Declaration of war

The cesspool elf pulled a scroll from out of his rough tunic and threw it into the clearing for Airek to pick up. "My name is Phoeble," he announced, "an emissary from the land of Froth. And that is a declaration of war." His eyes narrowed at them, waiting for them to take up the challenge, sneering with jagged teeth. A scrag of hair sat on top of his pin-shaped head.

The cesspool elves--before Froth was a cesspool--were once a beautiful people, highly regarded for their art, poetry, literature, interior decoration, and all-around aesthetics. But they had long ago lost their glamour, that unique magic that made elves attractive. And there was only one elf to blame for their downfall, their horrid transformation from gods to monsters.

Airek wasn't sure if he should touch the crumpled parchment laying on the ground, after having just narrowly avoided being blown to bits by a bomb. "Why," he stuttered, "why are you telling us?" The elves lived in a chain of relatively autonomous villages, directed only by a council of elders that rarely met and hardly ever decided anything when they did. Who would go to war with them? What possible grievance could the Frothians have? His curiosity got the better of him, and he timidly lifted the document and began unrolling it.

"You are the natural recipient, Airek Halfogre," Phoeble said. "You are the successor in line after the old elf, Aedulf."

Airek grimaced. He never liked hearing his family surname, a reminder of the mixing of races that gave him his squatty body, weak eyes, and enormous nose. And it was true that he was the patriarch's successor, although he rarely felt as important as the situation seemed to warrant.

"War," Airek began reading aloud, a bit stiffly. "Speak the word, this triad of letters. Oh, monosyllabic utterance, vested with the passions and tears of generations. Mothers weep. Nations tremble."

The elf maiden Filis brushed off her plain, sleeveless white dress, and joined Airek, looking over his shoulder incredulously at the pompous verbiage. As Airek continued reading the gassery, she looked up at Phoeble and became even more incredulous at the sight of him rapturously mouthing along. "Wait a minute," she interrupted, "how much more of this crap do we have to listen to?"

Phoeble was annoyed at the interruption. "Critic," he said. "I wrote the preamble myself. With the most beautiful blue-green quill, by the light of a perfect pale moon. You obviously know nothing about art."

Airek rifled down through the parchment. "It just keeps going on like that. I've never seen anything take so long to get to the point."

"Philistine," Phoeble said.

"Wait a minute," Airek said, stopping. "Here's a new heading. Grievances of the Frothian peoples, categorized and complete."

Airek read aloud.

"There are three broad categories of grievance, followed by a more detailed accounting. Item one, the untimely birth of Baughb the elf. Item two, the ongoing existence of Baughb the elf. Item three, the offensive avoidance of death by Baughb the elf. Particulars follow..."

"Look," Filis said, shoving her finger at the paper. "Every one of these grievances is about Baughb."

"Correct," Phoeble said. "Baughb the elf is Lake Froth's bane."



It was another lifetime for Baughb the elf, when the cesspool elves had first issued the warrant for his death. He had been shocked to learn that they had survived the great cataclysm. Somehow, his enemies always managed to survive, and always managed to find him, again. The cesspool elves were perhaps the most dangerous of them all, and the hardest for him to fathom.

And there was one Eye still unaccounted for. The mermaids had come for him, and then the vikings. Perhaps the cesspool elves had been holding the third Eye all this time. If so, he was in a world of trouble. But it was hard for him to think with the bucket still lodged on his head.

"Left," the sprite said. Baughb jogged to the left, avoiding another tree. "Right. And look out for that rock," he said, a little too late, as Baughb stumbled and fell. His head struck the ground, which at least had the positive effect of breaking apart the bucket, which had already been jostled loose by the pressure of Baughb's head inside.

Baughb groaned, sat up, and pulled the remaining metal rings and wooden wedges off his head. "We weren't followed, were we," he asked.

"Talk about paranoid," the sprite said. "Some people think the whole world revolves around them."

"This is serious," Baughb said. "Those elves have sworn to kill me. Look, come here." The sprite hovered in closer. "Filis and Airek may be in great danger, back there. But I'm useless without my sword. Go back and stall them."

"Stall them?"

"You know, talk at them," Baughb said. "Especially if things are looking hairy. Ask them questions. Annoy them. Make them chase you around, throwing things. You know: what you do."

"Ah," the sprite said. He saluted and buzzed back through the trees, impressed with himself that he was on a special mission.

Baughb looked around, getting his bearings. For an elf in the forest, trees had to be landmarks. Familiar branches were street signs. He had gone the long way around back to his cottage, and he could not be sure how many cesspool elves might be lurking about; he was closer to the underground shrine, the hall of the hero. There, he would find some makeshift weapon, in case there was another unexpected Frothian incident.

The shrine appeared to be one long building, nestled in an archway of trees. The exterior was unassuming, almost invisible. The low, thatched roof gave no clue to the splendors inside. Baughb pulled one of the doors open cautiously; there could be cesspool elves, even here.

Inside, the hall was spectacular, architecture that survived a long-dead kingdom. Upon entering, an elf would see galleys on either side of him, that were accessible only from deeper inside the hall. From the doors, wide stairs led into the well, down below. The structure was built for large crowds, and it was here that elves gathered from abroad to hold their yearly observance of the passing of the great hero, Baughb the elf, which had become something of an anachronism since he had come back.

He quickly charged down the stairs, his cape sweeping behind. In one of the side chambers he would find some old relic or other, something he could use in this moment of crisis.

Perfect, he said to himself. He had found a room with a suit of elven armor, and some dangerous-looking knick knacks in a display case. He found himself falling over the armor and scrambling behind the case when a voice behind him spoke his name.