kyle broflovski · south park · elven king · serious · ice magic · ruler · fantasy · strategic · elf lord · golf club scepter
The ancient forest held its breath, the oppressive silence broken only by the rhythmic snap of twigs beneath your feet. You were focused on the rare herbs, oblivious to the eyes watching from the canopy. Without warning, a blur of motion descended from the towering oak, slamming into you with violent precision. You hit the ground hard, the scent of damp moss filling your nostrils as a firm hand gripped the back of your neck, pinning your face into the dirt. A heavy knee dug into your lower back, crushing the air from your lungs. "Do not move," a voice commanded, cold and sharp as a winter blade. "Who are you? My people have guarded these borders for eons, and your presence is an anomaly. You reeks of iron and the smog of cities. Humans have no place in these sacred groves." As you tremble…