Wayfarer's

Chapter: 17

Malgel walked in stride with the small, fiery elf, looking closely at him. The red haired elf seemed oddly relaxed; his face was neutral and his shoulders were lax. He was the picture of calmness and expectance.

Around them, the halls were lit by torches, opening up to an arena where the light tripled, and dazzled the walls, reflecting off skin and metal. The fire cast a yellow hue, and the smells and sounds that came along  turned a once comforting feeling into dread.

"Yer elf is up first," a tall gangly man said to Nahar. This stranger was all arms and legs, Malgel observed, raising an eyebrow. His arms hung like long strings at his sides, neck thin and arched like a rooster, eyes bulbous and searching. The mans skin was a dark, olive tone, and shriveled like an old leather shoe with cracks from weathering. And to finish things up, at the top of his head was a frizzy mop of hair that looked distinctly out of place. Malgel coughed to cover a chuckle, forcing his eyes to the floor. He wondered if someone could clean a warg carpet with that face. It would certainly be fun to try.
"They're both elves." Nahar snapped, his dangerous tone causing the wiry man to jump, and unless it was a trick of the light, every hair on the mans body was raised.

Well then, Malgel mused. Not just a Warg carpet then. He smiled; you could tie him to the roof, and prod him with a stick. That hair would stick up into the perfect scrubbing brush, and you could sway him back and forth like a ceiling mop. The floor would be clean in minutes, assuming the length of the hair could reach the floor, or that the grime and dirt didn't make things worse.

"Dat one, sir!" The long limbed man shrieked. Malgel's face fell.

Nahar nodded, turning only his head, and raising a hand to his servant. The silver haired elf sighed, even as he was seized by the arms.

"Throw him into the pits."

It seemed an understatement to point out that this was bound to happen, quite literally.

Roughly the manholding the green eyed elf, shoved him forward. At first Malgel didn't struggle, that was until he reached the edge of the pit. A pit which was so much deeper than he had assumed.

The vertigo hit him like a punch in the stomach. Malgel swallowed bile, pushing away slowly at first, and then with more conviction. His eyes bulged, breath coming in shudders, and yet he couldn't tear his gaze away from the... long drop. After the initial shock —something he hadn't felt in years— he found himself trembling, and hysteria followed.

The fall was so... far.

He was going to die. The thought was irrational, and yet it was real. He was going to die. Down into the pit, the gaping hole leered at him. His heart rate spiked. They wanted to push him off.

On reflex, the elf's heels dug into the dirt, stopping his progress towards the edge. The man pushing him cursed.

"Move!" He roared, as if forcing an elf into a dangerous hole was ruining his day. He gave another shove, and Malgel resisted again. Then he clung to the human, gripping his arm with the desperation of a cat hung over water.

"Let go of me!" The man yelled, using his free arm to try and pry Malgel off. But this elf had quite the iron grip. Malgel guessed that was born from years of clinging, and years of nearly falling.

"N-no! I don't wanna! Please don't push me off!" The elf's mouth moved faster than his his voice, and his speech came out fumbled. But his grip didn't loosen. People in the crowd looked on in interest.

"Cursed elf." The man snapped, and when he finally seemed to pry Malgel off, the elf just clung back on with more ferocity.

***