The forest to the north of Goranth stretched out like a living, breathing labyrinth of towering oaks and whispering pines. Their canopies were so dense that sunlight only trickled through in fractured beams. The air carried a heady mix of moss, damp earth, and the faint sweetness of wildflowers. It was a place teeming with life, birds flitting through the branches, unseen creatures rustling in the underbrush. Yet it was also cloaked in an enigmatic silence that seemed to deepen the further one ventured in. To those who dared trespass too far, the forest felt less like a refuge and more like an ever-watchful sentinel.
Somewhere deep within this verdant expanse lived the elusive people known as elves. They were not named so by their own kind. That moniker had been whispered across villages and towns by humans who glimpsed fleeting figures darting between trees or caught sight of sharp, ethereal features glowing faintly under moonlight. Stories painted them as ageless beings with eyes that glimmered like polished gemstones and movements so fluid they seemed to glide rather than walk. But beyond these tales, little about them was known. Their population was a mystery. Their cities, if they had cities at all, were hidden away in shadowed glades where no outsider tread. Even their way of life remained an enigma. Some claimed to have seen glimpses: delicate carvings on tree trunks that pulsed faintly with magic, or intricate woven fabrics left behind on the forest floor like remnants of a dream.
One thing was clear to all: the elves’ fierce territoriality. Never did they claim land beyond the forest’s edge. Inside it, however, intrusion was tolerated by none. Travelers who strayed too far often returned shaken. Arrows embedded themselves in nearby trees, or strange voices echoed in melodic yet foreboding tongues. Others never returned.
Currently, an uneasy conflict brewed between the elves and the Innland Inns timber mill—a clash born not from malice but misunderstanding. Gunter Blackhammer, the mill’s gruff yet pragmatic owner, sought to keep his business running while honoring the forest’s sanctity. He had once managed to negotiate what many thought impossible: a settlement with the elves. He had stood at the edge of their domain on a mist-laden morning, his broad shoulders squared and his axe conspicuously sheathed at his side. The elves, determined to protect their territory while avoiding outright war, had emerged silently, their forms slipping from the shadows like spirits made flesh. Their leader, a tall figure with hair like spun silver and eyes that glinted with ancient wisdom, had regarded Gunter with an expression unreadable yet intense.
“You come here not as conqueror?” the elf asked, his voice smooth but edged with caution.
“Nay,” Gunter replied, bowing his head slightly in respect. “I come as a man seeking peace and mutual gain. My mill needs timber, but only from this stretch here.” He gestured toward a mapped section of land he had carefully marked beforehand. “No farther.”
The elf’s gaze lingered on him for what felt like an eternity before he finally spoke again. “If you take only what you need and no more, we shall abide.”
For years after that fateful meeting, the arrangement held firm. The mill operated within its designated boundaries, harvesting only what they’d agreed upon. The rest was left untouched. In return, Gunter ensured that supplies, simple tools wrought by human hands, were left at the border for elven emissaries to collect.
But peace is fragile, especially when it rests upon the whims of many. Within the elven community itself, sects arose. Some factions saw even this limited logging as an affront to their sacred forest. Whispers of dissent grew louder until they became action. One moonless night, when clouds smothered starlight and all seemed still, disaster struck.
The first sign came as smoke curling into the sky above the mill, a thin tendril at first. It quickly thickened into a dark plume. By the time Gunter arrived with his workers in tow, it was too late; several storehouses had been set ablaze, flames hungrily devouring wood and supplies alike. Among the wreckage lay arrows unmistakably elven in design, sleek shafts fletched with feathers dyed deep green.
Standing amidst the chaos, Gunter’s jaw clenched painfully as he surveyed the damage. The flames flickered in his eyes, rage warring with sorrow, and his usually steady hands shook, fists trembling helplessly at his sides.
“They’ve broken faith,” one of his foremen muttered darkly beside him.
Gunter shook his head slowly but resolutely. Driven by his genuine hope for peaceful coexistence, he replied gruffly, his voice laced with frustration yet tinged with something softer, regret? “Not all of ’em,” he said. “This ain’t how things were meant to go.”
Since that fateful night, the fragile trade relationship dissolved. No more tools left at the border. No more gifts of finely crafted elven goods; the exchange vanished. Dialogue between Gunter and the elven leader became as distant as stars behind storm clouds.
Rumors began to circulate among traders and travelers, whispers of a town far to the east where humans still bartered with elves under the cover of darkness. Some claimed this trade explained why elven weapons had grown deadlier in recent skirmishes: blades forged from metals unfamiliar to even dwarven smiths and armor woven from materials that shimmered like liquid moonlight yet bore strength rivaling steel.
In Dwarvenhelm’s bustling forges and Goranth’s bustling marketplaces alike, blacksmiths examined captured pieces with equal parts awe and frustration.
“This ain’t human work,” muttered one smith as he turned over an elven sword in his calloused hands. “Nor dwarf-made neither.”
Another nodded grimly beside him. “Whoever’s trading with ’em… they’re givin’ ’em tools we’ve never seen before.”
Back in Goranth’s taverns, such talk ignited tension and stoked fears, the air thick with unease. Some argued for swift, vengeful retaliation against the elves, voices sharp with anger; others, hunched over their drinks, pleaded for calm and diplomacy despite the sting of fresh wounds.
“They’re protecting what’s theirs,” one old hunter remarked one evening over mugs of frothy ale. “Can’t fault ’em for that.”
“Aye,” another countered bitterly, slamming his drink down on the table hard enough to spill foam over its edge. “But burnin’ our mills? That ain’t protection, that’s war.”
All the while, deep within their forest sanctuary, the elves watched from afar, their motives hidden behind veils thicker than any mist that clung to their woods, and waited for humanity’s next move.