[center][color=goldenrod][h1][i]Valley of the Shadow of Death[/i][/h1][/color][/center]

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"I don't understand. If the Lady and the Laughing Man had such deep kinship as you say, why did they part?" A solitary voice broke into the respectful silence of the encampment. It belonged to a snub-nosed woman with gaunt features, sitting at the edge of the gathering. The woman next to her raised her hand to flick the snub-nose's ear in punishment for interrupting, something that had already begun to spread among the elvenfolk as a gesture of admonishment.

Masol, the muscular elf who had first dared to try his hand at using words and speaking to the Lady, halted the punishment with a raised hand. The motion rustled one of the women who laid draped along his side, who sighed with irritation. "It's a valid question," Masol offered, giving the snub-nosed elf a direct look that burrowed deep and set her cheeks alight. He straightened his back ever so slightly and pressed himself back against the smooth and warm obsidian monument around which they'd gathered. Only after his right-side companion had settled back to resting against his bicep did he deign to continue. "Not all of us were present when the Lady told her tales, after all, and what she gave us on waking are more like feelings. There is of course a simple explanation for your concern."

"Is there?" Another man broke in quickly, challenging Masol's hegemony of the conversation readily. His lip was already split from a similar altercation with another group a few days ago, and the man known as Serrat was already known as a troublemaker. That did not hamper his apparent popularity with both men and women. "I was in the second row for this tale and I cannot recall the Lady ever speaking of any such explanation."

The group of almost two dozen shifted their eyes between Serrat and Masol, some more tense and expectant than others. Even though there were less than five thousand of them in total, there had been plenty of fighting the last few days, especially after the Lady had departed. Masol however remained unbothered, clawing a strand of long grass from the ground nearby to rest between his lips. "Of course. The Lady trusts us to be clever enough to hear the words and the emotion, and understand what is not said."

"And what is that?" Another man cut in from the crowd, from his sedate resting place in the lap of a woman who played with his hair.

Masol presented a confident smirk. "Why, their kinship is so deep that being together would tear the land asunder! They parted because of their devotion to the world below." His bold claim coaxed out a wave of excited breaths from the crowd, a handful of them eagerly drinking in his words with big eyes. 

Others seemed less convinced by the boastful elf, chief among them Serrat who looked outright irritated. Not wanting to be outdone, he interrupted the idle chatter that followed the claim with a sharp clearing of his throat. "Ah. You mean like that. Yes, of course, everyone could see that. What is more impressive is what the Lady truly meant in her tale of the man on top of the world."

His comment earned him the attention of the crowd and the burning gaze of Masol, who watched him with a set jaw. Serrat gave him a confident smirk before continuing, eyes flitting over the crowd as he spoke. "She referred to him as the most perfectly round shape. How his gentle spirit cradled all he created. It is obvious that even now, he watches over us." Serrat concluded with firm concentration, and gestured up above to the bright light of the moon sailing across the night sky. This entirely erroneous conclusion created a smattering of awed gasps in the crowd and lively but hushed chatter as the matter of theology kept the elves intrigued. Serrat smiled with smug ferocity at his chosen opponent, and Masol did his best to remain stone-faced in this onslaught.

"Wait," a woman burst out from the crowd, hushing nearby chatter and drawing the attention of the competing men. It was the snub-nosed elf again, bursting with questions as ever. "If the Father of the North is… the moon, as the Lady called it, and the Lady left to go visit the moon…"

There was a long silence in the crowd. Serrat looked taken aback, apparently not having considered this contradiction. He glanced around the crowd and found Masol smirking at him. Despite having a clear shot at defeating his opponent, Masol instead took the chance to stand up and gesture towards the moon, stealing the moment for himself. "Indeed, the Lady has gone to court the Father of the North himself. Or should I speak his true name; Father Moon!"

As the crowd gasped and cheered at this false revelation, the muscular elf met the gaze of the troublemaker. In that moment an alliance was forged, not of reason or respect, but of mutual benefit. The deal was sealed when Serrat pushed himself from his seat in the soil to join Masol standing above the others. "Indeed! Despite her eternal kinship with the Laughing Man, Father Moon has sung to her heart with his kindness and generosity. The tales are an intricate bush, with many hidden berries for those who know to look."

Masol nodded to Serrat firmly. Together they continued to spin a story for the captivated crowd that only existed in their unspoken bond, letting the moon quietly settle over the horizon unbothered by their outrageous interpretation. 

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Leaves rustled aggressively as two lithe shapes forced themselves through the underbrush at the far side of the valley, stepping further into the forest that divided one of the open meadows from the valley itself. The two white-haired stalkers cracked branches underfoot and disturbed every bird, even though they did their best at being careful. They stepped into a small clearing, where the first of them abruptly stopped to pinch her nose. "Urk. This smells worse than the last one. Over here, Wyte." She pushed out with maximal pitch in her voice to elevate her disgust, squatting down to examine the source of the stink; a massive pile of relatively fresh dung. Her companion came to squat down beside her, and without shifting his expression began to poke at the feces with a handy stick he'd brought with him. The mere action made her gag and she turned her head away before pushing back up to a stand and crossing her arms. "I still don't get what your obsession with animal excrement is."

The man sighed to accompany some internal thought, and furrowed his white brows as he focused on studying dung with his little stick. Eventually, he deigned to respond. "Remember Leephe from Faukons group?"

The woman narrowed her gaze in thought. "The one who died? Sad, I suppose. I heard he was trying to touch all the women under their [i]yarene[/i]." She muttered with no shift in her disgusted expression, subtly moving her hands to adjust her sole piece of fabric and pull down the very short hem ending at her thighs.

"I-... yes, I heard that too. But that's not why he died. I asked around, and the last thing he did was eat flowers and berries." The elf called Wyte explained, continuing his restless attempt to analyze the pile of dung. Eventually he released a disappointed sigh and motioned onwards. The two of them trampled onwards soon after. "So I thought," he continued after a time of silence. "If we can see what the animals eat, that would give us an idea of what we can eat safely."

"That's why you dragged me out here? We have food already, remember? The Lady gave us more than we need." The woman concluded with a disappointed pitch shift, pulling hair from her eyes as she battled branches and saw blade-like leaves walking beside her companion.

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, Koulde. How many of us are there?"

"I'm not going to guess if you're going to be a waterhead about it."

"Alright- well, there are many black pillars, right? And around each of those is at least ten of us. The celestial food will last us at least seven more passes of the sun. But we had to pick it up. There's no guarantee others have as much as us. They'll come asking, or demanding. Soon, if they haven't started already on the other side of the valley."

Koulde sniffed quietly, refusing to acknowledge his words until she'd considered it properly. As such, the pair crunched through the dense forest in awkward silence for a time, until she had thought of an adequate comeback. "You worry too much, Wyte. The Lady will give us more if it runs out." It was a reasonable assumption, at least according to Koulde, who had quickly reasserted her condescending frown.

"And where is the Lady now?" Wyte rapidly replied, raising a hand to stop their loud procession in another small clearing. He had found his next piece of dung, this time firmer and less deadly to the nose.

"She went to the orb in the sky, they say. But she'll be back to give us what we need."

"You're sure of that?" Wyte continued to press just as he pressed his stick into dung in the dirt. Koulde pinched the bridge of her nose in irritation. She dared not argue the point, and refused to give him the satisfaction of further discussion. When it became clear she was resolute in her silence, Wyte spoke again. "Maybe the Lady will have returned when we leave this forest. You could be right. But if she doesn't, I'm not going to go hungry."

"Waterhead," she admonished quietly in return, but squatted down beside him to pay just a little more attention to his work in the dung.

[hr]

A bony knuckle rattled along Faukon’s cheekbone with a streak of pain that shot through his eye straight up into his brain. It blurred his vision and jellified his legs. Within seconds, the once-proud elf felt the soil of the earth rub into the back of his scalp as the world spun around him. He felt the warm liquid of saliva strike him in the face as his opponent spat on him where he lay. Stunned, he had no mind to do anything but raise his hands to try and shield his face.

"By my name as the Lady's most trusted, Masol, I declare you, Surain, the worst of the worst. Word of your despicable ways have reached all across the valley. Forcing your kin to wayward acts in return for a simple meal. Forcing yourself upon your fellow zenii. You have spread such anguish that it goes against all that the Lady imparted on us." the voice of his enemy boomed above. Pain spread from his cheek and formed itself into a deep fog at the front of his head, making it hard to distinguish words, or react properly. Maybe if he just laid there, it would be okay.

A firm foot struck him in the stomach, and crippling pain bloomed out from his abdomen like a gust of rolling wind. The foot came down again. And again. “Nothing to say to defend yourself, scum? How could you use the Lady’s advice in such a disgusting way?” Another voice demanded with enough venom to foretell of Faukon’s imminent death. A crushing foot struck him in the chest, stealing the air from his body and what little power he had to defend himself. No words would come out, no movement could be done beyond protecting his face. His body was frozen in rigid pain.

“That’s enough, Serrat,” Masol commanded and the beating let up before death came. “Disgusting as you may be, Faukon, it is not up to me or my comrade.” A wave of relief ran through Faukon, but it quickly turned to dread when he realized what that meant.

“W-Wait-..” he managed with a rattling breath. It was no use.

“I turn to you now, those of you who trusted Faukon to keep you safe and fed.” Masol’s voice boomed above him, drowning out his meagre plea. ”If you have been wronged by this man, then follow Serrat’s example and judge him the only way he will understand. If you are scared he will punish you, or that you will be judged by others, do not be. Our group is large and you may live with us. None shall be forced to live in a way that demeans us. This I swear upon the Lady herself.”

A shuffle of feet inexorably followed, though there was a certain caution pervasive in the air. Faukon awaited his doom, and when it did not immediately come, his chest filled with panic, hope and cloudy thoughts. Someone would speak on his behalf. Protect him from these blinded men shouting about virtue. He wanted to defend himself, clarify the truth. It wasn't just him. It was Ila's idea, Leephe who started it - though he choked on his own idiocy five nights ago - Uglee and Treytoar who found weak-willed zenii. Even Jem was in on it because she thought it was funny. The weak people they'd brought in had accepted their fate. Done whatever was asked of them or forced on them. It wasn't his fault they were without self-worth. 

When none of his companions spoke up, Faukon hoped for salvation from the crowd. One of these worthle-... misguided kin would speak. Not in his favor, maybe. It would be enough to implicate someone else. If they pushed the blame on someone else, it'd be enough to spare him from further pain. To give him time to clear his head, to breathe without suffering. But no one spoke. The quiet shuffle continued. Masol and Serrat held a hushed exchange that he could barely make out. Faukon parted his lips in a daze, if no one would speak he would command the group to attack the two fools.

Then the pain returned. Someone kicked him firmly in the side with a vengeful foot, stealing the air out of his body once more with a splitting groan. Another hit him in the right shin. His leg felt like it would fall off. Then came three more. Countless blows from countless feet, stomping and kicking and shoving. The pain made it impossible to think. He begged them to stop but his words never came. "T-Thank you… We didn't dare challenge him…" he heard a woman's voice - Jem's voice - ingratiate herself, and Masol's following assurance that she was safe now. This was wrong. This was all wrong. He wanted to shout, to beat them, to scream them into subservience. But he couldn't feel his body, and his head roared in pain.

Someone stomped on his cheek, and his blurry vision went black. Little lights danced in front of him. He felt his body shift and tumble under a battery of feet, but did not feel the pain anymore. Or had he forgotten what it felt like to feel anything but pain?

He floated in that dreamlike realm, until he felt nothing and thought nothing more.

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[hider=Summary]
The elves are alone in their valley after Zenia has allegedly left them for the moon. They waste no time in freely interpreting her stories about herself and the gods she met. A duel of wits turns into an alliance of fanfiction, forming the basis of elven mythology to come.

We then follow two elves mentioning an impending food shortage and the development of foraging and nature skills.

Finally, a few days have passed and head musclemen Masol and Serrat are beating the heck out of a rude sex criminal. They assimilate his group, and his henchmen leave him for dead and apparently get off scot free.

No vigor was used. 
[/hider]