((A long overdue prologue to A Close Shave and a Haircut | The Laurelin Archives by Legelion.))
Taur-e-Ndaedelos, T.A. 2983
The Elf wipes her hands and feet on the bare rock as she climbs up. Her hunt has so far been unsuccessful. Rot and sticky webs are still all about, but this dell is void of the scuttling of the Ever-Hungry’s spawn. But why?
Atop the cliff she stands up and takes a deep breath. The wood here is no less tainted for the spiders’ absence. The air is heavy with mold and disease, no sign nor sound of the natural forest life. However, she senses she is not alone.
She listens. Dying trees creak in the wind. But beyond that another sound... footsteps? The sound of branches moving with the rhythm of long, slow strides. She draws her vine-entwined longbow and sets forth on a new pursuit. Another evil has driven the spiders from their mother’s lair, and it is not yet far off.
Eastwards down the slope she finds more answers. A tree mangled by great claws, from down by the roots till higher than the reach of any bear. Her fingers trace the markings. The shredded wound bleeds fresh sap. But it smells putrid, defiled. A poison is fighting its way in and will eat away at the wood until the tree is no more. The huntress knows now what her prey is: wood trolls.
Again she listens. The Forest suffers. Wooden footsteps, a disgusting gurgling alike something being drowned in a pool of mud. Then her eyes discern the target. There is two of them, two tall, wretched shapes moving fast ahead in the shadowed distance. With doubled haste she goes after them and before long she catches up.
In a moonlit glade, a herd of deer grazes hungrily on a rare patch of green grass. The alpha buck raises his crowned head, sensing the approach of danger beyond the trees. With a loud snort and a thud of his hoof on the grass he warns his hinds, who swiftly and silently flee into the shadows. The protective buck is the last to stand. He takes on an intimidating stance and turns his great antlers in the direction where he expects the predators to appear. But when his eyes behold the monsters, he too turns and runs, their grabbing claws missing him by a hair.
The huntress watches from a distance, then takes her chance and circles around the glade, creeping through brambles and between dead trunks. She looks up and mouths, “Eli guide me...” to the faintly twinkling stars above. Then, as the trolls stand still in disappointment over their lost meal, she attacks.
The vine-entwined longbow delivers an arrow into the troll’s back. It gurgles in pain, they both turn and face the menace that is upon them. A Dark Elf leaps into the light. Green eyes burn with a hating fury. The great longsword flashes as it is raised, and blinds the monsters with Paanu’s reflection. Both weapon and wielder thirst for the blood of these vile mockeries of creation. A battle-cry in a long forgotten tongue echoes through the forest. Ancient Elven steel crashes into sentient bark. Wooden claws sweep but miss. One troll falls as the longsword buries itself deep into its neck. As it lies twitching and screeching on the grass - and the huntress desperately tugs at her treasured weapon - the other monster takes its chance and flees into the night.
