Elves and Druidhs of Waste

Here are two more additions for my Waste setting:

Elves of Waste

"Wood Elf", by Marcel Nilo.

There are no elves in Waste. Not in the traditional sense. No sprawling civilizations of treetop dwellers; those are all gone now. What remains instead, what one might call the elves of Waste, are creatures...creatures that are as cold as the dim starlight they hold in their eyes, pinpoints of sparkling embers set against fields of solid black.

When encountered, these elves pause, as if trying to remember something, a hint of an ancient memory lingering just out of their grasp.

But it's hopeless, and soon the elves descend back to instinct.

These are misxenothropic beasts. These are carnivores. And nothing that lives or walks in the Living Forest is safe from them.

Druidhs of Waste

Artwork sourced here.

The druidhs of the golden thirst are tired, shriveled husks, who stumble on thin stalks of bone tightly wrapped in leathery skin. They wear armor made of wheat; it is all their magic can keep alive.

Their voices rasp and grate like stones rubbing together. They hate conversation. It is useless. Nothing grows from words.

Nothing grows here, period.

They are sworn enemies of the cosmogaunts; they are too weak to fight them off, but they know a method for destroying the parasite kings and demolishing their stomach palaces. The cosmogaunts fear the druidhs because of this.

But druidhs hate conversation. So the cosmogaunts are safe. Cautious, but safe.

Druidhs are cursed, just like everything else, immortal protectors of a garden that has mostly died off, drained of its nourishing waters. Nothing can kill them. They are ghosts of forests. How they lament the trees and the fields.

And the world.

Druidh tears heal wounds and diseases.

But why waste the water?

(Note: There are druids among the illadon who protect the living forests that grow on the backs of megaturtles, but those forests are nourished by blood from the shells of the turtles, so they are abominations.)

Update: +Evey Lockhart added the following (she's cowriting Waste with me and +David Lewis Johnson):

Only wheat still lives on thier backs. Pitiful tamed wheat. The ghosts of the wolf clothed in shame.

I imagine they are their own dream manifestation, cursing themselves with every stray thought and whimper and day dream memory.

They are difficult to make cry unless you know the secret.
Let each see its own reflection.

There is a merchant palace, taking over the entirety of a headless, walking god. At the center is a room of mirrors.and a chained druidh. It's eyelids have been cut away. It cannot help but see itself. It has been crying for a thousand years and not yet reached the middle of its weeping. A line of dead eyed children patiently collect every precious drop.

Qua'al Din, Merchant Prince, monopolizes both torture and healing.