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Rasil of Greenwood

There were a number of advantages to being reborn in another world, the greatest of which being that all-important second chance using all of the lessons learned from your first life. All the experiences had, wisdom gained, and information accumulated downloaded into the brain of a newborn and giving them an incredible head-start when it came to preparing themselves for the future. With this advantage alone, being reborn as pretty much anything was entirely workable.

Elves were clearly suboptimal, being that their long lives already allowed them to leverage disproportionate experience and ability onto their nominal peers, thus not really gaining as much benefit from the reincarnation process. Having said that, they were still solidly S-Tier in the reincarnation lottery, being that they were elves. Even at their most stripped-back and basic, the archetype of the elf was a beautiful human with exceptionally long lives, keen senses, and probably natural talent in magic.

Unfortunately, the archetypal elf has been somewhat diluted from the golden age of Tolkien, and a brand new archetype had taken shape in the far East, that of the Anime Elf. The Anime Elf was still long-lived and beautiful, and usually had a talent for magic, but they had a number of other, less agreeable traits.

Most prominently in how excited the writers were for elven girls anytime they came up. Spiritual, beautiful, long lived, and absolutely enthralled with the masculine energy of whatever the designated protagonist happened to be, usually a human or an orc. Their appearances and personality could vary wildly between characters, highly dependent on what archetype of love interest they were filling in for in the protagonist's pseudo-harem of ladies that fawn over his unique and engaging character traits, but only one of which he will ever actually form a relationship with.

He, as a male elf, was normally slotted in somewhere between femboy, twink, or cuckold. Male elves usually got in the way of the protagonist charming elven women, after all. Limp-wristed, reserved, arrogant, usually somewhat dextrous and magically gifted at their best. Sometimes they were yet another 'woman' interested in the designated protagonist, for the somewhat niche homoerotic appeal.

Naturally, he wasn't going to tolerate that. Every other elven male seemed content being losers who focused on grace or sorcery or whatever. Wizards and duelists, who wielded devastating magical spells and swayed like willows to avoid mountain-cleaving blows. Lightly armored, with lean builds and arrogant sneers that devolved into incoherent outrage when they were inevitably defeated by some plucky young protagonist spamming his starter-attack over and over at them.

He, on the other hand, was going to hit things in the face very hard, and laugh when things hit him very hard. He was going to wear heavy armor, use very big weapons, and throw himself into danger with absolutely no regard for potentially wasting a thousand-year lifespan by dying young.

Naturally, this meant he was running away from home at the ripe age of twenty.

Longstanding cultural, legal, and religious policy among Elvenkind held that an Elf wasn't really an adult until they were at least one-hundred years old. Not because they actually physically mature slower than humans did, but rather that when you lived a thousand years, you tend to look down on anyone with a two-digit number for their age. Biologically, he was a young adult, and he was going to be for the next nine hundred years or so.

More than ready to ditch his home, full of people he really couldn't stand, and head out to start hitting monsters in the face with something heavy and made of steel. Step one being actually finding something made of steel. The only metal elves here used was mithril, and mithril was entirely too expensive for him, the son of a very-minor elven noble house, to afford.

At the moment, he was stuck with a bow, wooden spear, and wooden sword. They were made out of 'Ironwood', a classic material of elven design made some thousand-thousand years ago when an Elf was bored and crossbred trees over the course of his entire life to make super-strong wood. This wood is then heated and pressed together in crossed layers to produce a material that is very strong and rather lightweight. It also wasn't steel and thus wouldn't help him gain much muscle if he stuck to it.

Clad in a mixture of ironwood plates and boarhide leathers, with a large backpack full of supplies over one shoulder and a quiver of arrows over the other, sword at his waist and spear in hand as a walking-stick, he was ready to take on the world.

"...Master Rasil?" A voice called out to him, just as he was placing his hand on the doorknob. He turned a flat expression back towards the source of the voice, revealing the long-time head maid in service to his family. Long black hair, bright blue eyes, inexplicably vaguely-french style maid uniform despite this supposedly being an entirely different world with its own cultural evolution, she was as beautiful as every other female elf he has thus far seen in his twenty years of living in these woods.

"Teresa." He replied blankly. "Do you need something?" He asked, knowing full well that she was attempting to silently convey a question about where he was heading off so early in the morning. It was well known by now that he had very little patience for the games of interpretation and implication that every other elf seemed obsessed with. His parents were worried that he was stupid for the longest time, which was fairly insulting of them to think.

She took several moments to overcome both elven instinct to rely on unspoken words and natural subservience to his bloodline, eventually getting out a direct question. "...May I inquire about where you are going, clad in your plate and burdened with bags, through the door before even breakfast has been served?"

"Camping. Again."

She took another few moments to work up a clarifying question. "I see… without Lady Titania?" The woman in question being his assigned bodyguard and martial tutor. When he had made clear his interest in martial prowess to the exception of everything else, his parents had relented and sought the services of a warrior from the elven capital for such a position, at the requirement that he keep up with his magical and religious studies as well.

She was trying her best to teach him how to avoid hits. Rasil was keen on not being such a fucking loser.

"I'm more than experienced enough to go camping on my lonesome." He replied with an irritated twinge to his expression and tone. "Five summers now I've spent nights in the woodlands of my household under the supervision of Lady Titania, and she has taught me more than enough for me to manage on my lonesome. A mere week alone is well within my abilities."

This was, of course, a complete fabrication on his part. It wasn't out of reason by any means. Many times he had gone camping over the years specifically to make this excuse incredibly plausible, to make it seem all-but inevitable that he would eventually seek to go off sleeping under the canopies and stars on his own, and eventually come back home covered in twigs and dirt.

The trick was, of course, he had absolutely no intention of ever coming back. He was going to go into those woods, emerge on the other side in human lands, and keep walking until this place was a distant memory. These elves were almost intolerable to be around, with how much they flipped between cutesy shit and entirely undeserved elitism.

It was fairly well known among the township that Rasil, lone son of the creatively-named Greenwood House, did not enjoy company. It was not known that it was more that he just couldn't stand other elves. At least, the elves of his homeland, who were seemingly pathologically incapable of having fun in a way that doesn't involve comparing status and mocking their fellows for tiny differences in style and dress.

"...Is this to avoid Mistress Mariella's visit?" Teresa asked, clearly struggling to get out the question in the face of his hard stare.

Mariella Greenwood, the third of his three older sisters, was a perfect Greenwood elf. Highly educated, talented, beautiful, other descriptions for generally valuable, and also constantly making snide remarks and mocking jabs at just about everything he did. Allegedly it was to try to help him by disencouraging unhelpful traits, in practice it only ensured that he didn't have any interest in interacting with her. Ever.

"Yes." He was exceptionally blunt with his reply, making Teresa flinch back. "I'm leaving now. I'd appreciate it if you refrain from mentioning where I've gone until someone directly asks." He wasn't wording it as an order, but rather just an indirect request, which was way more effective for bossing her around.

Knowing elves? That would be at least a day.

He didn't bother sticking around to hear her reply, opening the door and stepping out into the cool early morning of the Greenwood estate. From the front doors to the surrounding woodlands. From the woodlands and into the rest of the world.

Mayhaps he'd even meet elves that weren't snobbish, implication-obsessed pricks in slutty clothing.

—

The Greenwoods were very minor nobility in elven culture, being the equivalent of something like mayors. Their control was over a single elven settlement and the surrounding lands, serving on behalf of a higher noble and having a small number of knight-equivalents sworn to serve them. The higher noble in turn served Elven Royalty, who was the supreme ruler of all of Elvenkind.

Save the Dark Elves, who were ancestral enemies of the Elves on the basis of the content of their character and color of their skin.

Of course, being elves, even the minor nobility ruled over relatively vast swathes of land. The size of a very small country in total, with a central urban township built around an ancestral estate surrounded by a reasonably large ring of farmland, which in turn was surrounded by miles of well-cultivated wilderness. This wilderness, whatever form it might take, was the religious-obligation of Elvenkind to maintain and defend.

This wilderness was kept in good shape through an absence of any and all roads. Elves did not have roads, did not use roads, and did not build roads. Elves moved from township to township via central courtyards ringed with magical stone waygates, allowing for rapid transit across the whole of their empire and ensuring that the most distant buildings around each settlement were probably farmhouses, pastures, or watchtowers.

The waygates didn't connect every location to every other location, but they were quick enough that he could walk to the other side of the world in maybe half an hour. Very impressive, magically speaking, and totally useless to his intended goal of getting away from other elves.

The Greenwoods lived in a very temperate part of the world anyways, which was perfectly fine by him. That and those gates were constantly monitored, which meant another person would know where he had gone if he moved through one. Not ideal by any means.

Instead, he went due west for half a day, then into a relatively shallow but wide river which ran due south. He stepped out to the middle, then started walking south for another half-day or so, and stepped out on the opposite bank and kept walking until nightfall and it was time to make camp. Walking through the water would disguise his tracks and scent, and necessitate checking the entire length of the river to find where he had gotten out.

Which would make it harder again to follow in his path, as by the time they had checked the entire riverbank, his tracks would be that much older.

He ate a loaf of waybread for dinner and slept in one of the trees that night. A loaf of waybread supposedly could feed a single elf for a week, but that was both a slight exaggeration and only when comparing to much scrawnier, normal elves.

Rasil had been exercising his entire life, with both calisthenics and homemade weights, and was substantially more brawny than most of his peers. A loaf of Waybread could tide him over for about a day, which was still very impressive for a brick of honey-flavored hardtack made of tree-nut flour... and honey.

About halfway through the next day of travel, Rasil exited the part of the wilderness that was carefully cultivated by generations of elves and entered the part of the wilderness that was actually wild. Everything within about thirty miles of Greenwood was their territory, which was something like three-thousand acres if he remembered his maths right.

'Minor Nobility'.

This line between cultivated wilderness and true wilderness was denoted by the occasional boulder covered in runes and projecting several useful 'go away' wards to everything that elves didn't like, such as invasive species, monsters, and other races, which were all usually considered the same thing most of the time.

Naturally, the wards didn't do anything to stop him, an elf, from passing through. From here he would actually be in danger from various threats, such as invasive species, monsters, and other races.

His first priority was finding signs of civilization, preferably human, and getting his feet on a proper road for the first time in this entire life. If roads were good enough for the Romans, the greatest empire to ever exist, they were certainly good enough for him. He kept walking until he found another river, then started walking down along it, making sure he was stepping in the water so that it would wash away his footsteps and scent.

That night, he slept in another tree after thoroughly inspecting it, and ate his second loaf of waybread. Naturally, it was delicious and filling. It was a loaf of honey-flavored nut-based hardtack, it would be strange if it wasn't delicious.

He awoke suddenly halfway through the night, rolling off his suspended hammock and landing on the forest floor some twenty feet down. Another roll once he hit the ground bled off the shock of the impact into something manageable, and gave him a look up at his sleeping spot.

Above him, the suspended hammock was now engulfed in webbing, and creeping insectile legs were peaking through the gaps of the foliage. Those keen senses of his had awoken him just in time.

He could hear the acceleration of his heartbeat.

A giant spi-

"There's no need to be like that, little elf." A feminine voice called down from the canopy. "I just want to hold you tight~" Ah, a drider then. Slightly different, and still probably something that wanted to kill and eat him.

Drider then. He pulled up from his crouch, hoisting his wooden spear as he did so. "Truly? Well there's no need for all of that nasty webbing of yours. Mayhaps if you had called out to me and spoken aloud your desire, I would've considered it." He shook his head, doing his best to bury his alarm and sudden panic beneath dry humor. "But now you've gone and woken me up in the middle of the night, and taken my travelbag besides."

"Oh, I'm oh-so sorry. If you come up here, I could make it up to you~" She replied with a sultry tone. He frowned and glared up at the branches, at where he could vaguely make out a feminine upper half suspended on creeping darkness.

"If you truly want to make it up to me, you'll remove your webbing from my bag and toss it down here to me." He pointed his spear up at the monstrous woman, the outlines and glimpses of which could barely be made out through the dark and the branches. If he was a human, she would've been entirely invisible.

"Oh no, I couldn't do that. It's in my web now, you see, and I'm so loath to let go of anything that enters my embrace." She gave a teasing giggle. "Though, for you I can make an exception, you just have to come up and retrieve it. I won't try to stop you."

Rasil considered that proposition for a moment.

"Pft." He scoffed with an amused tilt to his mouth. "Oh well." He shrugged, turning around and starting to walk away.

"W-wait a moment. Where are you going?" The drider called out from the canopy.

"On my journey, of course. Now that I'm awake, I might as well make more progress out of this blasted forest."

"B-blasted forest…? But wait, I still have your bag! D-don't you want it back?"

"Oh yes, going within reach of the monstrous spider who wants to cocoon me, inject me with digestive venom, and drink the food-slurry that was my internal organs afterwards." Rasil rolled his eyes. "There's nothing in that bag that I truly need. You are free to it."

"N-now wait a minute!" She moved through the canopy rapidly, not quite fast enough to actually keep pace with his overland walking pace unobstructed by branches. "I-I'm not going to kill you! A-and I eat normally!"

"I met an old fat spider, spinning in her tree~" Rasil began to sing, walking along at a comfortable pace.

"O-old and fat?!"

"I said, hey old fat spider. I bet you can't catch me. You've grown too fat, you lazy lob, you're just an old tomnoddy~" A smile began to grow over his face.

"You- G-get back here Elf!" The voice was growing more distant by the second, so he increased the volume of his song to compensate.

"Hey attercop, hey attercop, you can't catch anybody~" The smile had grown into a full-blow grin.

"Stop calling me names! I don't even know what those mean!" She had started to wail, thoroughly flustered by this point.

He needed to reach a clearing or something, lose this pursuer before he tried to rest again. She had way more legs than him, and was probably burning way more calories as a result.

"And then the old, fat spider, she spun a final thread~" He kept up the song as he walked away, amusing himself with the reactions.Last edited: Jan 31, 2025 Like ReplyReport Reactions:gokuchiefkarkat, Buzz00074, HavocOrder0999 and 2,352 othersBrosefJan 31, 2025Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 2 New View contentBrosefAmateur WriterFeb 1, 2025NewAdd bookmark#302Rasil of Greenwood

At some point the drider either got too tired to follow him or got massively more sneaky, because he could no longer hear her pursuit in the rustle of the canopy behind him, even after long periods of deliberate silence and careful listening. If she wasn't following him anymore, then he was relatively safe. If she was massively more sneaky, then he was screwed anyways so there was no point in worrying about it.

He could settle down somewhere for a nap, to recover from the interrupted period of sleep, but that would only aid any potential pursuers. Instead, he would simply keep walking along the river, catch something to eat from it, and rest at his normal time later tonight. He'd be extra sleepy, so he'd probably wake up exceptionally refreshed by the end.

The primary issue was that most of his camping supplies were in that bag, and now he was going to have to rely on his wits and the little bit of practical magic taught to him. Elven education was a long and drawn out process that relied on apprenticeships and direct, personalized tutelage. Traditionally each student was given firm grounding in all aspects of the field long before practical applications actually began.

The physics of the field, the history of the field, notable applications and things to avoid, all the various background details that technically didn't actually improve your ability to throw balls of fire around, but certainly allowed fully educated elves to stomp most others when it came down to it. Having more information to work with typically meant winning, and elves were masters of trivia.

The important term there being fully educated, because for elves that was around three hundred years of work. A prodigy might get through all the material and master magic in only one hundred years instead. Rasil, being twenty, had exactly ten years of magical education backing his efforts, the vast majority of his knowledge being metaphysics and broad strokes of historical information. Good to know, but it didn't actually make him better at throwing fire around.

This suited him just fine, because he wanted to hit things with weapons. He already had a way to deliver consistently high targeted damage at a long range, it was called a bow. Not one of those lame tiny bows either, his bow was two-thirds of his height, made of ironwood, and reliably punched through most things he shot at.

In terms of practical magical effects, he had exactly one 'spell'. It was called 'push mana into something'. Mana, being the magical energy that fell from the skies and accumulated upon and within the earth, was something that inherently elevated things by saturation. Just having more mana in a thing made that thing slightly more, better at whatever its particular thing was.

There was also tainted mana, which was used by people who were evil or perverse, or both. It was pretty useless to him, and using it would turn him into a dark elf, so he was just going to avoid it. If he wanted darker skin for whatever reason, he could always just go get a tan, the 'mental pollution' was something he didn't have much interest in.

The 'spell' he did have was already more than versatile enough to cover basically anything he really needed anyways. 'Push mana into a thing to make it better' was an inefficient, brute-force, unga-bunga manner to utilize magical energy, which was perfect for going around and unga-bungaing at things like he wanted to.

Without his flint and steel, he had to resort to it to make a fire for his delicious freshwater fish dinner. Without a cooking surface, he had to resort to a thoroughly cleaned rock and a slow-cook on top of a broad leaf wrapping.

Pushing magical energy into the kindling and making it better at being kindling made the process of rubbing sticks together to produce a spark vastly easier than it normally would be. A process that would normally take a couple minutes instead took about thirty seconds, and the kindling worked exceptionally to bring the small pyramid of twigs into a merry crackling campfire.

Delightful little campfire on a delightful riverbank in a delightful temperate forest, all without a single elf in hearing range. A delighted little smile came over his lips as he took it all in.

Rasil let out a long and contented sigh, leaning back and watching his fillets slowly bake in the ambient heat of the campfire, leaf-bed curling up as it dried out and fish not quite sizzling. A comfortable look grew over his face as he leaned back, casting a gaze up and looking up to the twin moons.

Supposedly they were twin-gods, Alun and Luna, who together were Aluna. There was a great deal of religious significance about how important they were to the world and lesser races, and how enlightened elves were for only worshipping Gaia and Ouranos, their parents, of which Ouranos was currently dead. It was mostly unimportant to him, because he wasn't a priest.

Most pertinent to him was that they looked way prettier out here than they did back in the Greenwood lands.

He inhaled deeply, then exhaled. The smell of smoke and riverbank filled the air, far cry from the curated placements of fragrant flowers and fruit trees designed to optimize nasal enjoyment no matter where you were and what you were smelling at any point in time. Here the world smelled of bark and pollen and rot, the rough scents of wilderness untamed.

"Gosh, it's a really nice night." He happily declared to the dark wilderness. The song of crickets and other night-insects was his only reply.

The fish was entirely unseasoned. It tasted of freedom and no elves. Naturally, it was delicious.

He made a note to catch more than one tomorrow, because he was still hungry after just the one.

—

Overland travel for a single person traveling through wilderness was about twenty miles per day, assuming that he was maintaining that pace that meant he had traveled about ten miles due west, and about ninety miles due south. Pythagorean theorem here and he was about ninety and a half miles away from home when he first came across signs of people who were not him.

Keen senses allowed him to overhear them well in advance, low and scratchy voices that barked at each other in an unfamiliar language, angry about something and fearsomely debating about what to do. And just like the heroic busybody he was aiming to be, he approached to stick his nose in other people's business. His mostly silent approach went unnoticed under the loud and angry voices, and eventually he had gotten close enough to get a visual.

Short, greenish figures with great hooked noses wearing crudely made armor and wielding battered weapons stood in the midst of a clearing, two keeping a lookout as the other three argued in the middle. In between them was either a tiny woman or a mature girl, bound and teary and doing her best to pretend that she wasn't present as they barked and growled at each other through worn and yellowed teeth.

It was fairly obvious this was some manner of kidnapping by what looked like goblins. The most concerning feature was the battered black powder guns carried by each, rifles and pistols on the same belts that cleavers were carried.

He was somewhat irritated by this, because no one back in Greenwood had bothered to tell him that early firearms were a thing. He made a snap judgement call and decided to side with the group that wasn't ugly, drawing four arrows from his quiver, setting them up in between his fingers, and took aim. He couldn't do this for more than four arrows at a time, because he only had five fingers.

Perhaps he would've been more reluctant to kill them if they were human, or attractive, but as it stood he was unsurprisingly pretty fine with their deaths.

Fwip-fwip-fwip-fwip.

Four goblins fell to the ground, strangled grunts and pained gurgles as the arrows punched right through the gaps in their armor and into their lungs.

The last swerved around, suddenly aware that he was in danger. It wasn't enough to actually help the probable-kidnapper, as a few seconds later a hundred and eighty pounds of elven male plummeted from the canopy above and staked the greenskin soldier to the earth like he was setting up a flagpole.

He grunted slightly, needing to absorb the force of the impact with his knees that time, and pushed himself back into a standing position. Hand on the upper shaft of his ironwood spear, he briefly considered pulling it out to keep using before deciding he was just going to leave it here instead.

As soon as he had a proper shield, he was going to be wading into combat, that instance of sneak archery made him feel dirty. No shame about the dragoon drop though, because he was feeling pretty giddy about actually being able to pull that off. He turned his head to look down at the bound woman, getting a somewhat better look at her now.

Wide-eyed and muffled, the woman was tied in a manner that was more provocative than actually effective. Rasil wasn't quite surprised, being that she had been captured by what were clearly goblins and thus was probably about to be thoroughly molested. Light brown hair, short stature, curvaceous build, and looked like she was a few moments away from pissing herself.

He sniffed.

No, she already had a while ago, it seemed. Stale urine had a distinct scent.

The most notable features were the little horns that curled up from the sides of her head, which meant that he didn't know what she was. Except clearly still scared of the figure that jumped out of the woods to murder a bunch of her captors and was now staring down at her from behind a wooden masked helm. He reached up, taking hold of the ironwood that concealed his face and pulling it off, blond hair bunching up in the helm and then flowing out as he removed it and shook his head.

He gave his best gentle smile, twitching his ears and crouching down to set his helm aside. He raised a hand to tap at his mouth, then pointed at her and miming a 'take off' gesture. She hesitated, before giving a little timid nod and staying still as he leaned forwards to remove the gag.

"You're safe now, do you know why?" He grinned, tossing the gag aside and pointing at himself. "Because I'm here now!"

Unfortunately, the cheesy line was less than effective, because she just swallowed and replied in a language that he didn't understand. "...~~, ~~ ~~~~~, ~ ~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~."

He replied with a furrowed brow and frown, reaching up to scratch at the side of his head in a manner that clearly indicated his confusion, before shrugging. He glanced over at the impaled goblin, reaching over to draw one his crude iron knife out of its sheath, then returned his gaze to the woman and made a gesture of 'can i?' at her bindings.

She stared at the knife, then at his face, before giving a sharp nod and wiggle. He stepped closer to start carefully sawing away at her ropes, gently pulling them away as they came loose and freeing the captive. After a minute or so of work, she was loosened and rubbing at her wrists, still staring at him with nervous eyes.

He smiled, pulling back and standing up again, snatching his helm and putting it back over his head as he did. He looked around at the corpses, giving a deliberate look at the crude leather bags that they were carrying, and the little jackets of thin iron lamellar.

He turned back to the little horned woman, before raising a single finger in a 'one minute please' gesture.

—

Packs laden with loot were often low on supplies, as the adage of the honorable Ancestor went. It was fortunate that supplies and loot were the same thing for him right now, because he was still out of pretty much anything that wasn't on his person yesterday. He took two bags of supplies from their corpses, and left his ironwood spear in payment. Mostly because he really didn't feel like pulling it out and washing it off afterwards.

His newest companion, still smelling vaguely of urine and shooting him the occasional nervous glance, took one bag for herself, and picked out things that weren't too close to any corpse-bit before accepting his offered hand and being led back to the river to wash up and get going.

"Rock." He said, pointing at the stone in question as they moved along the riverbank, down towards the inevitable civilization that would appear at the end. There was always some kind of settlement somewhere along a river, rivers had everything that people needed in order to live.

"~~~." She replied promptly, adding another word to his vocabulary. It was something of a game to facilitate their ability to communicate, a cousin of 'I spy'. She was clever enough to have picked up on his intention relatively quickly, and it was a good way to pass the time. She pointed at one of the trees, repeating a word from earlier. "~~~~."

"Tree." Elvish was a rather tricky language to get right, lots of abstract rules and flowing grammar that changed depending on context and formality, but undeniably beautiful in end result. It was doubtlessly the language of assholes who had entirely too long to learn all the little rules and edge-cases and thought themselves better than everyone else, namely Elves. He pointed at the river. "River."

"~~~~~~." She replied with a nod, before glancing up at him hesitantly. She raised a hand to pat at her chest in a self-referential manner. "Dura." She spoke, clearly introducing herself.

He tilted his head, raising a hand to point at her. She was much shorter than him, standing at eye level with his belly-button, so every conversation was him literally looking down on her. "Dura?" He asked for confirmation.

She nodded, and repeated the name with another pat of her ample chest. "Dura."

"Dura." He repeated with an understanding nod. Briefly, he considered introducing himself with his actual name, but he had already been considering this for the past few years now. If he went around calling himself Rasil of Greenwood, it would just be that much easier for the people back home to track his movements and eventually find him. That would just be unnecessary trouble.

He could avoid a lot of that trouble by simply deciding on a new name for himself.

He had thought about that particular issue for many months, rolling over choices in his mind as he debated symbolism and meanings and other such factors. Eventually he decided that he would pick a name that meant nothing here, something to himself, and was very easy to remember. With that settled, he had the perfect name prepared for his new life.

With a smile, he raised a hand to pat at his own chest, covered in plates of ironwood and varnished into a dark brown.

"Mallorn."

"Malorn?"

He shook his head. "Mal-Lorn."

"Mal-lorn?" She tried again, brows furrowing. He nodded in a jolly manner, returning his gaze back to the riverbank-way and waiting for her to name something else. Maybe find a cool rivercrab to boil and munch on tonight with the goblinpot he took. If nothing else he could alway go fishing again, and it would be easier to cook more with another person helping him out.

Delicious rivercrab ov'r a delightful little campfire, what more could he ask for?

Later that night, he would discover that boiled rivercrab was actually kinda gross.

—

Mallorn

A mere five days after leaving the Greenwood, and two days after rescuing Dura from the group of goblin kidnappers, the first proper civilization came into sight along the riverbank. A logging town by the looks of it, with great sawmills constructed along the river and the occasionally felled log along their path leading to it. Modest farms, basic watermills, a little stone wall, and most importantly of all- actual roads.

Sure, they were basic packed dirt and nothing else, but they were absolutely enthralling to step upon. Wonder, beautiful indicators of mass and consistent overland travel leading from a fishing dock up the river all the way down to the charmingly quaint township and its brightly colored red and yellow banners.

"Dura talk." His shortstack companion declared, looking up at him and asserting herself with some slightly recovered confidence.

"~~~." He replied with the word that either meant 'good' or 'yes'. He wasn't quite sure yet, and either would function in this context. Her smell and mood had improved substantially over the past two days, frequent scrubs in the river followed by being dried out in front the fire, his dark green cloak lent out to cover her up while her silks and laces were drying.

He was fairly certain that she was reasonably wealthy, from the quality of her clothing, but it was hard to tell with how much he had grown used to seeing elves in luxury silks as daily wear. When you had years and years to afford new products, and you never actually changed in overall proportion, eventually all of your clothes become exceptionally high quality through buying them from exceptionally talented local seamstresses who made clothes as a hobby and has been for the last eight-hundred years.

With that in mind, he was hard pressed to actually determine the level of quality of anything around him other than 'worse than his old home'.

Seeing so much lovingly-made but crude products around added a great deal of rustic charm, and he could hardly contain his excitement as they approached the outer gates of the little logging village.

Logging meant sawmills. Sawmills meant steel. Steel meant blacksmiths.

Which meant he could finally pawn off all this elven and goblin shit and finally buy some good steel.

Pep in his step, Mallorn cheerfully followed Dura.Last edited: Feb 1, 2025 Like ReplyReport Reactions:gokuchiefkarkat, HavocOrder0999, Hope Bones5 and 2,100 others