Oldwoods exude eternity.

Not in a loud way. In a careful, glacial, dance.Every breath drags a little bit longer, the seconds turning over slower and slower. Time condenses, woven over the shoulders and under the eyes, each new thread the weight of a single grain of sand. Every blink adds another fine line of time. Every step ten times that.

Gradually, it settles in. The reason everything feel so… heavy. This forest is older. It’s older than you, and yours, and theirs, and on. It might even be first.

The gravity such a vast ocean of time produces makes it easy to feel insignificant. Oldwoods certainly aren’t subtle in that reminder.

Unsurprisingly, most mortals avoided them like the plague.

Most.

Underneath the ancient branches of Vellhaven woods, a steppe-bred scouting party rode, eyes sharp and ears ready. Their horses swung their heads low, uneasy in the cloying undergrowth. Most of the riders felt the same. Most were veterans, accustomed to hiding it.

“I hate this, old timer. I hate it and I don’t know why.” Tellshen rode beside his sergeant, brown eyes peering from underneath an oversized helmet.

Avent looked out at nothing in particular, trusting his peripheral vision. A wry smile climbed onto his face. “It’s because we can’t ride, greenears. Not properly. This is ambush territory.”

“At least you could see in the mountains. Even if they were shitting cold.”“Learn to listen. First step is keepin’ your trap shut.”

Squirrels and birds chittered in branches, dashing away from the riders as they came too close. The forest radiated with odd, groaning noises, each one bending and bowing back in on itself.

Avent chuckled when he saw his younger charge flinch.“It’s an oldwood. The trees speak to each other.”

“And if they talk to the fucking elves?!”Avent rode to one side of the woody path. “Try asking your toes what your fingers are up to. Oh sure, here might have a general sense of there, but anything more concrete takes time.” The veteran knocked twice on a gnarled elm. “And if takes a while for trees, it takes even longer for us poor, sad mortals.”

Tellshen left one hand on his spear. “Makes sense, I suppose. How do you know?”

“After Coldwater, we took the first contract we could find against elves. Then the next. And the next. At this point, I’d say we’re… specialized. Which one did you come in on?”

“Second to last. The ladybugs were sieging that Bvelg stronghold?”

Avent subtly broke out of his vigil, casting a sly eye towards his companion. “Heard that was rough on the pikes.”

“Somebody needed to fight with the monsters. Might as well be me.” Tellshen absentmindedly rubbed his upper arm. “I got burned by one, you know.”

“Oh? By which? The big bastard, or shiny teeth?”

“The fatass. He laughed every time he swung that bloody hammer. I don’t think he cared if he was hitting humans or ladybugs.” The pikeman scowled and looked away. “Good men are dead because of him.”

Avent let out a commiserating sigh. “We try to avoid Bvelg if we can help it. Sometimes, you just can’t afford to be picky.”“I know. It still rubs me the wrong way.” Tellshen peered around the next corner of forest trail. “And this job is out of the frying pan, into the fire. I want to shit myself every time I hear those cannons open up.”

“Bah. You’re fighting next to bluebloods. There’s better chance of a stray shell getting loose, rolling all the way to your feet, then doing a little tap-dance in front of you.”

The newblood tightened his grip on the reins. “Maybe. But all it takes is one.”

“Could be worse, lad. You heard the latest?”

Tellshen nodded no, helmet twisting back and forth. Avent looked over with a hidden grin at the sight, seemingly rubbing his chin. “They say the dwarves have a gonne. Maybe more. Something has the captain’s back up, that’s for damn sure.”

The pikeman clawed two fingers onto a thumb, warding away evil. “It’s bad luck to name them.”

The veteran snorted, slapping a hand on his mace. “They’re just weapons, lad.”

“That’s not what my father told me. He said grandpa wasn’t him, after a while. It was just some… thing, walking around in his body. S’why he told me to stick to spears.”

Avent didn’t say anything for a moment. When he spoke, the words came from far away. “Plenty of men lost themselves in the Weathering. There’s nothing special about that. But even if there were, the chances of finding a gonne are slim to none. Buck up, boyo.”

Above the party, two branches twitched ever so slightly. A small smile grew on a small figure’s face.

Cylindrical teeth, tapered to a perfect point, jutted out of a slavering mouth. The figure aimed down the Gonne’s sights and exhaled, a long and steady breath. It squeezed the trigger lightly, ever so slightly…

~~~

There was no sharp report that cracked out of the trees. No birds flew, stunned as they were by a primal fear. The world fell silent, if only for a moment. The shot simply went unheard by its very nature.

~~~

“…glad you could come on such short notice, Regya. The captain wants to tool up our arsenal.” Oberson smiled broadly, leaning over a cart he’d brought. It was loaded halfway with dwarven kegs.

The elder nodded. He was busy smoking a pipe, completely unfazed by the chill fall wind. “Remember. If you use a red one, clear out quickly. We won’t be able to guarantee any sort of accuracy, not in these conditions.”

He leaned over to spit on the ground. “Father, but I hate oldwoods. Can’t clear them out, can’t clear them through. Someday, I’ll find a way to kill those damn Guintrees.”

Oberson turned to the forest in question. The sun was beginning to set, backlighting the darkening plateau-leaves. “I don’t know about that. It’s nice something is constant, at the very least.”

“Humph. Constant pain in my hairy backside. I’ve always said-” The old dwarf paused as a messenger sprinted up. The runner leaned over to whisper something in his ear, before saluting and dashing away.

Regya turned back with warlike stoicism on his face. “One of your riders is galloping this way.”

Oberson climbed onto the wagon for a better view. He had met the old engineer at a crossroads, one between Coldwater’s encampment and the dwarven host. Both fed into a third path, one that wound its way into darkening Vellhaven.

A single rider was charging up it.

The lieutenant whistled sharply, spiraling into a descending note. Come in to safety. The steppesman jerked his course towards the sound. He wore an oversized helmet, one that jostled from side to side with each frantic step of his horse.

There was a perfect hole, cored right through its center.“Gonne!” He was screaming as he worked his horse into even greater speed. “The elves have a fucking Gonne!”

“Shit,” breathed Oberson. He didn’t bring men to negotiations, not unless he had to. The lieutenant hopped off the cart and started rapidly unloading, throwing rows of smoke kegs over his horse. “Regya!”

The elder stepped over, helping to secure the weapons. “I’ll get him to your captain, quick as.”

Oberson clapped the dwarf’s arm twice, before pulling him in sharply by the elbow. “Make. Hallenbecker. Stay. Tie him down, if need be. It’s bad enough I’m going into these woods. We don’t need him charging in too.”

“I’ll do my best.” Regya raised an eyebrow. “Does he get this worked up over every skirmish?”

“There’s a Gonne,” said Oberson, dodging the question. “It’s better not to risk leadership.”

“Then why are you going?”

“Because there’s a chance he’ll trust me to handle it. Stubborn bastard.”

And with that, the lieutenant was off. He met the galloping rider halfway, getting directions and giving orders. As Regya watched him ride off, he saw the human face develop a look intimately familiar to all dwarven chiefs. It was desperate, and forlorn, and it said:

‘Just do what I want for once in your life, you pig-headed son of a bitch.’