Realms

Elorfell dispatched four gnarled and pitch-skinned goblins that had been hunting him for most of the day. The creatures had spotted his blood trail on the damp tufted ground and, after tasting the blood, realised that it was most likely the elf. As they accelerated their pursuit, they came upon the injured elf, but much to their dismay, they had failed to take into account just how dangerous an injured elf could be. Elorfell, however, had received yet another wound.
Elorfell staggered down to a nearby stream, and after removing his boot to examine and clean the cut, he knew it would be dangerous to stay out in the forest. The blood would only attract more predators and likely more goblins. He could not return to the village as he was threatened with violence if he did. The villagers in the area distrusted his kind and would not tolerate his presence.
He tensed his body from the pain as he looked down towards the lake. He had been caught directly in the path of the hunting goblins and had managed to dodge the worst of their blows with a wounded leg, but had been clipped with the full force of another strike. In the darkening twilight he could just make out the track that snaked through the woods and around the lake. He winced again as he slowly made his way down from the mossy rocks and across to a path, hoping that if he followed it, he would at least be able to find shelter and help. The evening drew in a damp colder air and dark heavy clouds began to gather. The path dipped and then rose north between the shadowed trees as they leaned back and forth with each gust of wind.
As he made his way up a gentle slope he picked up the faint smell of wood smoke blown towards him as the wind increased, swirling his grey hair around his head and across his face, there was going to be a storm that night as he struggled to quicken his pace. His leg now burned with pain and he was aware blood had soaked into the boot. Just on the rise of the hill, the roof of a cottage came into view and he gave a relieved smile. Thunder rolled in the distance as heavy droplets of rain began to fall, seeming to crush the grass in its invisible tread. within a moment he was soaked, the drops now dripping from his flattened hair, cascading down his neck and shoulders.
He pressed himself forward and entering the clearing where the cottage stood, he felt the wind pick up once more as rain splattered across his face.

Amidst the tumultuous storm that roared and howled like a wounded beast, Elorfell, the Ildirian elf of tall stature and indomitable spirit, stumbled upon a dilapidated cottage whose once sturdy wooden beams now groaned under the weight of abandonment; ivy tendrils snaked their way up its crumbling walls as if seeking to claim dominion over the forsaken dwelling.
The air clung to him with an eerie heaviness, laden with the scent of decay and ancient secrets long since forgotten by the world. As he approached, the splintered door creaked open on rusted hinges, revealing a darkness within that seemed to swallow the feeble glow of his lantern, leaving only shadows dancing in the gloom like malevolent specters.
"By the gods," Elorfell murmured, his amber eyes flickering with a mixture of trepidation and determination, "a most unwelcome shelter, but shelter nonetheless."
His long grey hair hung limp and sodden against his pallid skin, while his lean, muscular form trembled with cold and exhaustion. Despite his misgivings, he knew that within this decaying abode lay his only respite from the tempest that raged outside; and so, gathering all the courage that his weary soul could muster, he stepped across the threshold.
"Forgive my intrusion," he whispered into the darkness, half-expecting a response that never came, "but the storm has left me no other choice."
Once inside, Elorfell began to tend to his wounds - those jagged gashes that marred his otherwise flawless flesh, remnants of his flight from the hunting goblins. With hands that shook from both pain and fatigue, he carefully cleaned each wound, wincing as the sting of antiseptic permeated his raw nerves.
"Endure, Elorfell, endure," he muttered to himself, his voice a mere shadow of its former strength. "You have faced greater trials than these." As he bound his injuries with what meager bandages he had left, his thoughts wandered to the battles he had fought and the foes he had vanquished; images of blood and steel danced before his eyes, each one accompanied by a memory of triumph or despair.
"Such is the life of an Ildirian," he thought bitterly, as he tightened the last strip of cloth around his arm, "to face death unyielding, even when it seeks us out in the most unlikely of places."
With his wounds tended to, Elorfell allowed himself a moment of respite, allowing the weight of his journey to press down upon him like a leaden blanket. He knew that he could not linger long within this forsaken haven, for whatever darkness haunted the cottage paled in comparison to the malevolence that pursued him through the storm-swept night.
"Rest now, Elorfell," he whispered to himself, as he huddled against the cold embrace of the stone hearth, "for in the morrow you shall rise anew, and face whatever dread awaits you beyond the shadows."

In the dimly-lit confines of the decaying cottage, Elorfell's amber eyes flickered with renewed awareness as he sensed a presence drawing near; his heartbeat quickened and his breath hitched in his throat, for he knew that the malevolence that had pursued him relentlessly through the storm-swept night had somehow managed to breach the tenuous sanctuary of this forsaken haven.
Yet, as the figure moved closer, Elorfell found himself taken aback by her grace and beauty. The woman emerged from the shadows like a ghostly apparition; her long flaxen hair cascading over her thin shoulders, framing her pale visage and haunting grey eyes. Her slender form seemed to glide effortlessly across the creaking floorboards, her movements so fluid and ethereal that they belied the corporeal world.
"Peace, stranger," she whispered, her voice a melodious lullaby that seemed to beckon Elorfell into the depths of her soul. "Surely you did not expect to find solace in such a desolate place?"
As she approached, Elorfell could not help but become ensnared by her seductive charm. The woman extended a delicate hand to brush against his injured leg, her touch sending shivers down his spine that mingled with both pleasure and pain.
"Your wounds must be tended to, Elf" she murmured, her lips curving into a knowing smile. "Let me care for you, and ease your suffering."
Her words washed over Elorfell like a balm, the allure of her tender ministrations threatening to erode his resolve. Yet, deep within the recesses of his mind, his instincts screamed at him to resist, to maintain his guard against the temptress who sought to ensnare him in her web of desire.
"Your offer is... generous," he replied hesitantly, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. "But I must refuse, for my fate lies beyond these walls, and I cannot allow myself to be... distracted."
"Ah," she sighed, a note of disappointment lacing her tone as she leaned in closer, her breath warm against his cheek. "But surely you can afford to indulge in a moment of respite, Elorfell? Would it not be better to face the storm with renewed strength, rather than continue on your path, hobbled by pain and exhaustion?" Her lips brushed against his earlobe, sending a shiver down his spine, as she whispered, "I can give you the solace you so desperately crave, Elf. All you need do is surrender yourself to me."