The elven prince excitedly met everyone’s questioning gazes one-by-one, even peering at Lawk (despite the blindfold) and Revlis (for good measure). Enough silence to nearly elicit awkwardness passed, before the pointy-eared fellow’s shoulders slumped beneath his pristinely groomed and neatly tied back, long, dark (almost black) green hair.
“Ahhh,” he let the air out of his lungs in exasperation, “I suppose you wouldn’t know, being that you are not of our people.” Meras sighed, deflating enough to regain his typical composure.
He was met by flat looks, a raised eyebrow or two, and a blindfolded visage that seemed to peer into him regardless of the lack of direct eye contact.
“Oh, I don’t either,” he added in answer to the stares, “but there is a prophecy - or more like a promise of sorts - passed down through the ages among my people, if you believe in that sort of thing. Supposedly, a being possessing a power that surpassed even that of the primordials (if the existence of one such as this is to be accepted as possible) once promised that the appearance of a bonded graytwolf would signify the transition into a new era, and its master would be the harbinger of change for better or for worse. There was also something in there about glowing eyes of moonlight silver before which even the soul of the cosmos itself would one day lay bare. But, the promise was passed down by oral tradition for millenia, so there is suspicion of gradual embellishment over the ages.”
Everyone but Meras turned to look at Lawk, who was by now supremely focused on the elven prince’s words. And, for the briefest of moments, infused with an immense will to wholly grasp this new acquaintance’s every word, to comprehend another a piece of himself, he instinctively focused the full might of his being, subconsciously releasing his aura with an intensity the likes of which he had yet to muster, before he almost instantaneously locked it down again. It began and ended so quickly that if those present hadn’t known better, they would have believed it to be imagined.
***
Several leagues away, in the heart of the kingdom of the wood elves, lay the Royal Arboretum, an ever-growing and ever-changing palatial structure woven purely of enormous, living graytwood trees, which served as the home and seat of power of the Rirenkil’s, Anchora’s wood elven royal family. It was deep within this living castle, that a simple, yet elegant and smooth, one-piece recurve bow made of a unique gray metal, string and all, began to glow a moonlight silver, where it hung directly above and behind the throne of Kestris Rirenkil, Meras’ father and reigning king of the Elves of Graytwood.
A silence fell upon the throne room, and the council of elders began a new topic of discussion, and a summons was sent to Prince Meras.
***
“But, we elves have the sharpest sight of the primary races, a gift supposedly diluted from the original majesty of that of our ancestors, and our unique abilities have nev-” he stopped abruptly feeling the weight of an aura heavier than anything he had ever sensed before, crash down upon the area only to disappear just as instantaneously, as if it were never there. It was as if the weight of the heavens had descended quick as lightning and vanished again without damaging a single leaf or blade of grass, only to disappear without so much as a hint of its prior presence remaining.
“Did anyone else feel that?” he questioned hesitantly into the silence that had fallen upon the group, as he turned to see everyone looking directly at Lawk, who in turn looked to John and received a nod in affirmation.
The young warrior reached up and removed his blindfold to show eyes burning fiercely in a moonlight silver.
“Ungodly. Fecal. Stench. The promise is real.” The elf barely whispered. He was dumbstruck, until Matt’s boisterous laughter broke the tension.
“HAHAHAAAAH! Meras, shame on you, using such fouuuulll language like that in front of the young ones, including two royal ladies, no less. How unbecoming of a prince. Tsk tsk tsk.” The sailor shook his head in mock disappointment. And, just like that the tense mood softened somewhat.
Lana chimed in, “Wait, this guy is an elf?!” She jabbed a thumb in Meras’ direction, looking at the others before turning to the shaken prince. “Lead with that next time, my guy. I’ve known Lawk my whole life, but I’ve never met an elf before, and if I’m understanding correctly you’re Meras Rirenkil, crown prince of the wood elves of Graytwood Forest?” The young princess nodded sagely before walking closer to inspect his ears and hair. “Yup, those are some beautifully pointed ears, and the hair color with eyes to match are in agreement with your purported description. Though, I thought you’d be more, I dunno, regal. Hmm…Oh well.” She shrugged, acting fully in accordance with her reputation as the Poltergeist Princess, maybe lacking a bit of the princess aspect of it though.
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John finally stepped in to aid his old friend, burying a smile and throwing a stern look Lana’s way, “In his defense, this is likely the first time he’s lost his composure or uttered anything even obscene-adjacent since his early days at the Anchor.”
Noticing Lawk was gazing out into the distance, still focused on something, the ranger added, “What is it, Son?”
Not turning to look his way, the young warrior replied, “It calls to me, another weapon…a bow.”
“Show Meras your knife and sword.” John instructed, before turning to his pointy eared friend. “Have you seen another weapon made from this type of metal?”
The elf reached out for the blades one at a time and inspected them almost reverently, before handing them back to Lawk, who sheathed them once more.
“He is correct in that there is a bow. I was always fascinated with it as a child and dreamt for many years of one day wielding it as my own. It hangs behind my father’s throne, where it has sat for many an age. And, below it lies an inscription in Archaic that was long ago translated to Anchoran, before the key to the old language was lost. Each new king is tested with it on the day of his coronation, because of this inscription, which is etched into a placard of the same material as the bow, the same metal as your weapons.” He gestured at Lawk’s blades. Gazing off into the distance in recollection, the elf spoke the words of the inscription.
“The opthen to truly master this bow will raise the elven race to heights never before seen. Do not permit pride to turn them into an enemy, for within their realms of potential also lies calamity.”
Meras paused contemplatively before adding, “The phrasing is somewhat confusing, since we do not know what the word “opthen” was meant to translate into. Our more scholarly elders believe it was an old word for “king” or “powerful one”, but no one can say for sure. It is generally assumed, however, that it will be one of our own kings who eventually wields the bow and elevates our people to new heights, but I have always thought that this interpretation did not necessarily fit properly. If it is to be one of our own kings that wields the bow, why would our pride turn him into an enemy, unless it is perhaps an elf from another kingdom who is meant to raise the race up as a whole? But, even still, we do not bear any ill will to the elves of the Anchoran Peaks, a healthy rivalry perhaps, but nothing insidious. And, there are no other elven settlements in Anchora to my knowledge. But, I digress.”
Meras paused to observe his friends, old and new. For a moment, he thought he felt and saw the barest shimmer of an aura surround them all, before it disappeared from his senses entirely, and the quietest among them spoke.
“I am an opthen.” The elf’s breath caught in his throat. “This steel is opthenium.” And, in the next several hours the elf was brought up to speed on Lawk’s history, his purpose for attending the Anchor, and all the important events and occurrences the group had experienced or been made aware of thus far.
***
A short while later, as the ship was once again underway, Lariatta approached Meras, who was seated on the foredeck in silent contemplation.
“Am I interrupting?”
“I believe an interruption would be welcome right about now.”
“Is it true, Prince Meras, that you are single-handedly responsible for the re-emergence of a largely lost and forgotten branch of magecraft?”
“I wondered if or when you might broach that particular subject. John and Matt mentioned you are quite the talented mage yourself.”
Noticing he had neither confirmed nor denied the rumor, Lariatta waited patiently.
“It is,” the elf eventually admitted. And, seeing the sparkle in the Lartiso princess’s eyes that he’d seen many times in his own reflection, he added, “Motion magecraft is not quite what the name implies, at least not as far as I have managed to wield it thus far. The general name seems to imply that it has to do with all motion, but I have only managed to utilize it to control my own motion. I have at most been able to extend it to small objects and weapons held in my grasp. It would appear the motion of others and objects outside my direct physical control are yet unaffected. Though, I still hope to discover the secret to manipulating all motion around me to some degree.”
Hesitantly, but with a spark of eagerness in her eyes, Lariatta asked, “Would you teach me?”
And, with a simple yet earnest question the journey of another young prodigy into the field of motion magecraft began. And, what a journey it would be…