Familiar Failure - Part One
26 Apr 2024 - Transcribed by Paul Turner
Artist depiction of the Land of Dreams.
Elara Taloneye stood at the edge of a cliff overlooking Spike Trap Fields. The wind blew her shoulder length dark hair, revealing her High Elven ears and fair features save for the jagged scar across her lower lip and chin. She could hear the tribesmen approach and turned to face them.
“Return the idol!” Demanded the man in front as he edged closer and brandished his spear.
“It belongs in a museum,” she called back.
“What? What’s a museum? It’s our sacred dowsing rod! We need it to survive the dry season. You have no claim to it!”
Elara smirked. “Finders keepers, losers. Time to fly!”
With that, she spread her cloak made of an intricate patchwork of woven feathers and dove from the edge of the cliffside as several arrows shrieked past her. She did four front flips before widening her frame to slow the fall from bone-crushing speeds to merely bone-breaking speeds. Elara whistled, a high and sharp chirp, and a shadow passed over the tribesmen who had moved to the edge to see what became of their quarry. The strongest of the men looked up. His future tombstone would have his last words carved into them as tradition dictated.
Oh fuck… -Some Loser Tribesman
Ironclaw, the giant raven, swooped through the tribesmen, crashing into them with his impressive wingspan, knocking many over the edge to their death. He let out a piercing cry as he flapped his wings and dove down lower, catching speeds which would have broken the sound barrier if he did not have such a high stealth modifier. Ironclaw deftly fell underneath Elara as she wrapped her arms around his neck. The two lifted into the air as Elara let out a shriek of delight. Meanwhile, half a dozen tribesmen were skewered by the spikes below in a gruesome display which would haunt any traveler who passed by their mangled corpses. Future anthropologists would argue over the origin of these malformed creatures, coming to the conclusion that they must have cast themselves off in ritual sacrifice.
As Elara and Ironclaw landed in Barrad, the elvish city home to the druids of Crimson Rock, she pet Ironclaw on the neck and whispered to him.
“That was so barking rad. We should totally get tattoos to celebrate another successful heist!”
Ironclaw let out a shriek in agreement and scraped his claws into the stone of the perch. Elara hopped down with a flourish and noticed the approaching figure of the Archdruid Gael Mossbeard. He wore a deep purple cloak woven from lilacs which had been enchanted by dryads to always be comfy yet harder to penetrate than the strongest steel. Judging by the look on his lined yet noble face, the dryads had also enchanted him with a stern look of disapproval. Next to him was what appeared to be a strapping initiate. He sported scars and tattoos across his arms, and looked like he never strayed from a fight. Elara gave him a careful glance, hoping to nab a better look later.
“Father,” she said, returning her gaze to Mossbeard and preparing for a lecture. Oh yeah, Mossbeard is also Elara’s father.
Mossbeard sighed. “Elara, my daughter, what news have you brought of your peacekeeping mission with the local tribes?”
“Uh, look I can explain,” she started as she showed a fresh hole in her cloak. “They fired the first volley, so old Ironclaw and I-”
“Enough.” His voice was like iron. “The winds carried news of your deeds. Why must you flaunt our ways at every turn?”
Elara’s eyes lit up. “I didn’t ask for this! You know I don’t give a bark about nature and peace. I want adventure! You’re the one who put me on this stupid assignment! Let me and Ironclaw do what’s in our hearts. We’re ready!”
Mossbeard sighed. “I see you mean to vex me on this matter. Fine. I have a new task for you, one you may be better suited to, if for no other reason than to prevent having the surrounding tribes band together against our city.”
“About time,” Elara scoffed.
“You and Ironclaw have a strong bond. No one here could challenge that fact. Therefore it only seems right to send you with our newest initiate to the Far Plains to seek his familiar. It has called out to him across the Land of Dreams, and could prove to be a boon to these lands.”
“Bark yeah,” exclaimed Elara. This initiate looked like he could keep up with her. And if not, at least she’d enjoy the ride anyway. Anything to get away from all these treehuggers. Like even there, from the perch of the Archdruid’s Citadel, she could see several druid initiates kissing trees. Some were even using tongue while running their fingers through the sap-covered bark. She wrinkled her nose at the sight.
“Freakin’ splintertongues,” she muttered. “I accept, father,” she said before turning to the initiate. “Let’s go, boy. You can ride bitch.”
“Elara, please,” started her father.
“Sorry. Boy. You can ride bitch, please?”
“No Elara,” Mossbeard continued. “Bloodscar will not be joining you.”
“Gods, even his name is cool- Wait. What? You just said this Initiate was my whole mission.”
“Bloodscar is the leader of the tribe you just met with, not our initiate.”
He turned to Bloodscar and made a kind gesture as he asked him to step aside. As he did, Elara’s heart sank. Behind him was the dorkiest and shortest elf Elara had ever seen. His ears were small. He squinted after leaving the safety of Bloodscar’s shadow, as though light was a new thing for his beady eyes to experience, and his round face sported a complexion more suitable to burnt casserole than skin. He sneezed and blew his nose into a leaf-rag.
“Sorry,” he said in the most nasally tone anyone had ever heard. “I think I’m allergic to natural light.” He then pulled out a makeshift umbrella and smiled weakly while sniffing. “That’s better.”
“This is Initiate Fwanklin, he will be your charge for this mission,” said Mossbeard.
“You want me to babysit some snot-nosed brat across Crimson Rock?”
“Even the smallest acorn can become the mightiest oak,” interrupted her father.
“Actually, I’m thirty-seven,” offered Fwanklin.
The three capable of reaching the top shelf looked at Fwanklin quizzically. Mossbeard cleared his throat.
“Nonetheless, this mission is most vital, Elara. It is why I entrust you, my daughter. And to be sure of your dedication…”
Mossbeard brought his arms out from under his cloak and flapped them three times. As he did, his arms began to glow with a green hue. The glow gathered at his fingertips, which became individual light sources. He clapped his hands together, which scattered the light into flakes which faded away as they spread across the perch. Fwanklin cowered from the bits which traveled near him.
“By the roots and branches which hold up our world, bless this mission, and let the bond of these two travelers be unbroken. If it should fail, let not the ground falter, but take my life instead.”
As he finished the words, a chill fell down Elara’s spine. He had spoken the most powerful rite, the Pinky Promised Rite of Unbroken Promises. She was honor-bound to his task, with the consequences all too clear. Hatred and bile grew in her throat, but she pushed it down. She looked into her father’s eyes, trying to sense any malice to match her own, but only found an earnest gaze in return. As always, it seemed her father would get his way in the end.
“Gods, you’re dramatic,” she said.
“Even the oak can learn from the acorn,” he replied with a smile.
Elara turned to Ironclaw, who had watched the entire affair with little interest. He sensed her approach and lowered for her to leap onto his back. Fwanklin ran up to the great raven, tripping over himself as he did. He paused before attempting to climb up.
“Is Mister Raven hypo-allergenic?” He asked.
“I don’t know what that means and I don’t care to learn either,” Elara responded flatly.
She grabbed Fwanklin by the scruff of his neck and lifted him up. He clung to her cloak for dear life and started shaking and whimpering even though they had not yet left the ground. Her father looked on and nodded. Bloodscar said something to Mossbeard as Ironclaw flapped his wings, lifting into the air, and causing Fwanklin to let out a small yelp.
“Elara!” Called her father. “The rod!”
Elara sighed and pulled the dowsing rod from her cloak. It had been such a fun morning, and now she felt the irons of duty clasp around her wrists. Golden irons, but irons nonetheless. With spite she aimed her arm, ready to throw the rod directly at Bloodscar’s face with deadly aim. As she brought her arm back though, Fwanklin open-mouth coughed into her ear. The shock caused her to drop the rod, which fell serenely into her father’s awaiting hands.
She pinched at Ironclaw’s sides with her heels and the three of them rose high into the sky. She thought she heard her quarry whining, but ignored it as best she could. By the time they had left the city, her anger had solidified into another brick. The Far Plains were to the west, and it would not be long before the sun set. If they rode through the night, perhaps they could be done within a few days. At least, she hoped. Then she heard Fwanklin begin to retch.
“Oh come on, man!” She said as she turned Ironclaw to the side. However, instead of leaning away from it, Fwanklin tumbled off Ironclaw’s back and jerked Elara’s cloak. Despite his light weight, Elara’s grip loosened and the two of them plummeted away from the giant raven towards the forest below.
TO BE CONTINUED