Feather Light

Prologue

It had been a long winter in the Lymsia wood. The forest, draped in the ethereal beauty of winter, was a place of wonder and mystery. Trees adorned with glistening icicles stood tall, their silver branches reaching toward the heavens. The air was crisp, and the ground beneath was carpeted with a pristine layer of snow, creating a serene landscape that seemed untouched by time. Sunlight filtered through the frost-kissed leaves, casting a soft glow upon the forest floor.

In the heart of Lymsia, where the trees intertwined like old friends sharing secrets, the elven enclave of Ildale found its refuge. Elevated platforms and gracefully constructed bridges wove through the branches, forming an elegant city suspended in the air. The city was hidden within nature, protecting its citizens from the dangers of the forest floor. Enchanted glowing orbs illuminated the enclave, casting a gentle radiance that danced upon the snow below.

From the heights of Ildale, one could gaze upon the foreboding Ulentor Mountain, its peaks shrouded in perpetual mist. The mountain was a constant reminder of the looming threat that lurked beyond the borders of the Lymsia Woods—the domain of the orcish enemies. The orcs, fierce and relentless, resided in the shadow of Ulentor, a stark contrast to the elven haven.

On that particular day etched into my memory, a hush fell over the Lymsia Woods. The air carried a sense of foreboding as if the very trees held their breath in anticipation. I still remember the smile on my mother's face as she kissed me goodbye. She had gone hunting near the border. 

The enclaves were getting low on food and my mother had volunteered to retrieve more. My father, the Incycita, had protested of course, but she was too stubborn. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the snow-covered treetops, the Lymsia Woods took on an eerie stillness. The warmth of my mother's kiss lingered on my cheek as I watched her disappear into the forest, determined to provide for our enclave despite the looming threat from the orcish enemies.

The hours passed slowly, and anxiety hung in the air like a heavy fog. My father, the Incycita, paced nervously on the elevated platforms of Ildale, his keen elven senses attuned to the surrounding woods. I clutched my little brother's hand tightly, a silent understanding passing between us that something was amiss. We waited, suspended in a moment of anticipation that seemed to stretch into eternity.

Then, the connection that bound our family, shattered like fragile glass. A gasp escaped my father's lips as he staggered, a look of anguish etched across his ageless face. I felt the sudden void, the absence of my mother's presence. The link that had once pulsed with warmth and love now echoed with a chilling emptiness, and my heart sank.

Tears welled in my eyes, but I held back the sobs that threatened to escape. My little brother, too young to comprehend the magnitude of the loss, clung to my side. My father's grief resonated through the enclave, a collective sorrow that seemed to reverberate among the very branches that cradled our homes.

It wasn't long before a single rider emerged from the depths of the Lymsia Woods, his steed whinnying and covered in splatters of blood. The air seemed to go still as we waited for the rider to emerge from the lift. The rider finally approached my father, his expression grim. The air grew heavy with the weight of the news he carried, and I braced myself for the inevitable truth.

The rider spoke of the ambush, the clash between the orcs and my mother. He recounted the valiant struggle, the arrows that flew through the frost-laden air, and the moment my mother fell. The look of sheer rage in my father's eye was terrifying. 

That day he changed. He became bitter and cold on the outside. On the inside, he was empty, a void of the man he had once been. That was the day I swore to defeat the Orcs, no matter what. 

~

Uldale, a towering behemoth of rock and ice, stood sentinel at the northern edge of the Lymsia Woods. The Ulentor Mountains, with their jagged peaks veiled in perpetual mist, cast an imposing silhouette against the sky, creating an awe-inspiring panorama that seemed to touch the heavens.

As the Lymsia Woods transitioned into the foothills of Ulentor, the terrain shifted dramatically. The forest's serenity gave way to a rugged landscape, where snow-capped cliffs and craggy slopes rose majestically. The air became thinner, carrying with it a biting chill that spoke of the mountain's harsh embrace.

The peaks of Ulentor seemed to pierce the clouds, their tips dusted with an eternal layer of snow that glistened like diamonds in the sunlight. Glacial streams cascaded down the slopes, their icy waters weaving intricate patterns through the rocky terrain. Hidden caves and crevices, untouched by sunlight, harbored secrets known only to the mountain itself and its inhabitants.

As I sit by the flickering firelight, the dancing shadows cast memories across my weathered face. My fingers trace the uneven contours of my battle-worn armor, each dent and scratch telling a tale of a life defined by the clash of steel and the thunderous roar of war. From the very beginning, I was the odd one among my kin, never towering over my orc brethren, forever smaller in stature. Yet, it was on the battlefield that I found my place, carving a niche with the weight of my actions rather than the brute force of my frame.

My older brother and sister, giants compared to me, always seemed to fit seamlessly into the brutish tapestry of our orcish clan. My father, the chief, shared a bond with them that transcended mere blood ties, their destinies interwoven like the threads of a well-worn battle standard. But for me, the outsider, my solace lay amidst the chaos of combat.

Battles became the rhythm of my existence, the only melody I ever truly understood. The clangor of weapons, the war cries echoing through the ravaged landscapes – those were the harmonies that resonated within the chambers of my heart. On the front lines, I became a living paradox, the smaller orc who defied expectations and earned respect through grit and determination.

It was in those moments of violent dance, amid the swirl of dust and the stench of blood, that I found a strange kinship with the elves. The very beings we clashed with, their ethereal beauty contrasting with the savagery of our conflict. I reveled in the challenge they presented, the intricate dance of blades and the exchange of furious blows. It was not hatred that fueled my strikes, but a peculiar enjoyment born from the intensity of the struggle.

Yet, as the years unfolded, the bitterness of the war began to taint my appreciation for the chaos. The reasons for the conflict, the ancient grudges that fueled the fires of battle, seemed increasingly trivial. I, who had once embraced the thrill of combat, now found myself questioning the senselessness of it all.

In the quiet moments between skirmishes, I often pondered the absurdity of our feuds. The very nature of our conflicts seemed to pale in comparison to the bonds of kinship and camaraderie forged on the battlefield.