Give up your secrets

Your experiences so far, and the information you have gathered, have been enough to rattle your view of the world. Your loyalty to your fellow elves is unwavering.. but your loyalty to the Queen? Well that is a different matter. Coming to this land at the head of a legion you saw an enemy that was unrelenting, spread like a disease across the natural world. Despite what has been done to you personally, thinking of the joint **** you have encountered you have a sense of their desperation. An alliance of convenience and necessity. They have been brutal and purposeful to the point of callousness with you, something you cannot forgive or forget. And yet you can see how they have been driven to it by the actions of your own nation.

And then there is your own history. You can’t escape the fact that your much of life has not been yours. The decisions you have made have been twisted and shepherded, like so many of your brethren. You have been set on a path and shaped to become a tool. A weapon. And one wielded to deadly effect at the whim of the Queen. As you gradually internalise the anger and trauma, you resolve to regain control of your own fate. Whatever happens you are determined to regain control, and if possible to make the Queen of the elves answer for what she has done.

When your interrogators return they find you almost composed and ready to cooperate, indeed ready to share more intelligence than they ever expected… for a price. It is a gamble for you, after all you realise that given the time and inclination they could probably wring every drop of information from you. You are leaning on the hunch that they don’t have that time and that a semi-trustworthy ally is worth more than a potentially dead prisoner.

Following extensive magical probing of the keystone rune at the base of your spine, your device is adjusted. The blessed release of powerful climax soon after is a sweet balm which is followed by a night of exhausted oblivion. Your mind going a finally quieted. The next day your rune magic is broken forever. Your increasingly hoarse howls as it unravels across your body echo through the tunnels. The agony is relatively fleeting but the loss stays with you. All the same, though your power is a fraction of itself without your magic, you can’t help but feel cleansed as the runes fade permanently from your skin, like a stain is washed from your soul.

When days later a squad of elves **** the facility to either rescue or eliminate you, the artefact which allows them to magically “hop” short distances through defences, or the earth itself is impressive. Their rune clad leader makes excellent use of it in a surprise raid which would be stunning in its bold daring. The surprise they receive in return is ruthlessly deadly. You are there up close when a battle mage hammers magical **** from her specially inscribed spell staff into the unfortunate captain. His anguished scream as his protective runes are broken and scattered in the magical tempest will stay with you until the end of your days. The **** of the backlash sends him and his **** to the floor and they are quickly mopped up with crossbow and spear before they can recover.

You pick up the fused remnants of his hop artefact, inspecting it with mixed feelings after the encounter. You try not to pay too much attention as the bodies are wrapped and dragged away in the background. This is what you wanted after all. Isn’t it?

Some weeks later the rebellion is underway. Whilst the bulk of the elven army is either nursing its bloodied nose or making probing raids into the hills along the borderlands, you, Alina and a few carefully chosen others have been sewing discord deep in your homeland. Thenniel is the fifth city of the Kingdom you have visited, and you hope the last before you infiltrate the elven Capital itself. By that time you hope to have enough momentum to destabilise the council itself, goddess willing. Your dreams are dark these days, increasing numbers of ghosts of runemarked elves tormenting you. You pray every night that the outcome of all this is worth the cost.

You clasp hands with Kyndra, your quick witted contact here and note her hesitancy as she sees your pale skin clear of runes. In the back room of a dusty, nondescript inn called The Willow Basket, you relate your tale to her and several others that she trusts. A tale which has swayed everyone that has heard it, backed up with several other voices, and of course the evidence of the removal of your tattoos. The story of the other races, the story of the true price behind the runic magic, and the story of the Elf Queen’s relentless ambition. The winds of change are blowing and the smouldering of discontent has been surprisingly easy to kindle into flame. Even now you can see the familiar doubt and recognition of your words in the eyes of Kyndra, along with something else.. sorrow perhaps?

It is only once your tales are almost done that the trap is sprung. The double door connecting to the inn proper bursts open, elite guard pouring through in overwhelming numbers. You jump quickly to your feet and look to the rear door to the alley, only to see the bloodied corpse of your lookouts pushed through it ahead of more soldiers. You shout to your small guard **** to throw down their arms but they ignore you and are cut down swiftly. You look over at stern faced Kyndra and she meets your gaze calmly, giving no signal beyond a tiny shake of her head. Have you truly reached her? It is hard to say for sure. She makes no move against you however.

You ponder whether your mission has made any difference at all as you fling yourself up onto your chair and then the table. You draw your twin long knives from the smell of your back, kicking the oil lamp across the room and sending a sheet of flame scampering across the dry boards. You crouch low to avoid a stray arrow from someone at the back of the room as the shouts and panic starts to take hold. You have recovered much strength and condition in the time since your release, but you are under no illusion that you can escape such numbers. One thing you are sure of though, that you will never let yourself become a prisoner again. Your final thoughts are disappointment that you cannot face the queen yourself, and a wondering of whether you have done enough. Will Elantria and her empire burn as readily as this bar room? Smoke is stretching grey coils everywhere as you peer through it to spy a knot of heavily armed troops forming up and pointing toward you. With a snarl you ready your weapons and hurl yourself into the teeth of your enemies, cursing all close enough to hear. Your tale gains an ending for the histories, and many yet come to hear it.