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Side-Write: Come Next Season
🕑 Added 2025-05-31 20:33:12 +0000 UTCThis one started with the idea that some towns of "people" would develop in isolation, too far or behind too much hostile terrain to have any contact with anyone else. I worked some on what that would involve, what that would look like, and what struggles they'd deal with, but at some point it turned into something else entirely. In the back of my head I knew this would likely be a significant point to explore sooner or later, and now, a new threat is finally getting a chance at center stage.
This is still not strictly canon, just an exploration of what might happen in the world of Project Wild One. I hope you find it an interesting read!
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My great-grandfather was the one that spotted the first Elf from our walls. We didn't know what they were, at first. Thought maybe they were just emaciated pigs.
My grandfather worked the forge for the town in the time when Elven territory first bumped up against our walls. He'd grown up making tools, and suddenly it was all swords and arrowheads.
My father faced the unfortunate burden of being mayor while the Elves spread to either side around us until we were completely surrounded... and they began to squeeze. I grew up listening to him moan about the Elves more than anything else. Their demands. The rising prices for safe passage. The townsfolk that disappear.
It broke my father, trying to fend off the patient but relentless advances of these... creatures. He resigned. But the town is afraid, now more than ever. My father did well, and they needed another like him. I didn't want the job, but I was practically forced into it.
And for half a year, I managed well enough. The Elves were... relatively quiet. I got the chance to actually learn the job a little, to start to feel like maybe I wouldn't be terrible at it after all.
But... well, it looks like this is the end.
They came for me on a bright spring morning. Honor guard marched right up to the gate to cordially invite me and such. We knew by now that when they asked nicely, we wanted to go with it, as long as they didn't ask too much. Folks said I should refuse, but I knew that if I didn't go, I wasn't worth anything to them as a mayor.
The Elves formed up around me and walked me off into the woods. It's distracting, just watching them walk. They're so... light, and smooth, and they move less like they're walking and more like how you walk your fingers along a surface. Like they don't really have to touch the ground, but do because it's fun or something. They're shaped like us, but sometimes it feels like that's all we have in common.
The forest was... a city, now. Folks say the trees never grew this tall before the Elves came, and every tree was crawling with them, layered with platforms and connected to each other with countless bridges or even just ropes they'd run across. I stared. I'd always heard there were far more of them than us, but I'd had no idea just how many they were.
The problem is, the Gods overlooked one little detail when they passed down the Mercy. They made it so nobody dies of violence, sure. But Elves already wouldn't die of age or disease. Each one of them just... keeps going. And making more of them. Forever. So their numbers just grew and grew, and they spread through the forest, claiming everything, driving out or conquering whatever's there. We're not even sure why they haven't overwhelmed us at this point. Looking at all this... it's pretty clear they could. But then... maybe seeing this is why they've brought me here.
Now... I'm sitting before... Him. The King. We know many of the Elves by name, we pass down stories of skirmishes or negotiations or strange encounters with many of them, but there's one name we know before any other.
Foreanar. Sometimes the Elves call him All-Father. We don't know if he was the very first Elf, but it seems that he is the oldest, wisest, and strongest of all the Elves in these woods. He has personally killed many of my relatives, all the way back to my great-grandfather, several times over. Usually for fun, or convenience. And he looks... younger than me. A wiry little thing, his hide naked and so smooth it almost shines. He slouches in a throne of living wood, smiling at me.
We sit in a chamber that seems to be made up of two impossibly huge blossoms facing each other, one making the floor and the other the ceiling, their petals laced together with perfect gaps between them to make a curving zigzag of sunlight peeking through all around us. I feel as though I'm in another world.
He's telling me about how patient he's been. How patient all the Elves have been with us. How his advisors say he's coddling us, but he knows we'll "see reason with a little encouragement."
They took our farmlands last year. That's what drove my father over the edge. They stole our harvest, and they won't let us plant anything new. There's precious little room inside the walls to grow anything, and the winter was... hard. They're starving us out, and talking like they're punishing a child by not giving him dinner. We've buried seventeen so far.
He admits that he waited to approach me because he didn't want to "rush" me when I'm new to the office. He's sure it was hard for me to take over the job so suddenly. Six months he waited, to be polite. While we starved.
He talks about my father. Their many... discussions, in the past. How stubborn my dad was. Disapproving little shake of the head.
The Elves always want something, but what that something is changes a lot. The early days were chaos. Some attacked us furiously, some laughed out loud at the sight of us, and some were just curious to go through our town, our homes, anything they could. As they expanded, they got used to us and it got a little more manageable, but they've always been... overbearing. But there are trends to it, mostly a pattern alternating between two extremes. We call them seasons.
The Elves seem to have a strong duality in them. Sometimes they're aloof, organized, exacting. Perfect. Everything must be in its place, including us. And sometimes, they're just... fiends. Insatiable. Rutting everywhere, eating everything, laughing and singing and screaming. It seems like maybe some of them are more one way or the other, but depending on the "season," one side wins out and the other side goes into hiding, more or less. We don't know if it's something to do with their politics or something, or if it's just King Foreanar's mood. Some seasons last a dozen years, some no more than one.
When they're wild, we board our windows and bar our doors. Nobody goes out at night. Still, they pour through our town day and night, trying to entice people with this or that pleasure of the flesh. They fawn over us, lust after us, coo and snarl at us in turn. That's when the most of us disappear, especially those that go outside the walls. We can't stop them getting in when they're like that, so we don't even try, we just stop them taking anyone out with them.
When they're composed, they make demands, decrees, pass laws and expect us to follow them. They collect a toll for passing through their land, and inspect everything we carry in or out. They try to plant Elves on our council. Organize trips for our children to come see wondrous things in their land, or offer to take over for our guard, as if they were not the single greatest threat to us now.
I know what's coming now. They've been making overtures, they've been hinting, trying to drum up excitement among our people for the idea since before I was born. When they took our food, it was pretty clear the time had come, and we've been facing that all winter long.
Except... the longer he talks, the more his mind seems to wander. He's so relaxed, almost... relieved? As though he's glad to be done with some great, onerous task. Yes... That's what it feels like. In his mind, it is already done. Now, he's reminiscing fondly. He almost looks abashed when he admits that there's nothing to be gained in hurting us, that "those I seek vengeance upon are long dead and beyond my reach."
Vengeance? There have been a few rumors like that, but... there are so many stories about what the Elves really want, why they're really doing this to us, it's hard to guess what's true. Often the Elves seem to lust after us or want to keep us close, but sometimes there is a... viciousness to it, a cruelty. More than just not caring how we feel, what we need, how we're different from them. Often it just feels like they just get their jollies off us without caring what it does to us, but just sometimes, it does feel like maybe it's more than that. Maybe there's some sort of hatred, deep down in them.
I want to ask him about that, but he's going on, winding his way finally around the real reason he's brought me here, drawing circle after circle around it before finally striking the point. "Isn't it time, friend? This is Elven land, now, and we love and cherish you. Every day you hide away from us, it hurts us. Come, now. Let us do away with your walls and your little houses. Come and live among us, and let us turn your little patch of land into something beautiful. You will want for nothing, and your children will run free through the forest with ours. Doesn't that sound wonderful?"
They want us. They want to have us, to own us, like pets. Maybe even to breed us like pets. Certainly to use us in every way imaginable, slaves to their whims. It is hard to imagine a more terrible fate, and he wants me to damn every man, woman, and child under my charge to be little more than livestock.
And yet... it seems clear it is not long before they will take us by force. And even if we mounted a legendary defense, every one of us slaying a hundred of them before falling, that would still only scatter us slowly across their lands to be collected with ease. Worse, if they stand by and simply wait us out, we will not live much longer on our own. Then it realy will be the end, and a terrible one. But... if they take us by blade and arrow, isn't that better than simply... giving up? Giving up everything we are, everything our parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents fought for, to finally accept the collar around our neck with a smile?
Is it better to suffer and be beaten, bent but not broken, or is it better to take the out-stretched hand while there is still some shred of goodwill? Wouldn't we likely be better treated if we could at least pretend we were willing? Perhaps have a better chance of choosing between a bad fate and a worse one in some small way?
The King has finally fallen silent to allow me a response, but I cannot find one. After a few moments, he says he can see I need some time to consider, and invites me to walk with him. He speaks as if we are old friends, and we stroll out of that strange chamber while I struggle with this impossible decision. The council has discussed it at length, and I've spoken with many of the people, but there's just... too much. It's too awful either way. If we give in, we won't just be giving up our freedom. We'll be... accepting that the Elves are... better, wiser than us. We'll be putting ourselves below them, of our own free will. They want to treat us like children that need minding, no matter our age, and they want to take away all our choices, all our rights, all our traditions. Can we live like that? Would it be worth being alive, knowing we have given up so much?
We climb winding stairs as I think, and finally we land on a great, covered platform. King Foreanar has babbled about nothing the whole time, and invites me now to see his new pet. I murmur my assent, eyeing the long drop just feet away from me now. Then... I see his "pet."
Well. When the season changes, the Elves do grow more dangerous, but also far less organized. Perhaps... perhaps if we can survive until then, we can find a way to escape in the chaos. That is... That is our only hope, now, I think.
My paws tangle into fists with my trousers, and my throat is tight. My back bends. I stare at the floor, and slowly, I descend onto one knee before the King. And I tell him that we will... cooperate.
Foreanar just smiles. He is busy feeding his pet. Filling most of the platform, stooping low to reach, a dragon eats from his open palm. There is a collar around its neck.
Comments
hope steele
As far as lore and world building goes, i think this is one of your more substantial side writes, and sets up SO much more to be explored, fun read as always
