Sentenced to execution alongside two low ranked guards, Lieutenant Doetrieve’s position on the log gave a wide, misty, familiar view of his settlement’s square. From where a noose of vine tightened around his neck the lieutenant observed a prison recently home. From there to his feet were elfs--many his brothers and sisters and few decorated outsiders; the sentenced killing of a military official was no small thing. And beside him loomed an executioner in dark robes and the freshly scarred Captain Locust, face mangled from glass. A carving replaced the instrument designed to end the lieutenant's life, vine taught. A handful of elfs either stood before the great log or prowled throughout the crowd. The walls of the settlement were patrolled with no break in routine, and the front gate stood firm beneath the careful gaze of sober soldiers. All held bows. None noticed the shadows emerging from thick haze.

“Corporal Stu Deertre,” announced Locust. “Corporal Rodney Smucker. Aiding a known wanted criminal. Death.”

Panels slid and down went the men gasping and struggling. The spectacle having begun, eyes fell from duty and watched the officers die. The seconds following crucial, known and rehearsed, individual specks off the wide encompassing rampart disappeared in clusters, eventually a presence wiped altogether. The shadows from the mist mounted the walls.

Long blond hair billowing, satin ribbons fluttering, monochrome gi glistening, Captain Locust gave a delighted address to the audience of elf men and elf women, elf soldiers and elf children:

“Mason Doetrieve. Treason. Death.”

The third panel sliding, Doetrieve’s eyes shut themselves off from the dozens upon him. But he did not fall. Where his feet shut have gone through, a threaded substance acted as barricade. The men beside the lieutenant also stopped struggling, and were noticeably a considerable height higher than Doetrieve, both affixed to the top of the carving with globs of white. Baffled so long, Doetrieve was among the last to notice the stout figure atop the wall joined by an assembly of shadows far larger. Sun shattering the mist, the nearly hanged lieutenant realized his savior.

“Fire! By The Ponderous, fire!” gasped Locust.

Many bows rose, but none delivered on their promises. Elfs scattered and screamed. Beard unruly, dome smeared in dirt, arms and legs covered in burst veins aplenty, the dwarf sat atop his mount still. Arrows traveled the air; one buried itself in plaster, another cracked off the tip of a merlon. A third seemed destined for the dwarf’s heart--a sudden stringed emission took it down. As more arrows loosened, so too did white. The dwarf unscathed, he could not help but gaze upon the ravaged face of the captain and smirk. As those who remained in the crowd shrieked in undeniable terror--even the black clad executioner--at such vile arachnids swarming their parapets, Locust’s vision sharpened at the sight of the dwarf, and the realization over his face informed the dwarf a truth: this elf too was afraid.

“How...” began the captain, ”How dare you use our livestock against us?”

The dwarf did not shift from his spot atop Paris.

“How dare you force the innocent to endure their sight?”

The dwarf returned a blank face. Locust continued:

“Ugly things ought not to be out from their cages and caves. Do elfs deserve to see such vile sights? Look at those hideous eyes, such black, unfeeling eyes, dwarf.” The captain strode to the edge of the log, sight locked with the dwarf, confidence returning to his voice. “It is no revelation to my people what they eat. They know what they eat. Must they see it? And you’ve made the flock filthier. No doubt you’ve brought disease upon the witless creatures. What will you do once they die one by one? Will you starve us, dwarf?”

The dwarf slid off from Paris while digging through his cowskin pouch. To the edge of the rampart the dwarf soon stood, a vial of corked purple liquid in his hand. He rose the thing into the air, guessing at whether the captain would recognize what was held. But evidently he did not or did not show it, and the dwarf restored the solution to his bag.

“Very well, dwarf. They may fall with disease, and you will cure them, is this what you argue? But it will require more than a meager vial to cure a flock, and expenses begin to add--not to mention once those you cannot save die. Well? Is your coin purse deep enough? You’ll front their health or replacement, won’t you, dwarf?”

“You’re one to talk, cappan,” spat Doetrieve. The dwarf felt only Locust and himself heard him.

“What?” asked Locust.

“You ‘ad no issue usin’ funds for yer own gain. Or was that yer purse?” added the lieutenant.

“What? What?”

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Locust drew his blade. Before the weapon could rise, an expulsion from Doetrieve’s arachnid snatched the sword out from Locust’s grip and spat it beyond the walls. Doetrieve, resolve reinforced, shouted then:

“TRAITOR!”

Locust glanced at the dwarf before returning his gaze to the man with vine tight round his neck.

“I am no mirror. Men, execute.”

Elfs clad in many colors--predominantly cool--hesitated at their arms.

“Oo-i did ‘e call y’a trait’r, sir?” came Corporal Smucker.

“I knew you more than stank of the stuff,” chided Corporal Deertre.

Locust glanced once more at the dwarf incredulously, the dwarf swearing deja vu, before returning his sharp eyes to Smucker.

“Someone put these oafs down right now and I will award commendations.”

At first silence prevailed. But before long a soldier eager to prove his worth snatched from his quiver and drew an arrow back before white silk ripped the wood from the drawn string and another glued the soldier to a rock. Silence would have resumed if not for the lieutenant:

“You killed The Ponderous One.”

If no elf heard Doetrieve when he first spoke out against the captain, his words were caught then. Elfs gasped and murmured. Locust scanned the remaining crowd with a crooked grin, wavering.

“Are you mad, Mason? Killed The Ponderous? Do you see withered life around us? Please, point it out--for all of us!”

“You killed The Ponderous.”

“I’ve done no--” started Locust.”

Doetrieve repeated himself. Locust sucked a large breath and cleared his throat. It looked very quickly as if he would continue countering his former lieutenant, but an agape mouth trailed off, staring straight ahead towards the dwarf. The dwarf, so absorbed with the unfolding events, did not pay any special attention to the chittering from behind that grew in concern. It was too late--black gloves went over the dwarf’s beard and seized him with a chokehold. Paris, along with several others of its kind, angrily paced around the sudden black robes. One did chance its payload, striking the hood of the executioner and freeing it to the wind. The dwarf, struggling, barely caught a crestfallen Doetrieve, eyebrows in disbelief. Though none moved but the skittering of spiders, the dwarf distinguished his sullen murmuring.

“Sow?”

“MELEE INCREASED TO 10”

Employing a loved technique, the dwarf jerked his head back and bludgeoned Sowsmith’s nose. Distance made, Paris seized Sow’s legs, toppling him over the inner wall and onto outside guards. The dwarf bound for the lieutenant’s arachnid and mounted himself atop it again.

“ANIMAL HUSBANDRY INCREASED TO 34”

“So,” began the captain, “I command a weak army incapable of following my command. And the elfs our guests, have you seen enough of this spectacle? Won’t you leave this pathetic place be?”

A frail figure began passing through what little crowd remained. His robe--black, gold, and purple--vanished and reappeared with every graceful movement, the sun too attire. Although an occasional step went limp, and the elf--possessing little hair left--faltered. To the dwarf, the settlement held still for these moments, spread they were. But the old elf recovered from his missteps and, eventually, finished his journey beside the log at roughly half the height of Locust.

“Things are worse here than could be imagined,” admitted the elder. “Please explain the meaning behind these events. Who is the little one? Why have you yet ordered those spiders dead? And be clear with me, Locust,” said with a cold enough look to suit his words. “Are there any grounds for the ravings of this former lieutenant? Does The Ponderous One live?”

Even the dwarf could hear the captain swallow.

“As to your second query, Lord,” started Locust.

“Answer the first.”

“Very well, Lord Moth. That is a wanted criminal. The very two men to die next to Doetrieve abetted he who you ask of.” The captain’s hair stuck to his head with sweat, but he endeavored to answer his lordship in full. “Now as to the,” said hesitating. “As to the arachnids, they are our livestock.”

“Good One. You eat them?” blurted Lord Moth.

“Yes, Lord Moth.”

“Good One.”

“There are no grounds to the, as you suggested, ravings of now anticitizen Mason Doetrieve. The Ponderous lives. May I help you in any other way, your lordship?”

“You may. Show me The Ponderous.”

At this, Locust’s elf eyes widened. Before he could protest, Doetrieve, with enthusiasm, interrupted. He warned the lord of Locust’s depravity and predicted his death if gone alone. At this, Lord Moth allowed a chuckle.

“Your tone is very certain. I suppose you would wish to be my escort. But you had better stay here and be questioned further while I--and my men--accompany Locust to His chamber. If there are grounds to what you claim, we may have need of more talk. But come. The Ponderous cannot be dead--heed your captain. Look at your flowers and trees--even these despicable fungi do not decay. No, I’m certain this shall be a short visit, unusual as it is, and I will repent for my curiosity at a later date.”

But here it was felt as the dwarf’s turn to interject, pulling from his bag an item colored in the same vein as that which Lord Moth wore. At his slow realization, the lord revealed his own unique look of horror.

“By what means does he have that package!”