burning where he had been struck by arrows nor where my magic had hit him. Incredibly, he was still breathing. My attack seemed to have induced paralysis. Calmly, I removed his scrolls and broke off the arrows, leaving only the tips inside. I sat down to wait.
When he came to, he stared at me as if he could not believe what he was seeing. Nothing remained of my scrawny, famished former self. I had developed considerable muscle tending these newborn forests, and my skin—due to the tattoos—was dark as ebony, where the arcane lines traced across me were an even deeper black. I imagine they had been attacking wildly, and this was the first time in the entire battle they truly understood who they were facing. Immediately, he searched for his scrolls—healing ones, I suppose. Finding none, he cursed, pulled a small bottle from his sleeve, and drank it. In that moment, he rose, sprinted away, and burst into laughter, thinking he could escape. I gave him one, two, three seconds before giving chase.
He was very slow. I caught up quickly. Perhaps he was not as dull as the rest; sensing me, he spun around and thrust with a saber I had not seen when I searched him. But it was a telegraphed blow. I sidestepped and struck his face with the hilt of my knife. As he fell to the ground, he cursed again. The worst came when I approached. In that moment, he screamed: "Denied of the light! Abominable creature who claims to be an elf! We are your masters! The Blood Elves will dance upon your bones! If you are going to kill me, do it with an arrow. I do not want your infected body to come one step closer!"
I nocked my bow—with a normal arrow—and aimed at his head. Then, with a smile, I tossed it aside. I approached, and amid the shrieks of the disgusting enemy, I cut his throat.
The Dark Lord has been away for three months. This band of elves clearly works for someone else. The treasure of the new master of the keep is guarded by Forest Elves. I am the head of our family. I will have to lead a few against an unknown horde, but I feel determined. I will train everyone in the use of magic. We must be ready. I will not allow anyone to lay a finger on his treasure—or ours. These Blood Elves will never own the Dark Forest. It is ours, and I will defend it until the source of power, the Dark Lord, returns.