I grew up in the village of Uthlarian, in the forest of Brekwood. The forest is bordered by mountains to the north and west. About the time I was born, raids from the violent mountain races into Brekwood were all too frequent. The raids were by orcs and goblins mostly, some aimed at us, and some aimed at dwarven caravans bringing goods and treasure back to their mountain holds. The Arcane Archers had long been protectors of this wood and were quite capable of repelling the raids from the mountains, but they were growing too frequent for any elf’s comfort. I learned to hate orcs at a very young age.

The village elders convened on the issue and decided that a change in policy was needed, that the orcs had grown too brazen, and more frightfully, too familiar with our territory. It was decided that no survivors were to be left of any raiding party. Raiders who fled were to be hunted down so they could bring no news to others. As orcs and goblins lead short, violent lives, their heritage having little oral tradition, and virtually no written, we were soon forgotten by the orcs and goblins, as the number of them who had actually encountered elves grew fewer and fewer. The goblins shunned our wood because it became mysterious. The orcs, too were fearful of Brekwood because no orc who went in came out.

Though it was not our intention, the dwarves also grew fearful of Brekwood. Being at constant odds with the goblins and orcs, they knew that Brekwood had become a bane to the goblins and orcs, and did not speculate that the elves might be responsible.

I had shown a curiosity towards the Arcane Archers and their tactics with the orcs. When I was little, I would pretend I was a sentry, patrolling for orcs. I would often imagine single-handedly wiping out raiding parties with my bow.

The Arcane Archers, for the most part, took a liking to me, some as a cute little pet, but I also grew on the more gruff Archers, as I showed aptitude with the longbow. On occasion, they allowed me to tag along on patrols. Sometimes, because of feeling rejected when I was not invited, I would trail a patrol of Archers. I was caught more times doing that than I can count, and sent home, as it is extremely difficult to track a group of Arcane Archers closely without being discovered. They never told my father though, because they saw no real harm in it. They knew I could take care of myself.

There were a few occasions though, that I surprised even them! I would pop up behind them suddenly, giving the more green ones quite a start. I treated this like a game until one day. I was trailing them at quite a distance this day, in fact, I only was able to follow them because I was familiar with this particular patrol route. I was too far off to know that the Archers had just had a skirmish with a raiding party of orcs, and when I came upon them, I was mistaken for an orc. Several arrows were loosed at me in the bushes, and one struck me solidly in the shoulder. As I yelped in pain, the Archers realized their unfortunate error and bore me back to Uthlarian. My wound was not severe, and it easily mended, however my game was up, and I was forbade from trailing the Archers.

So it went for a good century, with raids tapering down to nothing, and the elves of Uthlarian feeling safe again. I was apprenticed with the Archers when I was old enough, growing in skill with the bow. About this same time I noticed some strange occurrences that seemed to be centered around me. Little things would happen, such as things falling off of shelves when I was angry, or an arrow of mine hitting its target when I was sure I had misfired. My uncle Erinol first realized that it might be a touch of the Arcane, and was excited that I might become versed in the ways of magic.

Patrols grew infrequent. Orcs had not been seen in the wood for decades, and goblins, close to a century. Quite recently, within the past year, the elves of Uthlarian had occasion for celebrating. Most of the village was merrymaking and only a skeleton crew were set as sentries at the perimeter of the village. Early that morning, after celebrations had tapered off, I returned to my treehouse. A scent assailed my nostrils that I had not smelled since the day I had been struck with an arrow following the skirmish with the orcs. All at once I grew angered and frightened, for I had no means of defense. I raised an alarm, but upon investigation with backup, I discovered that the orcs had long departed, making their way in and out during the merrymaking. I did a preliminary search of my treehouse and was baffled to find nothing missing.

The next morning a more thorough search was performed. Though these orcs were certainly stealthy, they did not pass without any trace. It was found that three orcs bested a single sentry, leaving him dead before he could raise an alarm. The orcs made it to my treehouse and back along a similar route without being noticed.

The implications of these findings frightened many of the elves, as it was evident that we were not as safe as we believed. More stunning than that realization, was that even though it was unmistakably orcs that committed this deed, it was totally uncharacteristic. Orcs Have never been known to use stealth, preferring to overwhelm enemies with numbers. Further, it was speculated that the orcs might have had help from some unseen power that had a vendetta against our village. And why? What were they here for? Nobody missed anything after searching their homes.

Not too long after the incident my father returned from a journey. After normal pleasantries with folk who greeted him, tidings were delivered to him of the raid upon our home. Those who were present at this meeting later told me that my father paled at this mention, and hastily excused himself to rush to our home.

I barely got to see him at all when he came home. When I met him, he told me that he was only home for provisions and had to leave again very soon. He insisted that nothing was wrong, but I know better. Still he would not tell me. He left barely two days after he arrived and would tell nobody of his plans.

I spoke to Erinol after he had gone, and at great length, he broke down and confessed that he knew a bit more than he was leading on. The night of the raid, something was indeed stolen from my house. An heirloom of some importance to my father was taken that night. My uncle described a longbow that was forged by my great-grandfather some thousands of years ago before elves even resided in this wood. Aside from being of supreme craftsmanship, the bow was inscribed with Elven runes under the light of a full moon on mid-summer’s eve. With great reluctance, my uncle also told me that my father had planned to give this bow to me as a gift upon my becoming a full initiate of the Arcane Archers, then just weeks away. He speculated that was the reason for his anger while he wan in the village and at the root of his hasty departure, though he could not be certain.

Not long after, I departed the village, with but my longbow, a rapier, and some gold in provisions with no real goal, but a refusal to remain idle. What could I accomplish to alleviate the distress of my father? What does the mystery of the orcs mean? I had only questions, and a long unpaved road upon which to ponder them