The Tale of Sir Declan Snowborn

"Tell me..."

The light from the tavern's torches played across their faces, both illuminating and concealing features of man and monster alike.

"Child, have you ever heard tell of Declan Snowborn?"

The boy, in his early teens, it seemed, before the man shook his head, his eyes wide and curious. The hooded man smiled, leaning forward conspiratorily.

"Between you and me, it's best you haven't yet..." When the child's face fell, his smile grew even more. "...but perhaps I could tell you the tale. After all, what's the harm in letting you know?" Once more, those bright eyes were fixed on him. "Now, you know of the Knights of Teegee, don't you? Of course you do. Everyone does. And why wouldn't they? Those knights are among the finest men to ever set foot in this land.

 

They began as a rather large group-nay, legion, of lost men, brough to this land by powers beyond their understanding, and stranded in a world most unkind to them. Many of them died rather early on, when the snow and ice came, to the point where they were only a fraction of their former number. And still, they did not surrender to the cold of winter.

But one man...just a child, not much older than you, in fact- just a mere seventeen years- boldly spoke up amongst the death and the decay.

'I will not watch my fellows die a slow death, whilst I take food they rightfully deserve!' he said, and despite all attempts to sway him, he remained resolute.

'If the needs of the many must encroach upon the needs of the few, then let me be the few. I shall venture into the wilderness, and become strong! I shall be a burden upon you no longer!' He declared, and so it was. The others could not stop him, and he was much faster than many of them, on account of his youth and stature. "

The storyteller paused for a moment, his eyes closed, breathing in deeply, as if remembering days long past. When he opened them again, he continued his tale.

"But the cold was far crueller than what he had expected. Far more cruel than anything he had ever borne witness to, let alone experienced himeself."

"A week. A week, did he survive on his own, barely scraping past each day, until finally, he could find nothing more to eat, and the water he had found was running low. Wrapped in what was left of his coat, the young man sat himself down by a tree, blocking the howling winds from his face...and prepared to die."

The boy was staring at the storyteller with rapt attention now, unable to tear himself from the world that was being woven in his mind.

"But fate, fickle as she may be, was kind to this child, and unto him she showed favor, in the form of a pair of saviors.

Elves, they were. Elven women, no less. Runaways from two different enclaves, they had stayed together for safety, for fear of being caught alone. For as kind as an Elven woman is, an Elvish man is a bastard of a creature.

So, upon finding the boy, the two of them made the fateful choice to save his life, despite the prejudice between their races, and took him back to their hideaway. Not much more than a cave in a hill, it was warmer than the outside air nonetheless, and the fire they kept warmed the life back into him all the same."

"When the boy awoke, he found himself confronted by a sight he had only ever dreamed of: two elven girls, who did not look much older than he did-though being elves, there was every likelihood of them being older than he- one the shade of sweet cocoa, with hair of the same snow that surrounded them, and the other, as pale as he had been, with hair of gold and eyes like the sky.

There were introductions all around, and the young man thanked them for their kindness so earnestly, the two did not know what to make of him. He acted nothing like the humans they had heard of, nor did he act like the males of their own race, things they were most grateful for. "

"The young man, eager to return their act of generosity, begged to know how he might go about repaying them.

It was at that very moment, however, that an Elvish patrol, searching for the runaways, happened to stumble across the cave they hid in. The two girls were not learned in the ways of combat, but the boy was. Acting on reflexes he had instilled in himself since childhood, he leapt forward with a speed unknown to him, silencing the scout's cry of surprise, bringing him down to the cold and hard cave floor mercilessly. Caught unawares, the elf died as his head struck a stone.

The young man gazed in horror at what he had done, at least until the two elves explained to him why the scout was there at all. How, if they were taken back to their respective villages, or even just to one, they were be counted the male's property, to do with what he pleased.

These words steeled the young man's heart, and, taking the scout's weapons, he swore then and there that he would protect the maidens before him, until his dying breath. "

The hooded storyteller's grin grew even wider.

"And so began the tale of Declan Snowborn."

"The boy died that day...and there, in the blood-stained snow, was he reborn; filled with the fire of passion, and the frost of purpose. Thus, the name Snowborn.

The two Elven girls, Varya and Elleniel, accepted his pledge eagerly. He had proven himself in combat, to them, and his determination to repay his debt was strong. That night, the two of them truly slept peacefully for the first time, taking comfort in the idea of a protector.

And well it was that they did, for soon other elvish searchers neared, only to find their comrade stipped of his weapons and armor, lying in a clearing some ways away from the cave.  They drew their arms, but they were hopelessly outmatched in this regard;

For although Declan was no true or trained warrior, he had spent seven days and seven nights in the snow, and throughout it all, he had observed. He now knew the sounds something made when they moved through the white, however small, and how the light changed between day and night. The elves had not been -forced- into conditions such as his, and though he was weakened by hunger and cold, he could tell they were, too.  Their hunger made them distracted. Their fatigue made them sloppy. His hunger made him focused. His Fatigue lent him strength, as he pushed himself beyond his former limits. They had taken shifts, and relaxed, while he had been forced to take note of all he could to survive.

And that would be their end."

The Storyteller closed his eyes as he thought back to that day, forever seared into his mind.

The first elf fell with nary a sound, an arrow lodged in his throat to prevent him from making any noise. A swift hand caught him as he fell,  yanking the arrow out and using the sharpened edge to finish the job. Grabbing a dagger from that elf's belt, he spun and let fly, the small blade landing in the chest of another elf, who had only just realized what was happening. But before Declan could end this elf as well, he let out a cry of pain, grasping at the wound in shock.

The young man cursed, ducking into some shelter provided by a few trees, as arrows whizzed by his head, amongst shouts of anger and surprise from his enemies.

The elves stayed watchful, unwilling to leave the clearing, dark as it was.

And once more, it was their end.

Yet more knives and arrows took more and more of their number, this time from the opposite direction. He had doubled back, under cover of the darkness and silence of the snow, to attack them from their unprotected backs. And soon enough, only two remained of the original seven.

He would see to that.

Leaping from the branches of a tree, he landed and tumbled before one of the elves, a stolen dagger flashing in the moonlight, reaching up to embrace smooth, soft skin.

A splatter of blood hit the snow, seeping into the white and staining the earth, but already, he was on his feet once more, staring down the last elf.

For the longest time, neither of them moved, save for Declan's heavy breathing, and the Elf's own terrified gasps. The snow about the two was still devouring the blood of the dead, and the still living, he noticed, as he examined a rather large gash on his shoulder. A wound he had likely recieved from one of those first arrows. Turning his attentions from his wound to his foe, he narrowed his eyes and raised the dagger still clutched in his hand slowly, letting the Elf see the blood, still wet, upon the blade. He took one step...

And the Elf ran. Screams of terror echoed after him all the way back to his camp, which was, of course, empty now.

Declan let out a breath he had been holding, and, noticing the sun's rays finally peeking over the treetops, collapsed with a satisfied smile.

"Well?"

The storyteller was brought out of his reminiscing abrubtly, greeted with the sight of the young boy he had been telling the story to.

"Well?" He asked in mock confusion, letting an expression of puzzlement slip onto his features.

"Well, what happened? Did Snowborn kill them all, or what?"

The storyteller chuckled.

"No, no he did not. He left one alive."

The boy tilted his head in confusion.

"Why?"

"Because..." He leaned in, as if about to tell some great secret.

"Because he got tired." A new voice said, a smile evident in their undertones.

A young woman, dressed in a travelling cloak much like the storyteller's own, stood behind them with her hood off, allowing the boy to see that her ears were much longer than that of a human. Her pale skin and blonde hair seemed familiar, but it wasn't until another woman, this time with much darker skin, but hair that was somehow much more pale, arrived behind her that he pieced it together.

He whirled back to face the storyteller, his mouth agape and his eyes wide.

"YOU'RE-"

The man waved his hand dismissively.

"Nobody special. Only a bored man in an Inn with an audience." The wink he sent the boy's way spoke differently, however, and when he brought a finger to his lips, the child nodded, too excited to do anything else.

"Maybe, kid, you'll be able to meet a Knight of Teegee someday. I hear they're quite impressive to behold." The man stood slowly, the subtle clinking of metal on metal giving away the armor he wore underneath.

As the knight strode out the door, one elf on either arm, the boy heard yet another voice speak up outside the Inn,

"Are you three ready yet? You know I hate the cold, and I hate waiting!"

The knight's answer was one of laughter and playful teasing.

"Oh? But if you don't like the cold, why did you follow me from your lands?"

"You know it's because I lo-damn it, quit doing that!"

The boy merely sat back down at his seat, a smile on his face as daydreams of winter, and elves, and one lone knight played out in his imagination.