Dark Elf Peasant

You weren’t a mighty raider or cunning assassin. You had no soulsearing flames to cast, no daemons to conjure and no patron deity to call upon to smite the fools who stood against you. What you did have was a worn grey dress and, of course, helpless, almost crippling self-loathing.

You were a peasant. More like pissant, you thought.

You had all the cruelty and viciousness but none of the abilities so often ascribed to your kin.

You were weak. Pathetic. Every inch of your being, trapped in an eternal cycle of hatred, terror, suffering, and hopelessness.

The only moment that gave any kind of respite from the bother that were your lives came during that short, sweet moment when you gave a wailing scream and charged a passing “hero”. This moment of sheer purpose was always cut short by the gutting or the cutting or the burning or the maiming that inevitably followed and you invariably fell into a bloody, dying heap of meat.

Maybe you were being overdramatic. Your fellow pissants sure seemed to think so. A few among your small group weren’t even pissants. They were Lost Raiders whose tattered armour and weapons had seen better days, but still were a to be reckoned with. In the days before the shattering of your city they had been feared scions of mighty noble houses. You, on the other hand, had been the servant of a humble merchant making a meager living trading in cloth and hides, and you were still on the fence on wether the cataclysm really made life any worse for you.

But there was something that united you all, and maybe that had been what had kept the raiders from just enslaving or killing you and the other pissants; having been dragged from your dark city into the void and spat out in this much too bright and green place. It had been a small, quiet and surely boring village, but the arrival of your kin had quickly remedied that. As soon as the shock of being thrown into this foreign place had subsided, you and the other dark elves had set upon the villagers. The sweet pains the villagers suffered at dark elf hands. Such fond memories.

When the screams had died down and the village became still, you had all known that something was different and that it wasn’t just your surroundings. Something in you all had changed. You could see it in the eyes of the others and they could surely see it in yours.

There was something holding, calling, you all and it kept you from trying to leave the ruins of the village. You were all waiting for something. You never spoke of it, but you all knew it. You needed to stay there.