Morning's light filtered down through the towering forest canopy, illuminating drifting motes of dust and pollen. The SEALs—Lt. Jason "Grim" Cooper, Marcus "Saint" Miller, and Derek "Hawk" Hawkins—stood guard around the small group of refugees. The robed man slept fitfully, propped against a tree trunk; the others huddled nearby, bleary-eyed but grateful for the relative calm.
They had glimpsed an elf at dawn, a tall and graceful figure with pointed ears who vanished at the first sign of notice. No one had approached them since, yet everyone sensed they were being watched. A hush had settled over the forest, as if every creature held its breath.
"Sure feels like we stumbled into a Tolkien novel," Derek muttered. His tone was hushed, scanning the periphery with the muzzle of his rifle. "Only difference is, back home, a muzzle flash trumps a bow and arrow—most days."
Marcus exhaled softly. "We're about to find out if they're friend or foe. Let's not scare 'em off if they can help us."
Jason nodded. "We need allies. Not sure how many bullets we can spare if the next wave of orcs tracks us here."
An uneasy breeze stirred the undergrowth. Leaves rustled, and one of the refugees stiffened, pointing toward a cluster of ferns. Jason and Derek pivoted, rifles half-raised, only to see a lithe figure step into view. An elf, indeed. He had angular features, braided hair of silvery-brown, and piercing green eyes that darted between the SEALs and their ragtag group. He clutched a slender bow, an arrow nocked—but not drawn.
From the corners of the clearing, three more elves emerged like shadows dissolving in daylight. Each wore rustic leathers and cloaks mottled with greenish-brown patterns, perfectly suited for forest camouflage. All had bows or short-bladed spears at the ready. One gave a clipped command in a fluid, melodic language.
The robed man stirred, wincing. With a faint groan, he struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on a stick. He turned to the foremost elf and spoke, voice trembling but urgent—unintelligible to the SEALs, but apparently close enough for the elf to understand.
Marcus nudged Derek. "Looks like they're negotiating. Let's hope that means 'Hey, these guys saved us from orcs' and not 'Take 'em out, they have devil-sticks!'"
Derek swallowed a grin. "At least they haven't filled us with arrows yet."
Jason, as team leader, kept his weapon lowered—barrel angled down, finger off the trigger, but ready. No sense in spooking potential friends. "We show them we're not a threat," he said quietly. "Let's see how they handle it."
The first elf's gaze swept over the M4 rifles, the tactical gear, the exhausted refugees, and the robed man's injuries. After a tense moment, he spoke a few words in that soft, lilting language, accompanied by cautious gestures.
The robed man responded, then pointed at the SEALs, repeating the earlier halting attempts to say their names: "Jas-ton… Mar-kus… Derik."
Another elf, a female with a slender spear, tilted her head. She approached Marcus with measured steps, curiosity in her eyes. Her free hand gestured to the robed man's wound, then to a pouch of herbal vials at her belt, as if asking, Do you need help?
"Uh… yes." Marcus crouched, removing the robed man's makeshift bandage. "We do. You see his side's torn up. I've stabilized him, but…" He rummaged for some gauze and antiseptic from his own kit, showing it carefully in open palms.
The elf woman blinked in surprise at the modern medical gear. Then she dipped a cloth in a faintly glowing solution from one of her vials, pressing it gently over the wound. The robed man gasped at the sting but sagged with relief as the salve took effect. A faint herbal aroma—pine and mint—wafted into the air.
Marcus watched, fascinated. "Natural antiseptic, maybe with a magical twist? If it shortens healing time, sign me up."
Jason and Derek shared an uncertain glance. This was indeed a moment of first contact with a whole new culture—and they were stumbling through it like a pair of lost tourists.
The lead elf, evidently the ranger in command, lowered his bow fully. He spoke again to the robed man, voice urgent, then turned to Jason with a stern, searching stare. Jason tapped his own chest. "Jason," he repeated quietly, trying not to sound threatening. "United States… Earth."
The elf, not comprehending, gave a slight frown but seemed to piece together that these men were from far away. He said something that might have meant: Strangers from beyond?
Derek, unable to resist, gave a tiny wave. "Hi, yes, we're the weird guys with guns. Nice forest you got here."
Marcus's lips quirked into a half-smile despite the tension. "Diplomacy, courtesy of Hawk."
The robed man chimed in, pointing skyward as if to indicate the fortress's vantage, then mimicking an explosion with his hands. He ended by gesturing to the SEALs, giving a short bow, then hooking his thumb at himself. The meaning was clear enough: They saved us from the fortress attack.
That seemed to shift the elves' expressions from guarded to cautious respect. The lead elf let out a short breath, then motioned for them to follow, stepping back toward the trees. His companions parted, forming a loose escort.
Jason looked to his teammates. "Seems like they want us to go with them. That's… probably better than wandering aimlessly."
Marcus sighed. "Let's hope they're not taking us to some sacrificial altar."
Derek patted him on the shoulder. "Cheerful as always. But I'll keep an eye out for that. In the meantime, at least someone knows the local trails—and hopefully where we can find some real answers."
They gently roused the refugees to move, including the robed man, who insisted on walking, wincing but determined. The elven woman with the healing salve hovered at his side, ensuring he didn't collapse.
Thus, a slow procession wound its way deeper into the forest. The elves led with unerring grace, stepping silently between roots and mossy stones. The SEALs and their tired companions followed with far more crunches and snaps of twigs. Every so often, Derek or Marcus muttered a quiet joke about "forest ninjas" or "elves better watch out for the claymore pun," but the gravity of their situation weighed heavily on them all.
After half an hour of careful travel, they reached a glade where shafts of sunlight pierced the canopy, illuminating a small cluster of huts woven from living branches. Other elves moved through the clearing—many in similar woodland garb, some in robes reminiscent of the robed man's style but distinctly elven in design. They stopped in their tracks to observe the newcomers with undisguised astonishment.
Jason felt the stares like a thousand pricking needles, but held his chin high, weapon still lowered. They were, after all, uninvited guests in a world not their own.
The lead elf guided them to a larger structure at the glade's heart—a place that might serve as a meeting hall. A handful of stoic elven guards stood by the entrance, exchanging rapid words with the leader before stepping aside.
Inside, the airy hall smelled of cedar and fresh leaves. Light filtered through woven skylights. Several elves, presumably elders or council members, rose from low seats. Their eyes flicked over the rifles, the strange camouflage gear, the battered refugees. Their expressions shifted from wariness to curiosity… and maybe a glimmer of hope, if Jason read it right.
In that hush, the robed man drew in a shaky breath, then spoke a halting phrase. He placed a trembling hand over his heart, gesturing again to the SEALs as he'd done before. Something in his tone carried heartfelt gratitude, as though proclaiming that these foreign warriors had saved them.
One elven elder stepped forward, her voice soft but resonant with authority. She addressed the robed man in a gentler dialect, nodded gravely, then turned her attention to Jason and his team. Reaching out a slender hand, she spoke a single word—"Welcome."
The language barrier might still be daunting, but that one word transcended it. Derek's eyebrows lifted in relief, Marcus let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and Jason managed a faint smile.
It wasn't much, but it was a start—a moment of genuine first contact in this world of orcs, elves, and magic they could barely comprehend. And despite the exhaustion, the uncertainty, and the abiding worry about finding a path home, Jason felt a spark of possibility. Maybe—just maybe—these new allies could help them survive, even if the cost meant trading bullets for bows and forging alliances in a realm they never dreamed existed.