Lore Of The Lost

Chapter 1.

⚚GALWYN

Freedom—such an elusive concept, a beguiling mirage I yearned for with an ache deep in my soul.

The dense thicket of towering trees stretched out before me, seemingly infinite, creating an illusion of boundlessness in my restless mind. Through the dense foliage, slivers of an overcast sky peeked, transforming gradually into somber hues of slate gray, casting a melancholic pall over the grove.

The forest, in its serene tranquility, embraced the early morning hours, while my presence, disheveled, shattered the peace with the resounding thuds of my desperate footsteps. Each beat of my heart propelled me forward, my long legs bravely defying the chill in the air, exposed and vulnerable.

I was cloaked solely in Declan's oversized light brown shirt, a rare one he’d only worn the night I had fled. It draped around me, swaying freely in sync with my rapid pace as I raced through the woods, relentlessly pursuing my most cherished desire—freedom.

Declan's words reverberated within my mind, a relentless chorus urging me to press on, to push beyond the elusive boundary – Seven days had already slipped away since I had escaped from the clutches of the Scarrans. Agonizing the journey had been. The cold was always there. Frosty.

My feet pounded the forest ground, growing increasingly fragile with each passing minute. Yet surrender was not an option, no matter how my depleted body pleaded for respite. I had refused to give in, ignoring the desperate pleas of my weary flesh. I would not relent, not until I—

Abruptly, my feet came to a halt as I emerged into a small clearing. The forest went still. Less than forty paces away came the astonished gazes of two notable men. A quiver strapped to one’s back, red-haired. The other hunched beside a white mare, his fair, pale blonde strands draping across his shoulder, a circlet of silver jewelry outlining his head. And at that moment, a glimmer of recognition flickered within me as I realized that, akin to me, they were elves.

It sure wasn't the gods who answered my prayer since I have long stopped praying to them.

Relief washed over me, offering a fleeting moment of solace. At last, I had found a company that wasn't tainted by the Scarrans. But then, everything faded away as consciousness slipped from my grasp.

Overwhelmed, my resilience gave way, and my now fragile body succumbed to the ground, collapsing like a heap. My senses betrayed me, fading into oblivion…,

For the first time in a long while, the darkness seemed peaceful.

⚚⚚⚚

PREVIOUSLY;

By the gentle lull of the riverside, I had slumbered in tranquil repose, undisturbed, until the sensation of water splashing across my face jolted me awake. My eyes, a fusion of azure and silver, snapped open in a symphony of fear, my body instinctively leaning forward, alert. But the serenity was shattered by the mocking laughter of unfamiliar voices, piercing my ears like arrows honed to strike deep. The sight of these unfamiliar faces crushed my hopes, a disheartening encounter I had never wished for.

Scarrans they were.

"Looks like Sleeping Beauty has finally awakened," one of the men jeered in the guttural Scarranese tongue, igniting a fresh round of laughter among them.

A surge of searing heat, accompanied by a sheen of perspiration, enshrouded me, escalating my unease, bringing a tidal wave of dread that surged from the depths of my core, crawling upwards like a sinister serpent.

Part of me yearned to flee, but I knew escape was futile in the face of those menacing men and their formidable horses. I remained glued to my spot, trapped in a state of cowardice. My gaze shifted uneasily between their faces, cruel and rough all were, eventually settling on a man a few paces away.

He sat atop his horse, and in his eyes, I detected a fleeting glimmer of regret and menace. With the chaos around me, I may have only conceived them.

Among the Scarrans, he stood out. A peculiar rune-like pattern adorned the corner of his left eye, tracing a curved path toward his temple and extending downward near his under-eye.

“Grab her, we're running out of time.”

The urgent command in Scarranese sliced through the air, propelling me into a tumultuous whirlwind of chaos.

The command was of another man, mounted on his horse, who shared a close resemblance to the first, perhaps just their eyes. He appeared older, with the sides of his head cleanly shaved, while his long brown hair was braided halfway down.

In an instant, I was lifted to my feet and forcibly dragged across the unforgiving ground toward a horse. Desperate, I struggled against my captor's unyielding grip, but my feeble resistance proved futile in the face of his challenging strength.

The stories of the Scarrans' might were becoming a harsh reality before my eyes.

Though I understood their language, I remained silent, suppressing the urge to voice my grievance. Only a faint whimper escaped my lips at the harshness of his grip. My eyes locked onto the one adorned with the rune-like patterns near his eye, silently pleading for mercy or understanding.

The clarity of my wishes was precise—I did not want to be taken by them.

"We don't have an extra horse," I overheard him say, an accent to it, his words directed toward the older male. A brother or relative–perhaps.

"Then she shall walk, tethered at the end of a rope," declared the one with the shave.

The outcome was not the one I had fervently hoped and prayed for. It was a cruel twist of fate, sealing my fate as a captive, bound and trailing behind a horse.

The others around me remained stoically silent, unmoved by my plight, not like I’d expect them to, and the one adorned with the intricate patterns, for some reason, appeared to have lost interest, as if my presence no longer mattered.

Attempting to articulate the emotions swirling within me proved futile. My entire existence felt cursed, shackled by an unseen force. Yet, despite the turmoil consuming me, I managed to maintain a facade of calmness as I was dragged away, akin to a sacrificial lamb being led to an unknown destiny.

The intensity of the sun had waned compared to the previous day, offering a small respite from its relentless glare.

Fatigued and weary, I trudged behind them.

Warnings of the Scarrans had echoed in my ears since childhood, cautioning me to steer clear until I had escaped their boundaries. Being a half-elf, born of a Scarran woman who had tragically passed away after giving birth, I had been raised by my aunt and uncle, sheltered from the rest of my kin. Scarrans both are.

Elves remained an enigma to me, and this journey, my quest to find my own kind, the ones who may accept me, had just taken a dire turn.

The Scarrans' uncanny ability to discern the distinction between their own kind and outsiders baffled me. Like the males with the markings, I too possessed an intricate pattern—slender, curves of leaf-like veinings on my right cheek that extended toward my eye. Faint, they were. Every Scarran bore a unique pattern, whether slight, sinuous, or grand. And yet, they had somehow discerned that I was not wholly one of their own.

My ears, of course, weren't the ones that gave me out. Because even at the moment, they remained shrouded along with my hair which was the color of moonlit silver beneath the ivory headgear securely tied under my chin.

Clearly, having my ears hidden came off to be of no help.

After hours of relentless trekking, we arrived at the great city of Verdura. The fortress of the Scarran Clan stood tall and foreboding, an embodiment of their power and dominance. A shiver coursed through me, mingling with a sense of trepidation that threatened to overwhelm my already weary spirit.

The city’s boundaries loomed ahead, an impenetrable barrier of stone and steel, separating the Scarrans from the outside world.

Approaching the giant gate, my heart quickened, the rope around my wrists feeling suddenly heavy. The gates creaked open, revealing the shadowed expanse beyond. I felt engulfed by an oppressive darkness that seemed to seep from the very heart of Verdura. The pathway through their great wall was hidden from the evening sun, and soon we were out in the open again.

With each step, I was drawn deeper into the heart of Verdura, a place whose renown had only reached my ears. My exhaustion dulled any sense of wonder, still, I watched in awe as the vibrant tapestry of life unfurled before me, a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds that overwhelmed me.

I had known only two people throughout my nineteen years of existence. Sometimes I would even indulge in envisioning a day when I’d visit a village or a much larger town. But never have I taken to concoct it this way.

My eyes darted from one townie to another as I trailed behind the horses, absorbing the curious gazes that fell upon me. In their scrutinizing stares, I felt like a peculiar aberration, an outcast in this throng of bustling souls.

The endless path stretched before us as we made our way through the town, until finally reaching a designated spot where the men dismounted from their horses. A very notable structure appeared in the distance from where I stood. More grand. Reaching high, bold on the blue beyond. It stood there as if conjured from one of those books I do read.

The man who had bound my wrists finally turned to me, his shabby brown hair in a mess. Without any care, he hacks up mucus from his throat, spitting it onto the floor while he approached me.

I bit down on my teeth as he forcefully untied the knot, suppressing the pain that surged through my wrists, determined not to reveal my suffering.

A cruel smirk twisted the man's lips, his eyes scanning my form with a leering gaze. "Look at this one," he sneered, his voice laced with malice. "A pretty little thing, ain't she?" he said, putting off the rope.

His words hung in the air like venom, poisoning the atmosphere with their degradation. The other men joined in, their laughter cutting through the silence like shards of broken glass. "Hey, girl!" one of them jeered, his voice dripping with derision.

I felt their eyes upon me, scrutinizing me with a mix of perverse amusement and disdain. I refused to give them the satisfaction of witnessing my fear, my gaze firmly fixed on the ground beneath my feet.

"She doesn't speak!" another man taunted, his voice a mocking melody that echoed through the nearly desolate area. Their laughter swelled around me like a clamor of spite, a chorus of cruelty that threatened to break my spirit.

My fingers trembled. So many voices—such clangor. If only I had stayed back at the cottage. But those words couldn't survive much in her sense.

"Take her to the slave quarters," commanded the man who I now believe to be their leader, his voice brooking no resistance or mercy. And then he marched away with a few of his men, pitifully, one has my satchel and I held still the urge to go after him.

As I was being led away, a single word reached my ears— “Declan!" A male voice called out, drawing near to the man adorned with intricate patterns, already receding into the distance. Perhaps that was his name—DECLAN.