We ride several more days under the cover of trees, trying to remain inconspicuous with limited success. We still pass other elves on the road or even see some waving from houses. Still, it’s a lot better than the atmosphere on the first day, and over time I feel more normal again.

The trees finally start thinning I get a good view of the mountains awaiting us. They are mammoth in height. Like the Rockies on Earth, or at least how I envision them (since I’ve never actually been there). And I see the snow on the peaks. It’s a beautiful view.

Eeyore sighs. “Snow. Even in the spring. I should have known. My dad always said I was too optimistic.”

Another day’s ride and we approach the elven checkpoint, the last outpost of elven civilization before we start our ascent. The guards here look very different from those in the palace, and even dissimilar to those at the opposite checkpoint at the grasslands. These elves have hard features, are unsmiling, and don’t even bow as we approach. It’s the perfect antidote to my celebrity at least.

“Halt,” says a guard. “Who goes there?”

Myran gawks at me and turns back to the elves. “Who goes there? Have you been living under a rock?” He gestures to me. “This is Sir Ethan Gambrils, hero of Astria and the Elder Wood.”

The lead guard comes over to me. His eyes are cool, evaluating. “Yes, I’ve heard of the battle in old wood. But how do we know it’s you? Have you any identification?”

Myran stomps toward the guard. “Identification? Why don’t you provide identification? Who do you think you are questioning us like this?”

The guard turns to Myran, his voice is frosty. “I am the officer at this checkpoint and it is my prerogative who I question.”

Myran takes a step forward and seems in no mood to back down before some random elven officer, but Cyrus puts his hand on my companion’s shoulder. “If you’ll allow me.”

Myran pauses, and looks from the guard to Cyrus. “Be my guest.”

Cyrus addresses the guard. “I can vouch for Ethan. I was at the wood and saw him defeat the dryad. You have my word as a cleric.”

The guard steps back and bows. “A cleric? My apologies, Vicar. I did not recognize you without your vestments.”

Myran and I look at each other. It’s unusual for an ef to show so much deference to a cleric.

“Of course your word is good enough for me, Vicar. You may pass. And may the Maker mark your map.”

“Thank you,” says Cyrus and starts forward again.

“Just a minute,” Myran says, his eyes still on the guard. “I’m not done here yet.”

The guard’s eyes return to Myran and his deference vanishes. “I’ve given you a pass. I don’t see what else there is to discuss.”

“Oh I think there is,” Myran retorts. “Because this checkpoint isn’t supposed to be about keeping elves in the wood. Regardless of who we are, we should be offered easy passage, not interrogated like we are some sort of potential adversary.”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your concern,” the guard counters. “I’m in charge here, not you.”

“Not my concern?” Myran bellows.

He is clearly not used to being treated in this fashion. Maybe all that time at court has made him a little soft or something. I’m still not quite sure why he’s so outraged by the elf’s questions. I mean maybe they are prying too much but the whole thing seems rather harmless to me.

“Myran,” I suggest. “Maybe we should just move along for now and –”

Myran looks at me and holds-up a hand. “One moment, Ethan. Please.”

I shrug. “Ok.”

“Actually,” Myran says. “Would you mind getting the diplomatic papers from the donkey?”

“The diplomatic papers?”

“Yes, the ones Lord Erriam gave us.”

Now I remember. Erriam gave us a letter testifying to my identity and my mission. It was also signed by King Leo and served as further evidence should the goblins not believe me.

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Which, to be fair, seems rather likely to me. I’m not sure I would believe me.

The donkey is flanked by two elves who have taken-up positions at the rear of our small company. I give each one a nod and rustle as I rustle through a pack.

“Excuse me sir,” a guard whispers to me.

I stop rustling. “Yes?”

“Did I hear correctly? You’re going to the court of the goblins?”

“That’s the plan.”

The elf leans in closer. He looks to his compatriot who nods his head. “Would you mind delivering a letter for me?”

“A letter?”

“Shhh.” the elf says urgently. “Not so loud please.”

This is the strangest damn checkpoint….

“There is a goblin there, a handmaiden of the princess named Bhess. Can you give it to her?”

And I suddenly realize what this is: a sidequest. I’ve traveled through a portal to a whole other world and am enjoined on a mission to rescue thousands from a tyrannical sorceress, but this elf expects me to pause all that in order to take a part-time gig as a postman.

I got so sick of these things in-game and they seem to have followed me here.

Not again. The line must be drawn here. This far. No further.

“I’m sorry, but I really don’t have the time for this. Can’t you just give to a traveling merchant or something?”

The elf’s hands shake. “There are no merchants anymore. No one comes down from the mountains. Not goblin. Not human. Not elf. No one.”

I pause. “What do you mean?”

“Hey,” Myran calls out to me. “You found it yet?”

I turn to Myran. “Just a minute.”

I look back to the guard. “What do you mean no one comes? The goblins have closed their borders?”

The guard grits his teeth, clearly trying to control himself. “The goblins have no borders. No checkpoints. Please, in the name of the Maker, take the letter.”

In the name of the Maker even? This elf must be really desperate.

Perhaps the line will not be drawn here after all. I grasp the paper and stuff it into the sack.

The guard relaxes. “Thank you. I’m sorry. I just – please, don’t report this.”

Report it to who? Like I’m gonna tattle to an elven general?

“Sure. No worries.”

The guard bows his head. “Thank you.”

“Hey Ethan,” Myran calls.

“I’m coming,” I snap back.

I bring the letter back to Myran and he shoves it at the guard. “There’s your proof. Should I tell Lord Erriam you demanded to see it?”

The elf scowls. “I’m just trying to do my job.”

“Your job? Your job is to make sure nothing dangerous gets into these words, not to prevent law-abiding elves from getting out.”

“Yes,” the guard snaps. “But not all elves are law-abiding are they? Many have been banished in the past.” He gestures down the path before us. “Sent out to those peaks so that we don’t have to deal with them. Maybe we should be more considerate of our neighbors.”

“Maybe you should be more considerate of your orders,” Myran responds.

This is going nowhere.

I tap Myran on the shoulder and pull him away.

“Let it go,” I say seriously. “We don’t need to get bogged down in a debate with some random elven officer.”

Myran put his hands on his hips and sighs. “Yeah, I know. You’re probably right. It’s just, well, there’s something not right about this. These elves are not acting like elves. And it grates on me.”

I smile. “Did you always ‘act like an elf’? Can’t a rebel appreciate his own kind?”

Myran creases his lips, looks to the guard, and then back at me. “Alright. Fine. You’re probably right.”

Myran walks off to his own horse.

I approach the guard leader. “We’ll be going now. See you on the way back. Hopefully.”

He nods. “Take care, Sir Ethan. I will say a prayer for you.” He pauses and looks at the clouds gathering above. “I fear you may need it.”

“May the Maker mark your map,” I reply and return to my horse.

“Are we ready to go?” asks Cyrus.

“Yes,” I reply. “Everything’s taken care of.”

“I liked those elves,” says Cyrus thoughtfully.

“Yes, you would,” Myran chimes in. “Was it all the clerical deference? I know how you men of the cloth love your accolades.”

The cleric strokes his chin. “Hmm. I believe all men love accolades. Cleric or no. And that is often a problem.”

“Maker spare us from anymore of your wisdom then,” Myran kicks his horse and trots forward.

Cyrus looks at me.

“He didn’t like the elves,” I say. “He said they acted strange.”

“I agree,” Cyrus says. “They acted as elves used to act, before the War of the Magi.”

I sigh. “Well, I’m sure I wouldn’t know either way. Let’s just get a move on shall we?”

Cyrus grins at me. “‘Getting a move on, sir Ethan.”

“Oh don’t give me that exaggerated formality, Cyrus. I’m just trying to make as much progress as we can before dark.”

“And before it starts to rain,” Eeyore adds to me.