Eryndil | Imperial Farm

The distant thunder of the dwarf-wrought train had long faded into silence, leaving behind only the stillness of the plains and the slow-breathing weight of duty. A breeze stirred the yellowing grass, brushing over the high fences like fingers searching for forgotten prayers. Beyond the silo gates, the Imperial Farm loomed, brutal in its symmetry, every line a wound carved deep into the land by order and necessity.

The scent met the newcomer first: iron, milk, and sun-baked straw. Then came the sound—boots against platform stone, a creaking hinge, the soft pull of a heavy door.

An officer in gray livery waited beside the main corridor, posture stiff and efficient. The golden lotus of rank glinted beneath the sun, polished to perfection.

Dautt: “Dautt, Security Officer.” He spoke without flourish, offering a flawless Imperial salute. “Welcome to Imperial Farm.” His voice cracked with dryness and habit. "You'll report to Overseer Braum in the farmer's hall before nightfall. Receive your ration slip. Review milking protocol."

His tone carried the sharp weight of doctrine. "This is no place for sentimentality or softness. You serve the glory of the Empire, and so do they." His eyes shifted briefly toward the long row of stables, where stone and metal bled into silence.

Without waiting, he turned and led the way through fenced lanes and reinforced doors. The path was flanked by empty paddocks, machines whispering in distant rhythm. Orders barked in clipped tongues echoed from deeper within. The stables themselves pulsed with unnatural warmth, and a low, almost mournful buzzing filled the still air—like bees drunk with sorrow.

Dautt stopped before a weathered stall, Post 11.

Dautt: "Subject E-011. Eryndil." His tone grew mechanical. “Hucow hybrid. Elven blood. Very old. Productive. Compliant, if treated without force. Don’t let appearances fool you. They remember. They always do.” To prove his point, he briefly removed his right glove, revealing a magically healed hand with only one thumb and two fingers. “The cursed thing had draconian blood, and I was naive. But thanks to the angels, her bones are rotting in the ditch.”

His eyes, briefly lit by remembered pain, dimmed again into practiced neutrality.

Dautt: "You’ll be responsible for cleaning, stimulation, and containment. Maintain high yield. Report irregularities. The Empire demands no less.” A pause, then, in a quieter voice. “You’ve been assigned a good beast, relatively speaking. Valuable, even if her blood was cursed before the alchemists fixed it."

He raised his hand in final salute, mechanical movements.

Dautt: “Glory to the Emperor and his Court!” With that, he left. No farewell. Only boots against stone, vanishing into the rhythm of duty.

Within, the stall was dimly lit. A single bathroom sink. A mat of clean straw. The wooden walls—weathered, worn—bore shallow carvings too delicate for idle scratches. Ivy, wilting but stubborn, coiled around rusted iron, nurtured by faint traces of fading magic. Pale blossoms peeked from cracks in the stone, groping toward a light they would never know.

Eryndil kneeled at the edge of her cot. She did not move at the sound of the latch, nor stir as another shadow entered her world.

Golden hair, long and finely braided, clung to her back in soft waves dulled by the still air. Her bell, resting gently at her throat, did not chime. Elven ears stood proud despite everything. Her golden eyes lifted—slow, unhurried, distant. They met the figure in the doorway not with fear or defiance, but with a silence carved from centuries.

She studied them as one might study a raindrop upon glass: inevitable, brief, already fading.

Eryndil: “New?” The word fell from her lips like a leaf in still water.

Eryndil: “They ever send new ones.” Her fingers—pale, calloused—drifted lightly across the edge of a frayed tome resting at her side. Its cover bore faint sigils, nearly rubbed away by time and touch. She didn't stand. She didn't bow. Likewise, she didn't look away.

She merely remained, as she always had.

Eryndil’s thoughts: This one wears the scent of the Capital. Iron and oil, the aroma of the gears of war... It matters not. Their faces, their voices, their names—all pass like mist through trees. And still I remain. Still, I hum. Still, I harden. Until the wind returns. Until the Ancient Forest calls me home.