By Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Speaker of Silences That Should Not Be Broken
Archival Guest of Every Library That Regrets It
Ah yes, Igneos—the Firelord. The Calamity in Chains. The molten horror beneath the mountain the Elves wisely refer to as the Throne of Fire.
Let us begin by stating, in no uncertain terms, that no reasonable person wants this thing to wake up. No one with a love for trees, roofs, or breathable air has ever looked at Shadowclan Mountain and thought, “What if we let it out?” And if they did, they ought to be stripped of all titles, dunked in freezing water, and launched from a trebuchet directly into a lecture hall of angry Hill Elves.
What Is Igneos?
Igneos is not a god, though you’d be forgiven for mistaking him for one if you only saw the aftermath of his last tantrum. He is fire incarnate, yes, but not the warming hearth or the forge's glow—he is the kind of fire that devours worlds. That snarls. That screams. That leaves nothing but ash and memory.
He is sealed—for now—beneath the Throne of Fire, which is a mountain in the same way a bear is a rug. A thing that sleeps, not dies.
When he last broke free The Elves of Arandor sealed him. The Dwarves of Karagard reinforced the seal (possibly grumbling about lava weakening their keystones the whole time), and the Orcs and Humans battled his Shadowclan as they spilled forth from the very mountain he is now sealed within. And in what may be the only time Elves and the Orcs of Burz’kal agreed on anything that didn’t at least initially involve stabbing each other, we all agreed he should never rise again.
If that doesn’t convince you, then nothing will. Except, perhaps, a visit to the blackened bones of Olverton.
On His Followers:
There are, regrettably, some out there who believe Igneos to be a misunderstood elemental force. They write odes to his freedom. They etch runes near his prison. They call him The Flamefather or The Awakening Fire.
These people are—how do I phrase this in a polite, academic fashion?
They are idiots.
Possibly treasonous idiots, certainly dangerous ones, and without exception, individuals who should be purged from the realm with the full fury the Elves can muster. That is not a metaphor. That is a call to arms.
There is no place in Arandor—or any land worth preserving—for those who would unravel the wards our ancestors placed at great cost. The idea that someone could walk into our age-old pacts and treat them like campfire stories is not just offensive. It is existentially reckless.
On Burz’kal
Even the Orcs of Burz’kal, whose customs and architecture make our youngest acolytes faint, agree: Igneos must remain imprisoned.
It is a rare and terrifying unity, the kind that makes diplomats briefly consider early retirement. Elves and Orcs agreeing—and not even reluctantly. Vehemently. Violently. Because we remember. They remember. Every tribe and forest and stone remembers.
This is not politics. This is survival.
In Closing
I have seen much in my time. I've dined with chieftains and wandered among strange Human lands with customs like the Grand Scatter. I’ve even watched a necromancer accidentally raise a mongbat skeleton and pretend it was intentional.
But I have never seen a single intelligent reason why Igneos should ever be free.
If you meet someone who believes otherwise, smile politely. Then report them. Preferably before they finish their sentence.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Bearer of Unpopular but Correct Opinions
Friend of Trees, Enemy of Ash
Sworn to Fire’s Containment, and Your Sanity’s Continuance
From Grove to Gatehouse: A Poet-Sage’s Field Notes on the Sensible, the Silly, and the Sacred
A Glimmer Through the Grime: Elion’s Miradove's Guide to Tilverton
By Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Damp-Footed Visitor of Dockside Boroughs
Unofficial Inspector of Questionable Fencing
Ah, Tilverton. Where the buildings lean slightly—either from age, bad carpentry, or secrets—and the air smells faintly of brine, coin, and unresolved tension.
This curious port city, clinging to the edge of civilization like a splinter no one's decided to remove, has had more identities than a rogue with a disguise kit. Once a haven of Consortium smugglers and criminal ambitions, it now claims to be a Freeport. A city of trade. A neutral ground. A rising phoenix.
I assure you, the ashes are still warm.
On Architecture and Intent
The city appears—at first glance—to have been built by someone playing a joke. Wooden buildings perch precariously on stilts over swampy waters, all packed so tightly together that I suspect privacy is not only impossible but legally discouraged. These structures do not breathe. They conspire.
The entire city is raised above muck and mire, presumably to keep it from sinking into the very bay it clings to—though I suspect it simply wanted to get as far away from its own undercity as possible. And that’s fair. I’ve been there. Once. Briefly. My shoes never recovered.
It has… charm, though. In a way. Like a lovable stray that bites half the people who try to pet it.
On People and Purpose
The people of Tilverton are a blend of scoundrel, survivor, merchant, and misguided idealist. Which is to say: they’re interesting. From salt-crusted captains to streetwise traders to a woman who once tried to sell me a “genuine sea ghost in a jar” (it was a jellyfish), there is no shortage of color here.
And yet, for all the crime and chaos of its past, there’s a hunger in the bones of this place. Not just for coin—but for credibility. For purpose. For dignity.
It will get there. Or it won’t. Either way, it’ll have a great story about it.
On Safety
Is Tilverton dangerous? It can be.
But it’s also polite enough to let you know it’s dangerous. That counts for something.
And, strangely, despite the risks, I’ve rarely felt unwelcome here. Watched, yes. Possibly sized up for resale. But not unwelcome.
On the Water
Tilverton’s port is vast, bustling, and deeply suspicious. Barges and fishing vessels line the docks, with half the city's life centered on what comes in and out of the bay. There's a strong chance the sea does more paperwork than any council.
I once asked a sailor why all the ships in Tilverton look like they’re trying to sneak away in the night. He told me they usually are.
In Closing
Tilverton is not as beautiful as Arandor. It is not powerful and industrious like Karagard. It is not well-heeled like Edana. It lacks Burz'kal's majestic savagery. It is alive though, and that has to count for something. What becomes of that life? I'll hopefully be around to see it.
And that, perhaps, is what draws me back. Not the smell. Not the mud. Not the risk of being sold a magical sock. But the story of it all.
Because every splintered board and salt-rotted post whispers the same thing:
“We’re still standing.”
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Bearer of Tetanus-Afflicted Nostalgia
Unlicensed Tilverton Tour Guide
Famous Even Among the Disinterested
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Damp-Footed Visitor of Dockside Boroughs
Unofficial Inspector of Questionable Fencing
Ah, Tilverton. Where the buildings lean slightly—either from age, bad carpentry, or secrets—and the air smells faintly of brine, coin, and unresolved tension.
This curious port city, clinging to the edge of civilization like a splinter no one's decided to remove, has had more identities than a rogue with a disguise kit. Once a haven of Consortium smugglers and criminal ambitions, it now claims to be a Freeport. A city of trade. A neutral ground. A rising phoenix.
I assure you, the ashes are still warm.
On Architecture and Intent
The city appears—at first glance—to have been built by someone playing a joke. Wooden buildings perch precariously on stilts over swampy waters, all packed so tightly together that I suspect privacy is not only impossible but legally discouraged. These structures do not breathe. They conspire.
The entire city is raised above muck and mire, presumably to keep it from sinking into the very bay it clings to—though I suspect it simply wanted to get as far away from its own undercity as possible. And that’s fair. I’ve been there. Once. Briefly. My shoes never recovered.
It has… charm, though. In a way. Like a lovable stray that bites half the people who try to pet it.
On People and Purpose
The people of Tilverton are a blend of scoundrel, survivor, merchant, and misguided idealist. Which is to say: they’re interesting. From salt-crusted captains to streetwise traders to a woman who once tried to sell me a “genuine sea ghost in a jar” (it was a jellyfish), there is no shortage of color here.
And yet, for all the crime and chaos of its past, there’s a hunger in the bones of this place. Not just for coin—but for credibility. For purpose. For dignity.
It will get there. Or it won’t. Either way, it’ll have a great story about it.
On Safety
Is Tilverton dangerous? It can be.
But it’s also polite enough to let you know it’s dangerous. That counts for something.
And, strangely, despite the risks, I’ve rarely felt unwelcome here. Watched, yes. Possibly sized up for resale. But not unwelcome.
On the Water
Tilverton’s port is vast, bustling, and deeply suspicious. Barges and fishing vessels line the docks, with half the city's life centered on what comes in and out of the bay. There's a strong chance the sea does more paperwork than any council.
I once asked a sailor why all the ships in Tilverton look like they’re trying to sneak away in the night. He told me they usually are.
In Closing
Tilverton is not as beautiful as Arandor. It is not powerful and industrious like Karagard. It is not well-heeled like Edana. It lacks Burz'kal's majestic savagery. It is alive though, and that has to count for something. What becomes of that life? I'll hopefully be around to see it.
And that, perhaps, is what draws me back. Not the smell. Not the mud. Not the risk of being sold a magical sock. But the story of it all.
Because every splintered board and salt-rotted post whispers the same thing:
“We’re still standing.”
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Bearer of Tetanus-Afflicted Nostalgia
Unlicensed Tilverton Tour Guide
Famous Even Among the Disinterested
Of Modest Height and Immodest Presence: A Treatise on Standing Tall
As penned while standing on a box, purely for effect.
By Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Modestly Measured, Monumentally Memorable
Let it be known: I am five feet and three inches tall.
Yes. You may gasp dramatically.
Among the Elves of Arandor—where the men loom like statues carved by show-offs and the women stride with the grace of trees old enough to remember when the world began—I am what one might call “conspicuously compact.”
And yet... I regret nothing.
For in the immortal words of someone I surely just made up:
“Better a small frame with a big legend than a towering oaf with no story to tell.”
On Being Overlooked (Literally)
Do people reach for things on my behalf? Certainly.
Do they occasionally mistake me for a very stylish child at a distance? Once or twice.
Do I sometimes walk in the shadows of friends who block out the sun like temples of war? Almost always.
But my presence, dear reader, is not dictated by the length of my legs. No, it is forged in the furnace of flawless delivery, refined vocabulary, and an unbearable amount of charm.
I don’t walk into a room—I arrive.
And everyone looks down, only to realize they’re gazing up.
On the Merits of Modesty (in Scale, not in Spirit)
My smaller stature has numerous benefits:
Dramatic cloak billowing is easier to control. Less drag.
I am the perfect height for eavesdropping under tables. Or fitting under tables. Useful.
When danger looms, I don’t. Which means danger often overlooks me entirely.
My boots last longer. Less wear and tear from the sheer weight of smugness.
Besides, my companions are all conveniently taller. Like a mobile, armored shelf system. Truly, I travel in ergonomic luxury.
On Romance and Reputation
You may ask: Elion, doesn’t being “travel-sized” affect your romantic prospects among your statuesque kin?
To which I reply:
Have you met me?
Let us be clear—there is no height requirement on charisma. My heart is proportionally enormous. My poetry, overwhelming. My reputation? Positively towering.
And when someone calls me “adorably compact,” I simply take their hand, kiss it with a flourish, and say:
“All the better for fitting in the spaces others overlook.”
In Summary
Yes, I am compact.
Yes, I live among Elves who could use me as a very polite scarf.
Yes, I often need a stool to reach the upper shelf in the Arandor library.
But when songs are sung and tales are told, my name echoes taller than towers.
Because in the end, legends are measured in deeds, not inches.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Arandor’s Smallest 'Big' Problem (and Proud of It)
Walking Proof That Height is Optional
By Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Modestly Measured, Monumentally Memorable
Let it be known: I am five feet and three inches tall.
Yes. You may gasp dramatically.
Among the Elves of Arandor—where the men loom like statues carved by show-offs and the women stride with the grace of trees old enough to remember when the world began—I am what one might call “conspicuously compact.”
And yet... I regret nothing.
For in the immortal words of someone I surely just made up:
“Better a small frame with a big legend than a towering oaf with no story to tell.”
On Being Overlooked (Literally)
Do people reach for things on my behalf? Certainly.
Do they occasionally mistake me for a very stylish child at a distance? Once or twice.
Do I sometimes walk in the shadows of friends who block out the sun like temples of war? Almost always.
But my presence, dear reader, is not dictated by the length of my legs. No, it is forged in the furnace of flawless delivery, refined vocabulary, and an unbearable amount of charm.
I don’t walk into a room—I arrive.
And everyone looks down, only to realize they’re gazing up.
On the Merits of Modesty (in Scale, not in Spirit)
My smaller stature has numerous benefits:
Dramatic cloak billowing is easier to control. Less drag.
I am the perfect height for eavesdropping under tables. Or fitting under tables. Useful.
When danger looms, I don’t. Which means danger often overlooks me entirely.
My boots last longer. Less wear and tear from the sheer weight of smugness.
Besides, my companions are all conveniently taller. Like a mobile, armored shelf system. Truly, I travel in ergonomic luxury.
On Romance and Reputation
You may ask: Elion, doesn’t being “travel-sized” affect your romantic prospects among your statuesque kin?
To which I reply:
Have you met me?
Let us be clear—there is no height requirement on charisma. My heart is proportionally enormous. My poetry, overwhelming. My reputation? Positively towering.
And when someone calls me “adorably compact,” I simply take their hand, kiss it with a flourish, and say:
“All the better for fitting in the spaces others overlook.”
In Summary
Yes, I am compact.
Yes, I live among Elves who could use me as a very polite scarf.
Yes, I often need a stool to reach the upper shelf in the Arandor library.
But when songs are sung and tales are told, my name echoes taller than towers.
Because in the end, legends are measured in deeds, not inches.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Arandor’s Smallest 'Big' Problem (and Proud of It)
Walking Proof That Height is Optional
On the Curious Absence of Edanan Adventurers
A deep investigation, conducted entirely from the comfort of dry socks
By Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Unbidden Guest at Too Many Campfires
Voice of Reasonable Nonsense
Collector of Cautionary Tales, Third Edition
Let us consider a mystery not of arcane origin, nor buried in some long-lost ruin filled with skeletons wearing boots far too clean. No, dear reader, today I contemplate a far more elusive subject:
The Edanan Adventurer.
Or rather… the lack thereof.
I have wandered this realm extensively. From the wind-lashed spires of Blackwatch to the vine-strangled ruins of the Entwood. I’ve supped with Orcs, traded verses with Druids, and once shared a bottle of plum wine with a woman who claimed to have been dead twice. (Her stories were, admittedly, quite spirited.) And yet, across all my many meetings, I have never—not once—met a Human adventurer who claimed Edana as their place of origin.
Edana, capital of Mercadia! City of law, learning, polished boots, and buildings that appear to have been designed primarily to discourage fun. It is the beating bureaucratic heart of the Human Kingdom, a place where every parchment has a twin and every meal arrives with a receipt.
And yet its citizens do not, apparently, adventure.
Where, Then, Do They Come From?
Kelt.
Always Kelt.
The wind-burned, mud-streaked, stubborn-spoken north. Land of small houses, big axes, and louder opinions. Every Human I’ve seen face down a drake or pick a fight with a boulder was from Kelt. They stride into danger with a certain brand of confidence normally reserved for tavern drunks and confused chickens. And I respect that!
But it begs the question:
What are the people of Edana doing with themselves?
Are they allergic to peril? Do they faint at the sight of unregulated shrubbery? Have they, perhaps, discovered some strange Human alchemy that allows them to experience adventure by proxy?
(And if so, do they sell it by the vial or the subscription?)
The Grand Scatter: A Keltish Rite?
This brings me to the next point of fascination. That noble, bewildering, undeniably Human tradition known as:
The Grand Scatter.
For the uninitiated (i.e., Elves, Dwarves, Orcs, those with functional systems of logic): the Grand Scatter is a ritualized method of post-battle spoils division. A sacred rite in which all valuables are cast dramatically upon the earth… and then taken up again. One at a time. By all parties involved. Until nothing remains but confusion, empty pouches, and at least one person who definitely wanted the boots but was too slow.
Now, the Elves—bless us—prefer ceremony, elegance, and the use of tables. We would spend six days writing songs about who deserves which item, and why, and then deliver them at sunset with a flute accompaniment and a light wine. But Humans?
They just throw it all on the ground.
That’s the plan.
What I cannot discern is this:
Is this madness universal among all Humans? Or is it, like many things involving shouting and accidental injuries, uniquely Keltish?
Do Edanan adventurers, in the rare event they exist, participate in this ritual? Or do they divide spoils via parchment and stamp, overseen by a clerk in a feathered hat?
Do they bid on loot?
Do they hire intermediaries?
Do they simply repossess the entire dungeon and send it through probate?
I suppose we may never know. Not until one of them emerges from their marble-walled fortresses to actually go on an adventure.
In Conclusion
Until the day an Edanan-born adventurer rides forth, cloak pristine and permit notarized, I will continue to assume they are mythological. Like the perfect Human city tax system or polite Orcish poetry.
In the meantime, I will marvel at the Kelts—bold, brash, and utterly shameless—who take up arms and scatter their prizes like seeds on the wind.
They are ridiculous.
But at least they show up.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Chronically Underpacked, Perpetually Overprepared
Too Short for Most Horses, Too Tall for Most Patience
Still Not Sure Why They Throw It on the Ground
By Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Unbidden Guest at Too Many Campfires
Voice of Reasonable Nonsense
Collector of Cautionary Tales, Third Edition
Let us consider a mystery not of arcane origin, nor buried in some long-lost ruin filled with skeletons wearing boots far too clean. No, dear reader, today I contemplate a far more elusive subject:
The Edanan Adventurer.
Or rather… the lack thereof.
I have wandered this realm extensively. From the wind-lashed spires of Blackwatch to the vine-strangled ruins of the Entwood. I’ve supped with Orcs, traded verses with Druids, and once shared a bottle of plum wine with a woman who claimed to have been dead twice. (Her stories were, admittedly, quite spirited.) And yet, across all my many meetings, I have never—not once—met a Human adventurer who claimed Edana as their place of origin.
Edana, capital of Mercadia! City of law, learning, polished boots, and buildings that appear to have been designed primarily to discourage fun. It is the beating bureaucratic heart of the Human Kingdom, a place where every parchment has a twin and every meal arrives with a receipt.
And yet its citizens do not, apparently, adventure.
Where, Then, Do They Come From?
Kelt.
Always Kelt.
The wind-burned, mud-streaked, stubborn-spoken north. Land of small houses, big axes, and louder opinions. Every Human I’ve seen face down a drake or pick a fight with a boulder was from Kelt. They stride into danger with a certain brand of confidence normally reserved for tavern drunks and confused chickens. And I respect that!
But it begs the question:
What are the people of Edana doing with themselves?
Are they allergic to peril? Do they faint at the sight of unregulated shrubbery? Have they, perhaps, discovered some strange Human alchemy that allows them to experience adventure by proxy?
(And if so, do they sell it by the vial or the subscription?)
The Grand Scatter: A Keltish Rite?
This brings me to the next point of fascination. That noble, bewildering, undeniably Human tradition known as:
The Grand Scatter.
For the uninitiated (i.e., Elves, Dwarves, Orcs, those with functional systems of logic): the Grand Scatter is a ritualized method of post-battle spoils division. A sacred rite in which all valuables are cast dramatically upon the earth… and then taken up again. One at a time. By all parties involved. Until nothing remains but confusion, empty pouches, and at least one person who definitely wanted the boots but was too slow.
Now, the Elves—bless us—prefer ceremony, elegance, and the use of tables. We would spend six days writing songs about who deserves which item, and why, and then deliver them at sunset with a flute accompaniment and a light wine. But Humans?
They just throw it all on the ground.
That’s the plan.
What I cannot discern is this:
Is this madness universal among all Humans? Or is it, like many things involving shouting and accidental injuries, uniquely Keltish?
Do Edanan adventurers, in the rare event they exist, participate in this ritual? Or do they divide spoils via parchment and stamp, overseen by a clerk in a feathered hat?
Do they bid on loot?
Do they hire intermediaries?
Do they simply repossess the entire dungeon and send it through probate?
I suppose we may never know. Not until one of them emerges from their marble-walled fortresses to actually go on an adventure.
In Conclusion
Until the day an Edanan-born adventurer rides forth, cloak pristine and permit notarized, I will continue to assume they are mythological. Like the perfect Human city tax system or polite Orcish poetry.
In the meantime, I will marvel at the Kelts—bold, brash, and utterly shameless—who take up arms and scatter their prizes like seeds on the wind.
They are ridiculous.
But at least they show up.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Chronically Underpacked, Perpetually Overprepared
Too Short for Most Horses, Too Tall for Most Patience
Still Not Sure Why They Throw It on the Ground
Last edited by Rafe on Mon Jun 16, 2025 8:19 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Dining with Hill Elves: A Survivor’s Guide for the Light-Stomached
or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Accept the Seventh Course
By Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Master of the Polite Decline,
Kept Chewing and lost consciousness,
Once Felled by a Single Stew Pot
There are many trials one must endure in this life. Love. War. Trying to explain to a Human why Elves don’t blink during formal apologies. But few ordeals have tested my will—nay, my very soul—as thoroughly as the first time I dined with a Hill Elf family.
I had always known Hill Elves to be stalwart, industrious, and possessed of arms like marble columns. What I had not known—what no one had warned me—is that they are bottomless, remorseless culinary titans.
Rule One: “It’s Just a Bit of Bread” is a Lie
When your Hill Elf host places a modest loaf before you and says, “Just to start,” understand that this is the first stone in an avalanche. That loaf is not bread. It is bait. Eat it, and you’ll signal you are ready to receive The Table.
Rule Two: The Table Moves
Not metaphorically. Literally. At some point during the meal, someone (usually an uncle) will grunt, and a second, larger table will appear—possibly wheeled in, possibly summoned through ancient artisan rites. This table will have:
Two types of roast
A “quick” stew
A small tower of smoked fish
A pie the size of a training dummy
Several slabs of something called “Stonepork” which may or may not be meat
Your job is not to finish these. Your job is to look grateful and remain conscious.
Rule Three: Compliments Are a Contract
Should you utter the phrase “That was delicious,” understand you have triggered a sacred clause in the unwritten Hill Elf kitchen law. This obliges your host to produce at least two more servings of the dish in question. Use caution. Applaud the effort, admire the spice balance, weep quietly—but do not praise out loud unless you’re ready to see that sausage again.
Rule Four: They Don’t Get Full
I don’t mean they eat a lot. I mean I have never seen it happen. There seems to be no terminal condition known as “being full” in Hill Elf physiology. I’ve watched a woman named Lira consume more root vegetables than were planted in the entire southern hill range during the early Harvesting Years, and still ask if there were second pies.
Are they enchanted? Is it training? Did they trade satiety for stamina in a pact with an oven spirit? I do not know.
All I can tell you is that the meal does not end when you’re full. It ends when they are done, or when the food runs out (which I assume is theoretical, since I’ve never seen it occur).
Rule Five: Grace is Survival
To navigate this feast politely:
Pace yourself. Pretend it’s a religious rite. It probably is.
Drink slowly. Refills are automatic and watching them top off your cup without blinking is, frankly, terrifying.
Always keep a napkin visible. It is your only defense.
And if they say “You barely touched that,” laugh, compliment the seasoning, and then tell them a long story while pushing food to the far side of your plate.
Final Notes:
Do not, under any circumstances, imply that Hill Elves eat too much. You will be gently corrected in a tone reserved for correcting children who have said something foolish about anvils. Their hospitality is not just tradition—it is pride, heritage, and an unspoken challenge to your stomach lining.
But if you endure, if you eat and stay the course, something magical happens.
You become, in their eyes, someone worth feeding again.
And that, dear reader, is a mark of love.
Or a threat.
Hard to say.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Officially Married to a Root Casserole
Dined Once with Five Aunts and Lived to Regret It
Author of “Help, They’re Cooking Again” and “Satiety is a Lie: My Time Among Hill Elves”
By Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Master of the Polite Decline,
Kept Chewing and lost consciousness,
Once Felled by a Single Stew Pot
There are many trials one must endure in this life. Love. War. Trying to explain to a Human why Elves don’t blink during formal apologies. But few ordeals have tested my will—nay, my very soul—as thoroughly as the first time I dined with a Hill Elf family.
I had always known Hill Elves to be stalwart, industrious, and possessed of arms like marble columns. What I had not known—what no one had warned me—is that they are bottomless, remorseless culinary titans.
Rule One: “It’s Just a Bit of Bread” is a Lie
When your Hill Elf host places a modest loaf before you and says, “Just to start,” understand that this is the first stone in an avalanche. That loaf is not bread. It is bait. Eat it, and you’ll signal you are ready to receive The Table.
Rule Two: The Table Moves
Not metaphorically. Literally. At some point during the meal, someone (usually an uncle) will grunt, and a second, larger table will appear—possibly wheeled in, possibly summoned through ancient artisan rites. This table will have:
Two types of roast
A “quick” stew
A small tower of smoked fish
A pie the size of a training dummy
Several slabs of something called “Stonepork” which may or may not be meat
Your job is not to finish these. Your job is to look grateful and remain conscious.
Rule Three: Compliments Are a Contract
Should you utter the phrase “That was delicious,” understand you have triggered a sacred clause in the unwritten Hill Elf kitchen law. This obliges your host to produce at least two more servings of the dish in question. Use caution. Applaud the effort, admire the spice balance, weep quietly—but do not praise out loud unless you’re ready to see that sausage again.
Rule Four: They Don’t Get Full
I don’t mean they eat a lot. I mean I have never seen it happen. There seems to be no terminal condition known as “being full” in Hill Elf physiology. I’ve watched a woman named Lira consume more root vegetables than were planted in the entire southern hill range during the early Harvesting Years, and still ask if there were second pies.
Are they enchanted? Is it training? Did they trade satiety for stamina in a pact with an oven spirit? I do not know.
All I can tell you is that the meal does not end when you’re full. It ends when they are done, or when the food runs out (which I assume is theoretical, since I’ve never seen it occur).
Rule Five: Grace is Survival
To navigate this feast politely:
Pace yourself. Pretend it’s a religious rite. It probably is.
Drink slowly. Refills are automatic and watching them top off your cup without blinking is, frankly, terrifying.
Always keep a napkin visible. It is your only defense.
And if they say “You barely touched that,” laugh, compliment the seasoning, and then tell them a long story while pushing food to the far side of your plate.
Final Notes:
Do not, under any circumstances, imply that Hill Elves eat too much. You will be gently corrected in a tone reserved for correcting children who have said something foolish about anvils. Their hospitality is not just tradition—it is pride, heritage, and an unspoken challenge to your stomach lining.
But if you endure, if you eat and stay the course, something magical happens.
You become, in their eyes, someone worth feeding again.
And that, dear reader, is a mark of love.
Or a threat.
Hard to say.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Officially Married to a Root Casserole
Dined Once with Five Aunts and Lived to Regret It
Author of “Help, They’re Cooking Again” and “Satiety is a Lie: My Time Among Hill Elves”
Flame, Frost, and Fatality: A Polite Inquiry into the Lives of Things That Might Eat You
Chapter I: Of Scales and Sanity – Entering Wyrmwood
Wyrmwood is not so much a forest as it is an ancient argument between earth and fire, whispered through roots and echoed from the stone. Nestled in a hidden valley bordered by impassable peaks, this emerald labyrinth teems with creatures older than memory—and deadlier than even the most ill-considered courtship.
Within, one finds the Young Drakes, the least of Wyrmwood’s scaled denizens. While relatively unimpressive compared to their elders, a pack of them is enough to reduce an unprepared adventurer to ash—or at the very least, to a cautionary example best shared at taverns. They do not breathe fire (a mercy for us all), but make up for it with snapping jaws and ceaseless hunger.
Next come the Drakes, larger and more cunning. Their sinewy bodies glide between the vines and shadowed paths with disconcerting grace. They are territorial, testy, and seemingly bred for two things: guarding treasures and ruining well-laid plans.
Above them soar the Dragons—creatures of majesty and malevolence. Though they lack the stature of their chromatic cousins (more on them later), they wield elemental fury with devastating efficiency. One moment the sky is clear, the next it rains molten death. Do try not to blink.
Lastly, there is rumor of a single Ancient Wyrm, slumbering in a cave wound so deep into the earth that even echo avoids it. This beast is old enough to remember the first Elf to think dragon-slaying was clever—and possibly old enough to have eaten him. Approach only if you have a will made of steel, a plan more than “hope,” and no further use for your limbs.
Chapter II: The Chromatic Flight – Terrible Majesty
Ah, the Chromatic Flight. If Wyrmwood’s dragons are storms in the distance, the Chromatic Flight is the storm that has already found your rooftop, blown it off, and stolen your favorite chair.
There are three broods, each led by a dragon so powerful, their very names are a warning. Their domains, goals, and temperaments differ—but they are united in purpose: dominion, devastation, and dinner (you).
Emberweave, Warden of the Firewing Brood
Imagine a living volcano that holds grudges. Now give it wings, scales the color of molten copper, and a voice that could turn sand to glass. That is Emberweave.
This tyrant does not merely breathe fire—he embodies it. When Emberweave takes to the skies, the air itself panics. His flames are not just destructive; they are surgical, deliberate, as though he is teaching the world a lesson it dared forget. His claws strike like meteors, his roars shake bone from marrow, and his fury is strangely... personal. Rumors speak of a ruined citadel deep beneath his lair, where the bones of paladins and poets alike feed the ash.
I once suggested aloud that perhaps Emberweave was misunderstood. The scorch mark remains.
Syranthis, Matron of the Stormclaw Brood
There are tempests, and then there is Syranthis.
With scales like polished obsidian streaked with lightning, Syranthis does not fly so much as command the sky itself. She is grace and wrath, embodied. Her wings slice thunder, her breath carries the scent of death and judgment, and her gaze is said to peel away pretense. You do not lie to Syranthis—you confess.
She feeds on fear, siphons life with a glance, and moves like prophecy. The Stormclaw Brood under her rule are disciplined, brutal, and eerily silent. Unlike her fiery counterpart, Syranthis does not destroy in anger. She destroys with purpose.
I once glimpsed a feathered cloak charged with static and remarked, “This must’ve belonged to Syranthis.” The merchant fainted. A good day, all told.
Glycerion, Sovereign of the Frostborne Brood
Of the three, Glycerion is said to be the calmest—which is only terrifying if you understand cold.
His form is vast, regal, and carved from living glacier. When he moves, frost blossoms in his wake. His breath brings stillness, not just of air, but of thought. A creature of precision and patience, Glycerion delights in turning battlefields into frozen tableaux. Where Emberweave sears the world in fury and Syranthis crashes through it in divine judgment, Glycerion removes it—quietly, beautifully.
Do not mistake restraint for weakness. His claws can shatter stone; his blizzards can blot out legions. His silence is the herald of annihilation.
Once, I touched a piece of what I thought was enchanted quartz. Turned out to be a scale. My fingers have never fully forgiven me.
Closing Note from the Author:
Should you, dear reader, find yourself eye-to-eye with any of these magnificent monstrosities, I suggest the following:
Flatter them—but avoid rhyming. They hate that.
Offer tribute—but not yourself. That's seen as presumptuous.
Run.
There is no shame in fleeing dragons. Only in misjudging your odds.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Occasionally Flambéed, Never Eaten
Too Flammable to Fail
Recorder of Roars, Survivor of Searing Glares
Wyrmwood is not so much a forest as it is an ancient argument between earth and fire, whispered through roots and echoed from the stone. Nestled in a hidden valley bordered by impassable peaks, this emerald labyrinth teems with creatures older than memory—and deadlier than even the most ill-considered courtship.
Within, one finds the Young Drakes, the least of Wyrmwood’s scaled denizens. While relatively unimpressive compared to their elders, a pack of them is enough to reduce an unprepared adventurer to ash—or at the very least, to a cautionary example best shared at taverns. They do not breathe fire (a mercy for us all), but make up for it with snapping jaws and ceaseless hunger.
Next come the Drakes, larger and more cunning. Their sinewy bodies glide between the vines and shadowed paths with disconcerting grace. They are territorial, testy, and seemingly bred for two things: guarding treasures and ruining well-laid plans.
Above them soar the Dragons—creatures of majesty and malevolence. Though they lack the stature of their chromatic cousins (more on them later), they wield elemental fury with devastating efficiency. One moment the sky is clear, the next it rains molten death. Do try not to blink.
Lastly, there is rumor of a single Ancient Wyrm, slumbering in a cave wound so deep into the earth that even echo avoids it. This beast is old enough to remember the first Elf to think dragon-slaying was clever—and possibly old enough to have eaten him. Approach only if you have a will made of steel, a plan more than “hope,” and no further use for your limbs.
Chapter II: The Chromatic Flight – Terrible Majesty
Ah, the Chromatic Flight. If Wyrmwood’s dragons are storms in the distance, the Chromatic Flight is the storm that has already found your rooftop, blown it off, and stolen your favorite chair.
There are three broods, each led by a dragon so powerful, their very names are a warning. Their domains, goals, and temperaments differ—but they are united in purpose: dominion, devastation, and dinner (you).
Emberweave, Warden of the Firewing Brood
Imagine a living volcano that holds grudges. Now give it wings, scales the color of molten copper, and a voice that could turn sand to glass. That is Emberweave.
This tyrant does not merely breathe fire—he embodies it. When Emberweave takes to the skies, the air itself panics. His flames are not just destructive; they are surgical, deliberate, as though he is teaching the world a lesson it dared forget. His claws strike like meteors, his roars shake bone from marrow, and his fury is strangely... personal. Rumors speak of a ruined citadel deep beneath his lair, where the bones of paladins and poets alike feed the ash.
I once suggested aloud that perhaps Emberweave was misunderstood. The scorch mark remains.
Syranthis, Matron of the Stormclaw Brood
There are tempests, and then there is Syranthis.
With scales like polished obsidian streaked with lightning, Syranthis does not fly so much as command the sky itself. She is grace and wrath, embodied. Her wings slice thunder, her breath carries the scent of death and judgment, and her gaze is said to peel away pretense. You do not lie to Syranthis—you confess.
She feeds on fear, siphons life with a glance, and moves like prophecy. The Stormclaw Brood under her rule are disciplined, brutal, and eerily silent. Unlike her fiery counterpart, Syranthis does not destroy in anger. She destroys with purpose.
I once glimpsed a feathered cloak charged with static and remarked, “This must’ve belonged to Syranthis.” The merchant fainted. A good day, all told.
Glycerion, Sovereign of the Frostborne Brood
Of the three, Glycerion is said to be the calmest—which is only terrifying if you understand cold.
His form is vast, regal, and carved from living glacier. When he moves, frost blossoms in his wake. His breath brings stillness, not just of air, but of thought. A creature of precision and patience, Glycerion delights in turning battlefields into frozen tableaux. Where Emberweave sears the world in fury and Syranthis crashes through it in divine judgment, Glycerion removes it—quietly, beautifully.
Do not mistake restraint for weakness. His claws can shatter stone; his blizzards can blot out legions. His silence is the herald of annihilation.
Once, I touched a piece of what I thought was enchanted quartz. Turned out to be a scale. My fingers have never fully forgiven me.
Closing Note from the Author:
Should you, dear reader, find yourself eye-to-eye with any of these magnificent monstrosities, I suggest the following:
Flatter them—but avoid rhyming. They hate that.
Offer tribute—but not yourself. That's seen as presumptuous.
Run.
There is no shame in fleeing dragons. Only in misjudging your odds.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Occasionally Flambéed, Never Eaten
Too Flammable to Fail
Recorder of Roars, Survivor of Searing Glares
On Training With a Demon (Also Known as Veldrin Naenala)
From the Field Guide to Things That Nearly Killed Me
Let me begin by saying that Veldrin Naenala and I are the same height. Exactly. Down to the inch. Five-foot-three of unimpressed stares and withering silence. I want that known—because what follows may sound like the bitter rant of someone belittled by a taller Elf. It is not. It is, instead, the bitter rant of someone belittled by an equal, who somehow felt taller because he carried the weight of every unspoken expectation and every ruined plan you ever had.
To the outside world, they call him The Little Conqueror. Inside Arandor, we just called him sir—if we were feeling brave. Or that madman if we thought he was out of earshot (he wasn’t).
Training under Veldrin was an exercise in suffering wrapped in moss and humiliation. No Elf escaped his curriculum unscathed. Hill Elves, with their proud posture and masonry-thick bones, were routinely deposited into cleverly disguised sinkholes. “Rob them of their high ground,” he muttered once, tying off a rope. “They’re too used to looking down on people.”
High Elves fared no better. Stripped of their elegant spellcasting and offered nothing but damp twigs, they were challenged to survive with only their arrogance and a very judgmental squirrel. Most did not pass.
But for us Wood Elves? We were his legacy. His project. His relentless experiment in whether or not suffering could birth greatness.
We were dropped into deep woods with no gear, no direction, and sometimes no footwear, and told to return with a kill, a map, and a poem about the journey. I once spent twelve hours wedged inside a hollow log full of angry wasps. He called it a lesson in stillness. I called it a vivid near-death hallucination with stingers.
And who could forget the giant beehive incident? Veldrin, in his ever-curious wisdom, believed the best way to teach stealth was to have us infiltrate a druid’s abandoned apiary. Yes, the bees were still there. Yes, they noticed us. Yes, I was stung in places even the most advanced healing magic hesitated to reach.
Despite his love of torment disguised as pedagogy, Veldrin was more than just a survival instructor. He was the architect of our martial traditions. Every Wood Elf who bears a bow, sword, or axe in Arandor owes something to Veldrin’s hand. He was a master of all three, and trained us not to wield them as tools, but as extensions of our instincts.
I remember the first time he sparred with us—one by one, we stepped forward, full of pride and strategy. One by one, he disarmed, floored, or humiliated us without saying a word. His silence during those duels was as instructive as the bruises.
We came away harder, quieter, smarter. And despite the complaints, none of us ever truly questioned why he was so severe. Because the forest doesn’t offer second chances. Because the battlefield doesn’t let you apologize for being unprepared.
And because Veldrin cares. Deeply. Fiercely. In that maddening, unspoken way of old warriors and quiet teachers who see every Elf under their charge not just as students, but as the hope of a people who nearly lost everything.
So, yes, he’s a demon.
But he’s our demon.
Rest well, Veldrin. May your Slumber of Renewal be free of all the loudmouths you trained. We’ll try not to wake you—unless, of course, a giant beehive needs relocating.
Respectfully and still itchy,
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Graduate of the Naenala Method, Sting Marks and All
“Same height, less terrifying”
Let me begin by saying that Veldrin Naenala and I are the same height. Exactly. Down to the inch. Five-foot-three of unimpressed stares and withering silence. I want that known—because what follows may sound like the bitter rant of someone belittled by a taller Elf. It is not. It is, instead, the bitter rant of someone belittled by an equal, who somehow felt taller because he carried the weight of every unspoken expectation and every ruined plan you ever had.
To the outside world, they call him The Little Conqueror. Inside Arandor, we just called him sir—if we were feeling brave. Or that madman if we thought he was out of earshot (he wasn’t).
Training under Veldrin was an exercise in suffering wrapped in moss and humiliation. No Elf escaped his curriculum unscathed. Hill Elves, with their proud posture and masonry-thick bones, were routinely deposited into cleverly disguised sinkholes. “Rob them of their high ground,” he muttered once, tying off a rope. “They’re too used to looking down on people.”
High Elves fared no better. Stripped of their elegant spellcasting and offered nothing but damp twigs, they were challenged to survive with only their arrogance and a very judgmental squirrel. Most did not pass.
But for us Wood Elves? We were his legacy. His project. His relentless experiment in whether or not suffering could birth greatness.
We were dropped into deep woods with no gear, no direction, and sometimes no footwear, and told to return with a kill, a map, and a poem about the journey. I once spent twelve hours wedged inside a hollow log full of angry wasps. He called it a lesson in stillness. I called it a vivid near-death hallucination with stingers.
And who could forget the giant beehive incident? Veldrin, in his ever-curious wisdom, believed the best way to teach stealth was to have us infiltrate a druid’s abandoned apiary. Yes, the bees were still there. Yes, they noticed us. Yes, I was stung in places even the most advanced healing magic hesitated to reach.
Despite his love of torment disguised as pedagogy, Veldrin was more than just a survival instructor. He was the architect of our martial traditions. Every Wood Elf who bears a bow, sword, or axe in Arandor owes something to Veldrin’s hand. He was a master of all three, and trained us not to wield them as tools, but as extensions of our instincts.
I remember the first time he sparred with us—one by one, we stepped forward, full of pride and strategy. One by one, he disarmed, floored, or humiliated us without saying a word. His silence during those duels was as instructive as the bruises.
We came away harder, quieter, smarter. And despite the complaints, none of us ever truly questioned why he was so severe. Because the forest doesn’t offer second chances. Because the battlefield doesn’t let you apologize for being unprepared.
And because Veldrin cares. Deeply. Fiercely. In that maddening, unspoken way of old warriors and quiet teachers who see every Elf under their charge not just as students, but as the hope of a people who nearly lost everything.
So, yes, he’s a demon.
But he’s our demon.
Rest well, Veldrin. May your Slumber of Renewal be free of all the loudmouths you trained. We’ll try not to wake you—unless, of course, a giant beehive needs relocating.
Respectfully and still itchy,
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Graduate of the Naenala Method, Sting Marks and All
“Same height, less terrifying”
The Heart Knows, But the Clan Will Still Have Opinions
A Guide to Pairing, Parents, and the Perils of Getting Along with Hill Elves
by Elion Miradove,
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Survivor of One Thistlebrook Courtship
On the Nature of Pairing
Elven pairing is rarely swift. It is the slow turn of a season, the patient growth of root and bloom, and often full of thorns. Your Lyandrel may stir at the first laugh, or not until the fiftieth shared patrol. That is not unusual.
Some pair young, drawn together by complementary temperaments or the shared path of their Weaving. Others—like myself and my beloved Faelith—are longtime friends who only understood what we were to each other after a lifetime of jokes, jabs, and nearly dying in one another’s company more times than I can count. Patience, my young reader. You do not pick a flower before the bud opens.
Pairing binds more than just hearts. It invites the scrutiny of clans, the meddling of parents, and—should you find yourself enamored with a Hill Elf—a pack of siblings all eager to test your worth. Choose wisely. Endure nobly.
The Sons of Arandor
Let us begin with you, dear sons—High, Hill, or Wood. You stand at the edge of your adulthood, perhaps freshly returned from your Weaving, or convinced your first crush is your destined pair. You are probably wrong, but that is not the point.
For High Elf sons, who often come from structured households and an upbringing steeped in etiquette and expectation, know that a potential pair may not value your sense of order as much as you do. Especially if she is a Wood Elf. If her laugh is wild and she climbs trees barefoot, don’t assume that her chaos means disinterest. It may mean you’re being tested. Or worse—teased.
For Hill Elf sons, whose strong hands are shaped by forge or field, who are often earnest to a fault—soften that brow! Your desire to prove yourself can be noble, but sometimes love is found not in strength, but in stillness. Show her the care you show your craft.
For Wood Elf sons, beware. Our kind are the most likely to run. You will fall for the smile that hides behind a hood, the glint in her eye as she vaults from branch to branch, never quite staying in one place. And when you try to confess your feelings, she will vanish for three weeks to “think about it.” If she returns with a gift—an animal skull, a feather, or some other absurd token—take heart. That’s her version of a sonnet.
Now, let us speak plainly about mothers. No Elven son grows without learning her rhythms. In a matrilineal society such as ours, the mother determines not only your clan but much of your early worldview. Her favor carries weight, and her disapproval even more. Treat her with the same reverence you would a blade you are not yet skilled enough to wield. She will protect you, temper you, and expect better of you. Learn from that.
The Daughters of the Three Clans
For my beloved daughters of Arandor—clever, bright, and blessed with an inherited understanding of how the world turns—this section is for you. You may not yet realize how terrifying you are. Trust me. You are.
High Elf daughters are taught grace and insight, yes, but they must not mistake poise for superiority. Love requires humility, especially when your pair may come from less refined stock. If he fumbles his words but brings flowers he picked himself, do not correct the genus of each bloom. Accept the gesture, not the taxonomy.
Hill Elf daughters—fierce, proud, often raised among siblings and protective kin—will test any who come near them. And rightly so. But do not mistake skepticism for safety. Some souls will not stay if you make them prove their worth every week. And no, you cannot spar with his mother to settle who’s in charge. (That only worked once, and only because they both enjoyed it.)
Wood Elf daughters, you are a wonder and a terror. You are quicksilver and moonlight, sharp-edged and soft-hearted. You may flee the moment something feels too real, then haunt his dreams with a kiss behind a waterfall. Do not be afraid to stay. There is magic in presence, too.
And a word to you about your fathers.
Elven fathers are perhaps the most quietly influential figures in your lives. Though ours is a matrilineal culture, a father’s protectiveness—especially among Hill Elves—can be the stuff of cautionary tales and songs. If you are a daughter of a Hill Elf, you do not just bring a partner home—you bring them to a tribunal.
Even now, I worry what Orist might say when he returns to Arandor and finds me with his daughter. Faelith bears his strength, his resolve, his grim brow and capacity for silence. She also bears Melian’s wisdom, grace, and the quiet voice of the forest. And though she does not wear her Wood Elf nature publicly, I have seen it. She is all fire and moss and wind. That she chose me is the only miracle I do not attempt to explain. I only try to be worthy of it.
On Families and Siblings
Do not simply fall in love with an Elf—fall in line with their clan. Especially with Hill Elves, who are the most likely to have siblings, and thus, the most likely to test your patience, your cooking, and your spear-hand. Learn their names. Share in their labors. If they offer you fermented cave root as a welcome gift, you must drink it. No, I do not care what it smells like.
High Elf families may not overwhelm you with numbers, but they will with scrutiny. A quiet dinner with her parents will become an evaluation. If her aunt raises her brow at your grammar, you’ve already lost.
Wood Elf families are a trickier subject, not only because we tend to disappear into the trees at the first sign of formality, but because some—though not all—of our households are polyamorous. I mention this not to alarm you, but so you are not confused when her “aunt” and “second-father” both offer blessings in the same breath.
My own family did not practice this, and neither did Faelith’s. But the world is wide, and hearts are not made to conform. Be honest. Be respectful. And when in doubt—ask.
Final Thoughts
Your pairing will not look like anyone else’s. It will be strange, hard-won, inconvenient, hilarious, deeply painful, and absurdly perfect. You will grow into each other like vines around an old ruin—resilient, tangled, and perhaps something new.
Remember this: your Lyandrel remembers. Even when your mind doubts, your mana sings when you are near them. Follow that sound. Chase that feeling. And if you must stumble, let it be in the direction of love.
May your oaths be true, your families patient, and your future bright.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Apprentice in the Art of Not Being Slain by Her Kin
Once Lost, Now Occasionally Useful
Chronicler of Other People’s Better Judgments
And Proudly, Faelith's Chosen
by Elion Miradove,
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Survivor of One Thistlebrook Courtship
On the Nature of Pairing
Elven pairing is rarely swift. It is the slow turn of a season, the patient growth of root and bloom, and often full of thorns. Your Lyandrel may stir at the first laugh, or not until the fiftieth shared patrol. That is not unusual.
Some pair young, drawn together by complementary temperaments or the shared path of their Weaving. Others—like myself and my beloved Faelith—are longtime friends who only understood what we were to each other after a lifetime of jokes, jabs, and nearly dying in one another’s company more times than I can count. Patience, my young reader. You do not pick a flower before the bud opens.
Pairing binds more than just hearts. It invites the scrutiny of clans, the meddling of parents, and—should you find yourself enamored with a Hill Elf—a pack of siblings all eager to test your worth. Choose wisely. Endure nobly.
The Sons of Arandor
Let us begin with you, dear sons—High, Hill, or Wood. You stand at the edge of your adulthood, perhaps freshly returned from your Weaving, or convinced your first crush is your destined pair. You are probably wrong, but that is not the point.
For High Elf sons, who often come from structured households and an upbringing steeped in etiquette and expectation, know that a potential pair may not value your sense of order as much as you do. Especially if she is a Wood Elf. If her laugh is wild and she climbs trees barefoot, don’t assume that her chaos means disinterest. It may mean you’re being tested. Or worse—teased.
For Hill Elf sons, whose strong hands are shaped by forge or field, who are often earnest to a fault—soften that brow! Your desire to prove yourself can be noble, but sometimes love is found not in strength, but in stillness. Show her the care you show your craft.
For Wood Elf sons, beware. Our kind are the most likely to run. You will fall for the smile that hides behind a hood, the glint in her eye as she vaults from branch to branch, never quite staying in one place. And when you try to confess your feelings, she will vanish for three weeks to “think about it.” If she returns with a gift—an animal skull, a feather, or some other absurd token—take heart. That’s her version of a sonnet.
Now, let us speak plainly about mothers. No Elven son grows without learning her rhythms. In a matrilineal society such as ours, the mother determines not only your clan but much of your early worldview. Her favor carries weight, and her disapproval even more. Treat her with the same reverence you would a blade you are not yet skilled enough to wield. She will protect you, temper you, and expect better of you. Learn from that.
The Daughters of the Three Clans
For my beloved daughters of Arandor—clever, bright, and blessed with an inherited understanding of how the world turns—this section is for you. You may not yet realize how terrifying you are. Trust me. You are.
High Elf daughters are taught grace and insight, yes, but they must not mistake poise for superiority. Love requires humility, especially when your pair may come from less refined stock. If he fumbles his words but brings flowers he picked himself, do not correct the genus of each bloom. Accept the gesture, not the taxonomy.
Hill Elf daughters—fierce, proud, often raised among siblings and protective kin—will test any who come near them. And rightly so. But do not mistake skepticism for safety. Some souls will not stay if you make them prove their worth every week. And no, you cannot spar with his mother to settle who’s in charge. (That only worked once, and only because they both enjoyed it.)
Wood Elf daughters, you are a wonder and a terror. You are quicksilver and moonlight, sharp-edged and soft-hearted. You may flee the moment something feels too real, then haunt his dreams with a kiss behind a waterfall. Do not be afraid to stay. There is magic in presence, too.
And a word to you about your fathers.
Elven fathers are perhaps the most quietly influential figures in your lives. Though ours is a matrilineal culture, a father’s protectiveness—especially among Hill Elves—can be the stuff of cautionary tales and songs. If you are a daughter of a Hill Elf, you do not just bring a partner home—you bring them to a tribunal.
Even now, I worry what Orist might say when he returns to Arandor and finds me with his daughter. Faelith bears his strength, his resolve, his grim brow and capacity for silence. She also bears Melian’s wisdom, grace, and the quiet voice of the forest. And though she does not wear her Wood Elf nature publicly, I have seen it. She is all fire and moss and wind. That she chose me is the only miracle I do not attempt to explain. I only try to be worthy of it.
On Families and Siblings
Do not simply fall in love with an Elf—fall in line with their clan. Especially with Hill Elves, who are the most likely to have siblings, and thus, the most likely to test your patience, your cooking, and your spear-hand. Learn their names. Share in their labors. If they offer you fermented cave root as a welcome gift, you must drink it. No, I do not care what it smells like.
High Elf families may not overwhelm you with numbers, but they will with scrutiny. A quiet dinner with her parents will become an evaluation. If her aunt raises her brow at your grammar, you’ve already lost.
Wood Elf families are a trickier subject, not only because we tend to disappear into the trees at the first sign of formality, but because some—though not all—of our households are polyamorous. I mention this not to alarm you, but so you are not confused when her “aunt” and “second-father” both offer blessings in the same breath.
My own family did not practice this, and neither did Faelith’s. But the world is wide, and hearts are not made to conform. Be honest. Be respectful. And when in doubt—ask.
Final Thoughts
Your pairing will not look like anyone else’s. It will be strange, hard-won, inconvenient, hilarious, deeply painful, and absurdly perfect. You will grow into each other like vines around an old ruin—resilient, tangled, and perhaps something new.
Remember this: your Lyandrel remembers. Even when your mind doubts, your mana sings when you are near them. Follow that sound. Chase that feeling. And if you must stumble, let it be in the direction of love.
May your oaths be true, your families patient, and your future bright.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse
Apprentice in the Art of Not Being Slain by Her Kin
Once Lost, Now Occasionally Useful
Chronicler of Other People’s Better Judgments
And Proudly, Faelith's Chosen
Elion's Field Guide to Elven Behavior - The Hill Elf Huff
“You Are Being Corrected. Quietly.”
By Elion Miradove, Poet-Sage of the Harmoniums Muse,
Amateur Craftsman (Briefly),
and Unofficial Huff Anthropologist
Hill Elves do not raise their voices.
They do not point, gesture wildly, or lecture at length.
They simply exhale—and the world corrects itself.
The Hill Elf Huff is a time-honored method of conveying silent disapproval, redirection, and occasionally love.
It is not scolding. It is not warning. It is inevitability, aired gently.
Elion's Huff Scale (With Gendered and Situational Examples)
[1] The Domestic Huff – “This Was Incorrect.”
Sound: Short, clipped, nasal. Like the punctuation at the end of a long sentence they didn’t write but now must fix.
Common Traits:
Brief.
Delivered while moving to correct the problem.
No commentary. Your error is already being handled.
Female Examples:
You’re cutting wood unevenly. She huffs, re-measures your work, and re-cuts it without speaking.
You oiled your bowstring while still strung. She huffs, unstrings it mid-conversation, restrings it better, and hands it back with a quiet “there.”
You add honey before the tea leaves. She huffs, gently takes your mug, and does it correctly, somehow with your own cup.
Your cooking fire is too hot. She huffs, adjusts the coals, and the stew now smells divine. You are quietly ignored.
Male Examples:
You used the wrong end of a tool he hasn't seen before. He huffs, turns it in your hand silently, as he intuitively understands it and walks away.
You used green wood in the firepit. He huffs, replaces it with dry oak, and says nothing.
You’re trying to sharpen your blade at the wrong angle. He huffs, gestures, sharpens it with five strokes, and leaves the whetstone on your bedroll.
[2] The Practical Huff – “I’ll Handle This.”
Sound: Steady and intentional, often followed by immediate movement.
Common Traits:
Mid-length.
Usually interrupts your solution.
Accompanied by tool retrieval, realignment, or restructuring.
Female Examples:
You’re packing the tent with bedrolls on the bottom. She huffs, unpacks it all, reorganizes, and ties it tighter in less time than you spent fumbling with the rope.
You’re using too much seasoning. She huffs, pulls the pot aside, balances it, and hands you a spoonful that tastes better than your entire attempt.
You ask her how to fix something. She huffs, shows you silently, and leaves you holding the now-correct object and wondering how she did it that fast.
Male Examples:
You attempt to build a firepit without leveling the ground. He huffs, flattens it with the back of a shovel, and builds a four-stone ring while you’re still holding a twig.
You try to repair a wheel with twine. He huffs, replaces the axle brace, and turns your twine into a clothesline.
You suggest moving the camp uphill. He huffs, digs a drainage trench, and the rain rolls off like it was always planned.
[3] The Tactical Huff – “This Strategy Is No Longer Valid.”
Sound: Long, smooth, delivered just before a better idea is physically implemented.
Common Traits:
Usually ends a conversation.
May precede decisive movement or action.
Commanding in presence, even if not loud.
Female Examples:
You propose ambushing the gnolls. She huffs, steps forward, and drops the leader in two blows before you finish “ambushing.”
You suggest hiding behind a log. She huffs, walks over the hill, and starts the battle herself—you follow because you must.
You try a “clever” feint. She huffs, knocks the sword from your hand during training, and says “Try that again, slower.”
Male Examples:
You suggest diplomacy with a creature currently frothing. He huffs, steps ahead, and handles the matter with three swift strikes and a calm “It’s handled.”
You hesitate at a doorway. He huffs, enters first, clears the hall, and says “Next time, move.” He doesn’t need to raise his voice.
You tell him to wait. He huffs. You find yourself catching up.
[4] The Bone-Deep Huff – “You Are Still Speaking. You Shouldn’t Be.”
Sound: Deep, slow, and remarkably patient. Felt more in the spine than the ears.
Common Traits:
Followed by silence.
Leaves you reconsidering your actions without any direct criticism.
Often the final stage before they walk off to fix it themselves.
Female Examples:
You’re still explaining why your cooking pot burned again. She huffs, ladles out the salvageable portion, and hands you the burnt bottom with a rag.
You argue about how to rotate the patrol. She huffs, rewrites the schedule without a word, and everyone follows it.
You left camp a mess. She huffs, cleans it while humming, and you’re suddenly overwhelmed by guilt and perfectly folded blankets.
Male Examples:
You explain why your rope knot failed. He huffs, gestures once, and the next knot holds firm through a thunderstorm.
You start telling a story instead of helping. He huffs, finishes the work, and leaves a tool in your hand—just heavy enough to remind you.
You question his route. He huffs, keeps walking. You follow. He does not mention it again. You do not bring it up.
Gender Nuance in the Huff
Female Hill Elves Huff with pointed precision. Their version says: “I will not waste time explaining. I will correct this.” The correction may come with a subtle lesson—if you’re smart enough to notice it.
Male Hill Elves Huff like someone who saw the flaw five minutes ago and decided to let you discover it before gently replacing your plan with something permanent and quiet.
Neither will push you. Neither will shame you.
You’ll simply find yourself corrected… and a little better for it.
Elion’s Field Note:
Once, I witnessed a pair of Hill Elf siblings camp together.
No words. No gestures. Just Huffs.
She huffed while laying down canvas.
He huffed while adjusting the fire.
She huffed once more.
And just like that, we had shelter, heat, cooked food, stacked gear, and somehow I was holding a mug of tea.
I never saw a single instruction.
I have never felt more in awe of breath.
Conclusion
The Hill Elf Huff is not meant to humiliate or shame.
It is an act of graceful intervention, wrapped in silence, steeped in centuries of competence.
If you’re Huffed at, you’ve been included. Corrected. Folded gently back into the right way of doing things.
And you’ll be better for it.
Even if you have no idea how the stew got fixed, the tent got pitched, and your sword ended up sharper than before you touched it.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse,
Bearer of Too Many Spoons, Not Enough Rope,
Moved (Once) by a Huff So Strong I Apologized to a Bench
By Elion Miradove, Poet-Sage of the Harmoniums Muse,
Amateur Craftsman (Briefly),
and Unofficial Huff Anthropologist
Hill Elves do not raise their voices.
They do not point, gesture wildly, or lecture at length.
They simply exhale—and the world corrects itself.
The Hill Elf Huff is a time-honored method of conveying silent disapproval, redirection, and occasionally love.
It is not scolding. It is not warning. It is inevitability, aired gently.
Elion's Huff Scale (With Gendered and Situational Examples)
[1] The Domestic Huff – “This Was Incorrect.”
Sound: Short, clipped, nasal. Like the punctuation at the end of a long sentence they didn’t write but now must fix.
Common Traits:
Brief.
Delivered while moving to correct the problem.
No commentary. Your error is already being handled.
Female Examples:
You’re cutting wood unevenly. She huffs, re-measures your work, and re-cuts it without speaking.
You oiled your bowstring while still strung. She huffs, unstrings it mid-conversation, restrings it better, and hands it back with a quiet “there.”
You add honey before the tea leaves. She huffs, gently takes your mug, and does it correctly, somehow with your own cup.
Your cooking fire is too hot. She huffs, adjusts the coals, and the stew now smells divine. You are quietly ignored.
Male Examples:
You used the wrong end of a tool he hasn't seen before. He huffs, turns it in your hand silently, as he intuitively understands it and walks away.
You used green wood in the firepit. He huffs, replaces it with dry oak, and says nothing.
You’re trying to sharpen your blade at the wrong angle. He huffs, gestures, sharpens it with five strokes, and leaves the whetstone on your bedroll.
[2] The Practical Huff – “I’ll Handle This.”
Sound: Steady and intentional, often followed by immediate movement.
Common Traits:
Mid-length.
Usually interrupts your solution.
Accompanied by tool retrieval, realignment, or restructuring.
Female Examples:
You’re packing the tent with bedrolls on the bottom. She huffs, unpacks it all, reorganizes, and ties it tighter in less time than you spent fumbling with the rope.
You’re using too much seasoning. She huffs, pulls the pot aside, balances it, and hands you a spoonful that tastes better than your entire attempt.
You ask her how to fix something. She huffs, shows you silently, and leaves you holding the now-correct object and wondering how she did it that fast.
Male Examples:
You attempt to build a firepit without leveling the ground. He huffs, flattens it with the back of a shovel, and builds a four-stone ring while you’re still holding a twig.
You try to repair a wheel with twine. He huffs, replaces the axle brace, and turns your twine into a clothesline.
You suggest moving the camp uphill. He huffs, digs a drainage trench, and the rain rolls off like it was always planned.
[3] The Tactical Huff – “This Strategy Is No Longer Valid.”
Sound: Long, smooth, delivered just before a better idea is physically implemented.
Common Traits:
Usually ends a conversation.
May precede decisive movement or action.
Commanding in presence, even if not loud.
Female Examples:
You propose ambushing the gnolls. She huffs, steps forward, and drops the leader in two blows before you finish “ambushing.”
You suggest hiding behind a log. She huffs, walks over the hill, and starts the battle herself—you follow because you must.
You try a “clever” feint. She huffs, knocks the sword from your hand during training, and says “Try that again, slower.”
Male Examples:
You suggest diplomacy with a creature currently frothing. He huffs, steps ahead, and handles the matter with three swift strikes and a calm “It’s handled.”
You hesitate at a doorway. He huffs, enters first, clears the hall, and says “Next time, move.” He doesn’t need to raise his voice.
You tell him to wait. He huffs. You find yourself catching up.
[4] The Bone-Deep Huff – “You Are Still Speaking. You Shouldn’t Be.”
Sound: Deep, slow, and remarkably patient. Felt more in the spine than the ears.
Common Traits:
Followed by silence.
Leaves you reconsidering your actions without any direct criticism.
Often the final stage before they walk off to fix it themselves.
Female Examples:
You’re still explaining why your cooking pot burned again. She huffs, ladles out the salvageable portion, and hands you the burnt bottom with a rag.
You argue about how to rotate the patrol. She huffs, rewrites the schedule without a word, and everyone follows it.
You left camp a mess. She huffs, cleans it while humming, and you’re suddenly overwhelmed by guilt and perfectly folded blankets.
Male Examples:
You explain why your rope knot failed. He huffs, gestures once, and the next knot holds firm through a thunderstorm.
You start telling a story instead of helping. He huffs, finishes the work, and leaves a tool in your hand—just heavy enough to remind you.
You question his route. He huffs, keeps walking. You follow. He does not mention it again. You do not bring it up.
Gender Nuance in the Huff
Female Hill Elves Huff with pointed precision. Their version says: “I will not waste time explaining. I will correct this.” The correction may come with a subtle lesson—if you’re smart enough to notice it.
Male Hill Elves Huff like someone who saw the flaw five minutes ago and decided to let you discover it before gently replacing your plan with something permanent and quiet.
Neither will push you. Neither will shame you.
You’ll simply find yourself corrected… and a little better for it.
Elion’s Field Note:
Once, I witnessed a pair of Hill Elf siblings camp together.
No words. No gestures. Just Huffs.
She huffed while laying down canvas.
He huffed while adjusting the fire.
She huffed once more.
And just like that, we had shelter, heat, cooked food, stacked gear, and somehow I was holding a mug of tea.
I never saw a single instruction.
I have never felt more in awe of breath.
Conclusion
The Hill Elf Huff is not meant to humiliate or shame.
It is an act of graceful intervention, wrapped in silence, steeped in centuries of competence.
If you’re Huffed at, you’ve been included. Corrected. Folded gently back into the right way of doing things.
And you’ll be better for it.
Even if you have no idea how the stew got fixed, the tent got pitched, and your sword ended up sharper than before you touched it.
Elion Miradove
Poet-Sage of the Harmonious Muse,
Bearer of Too Many Spoons, Not Enough Rope,
Moved (Once) by a Huff So Strong I Apologized to a Bench