Hail White

Chapter 6

We walk, eat some paninis by a river and keep on walking by the time the sun is setting I can't walk anymore, im tired and my feet hurt, even though each time I get a cut or something it takes just a few minutes to heal the physical tiredness is too much.

“We sleep here” Elenion says “we leave at sunrise”

They have been treating me like a soldier for the rest of the day, gone were the elves that looked at me with pity, I was one of them and needed to keep up, even though it looks like we are stoppoing because of me. I just look around and find a spot between two trees to rest, they hand me an orange and piece of bread. At sunrise we reasume our walk, all in line one behind de other but I’m in the middle of it so I wont fall back.

Its almost sunset again and I don’t know how much longer, and don’t want to answer in case they decide it was a mistake the deal we made. When nestled by the tranquil shores of a serene, lake, the remains of the castle stand as a haunting yet beautiful testament to a once-vibrant home of elves. The structure, although weathered and partially collapsed, retains an ethereal charm. The tall, slender towers are now worn by time, their pointed peaks softened by ivy and moss that have crept up their stone faces like the fingers of nature itself. The walls, crafted from pale, almost translucent stone, shimmer faintly under the light of the setting sun, giving the castle a mystical glow. The grand entryway, though broken and worn, still features intricate carvings of ancient symbols—runes and images of the stars, moon, and natural elements—etched deeply into the stone. These carvings tell the story of the elves’ long-forgotten history, their connection to nature, and their mastery of both magic and craftsmanship. Starlight glints off delicate, filigreed ironwork on what remains of the windows, though most panes of glass have long since shattered, leaving only empty arches.

The castle’s interior, now half-collapsed, still exudes a sense of grace. High, vaulted ceilings of once-polished wood and silver chandeliers now gather dust, but hints of their former elegance linger in the rich, almost sweet scent of old timber and moss. In the grand hall, you can still spot the faded remnants of tapestries woven with shimmering thread, depicting serene landscapes, mythical creatures, and elven legends, though much has been worn away by time.

“Let use take you to one of our spare rooms, you look tired” Faerilath tells me, and everyone goes separate ways “tomorrow we will start work”

We climb the main stairs and head right on this big corridor, we arribe at a door at the end of it and he opens it.

“It’s not much, but will have to do for now, we weren’t expecting to bring you home” he said shyly, then turned around “have a good rest” he called over his shoulder and left

The bedroom is cloaked in shadow and silence. Now, moonlight seeps through a fractured stained-glass window, casting colored shards of light onto the cracked stone floor. Dust lies thick over everything—on the once-opulent velvet drapes that hang in tatters, on the ornate vanity whose mirror is spiderwebbed with cracks, and on the grand four-poster bed that still stands, though its canopy is moth-eaten and sagging. The air is heavy with the scent of old wood. A faded portrait leans crookedly against the wall, its subject’s eyes dulled by time. Cobwebs drape the corners of the ceiling like ghostly lace, and ivy snakes through gaps in the stone, creeping silently across the floor. Though the room is long forgotten, there is a strange beauty in it—a haunting reminder of grandeur now lost to time.

I take off the dusty sheets trying not to shake them so no dust is liberated and carfuly put them in a corner, then take out the ones I had been using and spread them on the bed, i lay there for about 5 minutes when sleep takes over me.

I wake up early and start looking for the kitchen I guess the rooms are on this floor so the kitchen most be down stairs and that’s were I’m heading, I look outside through a window from the first floor that leads to the back. Outside, the gardens that once bloomed in harmony with nature now exist in a wild, untamed form. Wisteria vines climb the crumbling stone walls, and flowers with colors too vibrant to name burst through cracks in the stone paths. Small animals, perhaps once companions of the elves, now roam freely, making the once-pristine grounds their home.

The air around the ruins is thick with the quiet hum of magic, like an echo of something ancient and powerful, still lingering despite the passage of centuries. The castle, though broken, stands as a silent, ageless monument to the elves who live here.

After a few minutes I find the Kitchen, it is a sturdy, stone-walled room with a low, arched ceiling blackened by centuries of smoke. At its center, a massive hearth dominates the space, where a cast iron pot still hangs from a rusted hook over cold ashes. Rough wooden tables, scarred by years of chopping and carving, are arranged along the walls, some still wooden bowls, and knives.

Shelves lined with clay jars and glass bottles cling to the walls, many coated in dust, their contents long dried or turned to powder. A bundle of dried herbs—rosemary, thyme, —still hangs near the chimney, brittle but fragrant. The floor is worn flagstone, cool underfoot and scattered with stray bits of straw. There’s no luxury here, only function—everything built for purpose, solid and plain. Yet in the quiet stillness, there’s a lingering warmth, as if the echoes of clattering pots and hearty laughter still cling to the stone. And on one end a wooden table with seven chairs, full of used plates and silverware that haven’t been washed. I clean what I need to cook and get my hands on it, some eggs with some fresh juice and bread that was hot and ready within the our. I clean my hands and now;

*were could this elves be*

I walk out the kitchens back door to look for them and I’m stunned by what I see. Seven elves move with quiet precision across a sun-dappled training ground tucked within the edge of an ancient forest. The clearing is ringed with tall, silver-barked trees whose leaves shimmer faintly in the breeze, casting shifting patterns of light across the soft earth.

The training course stretches across, it’s designed to test agility, strength, and precision, both physical and mental. At the starting point, a series of wooden posts are arranged in uneven heights, requiring balance and nimble footwork to cross. Just beyond that, a row of swinging logs hangs from thick ropes—timed perfectly to challenge the trainee’s reflexes. Next comes a low-crawling section beneath a wooden lattice covered in thorny vines, forcing movement on elbows and knees. A rope wall rises after it, demanding a quick climb before dropping down into a trench filled with loose gravel for sprinting. To the side, a target range waits—archery and throwing knives—requiring calm focus immediately after the exertion of the course. Further on, a sparring circle is marked in the dirt for hand-to-hand or blade practice, often supervised by a seasoned warrior.

The course ends with a sprint up a steep hill, finishing at a lookout post that offers a full view of the path just conquered. It’s not only a test of endurance, but of grace under pressure—perfect for training warriors of precision and poise.

Each elf is lean, graceful, and deadly focused. Three of them spar in a loose circle, blades flashing in elegant arcs—steel meeting steel with a hiss rather than a clang, their footwork fluid as a dance. Two more practice archery at a distant target, loosing arrows in seamless rhythm. Each shaft thuds into the bullseye with almost unnatural accuracy, the fletching trembling with impact.

Another elf runs through acrobatic course, flipping and twisting through the air with a twin-bladed staff, kicking up dust with each landing. The last one stands still, eyes closed, meditating with one hand resting lightly on the hilt of a sword—a quiet center amid the focused movement of the others. There’s no shouting, no barked commands—only the sound of movement, breath, and nature. Discipline and elegance blend here; it’s not just training—it’s tradition, passed down through centuries.

Suddenly, I’m not so sure if I should call them in or just let them finish, but the one meditating, Erindor, just calls to me without even opening his eyes, “will be there in 2”. I just turn around and head back in, in exactly 2 minutes they come strolling in and suddenly the kitchen feels small. They go straight and sit down, I cross my arms and look straight at them “wash your hands”, they all look at me in disbelief but either way they don’t complain and go do it, except Erindor, who is still seating down, When they come back I go ahead and give the other six their breakfast, and he just looks at me spectantly, “if you are not clean there’s no breakfast” I say again, I can see from the corner of my eye that Lyrael is holding a laugh. Erindor just huffs and gets up to wash, so I set his plate down.

When they are done I pick up and get to cleaning when Galathil asks “aren’t you having breakfast?”

“I’ve never had breakfast” I answer

“Well you better start eating and gaining weight before you can start training, you have 1 month to pick up weight or the deal is off, as much as we like your food.” He says I just nod and he head out.

So I prepare some breakfast and eat, I can’t take that much in but I do my best.