It had been raining constantly for the past month, and, driven by hunger to hunt, I was out in it. It was dark, the heavy storm clouds further darkening the land around me. I was soaked to the bone, my cloak offering no protection, and I felt foolish for attempting to hunt on a night when all the animals were in burrows or in caves, or otherwise sheltering from the storm. Reaching into my ruckah, I pulled out a chunk of Vor tree pulp. I chewed on it for the nutrients it provided, though it was also good for cleaning my teeth. Unfortunately, it was all I had with which to nourish me. I squelched through the thick, black mud, feeling it suck at my boots. I headed for higher ground, toward the rockier hills, hoping for at least some animal dumb enough to be out in such horrible weather so that I could go home and warm myself by my fire. However, all of my stores had run bare, the food gone, and my garden had been crushed and drowned by the torrential downpour.
I spat out the remains of the Vor pulp, having gotten as much as I could from it, and scrambled up a hill, adjusting my cloak, which clung to me, peering out into the darkness, shivering, feeling miserable, and wondering if I would survive. With no food, and no trader in their right minds braving the storm, there seemed no chance for me. I had been alone ever since I was twelve years of age, ever since my father had died of injuries he received by brigands while defending our home. Once, before I had been more than three years of age, my father had been a shop keeper, selling his famed wood carvings. Then, my mother died of a blood disease, and my father turned to drink, his shop suffered, and, due to some event he would never speak of to me, he was run out of the village, and we were forced to make our home in the eastern woods, south of Gyreal Mountain, in a small cabin that he built. There, he made his new profession as a woodsman, chopping down great oaks and Gnoll, selling through traders that made their paths just south of the woods to any who desired it. Much of what he learned, he had passed on to me, including tanning hides, carving wood, and hunting or trapping the animals that lived in the woods.
I carried my bow, one of my most treasured possessions, on my shoulder. It was something my father had also passed onto me. He had told me that it had belonged to a celestial elf from Hirincith, their homeland, and he had won it from the elf in a game of chance. It was made of a very light, very durable wood that I'd never seen before, and I assumed that the tree it was made of only grew in Hirincith. All along the sides of the bow were tiny, intricate symbols of which might be elven writing, though I wasn't sure. Any arrow loosed from this bow flew true, and always seemed to find its mark. It was only about half a jug in weight, quite a bit lighter than any bow I had ever used. It must have been quite a treasure, and I always wondered why any elf, celestial or otherwise, would bet it in a game of chance.
As I ascended the hill, not far off, a bolt of lightning cracked the night and flicked a rock, sparks flying, and I ducked, startled, and, in the flash of light from the lightning, I glimpsed a figure hurrying along, wrapped in a dark cloak. I quickly grew curious, wondering what sort of activity the figure was engaged in. The figure headed into the hills, and I followed. The rain pounded down, but, whoever the figure was, it seemed largely unaffected by it, its cloak infused with a weird blue glow. Could it be enchanted? At this point, a cloak like that would be quite useful. The figure ducked around large boulders perched precariously along the ground, having been deposited by glaciers during a time, I had been told, when most of the world had been covered in thick sheets of ice. I eased around the boulders, slipping on more patches of mud as I followed the figure. Then, suddenly, it was gone. I whirled around, looking for it, but it had disappeared.
It was a lucky slip, I decided, that saved my life. Even as I almost went down, l glimpsed something silvery flipping toward me. Before I could react, it hit me, sinking into my left shoulder. I cried out and fell to the ground, scrambling backward, but before I could get far, the figure suddenly stood above me, a long spear aimed right at me. It spoke in a foreign language that I did not know, though I did only really know high and low Common, and a few choice curses in Dwarvish, thanks to a few of the traders I bartered with. I could feel blood coursing from the wound, warm fluid on cold flesh, and I felt suddenly weak.
"I meant... you no harm," I gasped, feeling the roaring pain radiating out from the wound.
"Those who mean no harm," spoke the figure in a high, whispery, matter-of-fact voice, while taking my bow away from me, "Do not hunt those whom they mean no harm."
"Wasn't... I wasn't... hunting you."
The figure considered this, and my shivers intensified as I felt impossibly cold.
Speaking harshly in what I assumed were curses in its own language, the figure moved the spear and reached out with one thin, long-fingered hand. I grabbed the hand offered, and it helped me up.
"Lean upon my shoulder, I know a place that will be safe."
I was forced to lean heavily on the figure, though it made no complaint, leading on, through a giant, cracked boulder, down a narrow path that had been carved into rock, and to the small mouth of a hidden cave. Having to duck to enter, we continued inside, and then I was told to sit, though I fell more than sat, grunting out in pain, too weak to do more than that. The figure went further into the cave, out of my line of sight, and then returned with firewood, which it dumped into a shallow impression on the cave floor that showed evidence of past fires. Soon, a fire crackled, and the cave became warmer, though I shivered as much as ever. The figure crouched before me, grasped the handle of an ornate dagger, and yanked it loose. Despite my weakness, I found a cry for this.
"We will need to treat this wound, or you will perish before morning," the figure flung the hood of its cloak back, revealing the face of a dark elf. Her skin was the normal hue of a dark elf, a dark blue-gray, and her eyes were blacker than onyx, bright and glittering with fierce intelligence. I had expected the features of the face of a dark elf to be sharper, more severe, but hers were much softer, more pleasant to behold. Her ears were slender, pointed, her silver hair long, braided with dark green ribbons, and her mouth was small, but with full, dark lips.
"Your wound?" she reminded me, "Are you a dullard?"
"Sorry... just... not what I... expected. Sharp dagger..."
"Yes, and you are fortunate to have slipped right then, or it would have been your end. Now, lie still."
She knelt next to me, helped me remove my cloak, ripped my shirt to gain access to the wound, and reached into her cloak, withdrawing a small, green pouch festooned with silver-threaded designs. She reached three fingers inside the pouch, and then spread a gritty, gray powder around the edges of the dagger wound. Within a few moments, the pain seemed to fade to a distant burning sensation. She produced a thin, sharp bone needle and some silky black thread. She threaded the needle quickly, and began stitching the edges of the wound together, working with a confidence that spoke of experience. Once the last stitch was in place, she knotted the thread, and cut the needle loose.
"You are quite skilled," I praised, my voice barely above a whisper, "I barely felt a tug."
"Mostly, it was the medicine I applied before I started," she replied, and then she opened a small jar of salve. She smeared it on and around the stitched wound, and then leaned back.
"It should heal just fine," she put her things away, back under her cloak, and then pulled out a bundle wrapped in a thin hide. She unwrapped it, revealing two small wheels of a white cheese.
She gave me one wheel, "I do not have much for food, but you are welcome to it."
I used a small knife to cut into the cheese, to find that it had been covered in a thin layer of wax. The cheese underneath the wax layer was a little more reddish. I cut the wheel in half. If this was all she had, just those two wheels of cheese, I could not deprive her of all of it, in the event that she might need it for herself. So I gave her one half.
"This will be plenty," I explained, "All I've had is Vor pulp for the past few days, so I would not be able to eat much."
I peeled the wax from the cheese, setting it aside, and took a small bite. I was pleasantly surprised at the slightly sweet, but sharp tang of it. I spoke of my surprise.
"Our goats were fed sweet grasses, and the cheese was smoked for days after being made," she explained, "One of the elders is well known in my clan for these cheeses."
