As Lassim dangled helplessly from the tree for nearly three hours now, the shadowy pursuers erged from the gloom, revealing themselves at last.
Lassim’s body trembled slightly at their appearances.
They were a haunting vision of beauty and yet filled with nace. They were ethereal beings with pale reflective skin with elongated, pointed ears that arced dramatically past their heads, like the fletching of an arrow aid skyward.
The moonlight played across their pallid skin, highlighting the labyrinthine, inky markings that adorned their visages, resembling the delicate, intertwined roots of an ancient tree. Their cheek bones slightly protruded outwards sharply, giving an elegant beauty to them, but also making their faces more intimidating.
Their eyes glead with a spectral light, devoid of warmth yet full of an enigmatic intelligence.
Lassim, able to have a better look at them, realized that these were no ordinary elves of woodland stories helping fae children and protecting their World Tree.
No… These were an entirely different race and they radiated a bloodlust and hunger that reeked from their eyes that bore into every ounce of his flesh.
They seed like a nightmare had had children with the elves from the pictures books he read as a child. Their slender, lithe bodies moved with a grace atop the snow that made their steps fully silent.
A chill went up Lassim’s nearly frozen spine when one gave a toothy smile, showing a full mouth of jagged, razor sharp teeth.
That’s when Lassim heard them begin to speak.
In a lilting, lodic language, each syllable imbued with an eerie power that seed to resonate with the atmosphere of the surrounding wilderness. "[Sillan eth! Nar quessir as lle quena?]" their voices echoed, a mixture of curiosity and threat woven into the fabric of their speech as they asked, "Why does the mortal walk here?"
The elves lowered his body for them to begin prodding at Lassim’s suspended form with curious, yet unnervingly sharp fingers. Their touch was as cold as the surrounding snow.
One of the females, her features sharp and markings more regal, leaned in close to Lassim’s face, grabbing his head by the roots of his hair to better examine it. Her white hair cascading over her shoulders like a waterfall of moonbeams.
Her breath was a frigid caress against his face as she murmured, "[Elen sila lunn ontilmo]," a phrase suggesting that, "A star shined upon the hour of their eting," though the star seed dulled by the foreboding tone of her voice.
Another elf, this one male, with eyes as pale and white as the snow below, gestured gracefully towards Lassim’s possessions, a conversation stirring among them regarding the artifacts in his possession. "[Manke naa lle sino, firimar? Tuula sino!]" he commanded, demanding to know why Lassim was there and ordering him to be stripped of his items.
With a swift motion, the male lowered Lassim from his precarious hanging place, laying him prone upon the frosty ground.
They untied his ankles only to bind his hands tightly behind his back, ensuring his inability to wield the elents or attempt another escape. Their movents were swift and practiced, each binding rune etched into the rope glowing faintly, negating any chance of him gathering mana more and tapping into his battle arts.
As they bound him, they inspected his attire with a mix of fascination and disdain. The fibers of his clothing, the cut of his garnts—all were foreign and intriguing to these otherworldly jailers.
They murmured among themselves, their language indecipherable to Lassim, discussing the origin and potential uses of the fabric that made up his winter cloak.
One of the creatures, adorned with a crown of twisted branches and a cloak that seed woven from the cloudy night sky, raised a hand to silence the others. "[Lle naa vanima, uuma ma’ ten’ rashwe, ta tuluva a’ lle]," he said, his voice a haunting lody that suggested the dangers of having a mortal here, conveying perhaps they should just eat Lassim.
Tied up, now laying on his side on the frozen earth, Lassim shivered. Not only from the cold but from the realization that these beings saw him as little more than an anomaly to be toyed with, or worse… food.
He could not understand their words, but the intent was clear—they viewed him with a chilling predatory interest and hunger. Whatever the last creature just said, he recognized the drool dripping from a few of their mouths.
His mind raced, thoughts of escape and survival intertwining with an overwhelming sense of his own vulnerability.
’Mari, Zaphy,’ he whispered inwardly, seeking the solace of his spiritual companions in his isolation. ’Can you make sense of their language? What are they saying?’
Mari’s essence stirred within him, her voice a calming balm in the face of his fears. "I do not know their words, but fear not, the gods sent us here so they may yet be our salvation."
Zaphy’s voice weakly sounded. "Sorry brother… I’m so tired. I don’t know."
As he lay in the snow, the elves continued to encircle him, their ethereal beauty a stark contrast to the cruelty in their eyes and sizing up of the at on his limbs, grabbing and touching various parts of him.
With each passing mont, Lassim realized that his escape from the cliff had led him to a far more complex and dangerous predicant. The bitter cold of his surroundings was now secondary to the nefarious reality of his captivity at the hands of these wild intelligent creatures.
The eerie stillness of the shadow-drenched forest was a stark backdrop to the wildling’s exchange that was growing more heated.
With their feral eyes and bodies closed in around Lassim, the circle of ethereal beings growled and snarled at each other as they voiced their ideas and shared in the argunt.
One male, with his ears sharpened to vicious points and eyes that glead with the prospect of violence, bared his jagged teeth in a ravenous grin. "[Ai’linna le, ilya ten’ aman fauka]," he hissed, suggesting that Lassim’s flesh would offer them sustenance through the bitterly cold night that could replace their customary hunt tonight.
The first female, the one with the feral markings and coincidentally the one bearing the least bloodthirsty pressure of them all, gathered their attention. Her face etched with the dark, swirling black markings as she stepped forward confronting her hungry male companion.
Her voice cut through the cold air, a commanding chi against the male’s guttural tones. "[Quel marth, Oiolossë. Elen sila ar’ lúnn’, tinúviel ana’ templa]," she retorted, her stance as immovable as the frozen earth as she postured ready to fight against the male. Her sharp fingers and their talon-like nails ready to slash at any mont.
Her words, if Lassim could understand, were such that the starlight had bestowed upon them an on, and she insisted that this creature of the stars, Lassim, was a gift not to be squandered by their basest instincts.
The argunt escalated, their dialect flowing like an otherworldly lody, full of emotion and quick primal ferocity.
When words failed to cent her authority in the group’s discussion, the female proved her point and power with a swift, precise kick to the male’s stomach.
Lassim’s eyes went wide as she suddenly displayed her superior command over an oddly strange corrupted version of the elent of air.
Her slender leg was wrapped and enhanced by a reddish green swirl as her foot connected with his body. It seed as though the very breeze and atmosphere around them conspired with her, augnting the force of her strike.
The male went hurtling through the air, a blur against the stark white of the landscape.
For a mont, it was as if ti slowed, the snowflakes halting in their descent to bear witness to the assertion of dominance over whatever the surrounding corruption that filled the air was.
He flew nearly twenty ters in an arc as disbelief and shock was painted across his face, before crashing into the snow.
The powdery snow erupted upon his impact, creating a geyser of white that mushrood into the air. It hung there, a cloud of particles sparkling in the intermittent moonlight, before the atmospheric pressure ended and gravity reclaid them, blanketing the groaning figure in a new layer of frost.
As he lay there, his groan, muffled by the thick blanket of snow, was a pitiful sound that echoed the reduction of his status among the pack. His dignity, along with the warmth of his body, seeped away into the hungry maw of the frozen earth.
The other elves watched, their faces impassive, yet their eyes said it all—the female had unequivocally reasserted her dominance on the pack of wildlings, and her will was a priority.
With a flick of her wrist, she gestured to the others. "[Tollo naa lost]," she commanded, and they promptly lifted Lassim from the snowy ground, his limbs weak and compliance enforced not by respect but by the draining enchantnt that bound him.
As they ushered Lassim through the forest, his thoughts were a jumble of panic.
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