The Dark Archer

[Tasan]

Cold winds from the west blew heavily across the lands to greet the rising sun. Long shadows shortened slowly in the fields on the outskirts of Leuthilspar. Many farmers were just now making their way into the dusty lands set aside for the new year’s crops. Among them walked a somewhat downtrodden elf, his steps heavy with sorrow. Finlaria Frostneedle, once a proud ranger who was respected for his careful protection of the surrounding forests, was now a mere shadow of his former self. The other farmers went out of their way to avoid contact with him, and perhaps that is where the real story should begin.

Three years prior, Finlaria had a most generous house among the nobles of Leuthilspar. As a respected ranger, and protector of the city, he was rewarded with many privileges. He had married the daughter of a wealthy noble, Iomyil, and they had been given a very nice portion of land to live on. He devoted more and more time to being with her, and often left the duties of the field to be with her. The first season of their union was but a memory when out of the northern wilderness came strange sounds in the night. Howling, mixed with echoing screams, chilled the blood of the elves at night.

For several weeks the elven rangers, led by Finlaria, would patrol the forests surrounding the city at night. Few of the rangers ever saw anything during the watch, and those who did would seldom speak of what horrors lurked in the woods at night. Then by some chance, the sounds in the night stopped. The watch was reduced again and the elven folk slept at ease.

Only a few weeks later, just seconds before the gates were closed for the night, a cry went up around the city. Finlaria had only just passed through the gates when a great siege began. Large black wolves poured through the gates, knocking the guards over, and continuing into the city. The wolves fanned out, and attacked the guards, keeping them from amassing to ward off the attack. The light guard presence was quickly overwhelmed, and held at bay. The din of noise in the city slowed and quieted before the largest of the wolves scrambled quickly to the top of the fountain. At the top, he let out a single piercing cry, at which the wolves all began to shimmer and morph. Each wolf stood on its hind legs, and changed before the darting eyes of the elves into a humanoid figure. Baring bald heads, dark skin and blackened eyes, the figures assembled the now bound guards in the center of the city. The rest of the elves were led as close to the city center as possible, and were forced to listen.

In a slow and rasping voice, the leader explained why the attack was brought upon the city. His name was Gythaem, and his eyes flashed wildly as he gave a speech that must have lingered in his mind for a thousand days. He demanded the lives of the children of the city, as a tithe to their kind. This tithe would be annual, and would be reduced each year that the elves lived in harmonious servitude. The tithe would also remain as a reminder that the shifters were in complete control.

A murmur of disbelief ran through the crowd. How could such a proud and honorable race people be reduced to paying a tithe to these abominations? As the words spread through the crowd, many eyes turned on Finlaria. The ranger was cowed by the stunned looks of the people he was supposed to have protected. Accusing stares and looks of disdain broke into his heart, and he was forced to look away. Gythaem was now ending his lengthy speech, and looked at the faces of the sorrowful elves. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he perused the crowd, until his eyes met those of Finlaria Frostneedle.

Finlaria had raised his head, and now spoke clearly. “Take heed beast, and hear the words of the protector of Leuthilspar. I ask that you take my life and spare the children of the city, and by that gain the willing servitude of the citizens of this city.”

An uproar of voices came from the gathered crowd, and Gythaem raised a hand again and commanded the people of the town to be silent. “I will not take your life Elf, but rather your precious wife’s instead. You will remember your insolence for a long time.”

Finlaria struggled against three of his captors, but could muster nothing to prevent the malice of Gythaem. Iomyil Frostneedle was brought out, along with many children of the city. The shifters slowly marched the children out of town leaving Iomyil with Gythaem, and a small detachment of shifters. Gythaem took the hand of the young elven maiden, and led her towards the gates. Iomyil struggled not, and seemed to have accepted her fate. The shifters slowly passed out through the western gates, but not before Gythaem turned back to issue a last warning. “Remember our forms now, and that we are your masters now. The legacy of Finlaria will forever be a reminder that your lives belong to us. We will be among you and we WILL have control.” With this last comment, he shimmered once more into the guise of an elf, and the procession left the city. Gythaem was last to leave, and he slammed the gates of the city shut, laughing maniacally all the while. Finlaria bent to his knees and felt the eyes of his brethren upon his back. His sorrow and shame would follow and haunt him… until a remedy would come.

* * * * *

Almost 4 years later, Finlaria got the opportunity he’d been waiting for. It was harvest season once again, and soon it would be time for the yearly tithe to be paid. The crops were high, and for some time now, Finlaria had been making a long path to the woods. He had been slipping away to the nearby village of kobolds, provoking the guards of the small hamlet. Though in past times the elves of Leuthilspar would slaughter the kobolds to hone their skills in battle, keeping their numbers down, now the village had grown immensely. Nearly 1,000 small huts could be seen stretching along the banks of a muddy river running through the center of the shanty-town. The kobolds had thrived in the absence of the elves, and Finlaria thought that perhaps they might prove worthy allies in the freeing of his people.

He planned for a long time on how he could use the kobolds to enact a rebellion amongst the elves. He had long considered the options, and had come up with a bold and promising plan. On a clear night, from which the fires of the village could be seen glowing, he set about his plan to save the people of his city, and to redeem the honor, which once was his.

He stood in the boughs of a great tree at the edge of the wooden fence surrounding and protecting the kobold village. As he watched the city, a pair of guards marched silently towards him, their footsteps barely audible upon the soft ground. He drew a single arrow from the quiver laid next to him, and prepared to fire. Just as the guards turned to walk away from him, he fired the specially adorned arrow towards their feet. The arrow flew with expert precision, despite the added weight of the present it bore. It skittered to a stop in front of the two guards, and he watched as they bent to examine the missile. Tied to the arrow was a string of kobold ears, trophies Finlaria had taken from several single guards he had killed in secret. The guards immediately recognized the sign, and hurried off to consult their chieftain.

Finlaria hoped beyond hope that the chief would consult the shaman about the signal, and it wasn’t long before he was rewarded with a happy sight. Two guards were dispatched to fetch the shaman from his lone hut among the fields to the west, and they brought his huddled form to the chieftain’s tent. For a time all was silent, and Finlaria could only watch from his perch high up in the tree. He drew his cloak around him, and waited for the muster to begin.

He had not waited long when a horn was sounded three times from the edge of the chieftain’s tent. Finlaria watched in awe, as the kobolds scurried about, and finally came together near the center of the encampment. The muster had happened quite quickly, and within a few short hours, it seemed all was prepared. The crudely armed kobolds numbered in the hundreds, and they formed up behind their chieftain, prepared to defend their city. They began to march, and soon reached the huge iron gate which served as an entrance to the city. The gate’s rusty hinges sounded audibly as they were thrown open, and the kobolds flowed outwards from their primitive fortress.

Finlaria had been shrewd when planning his actions, and had also equipped a small map to the arrow, indicating the woods to the north-west of Leuthilspar as the source of the attack. The kobolds moved swiftly in that direction, and for several hours afterwards, the sounds of a heated battle could be heard echoing from the dark forest.

Finlaria hurried back along his secret pathway as soon as he’d seen the kobolds enter the forest. He quickly sought out the rangers of the city, whom he gathered at a private location near the docks of the city. The rangers informed him that many of the “elves” had left when the battle began, and could only mean that the city was probably free of the shifter’s influence for the time being.

Finlaria’s sword, which had been taken from him at the siege, now rested hilt out in the hands of his second in command, Sillimina. The rangers waited patiently for several moments, their eyes focused on their once proud leader. They desired his taking of the blade, but were not sure he intended to lead them. Finlaria fought within himself for several seconds, fighting demons that daunted his clear thinking. The images of that fateful night when his bride was taken away would not just disappear. Not more than a minute passed before he suddenly grasped the blade, and thrust it aloft, shouting an ancient elven call-to-arms. The moonblade showed true to form, and it glinted and gleamed in the moonlight, casting a pale light upon its keeper.

“Now comes the time when I shall repay the citizen’s of this city for their continued faith in my leadership. You have all suffered greatly, and for that there will be no mending, but I will put a stop to the domination of the shifter’s TONIGHT!” As he spoke, the citizens all saw a change come over the ranger, as if he had absorbed the soul of a great elven lord from long ago, and now stood as a proud and honorable figure before them. They quickly dispersed, and the elven muster began.

* * * * *

The host of elves moved into the forest and for a long time the cries of elves singing happily, as they slew, could be heard from the city. Ancient songs, almost now forgotten were reborn on the tongues of the fighters as they hewed their foes, and joined the kobolds in the battle. Then all was quiet, and a short while passed before the sun began to rise.

Finlaria returned, the host of rangers behind him. Several elves were missing, and a number more wore bandages of hastily applied first aid. At the back of the pack, a small elven child lay in the arms of Sillimina. The last surviving child amongst the tithe-children it would seem. His eyes were solemn hazel, and he had two locks of sable hair amongst his golden tresses. A small rosy birthmark, resembling a star-tipped sword rested on his neck, just below his left ear. He seemed small beyond compare then, dwarfed by the larger elf that bore him within the gates of the city. The citizens of the city congratulated their heroes, and the boy was forgotten for a time, perhaps because no one came to claim him.

Finlaria gained much recognition, and resumed his role as protector of the city, and leader of the rangers. This new station did not come easily though, as he too had been injured in the hunting of the shifters. He was wounded so badly, that he could only assume a role as commander, and teacher to the next generation of elven protectors. He had been grievously wounded in spirit upon finding no trace of his wife, and chose to take on the role of father to the small child rescued from the camp. The other villagers, some of whom swore he was not a true elf, and that he had a spirit of evil dwelling within him, had shunned the child. It was true that he was strange looking, with very dark skin, and strange features. The twin locks in his hair only served to heighten the thoughts that this child was not a normal elven child. Finlaria saw that the boy would be outcast, and having once felt the same way, he chose to take care of him. He chose a new appellation for the child, one that would remind him of the cost of the occupation. The boy would be called Twyl, which meant “Returned One”, and he vowed to have the child replace him as a greater and wiser protector of the city. The promise would serve his spirit well, but would never become true…

* * * * *

Years passed quickly by, and before long Finlaria became withered and aged, far beyond his years. His reflexes slowed, and he spent much time in silent contemplation in his home. Twyl had learned almost all he could learn from his adoptive father, and was often away in the woods honing his skills. He stopped by each night to cook for his father, much of his daily hunting practice ended up on the table at the end of a long day.

One such evening as this, Finlaria ate slowly, and seldom had his gaze strayed from the fine meal spread before him. Twyl watched while he ate, gravely concerned for whatever was gnawing at his father’s mind. Finlaria dropped his fork suddenly, and spat a chunk of meat into the fire not far from the table. Twyl stopped eating abruptly and raised an eyebrow at his father’s sudden outburst. Finlaria looked on his pupil with a grimace of disgust.

“You hunt far in the woods, farther than any elf your age would dare. Dark things lurk where you trod, and yet you walk among them as kindred. Something is not right with you, and you have closed your mind to me. Speak now and explain yourself and your actions. What have you been doing in the dark ruins?”

Twyl’s look of interest sank into a scowl. “My skills are far beyond anyone my age; they would rather play then learn to survive for themselves. I have sought out answers to the attack so long ago, when you took me from the midst of battle, and I have found out things I must keep to myself. The ruins are fraught with peril indeed, and many an elf may quail when asked to enter, however I have skills beyond even yours father. My instincts and prowess …” Twyl stopped and thought for a moment before continuing. “They are beyond mere elven traits. The answers I have found point to another source, one that you would not choose to believe even if told.”

Finlaria looked hard at Twyl, and noticed now what he had been missing since that first night when he clutched the boy to his breast and called him son. Twyl’s eyes were dark hazel, and as he looked upon them, he noticed how different they were from his own. His hair had always been a telling feature, and now the twin locks of sable fell around his head, framing his face as a dark cloak. His facial features were odd as well, darker than normal skin, a square-like jaw-line, and deep-set sockets. Twyl was by far the strangest looking elf Finlaria had ever seen. He pondered for a moment why he did not realize the differences before. Perhaps his love for his long-lost wife had clouded his mind to the oddity the boy represented.

“You speak in circles and riddles. Perhaps I was hasty in my accusations, but I fear for what you will find there, or that you will fail to return. It is true you have learned much, perhaps more than I have taught you even, but that does not mean you would be safe in such a place. I have seen you walk there, and return unharmed, yet I doubt that you found nothing, or killed all you happened upon. Obviously you have learned something that I do not know, but perhaps you would tell me if only for reflection’s sake?” With this Finlaria extended his right hand over the table, beckoning his son to answer is question.

“You are my adoptive father, and for that I hold no ill-will towards you. You have been a good father, and I have learned much that will serve me well later in life. You must understand however that I am not a true elf.” With this he peered hard at his father, expecting a sudden response of shock. He was disappointed however by a level gaze. “My father and mother were united in the forest, not long after your wife was taken from this place. I know not if she gave herself to him, or if he gained her favor by trickery, but it cannot be any other way. I have learned that Gythaem is indeed my father, and… your wife, my mother.”

Finlaria paled considerably and jerked back in his seat. His eyes gaped widely as the horror of the truth washed over him in a horrible wave. Somehow he had known deep inside himself that it must be true, but he had hidden from that awful consideration. Pride and honor, as well as love had blinded him from seeing the truth. Now it sat before him, watching him intently. His need for escape suddenly gripped him, and he bolted from his seat, knocking the chair to the floor. He turned back once as he reached the door, gazed at his son, who had stood now and was making his way towards the aged elf. Finlaria grabbed the door, flung it open and ran madly off into the night, passing out the western gates, and disappearing into the forest.

Twyl hurried after his adoptive father, but stopped when he reached the gates. The elf could scarcely be seen leaving the shadowy path from the gates, and rushing off into the deepening darkness of the southern forest. It would be the last time any living elf saw Finlaria, but Twyl shed no tears. His heart grew cold as something long forgotten gripped him. He turned from the gates, and made his way back into the city and to his father’s house.

Knowing that the guards had seen Finlaria leave, he doubted anyone would ask about his disappearance. He gathered some belongings, and packed them together. He prepared to leave the city, perhaps for good. He felt now the sense of repression, the long stares and silent whispers that had haunted him since he was old enough to remember. The elves had never treated him the same, and a growing distrust in everything took hold of the ranger. He sat before the fire, and thought hard about the truths he had come to know. He swore that he would only live for himself now, seeing the abandonment that happened when his feelings and true thoughts emerged. He sank farther into his cold world, far from the warm hearts elves are known for, and there he lingered. Wicked things entered his mind, terrible thoughts and demonic dreams wracked him as he meditated in front of the fire. The trauma overtook him completely, and he gave up the fight, collapsing entirely.

He awoke with a new sense of integrity, and a longing for the solace of the woods. Cities and people were not his friends, and for now he felt more at home in the shadows of the trees than the sunlit cobbled streets of his longtime home. He arose, and gathered up his pack, slinging it over a shoulder and crossing himself of the burden of living a static existence in a stone prison. He left quickly for the eastern side of the city, and upon entering a small glade, came upon the last obstacle to the completion of his adolescence, the elfgate. He steadied himself and prepared to pass through the magical gate, but abruptly fell short as his mind attacked him once again. He panicked for a moment, considering the blood which ran through his veins. Could it be the elfgate would prevent him from leaving this place of hatred and contempt?

Twyl furrowed his brow and shouted, ‘Fare thee well denizens of stone, the forests hold me now and forever.’

He stepped boldly into the elfgate, and his vision faded to a blur. Thus was the ranger set free upon the world of Toril, and he immediately took to the shadows of a nearby forest, and began his nomadic life of solace and discontent.

Twyl Twinshadow – Black-hearted Forrestal

[draccus]

Damn.

What a fine story - I read it twice.

Thanks

[Gort]

Excellent writing Twyl, very well done!


Toplack

[Tasan]

A lot of people have asked me about my title recently or commented on it, so bumping this.

Twinshadow

[Sundara]

wow Twyl, fantastic writing!! thumbs up! :D