The sun was high in the cloudless pale blue sky, sending merciless waves of heat across the dry, cracked plains of the desertland. Few animals lived on the blistering hot surface; most were nestled comfortably in the cool sand deep below or under shady rocks, protected from the harshness of the sun. However, one tribe, nothing like the native wildlife, felt the desert to its full extent. The Engwa'mor was a shameful caricature of their mother race, which lived among lush rivers and forests in the Elven Homeland that they, for two centuries forced themselves to forget. Living in secrecy, their burning feet and backs were the testimony to the years they spent banished in a place where no Elf was ever meant to linger.
Crouched over the wide stone bowl of their most precious and scarce resource, Maeve Thalion slowly filled the liquid into a glass flask. Each household was granted only a single flask each week, but this had been the third time she visited the fountain in five days. As she watched the water slowly enter the glass, physic tendrils of anger radiated off her being. Were this next flask and the others she had taken only to be wasted? Could any hope be transferred from the warm stagnate pool to a being already immersed in unyielding death? Pushing a strand of sleek black hair behind a delicately pointed ear, Maeve rose and left the shade of the water-tent.
As she walked across the hot desert sand to her destination, flask in hand, others, like her, observed her casually. They stood beside tents and stands similar to the one that Maeve had just exited, made of faded, ragged cloth, thin enough to ripple as the hot winds moved against it. These figures, once pale and fine, were tanned by the sun and weakened, for the energy to withstand these sweltering days usurped their immortal strength and wore upon their lithe bodies. Yet they remained regal and stoic, blooms in the lifeless sand and their grace was eternal. After a short walk, Maeve reached her tent and pushed aside its cloth door.
"I do not need another flask." A soft voice said in its native language as it saw Maeve enter and bright sunlight momentarily filled the area. "Leave the nen to those who are not soon to enter into the hands of The Powers."
"Naneth, drink." Maeve replied, more commanding than gentle, as she kneeled beside the sleeping mat and lifted the flask to her mother's cracked lips. Laurea Thalion turned her head to the side, refusing the water. In her present state, the small gesture was all she could manage, and she expected her daughter to obey it.
Maeve stared at her mother’s body, the Lady now thin, fragile, and silent, a living embodiment of their entire race. Memories of her beautiful, fair haired, laughing mother pushed their way to Maeve’s consciousness. The anger and sadness inside her was equally enflamed and she erupted, throwing the full flask against the hard ground. “You will not die!” Maeve screamed, her heart beating in rage as pain behind her eyes burned with unshed tears. She could not hold the tears for long and soon, they came flooding down her cheeks and neck. Ashamed, she buried her face in her hands and wept, unbelieving that she was able to weep even more than she already had in the past week. Stroking Maeve's hair, Laurea let her daughter cry and a serene, understanding smile graced the bony, but still beautiful face. When the tears stopped, Laurea gently pushed the barrier of Maeve’s mind. It is my time. There is nothing in this life I regret. She paused, suddenly very serious, but still gentle and calm. You must promise that this will not turn you and that you will stay in the Light. Please, my daughter, promise me…
Seven young elves formed a half circle around the leaders of the Engwa’mor tribe at the edge of their territory. All had gathered two hours prior and before that, the young elves had said their farewells to the families they would soon be leaving; it had been known to them for four months that they had been chosen to travel beyond their borders. After much debate among the council of leaders, a conclusion had been met. The restrictions of their banishment would be temporarily broken in order to send seven of their strongest (the same number of beings that made up The Powers) to find any help that their paths lead them to. While it worried the group of old elves beyond all belief, they knew it had to be done in order for their race to survive – the desertland was slowly stealing away their immortality and it was unknown how much longer they would last. Careful, specific rules had been given to the seven chosen elves on the eve of their departure. After two hours instruction Oden Niamrath, their principal leader, gave them their final direction.
"Do not take a single step into Elvish territory." Niamrath said gravely. The night wind blew his thin blond hair across his face. "If you are discovered there, you will be destroyed, and all of our people may soon follow you."
The young elves nodded solemnly, absorbing each word given to them by their elders. It was already far past sun down and the stars shone on the dark canvas of sky, eager to be the bright sentinels of each individual path. Stepping forward, seven elders met with the seven youths and gave them each a small pack of items that would help them on their journeys, mostly old clothing saved from before their exile and healing supplies. All that was left was the final farewell, where Niamarth would travel down the line and give each elf the most personal piece of advice that he’d garnered from studying their physic souls during the four months after they had been chosen. It went on like that until only one of the seven remained in the territory.
Approaching Maeve Thalion, Niamrath placed a hand on either of her shoulders and spoke to her mind, as he had done with the last six.
Young one, you have grown old so fast. You ask the world often, what use are all these rituals of religion when tragedy still strikes in the center of the heart with a poison-tipped arrow? Pain is a common, terrible thing, but passes with the application of faith. Let the Powers guide your quest and your soul will heal. Resist the Darkness, for what is unexplored does not necessarily hold truth. Go in peace.
With his advice dispensed, Niamrath kissed Maeve’s forehead, then lips – the traditional Elvish farewell when one was not expected to be seen again for a long period of time. As their physic selves momentarily touched, Niamrath felt what he hoped to have not, tinges of anger and hate that had not vanished despite the attempts of elders to keep this powerful young elf on the correct path. The moment he’d sensed the dark emotions that Maeve had worked so hard to conceal, she savagely severed their physic link and pulled away from him. Niamrath did not try to stop her as she turned and began the journey away from home, only watched with sad eyes, hoping that their decision to send her had not been an unwise one.
***
A vast stretch of desert lay between the Engwa’mor territory and the realms beyond it. Maeve had trekked it dutifully, not stopping for three days. Her strong legs lead her toward the destination that was set in her mind ever since her mother’s dying breath. The embrace of obsession was comforting and cool; it kept her grief where she wanted it – stored away until it could be used to fuel aggressive desires. Whether heat or a momentary loss of sanity drove her, Maeve let her laughter fill the empty desertland, knowing that she was completely alone. The ideas coursing through her brain were drastic and even a bit melodramatic, but that made them all the more attractive. Now that she was free, who was to stop her from finally getting the vengeance that she so deeply craved?
Bending near the ground, Maeve used her long fingernails to scratch a circle in the sand. Inside the circle she wrote in Elvish, “Sweet Darkness, I offer thee a Blood Oath”. Gingerly, she brought her left wrist to her mouth and broke the tender flesh with her teeth, releasing dark red liquid and allowing it to flow into the circle. Maeve closed her eyes and reached her inner core, relishing the feeling of pain as her blood was absorbed by the earth. I swear upon with my lifeblood, that my people will be avenged with blood more pure and immortal than my own. I will not return to this land until this promise has been made true. Another moment of silence, then Maeve roughly moved her arm away from the circle, fighting against the pull of the earth, which meant that her oath had been acknowledged. Arising stiffly, Maeve took one final look behind her then continued in the direction of the country of the elves.
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