Cromsmead – Elf City
When we turn a corner, I literally gasp when a giant castle appears before us, seemingly from nowhere. I saw glimpses of its vibrant peaks when we would crest a hill, but I thought it was the entire town, not a single building. The castle is gigantic and rivals anything I’ve ever seen in pictures.
The enormous jade green castle walls are trimmed with glittering ruby and emerald colors surrounding sparkling windows and elaborate balconies. Its glittery appearance is enhanced by the acres of shimmering amethyst roof tile pitching up and down like a stormy sea. The skyline is pierced with more ornate, knife-like towers than I can count. And completing the wedding cake structure are small cylindrical turrets penetrating evenly throughout the massive stone walls that surround the entire enclosure.
I’m surprised that the village is inside the castle’s walls, but then again, I don’t know much about castles. Everywhere my gaze travels there are flowers, streamers and wreaths covering every surface. This can’t all be for us.
The floors are a combination of shiny cobalt blue stones and intricately woven rugs that change the vibrato of our shoes echoing through the chamber. I don’t know where to look first as we walk around a colossal U-shaped table that fills the entire space. An ornate red and gold damask tablecloth covers the table and on it are colossal candelabras of various metals, colorful bouquets of flowers and more plates and flatware then I’ve ever seen in my lifetime. Who lives like this?
My eyes are traveling all over the room trying to find a place to focus. There’s so much excess that I can’t take it all in. The huge chandeliers are made of some kind of shiny coral red metal that’s clashing with the tapestry behind it. That tapestry makes my eyes stop.
The tapestry is pretty, but it’s also extremely colorful, just like everything else the elves touch.
The carriage pulls to a stop and a petite older woman with a poofy red bouffant hairdo jumps down from the driver’s seat. In New York, only the more mature ladies wear long skirts with frilly jackets. However, this woman’s suit looks like something women wore over a hundred years ago.
Mrs. Cutty steps in front of me and I can’t stop staring at her sharp-featured face. Everything about her has a keen edge, from her narrow body to her long face and angular chin that accents her downward-sloping nose. Even her ears are pointy. I can’t decide if her face is beautiful or threatening.
Little pointy people are flooding the street, shoving at each other to get a closer look at the carriage. They’re not tiny like Santa’s helpers, but they’re small, like jockeys. They’re dressed in overly elegant attire that doesn’t match their rowdy behavior, but does highlight my dirt and remind me that I’m still in the black sweater and jeans I’ve been wearing for longer then I care to remember. I’m dirty and smelly, and I haven’t combed my hair in over a week. Worse, I’m being compared to the beautiful Dathid and elegant Albína.