Darkin A Journey East - By Joseph A. Turkot Page 0,72
directly toward the sky, eventually terminating somewhere in the mesh of canopy above. Misshapen windows of amber-colored glass speckled the houses, and through the nearest one Adacon saw many faint glints sparkling, candles perhaps, producing on the amber glass fractals upon which the dew seemed to clump and respond, as if alive. Despite the mist, Adacon noticed it did not feel humid, much as a hot day at the farm would feel, and he could breathe as easily as ever. Yarnhoot and Wester unloaded their passengers, and soon the two birds were stepping together toward a nearby babbling stream that cut through the heart of the village.
“I’ve never seen so much green in my life,” said Adacon, stunned by the colorful vegetation that sprouted round the bases of the elven houses; flowers and plants danced amidst the floating droplets: deep crimson; bright purple; magenta; sapphire; pink and orange. Erect in front of the house closest to them was a wall of scarlet flowers, bent with dew in the cool midday air. Next Adacon noticed the noises; all around he heard not only chirping, squawking and squeaking animals, but songs: melodies emanated from the houses. From a distance, Adacon made out foreign chatter which he guessed to be elven speech.
“Music—it’s beautiful—twice before I experienced it, but never this sweet,” Adacon rejoiced. Remtall turned to him and smiled; sighing he released his waterproof pipe-satchel from his side, inspecting for damage.
“Good thing we’ve made it to the post,” Remtall uttered. A stranger, tall and lightly clothed, came out of the nearby brush.
“Because it is elven?” asked Adacon, alarmed by the sight of the figure who strode toward them.
“Because Enoa has few peoples that would care to harbor man and gnome in peace—and you seem to have lost all your weapons to the sea,” interrupted a booming voice, accented, deep and gravelly. Surprised, Adacon and Remtall looked to the stranger from whom the words had come. “We are pleased to welcome you to our fertile home, distant travelers.”
“Indeed as much as we are pleased to be on dry land for a spell,” Remtall eagerly greeted the tall elf. Adacon stood speechless; as customary of Arkenshyr he offered his hand to be shaken. The elf took and shook Adacon’s hand, and Adacon used the moment to study the elf’s foreign appearance: he had leaf-color stained skin—Adacon realized with a start—as if his skin was meant to blend with the foliage. The elf wore little clothes: a thin russet tunic hung loosely, falling as low as mid-thigh. To Adacon’s shock the elf was barefoot. His hair was raven black, like the whole of his irises, and his face was deeply carved from a slim symmetrical nose that ran its length equal to a scar along his cheek. His eyebrows were thin but long, and they curved a sharp point near their middle. Adacon looked to the elves ears, searching for the characteristic points as he’d seen in books: to his surprise the ears were barely pointed. Exaggerations, Adacon thought—though his ears were distinctly drawn back and away from the head, giving the illusion of a point.
“Forgive him—he was a slave, and has never seen an elf in his life, as you might have guessed,” Remtall said, covering for Adacon’s rudeness in having stared so long at the elf.
“Adacon, I presume,” the elf said.
“Yes! How do you know my—”
“And Remtall Olter'Fane, fair captain of the gnomen fleet,” the elf said, interrupting Adacon. Remtall and the elf embraced in a strong hug.
“We are greatly appreciative for your welcome here, though we’ve lost any offerings of gratitude to the Kalm, as you may already surmise,” Remtall said. He gripped up his flask and took a celebratory drink.
“Forget excessive pleasantries, as Krem the Vapour has enlightened the elves of Carbal Run to your task and purpose. And know that we, the jungle elves of Carbal, embark astride the task of sustaining your errand,” the elf replied. “I am Iirevale of Tuhrn Falls, son of Tuhrn.”
“Glad to meet you, Iirevale,” piped Adacon, finally breaking his paralysis. Just then, from behind Iirevale, strode forth a young elven woman, carrying yellow-white fruit. Once again Adacon stood dumbfounded—this time more so than before; he could not believe the beauty of the elven woman: her raven hair hung long, streaked of silver light, about her supple frame; glimmering bits of gold sparkled on her skin, faintly reacting with dew-streaked rays of the sun—but even bits of gold sparkled in her eyes, he thought, as he