Artorian's Archives Omnibus

by Dennis Vanderkerken

  *Bapf*. The meaty sound of a hefty weight hitting the ground reached all their senses, and with a glance they could see a sizable doe. It didn’t stir, nor breathe. The full-plated figure casually kept her steel grip under its chin, effortlessly lifting it. An animal that should have required—in Artorian’s estimation—three to four full grown men just to pick up, was one-arm hoisted by the armored figure. Artorian deduced this must be a seriously powerful woman.

  Opening her free hand, gouts of Bordeaux flame spewed forth. Artorian went wide-eyed, gawking as a child watching a firework wonder. The flame sputtered before focusing. Raw power being controlled and conglomerated into the shape of a… broadsword? He knew this trick!

  This was Essence shaping, in some form anyway. The energy the armored figure was doing it with was on a whole different level. Nothing he had would remotely allow for an outflux of power that mighty, and his shoulders shuddered with a childlike mixture of awe… and fear.

  Artorian’s hands shook, momentary flashbacks of the Socorro War plaguing him. The memories fled away, though his eyes were glued to the sight of molded fire. Honest to goodness fire, solidifying into a set shape. The blade was unceremoniously thrust through the animal’s neck. Had it not been for the afterglow of the strike, he would never have grasped the path the weapon might have taken. Much less that it had moved at all. The speed in which the pinning stab had occurred easily outstripped his rail-palm attack, and he truly had not experienced something that could possibly have been faster… until now.

  Artorian’s academic mind was on its knees, ecstatically screaming, as its arms dramatically rose and dropped. The fire had not only formed into the shape of a sword, but remained entirely stable as she placed the creature into the bonfire, hanging the body over the flames to cook.

  With the flaming weapon acting as spit roast, the armored figure pulled an actual knife free. Using skills that would bring a professional butcher to tears, she took the animal apart like it was a work of music being deconstructed by a seasoned bard. Each movement was flawless. Perfect. Every draw of the blade sang without wasted movement. The display was an artform by itself, and all of Artorian’s enhanced senses were glued to the spectacle. Words Birch spoke went entirely unheard in favor of taking in the most detailed version possible of this… moment in the sublime.

  Time passed in a flash. The doe was processed, stripped, cooked, and served on a piece of hard bark. His mouth gaped, barely aware of his hands taking hold of the bark with finely cut meat on it. One of the Wood Elves tapped the bottom of his chin, and his hanging mouth snapped shut as he broke from the dazed stupor. His cheeks were wet.

  Dabbing his face with the sleeve, he wiped away evidence that he’d been profoundly affected by the entire performance. His hands were shaking as he lifted the bark plate, taking a hefty bite out of the surprisingly tender and well-prepared venison. The juices came to life in his mouth, and he scarfed it down like a starving rat, making all the appreciative noises he could as he lovingly choked down the delicious meal.

  Half a flank later, Artorian was sucking his fingers clean and slapping a well-fattened belly. He’d chowed down on meat, meat, and more meat! Birch had refused the offered meal, having mumbled something about preferring fruits and tubers. With a filled stomach and a relaxed countenance, Artorian tried to stand. He was so sore. His joints felt stiff, and it took both cycled Essence and stretches to loosen him up. He tried to get his arm behind his back to stretch it out, but an armored glove grasped him with surprising gentleness. The hand closed around his wrist as a weary, breathy, sleepless feminine voice spoke.

  “Not like that.” She was short on words, but effortlessly twisted and bent Artorian like a cheap marionette doll as he oof’d and ahh’d through what felt like advanced military stretches. His muscles were forced to their utmost in poses he’d never have considered, and the armored figure handled him with all the difficulty of a sock-doll paperweight. He was spindly, sure, but in her hands it didn’t matter in the slightest what he might weigh, nor how much stronger his body was by virtue of being a cultivator. He was powerless to resist the handling. That made twice today. Something made him feel like it might not be the last time this was going to happen.

  When she was done and released his foot from touching the back of his shoulder, Artorian wobbled. He felt rubbery as he got up. Even with some military background, he’d never felt so flexible in his life, and the added limberness was making him flop around on his feet like a fresh-born foal. Abyss, a fresh-born deer would have more stability than the improvised dance he was currently performing by just trying to stand. His muscles felt wonderful and his bones had never been aligned quite this well, but ooh-wee was it an adventure.

  “Better?” The Fire Soul was curt and to the point, and Artorian grabbed and hugged a nearby tree as he fell, catching himself to remain stable after the stumble. One of the Wood Elves tensed up, and flushed violently as their white-bark skin turned a solid pink. “Could you… not?”

  Confused, but not about to fight the matter when one of the Elves spoke rather than in unison, he managed to get to his feet. Upon releasing the birch tree, the Wood Elf in question took a deep breath. The other four surrounded her, keeping her upright. Artorian wasn’t about to ask what happened. He had a decent idea that Wood Elves might have connections to trees, and this Elf may have a close bond with that particular tree. As a potentially touchy subject, wisdom dictated that it was best to apologize instantly.

  “Oh. Yes, much better. Thank you, Fire Soul. Also, apologies, Birch. I didn’t know that would. Well. Yes.” He stammered out what mentally had been an easy apology, and physically turned out to be an exercise in how to embarrass oneself.

  “Ember.” The tired woman immediately corrected him. “It’s custom here to be called as what you are, but I prefer Ember to the Wood-Elven vernacular.”

  Artorian knew better than to do anything but what he was told here. “Ember it is. Thank you kindly for the meal, I feel much better.”

  Even though he attempted to be jovial, it didn’t trigger a similar response in the figure, who slumped back down next to the fire. The *thunk* of her helmet once again bumping her gauntlet knocked some soot off, but otherwise Ember returned to mute unresponsiveness. That was not the reaction he’d been hoping for. Still, work with what you have, not what you desire. He’d learned a plethora of things in quick succession, and it was all a bit much. That didn’t mean experiencing new things was over for the day. Clasping his hands together, Artorian faced Birch and asked the question that was at the front of his mind.

  “Right, then. So… who is Mahogany?”

  Chapter Five

  Mahogany was one beefy boy. Not that there was a large amount of beef on the lanky Wood Elves, but the simple fact was that both the Elves and the trees they were named after were stacked. Teak, Rosewood, Cedar, Alder, Banyan, and Pine were also present, each in a group of two to five Wood Elves ‘representing’ the name.

  Artorian hadn’t yet wrapped his head around how the name-to-people connection worked. The Wood Elves had an appearance similar to the referenced trees in question, but while his tree-lore was good, it wasn’t this good. What also didn’t help is that their conversations were either in a slow language he didn’t comprehend, or boiled down to intense staring contests during which only their bodies reacted.

  Teak especially had some wild facial animations while in a staring-contest conversation with Rosewood, who was keeping her collective calm like a prissy Princess. All five of her Elves’ noses were in the air while she took whatever message Teak was trying to get through to her with crossed arms. They appeared to be on extreme opposite ends of their invisible argument, and it mimicked their appearance. Rosewood’s lengthy dresses of leaves and luxuriously colorful petals were well-managed; Teak’s outfits were disheveled.

  The Teak Elves looked twitchy, as though they hadn’t slept properly in a while. Acting very high-strung in both their tone and stilted manner of movement.
Artorian had sat down next to a spent Ember, who was currently resting her head against a balled fist while slumped next to another bonfire. One she’d made in the span of a moment after they’d arrived with Birch. A hefty flare had erupted from an empty patch of forest dirt, and it somehow just kept burning. The Birch Elves had communally jumped in panic to escape from the spontaneous blaze. Most of the other tree types already present had no reaction whatsoever, clearly used to the antics of the Fire Soul.

  Mahogany was calm and collected in both stance and actions, entrenched in silent-speech with Alder. This had gone on since they’d arrived, and it was likely neither of the two Elven groups had noticed the addition of Birch, Ember, and one small human. Artorian twiddled his thumbs waiting on the various groups of Wood Elves, who spent their time having angry staring contests with one another. Given this was going a whole lot of nowhere, he tried his hand at striking conversation with Ember. He scooted himself a touch closer, and folded his hands.

  “That flame of yours. Was that by chance an Essence technique?” A grunt was his only reply, and he wasn’t quite versed enough in the Ember-grunt dialect to have deduced what that meant. Silence followed, so he pursed his lips and looked around for something or someone else to speak with. He would have sodded off to Birch, but those five Elves were currently surrounded by Banyan and Cedar.

  He groaned and rubbed his forehead in frustration. “This is giving me such a headache. They pull me into their forest for help with something or another, and then completely forget I exist the moment they can talk to one another.”

  “Common.” Ember’s half-asleep grumble-grunt turned into words. Progress!

  “As in, they do this often?”

  A deep inhale came from the armored form, and she raised her head up with a throaty noise that signaled she really didn’t want to be doing anything at the moment. The kind of croaking rumble one hears when they needed to wake in the morning, and it was clearly far too early for such Celestial Feces. With a whine of frustration, Ember knocked Artorian off his seat from the sheer force of exhaling the primal noise. Once she’d gotten everyone’s attention, Ember dropped her head right back down onto her gauntlet.

  Birch extracted itself from entanglement and hurried over, still in unified step as they each bemusedly smiled. They helped Artorian stand, and he noisily brushed himself off, getting the forest floor off of his robes. “Starlight Spirit, apology is given for our social customs. We realize now that the situation has not been explained to you.”

  The old man nodded thankfully; he had been a little flustered. Still, he pressed his fists to his hips. “Now, give me a moment to explain why in the future you should take time to explain first thing in the future. I will be as cordial as possible since you were kind enough to let me nap after getting my keister kicked all the way over the hill, but others might not be.”

  “First of all, we walked for days to get here, and the trip was as silent as an empty grave. Anytime I asked something, it was ‘answers will be given when we arrive’. To another human, they would have likely started fighting you, thinking that they were being led to their death… no matter what assurances you gave them.”

  He sternly crossed his arms, allowing his frustration to show. “Then we arrived, and off you went into staring contests with your peers. I’ve no idea what’s going on, or why you’re calling me a ‘Starlight Spirit’. Why in blazes are there four to five of you doing identical things? How do you lot seem to be able to talk without… talking? I’ve no idea what you need from me, and the last thing I recall before passing out is several angry bow users pointing arrows at me, their eyes blazing with turquoise flame.”

  “Another human would think that they were losing their mind.” His foot tapped like a rabbit on the ground, impatient and huffy. “I don’t know who Ember is either, except that she’s apparently the problem solver and caretaker of haphazard children. She is also the resident body re-aligner; and I’d even venture to say she’s a cultivator, but given I haven’t the Essence to have a look. Someone else would be furious at this treatment.”

  Mahogany had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “I… see. Well, it is a good thing you are so-”

  Ember rose a single finger without otherwise budging. A small orange-red lighter-sized flame *fhumped* to life atop her single digit, and the surroundings lit with more brightness than even the bonfire was putting out.

  “Thank you!” Artorian threw his arms up. Even the sassy reaction by Ember was more helpful than the whole mixture of all the plant people within this overgrown garden. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, needing a moment to collect himself.

  Mahogany became aware of their surroundings after Ember had done her thing. That congregation of Wood Elves made hand motions to their previous conversation partner, signaling they would hold their discussion for now. To get the still-distracted Wood Elves on track, all four of Mahogany’s Elves clapped their hands with air Essence-enhanced power, creating a shockwave that had Artorian press his hands over his ears. His head rang like a gong. Why did they do that? Surely that hadn’t been necessary to gather further attention.

  The four Wood Elves had begun speaking before he had a chance to recover his bearings, his ears needing some tending before he started actually hearing. He shot up a hand, and noted that the Mahogany group paused their speech as he opened his jaw wide, trying to get his ears to pop. “Alright. I think I can hear again. Would you please be careful with that technique? Had I been any less of a cultivator, that would have deafened me permanently.”

  He made a face, closing one eye while tilting his head, rubbing the opposite ear as if trying to get water out of it. “Abyss, that was loud.”

  “We shall begin again, Starlight Spirit, as you then did not hear us before.” Mahogany spoke with the depth of a Sultan, placing their hands horizontally as if in prayer. Rather than anything of the sort occurring, the surrounding groups of Elves each took hierarchical places within the vicinity. Distance and cluster-density must have had something to do with it, but the true details were obscured from him.

  “We… are Wood Elves. That is the most common term the trees hear whispers of when it comes to outsiders referencing us. In our language, we do not refer to ourselves based on the crude outer matter of our bark and bodies. Instead, we utilize a naming convention based on inner truths. Your name is derived from the star that shines within you, and the peculiar energy it embodies.”

  Artorian made himself comfortable on a fallen log as explanations finally began. He gave a nod that he was following, and folded his hands.

  “I, or we, depending on your perspective, are referred to as Mahogany.” The Elves motioned to each other to show they meant one another. “I am aware that it is common for humans to consider a person to be a single individual, in a single body. This is not true for Wood Elves, as our cultivation follows a vastly different path than the development of any other.”

  If Artorian had pointy ears, they would have pointed to the sky in interest. There was some displeased murmuring that died away during another vicious set of staring contests, but Mahogany repeated a much softer version of their earlier clap to return them to reality.

  “The human cannot converse as we can, so we shall keep our conversations limited to the mundane while he is present. We did wish for his Presence, and the very nature of our conversation creates exclusion when I’d prefer an extended invitation.” They returned to their communal gaze at the old man, who felt a shiver crawl up his spine at how many quiet eyes were all locked onto him. This was nothing like the eyes in a classroom. It still felt as if they expected something from him, but this time… he did not know what.

  “As a general basis. You will not find a Wood Elf that is not a ‘cultivator’ as you refer to them. To you, it is a method of longevity and strength. To us, it is a way of life. The murmuring you just heard was disapproval from those who do not wish me to tell you these secrets, but long debate has deemed this to be necessary. Especially
if we are to ask for your aid in a matter that haunts us. Birch has informed me we have used candles in an attempt to protect you from hauntings, and we hope you have not been poorly affected by the roaming blight.”

  While bursting with questions, the old man held his tongue. His hand was waywardly stroking his long beard as his interest continued mounting. When the Elves noted he was not speaking against the presented ideas, they continued.

  “The cultivation of a Wood Elf is not individualized. It is communal. Rather than to internally cultivate, as you do, our refinement Centers are instead present in a ‘core tree’ of a specific type. Once bound to that source, a Wood Elf will plant an individual sapling of said tree to anchor their growth. It is not merely our cultivation that becomes tied to this main tree; our minds do as well. When a second Wood Elf joins to the tree, their minds become one. The planted sapling is what allows us to differentiate when we ourselves are within the communal mind space. Those of the ancient civilizations had more… refined words for it.”

  The Mahogany Elves glanced at Ember for a moment—who remained in her lifeless defensive curl—with one of her raised fingers still sporting that tiny sass flame. “The ancient civilizations called it a ‘Gestalt Consciousness’, which is a complicated manner of explaining ‘many minds as one’.”

  Artorian rolled his hands forward with a ‘go on’ motion that must be universal with how easily his hosts understood and interpreted the reference. He didn’t want to diminish the moment they’d given Ember, who they clearly held in some greater regard. Yet, the Fire Soul herself was not all that present in the current conversation. Something else must have been at play.

  “In this group consciousness, we can speak as individuals. Outside of it, this is… considerably more difficult. I will reference the mundane ranking system: we are vaguely aware of how the other races measure progress; however, this is complicated with us. Our cultivation technique begins as a solid form, therefore would wager that the C-ranks is where we both begin and end. Our progression differs vastly from yours, by how it is counted in increases.”