As the tension in the air thickened, two or three elves who had just raised their hands in preparation were suddenly pierced by arrows, striking through their right legs. With pained expressions, they crumpled to their knees, their spells faltering in the heat of the moment.
Oliver, observing from the shadows, understood the urgency of the situation. While aiming for their arms would have been a more efficient tactic, the swirling smoke from the explosion had obscured his vision. For now, he aimed to incapacitate their legs, ensuring they couldn't maneuver easily.
"It's coming from the east!" one of the team members shouted, a sense of urgency sparking their reaction. Immediately, the elves invoked wind magic, swirling gusts to disperse the lingering fog. Yet, as the last tendrils of smoke vanished, a disheartening sight greeted them: the enemy had vanished, leaving only the wild grass dancing in the breeze.
With careful steps, the close-combat elves advanced to the front, their senses heightened. They pressed down the tall grass, each movement deliberate, avoiding any oversight that might cost them dearly.
Meanwhile, one elf gifted with the ability to foresee danger readied his crossbow, his sharp gaze scanning for Oliver's elusive figure. The magicians at the back raised their staffs, their expressions steely as they prepared to unleash devastating spells at a moment's notice.
Oliver watched intently, his heart racing. After the explosion, he had hoped to eliminate a few more magicians, aiming to dismantle the protective magic shields that the elves relied upon. Casting such shields required immense control and focus, resources scarce even among the skilled elves.
Yet, it appeared he had struck a chord; the injured magicians at the back were already conjuring a soft, green light. With swift precision, they extracted the arrows from their wounds and pressed their hands over the injuries. The green glow enveloped their legs, slowly knitting together the torn flesh.
Realizing the urgency, Oliver notched an arrow to his bow, poised to strike the moment he saw an opening. He focused intently, drawing the bowstring back with careful precision, trying to remain undetected.
But just as he was about to release the arrow, the prophetic elf shouted, "There!" His voice cut through the air, instantly alerting his companions. The crossbow in his hands leveled toward Oliver, and he loosed the bolt. It was an off-target shot, easily dodged, but the noise had set off a chain reaction.
In an instant, arrows and spells flew in his direction. Panic surged through Oliver as he rolled to the left, narrowly escaping a barrage of projectiles, including a massive fireball that exploded nearby, sending heat rippling through the foliage.
"Are they mad?" Oliver thought as he scrambled to his feet, sprinting away. The thick vegetation around him offered some cover, but the chaotic energy of the battle surged around him.
However, his breath caught in his throat as he witnessed an extraordinary sight. A slender pathway of ice snaked along the ground, shimmering like a serpent, tracing the path of the fireball that had just exploded. The flames igniting the grass froze instantly upon contact, transforming into crystalline structures that glimmered ominously in the daylight.
In the distance, he could hear the elven magician who had conjured the fireball muttering a complaint to his companion, frustration evident in his voice. "There's no way to condense elements that quickly! Even with instant magic, there should have been some form of elemental buildup!"
The air was charged with the energy of the elves as they grappled with the unexpected turn of events. Oliver's heart raced, knowing that he had to adapt quickly to the rapidly shifting dynamics of this intense confrontation.
Oliver's mind raced with questions as he observed the chaos unfolding around him. "Apart from that elf who can barely glimpse the future, is there someone else here capable of conjuring ice?" His thoughts darted back to the fireball he'd just witnessed. It hadn't shown any signs of elemental condensation; could it possibly be a form of blessing? Shock and confusion filled his eyes.
Among the elves, healing blessings were the norm, often seen as their sole gift. The elf who could turn invisible had done so due to peculiarities of his own body, not through any blessing. Historically, non-healing blessed elves had been exceedingly rare, no more than four had ever been documented. Yet here, he sensed the presence of at least three, and perhaps even more.
"Who are these beings?" he pondered, a frown creasing his brow. "Could they be humans or other races masquerading as elves?" Despite his swirling doubts, he knew he couldn't afford to hesitate. The enemy wouldn't pause; thus, he resolved to focus all his attacks on the prophetic elf, the one who could read his movements.
"Keep your guard up!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the tension. "It's an arrow attack! Three in total; one aimed at my head, and two targeting my left hand and right leg!"
True to his warning, as he released the arrow, two elves darted forward, sacrificing themselves to intercept the incoming projectiles. The urgency of the moment galvanized the others to launch their own attacks, the air crackling with magic.
"Can he only predict actions that cause harm?" Oliver mused, easily dodging the arrows aimed at him. He glanced at the distant elf, noting the lack of foresight in anticipating his evasive maneuvers. It seemed the elf's powers were limited; he could only foresee the initial strike, like a faulty tool with limited utility.
Determined, Oliver tossed a smoke bomb to the ground, filling the air with a thick, obscuring fog. Seizing the opportunity, he hurriedly repositioned himself and hurled another bomb towards the enemy's last known location. Simultaneously, he drew back his longbow and released the arrow with calculated precision.
"Beware of the bomb!" came the frantic shout from his opponents, too late to predict the arrow that followed. While the attack didn't land a fatal blow, it certainly disrupted their concentration, affecting the elf's prophetic abilities.
Emerging from the smoke, Oliver was met with a sight that would be etched into his memory forever. "What in the world is this?" he gasped, staring in disbelief.
From a wound in his own leg, a brilliant green light erupted, illuminating the chaos around him. Strangely, no one, not even he, was touching it or murmuring healing incantations, the light simply pulsed and surged, mending his injury on its own.
In that moment, realization struck him. This was an automatic healing blessing, common among elves, albeit typically slow. It was a passive gift; one that activated upon injury. But wasn't his primary blessing one of prophecy?
"Two blessings?" The thought was unfathomable. "How is that even possible?" His teacher, a sage well-versed in the arcane, had taught him that creatures could possess either no blessings or only one; never two.
Yet here he stood, torn between logic and the bizarre reality before him. Noble angels, majestic dragons, formidable orcs, elusive elves, ethereal demons, and even mundane humans, all were bound by this rule of singular blessings.
"Could the prophecy just be a simplified form of magic?" he mused, wrestling with disbelief. "Am I fooling myself?"
The battlefield loomed large, filled with uncertainty and danger, but one thing was clear: he was no longer merely an archer; he had become part of a much larger and more complex story.