Taffan the Elf

There once was a village of great giant oak trees with trunks as wide as horses, or bigger, covered in tremendous masses and bunches of green foliage so that they looked like gigantic, fat, squatting lumps. Each tree was marked at the base with a small round door, not more than 5-feet in height that opened into the great hollow interiors of the squatting oaks and in each were all the tidy domestic amenities of the daily living of an elf: a comfortable, if not tiny, sitting room with a small stone fireplace adjacent to a cozy little kitchen; small steps curling up the inside of one tiny wall that lead to two hollows above, each with its own tiny little bed, and a third hollow that was an unevenly measured little washroom high atop the end of the stairwell.
This odd bunch of trees was hidden deep in the dark forests of an undiscovered land. To the Elves it seemed quite a bright and spritely place, for there were no great cities of technology against which to compare. There were only villages amongst the trees of the forests, and farms in the clearings, and an occasional castle or stable built by some great wizard, or long-lost dragon, or perhaps by one of the ancient gnomes. And in the less inhabited parts of the forests were fairies and trolls and strange creatures of the dark. Some even said that there were still dragons lurking in the unknown parts of the forest but most Elves were not afraid of such silly superstitions.
This particular village was in one of the most remote corners of a great forest and would seem more distant and boding to most than the darkest jungles of earth. Nestled conclusively in the 'centre' of this village was the Elf King's castle where lived King Rorin with all of his Elven advisors and courtiers and servants and, of course, the old and powerful Elven wizard, Zarn. It was a truly great castle (by Elven standards) made of interlocking rock wound amongst several of the oaks and stuck together by some kind of mortar provided by one of the King's alchemists. To the little Elves, it seemed to tower in the sky and was just as frightening as it was regal. But its friendly, light colour was just the right mood for King Rorin and so it seemed, also, to fit right into the village.
But of more interest than the castle was the litttlest of the oaks that was surely the farthest from the castle, tucked away in the most discreet corner of the village. Here lived little Taffan. His home wasn't much different than most of the other elf-trees but it was his so he loved it just the same.
Taffan was modestly sized, even for an Elf, with a frame that was well-proportioned, if not somewhat meek. He looked young (much younger than his true years) and considerate in the face with a smile that could only be genuine. Other Elves seemed honestly charmed by him most of the time, despite his habit of being a little talkative when he was socially nervous. If you met him, you would probably quite like him unless you were intimidated by his intellect (as it is well known that Elves are far more intelligent than humans).
Taffan had read many times in many books of great heroes and often let his happy little mind venture off on great imaginary quests with himself squarely centred as the noble hero, but he knew, at heart, he was somewhat a coward and would likely be more scared than heroic in any real trouble. That is to say, the kind of trouble that makes men true heroes. And so, he busied himself mostly with academic pursuits that were more fitting to his true heart: a homey, friendly Elf tending to his books and reading and household if not his friends and family. In the end, he knew he was really quite happy being just who he was, even though he was not of the mettle of a true and dashing hero.
It is for that very reason that he was truly shocked at the course of events that would present itself before him and on one warm Elven evening . . . . . . .