Chapter Fifty-Five: The Legend of the Silver Moon Elves

True magic is miracles, things that defy the laws of nature…

Veyd pondered these words. He thought of himself—he had fallen asleep in a cave on the wild plains, and now, here he was, sitting across from Old York. Was that not a kind of miracle?

He had clearly died, yet after becoming an undead, he retained his consciousness and memories. Was this not a miracle as well?

What he was experiencing now could rightfully be called a miracle.

The Crimson Academy, the Crimson Scholar…

What exactly had happened to him during those blank ten years? Or perhaps, even earlier, he had come into contact with some sort of mystery, unbeknownst to him?

He quietly committed this secretive school of magic to memory. Whether true or false, it seemed to have some connection with that twenty-sided die.

If, in the future, he could find other things related to those mysterious scholars, he’d try to investigate further.

It appeared Old York only knew some legends and vague descriptions; the dwarf could offer little more.

Veyd did not press further and instead asked the dwarf to examine the patterns of the bird and the garland.

This time, Old York did not take long. After two or three glances, he said, “They look like the motifs used by the long-eared elves, but simpler than any I’ve seen. Perhaps they come from a more ancient elven culture.”

“Where did you see these two patterns?”

“On a robe,” Veyd wrote. “A white robe, with the bird and garland embroidered on the chest.”

“Can you sketch the style of the robe for York to see?” Old York asked.

Veyd nodded and took up a fresh sheet of scrap paper.

This robe was much easier to draw; it had little in the way of ornamentation and was a very plain garment.

Beyond the robe, Veyd also restored, as best he could, the seed pouch that hung from the remains’ waist, what the broken magic staff would have looked like, and the emerald-green magic ring.

But the dwarf had no paints, so Veyd could only outline the general shapes.

“Staff, ring, seed pouch, white robe embroidered with birds and garlands…” Old York wrote down the key features, his short, thick fingers tapping lightly on the stone tabletop.

“A bird without feet… a garland…” Old York muttered, “These are likely symbols of priesthood. Among the elves, those who serve as priests must wear simple and unadorned clothes.”

“White signifies the offering of everything one has; gold-threaded birds and garlands represent ceremony and respect for the god they serve.”

“The staff and the ring denote status—at least a fifth-circle elven priest.”

“But the seed pouch… what does that mean?” Old York furrowed his brow again. “You’re clearly a swordsman, so why do you keep asking York such peculiar questions? Are you secretly aspiring to be an archaeologist?”

The dwarf seemed a little troubled. Besides the sword, the questions Veyd brought him were all a bit too challenging.

If the dwarf charged for his services, he’d certainly be grumbling about raising his fee by now.

Veyd thought, even though the dwarf had said there was no charge, it wouldn’t do to pay nothing.

He pulled out the pouch of silver coins from his pocket and pushed it across the table to the dwarf.

Money meant little to him; if it could buy answers to his questions, then it was well spent.

“What’s the meaning of this?” The dwarf’s lips turned down in displeasure. “York said the appraisal is free—take your money back!”

Veyd pushed the money forward again. The town guard were all the same: refuse once, demur a second time, and after the third attempt, they’d tuck the money away and say, “Well, your request isn’t exactly impossible.”

But the dwarf seemed truly principled. Seeing Veyd’s persistence, he flushed red, widened his eyes, and shoved the coin pouch forcefully back.

“Take your money. York said the appraisal is free!” Old York insisted.

Veyd finally realized his actions had insulted the dwarf’s noble character.

He took the coins back and wrote “Sorry” on the paper.

“York doesn’t need your apology,” Old York replied. “You are York’s benefactor; York should be repaying you.”

“Let’s continue the appraisal. About the seed pouch—do you know what kind of seeds it holds?”

“Roughly, it’s a type of moss that emits a white glow, one that radiates magical energy—a supernatural plant.”

The two set aside the earlier incident and resumed their discussion.

Veyd remembered the boots on the remains’ feet—he’d almost forgotten them. He quickly sketched the tall boots, seemingly crafted from plant materials, and handed the drawing to the dwarf.

Old York fell into contemplation again, then fetched a thick volume from the shelf.

A Collection of Ancient Myths—the title was inscribed on the cover.

“The legendary Silvermoon Elves served the sacred dragon conceived under moonlight. The luminous dragon glided through the night clouds, as beautiful as a fairy; its scales shimmered with dreamlike radiance. Before the fairy dragon, all magic became mundane; before the dragon, all evil was revealed.”

“When the fairy dragon slept, the Silvermoon Elves sang to it, watering the glowing groves of the temple with pure water.”

“As for the fairy dragon and the Silvermoon Elves, those are ancient and forgotten myths,” the dwarf said. “No one really knows if they ever existed. Did you see these patterns in some collection of fairy tales, or did you actually encounter such a robe and its adornments somewhere?”

“It’s not that York doesn’t want to encourage you, but even if you saw something similar, it’s likely just ceremonial attire left by some vanished or wandering elven tribe.”

“In some traditional elven settlements, they don handmade robes, and on full-moon nights, reenact the legend of the Silvermoon Elves and the fairy dragon, dancing together. Glowing, magic-releasing moss is actually quite common. York knows of at least eleven varieties that fit your description—Frostcrystal Glowmoss, Ghostlight Moss, and so on. There’s likely no connection to the mythical glowing groves.”

“York suggests you keep your expectations in check. The robe and staff are likely just props for a performance.”

“Now that you mention it, the robe was rather coarse and worn. I actually saw it in a forest somewhere,” Veyd wrote, following the dwarf’s lead.

“In that case, it’s even less likely to be a relic of the Silvermoon Elves,” the dwarf said. “A noble Silvermoon priest’s robes would never be discarded outside. If you’d found them in some underground tomb or labyrinth, York might believe it. But found in a forest? That’s almost certainly just a costume used for performances.”

“Thank you for your answers. I understand,” Veyd wrote.

“Anything else you want to ask?” The dwarf nodded.

“One last question. I’d like to know how to use a magic accessory,” Veyd wrote.

“Usually, only magi can use magic accessories. To activate the enchantment circuit on the item, the owner must at least be able to channel some magical energy,” the dwarf explained. “But there are rare accessories that even ordinary people can use. Those are extremely expensive, generally triggered by a specific command word or a set pattern of taps.”

The dwarf gave several detailed examples. Typically, these magic accessories were consumables, much like more convenient scrolls; if they could be used fifty times, they were considered high quality, while rings that could recharge themselves and periodically release magic were heirloom-level treasures, almost never seen on the market.