I nearly wrote that off because of how stupid it sounded, and how sarcastic his tone had been, but I clocked the way one of the elves was suddenly looking at him. It was this look of incredulous rage, the kind of face that screams “how on earth can anyone even begin to approach this level of mind-numbing stupidity and still apparently have the mental capability to breathe”. Frankly, it was hilarious, and it would have been even funnier if it didn’t leave me apparently standing in front of a group of assassins.

  I suddenly felt like my initial approach had been a bit standoffish, and that I needed to reconsider. Taking a combative stance as a sort of 'emotional force-multiplier' had been fine against another group of people I thought were like me, but against trained killers? I kept the illusion up for now and desperately hoped that I looked like someone not worth attacking whilst I waited for a bit more information. None of them looked like the classic 'warrior' sort, but they were all armed in some way, and surprisingly casual, which spoke either of slight idiocy or easy confidence.

  “I must have misheard you,” I offered, suspecting I hadn’t but hoping it was possible.

  “I’m sure you did,” came the quick reply from one of the elves. He was dressed in stately, expensive-looking white and grey robes, trimmed with gold thread, and clutching a long staff that seemed far too well-made to just be a walking stick. “My name is Eoin,” he continued, speaking quickly as if to prevent the others from getting a word in “and I am here as a representative of Elvenden and King Aiden, on a diplomatic expedition. These… fine people,” he gestured at the others, “are my bodyguards as I traverse this land; and something of a team of jokers.” His voice was aiming for somewhere between dignified and jovial, but his body language was tense. His piece apparently said, he glared daggers at the others, particularly the dwarf who had just opened his mouth, as if daring them to contradict him. There was an undeniable tension between all of them and it felt, even to me, that Eoin was the odd man out somehow.

  "Why would I tell a joke if it was going to be at my expense?" the old dwarf asked.

  "Why would you open your mouth at all, Alf?" someone else said, though I didn't catch who. Apparently the old dwarf was called Alf, though.

  "I was only trying to make polite conversation, since-" He doubled over, wheezing, as one of the other dwarves elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

  Still, it was hardly any of my concern, and whether they were here to kill someone or not, it didn’t appear to be me, which was all I cared about. “If that’s all then, I suppose I’ll leave you to it,” I said, hoping they’d take the hint and piss off. For a second I dared to dream, but Eoin clearly felt we weren’t done here. “Good sir,” he began, causing me to wince internally “you have not introduced yourself. Surely it is only polite in circumstances such as these?” I floundered, not having created a fake name and not being about to give my real name either.

  “I wasn’t intending to,” I hedge, “we each have our own things to be getting on with, so I hardly think we’ll be seeing each other again.” I was really hoping that would be the case.

  “But sir,” he went on, “I shall be obliged to report on this encounter when I return to his majesty, and surely you wouldn’t want me to simply call you ‘a dwarf’?” Again I could tell he was trying to sound polite, but the insistence was grating.

  “I couldn’t care less what you refer to me as,” I said, but I saw him twitch as if he was about to ask again, and so I reluctantly continued, “but if it makes you feel better, my name is Bert. Bert Stoneshield.” I pulled the name from thin air, hoping it would satisfy him and they would finally leave me alone. Sadly, we all know that isn’t what happened next.

  “Well Bert, it is a pleasure to meet you,” Eoin said “and I hope you don’t mind, but since the sun appears to be setting, I would be honoured if you would permit us to camp with you this evening before we set off again on the morrow.” Again my guard was instantly up. If I had hackles, they’d have risen. The shield of illusion over my face luckily prevented me from betraying too many of my true emotions, but I was worried. I absolutely didn’t want them staying here with me, but I couldn’t really do much about it if they chose to push the issue. I shrugged as casually as I could, before gesturing to the surrounding area. “Not like I can stop you. Go for it.”

  “Much obliged, good sir,” he turned to the others, “now then everyone, let’s get set up. Quick as you like, please.” The others grudgingly moved to obey, letting me notice that he wasn’t carrying anything other than his own essentials, apparently having offloaded pack-carrying duty onto one of his unfortunate ‘bodyguards’. They started laying out bedrolls and small tents with practiced ease. I gestured to the small fire I'd set up earlier. "You guys can pitch your tents around that if you like," I offered, "I've moved my bedding in there anyway." I gestured back over my shoulder towards the entrance to the 'bunker'.

  "Thank you kindly," said the elf who wasn't Eoin. "If I may, what is in there anyway? You said this was a 'digsite', yes?" He waited, and I nodded slowly. "What does that mean, exactly?"

  "It's..." I thought for a moment how to explain it. Not everyone shared my special interests, meaning I had to be a bit careful how I worded this so I didn't come across as a freak. "It's anywhere that's abandoned and which I think will have interesting things from the past in it."

  "I see," he nodded. "But why a dig site?"

  "Sometimes the places are underground," I shrugged, "so there might be digging involved."

  "Fascinating. I was never really a book-learning sort. My passions are more the abstract, artistic, and expressive. Not so much the factual and the actual. Though I'm curious what counts as 'interesting'?"

  "And what counts as 'old'?" Alf asked, eyebrow raised.

  "There's no fixed date," I shrugged, "but when were you born?"

  "Now you listen here you damn whippersnapper-" he started ranting, but I just ploughed on with the rest of my answer and left him to seethe. Really he'd set himself up for that.

  "Interesting really just depends on what you're interested in though. Obvious answer but I guess it's a question of what you're looking for. Speaking for myself, I like the old Gnomish arcanological stuff, which is why I'm here," I gestured to the wider area, beyond just this campsite. "But I'll settle for anything I can sell for a nice stack of gold coins."

  "I'm sorry," Alf said, "but what on Midgard is Gnomish arca... arconal... aranarc... arachnophobia, or whatever you said?"

  "Oh, yeah." Whoops. A bit too niche. "Arcanology, or arcanomechanics, is what the Gnomes used to be best in the world at, back when anyone still did it. Basically-" I started, before a slightly curt voice cut in.

  "Excuse me? I'm terribly sorry, Mr Stoneshield, but as fascinating as I'm sure your description was about to be, I'm afraid I will have to tear your audience away, who are currently meant to be setting up our camp." There were a couple of awkward 'oh yeah' sort of responses, and they all dutifully got back to it. I sat down nearby, trying to gather my thoughts. Did I stay out here, try to be friendly, and hope they were as well? That sounded nice, but had the risk of them seeing through my illusion, and generally people didn't discovering they'd been tricked. It would also mean making small talk (ew). I didn't know them, assumed I wouldn't see them again, and didn't owe them anything, so I was also tempted to just descend back underground like the dwarf I was pretending to be and spend the evening out of sight and out of mind.

  My pondering also reminded me of something, and I called out to them as they wandered about. “I don’t think I got any of your names, did I?” I half-shouted. They stared at me as I asked, like they were confused by the question. “I didn’t think you cared”, the female dwarf replied. She had long, plaited blonde hair which was tucked inside the back of her robe; itself a silver-speckled, night-blue affair with its hood pulled down and the billowing sleeves giving all of her movements a flowing, unhurried quality. She had a soft face, but quizzical, moss-green eyes which somehow seemed as if they could see more than what mine could. Her expression felt gentle but still appraising. “Well I didn’t," I replied, "but since I’m stuck with you for tonight I might as well ask”.

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  “Fair”, she shrugged “my name is Tove”. Amazing. Name acquired.

  “Alf” came the voice of the older dwarf, in a somewhat wheezing tone. Wheezing, but still vigourous - he had trekked the same distance as any of them had, and didn't seem any more winded for it. His robes had were similar to Eoin's in colour scheme, but much older and more weather-beaten (just like him, in fact). He bent forward to hammer a tent peg, and I caught sight of a pendant hanging from his neck. A symbol Sól, goddess of the sun.

  “Nalfis” said the other elf-like person, in a sing-song, airy tone. I studied him somewhat, trying to be subtle, but it was hard to tell exactly what kind of elf he was. His features were somehow even sharper than Eoin’s, but his movements were the opposite, sinuous and graceful. His skin almost seemed to glow, a shade like the wood of a stripped branch. I was feeling nosy though, so I spoke up. “What sort of elf are you?" He chuckled softly as he answered.

  "The best kind, my dear fellow," distantly, Eoin scoffed. "The kind whose home still lies beyond the widest reaches of this world, and in the realm of Freyja herself."

  "Sooooo... a Very High Elf?" I asked. He laughed musically.

  "Not quite. I suppose the easiest way to put it would be 'proto-Elf', in any classification you might have for us. The elves you know are descendants of those who settled in Midgard from my world many centuries ago. What you see here is the original template."

  "Cool," I nodded, "do you have a name for yourselves?"

  "Do you speak Old Vaniri?"

  "I do not."

  "Then 'Elf' will suffice. There is no need for a modifier, after all." We both left it at that, and they all got back to camp-making. Sadly, Eoin took that as an opportunity to interrogate me himself.

  “Bert… Stoneshield, wasn’t it?” he asked, to which I nodded. “I haven’t heard of that family before ("there’s a reason for that," I thought). From whereabouts do you hail, Bert?”

  “Does it matter?” I snapped. I'd hoped that being confrontational would annoy him into leaving me alone, but he either had thicker skin or a smoother brain than that.

  “Well I was just curious” he blithely went on. “As a diplomat, it behooves me to meet as many interesting people from foreign lands as I can. Connections, of course. There's a great deal we could learn from each other, I'm sure."

  “It's possible,” I conceded, “but I'm not entirely sure what. My focus is quite niche, and with all due respect I'm not hugely interested the living parts of society." He smiled beatifically, as if humouring my rudeness.

  "Well why don't we talk about interpersonal matters then? As a start, may I ask again where you are from, Bert?"

  "I’m pretty much a nomad, wouldn’t really call myself ‘from’ anywhere.”

  “But surely you must have been born somewhere?” he asked.

  My brain was just looping at this point. “Shut up shut up shut up shut up” it screamed. I was inclined to agree with it. “Look,” I started “you seem… nice enough, and I’m trying to be polite about this, but I came here for a bit of solitude and I’m not in the mood to be interrogated about my whole life, ok?” He turned away at that, muttering somewhat sulkily under his breath that he was only making conversation. Mission finally accomplished though.

  “Right then,” I declared, “this has been a pleasure, but I’m going to turn in now.” The less time I had to spend in their presence the better, because the higher the chance became that someone would see through the illusion around me. This sort of magic really wasn’t my forte, and keeping up a fake voice was also a pain. “Don’t you want to keep a watch?” Tove asked.

  “Why should I?” I replied.

  “Well, in case there are things out here?”

  “Aren’t you guys going to be keeping watch for that?”

  “Yes, but don’t you want to help?”

  “No.” It was a simple answer. “I’d rather be asleep. Besides,” I plowed on before she could object “I’ve been alone out here for a while and I’m not dead yet.”

  Alf chimed in there. “And what’s to stop us from, say, killing you whilst you sleep and taking everything you own?” Everyone stared at him for that, myself included, but it’s not like the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. Helpfully and annoyingly, it had another simple answer. “Well, nothing,” I shrugged. “But I probably can’t fight you all while I’m awake anyway, so going out in my sleep is probably nicer. Now I’ve got a lumpy bedroll with my name on it, so I’m going to go and lie on that, unless there are objections?”

  They all shared glances, but noticeably there seemed to be a bit of a focus on Eoin, waiting for his opinion on the subject. “I have no problem sir,” he simpered “do sleep well”. Note to any readers, ending any sentence on that phrase immediately has the recipient suspecting they’re not going to wake up, but I’d just have to risk it. I turned away though, heading for the underground section of my excavation with a parting line. “If I’m still asleep when you’re heading off, just leave me to it. It’s been a pleasure”. And with that, I went below, and quickly ducked into my tent.

  Even without the fact that this was an unwelcome intrusion at best, getting myself out of their line of sight was a priority, and I could finally let the magic subside. My real features and clothing returned, such as they were. If you want a breakdown then here are the key parts: I'm about five-foot-nothing, I have green eyes, and short ginger hair that I'd call a pixie cut that broke free. I wear sensible 'adventuring' clothes which I've accessorised by stitching loads of spare pockets onto and enchanting them a bit. I have a green hood/scarf/cowl thing for comfort, emergency pillow, concealing identity, and looking cool.

  If you believe in that sort of thing, I am, technically, a woman; even though I'm also embarrassingly flat (or would be embarrassing if I cared). I'm pretty scrawny, and frankly more people seem to think I'm a 12 year-old boy than a 16 year-old girl, but I also really don't care. I genuinely just do not have enough interest in my gender to actually decide on what it is.

  Oh also I've only got one hand. Well, I have two, but only one is flesh. I'll probably go into it more later, but my right hand is made of wood, metal, and magic. It would be really awesome, but that was slightly mitigated by the fact that it was technically a left hand, but on my right wrist. I have two left hands, yes it's weird, yes it was very hard to get used to, let's keep going for now.

  Now that I was out of sight, I felt like I could breathe properly again, instead of the tenterhooks I’d been on every second I was out there. My options were, sadly, almost non-existent. I could try to stay up all night, paranoidly refreshing the magic, but I would run out before dawn, and then be stuck inside the bunker for certain. If I fell asleep, I was obviously at risk of literally everything, starting with being revealed as having faked my identity, and ending with murder and dismemberment. If I woke up before them, I could put the spell back up for as long as it took them to leave, but I didn’t fancy trying my luck in bright daylight, and I was afraid that the next time I cast the spell, I’d make some stupid change like a different eye colour that would get me noticed.

  Spending a while exploring by myself had given me reason to learn one trick, though. Taking another bead from a pocket, I pressed it into the ground inside the doorway, out of sight from outside. I put a finger to it, and let a small trickle of magic flow into the bead, which siphoned it from my body and converted it into my desired effect using the channels and glyphs I'd carved earlier. The bead dissolved, shooting out spidersilk-like threads as it did, building an invisible web over the doorway. It wouldn't actually stop or even impede anyone, but it would made a noise if anyone besides me passed through, waking me up. At least that way I could face whatever fate might await me.

  Shit, I thought. It about summed up my situation, but there really wasn’t anything else for it, and so I tucked myself under my blanket, found the comfiest lump on my bedroll, and fell into a very stressful sleep.

  *shrug*.