> Noitelven

>

> Noun

>

> Translation: Night Elf

>

> Definition: The Noitelven, also known as the Star Elf, are a legendary race of elves from the lore of Mir-Grande-Carta, believed to have vanished many eons ago. While shrouded in the mists of time, these beings are known to share the distinctive blue blood of Menschen, signifying probably to be ancestores of the lineage. The Noitelven are characterized by their elegant beauty and the classic elven traits of slender, graceful forms and pointed ears. Their most striking features are their skin tones, ranging from dark grey/blue to deep blue, and their dark blue hair. Legends often depict Noitelven with stars embedded in their skin, a testament to their deep connection with the night sky or the very essence of the universe.

Veilla found herself as a jailbird within the confines of her very own private chambers. The chilling sensation gnawed at her without rest. It crept along her spine as she sensed Fiona's power extending its winter tendrils.

The air felt unnaturally cold. Veilla was mourning for her lost Spring, yet her thoughts relentlessly circled back to her unborn baby.

She clung to the belief that Fiona, despite her ruthlessness, wouldn't dare harm a pregnant woman, at least not under the scrutinizing gaze of the public. Yet, the audacious murder of Fiorna stood as proof of Fiona's disregard for political decorum. But there was no denying that Fiona had already won.

Restlessly, Veilla moved around the room in circles, her teeth gnawing anxiously at her hand, the other protectively cradling her swollen belly. She toyed with the desperate idea of inducing labour despite the knowledge that her baby was but seven moons along—a precarious threshold.

To compound her despair, she grappled with the profound loss of her sole confidant, her best friend, who had been her anchor in stormier times. But Yeso had turned his back on her, in his right.

So she finally screamed. In the echoing silence of her room, her voice rang out in desperation. "You said you would protect me!" But her plea met no response, save for a chilling presence that emerged from the darkness. An enormous spider, a creature of nightmarish proportions, began to crawl forth from the obscurity.

"You said you would protect me!" she repeated, her voice trembling with pain.

"You said you would protect me," the Spider echoed back, its voice a sinister hiss. It emerged slowly from the shadows, an immense figure looming ominously overhead. Its body was a grotesque masterpiece, resembling a vast, dark tapestry woven with nightmare. The glossy sheen of its carapace reflected the dim light, giving the illusion of a sinister, pulsating heart of darkness.

"You can't even talk!" she protested and then demanded, "Talk! Scheida! Fucking talk to me!"

"I talk, you don't comprehend. You betrayed me. You abused me. You don't care about me!" the Spider retorted, its words emerging in an ominous sibilance between its fangs.

"How? You are my Spirit, and I am your Master!"

As the Spider advanced, a stark revelation became apparent: it possessed only seven legs, one grotesquely absent, leaving an unsettling imbalance in its monstrous form.

This sight struck Veilla like a dagger to the heart. With a pang of guilt, she realized that she had commanded her Spirit to spy on Yeso. In her thirst for power, she had not considered the cost. Her Spirit, now manifest in this horrific form, had suffered greatly from her whims. One-hundred-two spiders were the eighth leg of her Spirit.

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean..." she stammered, words failing her. "But you punished him. We punished him."

"Because you rather sacrifice me... because you don't even trust the sun. How can you trust the shadows?" the Spider questioned.

"I am so sorry if only I could undo what has been done... but that is beyond my reach, and now I find myself utterly... alone," Veilla lamented, her voice breaking as tears began to stream down her face.

She sank onto the edge of her bed, "I have no one left, and I'm losing everything, everyone. If only I could turn back time, I would..."

"But you cannot reverse time, yet you can still move forward," the Spirit interjected.

Veilla hastily wiped away her tears and drew a deep, steadying breath, her hand instinctively cradling her belly. "How can I move forward when I am not even sure I will survive this night?" she questioned.

"You won't," came the Spider's chilling reply, its words cutting through the air like a blade of ice.

The starkness of this declaration sent a shiver through Veilla, colder than the deepest winter chill. "But what of my child? Will my baby survive?"

"You will face death, and in doing so, you will be reborn," the Spirit proclaimed cryptically.

Veilla's brow furrowed in confusion. "Reborn? How? What are you saying..."

"You will finally become the Hexe you have always envied. In this shift, you will find freedom and strength. You will be the one to bring back the sun," the Spirit continued, "And yet, you will always doom yourself to be alone."

"I don't understand..." Veilla murmured.

"You are no longer my master, for my true master is yet to be born," the Spirit declared, its words echoing with finality, "Tonight. Tonight, I forgive you as the villain of my story, and tonight, I welcome back my Master."

Veilla's mind raced, trying to grasp the full meaning of the Spirit's words. Before she could articulate her swirling thoughts, a knock at the door reverberated.

The door slammed open before Veilla could even part her lips to ask who it was. Into the dimly lit room stepped two figures in white cloaks: a man with a black mane she saw at the trial and a tall, enigmatic form cloaked in silken fabrics of myriad colours. The Spirit of the Spider, in the meantime, retreated into the comforting embrace of the shadows, leaving Veilla to face her fate alone.

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The tall figure approached her, moving with the cautious grace of one who might startle a skittish cat. As he slowly unravelled the cloth obscuring his face, a familiar visage emerged.

"Finnegan?"

The Elven King turned his gaze briefly to the white-cloaked figures, his command resonating through the room, "Seal the door!" Then, lowering himself before Veilla with gentleness, he whispered, "Fiona, she's... cleansing the house, so to speak."

"Cleansing? As in... killing?"

"Yes, well, there aren't any better words to put it. All who were from your entourage and likely your council will be next," Finnegan confessed, his eyes briefly darting away, burdened with a grim truth.

"Veilla, our time is fading away. You must choose - the child or... none of you."

"But my baby, it's only been seven moons," Veilla's voice trembled, "Too soon, too fragile."

"Yet, it is a choice more promising than the chill embrace of death," Finnegan declared, his voice tinged with an ominous finality. "Please, do not force me to partake in the end of one who carries new life within her. I can't..."

Veilla, her eyes lifting to the white-clad figures, watched as they drew back their hoods, revealing themselves not as mere elves but as priestesses. They bore necklaces crafted in the likeness of a leaf's veins, a sacred symbol denoting their revered status as servants of the Green Mother.

"What now?" Veilla asked, wrapped in a veil of dread.

"We shall administer you poison," Finnegan elucidated with deliberate slowness, "Make an incision, remove the child, and then this Magi, Redfred, will take the infant to..."

"Yeso!" Veilla interrupted fervently, "To Yeso. Take my child to Yeso."

"But Veilla, I could convey the babe to Ostesh..."

"No. Take my child to Yeso. I don't trust anyone else."

“Ostesh is safer!”

“Take my child to Yeso!”

Finnegan agreed, observing Redfred nod in understanding with this sudden plan shift. "Very well," he signalled to a priestess, then gracefully receded a step as if surrendering to the tides of their grim resolve.

The woman before Veilla was mesmerising, her skin rivalling the bright paleness of the moon, her eyes a deep, earthy green. With a grace that seemed to flow like water, she approached, placing one hand gently on Veilla's knee, the other tenderly sweeping a strand of raven hair behind her ear with a smile that was a sad goodbye.

Leaning forward, she brought her lips to Veilla's. Her tongue delicately parted the Dame's mouth, exploring with a bittersweet tenderness. A kiss that unearthed and left its taste on the tongue.

A deadly kiss.

The Priestesses of the Green Mother were renowned not only for their arresting beauty but for the lethal secret they bore - a venomous balm they used which would be stuck on their very skin. This kiss was, in its essence, an act of mercy.

Veilla, under the full-bodied spell of the poison, found her consciousness ebbing swiftly away. The world seemed to dissolve into a dreamlike haze, her eyelids growing impossibly heavy as though laden with the weight of a thousand unseen whispers. She fell back onto the pillows, slipping into a deep, unyielding sleep from which she would never be awoken.

Meanwhile, the priestesses, gently, with hands that spoke of both care and indefatigable purpose, began to undress the Fallqueen. They revealed her skin only as much as was necessary, baring her belly to the cool air of the chamber, an offering to the ancient ritual they were bound to uphold to the Green Mother.

One of the priestesses, her face an inscrutable mask of duty, drew forth a dagger of exquisite craftsmanship from her sleeve. The blade, fine and sharp, gleamed ominously under the flickering candlelight. With a precision born of Falls of practice, she placed the dagger just above Veilla's pubic hairline. Then, with a steady hand, she made a delicate, U-shaped incision.

The blade, unerring in its path, parted skin, sliced through layers of fat, and delved into the underlying muscle, its journey halting only upon reaching the sacred sanctuary of the uterus.

The second priestess leaned even closer. The room was silent. Finnegan averted his gaze, finding a little solace in the distant corners of their shadows dancing along the walls. All the while, a faint, rhythmic pulsing, as delicate and persistent as the beating of a butterfly's wings, filled the air, emanating from Veilla's lips.

With a touch that bridged the creatures and the divine, the priestess reached forth. The sound of flesh ripping under her bare hand resonated through the silence, a stark, visceral reminder of the raw power of life and birth. Time seemed to stretch and bend around this singular act, drawing out the seconds into infinity. Then, as she withdrew her hand, now marked with the evidence of their most sacred ritual, blue blood staining her hands, her expression was one of awe with solemn gravity.

"It's a girl," she whispered.

However, the wonders of that moment did not cease with the birth alone. As the newborn was poised to take her inaugural breath, a marvel unfolded unseen by the gathered witnesses.

From between Veilla's gently parted lips, a glowing butterfly seen only by spirits, bathed in an ethereal brilliance, emerged silently. With a grace that defied perception, it took flight, weaving through the air unnoticed. In a seamless, almost mystical dance, it swept into the mouth of the silent infant with the timing of her first exhalation, merging with the new life in a moment of inexplicable magic. The one unaware of elves but taught to Menschen alike.

As the priestess tenderly patted the newborn's back, a soft gesture meant to coax forth a cry, the infant remained silent. Yet, her eyes of vivid blue fluttered gently, and her chest rose and fell with each tiny breath.

Finnegan, turning his gaze away from the stark reality of Veilla's condition, focused instead on the infant. A look of wonder tinged with confusion crossed his features. "It's... she is an elf?" he queried, almost in shock.

"She is a Noitelven, Your Grace," the priestess explained, carefully wrapping the baby in a soft cloth, all the while maintaining the infant's serene quietude.

Finnegan's expression deepened with intrigue. "How? Star elves have not been seen in this realm for aeons."

Observing the baby, the priestess spoke with a tone of reverence. "She is a miracle, Your Grace. She doesn't even cry."

Pondering the significance of this extraordinary event, Finnegan finally asked, "Well... what should we name her?"

Redfred, perhaps unwittingly, murmured from his hidden corner, "Zora is a pretty name."

Finnegan, turning towards him, raised an eyebrow. "Zora?"

Redfred, seemingly unsure of his own interjection, elaborated, "I think it means the dawn. It's a nice Menschen name." His words trailed off, betraying his indifference to the naming; after all, his true mission lay elsewhere - a quest to locate Yeso, whose whereabouts he had no idea or to simply take the baby to his family at Ostesh.

After a moment's consideration, Finnegan nodded in agreement. "Zora does sound fitting," he conceded, gently cradling the baby in his arms. A tinge of regret coloured his voice as he added, "It's such a shame I can't take her with me."

The priestess, sensing his latent desire for his own offspring, offered a comforting thought. "Perhaps the child destined for you to love will be brought to your palace," she suggested softly, “Maybe the dawn will bring you the sun.”

"Perhaps," Finnegan mused, his gaze lingering on the infant. "Or perhaps I shall meet her again."

Carefully, he transferred the baby into Redfred's arms. "Now it's your turn, Magi. Take her to Yeso!"

> There are certain chapters of my childhood I'm hesitant to share, as they feel too intimate for public scrutiny. Yet, it's important to acknowledge that her story is inextricably linked with mine. The trials and tribulations, the grief, and the sense of abandonment were, in retrospect, necessary pathways leading me to her - the one person I've loved profoundly and unconditionally. She had the unique ability to expand my perceptions beyond the usual senses, and crucially, she grounded me when my own powers threatened to overwhelm. She was my steadfast anchor—always.

>

> Zora's journey didn't lead her to my father or Faewood as originally intended. She found her home in Ostesh, within the Dagurstea Household, raised by Redfred's wife and daughter. I could say much about her upbringing and education, but I prefer not to linger on this aspect of my past. The essential truth is that our paths were destined to cross, regardless of what, when or how. This was not just our shared story, it was the hex I inherited from my parents and cursed her the same. ——The Hexe - Book One by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, Special Edition, 555th Summer