After what felt like an enduring walk, Malick arrived at a small village named Duskwood. The disapproving glares from passing villagers immediately caught his attention. As a dark elf belonging to the Shadow Weavers, he bore the tribe's distinctive mark - a prominent S&W branded into the back of his right hand at the tender age of five.
Reflecting on the pain of that day, Malick recalled suppressing tears as a young Shadow Weaver, fearing the imminent lashings. In the world of the Shadow Weavers, emotions like sadness, fear, joy, and love were deemed weaknesses. The ethos dictated that dark elves, like Malick, should be hunters, warriors, and conquerors. They witnessed their victims' anguish without allowing themselves to feel. Cries and screams were reserved for the weak, for those who begged for mercy. To avoid becoming like them, warriors like Malick were conditioned not to behave like them.
Love, too, was frowned upon among the Shadow Weavers. The philosophy dictated that as long as one had nothing to love, there would be nothing to lose. A warrior prioritized the tribe first and one's self second; everything else was considered inconsequential.
Malick shook away the haunting memory, unconsciously concealing the branded hand beneath his left.
In defiance of the frosty glares directed his way, Malick maintained a steely gaze, his head held aloft. As a dark elf belonging to the formidable Shadow Weavers, he considered himself far superior to these perceived weak creatures. He envisioned the presence of his tribe, visualizing them breaking these people's spirits and ruthlessly raiding their village. In his mind, he replaced the cold glares with tearful eyes pleading for mercy, a stark transformation from the defiant expressions that currently met him.
A small tavern, snugly nestled between a general store and an inn, beckoned to Malick. Through its windows, he could discern the silhouettes of numerous patrons within. Taverns held significance beyond just serving ale; they were valuable hubs for gathering resources and information. Eager to learn more about Savantara, he decided to stop and pay a visit.
The tavern exuded a dim ambiance, illuminated by the soft glow of oil lamps and wax candles. A rich scent of mulberry wine permeated the smoky air as Malick took a seat at the bar, patiently awaiting service.
"What can I get ya?" inquired the barkeep.
"One Fireball on Ice," Malick replied, his eyes scanning the diverse array of patrons within the tavern.
Maintaining his unconscious effort to conceal his branded hand, Malick observed a petite female gnome swiftly down a pint of some alcoholic beverage. To his surprise, she promptly smashed the glass over the skull of an irate one-eyed man seated beside her. Tension escalated as the man glared at the gnome, veins pulsating at his temples. Before a brawl could erupt, a pub worker intervened, escorting the inebriated gnome out the door and diffusing the situation.
Across from the recently vacated spot of the gnome woman, a young man leaned against the bar with a mischievous grin on his face. Short, rust-colored curls adorned the crown of his head, and his piercing green eyes keenly observed the room. His slender yet well-toned build was accentuated by a snug, black ensemble.
Though unmistakably human, his striking appearance caught Malick's attention. Despite the Shadow Weavers' indifference to sentiments like love, they did approve of seeking pleasure with a mate or two, though usually only with members within their enclave. In the realm of Shadow Weavers, sex solely served the purpose of tribe preservation.
Possessing robust masculine traits such as a broad brow, straight nose, and square jaw, Malick stood as an alluring young dark elf with a well-toned, athletic build. His hair, a dark gray hue, was meticulously styled - shaved around the sides and back, with a longer length on top neatly secured into a ponytail.
Aware of the desirous attention from many females in his tribe seeking to procreate with him, Malick found himself somewhat unseasoned in matters of mating. While watching the handsome human, Malick pondered the experience of forming connections not only beyond the confines of his tribe but also considering the possibility of same-sex unions.
A sudden contemplation struck him - what if his tribe was lost forever? Would he spend the rest of his life in solitude? He knew there were other Weavers dispersed throughout the lands they conquered, living in tribes of their own. His people had been on a conquest for centuries to procure more land for expansion.
This pondering marked a rare moment of fear and uncertainty for Malick. The security of his tribe had always surrounded him; outsiders were forbidden, and Shadow Weavers were unwelcome beyond their enclave. If it were discovered that Malick stood alone or was one of the last of his kind, his life would be at stake.
Furrowing his brow, Malick reflected on the teachings of his youth. Warriors were meant to confront death with honor and pride. However, now facing the possibility of solitude, an unfamiliar and unsettling sensation twisted in his gut at the thought of his own potential demise.
Feeling unsettled by the unfamiliar emotion, Malick redirected his focus to the bar where his drink awaited consumption. Hastily taking several swigs, he audibly placed the glass on the bar and signaled for another beverage. The barkeep acknowledged with a nod and promptly refilled Malick's glass.
As the barkeep gently placed the glass on the counter, Malick inquired about the path to Savantara.
"Savantara? It's up north from here. Not an easy place to get into, though. If you manage to make it through the Cursed Hollows leading up to the city, the gates are locked up tight. You'll need an invite from the Erudite Chancellor to get in," explained the barkeep while skillfully mixing another drink.
"How does one go about getting an invite from this chancellor?" Malick questioned, a hint of annoyance creeping into his tone at the barkeep's aloofness.
"Unless you know 'im, there's not much hope for ya," the barkeep replied, nodding farewell to some exiting patrons as he wiped a pale blue rag across some drips on the counter.
The barkeep grudgingly assessed Malick from head to toe before delivering his verdict, "The Hollows would get ya first. I suggest going back to wherever ya came from and calling it a day. A 'Weaver would never get invited into the city o' scholars anyways."
Meeting Malick's eyes, the barkeep unleashed the most frigid stare, sending chills up Malick's erect spine. Subconsciously, he once again covered his branded hand with his left, maintaining unbroken eye contact as a subtle display of his own resilience. Eventually, the barkeep's gaze shifted toward the counter as he continued wiping away now imaginary dirt. The silent exchange lingered in the air, an unspoken clash of wills in the dimly lit tavern.
Sensing the rising tension and realizing that staying any longer might lead to trouble, Malick decided to make a swift exit. Despite being taught to display the Shadow Weavers brand proudly, without the protective presence of his tribe, the branded mark felt more like a target than a symbol of pride.
A mix of anger and dread fueled his emotions as he left a handful of gold coins on the counter beside his glass and hastily exited the tavern. Glancing over at the quaint village inn, he contemplated the cost of a night's stay. Aware of having only a few gold coins on him, he acknowledged the need to venture out tomorrow, hunting and gathering resources for future bartering.
Footsteps approached Malick from behind, and his body stiffened, muscles tense, ready to draw his sword if needed. Aware that his race could bring trouble, he hadn't anticipated it so early in his journey. A hand tapped his shoulder, triggering an instinctive response. Without a second thought, Malick swung around, delivering a powerful fist into the face of his unseen assailant.
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