The Dark Elf

The town was silent and calm. A woman stood out from before the path that led to the forest and the vast east. She stood with a forward lean, unmoving, yet ready to pounce. Her hand gripped the hilt of her large blade, as if preparing to attack. There was nothing, and she was sure of it after a while when no sound emanated from the woods that wasn’t a bird or the rustling of leaves.

Her muscles relaxed, and she stood straight. Moving to head back into the town, she paused to notice a man on the ground. He sat up, but the red pouring from his left arm told everything. He was a farmer, judging by his loose-fitting clothes made for utility and smeared with dirt. The man was not built to fight, but to work, yet held himself together with gritted teeth as he seethed to take the pain.

As she approached, the Elven woman made herself smaller, kneeling before the wounded man, placing her greatsword flat on the ground. Her sharp-angled eyes surveyed the wound to his forearm, where punctures lined his flesh. The man noticed her, amazed at her intimidating figure and cold stare, but didn’t pull away.

Both he and the other defenders watched as this wild woman scooped up a handful of dirt and a few blades of grass. She readied a wad of saliva and spat it onto the dirt before mixing the combinations into a paste. The men watched in confusion and awe once she placed the mixture on their older comrade’s wounds. He sucked in air sharply, his tolerance to pain showing in his willingness to endure.

The woman concentrated on the muscular arm that lay between her hands, a limb built for labor. Within seconds, a glow began to illuminate around the wounded man’s limb, and his breathing softened. A minute passed before the light faded, long enough for the human archer to have recovered himself and made his way to the front of town, where others gathered.

The young man watched as the wound was nearly nonexistent, save for some slight scarring. The makeshift solvent still layered most of his forearm, as he almost began wiping it away.

“No.” The woman stopped him, her northern accent heavy in her throat. “Keep it on there for an hour if you want those scars to fade.”

The older man nodded slowly; his face hadn’t yet moved from being awestruck. He stood on his own two feet, his neighbors surrounding him in equal awe and concern.

“Rigel, how do you feel?” One of them asked, eyeing the mud-slicked arm.

“I guess I’m fine.” Rigel ran his fingers through his slight grey hair, needing to grasp something other than his hand. “A bit tingly, but the pain is gone!”

“Good thing, too. Yer old lady would have torn you up more than the damn wolves!” Another farmer laughed.

The group shared a laugh and pats on the back. The archer watched as the Elven woman took in the camaraderie. He caught a slight twitch in the corner of her lips, but kept a stoic layer on her face.

“You must be an Elven Druid?” Rigel turned back to the woman, finally getting a good look at her. “You don’t really look it.”He noted her rough, natural garb.

“She doesn’t look as fancy as those from the city.” Another pointed out.

“Wait, those marks. Shouldn’t they be glowing?”

The archer took note of the darkened body markings that appeared like shadows at her collarbone and down a bit towards her exposed cleavage. From what he had heard, the Elves usually possessed glowing markings. If not, it only meant one thing.

“S-she must be a Dark Elf!”

The voice that spoke amongst them trembled. Within seconds, the others spoke among themselves, their joyful praise turning to hushed whispers.

The woman listened to the words, appearing unfazed. Yet, the young archer’s eyes caught her fist clenching for just a moment before opening, releasing her anger into nothing. This moment was the reality that closed her heart.