i got possessed and wrote smth from the perspective of a dwarf. this totally isnt accurate but the idea of a sapiens (elf) who has set out on a journey and has all this survivalist stuff that impresses them just like. grabbed me
(wc: 1155 and not really proofread lmao)
I watch, curious, as the Elf carefully places jet-black rocks in a stack between her wooden construction. It’s a sort of ritual triangle, lashed together tightly with carried materials and with such precision that it had to have been done many, many times before.
Soft, late-afternoon sunlight, passed through a thick cloud layer and drifting snow, filters in through the narrow mouth of the cave. It’s warmer in here, but not by much.
I resist the urge to ask what she’s doing. She seems focused on the task, and with no patience to explain.
She pulls out a pair of flint-rocks and some kindling, and lights a fire on the rocks. I furrow my brow, searching for fuel aside from the kindling, but I can’t see any.
By the time the smoke clears, I find myself staring at the Elf in confusion.
All of a sudden, she breathes out a sigh of relief, her frame unwinding as she collapses into a sitting position. “...And the fire lives.”
My gaze darts back to the rocks, which now glow dimly like amber in sunlight, barely casting light onto the rock walls. I can feel it: the warmth of fire, but without smoke.
“...What is burning?” I can’t resist the urge to ask.
“Fire-stones,” she answers, simply. “We make them from trees.”
I lean in closer, looking over the fire-stones. They don’t look like wood. I look up at the Elf, trying to imagine the kind of magic that took.
She’s already dug a shell out of her stomach-bag and begun filling it with other dried plants she has on hand.
Where does it all come from, I wonder? And why does she keep so much on her, even when traveling?
I can’t say I’m not grateful. I look to our right— curled up next to the fire is our sick Giant child, looking gangly like a fawn and pale as a mountain rabbit. Their breaths still come easy, but I know they will begin to stutter as the cold seeps into them.
The adult Giant who brought them here is just outside the mouth of the cave, staring into the blizzard as if he is going to spot a predator. He speaks very little of my language, and I little of his. It is lucky that the Elf speaks the hill- and mountain-tongues so well.
“Help, please,” the Elf says dryly, handing me a shell and a polished rock. There are ground plants— herbs?— within. She makes a stirring motion, and I realize that she wants me to help grind. She has her own, second shell, and is working away at another batch. I clumsily follow her movements, and she gives me a terse nod as I look to her for assurance.
Eventually, she takes both shells and empties them into smaller bladders, poking a bit of preserved fat into each and hanging them from her wooden structure.
I realize that it is a cooking rack.
“We can use the rest later. This should help with the illness,” the Elf says, then repeats the phrase a little louder in the mountain-tongue. The Giant outside’s posture slackens a bit. “I’m running out of food, though,” she explains in both languages.
The Giant comes inside, shoulders blocking the already thin sunlight from the cave. He says something, and the Elf looks surprised. She seems relieved, and says something back.
The Giant only says one more thing before turning and leaving the cave, pulling a spear and a sword off of his back.
I give her an inquisitive look.
“He says he wants to hunt for us,” she translates, and I can hear the relief— and hunger— bleeding into her voice.
I nod. I haven’t eaten in a day, either.
So we wait. I polish my axe, she sorts through her bag, and the child sleeps.
I rarely see river-folk like the Elf high up on the Hill, and certainly never this far from the River. She’s dressed in thick furs, obviously from the warmer lands and trying not to shiver. She picks past bones carved into shapes I can’t see the use of and flowers I don’t recognize as she sorts, face furrowed at some frustrating disorder.
As focused as she seems, my resolve to let her continue doing as she is snaps. I have to know. “What brings a river-folk this far from the River?”
She blinks a couple of times, taking a moment to understand what I said. She pauses to collect her thoughts, and I can see her calculating like a mountain lion judging a jump.
“...Have you felt the shaking?” She asks, finally.
“The shaking?” Of course I do. Part of our roof collapsed as the ground itself rumbled in pain. We had to evacuate parts of the Great Hill-City. “Yes.”
“We have too, on the Plains.”
On the Plains? They do not live underground or among the rocks as we do. I can’t hide the surprise on my face that it happened that far from the Mountain.
“I looked through our painted stories. This is not the first time we have felt the shaking.”
“Shaking like this?” Shaking strong enough to destroy part of the City?
She nods. “It preceded a great calamity. We do not have stories about what kind.”
I stare at her for a moment. She means to say that this shaking, too, will precede another calamity.
“I travel to spread our warning. I want to find out what kind of calamity it is, and stop it.”
I’m struck by the sudden ferocity behind her words. I get the feeling that she will not stop until she succeeds.
It occurs to me now that this explains the herbs, the tools, and the large bag. She has been traveling for a while, and has no plans of stopping.
The glow of the fire-stones glints in her eyes, and she stares at me with something manic, something desperate.
Then, as quickly as it began, she slides back into a neutral position, and begins polishing her own tools, arcane devices I could not hope to understand.
“First, though, I need to survive the night,” she says, with a hint of humor to her voice.
“Hm,” I snort.
“I’ll cook tonight,” she says, gazing out towards the mouth of the cave and the snowfall outside.
Those words fill me with hunger. I have heard legends about Elven food.
Weighing her quest with the kindness I have seen, I say something that surprises even myself: “Can I help you?”
She gives me a wide-eyed look.
“I—” I stammer, grasping for a good reason to offer. “If this calamity affects all of us, then all of us should help. Right?”
Something bittersweet crosses her face. “...If only others had the same view. I appreciate any help I can get.”
The wind outside and the occasional crackle of the fire-stones is the only sound for a while longer.
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@weaselle
