“So was there a point besides giving a headache to that damnable whistle?”

Here we are again, astride a galloping spider. Walleye pulled out some sticks for us to chew on but it wasn’t even that tasty wood that Raun would sometimes grind into our drinks during my visit. Cinne-min…how I miss you. I hope this doesn’t give splinters, I can’t cube splinters out, probably; honestly, I really should take some time to study just what the hearth my deal is.

That would take a professional or two I’d reckon. Wait Walleye’s talking focus focus fo-

“Elves can hear that whistle across from great distances so whenever we come across something time-limited we try to share as much as we can. That,” He’s probably referring to the bag I’ve tucked against my stomach, “doesn’t travel. At all. Had to learn that the hard way, lost a chunk of leg, and got to listen to my mates make fun of me for the rest of the season.”

Mates? Multiple? Isn’t that expensive? Yeesh.

“So we blow the whistle and wait for half a day to see if anyone’s in earshot. If so, then great! Might get some good trades, might get good company- few reasons to not; especially considering that elves are usually pacifists.”

“What’s that?”

“Means that elves rarely see the point in fighting; if an elf really hates you and isn’t willing to move away, then they’ll just assassinate you. No fuss, no muss, and nobody else dragged into someone’s stupid squabble. Honestly,” His voice gets a sour tone, “I never got the point that orcs and humans got out of their wars- seems like the only people that should fight are those with a reason to.” He grumbles.

Hm. That’s a stance. Makes sense I guess?

“Soldiers get paid, that’s a reason to fight. Merc-enery fight for money too, but smarter.” I pointed out but Walleye just hummed in response, the camp climbing back into view. 

The porters and the other small group of elves are systematically skinning the worms from last night, leaving them to dry under the sun as one of the porters walks lazily around the rows and spills what looks like grey oil-water-something onto random skin portions while Wood follows him with a brush to spread it without having to bend over too much. Sometimes it is handy to be smaller I guess; I still wanna be able to reach the top shelf wherever I go though.

Other people can be short just fine on their own.

The ground beneath my feet began to wiggle just a bit, which caused me to startle and get into a fighting position, my body low and fists clenched.

“You should probably keep your thumb outside your fist, less chance to break.” Walleye leaned down, straightened up my fist, and positioned my hand in a way that felt better somehow, “Good, keep your wrist straight and swing from your hips, like a swivel. Gets more power to your strikes. Your pose is pretty decent, but it would’ve been better if you had a tail for balance.”

I listen to his advice and then blink after a moment, “You can feel that right?” I ask, wondering if this’ll be like in the orphanage, where I kept getting weird looks in response to my question.

“I don’t feel it, but I can see our guests approach from…” His eyes scan the horizon and I look at his brush-dense eyelashes before squinting in the direction that he’s pointing. A distant dust cloud grows closer and a vividly-colored flag swings out from the haze, bouncing with the speed it is approaching the campsite.

Walleye is widely smiling before abruptly whistling a short burst, followed by a trill. One of the elves in the skinning group breaks away and rushes to one of the spiders. A bit of fumbling later and three poles are screwed together right as Walleye and I walk up to…them.

Apparently, that’s the polite way for humans to refer to elves they don’t know, but humans are generally considered to be something-something-something simple. I guess how he described it. Personally, it’s a little weird but no reason not to, honestly the giant spider riding is far weirder than what I’m supposed to call strange elves.

The strange elf in question looks different than the elf family I’ve gotten to know, skin a lighter shade of tan and hair like a wild mane made of straight hair choppily cut above their shoulders, rather than Cabinet and Walleye’s long curly hair that stretch down their backs.

The stranger smiles widely, baring dagger-like teeth at our approach,

“Boss ‘ey!” The voice is reedier than I expected, and the owner of the voice untied the bandana from their arm before unfurling it into a festive orange and red striped flag, with an odd branching blotch in the middle. Walleye huffed at the prominent- and somewhat damp- wrinkles before attaching the flag and planting it into the sand.

“Sybil, hold this still as I get the other posts,” He ordered, then after a pause, “Please.” He added.

I hold the smooth and hollow tubes, my thumbs happened on strange sanded-down bumps, nails plucking across the oval shapes.

“Tha’s from a jumper!” I also jump as a boisterous voice almost shouts and I look at the odd elf, who looks at me and smiles widely once again.

“You have sharper teeth than the others,” I observe, which prompts another dagger-grin and a high-pitched wheezing giggle. This dude reminds me of a nervous dog, so I hold out my hand like I’m expecting them to sniff it, which instead prompts them to engulf my hand in theirs before shaking their arm from side to side, looking very enthused.

“I’m Flax! I know ya didn’t ask, but it’s rude ta ask a name without offerin’ yer own.”  

My arm is still being swung side to side as Flax talks but that becomes ignorable and I offer my own name, thinking back to when I fantasized about getting a card with my name on it; still a good idea, this is a pain.

Flax abruptly plops down on the ground still holding my hand and I hear a patting sound against the sand. What the hearth is that?

I look around and see a stubby tail hitting against the sand in fervent bapping and tilt my head in confusion: yet another thing Flax has that sets them apart from the other elves. Flax sees me see their tail and just bares another smile at me when I look at their face with my brow furrowed.

“One of these ain’t like the other~” Flax said in a sing-song voice, which confused me further before they evidently pitied me, “Ain’t seen a wood elf before ah?”

“Why’s there more than one type of elf? Are there more than one type of humans?” Please tell me there aren’t, I’m already not doing well just one type of human- I don’t want to be awkward with more. Another high-pitch chittering and the flex of thin fingers around my hand before Flax answers:

“There’s more typa humans in that there’s more than imperials youngin, and more elves in that not every elf is daft enough to wander around in the damnable sand for their days. I’m a wood elf- that is my Vitan would be seen in the woods and eat deer rather than,” A notable sound of disgust came from the back of Flax’s throat, “Bugs. They tell me that ‘it tastes just like seafood’ or nuts or whatever but I grew up on an inlet and I know what both things taste like. Too bad other foods here are either damnably expensive or don’t provide enough energy.”

I’ve not tasted anything that gross, so maybe Flax is just being a weenie after knowing what’s in the food. Chad once threw up after he saw Raun make sausages from a childhood recipe but before then he used to eat them by the handful.

Maybe some knowledge is best saved for stronger minds. Let’s be gentle for this poor weenie, this poor weakling that wouldn’t survive the winter.

“That sucks. Why’re you here then?”

Flax’s ears drew back and they avoided eye contact with me for some long moments before groaning and slumping further onto the sand. They whine wordlessly before adding words.

“I’m avoidin’ my fiance!”