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Myron Epimetheus
The boy can neither destroy nor alleviate and is hardly a fitting object of fear for anyone. Dramatic and given to exaggerating – so typical of one so young. The little man pays no attention to his words. Indeed, were it not for what must be disclosed here, there is very little about the boy to be worthy of a scholar’s interest and attention. Reaching into his pockets, the sage withdraws his notes – all carefully written down on scores of those little square napkins which serve so well for the writing down of things – that he might review them. The boy, of course, is not alone; although the boy is not aware of this. But there is much concerning which the boy is unaware. “Foolish boy,” the little man says quietly.
After a few moments of reading, the little man looks up and glances in the direction of the opening of this small clearing. “Foolish elves,” he mutters as he stands. “To live so long and to advance so little. Foolishness. Hundreds and hundreds of years of living and yet so stagnant. Such little erudition for a race so long alive.” He glances at the boy. “Misspent youth is one thing to be sure. But to misspend the centuries so casually that even the boy is a more worthy object of study. A foolish place this Ravenwood. And to presume to interrupt the disclosing of truth……” The little man’s voice rises, filling the immediate area. “Come forward!” At his command the members of a patrol from the elvish settlement step forward. Their movements are awkward, as if they are being pulled forward against their will.
“There will be no interruption of what must happen.” There is no anger in his words, only the solemn authority of one who will not see the truth of things lay hidden any longer. He fixes his gaze upon the one that is obviously the leader. He speaks but a few words in a guttural language and the papers on which his notes have been written begin to rustle. Pointing at the elf he speaks once more, a single syllable, and the body of the elf begins to shake in time to the movement of the small square napkins, those napkins that serve so well for the writing down of things worth reading later. As he shakes, his form becomes less distinct until there is nothing left where the elf once stood save a small pile of pages covered in flowing elvish script. With a movement of his hand, the little man summons the pages to himself and glances at them.
“So little from one alive so long.” There is a note of disappointment in his voice. His gaze then turns to the others. He looks at each in turn and then speaks again and at the sound of his voice a greenish light settles over each of the five remaining elves. The light flashes and the elves are no more to be seen, only five large crickets. “To waste the gift of so many years,” the little man says quietly as he tucks the pages that were once the leader of the patrol into his pockets. “Foolish, foolish elves. This Ravenwood is home to more than the folly of the boy.” Saying this he returns to the rock and sits down once more.
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