There was a boy. He was muddy. He walked towards the bank, taking off his bow and placing it carefully on the grass. Dropping his bag and throwing his shirt behind him, he ran into the stream. The cool crisp water reminded him of home. He hadn’t seen it in years, and yet  now he could see it vividly in his mind. He could see his mother washing the clothes in a bucket of water; his father standing behind her, holding a large, heavy bag.
He stopped and stood still at this jarring memory. His father left when he was little. He went to fight in the Great War. The boy felt betrayed at his broken promise of return. As the Great War raged on, he never gave up hope; training so that one day he could bring him home personally. And so, here he was, in the middle of the muddy, ancient battlefields looking for his father.
He wiped the mud from his face. It was hell out here; so desolate and barren, apart from the trickle of a stream. He couldn’t even imagine what it was like in battle. He dunked his face into the water, opening his mouth for a big gulp. His head threw back, the water flying out of his mouth. It’s taste was foul, like that of blood. His sense of taste was keen, and he couldn’t mistake the bitterness for anything else. He strode over to the edge of the bank, and reached for his effects. Pulling on his top and holding his bow out in front of him, he took a cut arrow and loaded the bow with it.
He slowly headed upstream, treading carefully on the rocks below. He knew that if there was something nearby that was hostile, his footing would have to be sure. He felt the water rush through his legs, and he followed it’s source. He felt the harsh wood in his hand. His father had given him that bow; just before he left, he promised he’d teach him to hunt… But of course, he never got to keep that promise either.
A rustle up ahead wrenched him out of his memories, and into the moment. In a second, he snapped his arms into position, locking his shoulders; and then freed the arrow. It flew through the air. Being a cut arrow, it did not fly in a straight line,  but weaved around the trees and hit the target from behind. There was a small squeak and the rustling stopped. The boy continued, still as cautious as before, and knelt picking up the rabbit. He tied it to a loop on his bag alongside two other rabbits and pressed on towards the source of the blood flowing down the stream.

There was an elf. He sat by a fire, leaning against a giant tree and warming his battle weary bones. A chill slivered down his spine, and one ear twitched. Had he just heard a third rabbit killed? He stood up, wrapping his breastplate around his torso and picking up his broadsword. He cradled his arm, checking to see if the streams’ water had healed it enough. He pulled his cape around it, shielding it from the cold breeze and stepped into the water, heading downstream towards the dead rabbit.
He didn’t understand why humans took such delight in killing animals. They could not be bothered to learn how to befriend nature. Elves did not need to resort to pillaging the earth for sustenance, but instead worked in harmony with it. They gave something to nature, and nature gave something back. That was the way of all things… Humans! They must be stopped.

There was splashing. Again, the boy’s arms snapped into alignment, and fired another powerful cut arrow into the distance. The elf listened to the trees talking to him. An arrow was coming. He spun around to see it heading straight for him. He raised his broadsword to shield his head from the deadly accurate projectile. His arm gave a twinge, and he could not fully parry the attack. The arrow glanced off and hit him full tilt in the stomach, between the breastplate and leather girdle.
People say that elves are immortal, save for the severance of the head. This is not strictly so. It is indeed true that they cannot die from a seemingly mortal wound, but they do not simply rip it out of their flesh with no consequence to their wellbeing. Elves draw their longevity and healing powers from nature, but this still takes time. As the elf fell to the ground, he knew it would take many moons for nature to save him. Although he fell in a stream, giving easy access to nature’s healing powers, such a serious wound would a while to heal.
The boy, hearing the loud splash, ran to see what he had felled. He spotted legs laying out beside a tree, and holding out his bow ready for action, he moved round the tree. He saw the face of a man, not unlike his father. He put his bow around his shoulder and crouched beside him.
“What have I done?” he sighed. He put his hands on the man’s face, and stroked his hair; completely stunned. But then he saw his ears. They  were long and pointy. His hand drew back immediately. He looked down at his breastplate, and saw it was elven. And finally to his eyes. They were deep green, like all elves.

His expression changed from shock to anger. And then nothingness. He drew his short sword slowly from it’s sheath and pressed it against the elf’s throat. He raised it; and then threw it down with all his might.