Isola - Round 3 (Morag's Interlude)
Morag set off almost immediately. The further she went into uncharted territory, the more alive she felt. Trudging through the dense jungle, she couldn't help but hum 'A Pirate's Life for Me'. But not the other song. Never that song.
After several hours of exploration, she spotted something that both terrified and excited her.
A campfire! Morag stooped to grasp a handful of ashes - still warm. She knew nobody on Isola had been this deep into the jungle before, which could only mean one thing; they were not, as they had previously suspected, alone on this island.
The sensible decision might have been to retrace her steps, alert the Chief perhaps.
Morag was not known for making sensible decisions.
Following the trail carefully led to a crumbling stone ruin, not unlike the re-purposed outhouse that they had back at the camp. At first glance, she was sure it was uninhabited yet when as she approached a figure emerged. They noticed her, and instantly became defensive.
Despite this, she came closer to simply get a better look at this strange fellow. It was a man, a... knight? No sword it seemed, and he had extremely large, pointy ears that protruded from his chainmail. He shouted at her, in a language she did not speak.
'Hello?' she yelled back cautiously, coming closer still. 'Do you speak-'
An a split-second, he was on top of her and had her pinned. She had no idea how he managed it - that chainmail looked so cumbersome and yet he was agile and elegant in his attack.
'What are you doing, you jerk!? Get off of me!' Morag put on her best snarl - a tone that could even frighten Orson - but it was to little effect. She supposed it didn't seem very threatening when pinned to the floor.
A voice came from inside the ruin. It was gentle and feminine, yet still in this language Morag could not comprehend. Her assailant loosened his grip.
'Gee, thanks.' she grimaced. 'Maybe next time you could-'
'Huh?'
The room held three others, all with the same peculiar ears that her brawling partner had. Abruptly, she stood up and dusted herself off while they appeared to examine her. The woman directly in front of her was silent, while the other two paused and looked to her for her assessment. Morag guessed that this would be their leader.
Eventually, she gave a small wave and smiled sweetly.
'Greetings, human. Do forgive Galion, he is a protective soul.' she spoke fluently and clearly in Simlish. Morag breathed a sigh of relief that someone could understand her.
She spoke once more, 'I am Elenwën Meldamiriel of Effenmont.'
'Wow, that's a mouthful,' Morag blurted, 'And tell your friend back there that he got lucky - I was going easy on him... wait, Effenmont? The Effenmont? Secret land of the elves, all that?'
She continued to smile, perhaps at her refreshingly brusque nature. 'You have heard of it?'
Morag laughed, 'Lady, I've tried to go there! You guys have some major magic on your side, you know that? That constant fog thing must be a drag though, when I tried to go I couldn't see the end of my nose! What are you doing on Isola?'
'Is that what you call this island?' Elenwën asked.
'Well... yeah. But how come you're here? How long have you been here?' she pressed for answers.
Elenwën appeared to think on this, and so one of the other elves spoke.
'We and many others came here to escape persecution in the War of the Weeping Willow.'
Morag's eyes widened. 'That was centuries ago! I thought elves being immortal was just a myth?'
'Sit down, stranger,' the third elf said. 'We shall tell you our story, if you shall listen.'
Morag sat next to the second elf, and the knight came in and sat across from her, giving the occasional dirty look. Morag had learned piecemeal the story of the War of the Weeping Willow in the past, but never from a first-hand account.
As they told it, originally all elves possessed ears like theirs, protruding out from their heads (and recorded lengths of up to a foot!). For a reason unknown to them, one day some newborn elves were born with pointed ears that pressed flat against their faces. As with any departure from normality, these 'flat-ears' were the recipient of much prejudice. Nobody quite knows who struck the first blow, but the conflict eventually escalated into a war. Thousands of elves were killed and Effenmont was crippled, but at the end of it all the 'flat-ears' won and the 'knife-ears' were all but exterminated.
'We cannot return to Effenmont,' Rúmil, the red-headed lore-keeper concluded, 'We would be judged on the actions of our ancestors. To go back would be suicide. And so we stay here, on the island you call Isola.'
'Why not find somewhere else to go? It's been so long, the world is different now! Maybe they won't kill you! I've met some elves on my travels... granted they've all been, um, 'flat-ears'...'
Amarië, the elf next to her, sighed sadly. 'We have reason to believe that we are the only 'knife-ears' left. We must preserve this strain of the elven race, it is our duty to elvenkind.'
Morag jumped up, enthused. 'Then come and live with my group on the south side of the island! We'd love the extra help around the place! We'll help you guys protect yourselves. What's the use in protecting the strain if you just sit here all the time?'
Elenwën nearly fell from her seat. 'No, no, no. I'm sorry stranger, but we could not live among humans.'
Morag's face fell. 'Oh. I see.'
Elenwën gave a resigned sigh. 'It is not like that. You see, when elves come into extended contact with humans, our lifespan changes. We adapt to human rhythms.'
'So... elves are immortal, but only if they stay with other elves?' Morag summarised.
'Very astute.' Rúmil acknowledged. 'a few hours of contact is no problem, but any longer and our lives are in danger. There is only us here and a few others out gathering left... we cannot afford to live among you.'
Morag paused for a few seconds, but inspiration struck quickly. 'What about trade? I've got a small shop set up in camp and I'm sure once I tell everyone back at camp we have you guys here - that is, if you're okay with that...' she added, noticing the look Galion threw her way. 'Anyway, we can trade! Elves need to eat, right? And you guys look like you could use some better digs! What is this, an old elven ruin?'
Amarië nodded, 'Our ancestors once had several outposts on the island - this was the largest.'
'Oh, wow!' Morag grinned, 'we've got one of your little buildings in our camp, a little stone room! What was it before?'
'A small, stone room? That sounds like one of the sacred mauseleums. What are you and your group using it for?' Rúmil queried.
Morag hesitated. 'Uh... you know what, never mind. But back to my original point - trade! What do you say?'
Elenwën seemed unsure about the proposition. She spoke quickly in what Morag now assumed to be elvish, and each member of the group spoke their mind. Morag felt a little left out, but couldn't really argue given the situation.
Finally, Elenwën spoke in Simlish. 'We graciously accept your offer.'
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Wow, that was a REALLY long way of saying 'townies are now unlocked'! I wanted some kind of reason why a bunch of people who seemed to be immortal until they joined a household would live on Isola but not interact with the community in any meaningful way. Thus, the idea for the elves of Effenmont was born!
I really hope you enjoyed Morag's Swashbuckling Adventure, with a(n un)surprisingly lack of swashes and buckling.
Elenwën: Oh thank Wright! We were running low on dog chew toys.
Morag: DON'T YOU WANT THIS AWESOME ROCK?
Linea: ROOOOOOOOCKKKKSSSS!!!
The levels of hype that dazzle creates is insane.
P.S. Whyyyyyy did I make a bunch of sims with letters not easily available on my keyboard!?