I hate to be melodramatic about this, but I don’t think Elf Life will ever be finished, or ever survive me, unless I start writing it all down. This is a work-in-progress treatment of the prose version of the very first internet Elf Life story, Lake Froth’s Bane. It will be, hopefully, heavily illustrated, in its final form.

Airek Halfogre did not lick his thumb before turning the page of his book. He had seen many other elfs do just that, but the practice repulsed him. Not only did it strike him as unnecessarily unhygienic, he suspected they did it just to look cute. He would have none of that.

A strong strain of ogre blood flowed through Airek’s veins, and it showed, here and there. He had a large, balloon-shaped nose, a weak chin, feet like boats, and squinty vision. But for all that, he was shorter than most elfs, and came from a respected family. His great-grandfather was the thousand-year-old Aedulf Halfogre, one of the few living survivors of the cataclysm that swept away the old elf world. Now the elfs lived hidden from men in deep forests, and old Aedulf was the patriarch of the most important of the elfin strongholds.

So no patchwork monster was our little Airek, although he didn’t put on airs. He wore a plain shirt, a modest but dignified vest, clean pants, and shoes large enough to accomodate his feet. Round glasses sat perched on his ample nose to make up for his poor vision.

Airek did not seek out the company of most other elfs. He never got along well with his classmates at school. His romances were few and far between, if at all. His most frequent companion over the years was his cousin Filis, a pretty but ordinary elf maiden. She was protective of him, and he was afraid of her. And they were used to each other, playmates since childhood.

Airek turned another page. He found his mind wandering, not completely grasping the difficult scientific text. He would have to return to it later. Meantime, keeping the book open helped prevent the intrusion of life around him, like the small winged sprite that was trying to get his attention.

“Yo,” it said. “How’s they hangin’?”

Airek gave the sprite a curdled look, and before he could catch himself, he licked his thumb and turned the page.

“Wassuuuuup?”

“Sprite,” Filis said, “speak proper elf to Airek. He can’t always make out what you’re saying when you talk like that.”

“I can too,” Airek snapped. “The little twit just isn’t saying anything worth hearing.” He grumbled, trying to regain his focus. He didn’t like to be reminded of his ogrish shortcomings. Most elves could understand anything said to them in just about any language, as long as they could hear the trill and treble. He could too, but not so easily. Sometimes he would have to lean in and ask you to say it again, or, more likely, he’d just pretend he understood in order to avoid embarrassment.

The sprite hopped up onto the hollow log that Airek and Filis were leaning against. The tableau he beheld was incomprehensible. One elf wearing fancy duds with black puffs and a big plume flowing out of his hat was standing sort of still-like and serious, like he was about to beat the crap out of somebody, while two greyhounds behind him scratched and yawned. Over to one side, another elf was dancing behind a large, flat canvas, squeezing tubes, mashing colors, and slapping the canvas with some kind of big canvas-whacking tool.

“What’s going on?” said the sprite. He liked to feel like he was involved in the day-to-day doings of elves. Especially the elf with the great big honker.

“The Great Hero is having his portrait painted,” Filis said. “Because a hundred paintings aren’t nearly enough paintings of the Great Hero for the Great Hero’s Hall of Greatness.”

“It’s the Shrine of the Hero,” the elf with the feather said. “And it’s just the one painting.”

“Says you,” said Filis.

The elf with the feather decided to switch his expression from grave to smugly noble. “Yes,” he said. “Says me.”

“Listen,” Filis said, motioning the diminutive sprite down to her end of the hollow log. “Everybody’s talking about it. This jerk’s been down in Hollow Wood, hiring every itinerant painter alive to fill up this stupid shrine of his. It’s going to be wall-to-wall Baughb the elf.”

Baughb the elf. Hero of legend. Soldier, adventurer, outlaw. Decided to take early retirement.

“Nobody’s supposed to know that! It’s going to be a surprise!” Baughb looked genuinely hurt. Even the absurd plume trailing out of his black hat drooped…