~chop
Sweat trickles down his skin as he splits the wood before him. It cannot hurt to have a light exercise and to do a little bit of chore in the morning. Their nights are exhausting but for Varen who can hardly sleep, doing this is better than nothing.
The horrible memories of his village's slaughter are keeping him awake. Each time he tries to sleep, he only hears the screaming of his kin. It is terrible, but it is not like him to whine. Blind since birth, he is a cripple that their dozen-strong village ought to abandon, but they didn't.
In time, Varen grows into the most valuable hunter in their small village. As his village was able to sustain itself, it was able to merge with other smaller villages allowing it to grow into a medium size village of at least 20 elves.
Those were easy times of hunting for the village.
But after that night raid… Everything changes. Humans with their superior iron come at them in droves. Some humans find sport in hunting the few and weak elves. Some even went as far as to torture the elves. Varen can still remember a specific hideous human who takes fun in mutilating his elf kin only to leave them alive so that they would just die slower in the punishing environment of the forest.
Even now, Varen can feel the shadow of a big frame like a bear, and the human laughing in his enjoyment of the game— the 'picture' of this man is something that Varen would not forget. He wants to forget it, but he cannot.
The many crippled elves back in Lorekleim Forest are the work of that cruel human. Varen swears that if he sees him, he will make him suffer the most painful death possible.
~chop
Varen finishes working on his little chore. He gathers the wood that they can use for the fire, and so they can get a little warmer in the night after their raids.
"Oh, Varen, cannot sleep eh?"
Hearing the familiar voice, Varen looks over at the old timer, geezer Yirlung. Varen cannot exactly 'see' as he is blind, but there is this 'instinct' to him that allows him to perceive an image unique only to his own. Varen perceives the old timer leaning by the tree, looking at him with amusement.
Varen can almost see it. The old man with his arms crossed, and his back on the tree. The wrinkles on Yirlung's face, and maybe the graying of his hair tell-tale signs of his old age, yet his back is straight and his limbs are still strong.
It is a mystery as to how the elderly of the elven race still have strong limbs despite their waning physical strength like how old age works on the other races. Sure, the old-timer elves aren't as strong as their young counterparts, but it is not to the point they become crippled.
All of the old-timers are in Varen's troop... maybe so that they can compensate for what Varen lacks. The lifespan of elves stretches as long as 500 years, and the old-timers in his troop are about in their 400s. If he finds himself in a tight situation, he can surely rely on the experiences of these old-timers.
Varen inexplicably sighs at how it has all come to this.
Appointing him as the commander for their operation against Zaun barony is certainly against his own expectations. He was thinking the King might put Zeraya or one of the old-timers in this important position.
As he is now the commander of this troop, the King makes sure to 'educate' him on what to do in every change of scenario on the battlefield. For now, not many changes are happening, so they just have to steadily continue their night raids in the Zaun barony.
"I am fine, you don't have to concern yourself with me, geezer Yirlung…"
"Damn, how do you even know that it was me? Was my voice really that recognizable?"
Yirlung helps on carrying the wood stack after stack. They bring it to the shed where their elf kin can easily access and use it for their own needs.
"Varen!" A young elf jubilantly calls to him.
Varen turns his head and smiles at the elf. Though he cannot see, it doesn't mean he should use this as an excuse to be 'not nice' around his compatriots. Smiling isn't so hard for him either. Unbeknownst to him, the young elf calling his name is actually blushing. "Hello there, miss Lameya…" He warmly greets her. Though Varen can 'see' in a sense, he cannot really see.
Yirlung coughs at the awkward situation. As the bystander, he is much aware of what truly is happening. Apparently, there is this misunderstanding that Varen promises to a certain granny that he will marry her granddaughter. This reaches 'Lameya', the elf in question, and from there on, the misunderstanding continues to devolve to its worse.
Speaking of the devil, the old hag, Temeya comes into Yirlung's sight. Yirlung swears that before he dies of old age, he'd ensure that Temeya gets an earful from him.
Temeya not minding the obvious prickly gaze of Yirlung announces important news. "The provisions from the base arrived. There was this new weapon. You have to see this. I think his majesty called it Molotov."
Varen perks up his ears. "Let's go…" At his words, his compatriots follow him. Just outside the village, they are using as a temporary base, Zeraya is waiting for them. She only has a single carriage, and the amount of food she can bring would certainly not be enough to sustain a human village for good long weeks.
But if it were only a few elves, it was a different story.
Yirlung comes to the back of the carriage and checks the goods. "Nice, this would last us for several weeks."
Lameya finds a very curious bottle. "What is this? Is this booze? What for?"
Zeraya grabs the curious bottle from the elf and too excitedly comes to a distance. "I always wanted to light one of these…" She comments with already a burning torch in hand.
Varen with his almost superhuman smell can catch the strange whiff coming from the bottle. "Is this the Molotov? How is this a weapon?"
Zeraya would love to demonstrate it right away for all of them to see, but not all of them can see, so she decides to explain it. "This is his majesty's work, the Molotov Cocktail. I don't know how he decided on the name. Don't ask me. Anyways, this thing can light up and burn an area of about 12 feet. Let me demonstrate."
"Burn the cloth end with fire." Zeraya does as she narrates. She uses her torch to burn the cloth, and with one swift motion, she throws the entire thing on a parabola. "…and then you throw it." She announces, her words turning a degree more serious and colder.
Lameya places her palm over her mouth at the shocking spectacle.
Temeya watches the flames spreading in a scary manner.
Yirlung gasps at the sight of the burning wheat fields.
The village had a farm for them to tend to, but the elves didn't bother to continue tending to it. Elves don't know a thing about farming, and if they do, they lack the motivation to do it in these times of war. They would rather practice their fighting skills and hone the more immediate abilities that would help them in this war.
Still, it was a pity to see a whole farm burn so brightly like that. The flames didn't even spare the lone tree and the hut by the farm. Varen can feel the heatwave on his skin. He can smell the burning unprocessed wheat. He can hear the crackling of the flames and it sticking to matter. He can almost taste the fire in the wind.
Though Varen cannot see, he can feel the immense destruction this Molotov can cause. "What 12 feet? This is a whole farm!"
Zeraya didn't lie, and she knows it too. "It was 12 feet if you throw it at a group of soldiers or just an empty terrain. But if it is burning farms, this is what would happen."
Zeraya presents herself to Varen, and with a dignified cry, she announces the King's orders. "As the King decrees. Heed his commands! Burn the farms, and cause chaos! Drive the Zaun barony to the corner. Seven weeks from now, gather on the Jeremy barony, and from then, we start the blitz."
Throwing Molotovs might be overkill, but it is efficient and effective. An elf can just throw it and then run afterward. No need to dilly-dally to make sure the farm did burn. Call it overcompensation, but for this war, the King has no desire to hold back.
"I shall receive the King's decree." Varen solemnly answers.