Looking in the mirror, she carefully examined her eyelashes, eyes, cheeks, and lips, mentally bidding farewell to her childish face—today was the day she entered adulthood. Every gray elf goes through this when they reach a hundred years of age—an elder draws the family crest on the face of the elf child with an obsidian blade, and after that, the elf is considered an equal part of the family. At least, that's how it should be. Of course, a teenager wouldn't be listened to at a family council; so where is equality in that?
Now it was her time to become an adult, like her sister and brother. Their family was very happy by elven standards—they had not one, not two, but three children, a rare occurrence among elves due to their biological peculiarities. Her sister had entered adulthood only recently, perhaps fifty years ago, and her brother had been considered an adult for three hundred years. Actually, that's why the council was pressing him with the question of starting his own family.
Their family sigil is usually drawn on the left cheek—two circles with notches intersecting them at various points. Her sister said that drawing the circles was very painful for her—their imprinting takes quite a while, unlike most sigils, which are composed of angular geometric shapes. Ash from the Roaring Mountain is then rubbed into the incisions, followed by an elixir of ice from Lake Ahmurikhveh and volcanic pangolin mycelium. Thus, the sigil heals into a scar that will forever remain on the elf's face.
For the ritual, she must wear a ceremonial linen shirt and comb her hair. Her mother said the shirt is worn for propriety, but otherwise the naked body would symbolize the birth of the white elves from Mother's tears, and the ritual itself, with the family sigil, signifies a second birth—the choice of the ash elves to be a separate nation after the curse of Teclios, which blackened their skin, and their expulsion from the western elven lands. Each family seal traces back to one of the ancestors and clans that migrated east. What else did she need to memorize for the ritual... Ah yes, the oath of Naveun, the elf who founded Xnohr, the capital of the grey elves, and who was also chosen as the first head of the Ash Council. An oath that she would always defend the honor of her line, which had traversed snowy peaks, the honor of her nation, built through bitterness and fire, and the honor of her lands, illuminated by salt and ash. And after that, she would be given her first weapon and finally, finally! enrolled in the first courses of alchemical magic. Ah, how wonderful it is to grow up!
"Ah, how wonderful it is to grow up," she thought again, slicing the throat of a gray elf who was rushing at her with an axe at the ready. Fifty years ago, she wouldn't have dared to attack her kinsman, but now she manages to do so without batting an eye. Ah, youth, a time of sweet delusions and remorse, I'll never bring you back with your spring-green, yellow-mouthed innocence. A volley of flame erupts from her left hand, and one of the enemies recoils, screaming and clutching his face. "It's okay, young man," she grins, remembering her own burn across her cheek. "You'll scream, roll on the ground, moan, and then the pain will stop." One, two, three swings, and the enemy's sword flies to the side, while her blade already comes out of his pierced chest with a smack. "No, boys, you won't take me with that, try harder."
Finally, the forest is silent. Here, at least. Somewhere far away, to the southwest, the front line thunders, elves are dying, humans are dying, but there's nothing unusual about this—everything is just like two or three hundred years ago. The Cape Wars show no signs of ending anytime soon; only a miracle can resolve them, and miracles haven't happened on the Disc lately.
Now her task is simple: reach the partisan camp without bringing a spy with her, which means she has to wander a bit further through her beloved Odschtamen, by its elven name, or the Odsian Forest, as the Berspelians now call it, having taken this territory in the penultimate war. Having packed up her tent and her modest belongings (including the bloodied axe), she went down to the nearest stream and, wetting a rag, wiped her face and neck with it. Yes, after five hundred years with the family seal on your face, it's very strange to accidentally notice that instead of the familiar, almost natal marks, there's only thin, taut skin left over from a healed burn. And it needs to be looked after, otherwise it'll start to crack. With a sigh, she returned to her backpack and, taking out a small glass bottle of cream, applied it to her cheek, gently rubbing it in. She'd definitely have to tell the camp that intelligence is prowling around here, dreaming of catching traitors to the motherland who are blowing up army depots and spreading information forbidden in their glorious country.
Now it was her time to become an adult, like her sister and brother. Their family was very happy by elven standards—they had not one, not two, but three children, a rare occurrence among elves due to their biological peculiarities. Her sister had entered adulthood only recently, perhaps fifty years ago, and her brother had been considered an adult for three hundred years. Actually, that's why the council was pressing him with the question of starting his own family.
Their family sigil is usually drawn on the left cheek—two circles with notches intersecting them at various points. Her sister said that drawing the circles was very painful for her—their imprinting takes quite a while, unlike most sigils, which are composed of angular geometric shapes. Ash from the Roaring Mountain is then rubbed into the incisions, followed by an elixir of ice from Lake Ahmurikhveh and volcanic pangolin mycelium. Thus, the sigil heals into a scar that will forever remain on the elf's face.
For the ritual, she must wear a ceremonial linen shirt and comb her hair. Her mother said the shirt is worn for propriety, but otherwise the naked body would symbolize the birth of the white elves from Mother's tears, and the ritual itself, with the family sigil, signifies a second birth—the choice of the ash elves to be a separate nation after the curse of Teclios, which blackened their skin, and their expulsion from the western elven lands. Each family seal traces back to one of the ancestors and clans that migrated east. What else did she need to memorize for the ritual... Ah yes, the oath of Naveun, the elf who founded Xnohr, the capital of the grey elves, and who was also chosen as the first head of the Ash Council. An oath that she would always defend the honor of her line, which had traversed snowy peaks, the honor of her nation, built through bitterness and fire, and the honor of her lands, illuminated by salt and ash. And after that, she would be given her first weapon and finally, finally! enrolled in the first courses of alchemical magic. Ah, how wonderful it is to grow up!
"Ah, how wonderful it is to grow up," she thought again, slicing the throat of a gray elf who was rushing at her with an axe at the ready. Fifty years ago, she wouldn't have dared to attack her kinsman, but now she manages to do so without batting an eye. Ah, youth, a time of sweet delusions and remorse, I'll never bring you back with your spring-green, yellow-mouthed innocence. A volley of flame erupts from her left hand, and one of the enemies recoils, screaming and clutching his face. "It's okay, young man," she grins, remembering her own burn across her cheek. "You'll scream, roll on the ground, moan, and then the pain will stop." One, two, three swings, and the enemy's sword flies to the side, while her blade already comes out of his pierced chest with a smack. "No, boys, you won't take me with that, try harder."
Finally, the forest is silent. Here, at least. Somewhere far away, to the southwest, the front line thunders, elves are dying, humans are dying, but there's nothing unusual about this—everything is just like two or three hundred years ago. The Cape Wars show no signs of ending anytime soon; only a miracle can resolve them, and miracles haven't happened on the Disc lately.
Now her task is simple: reach the partisan camp without bringing a spy with her, which means she has to wander a bit further through her beloved Odschtamen, by its elven name, or the Odsian Forest, as the Berspelians now call it, having taken this territory in the penultimate war. Having packed up her tent and her modest belongings (including the bloodied axe), she went down to the nearest stream and, wetting a rag, wiped her face and neck with it. Yes, after five hundred years with the family seal on your face, it's very strange to accidentally notice that instead of the familiar, almost natal marks, there's only thin, taut skin left over from a healed burn. And it needs to be looked after, otherwise it'll start to crack. With a sigh, she returned to her backpack and, taking out a small glass bottle of cream, applied it to her cheek, gently rubbing it in. She'd definitely have to tell the camp that intelligence is prowling around here, dreaming of catching traitors to the motherland who are blowing up army depots and spreading information forbidden in their glorious country.
