The Puppet King

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The elf made his way carefully down the steep, narrow trail. He ignored the massive waves crashing into the rocks so far below, concentrating instead on the placement of each foot, taking care to avoid patches of slick moss or crumbling gravel. A single misstep could send him plunging to certain death, yet his face was calm, unconcerned by thoughts of danger.

In his hand, he carried a long, slender lance, using the haft of the weapon like a walking staff to aid his balance as he moved along the treacherous trail. His clothes were rough, sturdy, and practical, showing the wear of long exposure to weather and time. He moved with speed and grace, skipping over a slippery patch of smooth stone, making steady progress until he came to rest on a rough promontory halfway down the precipitous bluff. There he remained frozen in place for a long time, as still as one of the crags jutting from the slope all around him. Intent on the base of the cliff, he stared, sniffing the air, searching with darting eyes for any sign of movement, of danger. He studied the empty gray sea, the line of waves rolling inexorably from the west to crash onto this continental shore. The lance he balanced upright, the pole rising a good three times his own height, capped by a barbed, lethal-looking head of shimmering silver.

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