Sunlight And Shadow

Ozixa Firetwister. Even one breath of the name caused the shadows to shiver and press their eclipsed faces to the chill comfort of stone and those of weaker wills to quail as they drained of pallor like the surface moon. His was a mind as sharp and lethal as the double edge of a sword forged by treachery, tempered and twisted that way by the unmerciful hands of an aging Fate whose mocking laughter rang still in the obsidian tips of his ears. He had always been a creature of darkness, had always served the secrecy of shadow and flame. He loathed the stark brightness of light, loathed the way it revealed every flaw and misdeed. He haunted the night because he was ill suited to the day, because he those he despised were pale and unearthly and strange, but yet was fair and lovely and strong, a half-mortal illusion of finery that the sun loved. His lips curled at the very whisper of a thought of them. Surface dwellers. Pale, pathetic beings as blind to shadows as they were to the truth. His true clan name was not, if truth was to be spoken in an otherwise deceitful city, Firetwister. It was the sole trace of identify left to him, after the last whisper of his clan’s name had faded from both legend and memory. He kept it in a gesture of defiance after he had been Embraced by the esteemed House of Silverbreaker. Such a gesture would have claimed the life of a lesser Elf than he. That he still lived was a marvel indeed to the rest of his kin and kith, who were not famed for their mercy. Yet his defiance greatly amused Lady Silverbreaker, and thus the willful male yet lived.

Other members of the House murmured behind dark palms and into forgotten corners that she grew soft in her age, though none dared utter such sentiments in her presence, for her wrath and retribution were at once as swift and terrible as the strike of an irate cobra. Ozixa grinned wide in the enfolding dark. It was her own pride and folly that would be her downfall. He labeled her a fool for not ridding herself of him when he had been at her mercy; her hesitation would cost her devious heart. And he intended to be the one to rip its still-pulsing crimson form from her chest. He laughed then, a sudden, violent sound that made his mount cast up its head in alarm, giving tongue to its fear in a harsh, grating honk that ended in a serpentine rasp. He rarely laughed. Few had heard the sound only sporadically in recent years, and although its loveliness once made his potential mate’s breath catch painfully in his throat with wanting, it made those who heard it now not wish to hear it more, for all the mirth was gone from its ringing tones, leaving only a feeling of malice and the scent of death, that chilled the marrow of all who heard it. It had not always been thus. Once he had been the fourth son of his House, youthful and carefree, almost retaining childlike mannerisms. Not even the shell of that youth remained now, and the dead walked behind his eyes, to his everlasting pleasure.

His eyes glittered in a dangerous fashion, ashine with a feral, fey light. They could almost be considering striking, where they not so eerie and off-putting to whomever he trained them upon. His left was light lavender, while the right was a deep jade. His scaled mount bobbed its head up and down in a nervous fashion, having picked up upon it’s master’s black mood as well as the sudden, idle chatter of rocks as they tumbled wantonly in the depths. His eyes narrowed. “Nani gai…?” He snarled, gripping the reins of the protesting lizard and jerked upon them harshly, leading the stubborn creature deeper in the shadows. At first, he was puzzled by the source of the disturbance, as nothing met his questing gaze. Nothing, save for a crimson haze that indicated the pulsing heart of a living creature. With a low growl of malice, he seized the being by its wispy hair, drawing, much to his satisfaction, a pained keen from the small form. He blinked, taken aback. It was pale, as pale as the florescent mushrooms that grew beneath the earth. It smelled of rich, dark loam and its hair still lingered with the warmth of the sun’s touch. A wood Elf, doubtless. How in the nine hells had she gotten down here? He wondered. But his concern vanished in the haze of his grin. The young Elf child shrilled, speaking in lilting, rapid tones that he could not comprehend, though it was evident by the way it cowered so and hid it’s face behind it’s hands that it was frightened…and imploring him not to hurt it. Her, he corrected himself, without truly meaning to.

And now she wept. He hissed. Weakness was not to be tolerated. He had learned this at the age of 200, and most painfully, curtsey of lady Silverbreaker. He struck her then. Hard, across her face. She was so shocked by the unexpected brutality that she ceased crying almost immediately. She, who was used to tender gazes and kinder words, did not understand why an Elf would treat her so. So she tried again. “Heniach nin? Im vanwa. Anírach le help nîn?” She implored, hopeful. But she might as well have been cursing him to the blackest pit of hell for all he understood. “Shut up!” He snapped, and made as it to strike her again. She promptly sank her teeth into his hand. “Amonta de’ Toya!” He yelped. He then gave a savage yank of her hair, dragging her after him and tossing her on the back of the lizard, vaulting nimbly after her. With a slap of the reins, the lizard lurched off into the shadows in a loping, awkward gait that caused the small child to cling to his slender waist, much to his annoyance. He was resolved with what to do with her. He’d take her to lady Silverbreaker as a false peace offering, to quell her suspicions she had about him. It would only further his gains-as the more favor he gained with her, the closer he could get to her-as close as males were permitted-and one day, when the time was ripe, he would kill her as surely as she would kill the small Woof Elf youth.

“Garich I dhôl goll o Orch!” growled the wood Elf sullenly as he reined in the lizard just outside the southern gates of the House of Silverbreaker and once more seized her by her dark hair. He chuckled. Though he could not tell what it was she spat, by her tones it dripped of insult. He hid a grin. She had fire, this one did. Fire that he would take pleasure in extinguishing. Or so he told himself. The structure itself was beautiful, in a macabre way, considering that the once ebon flagstones were now a dull crimson, dark and slick not with moisture but with the spilled blood of past assaulting House’s blood. The gates were large and their points tapered into a wicked, scythe-like point, all the better to impale those fool enough to attempt to scale their heights. Purple faerie fire outlined the leviathan structure, outlining its turrets and walkways, as well as the north, east, and west wings of the House. It was, by far, the largest House, made so in part by the magical fusion of conquered Houses. Ozixa hated it with a deep, loathing passion. Brushing these ebon thoughts into the darkest corners of his mind for now, he dragged the girl along the pathway, turning only when he felt a slight, burning sting against his calf, and the faint undertone of opened flesh as blood trickled from its ragged gap. The Wood Elf was not as harmless as he had assumed. As cunning as one of his own, she had stabbed his calf with a concealed dagger-tip. Not lethal, and therefore nothing more than a flesh wound and a mild annoyance. She had pluck. “ Teina, baimesu. Anata ikita tanio wao doi.” With that dire warning, he pulled once again on her hair, this time withdrawing several strands in the process.

“And where do you go, Ozixa?” Rang out the smug tones of an all-too-familiar voice. “I don’t have time for this, you eshai’du,” he growled. “Aren’t we the Ereiash’demma?” smirked Ranax, the eldest of the House of Silverbreaker. Ozixa made no reply but the indolent hiss of steel parting steel as he withdrew his twin sabers. Within moments they flashed chill and silver, against the flesh of the elder son’s throat. Such an attempt on his life was madness, folly, and was often overlooked within the House’s own. But he was not of their blood, and such an offense was quite easily punishable by death. Ozixa did not care. He had been pushed too far for far too long by this arrogant whelp, and it would soothe this spirit to know that he had removed yet one more thorn in his side before death claimed him. “Throw down your toys, little brother,” goaded Ranax.

Ozixa ignored him, and only increased his weight, however subtle, upon the hilts, until the twin blades drew a thin line of blood bubbling to the surface of the elder son’s neck. “Enough!” Rang out a cold voice from behind the pair. “Throw down your swords, you insolent boy. Show some respect for your elder brother.” “What’s the matter, Ranax? Can’t you defend yourself without running under mother’s skirts?” Ranax’s eyes narrowed, and he made as if to draw his own weapons, eager to restore some of his bruised ego. “K’th!” hissed the cold voice at his back, a violent, expected blow glancing off the side of his face. “Filth! You will obey, and you will look at me when I address you. Is this understood?” Ozixa said nothing, merely kept his gaze to the earth, fighting back the waves of resentment and hatred that threatened to surface. “I said,” began Amunet again, “is this understood?” Her fingers strayed to the whip upon her hip, fingers itching with the desire to strike the insolent male. “Yes….Amunet.” He said at last, drawing his gaze from the floor to the smoldering crimson eyes of the eldest sister. “It is well. I will overlook this incident for now, but put one foot wrong, or take up arms against your brother again, and I will speak to lady Silverbreaker. You will be marked for death, mark my words well.” “Tell her,” he replied, flippant. “What?” inquired Amunet, her tone once again taking on a lethal undertone. “I said,” Ozixa replied in steady, slow tones, as if attempting to explain the obvious to a very slow child, “Tell her.”

Amunet’s eyes narrowed into mere slits. “You play a dangerous game, brother,” she spat, as if this last word left an unpleasant taste in her mouth. “Your arrogance will be your death, mark me. And no one mourns a fool.” “Who is more foolish? The fool, or the fool who follows her?” He shot back. With that, he bowed stiffly in mock respect, before once more dragging the Elf behind him. “If you’ll excuse me. I bring a gift for….our dear….mother.” So saying, he walked briskly away, hoping to be long gone before Amunet could puzzle out if he had just accused the head of the House and those loyal to her fools-which would be a scathing insult indeed. Ozixa disdained to observe the traditional formality of knocking on lady Silverbreaker’s chamber door. Instead, he stalked in on feet as silent as death’s shadow, eyes sweeping the gloom until at last they came to rest on Lady Silverbreaker herself. “What do you mean, barging in like this?” Snapped the disgruntled Dark Elf. It was evident in her tones that she was beginning to feel her age of roughly 700. Almost before he could draw breath, he found himself promptly flanked by Anoset and Hathor, two of the most powerful young priestesses within the House, freshly graduated from the Order. Privately, he found Hathor to be rather striking. She was a full head taller than most females, and even surpassed most males in height, making her imposing indeed. Her hair did not bear the pallor of alabaster, but rather silver, a thick stream of it that cascaded well past the small of her back. Her features were at once as slender as a hawk’s, and just as equally fierce, and yet as well-muscled as any feline, with thrice the grace. Her eyes were not so much crimson as a faded mahogany. In truth, she was the kindest of the females…a deplorable trait that meant that she felt the wrath of her fellow sisters more often than did most males of the household. She allowed a smile, brief as a candle, to flicker onto her features as she caught his eye, before it was once more swallowed up in a stony mask of impassive, cold, silence.

Hoping to stay the eagerly twitching hands of his sisters and keep the bloodlust shining in their eyes at bay, he spoke in a hurried manner. “Forgive me, Lady Silverbreaker!” He called, prostrating himself on the floor, as if to make himself so insignificant that he could escape his sister’s notice and wrath. “Unworthy though I am, I come bringing you a gift. An offering of peace. I wish to devote myself to you utterly, despite my earlier insolence…I wish to be fully Embraced as a son of this House.” “Really?” inquired lady Silverbreaker, amusement and wonder mixed in her tones. “What brought on this sudden change of heart?” Because kissing your ass is the only way I’ll ever be able to rid myself of you, you hag, he thought. He ignored her question, but in answer, pushed the small Elven child before him. All three female’s eyes widened in astonishment. “A surface dweller!” they hissed. “A rare find indeed. Well done, Ozixa,” praised lady Silverbreaker. “I found her just outside the eastern tunnels.” Hathor, who had stepped closer to inspect the small child, leapt back as the child attempted another wild stab. “Aggressive as a troll in heat,” observed Anoset wryly. “She is…spirited,” agreed Ozixa. “I’ve the wound to prove it.” This last had no trace of bitterness, only a sudden fondness. He blinked, hoping that the sudden change of his tone had gone unnoticed. It had not. A malicious gleam burned in the eyes of the females. Lady Silverbreaker saw at last how to wring the last bit of the once gentle Elf and sense of self from the headstrong male. “I thank you for the most generous gift. The Goddess will be most pleased. Now…kill her.” Despite the fact that he had foreseen it’s coming, the emotionless order took him aback slightly. He blinked.

“Is something the matter? Did you not hear me?” Demanded the haughty female. “No. No, lady Silverbreaker, nothing is wrong. I heard you well.” “Then whatever is the problem?” “There is no problem, my lady. I simply had a thought.” “The male had a thought,” she repeated, to the sound of the derisive, scorning laughter of the females. “Very well. What is this ‘thought’?” “Rather than killing the whelp outright, I thought it would be best to slay the little brat and then attach her to the saddle of a lizard. The lizard would then be lead to the surface and set on its way. Sooner or later her clan will find her. What better gift to give to our ancient enemies than this?” Lady Silverbreaker considered his words. At length she broke into a rare smile. “That is devious indeed. Very well. Send the whelp home…as a corpse.” “As you wish,” he said, rising and bowing lowly, before snatching her hair once again and leading her out of the great chambers.

They did not halt until they were well out of view of the Silverbreaker House, and the lights of the sprawling city were nothing more than a distant memory. He seized the trembling, silently sobbing Elf and slung her onto the lizard, who brayed dismally. “Oh, do stop crying, you pathetic weakling,” he muttered, a slight grin on his face. He stared into the startling blue depths of her eyes, then, and found himself, almost without his own violation, wiping the tears from the corners of her eyes. Something within his own dark orbs softened, then, moments before his mouth hardened into a thin, grim line of purpose. “Yah!” He snapped, slapping the thigh of the lizard. The creature lurched forward, startled. Within moments it was heading up the steep shafts of the tunnels, heading to the surface with it’s odd call and loping gait. The child turned back to look at him only once. She held his gaze for several heartbeats, and then she was gone. With a self-deprecating snort, he smered the tips of his blades with his own blood, oddly thankful that the young Elf had managed to score his flesh. With that, he walked back into the city. And towards his fate.

Author’s Footnote: Below are the translations of the Elvish used throughout this chapter. Such notes will be placed at the ending of each chapter accordingly for your connivance. Note, however, that both Dark Elves and Wood Elves speak conflicting languages. While they spoke the same Elvish when both coexisted on the surface as the same race, when the Dark Elves were driven below the earth in the aftermath of their uprising and the war that followed, they evolved to speak a more…primitive Elvish than those that dwelled on the surface. Note also that, unlike with the Wood Elf dialogue, not all Dark Elf translations will knit together smoothly. This is because, as I stated before, it is a tad more primitive, and they rely mainly on silent hand-code. Therefore, Dark Elf to English is very rough indeed, while the language of the surface Elves is more easily translated, quite literally in most cases. Some of the Dark Elf translations will be off-they rely more on the emotions of the words…and I don’t use translators. Tolkien Elvish is my area of expertise, but I like to speak Dark Elvish, too. Also, I have placed the correct way to pronounce the character’s names, again for your connivance. I know. I love you, too.

Dark Elvish:

Nani gai?: Here, what the hell…?

Teina, baimesu. Anata ikita tanio wao doi: Careful, bitch. You live by my will.

Eshai’du: Literally means “dumbass.”

Ereiash’demma: Literally means “bad ass.”

K’th!: Here, ‘obey.’

Wood Elvish:

Heniach nin?: Do you understand me?

Im vanwa. Anírach le help nîn?: I’m lost. Can you help me?

Garich I dhôl goll o Orch!: Your head is as hollow as an Orc’s.

Character Name Pronunciation:

Ozixa:. Pronounced “Oz-ick-uh.

Ranax: Ran-axe.

Amunet: Am-you-net.

Hathor: Should be self-explanatory. Hath-or.

Anoset- An-oh-set.

Hemsut- Hem-s-ut.