The wind carried him safely from branch to branch, his muscles tensing and flexing with the graceful ease from centuries of practise.
In his forest, Iorveth felt free. The punishing stench of the dh'oinne filth could barely reach him here, and he was thankful for the fresh, crisp morning air.
The gentle breeze like a lover's caress on his scarred face.

Despite it being such an old ache the left half of his face always ached, a tingling memory right under his marred skin.
Evidence of the brutality, the lecherous lust to kill and disfigure of the human filth.
Iorveth had long learned that there was no way to coexist with those barbarians, blunt apes is all they are.
So out of tune with their surroundings, their wish only to dominate and spawn like rats.
On the expense of his people, and all those who were different than them.
Centuries of suffer and fear and blood just because of the shape of their auricles, the differnce in height!
Ridiculous... utterly ridiculous.
The vivid hatred that had balled in his stomach had only grown with his baleful thoughts and he had to stop to catch his breath.
Leaning against the thick trunk of the stree he was standing on he rested his weary head on a soft patch of damp moss and closed his eyes, trying to reign in his toughts before they drove him into a canine madness that would end in blood, fire and a few dh'oinne less.
His lips pulled into a wicked smile as the violent thought crossed his mind and he felt placated when his imagination supplied him with the stench of burning Human filth.

Wistfully he ghosted his gloved finger over the deep scar that edged into his fair countenance and pushed up the blood red cloth that covered the empty socket that once held an eye sparking like emerald.
The ache will never cease, as long as his hatred feeds it it will remain a maddening itch.
An itch reminding him of a time he can never forget, will never forget. A time of capture and torture,
dingy stonewalls closing in on him, berefting him of all hope to ever hear the wind playing in the leaves of his beloved trees again.
Of disgusting human hands on him, taking from him the last thing that he had left in that time - His beauty and his connection to his very self.
That was at the end of the second Nilfgaard war.
When he managed to escape he was but a shadow, but no more. And never again!
He has found purpose in his life that wasn't to his contentment but better than surrender. Never would he bow his head to the Dh'oinne. Never.
Regardless of how much it would cost him, he'd fight until his last breath was wrung from his loungs.
The bitter elf slowly opened his good eye and looked up, his thoughts stilling at the sight of the rich green treetops that glittered in the cold sun.
It was the very beginning of Birke and the nature was fresh and ripe, the forest smelling of new life and vitality.
It eased his troubled heart and honed him to the sounds of his surroundings again.
It was never safe to let ones mind wander unguarded in the depths of the woéd,
there were countless of creatures around who would like to make him their breakfast.

Most he could outrun on the branches of the tall trees, but the Endregas might be a problem.
Shrugging off his uneasy feelings he continues his run, the destination clear in his mind.
Que carraigh minneth meáth, Cáelmewedd. A ruin of the long lonst splendor of his people, still he likes to come here,
to tend to the lush roses blooming around the statue of Eldan and Cymoril and the bath's below.
Special care he bestowed upon a rare and delicate flower, the Rose Of Remembrance that his folk, the Aen Seidhe grew.
Their powers and meaning beyond the comprehension of the average Dh'oinne.
Wandering in the small garden brought him peace and happiness, a bubble that would burst all too soon.
But still, he liked to indulge, letting the bittersweet feelings woo him and placate him.
No human dared to set a foot on this sacred soil, he had seen to that. Gullible as dh'oinne were it wasn't a masterpiece to accomplish.

Pulling the rough leather gloves off his slender fingers which were calloused from the constant use of his bow he stuffed them into the belt of his ratty coat and knelt in front of a bush of wild red roses,
their petals still sealed shut for the lack of light here.
When the first sunrays broke through the leafy canopy he gently lifted the head of a soft bud and watched with a gentle smile when the petals slowly uncoiled and unfurled, crumpled and wet still.
No where else he allowed himself to smile like that, to indulge like that. It was only when he seeked the solitude of secluded places that he allowed himself to feel something else beside hatred and cold determination.
It never lasted long, Iorveth was uneasy and nowadays his heart only beamed when he held his bow and fired salve after salve into the soft bodies of his accurst enemies. But it was enough to keep him... Somewhat sane.
But now he was patient and watched as the roses lifted their little graceful heads towards the strenghtening sun and welcomed her by opening up, soaking their velvet petals in the nourishing light.
Leaning against the statue with a sigh a took his flute from his belt and closed his eyes as he set the instrument against his lips,
the random melody flowing freely from his fingers and into the forest. He played to his hearts content, anything that crossed his thoughts, anything at all.
It eased his soul, the music like a comforting blanket around him.
Birds gathered around him on the high branched and joined in with their cajoling twittering.
The light, yet melancholic sound died away and when Iorveth the slaughterer opened his eyes again they were hard and determined, the elf ready for another day after day of struggle and fights against the pest befalling this lands.
Today heads would roll and houses would burn.
Touching the badge trophies that rested against his chest idly he smiled to himself and set out towards the Scioa'tael camp in the woods around Flotsam.