The Valley of the Lillies

[Anonymous]

A long month of sunlight had baked the mountainsides to a pale fallow gold. Of all the living things, only the bees and the many flies and moths were now flourishing: the deer panted wretchedly beneath the trees, their sides and smallribs working beneath twithcing skin; the wild pigs were wallowing at the sides of the fewer and fewer remaining streams, working the banks into muddy havens. The birds were quiet. And the black-haired wanderer, Nozdormu, pressed sturdily south, his creased eyes held all but closed against the brightness of the alpine sun. His skin was now an intensely dark copper, with the darker freckles standing out especially on his shoulders; and his hair bleaching steadily more blonde from the touch of sunlight.

But a fragrance had changed on the air; and Nozdormu stretched luxuriously, already knowing what was approaching. And soon enough, billowing from the south were pushed vast bodies of the palest white cloud, and behind them, dark herds of rain-cloud heavy with welcome water.

A breathless expectantcy was palpably felt on their air, and all eyes turned to the sky; but for the bees, whose happy season of warmth and fervour was about to be delayed. In the utmost distances, heard only as a rumour, the roll of thunder, and soon enough: for the wanderer was a very patient man, their came to his ears a whispering sound, and he laughed aloud, for a moment later the silver rain curtain came running to meet him, and he felt the rain upon his upturned face.

All the sun-burned fragrances were transformed to the most heady musks, even the scent of the fallen pine needles was lifted into the air. In the saturated light the greens and especially the red flowers of runner beans were bright as fire. The Golden Harrier came winging out of the heights, for which Nozdormu held up an arm. It alighted and glared at him miserably, at which Nozdormu only laughed again and pressed on. For he had sighted his landmark. A tall peak of pale stone, with a wide beard of green from where a spring of water seeped out of the mountainside, and mosses and grasses flourished. At the foot of this was where Nozdormu was headed, and where he had long ago fashioned a camp.

The entrance to the Valley of the Lillies was a narrow gorge from which the captured water of the mountains' green beard now rushed as a great onslaught, with a roar, like laughter. A narrow path had been cut into the side of the bare stone, along which Nozdormu worked his way. In ancient times this was a sanctuary of the Elves, and they had planted many beautiful trees. On each side of the exit from the gorge were holly trees, whose silvery boughs Nozdormu now touched with his hand, his eyes delighting in the dark green leaves and red berries. Stretching out before him, running up to the great green beard of the pale mountain was the Valley of the Lillies, overshadowed by ancient trees. Little rivulets of water ran everywhere across the valley floor, their trickling like the sound of countless little bells. And lush-leaved lillies shivered and shifted, their tiny white flowers like little stars.

[Anonymous]

It had been a pain traveling here, especially alone with no one to talk to, but the young man decided it was worth it. After the tricky, but successful, swipe of the statue Golden Phoenix from Lord Gresham in Serendipity, Lokan had been forced to lie very, very low. The man, enraged, had sent out a billion soldiers, and while this normally wouldn't have been a problem, the thief had done something very, very stupid. Trusting a person named Miran who was double-crossing him, Lokan had told him something crucial. Having been cursed a few day's before, Lokan was unable to change his appearance, and the young man knew this. Infact, he was stuck like that for two weeks, until the unknowing curser left the area. It would fade within a month, but Lokan, unable to sit still for two minutes, couldn't abide being trapped up for two weeks.

The young woman was only just coming into her power when an unlikely spell had hit Lokan. She hadn't known his power, not many were allowed to know, and so she had told him that all that it probably wouldn't effect him. Adding in the extra word "morphious" meant that if he had any shape-shifting skill, he wouldn't be able to use them. With a laugh, she explained that if he wanted to make his appearance look different, if he used any sort of spell, she would be leaving in two weeks, and it would leave with her. The spell itself, if it didn't, would fade within the month.

So, trapped in this particular form, Lokan had snuck out of the area, deciding to travel. He owed a visit to his ancestor's home, and his old childhood home, a period when his parents left to see the world with their young son. They had lived in a not very well known area called Valley of the Lilies, a place where elves had gathered to escape a period they knew as the Dragon War's, when human clashed against human, dragon against dragon. Only when the carnage was done did they leave, to pick up their longer lasting lives where they had left them.

Anyway, the double crosser had informed the guards at once that the person they were looking for would look like this, and that he had a spell on him that kept him from looking like he normally was. Lokan wasn't stupid, and so Miran hadn't known he could change his look anytime, beliving that he could only do it with a spell, he hadn't realized that that it was apart of Lokan's very being. He only thought that he could change his appearance due to a spell, poor lad. Of course, before leaving, Lokan had made sure he was dead. A double crosser had no part of his plan's, and putting valuable lives in danger? It wouldn't do.

So here he was, traveling through a small valley created by two of the tall mountains that surrounded Connlaoth. He was giving that country a wide berth, especially because his last visit there had almost cost him his neck. His steed, a fine brown young stallion, was eager, and as fresh had they had started. The mountain air, combined with the fact he was a mountain pony, tall for his species, had put them both in a coltish mood, and together they had been racing up the slow rising hill, him low and crouched in the stir-ups, racing the wind.

Now however, they sat, him eating an apple, the stallion munching on grass next to a happily bubbling stream. In less than a mile, he knew, they would reach the river from where this branched off, than to the gorge less than a mile more. It was to quiet where he sat, and he was antsy. He wanted to call fire, but in a place with such dry wood... Even he wouldn't be able to control the flames if the greedy flame caught hold of that. So instead he called up water, dipping it up from the stream as it came to cup in his hands, a cool ball that left him dry, but not as hot in the sun. It danced up and over his shoulders, and he called the small thing back, playing with it like putty, stretching it and tossing it at whim, bouncing it on his knee like the children back at home kicked a piece of clothe wrapped up around small rocks.

Suddenly, he stiffened, the water nearly dropping. Something large was calling him, not so far away, but he had been too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice it. A rumble, to far away for human ears to catch, sounded, and he grinned. Ushering the water into the river, he handed off the pony his apple core and mounted one of the large firs. Several easy steps later, he was perched precariously at the top, searching the skyline. There it was, a mass of rolling, joyful gray clouds, slowly coming towards them. With a shout of laughter that started several birds, he let himself slide back to the bottom, where he swung back onto Whirl, and let him take off.

It was nearly a mile later that the clouds caught up to him, and the joyful warm water leapt down from their silver palace to meet him. Some stayed with him, not quite soaking up, small silver beads dotting his body, but others rejoiced in melting into his simple green tunic, and he didn't bother to chide them. He rode on blissfully, slower now, letting his normal loud disposition settle under the water and the ancient magic of the mountain that Elves like him had once called home. The slight path cut him no resistance, nor Whirl's, and as they entered the Valley he could only let out a blissful sigh.

No spells here, although he was trapped in the long, lanky form of a young man, 20 at most, with flashing bright purple eye's and longish jet black hair, features sharp, with high elegant cheekbones, and an Elfish air about him, plus the pointed ears. He had wanted a face that would be recognizable again for the job(not betting on this), and since he tended to avoid the purple eyes, he figured they would be a safer bet to be recognized again then the normal dancing neon green. He wore a simple green cap, with an egret feather capping it off, a simple green tunic and firm leather boots. A quiver rested on his saddle, and a bow lay unstrung across his lap, while an open gray cloak was flung around his shoulders. All of him was quite soaked, slightly mysterious with the silver beads dotting his form, but he rode happily, drinking in the sight of his childhood with eager relish.

When he saw the man, however, he reared up, and studied him, while Whirl danced impatiently under him, hooves making the squelch noise every time he picked them up and placed them delicately down. It didn’t take him long to swing down, and catch the reins, walking up to the tan man. He stopped at least a few feet away; you didn’t live long in Lokan’s profession unless you learned to be wary, and gave a polite nod, shooing the water droplet’s from his body with a silent exhale of breath and a hand brushing over the clothes. He walked much like he rode, straight, tall, like a king, although his moves had a sly hint to them. The power he wore comfortably like a cloak settled around him once more, and he waited for the man to make the first move.

What were they not, but a giant chessboard? Lokan had chosen black, and to the loser went the white, who sadly, made the first move. But beware. The knight's were defending, as were the pawns, and he was to be wary of the rooks that surrounded the Black king. Only one move would put him to safety.