Standing in the austere stone hall, waiting to be received by the Elder Lord’s of Falutin, Arowe fusses with the now frayed cuffs and collar of his (long passed its best) pink shirt. Despite his extremely long lifespan, he’s never been the most patient of Elves.
He’d only arrived at the Grey Elven fortress a day ago but he’s already been surprised by what he’s seen and experienced.
After spending his youth physically looking down on all his Elven peers and then, as he grew older and taller, his elders, Arowe is amazed to find himself of a ‘normal’ height in this Elven stronghold. Even the women are only a few inches shorter by average. Their style and manner however are decidedly different from his own upbringing. His flamboyant pink shirt, despite being dulled by months of hard travelling, is still garish compared to the, well-tailored but deadly dull, design of their clothes. In fairness though, the Grey Elves’ pale skin, silver hair and flat personalities match their dress sense seamlessly.
He’d also worked out that the sniggering cry of ‘Hey-boy’ wasn’t a call to attention, but actually an insult term aimed at his mixed Elven heritage; Half High and half Grey. For whatever reason, Elven species interbreeding with other Elven species was viewed with more than a certain level of measured contempt. What was the phrase he’d heard repeatedly in older childhood, when members of the other Elven races visited Glendorne?
‘Keep your hands to yourselves, when you’re with the other types of Elves.’
Eventually, the overly large, double doors swing open and a silent underling ushers him into the hall of the Grey Elders.
Eventually, the overly large, double doors swing open and a silent underling ushers him into the hall of the Grey Elders.
Walking in, Arowe senses their judging eyes boring down upon him and he feels, every inch, the half-breed his ‘adoptive’ Father despised so much.
Arowe finds himself standing alone, centre stage in some sort of brightly lit court, with a circle of five austere Grey Elves seated high above, literally and metaphorically looking down on him.
After the servant backs out and closes the large doors behind him, a steady voice rings down from one of them.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Squinting up through the spotlights, Arowe attempts to identify the speaker of that odd opening statement and braves an answer.
“I was sent by Estrid of the Fey. She told me that my Father… My real Father might be here. She also said that your help will be vital in the coming demonic invasion.”
Another voice barks out from above. A woman this time.
“You are young, but perhaps old enough to remember the Great Dragon’s reign. As a member of the High Elves, you’ll probably have a strong opinion on the choice the Grey made in supporting Theranthor.”
Arowe nods. His Father… Adoptive Father; Filigren had hated the Grey Elves, ‘Blood traitors’ he’d called them. They’d actually petitioned to High Elves to join the ancient Dragon; Theranthor in battle against the Demon; Zartak. While all the other Elven races were fighting both enemies on two fronts, the Grey went out of their way to protect the Blue tyrant and in turn, they were protected by her.
Yet another voice joins the conversation.
“Yes, we aided the great and evil Blue Dragon. I think it wouldn’t be too arrogant to say that we actively and effectively turned the tide of the war in her favour.
Arowe has heard the argument before. The Grey had apparently sent emissaries to all the Elven races, asking them to side with the Great Blue Dragon, but all of them, from the Wood to the High, even to the shadowy Drow, refused. A choice between two monstrous tyrants, wasn’t a choice they could stomach. True Elves could never be willing slaves!
A forth voice calls out.
“It wasn’t just the other races of Elves we approached. We petitioned the Dwarves and Gnomes too. All the long lived races. You see, as long lived as we are, we could afford to be patient, to outlive and outlast our opponents, and as phenomenally long lived as a Dragon is, they are still, ultimately, mortal. We could just wait, the already ancient; Theranthor out. Zartak on the other claw was… is an everlasting, immortal Demon…”
Calling up from his small stage, Arowe sneers.
“So you just chose the lesser of two evils?”
Finally the fifth voice rings out, but this one sounds slightly different. Male but with a hint of emotion… Pride?
“Exactly. We chose the pragmatic path, we chose to stand with the evil that could… that would die. A tyrant that we, as a people, as the long lived Grey, could survive!”
