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I look behind me to see Januzari approaching with our driver and the other guards. On the ground are several dead orcs.
“But we must hurry! I don’t have long…”
I look up at the features of my potential savior and realize that he’s wearing the same wicked grin as the others.
And I am suddenly surrounded by dark elves.
I realize how stupid I was to trust them.
2
ZEPHIRO
Imove through the wet underbrush, my every movement stifled under the crashing wind as my feet quietly disrupt vines and flowers. My stomach rumbles.
“Orcs again today, I think,” I growl. “Orcs every day.”
A low, feral snarl escapes me as I examine my surroundings.
The black midday sky obscures the forest, but my vision is far superior to most creatures. I can sense what they cannot, seeing through the blackness and the branches to see smells and outlines.
The thought of tearing into their tangy green flesh teases my appetite while also revolting me. I’ve grown tired of repetition – tired of the same hunt and the same routine. I want something different to eat today.
I’m so tired of orcs.
The dry, meaty taste of elves enters my memory, and I recall that dark elves are probably not going to be my dinner. They are far more civilized and collected than the wandering tribes of orcs, making them harder to pin down and isolate.
The challenge is so much more delicious, though.
They have much stronger weapons and yield magic beyond even my people’s understanding. Every encounter is a different spell or a different configuration.
All of it combined makes them the perfect hunt. I never know what they’re going to do. I love the mystery, even if I hate their species and would rather be rid of them altogether.
The wind picks up, bringing with it knowledge of my surroundings. I hear a river rushing in the distance.
“Potential prey,” I grumble. “Not orcs, but food.”
I need to feed. I’m not looking for a challenge right now. I’m looking for a snack.
My mind has become scattered and desperate. This sense of lethargy ruins the thrill of my hunts, disrupting my focus.
My jagged, spiny flesh effortlessly pushes aside damp leaves without a sound. I blend in well with the branches, my body naturally mimicking their texture, excluding that I am red among the dull browns and black hues of the gnarled forest.
In the distance, lightning strikes.
“A good meal must be nearby,” I grumble, reciting the poem from memory. “By the blare of the light, we eat well tonight.”
A lightning strike is a sign of good fortune and bountiful feasts. I need only follow it to find my prey.
I pause, and I sniff the cool, damp air. The scents are so much easier to follow when the air is wet. Traces of life that should have vanished sooner hang in the moisture, only aiding my hunt.
My eyes light up to the heat and aromas nearby me. A young dae grazes near a river, and I can feel myself salivating.
Pausing to sniff further, I see nothing in the immediate area, save for the scents of other nearby dae and the lingering orc smell that permeates my surroundings.
My stomach grumbles in protest again. I am not fond of dae as a meal, but they make for a suitable appetizer.
Effortlessly, I slide through the branches, my pace natural. I’ve heard some of my victims scream before they die that there’s a sense of magic to us, that we resemble their myths and fables in how quietly we move before slitting their throats. It flatters me that we might have inspired their horror stories and legends.
