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The sun rose from the clouds the color of blood; it always did in these lands. Misty fog hovered over dew-soaked pasture, insects crawled to gather what food was available before the day was spent and the hours of chilling night were returned. These lands were savage; a rotting corpse hidden in the long undergrowth, likely to never be discovered save by the maggots. The worst of these lands though was to be found further north; a land where surviving each day was a blessing in itself. It was from this direction that a lone moon elf had journeyed. The elf looked to be one of many years; well, many years to a human, to the elven race he is was only young. His skin was a very pale white and his hair even paler, almost ice white under the glint of the reddening sun, each characteristic of a moon elf. Around his muscled body he wore a suit of faded leather armour, studded all over for extra protection. In his hands he carried a fine, elven-crafted crossbow, ready loaded with a thick iron bolt. The elf moved across the plain with a confident stride, his cautious eyes fixed on the path ahead of him, not turning to look back at the lands he was leaving. Alert and ready the elf, known only as Mūriir (Moo-r-err), moved further south, eventually arriving at the outskirts of a forest. His eyes roved from the canopy of rushes and leaves to the ground of undergrowth and nettles. The forest looked dark and bleak inside the outer trees. Perfect he thought, slipping past the trees and moving deeper into the forest. Dodging from tree to tree with the skill of a hunter, the elf Mūriir moved with the ease of stealth, going deeper and deeper into the forest, and making the light of the early morning more and more distant. His senses were sharp and he picked up even the slightest sound of movement. This sound, he realized, was a little louder than the movements of the insects on the forest floor, and quieter than the sound of a fully-grown humanoid. What exactly made the noise he could not be sure, and his motto better safe than sorry came into play. Mūriir stood still, listening for further sounds. Moments later, he heard it again; a soft rustling of bushes, closer to him this time than the last. Taking no chances, the brisk elf darted into the shadows, making no sound on the leaves that littered the floor, as he was so accustomed to doing. Shrinking back into the shadows, letting them wash over him, hiding him in the darkness, the moon elf stood, his crossbow pressed flat against his chest, his eyes scanning the forest around him. Only too late did Mūriir notice the shadow he was hiding in was rising up over him, staring down on him with a featureless face of shadow, long stretching fingers of shade extending around him. The shadow fell over the elf like a tidal wave, blanketing him between its confines of darkness and the cold, leaf-strewn forest floor. As the red sun reached its highest point that day, screams of anguish and pain echoed endlessly across the Lurkwood, followed shortly after by a laugh; a soft but chilling cackle of pure delight coming from the lips of a lone moon elf. |