All elven femboys are 18+ centuries old.

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The animals arrived on the edge of the forest suddenly, practically overdecade. Before anyone even knew they were there, they were gnawing at the trees, digging into the soil, muddying the rivers with their waste. They hunted as pack animals. Morivar Highspire watched, hidden in the high branches, as the animals walked a stag to exhaustion and beat its brains out with a rock while it lay gasping. The largest of them ripped away the stag's skin and waddled around with the grisly thing draped over its flanks. It was all Morivar could do not to be sick.

There was much relief among the elves when a lightning storm struck, sparking fire near the burrows. But the fire didn't consume them. It stayed. They invited it into their burrows, fed it with branches. It burned day and night.

"Beasts rise and fall," the Farseer Council scoffed, unconcerned. "Nature finds its balance."

"The Farseers are shortsighted fools," Morivar spat. "There were only two of the animals to begin with. Now there are dozens. We will be up to our necks in manflesh before we can blink. They're doubling themselves every generation."

"Doubling?! Impossible!" scoffed one Farseer. "And irrelevant. A thousand. A hundred thousand. Eventually they will consume all they have until there is nothing left. Then they will starve and die. That is how it has always been."

The Farseers had lived so long, they'd fooled themselves into thinking themselves immortal, Morivar saw. He took his post alone, watching the creatures from afar, hunting for weaknesses.

He named them as they came and went. Mudfoot. Bonebiter. Roundears. Brighteyes.

Morivar was so engrossed, he somehow failed to smell the male he'd dubbed Darkmane creeping up behind him until its paw was groping up his thigh. Morivar span around, cringing as its hot, wet tongue licked excitedly across his face.

"Shoo! Go away. I've no food for you," Morivar hissed.

It ground itself enthusiastically against his leg. In three guttural syllables, the sweaty beast grunted that Morivar was the most beautiful female it had ever seen.

Fascinating, Morivar thought, as it dragged him towards its burrow by his ankle. No courtship display to speak of. No wonder they breed so fast.

Darkmane held Morivar for a few brief decades, during which he learned much of their mating habits. The animal had been sweet, in its savage way, laying its bloody hunting trophies at his feet with such earnestness that Morivar had pretended to be impressed.

Morivar buried it in the backyard behind the burrow, in the rain. It had been a good boy. He inscribed it a headstone. He assured himself that it had led a happy life. Fifty-two years of life. A vast age for such a thing.

It died in its bed, smiling. Childless. It had taken no other mates.

Morivar returned to the Farseers.

“Give me a dozen good elven men,” he said, “and I will bring the human population under control.”