They followed Trat’catha into the depths of hell, where they could only hope that the cache remained there in good condition.

At least that’s what it looked like from up above. Il’tan watched with unconcealed curiosity as the elves descended into the super cool, mega secret stache. Her family kept a healthy distance away and, well, that was probably for the best.

But I’m goin in!

As the last elf went down the stairs - the scary one that blended into the trees - she followed, but kept her distance just in case. If he noticed, which she was sure he did, he didn’t seem to care.

I’ll take that as a come on in!

Her tail swished from side to side as she descended the staircase; the darkness was hardly a bother for her and the place smelled very clean. She expected a lot of dust, or at least a musty scent from being concealed for so long. She wanted to ask about it, but the one in front of her, Thu’lain, seemed to be the least talkative of the bunch so far.

But that Raj’ken and Anar’dea are great.

She smiled at the thought. Finally, she’d met other elves. After all, there was only so much her mother could tell her and some things had to be experienced.

She stepped out of the long corridor and looked up and around a huge room; you could fit dozens of people within it and still have room to walk. It was dimly lit by some sort of crystals, though they flickered as an ember about to extinguish might. But the really interesting part of the room was the rows of weapons, racks of armor, and crates set in a grid filling the room. She could recognize swords and bows as well as the clubs - though they had strange star shaped tips - but there were so many other strange pieces of equipment that she just couldn’t name. She slowly started to wander towards a set when she nearly jumped out of her fur.

“Everyone, I welcome you to my cache! I hand-crafted nearly everything you see here!” The elf called Trat’catha crowed in pride and a faint reverence, though not toward himself.

“Make sure you armor well, but don’t carry more than you can handle. Most of these will be heavier due to the types of metals and the lack of featherweight enchantments. If magic has returned to Anosora, then the weight will become negligible, though I advise you to avoid the risk,” Trat’catha counseled. He then went to one of the crates, prying it open with a firm yank and grabbing a large pack from within. He spent the next few minutes taking things from his patchwork bag and filling his replacement. Il’tan marvelled as the elves smoothly shifted into their own tasks without a moment of doubt or hesitation. One of her favorites, Raj’ken, took her bag and sat next to Trat’catha.

“How come you never came to collect anything from this cache, Trat?” Raj’ken inquired as she busied herself, despite seeming young and energetic; she was disciplined and didn’t let conversation distract her from her task - something Il’tan had many problems with. Trat’catha looked up for a moment with sadness in his eyes.

“I promised myself that I would never open a cache for myself, no matter how bad it got. We made these with the hope that elven kind could reclaim what was ours. I couldn’t disgrace that hope with selfishness.” He shook his head.

“I don’t see how that would be a disgrace, though,” Raj’ken pointed out, nearly done swapping her equipment into the much more spacious and well-made pack.

“This cache can’t be closed now that it’s been opened, so anything that remains can be pilfered. Even if the other sapient races cannot use them, opening the cache would leave bereft any elf that could have otherwise survived by getting into it.” Trat’catha was already finished with his pack and set to arming himself. Already he had strapped bundles of javelins to his pack, and what seemed to be darts strapped in small bags around his legs.

“I get it. You sure we should be grabbing this stuff, then? Not that there’s any going back now.” Raj’ken ran her fingers across a bow, but moved on as she wrinkled her nose at it. Il’tan was confused, as she didn’t smell anything wrong.

“If there was ever a worthy event, a restored Anosora is it.” Trat’catha smiled and Il’tan could almost feel the warmth of his heart, and the passion he carried.

“Awww, now you’re getting sappy,” Raj’ken laughed. Il’tan stood silently nearby, staring at the two as they worked, and found herself fidgeting nervously. As if they could feel her, they both looked up.

“Uh, you doin okay Il’tan?” Raj’ken asked, a smirk on the corner of her mouth.

“Yeah. . . I just don’t know what to do.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I just wanted to be around you guys, I guess.” Raj’ken had a look on her face that Il’tan had seen on other gaur’s faces when they saw a young pup - the one where pinching of cheeks happened very shortly thereafter - and her tail swished in embarrassment.

“You may not have experienced Anosora, but as a Lumin it is still your home; you can choose to defend it. You have a birthright to it just as every elf does,” Trat’catha assured her. “That also means you are welcome among us. That’s the way it has always been.” He smiled and got back to arming himself from a rack similar to himself in size.

“Oh, well said. I kinda like it when you’re feeling warm and fuzzy, Trat,” Raj’ken laughed and took a long look at Il’tan, long enough that she started to feel a bit awkward.

“Uh. Did I do something wrong?” Il’tan asked.

“Why aren’t you grabbing anything? Like, I can help you find at least some armor that will fit.” Raj’ken’s quizzical expression was plain to see.

“I can have stuff?!” Il’tan nearly shouted, drawing an amused gaze from Anar’dea while Tu’lar laughed loudly in the corner of the room.

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Lumin can actually use these particular artifacts just as well as an elf ca-” Trat’catha paused as he realized what she meant. “Well, it wouldn’t be much of a birthright if you couldn’t use the same tools to fight for it.”

“Oh my canines! This is so-! Ah!” Il’tan made a short howl in excitement, and Raj’ken helped her select her equipment while Tu’lar clutched his sides from the laughing fit he was having.

A few minutes later, Raj’ken and Il’tan had more or less settled on how she could pick her equipment. Anar’dea helped with the armor, though they discovered that her body shape wasn’t really able to fit into more than a few piecemeal parts here and there.

Il’tan was much more excited about finding a weapon.

“How do I know what it’s supposed to do?” Il’tan asked.

“Touch it, feel it. You’ll be able to sense the enchantment, and if it feels right, you take it. It’s an elf thing; you just kind of instinctively know what it does, even if you have to practice how to use it.” Raj’ken tapped a spear, but pulled away with a grimace and turned to Trat’catha.

“You’re sick! Why would you enchant something with that?!” She shouted. Trat’catha raised his hands defensively, but responded with a laugh.

“What? I made thousands of weapons, you think I didn’t get a little experimental with a few?” He chuckled as he got back to packing himself. He was starting to look quite frightening. Despite having just said not to grab too much armor, he looked dressed head to toe in overlapping sharp plates.

“Don’t grab that one. Or well. I guess if it feels right, then grab it. But honestly I doubt it will suit you, either.” She shrugged, but made no move to stop Il’tan as she touched the spear. Il’tan recoiled from the spear, a look of disgust on her face.

“I don’t know what that does. But yeah, I’m good. What’s this do over here?” Il’tan and Raj’ken walked away.

Tin’lo came to the spear a few moments later, looked around and confirmed that no one was quite paying attention. He tapped the spear, made a thoughtful face, and hefted it off the rack before marching away.

After quite some time, the elves and Il’tan had gathered back together. Between this room and the adjacent rooms, not a single one of the elves wore much of the clothing they had when they’d first waltzed down here. Il’tan was quite surprised: the elves who were already pretty impressive to her looked downright dangerous now. Most of them opted to wear minimal armor at the moment, but had almost entire suits strapped to their packs - for when they expected battle, she assumed.

Once they’d returned to the surface and reunited with the others, they made their way to the beach of the lake and Trat’catha walked to the water's edge before looking out over the considerable reservoir.

“Alright, time to fish for some gob'maw.” He clapped a fist into his hands; the excitement hadn’t quite worn off from him yet.

“You’re fishing for gob'maws?” Il’tan asked, horrified.

“They’re resilient, and large.”

Il’tan watched Thu’lain remove his shirt and pants, keeping only a cloth hung around his hips, and expected to see battle scars, but was not disappointed to see his pristine skin. Her tail swished for a moment as she watched him walk into the water holding a dagger in one hand. She was jolted out of her appreciation when her brain caught up to what he was doing: he had slashed a deep cut into his forearm to lure the gob'maw.

“Spirits, Thu, we haven’t even gotten ready yet,” Tin’lo chastised as he struggled to spread out a net. Il’tan saw his injured arm and felt a pang of pity.

Must be terrible losing your hand.

Luckily, though, it seemed he’d only lost the hand and maybe some of the forearm, so he could still interact with things. Tu’lar and Raj’ken grabbed other edges of the net while Anar’dea and Trat’catha stood at the water’s edge on either side of Thu’lain with spears.

Thu’lain stopped wading into the water at about knee height and dripped blood into the water. Occasionally he would slash another cut in his arm, causing Il’tan to flinch.

It heals, Il’tan, it heals.

He must have had the patience of a monk: save for the slash on his arm every now and again, Thu’lain didn’t move a muscle. Every single bit of him was focused on the waters around him. After the first five minutes of tension, Il’tan was starting to get bored.

A faint ripple further out in the lake disturbed the surface, so far away that Il’tan hadn’t noticed it and would have dismissed it as being too far away if she had.

Thu’lain, however, threw himself to the side just as a living missile erupted from the water. The gob’maw’s head looked like nothing more than a set of jaws split so wide as to obscure everything else. Anar’dea and Trat’catha moved before the creature had even fully exited the water and they thrust their spears into the predators' sides, twisting their bodies to guide it into the net that lay just behind them.

It all happened to fast and so seamlessly that Il’tan only had the opportunity to flinch away fearfully.

Raj’ken and Tu’lar dove over the gob'maw as it landed, each one wrapping the net around one side, and Tin’lo pulled a rope, tightening the net closed. Just like that the gob'maw was caught, alive and flailing. Il’tan had personally seen a gob'maw catch and kill animals and never once had considered the possibility that you could catch one during its pounce.

She sat speechless as they dragged it off. She expected they would go finish it off, maybe let it bleed out to eat, but she wasn’t prepared for what happened next: they pulled another net, Thu’lain returned to the water, and they reset to do it all again.

Il’tan was beginning to realize that most of the outlandish tales she’d heard from her mom about elves, and hearsay from outsiders or traders could have been true. Especially one little rumor she’d heard.

They’re all absolutely insane.

Il’tan couldn’t stop her tail from swishing in the sand and she couldn’t tell if she was nervous or excited. She looked at her dad sitting nearby.

“Was mom like this when you met?”

Hret looked up from his carving project, seemingly unphased.

“Pretty much. You get used to it, right, Hal?” Hret looked at his brother, who responded with a scoff.

“You’re just as crazy, don’t look at me,” Hal laughed.

“It does look kinda fun,” Hret admitted.

Il’tan looked at her father with a different kind of admiration, and maybe a small amount of extra respect than she had before.

“You’re kinda cool, aren’t you, dad?” Il’tan laid her head against his shoulder.

“Are you really just realizing that? I’m the best!” His tail wagged in embarrassment, even as his chest swelled with pride.

“But mom cooks better,” Il’tan smirked, and Hal roared in laughter.