But back to elves. Their lives were said to span between five and eight hundred years. Even elves with human blood mixed in could make it up to almost three hundred. This could vary a lot, though, since the more fairy blood you had in you, the longer you tended to live. Elves grew into maturity around the age of twenty, and beyond that, the passage of time simply did nothing to them. Only when on death’s door did they suddenly begin to rapidly age, and in about twenty years, infirmity would finally take their lives.
Staying young for a few centuries might sound like a dream to most humans. But another trait of theirs was how you never really saw them produce a lot of children. Living such long lives, they didn’t have much of a natural inclination to keep their bloodline going. That’s why they still numbered relatively few. (Bear in mind, of course, that I learned all this from the ladies at the Night Butterfly, a nightclub in the Dwarven Kingdom I was well familiar with, so I couldn’t say how much of it was true.)
By the way, fairies themselves still existed—they were pretty common monsters, actually. These were smaller spirits given monster form by the effects of magicules around them; they were about the size of Ramiris and had a reputation as pranksters. They had intelligence, but they couldn’t procreate and didn’t live long. The personification of a major spirit was a far cry from them, enough so to be classified as a different monster entirely.
Ramiris tended to be bunched in with these fairies, but she was actually something different. She was fallen from an upper-level existence known as a spirit queen, which meant she may’ve been higher up the evolutionary ladder than the ancestors of elves or dwarves. It sounded like she went through an eternal pattern of reincarnation, although it didn’t seem like she understood the process herself too much…
…But I’ve gotten way off track. I lent an ear to the elder.
“It is an honor to lay eyes upon you,” he said with a salute. “We have come here today to celebrate you and offer our heartfelt gratitude…”
Normally, this would be the time when they’d offer their loyalty to me. Some of the races—the initial entries into the Federation—even expressed their thanks at their safety being guaranteed. But this was the first time I had ever met this elder. I wasn’t sure what he had to thank me for, so I had Rigurd ask for me.
“Ah, that would be—”
As the elder put it, it had to do with the bad blood between the bovoids and equinoids. It turned out the biggest victims of their hundred-year war were the elves.
According to him, elves, a race that lives off the blessings of the forest, fear the expansion of war zones more than anything else. To protect their hidden enclaves from outside enemies, the elves install “barriers” that scramble one’s sense of direction, but these barriers had fallen with the trees in the midst of the wars. Directional confusion didn’t mean much, after all, if the enclaves were in plain sight.
They tried to move their settlements, keeping casualties as low as they could, but the war kept growing bigger and bigger. It made the forest’s animals and monsters flee for their lives, it razed the local fruits and vegetables before they could be harvested, and some elves even resorted to taking work in the Dwarven Kingdom. (I guess that was what the ladies at the Night Butterfly were up to.)
Over time, the loss of population grew to become a crisis, making it hard to keep the enclaves going. Some of the elves considered making yet another move elsewhere, but as large as the Forest of Jura is, it wasn’t that easy to find a suitable destination.
“Thus,” the elder continued, “we considered appealing to those violent thugs to see if we could reach some kind of agreement. But before we could, my lord, the events of just now transpired. Now all we need is somewhere to move to…”
Hopefully, as he said, that would convince the elves who left to come back.
This gave me an idea. Someplace to move to? Yeah, I got that. Right here in town.
There were fewer than three hundred elves in the forest. At one point, there was a lot more, enough to build a prosperous kingdom in ancient times, but those glory years were long past. The elves were forced to turn nomadic, spreading to the four corners of the world—but regardless, I knew a place that could fit three hundred just fine. Remember that little forest I had just built down in Floor 95 of the Dungeon? There you go.
I could even put them to work—helping Apito run our honey operations, cultivating rare plants that only grew in magicule-rich forests, maybe running the inn I planned to open on Floor 95. They could run the weapon shop down there, and if any monsters appeared on that floor (not that I expected it), it’d be great for this town to have a little elven protection. I heard that elves and treants got along well, so I doubted Treyni or the others would be against this.
Plus, with all the jobs on offer, I figured it’d help attract the more distant elves back here. Maybe the ladies from that nightclub would venture back, too—and then I could build an elf-run VIP room down there, maybe…?!
Yes. This was excellent. There was already a tavern in town, but that was more of a gastropub geared for adventurers. If you wanted someplace for a quiet drink and relaxation, you’d have to go to our administration-exclusive dining halls. I’m sure Shuna would be glad to serve
