By Wayne Harris-Wyrick (Prompt: Blue~Master~Horizon)
Elves and dwarves don’t mix well, like water and oil. Or, sometimes, more like gasoline and a match.
The typical skirmish was a battle of words. On a good day, the verbal confrontation was limited to the Master Elf and the Superior Dwarf. These two had been at each other so long, to them, it was more like a game than an actual conflict. Smiles often played across their faces as they hurled convoluted insults that often lay ripe with double meanings, more like jokesters than hated combatants. Only on rare occasions did those of lesser stations become foot soldiers in the battle of wits.
This was one of those occasions.
The initial salvo occurred in the mushroom field east of the forest. The sun was just clearing the horizon when the dwarves ambled up out of the valley. The elves had been there since before dawn, intently searching for the most succulent and tasty mushrooms and buried roots. The dwarves didn’t care for fungi; they were searching for grubs, a delicacy in many dwarven meals. Their approach was so quiet, the elves didn’t even realize they were coming until the dwarves were nearly beside them.
“Your mother had droopy ears!” one of the dwarves shouted.
Taken by the surprise attack, the elves stood silent for a few moments. “Your mother’s beard was thicker than your father’s!” one of the elves finally shouted back. All the elves chuckled loudly at this double insult.
The dwarves huddled together, trying to find an equally stinging insult. One shouted “You mother sings off-key and your father can’t hit a birch tree with an arrow from 5 paces!”
Alrick smirked as his fellow elves prepared for another round. He was ready. He had just finished nibbling a blue mushroom, but alas, poor Alrick never handled hallucinogens well. Thinking he was yelling a stinging insult, he dropped his drawers and let loose a blast worse than any verbal insult: deadly laughing gas! Three dwarves died laughing before the other elves could stop him.
The war was on.
Elves and dwarves don’t mix well, like water and oil. Or, sometimes, more like gasoline and a match.
The typical skirmish was a battle of words. On a good day, the verbal confrontation was limited to the Master Elf and the Superior Dwarf. These two had been at each other so long, to them, it was more like a game than an actual conflict. Smiles often played across their faces as they hurled convoluted insults that often lay ripe with double meanings, more like jokesters than hated combatants. Only on rare occasions did those of lesser stations become foot soldiers in the battle of wits.
This was one of those occasions.
The initial salvo occurred in the mushroom field east of the forest. The sun was just clearing the horizon when the dwarves ambled up out of the valley. The elves had been there since before dawn, intently searching for the most succulent and tasty mushrooms and buried roots. The dwarves didn’t care for fungi; they were searching for grubs, a delicacy in many dwarven meals. Their approach was so quiet, the elves didn’t even realize they were coming until the dwarves were nearly beside them.
“Your mother had droopy ears!” one of the dwarves shouted.
Taken by the surprise attack, the elves stood silent for a few moments. “Your mother’s beard was thicker than your father’s!” one of the elves finally shouted back. All the elves chuckled loudly at this double insult.
The dwarves huddled together, trying to find an equally stinging insult. One shouted “You mother sings off-key and your father can’t hit a birch tree with an arrow from 5 paces!”
Alrick smirked as his fellow elves prepared for another round. He was ready. He had just finished nibbling a blue mushroom, but alas, poor Alrick never handled hallucinogens well. Thinking he was yelling a stinging insult, he dropped his drawers and let loose a blast worse than any verbal insult: deadly laughing gas! Three dwarves died laughing before the other elves could stop him.
The war was on.