The Scarred Among the Mundane.
hey look new series just dropped. featuring an arsonist elf and the fire he starts and can’t put out. this is going to be the start of another fantasy whump series— but I actually have a plot planned for this one so here’s to hoping I stick with it.
cw: elf whump, failed arson, failed escape, magic whump
masterlist. next
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The late afternoon sunlight turns everything to gold.
In the town square, loud voices merely add to the shimmering heat.
And the heat is shimmering. It weighs down on everyone, dragging out even the smallest of moments with languid intensity.
Bright colours are worn by nearly every member of the crowd, and the effect is blinding.
Crimson.
Vibrant snake-like green.
Yellow sharper than a drawn blade.
The occasional flash of steel armour adds a veiled threat.
A shadow peels away from the side of a bakery, cloak wrapped around a skeletal frame. A hood hides the shadow’s wide grin.
It’s a good day to set something on fire.
He dives into the mass of humanity, towering over them all. Even with hunched shoulders and lowered head, he can’t hide his unnatural height. A second glance would reveal pointed teeth and pointed ears.
But no one spares him a second glance. He weaves his way through the crowd and smiles when people unconsciously give him room to pass.
As he walks, he talks. Not to anyone in the crowd, but to himself. Because he is the cleverest person he knows. Why, he’s practically brilliant. Who else could plan such a feat? Such audacity?
Himself alone. The brilliancy of his plan fills him with a humming satisfaction. He goes over the contents of his satchel.
Wouldn’t want to forget anything. Not today.
“Kindling? Yes, yes, the moss will work....Excuse me–” he nearly runs into a baker’s assistant, holding a tray of fresh-baked bread aloft.
The elf acts on instinct, extending a leg. The baker’s assistant, without hesitation, trips. Elvish laughter and man-made loaves are thrown into the air.
The elf snatches one from mid-air and runs.
“Thief! Stop!”
The elf does not stop. He shoves the whole loaf into his mouth, working his teeth around the crust. It’s still warm. Delicious. He swallows it appreciatively. “Not bad,” he tells no one in particular. “For a human delicacy.”
He skids into an alleyway, shadows sinking into his skin. A welcome change from the lethargic sunlight. “Should have grabbed another one.”
But thoughts of bread fade away as his destination comes into view– the high stone wall of the Monarch’s castle.
The elf’s grin sharpens. His pace picks up, heart racing with his footsteps. There’s no turning back. Not now.
He comes to a stop at the wall itself. It’s easily three times his height. And yet the elf can hardly suppress a laugh. After all his work, all his preparation, is it really going to be this easy? As easy as burning down a farmer’s barn?
Guards peer down at him and he gives them a mocking salute, two fingers raised to his temple. It doesn’t matter if they see him. They won’t be able to stop him. No human can stop him.
If they could, he would be dead.
It’s as simple as that.
Oh, what a day. Danger. Thrill. Horror in the guards’ eyes.
What a beautiful day.
He walks backwards, tightening his satchel and taking a deep breath, the air burning his lungs. And then–
Running.
A leap. Cloak dragging behind him.
Stonework beneath his feet as he runs up the side of the wall. He laughs now. No hesitation.
His hood falls off and his pointed teeth catch in the light.
Identity revealed for all to see.
Elf. A creature of the night. A shadow. Feared. Inhuman.
He soars over the open-mouthed guards. One reaches for her spear, but it's already too late.
He’s over the wall, tumbling to a stop into the garden bushes. On his feet in an instant, he brushes leaves out of his braids and checks his satchel.
Everything is as it should be.
“Excellent work, Finn,” he tells himself. “As always.” He plucks a leaf from his cloak and lets it drift to the ground. “Excellent work, really.” He changes his voice slightly, making it deeper. “Oh, no, you’re too kind. Too kind.”
The guards are pouring out of the castle walls now. Calls of “Attack!” and “Intruder!” echo in the green-lit garden.
Finn bolts. He reaches into his bag as he runs, pulling out a flint stone and a carved piece of iron. Ducking through the overhanging fruit trees, he grabs what looks like a pear. With the fruit in his mouth, he skids to a stop at the base of the castle.
He doesn’t marvel at the intricate stonework or the towering turrets or the bright windows. He gets to work setting it on fire.
Eating the pear, he works quickly, setting the dry moss around a tall tree– another fruit one perhaps. But this one is the closest to the castle, which means it will serve his purpose splendidly.
Sparks fly into the air, bright red against the simmering blue.
The guards draw closer.
Finn sees the flashes of steel before he hears them, and he spits the pear out, fingers flying as he strikes the flint again and again.
The moss starts to smoke and Finn starts to grin.
The itch, the infernal, never ending, always begging itch turns to something like pleasure. Satisfaction.
“Stop!” The spears slice towards him and he twists out of the way, dropping the flint.
The moss goes up into blazes. The itch inside him begins to fade, satisfied with the fire he’s begun.
It's a beautiful fire.
Finn laughs. Everything is going so—
The laugh twists into a scream.
Something is wrong. Something is terribly, terribly wrong. His blood turns to ice inside him. It’s only a second of burning, crawling pain exploding every nerve in his body– but the second is never ending.
Golden triumph burns to ash in his throat.
He slumps to the ground, vision crumpling to dust around him. Vaguely, he’s aware of the guards stepping aside for a red-headed human. Her hands are raised, fingers twisted in rune-shapes.
Oh.
Finn’s sight collapses, taking him with it.
tagging: @doonthestair (lmk if you want to be added/ removed!)
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