[COMBAT ENCOUNTER RESULTS: ELF WARRIOR (Glenheim) VS CORGI]

OUTCOME: Stalemate

[Core Skill increases]

Tailcopter: LVL I -> 2

Duration increased: 40 -> 45 secs

Doggie Dash: LVL 2 -> 3

*ABILITY MORPH AVAILABLE

BLADE ART LEARNED: Glittering Thrust

CURRENT WEAPON ART SLOTS FILLED: 2/3

Yeah, that all sounds great, except for the fact that I can’t do much with any of that right now.

In fact, when the booming voice echoes through the shroom-village again, I’m almost sure that its coming from inside my head, this time.

I catch Swiftrunner’s eyes and know he feels the same way. His tail is tucked between his legs, ears bent down, teeth chittering with subconscious fear.

The Elf women though – they aren’t phased in the slightest. The seem almost serene, in a way, and all turn towards the open door of the shrine hut. The only building down here at the edge of the village square.

Myrathellon, the commanding voice booms again. Cease this pointless combat. Bring the hound and his companion to me.

I lock eyes with my naked duelist as someone runs up behind her, panting with weariness, and throws a shawl round her.

“Oh, oh Sis!” the new arrival yells. “I tried to tell you the Lightborn was innocent!”

Myrathellon turns round to see her buxom sister behind her, rubbing her back as though to try and coax a sense of peace into her bones.

As I live and breathe, the warring Elf girl breathes a heavy sigh and seems to actually calm down, accepting the shawl and covering her lithe body with her free hand.

And as I edge forward, about to open my mouth and ask my usual question (WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING, HERE?!) she opens her eye and points an authoritative finger at me:

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“You,” she says. "Come with me. Bring your wolfen friend. Mistress Palka demands your presence.”

I huff, still feeling the discharge of electricity running up my paws from the explosion of light as our attacks met eachother. How I knew to do that is anyone’s guess…like most things about me now, I suppose.

“Hold on,” I say as the crowd makes way for me to follow this Elf – this Myrathellon – towards the shrine. “Look, I need some questions answered here.”

“Quite so,” Swiftrunner chimes in beside me. ‘I was given assurances that there would be no harming the me or the Lightborn from your Sisters. Even with this misunderstanding, you must admit you went too-“

A sharp turn of the Elf warrior’s head silences Swiftrunner just as quickly as he’d began.

“I gave you no such assurances,” she says. “And as a vaulted member of the Glenmaiden guard, the safety of this grove falls to me. I will decide how best to execute my lady’s will. Not some jumped up outsider who calls himself Lightborn.”

“Sis…” the buxom blonde sister whispers. “You saw him. You saw him match your move like a mirror. If he’s not it…”

“Urthemia,” Myrathellon replies. “You know what it means if he is the one.”

She says this with her characteristic sternness. But there is also a degree of care in her voice. It was almost like, looking at her sister, she was a totally different person.

“At least tell me where we are,” I ask, taking advantage of the lapse in her fury and pointing my nose at the mossy huts, barely clothed elven ladies, and shuddering, living walls of the mushroom stalk all around us.

“Hmpf,” she snarls. “The big oaf didn’t even tell you that, did he?”

I blink before I realize she’s talking about Aethel, and with downcast eyes I share a look of shame with Swiftrunner.

“So it wasn’t all a bad dream,” I say to him. “He really did give himself up…for us.”

Swiftrunner places a firm paw on my back. “He did, Little-Brother. He was the bravest human I have ever known.”

The elves watch us in silence, cowed, it seems, by our candid display of sorrow. At Myrathellon’s curt request they begin to scatter, gossiping as they slink away back to their homes or their cleaning by the waterfall.

“Mistress Palka,” Myrathellon continues after a strange cough. “She will see to your questions. She has been the guardian of this grove since first it spouted up from nothing and gave our people a home. If you truly are the Lightborn, you’d do well to heed her council.”

I look up at her, cocking my eyes at the way she almost spat the word ‘Lightborn’.

Here I was thinking everyone who wasn’t a tree loved me.

“Palka…” I murmur.

Why does that name sound so familiar?

I shake the thought from my head and nod to Swiftrunner.

“Look – eh – Myraletft – Myralofan? I’m all good with learning about this place and all, but we’re actually in kind of a hur-“

“We know where you are going,” she snaps back. “Hopefully the Mistress can speed you on your way. We don’t need a Lightborn here. Glenheim has always done fine without one. And it will continue to do so until the end of time.”

She stalks off towards the shrine without even looking back to see that we’re following her.

“What do you think?” I ask Swifty.

He shrugs. “I will say that the elven women have been more than hospitable up to this point. But I have heard murmurs amongst them that some do not truly believe that the Lightborn has come back to them as – well – as you are.”

“Can’t blame them,” I say, scratching at the buzzing that still rings in my left ear. “I’m still having trouble believing it.”

“If Aethel sent us here,” Swiftrunner continues. “Then he must have done so for a reason. He must believe that this is a place that can help us. Perhaps this Mistress Palka knows how to get to Glumgavel from here? Or, maybe she holds a weapon that can only be used by you against the Darkseed’s minions?”

I look at the back of the departing elf warrior and heave a heavy sigh as I start to trot after her.

“If she’s anything like her top soldier”, I say. “Then I’ve got bigger problems than the Darkseed to worry about.”