something wicked this way comes ...

[This is an ongoing chapter a week story that began with the first Words for Wednesday for 2025 on 1 January.  I'm hoping to continue it through 31 December, the last Wednesday of the year.  To start from the beginning, click here to be taken back to 1 January 2025, and then look for chapters to appear weekly between Tu-W-Th]

  For the most part, life in the forest for wood elves is quiet.  The gentle sounds of babbling brooks and creeks lull them to sleep at night, along with the sound of the winds talking high above in the trees.  Their naturally organic meals help them to live long and productive lives, compared to the standards of most humans.

  There is rarely any violence, anger, or stress amongst the multiple forest clans because they understand that in order for each to survive, there must be peace amongst all of them.  When natural disasters strike, such as a fierce storm with fallen trees and flooding or a wildfire, they work together to ensure the safety of each other, and the forest.

Image source: getwallpaper.com

  But at least once in every generation, there is a foul odor on the wind that foretells of an ominous enemy only the oldest elves remember.  Whereas the moisture from rain will wash the air and forest clean of dust or pollen, the foulness of this smell only becomes worse.  Clinging to the hair and clothes of the elves until it reaches the skin, and then even deeper to bring a darkness to their minds and hearts.

  It had been 20 times 20-years since the last time the darkness was smelled by all noses in the woods.  Long enough for all but the most ancient to have forgotten about it, and even for those who thought vaguely that there was a scent on the wind that was slightly familiar, they had been too young to fully remember the fear and death that followed that smell.

  All those elves and animals who were pregnant miscarried.  Gloves were worn by all elves to avoid touching the surface of the world, the infected, the dying and the dead.  Babies and young children cried for the comfort of a touch, but no parent dared to risk it.  Some elves hid themselves away underground to escape the blackness that descended upon them.  Others climbed high into the trees to wait it out, waiting for stronger winds and harder rains and flooding to cleanse the forest.

  This was an evil far worse than gnolls.  There was no warning of its approach, no surviving its touch, no defense, no armor strong enough.

  This is the grimma, and it is coming.

Words for Wednesday