War of the Copper Forest

2

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Each and every day is indistinguishable from the last for each and every day the sun rises and the sun sets. Regardless of whether the earth is wrapt in a snowy blanket or lush and green, whether the sky wears its cloudy, bride's veil or reveals its open blue expanses far more vast than any ocean found on Tanlautia. All the same no matter the outfit, the sun rises; the sun sets.

Today was no different. It's early spring, and in a bright blue fashion the sky lit up with the sun's rising. Light comes through the leaves of newly budding trees in thin rays, shining down on the hollowed trunk of a great tree. Inside the tree, waking from the throes of sleep, pushing off a quilt given to him by a dear friend, was Romanov Goodleaf. Romanov Goodleaf was a kindly wood Elf, not yet old and never again young, with hair of shining silver, and skin of a fair pale blue. He rouses from the bed of deer skin that had served him as a resting place since he was a young man, the very pelt of the first deer he ever successfully hunted,

It was an elderly elf that had taught him the art of the hunt, the beauty of a strung bow that bends and stretches to its master's will, the song of a flying arrow that streaks through the air, the satisfaction of a target hit. Romanov looks over at his beloved bow, crafted of a fine oak wood branch without knot or blemish, curving to just the right angle, held together with a fine twine of horse hair and ewe wool. Romanov considered for a second taking it by the leather handle, and taking his wolfskin quiver with its many arrows, and running off to hunt the young spring forest, but did not. There was a great deal to do today, first and foremost he must meet with his father and the other elders today, it was time for the seasonal meeting. The spring meeting was always very dull, as the meetings took place in order to take stock of what they need, which, after winter and before anyone can even think to hunt, is everything. It's an old arbitrary meeting that could be shortened greatly but tradition is tradition. Honour your parents, honour your elders, the old adage of the Jerkuit forest.

Romanov pulls on a verdant green cloak and quickly brushes his hair. He slides his feet into wool socks and leather boots, before pushing aside the blanket that covers the entrance of the mighty tree he lives inside, damp now with spring dew. Stepping out he sees the 2 other mighty trees near him, one belonging to his friend Li Brezhnov, the other to his father, Grand Elder Ivanovich. He need only wait a second to see his father step out of his homestead, wearing the deep blue and cloak with golden threads that marked him the grand elder of the tribe.

"Is that not your hunting cloak?" Ivanovich admonishes his son.

"I don't see what it matters," replied Romanov, "I will surely be hunting as soon as the meeting is over to replenish our storages."

With a disapproving grunt, Ivanovich walked off towards the meeting place, the biggest hollowed out tree in the village. A mighty oak many hundreds of years old, older than even the Jerkuit Tribe, with brown and grey branches that sway steadily in the spring breeze. Among its roots is the meeting place, and the elder's court, as they are one in the same, where the grand elder of the sits upon a throne of roots and deerskin, meeting and decreeing all the live long day, until the sun sets just like it does everyday.

They make their way down the path, laden now with fresh green grass and little wild flowers, like it is every Spring when they make this walk. People are just waking up in their trees and stumps and shacks and tents, preparing for the first day of Spring hunting, gathering, and cleaning in the forest. Romanov smiles half heartedly at the thought of trying to clean a forest. The going is slow, as Ivanovich likes to make a grand statement whenever he's out among the village, much to Romanov's dismay.

With much plodding and more lollygagging, the party of 2 makes it to the meeting tree. Romanov is not in the least bit surprised to find they're the last to arrive, and stiffens slightly as all eyes fall on him and the grand elder. Ivanovich continues his stride to the grand chair at the other end of the tree, and Romanov quickly sits down on the deerskin pillow left empty for him behind his close friend and youngest of the Elders, Tolstoy. Tolstoy was the elder in command of the defense of the Jerkuit tribe, from the various roving bands of Goblins, Barbarians, rival tribes, so on and so forth, that made their wait to and through the Jerkuit forest. As of recently he has been growing ever more concerned with the growing Dwarf village to the Northwest of the forest's edge. Tolstoy, like many elves, had a distaste for Dwarves. It was resultant of mere, and harmless cultural differences, where a Dwarf would reach for pickled pork and rank cheeses, an Elf would reach for fresh venison with berries and leaves, and so on down the line that breeds generations of misunderstandings unresolved.