It had been a nice day, before the screaming had begun, anyway.

Cozca had always loved forests, especially after rain. The smell of rain was heavy in the air, the sun shone in dappled rays through the leaves, the sounds of the birds and small animals coming out of their shelters to hunt or forage. Cozca herself had ducked into the forest, off from the beaten path, to escape a squall that had interrupted her journey northeast from the harbor city of Bel, and was happy to see forests again since leaving her homeland. She pulled down the hood of her raincloak—a gift from her father—and shook her head. Licks of her oil-black hair were already growing in their messy, haphazard curls and waves, despite her shaving before leaving home. She admired this northern forest; it was less thick with vegetation than the ones back home, but the warbling of new birds, the unfamiliar tracks, and the blurred silhouettes of creatures dashing in and out of shadow, partly illuminated by the broken rays of post-rain sunshine were exciting to her. As she pulled in another breath of petrichor, it started—first a shout, then the strangled, pained cry of a soon-to-be-dead animal. Ordinarily, Cozca took pains to let nature take its course. The doomed animal, however, sounded far too much like a person.

The realization took seven seconds, seven long moments that she cursed herself for letting slip by her. She broke into a sprint, towards the screaming. She was small for her kind, but was long of leg and light of foot; the former scout moved towards the wail, unhooking the ax that was kept at her hip, letting the weight carry her hand to the most well-balanced part of the haft, smooth and worn from use. Her traditional gaiters would have no traction in the wet soil; her dash carried her instead in practiced, effortless hops from root to stone to outcrop.

Forty arms out, she saw them, in a gap between the trees—some kind of wolf, gnawing at the foot of an incredibly lean person, who was screaming in a voice that seemed too guttural and deep to be coming from anyone so small. Despite the situation, a bit of excitement rose in her throat when she saw that the victim was an elf. She’d never met one, and could hardly herself for elation at her first meeting with one…but, this was hardly the time or place. Cozca shouted—the call that her father had taught her, that would get the attention of most beasts, a sort of “HA!” from deep within the chest—and prepared to startle or distract the creature, in an entrance that could be seen as badass even in the eyes of the most stereotypically jaded and competent elf. Instead, the creature ignored her, and it was only the elf who turned to look at Cozca, who was standing there, like an asshole, shouting at the wild animal that was now making a meal out of the elf’s ankle.

The elf, for her part, looked at Cozca with an impressive measure of disgust and surprise, as if she was seeing an unpleasant ex at a dinner party. Cozca had self-indulgently assumed that the elf was a “she” anyway—she’d never met an elf, but had heard they were pretty ‘loosey-goosey’ with the whole gender thing. Cozca started to approach the beast gnawing at the elf’s left leg; the elf, as if to spite Cozca’s attempt to help, pulled her free leg up to her chest—at first, Cozca thought she would attempt to kick the animal. Instead, and in one fluid motion, the elf pulled a knife from her right boot, and swung the leg down, using the inertia to pull herself forward, jerking the wolf-thing’s head down and sinking the blade into its exposed neck. The beast let go, struggling for a bit before the stranger ripped it upwards, severing its spine in one clean movement as the tension sprung her upwards. The creature slumped to the side, dead, before Cozca had even closed the forty arm gap between them. She jogged to a stop, sliding to kneel next to the wounded elf.

“You’re hurt!” She shouted, placing her ax back into its frog beneath her cloak.

“I’m aware,” The elf grunted in a ragged voice. “Thanks for…well, thanks for trying to help. Not sure what good it would have done if you had gotten it first. The viper-dog’s poison’ll take its course over the next few days, and I doubt there’s a doctor within leagues of here.” She said this with contempt and disbelief, like she wasn’t quite convinced of it herself, but was resigned to it nonetheless.

“Venom.” Cozca said.

“What?”

“When it’s from a bite or sting, it’s called venom. Poison is only if you eat it.”

The elf looked at Cozca with an expression that said something between “Are you really going to be that guy right now?” and, “I swear to all of my strange and foreign elvish gods, I will slit you from ass to navel and use you as luggage”. Cozca didn’t blame her, she had a habit of blurting out useless pedantic nonsense. In lieu of defending herself, her hand darted to the inside of her raincloak, lined with myriad little pockets and sheaths and loops. She quickly produced a chunk of a waxy, amber substance, a small tin flask, a roll of bandages, a dried, plain-looking leaf, and a hunting knife.

“Just sit tight, I’m a healer. Sort of.” Cozca said to the elf.

“Oh don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.” The elf said, wiggling her demolished leg a bit before hissing with pain. Cozca cut a chunk of the amber resin from the block, and unscrewed the cap of the dented flask.

“I’m Cozca, by the way.”

“Kris.”

“Alright, Kris. I’m going to neutralize the venom and close the wound, but first I need to take this boot off. It’s probably going to be…uncomfortable.” She said, wiping the knife on the knee of her trousers. She was downplaying exactly how uncomfortable it would be, but if Kris couldn’t handle the boot removal, she wasn’t going to make it through what would come after. The elf nodded. Her face was going pale—Cozca had to work fast. She cut into the leather with her knife at the tip of the upper, and pushed upwards, through the fine leather laces and up through the tongue of the boot. She didn’t exactly have an eye for quality, but these were definitely some nice boots she was destroying. She pulled the boot off of the mangled foot, and to her credit, Kris did not scream. She did however, groan a bit when she saw the shape her foot was in. Cozca’s stomach turned as well. The fibula had shattered, and a metatarsal was completely exposed; a sliver of white in a gushing river of blood that looked almost pink—whether this was a thinning agent of the creature’s venom or elf blood just looked like that, Cozca didn’t want to investigate. Time was of the essence.

“This is gonna hurt.” She said bracingly. The elf said nothing, just stared at her with something like a mix of reproach and gratitude. Cozca popped the chunk of resin and leaf into her mouth, and took a swig from the flask, chewing as quickly as she could while swishing the alcohol over the mix. After about twenty seconds of mastication, the amber resin—which had melted back down into sap—and the leaf were homogenous and mixed with the liquid. Cozca got closer, pulling the leg up to her mouth, and pressed her lips to the furthest end of the wound, on the shin.

“What in Benetor’s name are you—” Kris began, but was cut off when Cozca released her lips over the wound, and the mix in her mouth began pouring into the wound. She was screaming, louder than she had with the viper-dog on her leg. She bucked, and even lashed out with her fingers, raking Cozca’s cheek deeply enough to draw blood, but soon she was only able to sob, her body racking with each shuddering breath as Cozca worked her way down the foot, releasing more of the tincture into the wound as she went. When she was done, she pulled away quickly, spitting the rest of the mix into the woods and taking another swig from the flask, swishing before spitting again. Kris sat and watched the sap expand upon contact with fresh air, filling up her wounds with the amber-green mixture until the marks of the viper-wolf’s fangs were sealed up, and only superficial wounds remained bleeding. She drew in shallow breaths while Cozca produced a wineskin, and washed her mouth with water, before pouring the rest over the elf’s leg, the water clearing away blood from Kris’ wounds and the quick-hardening seal. She took another swig, spitting it out just to be safe. Despite washing her mouth thoroughly, her sinuses burned with the smell of turpentine and grass.

“Sorry about that, but the venom should be neutralized. We don’t have viper-dogs where I’m from, but we do have vipers. And dogs, but, not like those. Would you like some water?” Cozca offered the elf her wineskin, and Kris obliged, snatching the skin away and gulping greedily until the container was empty. She burped and wiped her mouth on her sleeve, which didn’t exactly fit the image of the ‘prim-and-proper elves of north’ that Cozca had in her head—but all things considered, she was in no position to judge a lack of decorum. She rose from her squatted position and replaced the items in her raincloak, before stretching her back.

“Benetor’s beard, you’re tall.” Kris exclaimed aloud upon seeing Cozca’s full stature.

“I bet I’m the first Sutherland you’ve met, if you think that. I’m actually the runt of my family.” Cozca said, with no small amount of pride. She was nearly six feet and nine inches tall, and the attention it had earned her in Bel was something that took getting used to. “My sisters are all at least a foot taller than me.”

“No, I’ve met Southlanders before. I suppose you’d pass for extremely tall Middenfolk, if not for your poncho,” The elf nodded at the Sutherland’s colorful raincloak. “Cozca, was it?”

“Yeah. Hang on, I should wrap your leg,” Cozca knelt back down and bandaged Kris’s leg tightly. “I’ll have to find something to splint it, but this should at least stop the other wounds from bleeding.”

“And I suppose you want something in return, Southlander? Your kind rarely do things for free.” Kris drew her right foot in, her finger at the rim of her remaining boot. Maybe it was instinct, or maybe she had forgotten that her knife was still buried in the viper-dog’s neck.

“We probably have a bad reputation up here in the Midden. Most of my kind who find themselves up here have been exploited by corsairs and merchants into becoming enforcers and pirates, so the few that you may have met not our best examples. Besides, the Sutherlands you find outside of our homeland have usually been banished from their tribes, so it’s no surprise that we’ve come to be seen as mercenaries, since the war.” Cozca held her hands in front of herself apologetically. “I don’t want anything in return, except maybe some information on the folks up here in the Midden. I’ve met the humans, orcs, and seen a pair of dwarfs, but a wood elf…” She gesticulated wildly with her hands. They tended to wave and flap when she was excited, and this was certainly no exception.

Cozca examined her patient with self-indulgent interest. Kris was probably more than a foot shorter than her, and while Cozca was built sturdy and zaftig, with fat and muscle and bone in equal proportion—“Just as mama made us,” her sisters would often tell her, something that irked her, because she shared no common mother among them—the elf was cut of lean, fibrous muscle, fine bones, and not a single pad of fat misused; as if a master sculptor had executive oversight of her construction. She was lithe like no human could be, with an angular, high-boned face and an aquiline, slightly crooked nose. Her brown hair was cut in a sophisticated bob that would have been impossible to replicate with a simple Sutherland shear. She had leaf-shaped, amber-colored eyes with a few dark brown freckles in the irises that looked like pupils of their own, and long, gracile limbs tipped with narrow, bony fingers. And of course, pointed ears that seemed to rotate and flick in response to sound, like a dog or horse. Elves were as beautiful as her father had described—more so than Cozca had imagined.

“Yes?”

“Hm?”

“You said you had never met a wood elf, then you trailed off and started looking at me.” Kris said, blowing a strand of hair from her face and crossing her arms.

“Oh! I wanted to know more about your people, but that can come later. I should get you to a town with a doctor, or at least some softer seating. I’ll go find something to splint that leg of yours, and here—” Cozca squatted beside the viper-dog and pulled the dagger from its neck, wiping it on her raincloak and offering it to Kris, who gingerly took it and sheathed it in her boot. “Just in case something finds you again. Don’t go anywhere.” She said. The elf rolled her eyes, but returned Cozca’s smile, if only faintly. The Sutherland trudged off in search of a splint, and Kris rested her head against the root she was backed into, and sighed.

 

The sun had already set when Fairhill came into view. It was a small trading post; a rest stop for travelers like them. It didn’t even have a wall. But to Cozca, it looked like a luxurious sanctuary. Her ax was digging into her hip, the walking stick she had found for Kris was slung uncomfortably in one of her elbows, and the elf herself hung onto Cozca’s back. It wasn’t that she was particularly heavy—she was much lighter than she looked. But some necklace that the elf had was digging into her back like crazy, and she could feel a welt forming there already, in the sensitive cicatrix of new scar tissue on Cozca’s back. The novelty of meeting an elf had more or less worn off, and it more reminded her of when she had to carry her great-grandmother to the river for a bath, except Kris’s breath was not nearly as bad, and the elf’s lack of relation to her made it feel much less awkward.

As they approached the outskirts of the village, Cozca caught sight of a hulk of rusted metal by the side of the road, choked with foliage and vines. A Leftbehind. More specifically, the corpse of a gargoyle. Its vital innards had rotted away centuries ago, but the ancient warbeast’s harness of steel remained; corroded metal three thumbs thick hung off of it in shabby plates where shoots of green poked through the rusted gaps formed by millennia of disuse. Vines had claimed the hole at the top, where its maw once spewed fire and death. There was a modest crop of wildflowers nestled beneath the sockets on the side where its eighteen horrible arms would have connected.

“Something wrong?” The elf asked.

“I don’t know why they would build a town so close to one.” Cozca said, nodding at the gargoyle’s carcass.

“They didn’t. The town just expanded, and now it’s near the outskirts.”

“They wouldn’t build within a league of that thing if they knew what was good for them.”

“It’s harmless. Just a dead old toy from a dead old race.”

“It could be cursed.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Gargoyles don’t carry curses—they were made by magick, but didn’t die by it. They likely just starved to death in the years after the cataclysm. If they were cursed, the plants wouldn’t grow over them.”

 Cozca shifted, adjusting her grip on Kris, gingerly securing her to prevent the elf from slipping. “Everything the Old Folk touched is cursed. I’ve seen Leftbehinds choked with plants. Why would anyone put down roots near one?”

 Kris pinched Cozca lightly on the bicep. “The carcasses are safe. Not only have I spent most of my life in the Midden, I happen to know an expert on the matter. You’re used to the nomadic life. You never have to set down in any one place for long.”

Kris seemed to consider the matter settled, and, not wanting an argument, Cozca continued carrying her into town, happy to get away from the baleful carcass of the ancient warbeast. They stopped wandered into the center of the village, and Kris hopped lightly onto her good foot and took the walking stick from Cozca when they stopped in front of a tavern, light and the sound of its late-night patrons pouring out into the street from the doorway.

“Alright Coz, since you were kind enough to help me out and carry me here, I suppose the least I could do is buy you a drink, as thanks.” She said, looking down to find her proper footing.

“I think I’m too tired to drink right now. Besides, you don’t want those wounds opening back up. Mierwood sap is good at stopping the blood flow, but it’s no substitute for stitches. You ought to see a doctor as soon as you can.” Cozca said. She didn’t mention how she felt about the diminutive ‘Coz’ being used on her; it was an epithet only her elders had called her. She then realized, with a slight pit in her stomach, that Kris may very well be her elder—Wood Elves could live for centuries, and still no older than thirty.

“Fair enough. How about I rent us a room and we see the doctor in the morning? Least I could do is make sure you don’t sleep under the stars tonight.”

“Deal. I don’t have any coin on me anyway.” Cozca said, a little apologetically. She had wanted to be the chivalrous one, but chivalry tended to require the capital of the Northmen who practiced it so tediously. Kris nodded, and led the way into the tavern, shrugging off Coz’s assistance when she hopped up the steps into the doorway, limping towards the bar. Cozca took the time to examine the room.

It was filled with humans, orcs, and even a couple of dwarves, who seemed to be crowded to one table or another. Orcs were new to Cozca—they had never made their way to the South, even as traders or travellers, and they fascinated her. They were porcine, with snouts and tusks, and their spade-shaped ears rested near the top of their heads, before the hairline and behind the temple, and swiveled to chase sounds, like a mule’s. They had large, expressive eyes and soft features, and their skin tones ranged across many spectrums—from the more human flesh tones, to darker blue and green shades. They tended to be quite cute to Cozca’s eye—chubby and soft and warm—but despite their wholesome appearance, they had a reputation as some of the best fighters in the Midden, going toe-to-toe with even some of her own Sutherland kin, and sometimes winning. From her perspective at nearly a foot taller than them though, she couldn’t help but underestimate them from their adorable exteriors. Dwarves were to Midden-humans as Midden-humans were to Sutherlands. Short, stout, with stony features and beautifully braided beards. These bar’s patrons were gathered around small tables, some of them playing cards, almost everyone drinking. The tavern wasn’t particularly big, but it comfortably held its dozen or so guests.

“Oy.” Kris tugged at Coz’s shoulder. “Third floor, room at the end of the hall. Has enough bed for the both of us. I’ll follow you up, just getting some drink.”

“Okay.” Cozca nodded. On her way up the stairs, she slowly realized the implications of sharing a bed with a wood elf. They certainly had a reputation, one her usually shameless father would carefully omit from his stories of the Midden. Cozca was nervous about the elves’ more…amorous virtues—in her twenty-three years of life, she’d never even been propositioned before, let alone shared a bed with anyone. She had however, pondered elves before. From what she knew, their low birth rate and nearly lifelong youth meant their…notoriety for promiscuity could have been inflated by the tall tales she’d heard from her father, the other Sutherland veterans she’d met, or the traders that came down to the far south for their treasures. If I lived 200 years at my physical and hormonal peak, I might develop a licentious reputation myself, she reasoned, reaching the room. It was the closest thing a place like this would have to a suite. It was at least six bodies long and four wide, with two bedside dressers, candles, lanterns, a desk and a very large bed. It even had a balcony.

She dropped her pack at the foot of the bed, followed by her belt, raincloak, and bolero, and sat at the edge of the bed, her hands pressed between her knees, nervously bouncing her legs with anxiety. She nearly jumped when the door swung open. Kris limped in, her makeshift cane scratching up the raw wooden floors of the room.

“Here.” She handed the Sutherland a cup of water. “You could probably use it after I drained your wineskin.” Cozca took it, and drained it in one gulp. It had an aftertaste that lingered on her tongue, and her nervousness seemed to dry her throat as soon as she had finished it. Stop being so anxious, you stupid virgin, she berated herself mentally as she set the glass down on her bedside table.

“Thank you, Kris. Are you quite sure you should put weight on that foot? Maybe you should lie down.” Cozca said in the huskiest voice she could manage, patting the bed next to her. The elf snorted, but didn’t argue, dropping her stick and pack next to her. Kris began to undo her jerkin, and Cozca felt a bead of sweat trickle down her back—shit, her back! It was exposed without her bolero and raincloak. She stood up and faced the elf, who was looking with bemused curiosity in her direction.

“Nice tattoos.” Kris appraised.

“Thanks…my father did most of them, when I was small.”

“Must’ve hurt.” The elf said, tossing her jerkin aside. She was wearing a tunic underneath. Thank the gods, Cozca thought, now feeling very exposed in only her trousers and halterneck.

“Yeah, I still remember the pain.”

“I’ve never had the stomach for tattoos. I had a butterfly on my ankle, but…” Kris gestured to her destroyed foot. “And yours are all filled in, blocky. Your entire arm, just covered in ink up to the wrist? Must’ve been hell.”

“It wasn’t that bad…” Cozca said. She swallowed, hard. “Do you…want to see the rest?” She said, again in an attempt at suavity. Her voice had cracked at the word ‘you’, something she felt like she could die of embarrassment over.

“I mean, su—oh! Oh, I see. You thought—” Kris made a rude gesture with her hands, then pointed to Cozca.

“No, no! I mean, well, I never met an elf, but…”

“The reputation of the Wood Elves precedes me, I understand. Listen, Coz, I wasn’t going to splurge on two rooms for us. My foot was mangled by a viper-dog, whose poison—er, venom—is probably coursing through my veins. If I wanted anything sleeping of the carnal sort, I wouldn’t dance around it with implications. Elves are not known for subtlety; not in the bedroom, anyway. Sorry if that disappoints you.”

“No, of course not! I’m a bit relieved, actually.” Cozca shouted. She was a tiny bit disappointed, but would never admit it even under duress. She relaxed a bit and crawled once more onto the bed that was certainly not intended for people of her stature. She threw the covers over herself, and, with a bit of wiggling underneath them, awkwardly tossed her trousers out from under them onto the floor. Kris snorted again at this, then got up lightly, balancing with most of her weight on her good foot.

“Get some sleep, Cozca. I’m gonna go outside and piss onto the street from the balcony. I’ve always wanted to do that.”

“Are you sure? With your foot—”

“Elves heal fast, I’ll be fine. Get some sleep, you look dead tired.”

Cozca yawned. She did feel dead tired. “Okay, good night.” She yawned again.

She would normally have cleaned her teeth with the bit of charcoal paste in her raincloak, but she realized suddenly how exhausted she was. She hadn’t expected to carry an elf on her back all day, and as light as she was, she suddenly felt quite drained. It didn’t take long for her to drift off, and dream of elf women with honey-colored eyes. It was a good enough dream, until the image of her father interrupted it, and turned it into a nightmare, as with all of her dreams.

 

Cozca slept much longer than she usually did, and when the sun finally became too much to bear, she yawned and stretched. Despite sleeping in, she still felt groggy and heavy in her limbs. She looked next to her. Kris wasn’t there. Panic rose in her throat, and she moved to get up, and stepped on something sharp.

It was a small twig, covered in tiny red berries. She recognized it as one of the ingredients she kept in her cloak. Her eyes took too long to focus, and when they finally did, she saw that the contents of her pack were strewn about, with all of her valuables missing. Her ax, her knife, her few treasures and keepsakes from home, even her precious raincloak itself. All gone. She looked at the glass, still on the bedside table. The sweet aftertaste the water had was still on her tongue. She scrambled to the other side of the bed. All of Kris’s belongings were gone, besides the walking stick.

Cozca scrambled down the stairs, to the counter out front, still in only her halter and trousers. An orcish woman was cleaning a glass at the bar.

“Heya. You sleep well?” She said, maintaining a friendly face despite Cozca’s wild demeanor.

“Yeah, uh, did you see an elf leave here, about a foot shorter than me, brown hair? Her left foot should be wrapped and splinted.” Cozca rushed the description.

“Yeah, your friend left ahead of you after she had breakfast, said you’d pay up her tab and the cost of renting the room.” The woman sputtered, taken aback by Cozca’s panic.

“Oh, no, no no…” Cozca muttered, taking a step back. Her world spun. It may have been whatever drug Kris had used to put Cozca out, or the shock of the realization, but, overwhelmed with the desire to scream, laugh, punch something, or run out into the street and look for the elf, something in her subconscious took over, and chose the most reasonable and uncomplicated option. She fainted.