Chapter 595: An Elf’s Tale, Part
A Glean is a limber, ferocious creature that at its maturity could easily dwarf even the densest of forests.
Carnivorous, and with an appetite that only grows to match its ever-swelling size, it hunts, slithering, silently, furtively, its flexible skin seamlessly adapting to the color of its environment. Spotting food, the Glean would silently unleash a toxin into the air through its many pores, paralyzing its prey before inevitably consuming it whole and alive.
Due to their almost insatiable appetite and immense size, a Glean could easily devour dozens of creatures of every shape and size within a single day and still have enough of a craving and space for even more.
For the Elves, with their keen senses, their unmatched strength, should one ever encounter the other – it was the perfect hunt.
Eshwlyn herself had taken part in numerous hunts for the beast before, rupturing its hard scales, slicing wide open its enlarged stomach, and letting loose in a gushing pool of blood, mucus, and membrane, the amassed bundle of paralyzed, fresh, meat and flesh, still live and ripe for the taking.
On her own, she knew she stood no chance against a fully-grown Glean... but younger, smaller... day after day, Eshwlyn would wander through potential hunting spots, always on the lookout for a lavish, savory reward indeed.
And in another new blossoming season of spring, her efforts and patience were then finally well-rewarded. During a venture with Lenora in hand through a muddy mangrove, she heard a familiar shrill hiss, a familiar reverberating rattle, and ahead in front of her, a small shallow puddle began to ripple.
.....
Eshwlyn sniffed the air, as did her sister beside her, and eagerly, Lenora began to drool in anticipation, affirming in a whisper what they both already knew, “Mel.”
Small... its size barely towering the trees above it, and its weight barely rippling the ground beneath it. Alone, and without the strength of numbers, Eshwlyn didn’t think to run... instead slowly folding her hands into fists and licked her lips in glee. With Lenora already backing a fairer, safer distance away, it was almost too easy.
Amidst splintered trunks, fallen branches, and scattered fissures violently etched into the damp earth, the Glean writhed and squirmed for a final time before eventually succumbing to the many mortal wounds it had sustained in an admittedly brief but fierce skirmish.
Unharmed and with both their appetites rising to new heights, Eshwlyn broke loose one of its protruding fangs and began carving a clumsy incision at its bulging abdomen.
It has been a time too long since the both of them have ever laid eyes at such a lavish amount of fresh prey before them, and now delicacies of every species were literally spurting free and coating their legs in a thick, noxious sludge of deep red – almost as if a gift from the Divines themselves, a blessing.
“Lincastru terevlan ui kvulvayawn, hm?” marveled and chuckled Lenora at the sight, crouching down, eager hands already sifting through the spoils. “But still... sometimes I can’t help but feel a little sorry for them...”
Even with prey, even with food, Eshwlyn oftentimes notice her sister’s green eyes would be slightly tinged with the remorse, but as gentle as her stare would shimmer, when it came down to it – Lenora was still an Elf.
She still had to eat.
Retaining a small smile, Lenora plucked an unstirring Klep from the pile, a longtime favorite of hers – always leaving its large fluffy, juicy ears for last... now deeply soaked and mired in Glean goop.
“Klep ta’nar, Eshwlyn!” She called out, proudly presenting her find with outstretched arms. “Semil te narez – na?”
Eshwlyn smiled at that. For all her generosity, all her purity, she can be awfully selfish at times... especially when it came to favorites.
“Klep,” The bigger Elf said, complying with the selfish one’s request, and relinquishing all the Klep she could find into her greedy palms. “Mel ke naimlthu, Lenora?”
With a pile of fresh, paralyzed Klep at her side, Lenora glanced back at her sister, and replied with a playful smile, “Thank you, Eshwlyn.”
Thank you was a string of sounds Eshwlyn couldn’t quite well place, but her tone, her gaze, it was something she could never mistake. For a language vile, twisted, and teeming with hate, Lenora somehow could make it sound so pleasant.
Feeling a newfound sense of contentment, Eshwlyn continued rummaging through the sludge, sorting creatures by size, stowing as much as she could of the smallest to stash in the burrow first before eventually coming back and hauling off with the rest.
Then, in the thick of foraging and scavenging, while tugging at the hooves of a young Kalf, subtly, gradually, she felt it – something tugging back. Eshwlyn paused, lifting her hand from the red pool of bodies... only for the tugging sensation to grow stronger.
She sniffed the air – sensing a foul smell that escaped her.
And froze.
“Eshwlyn?” Lenora called out, noticing her sister’s sudden darkened expression. “Kare’na iz ka?”
No answer would leave her lips, and no blink would break her heavy stare – in a stiff and subtle fashion, Eshwlyn reached around to the back of her leather garb and pulled out something that shimmered.
Then, breaking free from every rigid movement, she soared a tight fist high above her head, a glint, a tip, gleaming balefully in her grip, before she quickly sent it plunging below.
“Eshwlyn – nai! No! STOP!”
Once again – words that she couldn’t at all understand sounded out, and yet, in tone, in voice, there was simply no mistaking the way she heard her call. And for once... Eshwlyn did not like the way she heard those words.
Just barely, she managed to divert, freezing, the tip of a shortsword in her hand a mere inch away from skewering into a slight protrusion in the deep red.
Beside her, Lenora was scurrying, breathless, wiping the muddy blood away from the protrusion revealing something that, in the blemishes of grime and muck, almost resembled a face.
That almost resembled a human.
A woman.
Thin lips barely breaking through the murky surface red. Tousled, mangled hair floating in clumps with hints of black hiding among the deep crimson. And most glaring – a pair of ocean-blue eyes peering vacantly skywards toward the high, looming treetops.
There it was again, in the close presence of the enemy, so close to the touch, to the kill... kindness glimmered those green eyes of hers, devoid of any signs of malice, animosity... even when rightfully, there really should have been.
Like a real Elf.
Instead...
“Eshwlyn...” The little Elf drifted her disbelief-ridden stare towards her sister’s, mirroring their hues, their shapes, identical in every way, yet their gazes so vastly different. “Gles der... veelana mor, des?”
It was Eshwlyn’s turn for her eyes to grow wide. “Veelana? Lenora... Veelana – ne... ne, Lenora?”
“Ne!” She shouted back. “Melvano sal na va! Pestafon al’iur mometakain? Neair selfain, Eshwlyn. Veelana... pes... veelana der gles.”
Eshwlyn did not get the opportunity to respond again. Lenora took away her chance – selfishly – shifting her focus back again toward the paralyzed woman, her tone softer, her gaze kinder.
“Do not worry,” She spoke to those barren, empty blue eyes. “Me and my sister... veelana, um... we will help you. You will be safe.”
And against all odds, somehow, those thin crimson lips slowly began to stir, began to quiver... and in the quietest, frailest of whispers... a voice slipped out.
“Thank... you...”
No longer sounding pleasant. No longer sounding kind. Eshwlyn was right about it.
Truly, it was a vile language indeed.
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