No greenery. Not a single butterfly, firefly, or hummingbird. Even the river that should have run lazily through the village was more like a cracked, mud-filled ditch.
And the people… oh, the people.
The elves were almost unrecognizable as the proud, magical beings of legend. Their skin was pale, grayish, and gaunt, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes that shimmered faintly with exhaustion. Their hair hung lank, dusted with dirt.
They moved slowly, dragging their feet as though even walking was a chore. Children clung to the sides of their parents, staring at us with wide, hungry eyes.
Many of them had sores, scratches, and infections that went untreated. Their small hands trembled when they reached for us, weak from hunger.
Famine too had ravaged this land in ways I'd never imagined. It wasn't just that crops failed—nothing grew. Their soil was cursed, the earth barren and dry, refusing life. Attempts at magic—healing spells, mana blessings, enchantments—had failed.
