Invincible Blood Sorceror

Chapter 172: The Feast’s Undercurrents

Jorghan stood amid the gathering crowd, a fixed point in a swirling sea of elven diversity. He was like a child among them, his six feet dwarfed by the tall elves.

The elves varied from ten feet to seven feet, belonging to various clans, judging by their skin complexion.

The Grand Hall had filled rapidly once the feast was announced, and now hundreds of elves moved through the space in constantly shifting patterns of conversation and connection.

His name jumped from lips like sparks from a fire.

”That’s him, the Sol’vur heir...”

”Six feet tall, can you imagine? Fighting at that height...”

”They say he created a dragon made entirely of blood...”

”Killed thousands of Imperial soldiers in less than a day...”

”His father was Ser’gu, the one who...”

The whispers never quite stopped, a constant background murmur of fascination, fear, curiosity, and respect all woven together. Eyes tracked his movement even when their owners pretended to be focused elsewhere. Groups would shift their positions subtly to get better views while maintaining the pretense of not staring.

Jorghan had expected attention, but the intensity of it was still somewhat overwhelming.

What truly captured his interest, though, was the sheer variety of elven physiology on display.

In the desert settlements, he’d encountered mostly red elves from two clans and related bloodlines. The variations had been minor, with skin tones ranging from copper to deep red and heights from seven to eight and a half feet, but fundamentally similar in structure and appearance.

Here, the diversity was staggering.

Representatives from the mountain clans stood in clusters, their stocky builds and grey-tinted skin marking them clearly. They averaged perhaps seven to nine feet tall, broad-shouldered and powerful, with eyes that seemed to glow faintly in the hall’s lighting. Their fingers were thicker than typical elf proportions, adapted for working stone and navigating underground passages.

Forest Clan members drifted through the crowd like living sculptures, impossibly tall and slender, some reaching nine and a half feet with builds so thin they seemed almost fragile until you noticed the wiry strength in their movements. Their skin carried subtle bark-like texturing, and some had hair that seemed to shift colors like leaves changing with seasons.

The water clan members were immediately recognizable by their blue-tinted skin and the subtle webbing visible between their fingers. They moved with gentle grace that suggested they were more comfortable in water than on land, their features slightly sharper and more angular than typical elven aesthetics.

Then there were the truly unique ones, representatives from clans like Citrangada’s Rudanavas, their bodies covered in that soft plush fur, faces carrying simian characteristics that created an entirely different kind of beauty.

Or members of Tadrukein’s Sarpetaretsu clan, some maintaining fully elven forms while others had allowed partial serpentine features to show, scales glittering, eyes with vertical pupils, movements carrying reptilian grace.

Jorghan found himself cataloging details with the fascination of a scholar presented with evidence of evolutionary diversity that shouldn’t exist according to any conventional biological theory. These weren’t just ethnic variations within a species. These were fundamental adaptations suggesting thousands of years of isolated evolution in wildly different environments, each clan becoming something distinct while maintaining enough core similarities to still be recognizably elven.

All thirteen clans have deep history and have lived through centuries. They carry large amounts of knowledge with them, and their unique adaptations have allowed them to thrive in their respective environments, making each clan a valuable source of wisdom and expertise.

It was beautiful in its complexity.

”You’re staring,” Sigora said quietly, appearing at his side with two goblets of what looked like wine.

”I’m observing,” Jorghan corrected, accepting the offered drink.

”There’s a difference.

And how can I not? I’ve spent my life with only one clan and the rest of the years spent in human cities, reading about elven history in abstract terms. But seeing this, seeing the actual physical diversity the elven people have achieved, it’s like watching evolution in fast-forward.”

”We’ve had a long time to adapt,” Sigora said with a slight smile.

”Tens of thousands of years, different clans isolated in different environments: mountains, forests, deserts, oceans, and underground networks. Each one shaped us differently.”

”But they can still interbreed between clans,” Jorghan observed.

”That suggests the genetic divergence isn’t complete, that they’re still fundamentally one species despite the surface variations.”

”Mostly,” Sigora confirmed.

”Though some combinations are more difficult than others. Mountain and forest clans rarely produce viable offspring together, for instance. But yes, the elves are still one people, just expressed in many forms.”

She gestured across the hall.

”That’s part of what makes the Council so important. We’re diverse enough that conflict could easily fragment us into separate species given enough time. But the Council maintains connections, encourages interaction between clans, and ensures we remain unified despite our differences.”

Jorghan nodded, filing that information away for future consideration. Political unity as a tool for maintaining biological cohesion, preventing speciation through deliberate social engineering. It was elegant in its simplicity.

His observation was interrupted by movement at the hall’s far side, a group of elves gathering in a more private alcove. Something about their body language, the careful way they positioned themselves away from the main crowd, suggested this wasn’t casual socializing.

-

In the alcove, six elves of different clans huddled together, their voices low despite the general noise of the feast providing cover.

It wasn’t odd seeing the patriarchs of six clans together, and the fact that they were the weakest of the thirteen clans made them almost invincible.

It was a simple fact.

People only give attention to the stronger ones and ignore the weak.

Vel’moth of the Nue’roka clan spoke first, his weathered face showing every one of his three hundred years. His clan had numbered over four thousand just two years ago.

”We’re dying,” he said bluntly, dispensing with diplomatic niceties.

”Not quickly, not dramatically, but inevitably. My clan doesn’t have enough breeding population to sustain itself. Within two generations, the Nue’roka will cease to exist as a distinct bloodline.”