Chapter 16
charclone
Well-known member
Even if she still had a home to go to, the portal, or 'Gate' as the elves called it, had disappeared. Her parents were dead. Her village gone. For all she knew, Hellas could have been drowned by Poseidon. So, she stayed with the elves.
It took her many months to learn the language, but she did so.
They were kind, unageing, and skilled. They were an ancient people, with strange gods, and stranger traditions. Yet, they welcomed her. The young one, that looked to be about her own age when she arrived, was in fact older than her, yet remained looking younger as they grew up.
They lived a simple life. There was a city, but there were no kings like she knew of. No soldiers coming to collect taxes, just the occasional traders and priests.
Yet, there were dangers.
Strange creatures that flew, others that crawled and slithered, like out of the stories the priests used to tell.
The elves fought them, with bow and spear.
She refused to be vulnerable again.
She started copying them, as the warriors and hunters trained.
At one point, as she passed her sixteenth year of life, she asked why one warrior took a stance that they did. The warrior struggled to explain it. It caused a great deal of discussion, for they each had their own stance. There was no teacher, instead, they learned, relying on the magic of their healers, and their own longevity, yet when she asked, and they saw her learning at a faster rate than any of them had, some refused to answer any of her questions. Yet, there were others all too willing to answer questions, to experiment and compare.
By the time of her twenty-second year, she had learned to fight with bow, spear, sword, shield and the strange knifes that the elves enemies favoured.
She was no master, she knew. She could wield them, but in a fight, she fought dirty to win.
The elves approved. Victory was life and survival. Fighting was not a place for mercy. It was a dirty thing, something only done when necessary, but when it was, it was taken all the way.
Her first fight had been a minor skirmish, at twenty years of age.
The long-eared warriors of the elves' rivals raided the hunting party she was with. A handful had been injured, but no one was killed, and the foe remained at distance, mocking them with their war cries.
The first fight she drew blood in was when she was twenty-five. It was almost her last. It should have been her last.
She awoke with a start, hearing the war cries and chants.
She had heard rumours that other villages had been attacked, people dragged off into the night to be sacrificed to the long-earned warrior's goddess, a god of the hunt.
She found those rumours terrifyingly true that night.
They spent hours dancing around fires surrounding the village, mocking and threatening the elves in equal measure, just out of bowshot.
Then, as a terrifying mass, they charged. Gold on their bodies glittered, and the fire cast intimidating shadows as they charged.
The girl, now a woman, grabbed her bow and spear, joining the desperate defence.
Her friend, too young in the elves' eyes to fight, hid, watching her friend.
The battle was short.
The long-earned preferred short, sudden bursts of violence, before using their powerful legs to vanish into the night.
The elves were ill-suited to this sort of warfare, preferring slow, careful battles.
Arrows fired, depleting rapidly.
The charging berserkers didn't care for those that fell, leaping over them as they closed. A few returned fire with their shorter, less powerful bows.
The woman screamed as she braced with others against the charge.
It hit like a thunderbolt.
Her spear shattered, as one warrior died on it.
Another lunged around the falling spear and body, a wicked looking knife poised to stab.
The woman's own knife was torn from its sheath, traded from a merchant for this very purpose.
Against one who was familiar with it, and had trained with it since childhood, the woman may well have been unarmed.
The warrior's blade punctured her shoulder, as hers was battered out of her hand.
She felt her back hit the ground as the blade was raised to strike her throat.
The world slowed to a crawl.
She saw more warriors streaming past and over the shattered defenders. Some stayed to finish off the wounded, others dragged them away into the night.
Her friend was undefended.
"My, aren't you a curiosity." A voice said. "A stranger to this world, who caused a change in elven culture, even if it was only in one village. Yet… I think my people are too soft. They have gone unchallenged, and your story… is boring, were you to die here. Give my people a challenge, and I shall grant you a boon. A great boon."
The woman couldn't answer, but she didn't need to.
"Then rise, demigod of the Huntress. Show my people why they need their blades sharp."
The woman felt the wound in her shoulder heal.
She caught the blade as it fell towards her throat.
The warrior's wrist was… easy to snap. She found it suddenly very easy to push the warrior off herself.
Struck by a sudden thought, she turned around and rushed to the hut she shared.
The warrior in front of it was only just forcing the door open when she struck.
The strange-eared warrior woman dropped, her head swinging in an unnatural fashion from her neck, her spear dropping from nerveless fingers.
Her friend gazed up at her from the crack in the door.
The woman picked up the fallen spear, ready to defend the warriors, to protect what little family she had gained.
She found the battle in a lull.
Many warriors from both sides stared at her, some edging away.
One stepped forward. This long-eared warrior was richly decorated, her spear tipped by a massive dragon tooth, clasped by gold and steel, and richly decorated.
They stared at each other a moment before the warrior let loose a bloodcurdling scream and charged.
The woman, for a moment, compared her strength to ancient Heracles, before she used her spear as a staff.
The wood came down on the warrior's hands, grasping the spear, making her drop it in pain and surprise.
She sidestepped, breaking off her charge, and danced away. Her knife came out, as she yelled to the glory of the Huntress.
The voice she had heard laughed at the prayers.
"I was once their queen, but they chose to follow a weakling… before I attained godhood and set them right."
The warrior charged again.
But this time the woman was ready.
Her spear stabbed, with a strength and swiftness no mortal could have achieved.
The richly decorated warrior died, as she was disembowelled.
The warriors watching moaned.
Many uttered prayers, and the long eared-foe began to retreat.
It took her many months to learn the language, but she did so.
They were kind, unageing, and skilled. They were an ancient people, with strange gods, and stranger traditions. Yet, they welcomed her. The young one, that looked to be about her own age when she arrived, was in fact older than her, yet remained looking younger as they grew up.
They lived a simple life. There was a city, but there were no kings like she knew of. No soldiers coming to collect taxes, just the occasional traders and priests.
Yet, there were dangers.
Strange creatures that flew, others that crawled and slithered, like out of the stories the priests used to tell.
The elves fought them, with bow and spear.
She refused to be vulnerable again.
She started copying them, as the warriors and hunters trained.
At one point, as she passed her sixteenth year of life, she asked why one warrior took a stance that they did. The warrior struggled to explain it. It caused a great deal of discussion, for they each had their own stance. There was no teacher, instead, they learned, relying on the magic of their healers, and their own longevity, yet when she asked, and they saw her learning at a faster rate than any of them had, some refused to answer any of her questions. Yet, there were others all too willing to answer questions, to experiment and compare.
By the time of her twenty-second year, she had learned to fight with bow, spear, sword, shield and the strange knifes that the elves enemies favoured.
She was no master, she knew. She could wield them, but in a fight, she fought dirty to win.
The elves approved. Victory was life and survival. Fighting was not a place for mercy. It was a dirty thing, something only done when necessary, but when it was, it was taken all the way.
Her first fight had been a minor skirmish, at twenty years of age.
The long-eared warriors of the elves' rivals raided the hunting party she was with. A handful had been injured, but no one was killed, and the foe remained at distance, mocking them with their war cries.
The first fight she drew blood in was when she was twenty-five. It was almost her last. It should have been her last.
She awoke with a start, hearing the war cries and chants.
She had heard rumours that other villages had been attacked, people dragged off into the night to be sacrificed to the long-earned warrior's goddess, a god of the hunt.
She found those rumours terrifyingly true that night.
They spent hours dancing around fires surrounding the village, mocking and threatening the elves in equal measure, just out of bowshot.
Then, as a terrifying mass, they charged. Gold on their bodies glittered, and the fire cast intimidating shadows as they charged.
The girl, now a woman, grabbed her bow and spear, joining the desperate defence.
Her friend, too young in the elves' eyes to fight, hid, watching her friend.
The battle was short.
The long-earned preferred short, sudden bursts of violence, before using their powerful legs to vanish into the night.
The elves were ill-suited to this sort of warfare, preferring slow, careful battles.
Arrows fired, depleting rapidly.
The charging berserkers didn't care for those that fell, leaping over them as they closed. A few returned fire with their shorter, less powerful bows.
The woman screamed as she braced with others against the charge.
It hit like a thunderbolt.
Her spear shattered, as one warrior died on it.
Another lunged around the falling spear and body, a wicked looking knife poised to stab.
The woman's own knife was torn from its sheath, traded from a merchant for this very purpose.
Against one who was familiar with it, and had trained with it since childhood, the woman may well have been unarmed.
The warrior's blade punctured her shoulder, as hers was battered out of her hand.
She felt her back hit the ground as the blade was raised to strike her throat.
The world slowed to a crawl.
She saw more warriors streaming past and over the shattered defenders. Some stayed to finish off the wounded, others dragged them away into the night.
Her friend was undefended.
"My, aren't you a curiosity." A voice said. "A stranger to this world, who caused a change in elven culture, even if it was only in one village. Yet… I think my people are too soft. They have gone unchallenged, and your story… is boring, were you to die here. Give my people a challenge, and I shall grant you a boon. A great boon."
The woman couldn't answer, but she didn't need to.
"Then rise, demigod of the Huntress. Show my people why they need their blades sharp."
The woman felt the wound in her shoulder heal.
She caught the blade as it fell towards her throat.
The warrior's wrist was… easy to snap. She found it suddenly very easy to push the warrior off herself.
Struck by a sudden thought, she turned around and rushed to the hut she shared.
The warrior in front of it was only just forcing the door open when she struck.
The strange-eared warrior woman dropped, her head swinging in an unnatural fashion from her neck, her spear dropping from nerveless fingers.
Her friend gazed up at her from the crack in the door.
The woman picked up the fallen spear, ready to defend the warriors, to protect what little family she had gained.
She found the battle in a lull.
Many warriors from both sides stared at her, some edging away.
One stepped forward. This long-eared warrior was richly decorated, her spear tipped by a massive dragon tooth, clasped by gold and steel, and richly decorated.
They stared at each other a moment before the warrior let loose a bloodcurdling scream and charged.
The woman, for a moment, compared her strength to ancient Heracles, before she used her spear as a staff.
The wood came down on the warrior's hands, grasping the spear, making her drop it in pain and surprise.
She sidestepped, breaking off her charge, and danced away. Her knife came out, as she yelled to the glory of the Huntress.
The voice she had heard laughed at the prayers.
"I was once their queen, but they chose to follow a weakling… before I attained godhood and set them right."
The warrior charged again.
But this time the woman was ready.
Her spear stabbed, with a strength and swiftness no mortal could have achieved.
The richly decorated warrior died, as she was disembowelled.
The warriors watching moaned.
Many uttered prayers, and the long eared-foe began to retreat.