Chapter 2: Chapter 2

2.

The frontier town Estan and Jacobin had arrived was surprisingly big. Usually, these kinds of places took a while to grow but the need for quality timber had apparently been high and a great number of peasants had suddenly been moved to such a far-away place. The thick, tall and seemingly endless coniferous forest was something they hadn’t experienced back where they were born. There was constant activity on the sawmill next to the river, from early morning to late at night and the river itself was carrying as much ready-to-use product as it could. Most of the food was delivered to the town through the same river, as if there would have not been a moment to waste on anything else but felling trees. Jacobin and Estan couldn’t deny that it was nice to be in such a lively place for a change and decided to stay for a while. There most likely was something they could do to increase their finances, probably several things, and the idea of plentiful supplies once it was time to move again was a prize worthy to strive for. Nobody took much notice on them as there were people coming and going all the time and lodgings were readily available for new working people. Jacobin had always enjoyed working with his hands and he admired the skills of all good craftsmen. Learning from these woodcutters and sawmill workers held an appeal for him. He knew that he would grow frustrated at some point with how inefficiently – and unsafely – parts of the job would be arranged and how the work would be much more hectic than it needed to be, but for a time one could stand on his hands if that was required. They found a cheap room to rent next to the town bakery – actually there was three of them – and in the mornings they woke up on the delicious smell of fresh bread and in the evenings the air was filled with the earthy scent of sawdust coming from sawmill. Jacobin and Estan found this quite pleasant.
After settling down they went to look for jobs and encountered an unexpected hubbub in the inns, taverns and offices they visited. In the town’s greedy quest for more and more wood the logging area had expanded further into the deep forest and suddenly collided into a settlement nobody had known even existed. The startled officials immediately inquired who these people were and anxiously wondered with which of the surrounding realms they were possibly causing an incident with and what would happen to their lucrative schemes of timber, but the answer surprised everybody who heard it, Jacobin and Estan included. The people living there were elves.

There was an existential puzzle in this. Everybody knew that there were elves, possibly just as many as there were people or even more, but so few chose to be in any contact with humans that basically nothing was known about them. Only a couple merchant lines had some access to the goods they provided, usually products and items that were much coveted, but apparently these business dealings included no fraternization or pleasantries. Price was negotiated and that was that. Needless prying and conversation would meet a stone wall and a threat of these valuable merchants disappearing back to where they came from, seemingly into the thin air. Men of trade stayed awake in their beds thinking themselves silly about how they would get elven clients and an access to their riches, scholars recognized an highly developed and sophisticated culture that they would have died for an chance to study in detail, the church of the Sun had no idea where to place elves in the official prophecies so they chose to ignore them as embarrassingly inconvenient, regular folk treated them as myths and legends and kings and generals in unison were sweating about an invisible enemy and rival waiting for them, ready to crash their ambitions and plans. And yet, despite being very real and something that people apparently had lived right next to since the beginning of time, no real contact was ever made no matter how much the different realms of men were expanding. People were quarreling with each other, and some select few made coin with somebody outside of this. Elves were a ghost that was constantly near but never really present. That had been that. Until now.

Sitting in a full tavern and finishing their meal Estan and Jacobin relaxed after their busy day. Estan had immediately gotten a job in the infirmary since anybody with skill in magic was highly sought after in all matters of healing. Estan was a far cry from a doctor – although so were many other actual doctors, the level of professionalism varied greatly – but he could do several tasks quite well, like concoct ointments and salves from the right kinds of herbs and the forest looked promising. Tomorrow he would start in earnest and today he had just visited the infirmary, and like he had thought it was full of workers injured by the accidents at the sawmill but also fighting men who had participated in the skirmishes with the elven village. Talking small talk with an officer who had his arm in a sling they had learned quite a lot, since the young fellow was boisterous and excited about the unexpected action he had - in his own mind - been fortunate enough to take part in. The elves were poorly armed and unorganized, not used to conflict and had taken severe losses. More assaults would be arranged, the next one a big one, and it was estimated that this would very likely be enough to break through and finish the job. Apparently, the pain in the officer’s arm wasn’t very great or maybe it just didn’t register all the way into his brain, as he was trying to gesture with both of his arms to accompany his fast talking, being so thrilled of this boring frontier position turning into something more eventful. The man would have probably talked his ears off, so Estan escaped the situation by mentioning the needs of the other patients. He had wished the officer fast recovery and joined Jacobin who had been waiting for him outside.

Now, sitting in the tavern, the steady murmur of the other customers filling the background, Jacobin rested his elbows on the table, looking somewhere to the other side of the room. He wasn’t sure how to present what was forming in his mind, but he had to start somehow. “I think I’m going to try to join that next assault the officer was talking about.” Jacobin said. Estan had been zoning out, his head leaning against the chair. His face made the combined expression of frowning and lifting his right eyebrow without actually doing either of those things and he stared at his friend. Jacobin felt the pressure to continue. “I’d just really like to... see them.” he managed to articulate. “That’s quite a lot of risk for witnessing a bunch of dead elves.” Estan commented. He was irritated of these steady few months threatening to slip away and irritated about his friend’s occasional high minded or romantic whims. They were cut from the same cloth through and through, but funnily enough Jacobin was the one who had been facing hardships straight from the cradle yet still harbored in his core esthetic and sentimental tendencies, drinking his fill from the colors of the sunset or the vastness of sea, a craving that usually had been obstructed by the lack of basic needs or the back breaking labor pushed onto him by his superiors. Estan had been living a relatively easy life, especially compared to the others of his class, but he was practical and cynical to the point of being cold and seemingly indifferent. Despite this there was warmth in him and an unwavering loyalty, the basis of their strong bond, but his attitude towards the world did not bend itself for journeys without down-to-earth motivations. At instances like this their communication wasn’t as smooth as it usually was. “There are no soldiers here and these brats leading them have no experience: I’ll weasel myself out of the front lines and escape if things get too hairy, it’s fine. I know the tricks. There’s going to be payment after I get back, I’ll just have to be present and that’s easy money right there. This is good.” Jacobin rationalized, trying to sell his idea. Estan knew that Jacobin was the first one to choose some other form of employment instead of fighting if there were options on the table, but he didn’t point this out. “Wait, you said that when “I” get back, not ”we”. Are you going alone?” Estan said. “Well, you’re not exactly comfortable marching around with a pike in your hand. I’ve got better chances if I go by myself.” Jacobin said sheepishly. Estan looked to the floor and contemplated. “Fine.” he sighed after a while. “We’ll go ask around about that tomorrow.”

The practicalities didn’t take long. Sign here, go get your equipment from the warehouse, visit the priest for a blessing – Jacobin quietly jumped over this part – and the fighting party will leave on Monday. Estan gave the rest of the medicine to Jacobin. Watching these makeshift soldiers leave Estan wasn’t exactly gloomy but there still was a medium sized rock of anxiety in his stomach. It had been them together against the world for a long time now and facing all that alone, even if it was just for a short while, didn’t feel good. This prospect wasn’t farfetched, though: loss was a part of everybody’s life, a long staying guest for many, so Estan had many times thought what would be like to travel just by himself. For now, he could just wait. Estan left for his shift at the infirmary.

Marching with his new comrades in arms Jacobin had a lot of time to reflect and the familiar setting prompted him to do so. Many were very eager, motivated by the knowledge of past successes and having an upper hand over the elven village. Sense of adventure was one thing and the thirst for gold another, but the overwhelming sensation here was pride: pride of human superiority, pride of being among the first to bring this obvious fact for all the world to see, pride of being recognized as a collective of worthy adversaries. Jacobin suspected that his doubts about being part of this “us” was the reason for him having trouble fitting into groups. From what he had seen, the triumphs of “us” did very little to benefit his own life or the lives of his fellow soldiers, people who took the biggest risk in fighting. The parades, songs, banners and the medals of military were meant to be the celebration of courage and martial spirit, items concentrated with this otherwordly essence of our self-worth and excellence, all justified by the loyalty to the sovereign, but to Jacobin’s eyes they had no value. On one hand, he saw the military as a vehicle for men who only lived to satisfy their egos and on the other, he saw men who used the first type to pursue their own gain. Often these two characters combined in the same people. Then the whole package was tied together by the beautiful bow of “us”: we were all indebted to the sovereign, the sovereign was looking after us like a loving father, the areas we conquered were a common triumph and the losses we suffered just made our bond stronger than ever before. After all the high-minded talk and superficial glitter Jacobin just saw the reality of him having been forced to leave his home and risk his life in a battle, he would not benefit from in any way halfway across the world, suffering disease, filth and the extremes of the elements from both ends of the spectrum along the way. He could not understand for his life how such an obvious bum deal could be accepted by so many of his comrades so easily and even eagerly. Jacobin had once had the opportunity of seeing in their beloved sovereign in the flesh: they had all stood in formation for the imperial inspection before being led to the battle by the ruler himself, and before them had appeared a condescending runt, a being of the same ilk that Jacobin had thrown out of many taverns when working as security in such places. He could not have imagined a less inspiring figure. Everybody else, however, was supposedly enamored: after the inspection there was a lot of words of admiration exchanged between the soldiers, even many of the old veterans melted into compliments. At the time Jacobin had just rolled his eyes and shaken his head, but after the initial battles he had wanted to puke. The enemy’s cannons had been loaded with horrific ammunition, two iron balls tied together by a chain that spun like a sawblade in the air when fired. Jacobin had seen one single shot cut through four men and split a horse in two. The scrawny ruler had just been empowered by this carnage and had ridden headfirst into the enemy lines intoxicated by bloodthirst. His underlings now saw him as an real hero, a man of no equal, but Jacobin realized that a man like this would never be satisfied. More campaigns were to come. "If you want to cheer on your oppressor, rejoice in what he is doing to you, go ahead" he had thought with resentment when the long trek home had finally started. "But I am done." And yet here he was, marching again like nothing had happened in between. He was starting to doubt his desicion, but a chance like this to see elves at all would probably never come again. Jacobin was sure that whatever he was going to witness would break his heart, the only open question being in what way. It felt like going to a funeral, preparing himself to bury another aspect of the world he had always hoped would exist. What would be left after this would be the reality. Jacobin sighed and he felt like he had been doing that all his life.

Estan was out looking for a dinner after work. The days had been busy and long and managing his new responsibilities had been demanding. Sick and severely injured patients looked at him as a savior in their desperate hour of need, expecting a lot more from him than he in reality could provide, and it felt dreadful to break the bad news. He had demonstrated his skill in managing fresh open wounds and compound fractures, saving people from the future at the church's poor house, but basically anything beyond that was out of his control. Many eyes had opened in hope and heartfelt prayers had been send to the Sun but after the limits of his expertise had been discovered the apathy of the infirmary came back doubly as oppressive. The ends of his shifts had not meant the end of the work, for he had to go look for healing herbs in the forest and for some strains he had to walk quite a far away. Estan was happy that he could provide himself some light with magic since scouring the forest bed for similar looking plants in the darkening evenings would have been practically impossible. Another helpful matter was that he had gotten the permission to use some of his time at work for processing these medicines and he could order one of the nurses to help him. He had arranged an examination on who could follow his directions best using worthless plant matter as mock medicine and one quiet and stern looking middle-aged nurse had fared quite well. She wasn't much for small talk and at first Estan had felt a little awkward bossing her around, but maybe it was better that the people around him just concentrated on their tasks, for the infirmary was a somber and serious place. Then Estan started to think that maybe it was the class distinction at work here: he had always been near the bottom rung and after he had started traveling, he had basically been a vagrant in most people's eyes, nobody to bow to or respect, unless the person who he conversed with recognized him as a mage and viewed anybody with ability in magic as someone to fear. Estan perceived a lot of social conventions as bothersome, obstacles in the way of getting things done and the endless rituals of the church had deepened his impatience. He found himself too hungry to ponder more and was grateful for reaching the appetizing smells emanating from the kitchen of the tavern.
The presentation of the nourishment provided didn't reach the same high levels as delicious aroma had promised and the cook seemed to be of a very cranky sort, but the event of a warm meal had reached religious proportions for Estan anyway, so these kinds of things didn't matter much. He was capturing the last remains of the stew with a piece of bread when he noticed an unusual sight sitting in the corner table. A mage, an independent one, slouched over his table dressed in extravagant clothing and donning plenty of expensive looking accessories. Not every magically skilled person was associated or worked with the church, no matter how much the church wished it to be so. Especially the really talented ones very eagerly chose to go their own way and saw little reason to be shackled down by any organization: the world was their oyster and they treated it as such. It looked quite comical for such a prestigious character to be in a mundane place like this in the midst of the regular folk and this particular one seemed to be the quintessence of defeat and depression, his arms folded and head leaning against the table, accompanied by a big mug of beer. Estan realized what was bothering him with this picture: there must be a gentlemen's club for all of the esteemed people even in this peripheral town and for some reason this man chose not to go there and here nobody was reacting to the mage's presence in any way. It seemed that his unusual existence had been accepted a long while ago. Estan couldn't even imagine anybody of higher stature using a place of business meant for the commoners without a cadre of personal servants and guards while the humble patrons would be bending over backwards to serve them, afraid of what might happen if their offerings didn't meet the standards. But here he was, sitting there just like anybody else. Estan's curiosity got the better of him and he decided to try to strike a conversation and investigate.

"You're a sad sight to see, sire." Estan started with a pleasant and confident tone. He had debated with himself how much he should toady but decided against it altogether: if he didn't immediately treat the man on an equal manner there would be no basis for a conversation. The mage looked up, a bit confused at who was talking to him since no servant or waiter would talk to him like that and there was nobody else who would approach him in an place like this. There was a short moment where the mage assessed Estan and it could have been awkward if Estan wouldn't have been so at ease with the situation. He seemed to figure out what Estan was by profession so that explained his interest towards him.

"Who wouldn't be in a town like this." the man answered. Estan had been judged as someone worthy to talk to, though the man was most likely just lonely enough to welcome people he normally would not associate with. Estan pointed to the opposite side of the table and the mage mage nodded slightly. "You are apparently with the church?" he asked. "I was, sire, I was. Now I'm with myself and by the looks of it you have been a lot more successful than me. Why so down in the dumps then? I couldn't help myself but to come and ask that." The defeatism returned to the man's expression twice as strong now that he had been reminded of his situation and Estan noticed a hefty amount of bitterness mixed in there too. "Successful! What a venomous word!" the mage scoffed. He gestured a waiter to bring more to drink and Estan was a bit surprised to see a mug in front of him too: apparently his herb searching would have to wait for tomorrow.

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"I was working in the court for the king himself in an nation close to us, the name of it I won't disclose for obvious reasons: I had my own laboratory, an office, land and servants, even a concubine from the royal harem as an mark of His Majesty's gratitude and kindness. and now I'm here." The mage took a big gulp from his mug, Estan sipped a little from his for the sake of keeping company. "Did the king become cross with you, sire? If so, what for?" Estan was now sure that he would hear anything and everything whether he said anything during the whole time or not, but he wanted to be polite and present in the moment. The mage looked proudly at Estan. "I had manufactured automatons, a great deal of them, soulless clay men to work the fields and do a lot of what the peasants do. What I offered was freedom from peasant rebellions, workers who would not complain and who could easily double the production of the farmland! They needed no food themselves and could be put into storage when the winter comes, it was a dream come true! I explained my project to His Majesty, showed him the prototypes and the production process, went through the materials needed and what they would cost and where to get them: His Majesty listened quietly, which isn't a sign of anything by itself since he is always like that and then he left. A day later soldiers came to imprison me, and they broke my machines, burned my notes, everything! Weakened by lack of food and sleep I'm brought in front to the judge and sentenced into exile to this forsaken place." Tiredly the mage massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and middle finger. "I'm imprisoned here and can't leave the town. The nobles don't want me to associate with them and I don't know whether that's part of the punishment or if they do it in their own accord. This lousy watering hole is the only place to be." He was now leaning his forehead against the table. "Your freedom, my friend, seems like a success to me." Estan was wondering if the mage's situation really was like the man seemed to perceive it. It was hard to imagine that it would be difficult for this mage to disappear and regain his coveted freedom: high skill in magic brought so many options to the table that imprisoning anyone with them often seemed like a joke. For this reason, powerful mages were a notoriously disloyal bunch, they often could come and go as they pleased and with promises of amazing magical artifacts, weapons and spells alike they were always coveted by the rich and powerful. Many had been worried that the truly powerful wizards and sorcerers would unify and create a powerful political entity that would destabilize everything, but not much had ever come from it: it was much more convenient and easier to latch onto somebody royal and live the good life. Estan suddenly started to feel his mood sour. In his mind a true talent in magic was the best possible lot to pull from the cosmic wheel, not even the kings had it so easy. Despite that, here was one, wallowing in self-pity and basically in tears from his tough luck in life, biding his time to slither back into the good royal graces. "Greed is his prison!" Estan thought angrily. Out loud he said other kinds of things. "Why do you think he punished you? How did he react to your previous services?" The mage turned his head sideways on the table, his gaze not really focusing anywhere. "Nothing like this and nothing but praise. The seer stone he accepted, also all the curses I manufactured for him, then the…" the mage cut himself short, probably realizing he shouldn't babble about everything. "No, nothing like this. I thought he was a man of vision, an extraordinary ruler. Maybe I misjudged him." Estan thought about this. "Maybe he still is? A shrewd ruler, I mean. What should he do with the peasants your invention would replace? Do you think they would just take this loss laying down, without fighting back or escaping under somebody else and strengthening some of the king's opponents? Where would he get the conscripts if there would be no need for the peasants? What about all the other tasks men can do, since often, if you pardon me saying, sir, many magical golems and contraptions can only do one?" Estan had perked up in his seat, political and societal speculation always excited him. "And what about the other nobles? Maybe they would perceive your research as an attempt of the king to undermine their importance somehow and the king exiled you and destroyed your work in order to erase those doubts? What would he want automatons for anyway if everything in society is based on fiefdom, slavery and controlling the peasants? Why would he try to change the system that had made him so rich and powerful in the first place?" The mage had not been looking at Estan and had deliberately aimed his interest at the contents of his mug. "Well, yes, I'm sure that somebody like you has complete understanding of the affairs of the state." Estan felt his ears redden. He talked these kinds of things endlessly with Jacobin who had great sense politics and understood the motivations of men on a deep level, a feature that paradoxically clashed with Jacobin's romantic tendencies, and now Estan had forgot how rare that attribute really was in his fellow human beings. The mage had instantly judged him as a lesser person and a childish fool since he wasn't an achieved wizard and anything he said was automatically disregarded, no matter how well thought out his words would be. Only proper thing to do was to remind him of his place and underline what the pecking order was and had always been. The annoyance in Estan was amplified by the fact that men like these could be in the center of everything because of their talent given by luck and they still could have no notion of how the world worked and have little faculties to work it out. He mumbled something unclear, and the conversation continued with the mage going on in circles complaining about his woeful disposition, saying the same things again and again.

Estan thought how much better off he would have been if he just had gone to look for those herbs.
Jacobin and the fighting men had arrived at the scene. It was just like he had thought. There were not going to be any formations or tactics to speak of, the officers were too inexperienced and the thought of victory was too certain in the minds of all men to even consider anything more complicated than just going there and finishing the job. There was a clearing where previous fighting had happened and some corpses were laying around here and there. At the end of the clearing there was more forest, and a haphazardly built barricade could be seen, made from whatever pieces of wood that had been available. A few roofs of buildings could be seen behind it. The whole village could have been deserted from the looks of it. Men were yelled to stand in some sort of coherent formation, but it all resembled a start of a foot race: at the command "Go!" all would sprint for the finish line. Jacobin's plan of staying behind could not have been easier to accomplish. He was reminded of a violent ball game many young men liked to play back home.

And so, it started. A half-mad war cry roared from the ranks of men as they scurried across the already trampled field. Jacobin could have gone to sit on a rock to watch it all and nobody would have cared, but he still wanted to see the village. He walked in an unhurried pace, alert so he would not be caught off guard by an unexpected counterattack from the elven side. Not much seemed to be happening though: a few arrows were shot from behind the barricade but way too late and way too few to cause any serious damage. Some melee could be seen when the attackers were breaching the barricade, flailing arms and the flickering of steel in the sunlight, but that was quickly over and the men rushed over the obstacle. Jacobin, reaching the blockade significantly later than the others, practically walked in, stepping over a few dead from both sides.

The village was poor, no doubt about it. The buildings were mostly simple shacks, a few sturdier constructions located deeper in the forest. It felt absurd that this place could inhabit something as mythical and mysterious as the elves. "Why would they live like this?" Jacobin thought. Were they outcasts for some reason? Maybe they were not really elves but some offshoot clan of elven heritage? Or maybe there just had been a mistake, but if so, it was a bizarre mistake to make. Jacobin could hear the skirmish continue somewhere ahead of him and now he had truly been separated from the main group. He decided it would be safe to investigate the village more thoroughly. Jacobin picked at random one of the somewhat better-looking buildings and went inside.

He had left his pike outside and pulled his long dagger out just to be sure. There was nothing he had not seen a thousand times in a thousand other completely identical villages all across the continent, as poor and dirty as always. Then he realized that the wooden floor he was standing on must have a cellar underneath. It took him a while to locate the hatch. The sounds of fighting outside had become very dim and walking down the cellar stairs it had become almost completely silent.

A conspicuous old carpet was covering some large objects between a few barrels in the corner of the room and Jacobin was pretty sure of what was going on. His weapon in hand he pulled the rug away and underneath four figures sat hugging their knees, frightfully looking at him. Jacobin at stepped back ready to act, but nothing was threatening him. Two children, a frail teenage boy and a young woman had been huddling together: their clothes were on the same level of poverty as anything else in this drab hellhole, but their faces! It wasn't like they were inhuman or alien in any way, or that their features were special or at least uncommon, but in contrast to everything else it was almost like a blank spot of purity were nothing filthy, boorish and mundane had ever laid its fingers upon. They transcended beyond the regular idea of beauty, almost glowing in some weird way, not with actual light but something else. To Jacobin it seemed like he was looking at what humans should be and he and everybody he had ever known were a crude mock imitation of what had once been. The fact that these faces were contorted in terror and fright, a fright of him, brought a bad taste to Jacobin's mouth. He glanced the top of the stairs, took a few steps to peek inside the room to see if anybody else had come in the house. Nothing could be heard in the tense atmosphere and Jacobin forced his prisoners upstairs, barking and shoving when words made no effect and the young elves submitted. He could now hear the battle still being fought in the same previous direction when he peeked through the front door, just twisting his neck without turning his body or weapon away from the situation at hand. There was only one door but opposite to it a window without glass was covered by a wooden pad. Jacobin gestured and shouted at the young woman to open it and she understood what she was supposed to do, even though she was scared witless. Then, to their confusion, Jacobin sheathed his dagger and pointed out of the window, making waving motions towards it with both of his hands, shouting "Go! Run! Go!" They didn't understand what was going at first, but then the teenage boy and the woman climbed out of the window, tried to pick up the children leaning in from the windowsill but were too short to reach them, so Jacobin lifted the children for them himself. Then they ran into the woods without looking back. Jacobin walked out of the door, picked up his pike from where had left it and sat on a big rock next to the house. He felt more depressed and rotten than he had in ages.

The reunion of the friends was warm. Estan was waiting for the war band to return so he could start nursing the wounded fighters and was very glad to see Jacobin carrying one end of a stretcher rather than laying down on one. They couldn't talk until the evening since Estan was busy with the job and Jacobin would need to go collect his pay and return the borrowed equipment. Like he had thought, no one had noticed that he had not participated in the fighting at all and it was the easiest money he had made for a long time. After Estan got off they bought from one of the bakeries the bread the baker hadn't been able to sell during the day at discount price and got some pastries too. In their rented room both of them just talked and talked, like they had been going through a drought and now they had finally arrived at an oasis. Jacobin told what had happened on this exploit.

"You know that those elves probably got caught anyway? And even if they didn't, there are wolves and starvation waiting from them in the woods and I doubt that there is another settlement they could try to reach." Estan said. Jacobin didn't answer anything. They had taken no prisoners and every elf had been massacred in a bloodied frenzy. It seems that nobody else had caught the same sense of awe that Jacobin had experienced. "I wonder why they were so poor? It just makes me think that they were outcasts for some reason." Estan continued. They had both gorged themselves and were half sitting, half laying down on their bunks. Estan had his arms crossed under his head. He frowned. "I don't know what's going on with the elves and I don't think that anybody does, so we can only speculate, but I wonder if people are just projecting some notion of divinity and godliness onto them? I mean that we assume them to be everywhere and wonder why they won't attack but for all we know they could just visit us from some unknown continent or travel long distances magically if they can do such a thing and they have no need to conquer us for some reason? We assume them to be some different species so they must think differently than us but if they are willing to cast their own out like that to live in crippling poverty, that really sounds like something that we humans would do. All the animals fight and hunt, even house cats play with their prey, so having some other sentient being on the same or higher intellectual level as us, be benevolent and harmonious doesn't sound believable to me." Jacobin sighted and took a more comfortable position on his bunk. They were silent for a little while. Jacobin pretty much knew what Estan meant but didn't want to argue about it: that he had just been emotional when he had caught his prisoners and in reality, there had not been much special about them to begin with. "It just… seems promising to me that they would be fundamentally different from us humans. That elven village could have existed for a number of reasons, it doesn't necessarily need to be sinister." Jacobin made an ugly face. "Unlike the end of it." He felt that he needed to pour his heart out. "I just can't take that life in general is just this, no matter who inhabits the world!” Jacobin said in a tired tone. "Yeah, well." Estan answered. "Maybe the benevolent part of the elves actually is when they wipe us all out." A short laugh came from Jacobin, he had turned to his side on his bed. "I wish." he mumbled to this dark joke. Estan blew out the candles and they went to sleep.

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