Undulations Of A Moth

[Fid 566]

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Thump, thump.

 

The elf’s boots sounded upon the ground, his steps even and measured as he walked along the path towards the Refuge.

 

Thump, thump.

 

He had not been in the company of his people in years now; his eyes, once young and full of hopeful ambition, were wiser than they had been. Even so, his features had not changed; and he wore the melancholy visage of Durion Uradir. The armour upon his shoulders was silver as the moon and stars, clasped with a midnight-black cloak that streamed from his shoulders like a banner.

 

Under his breath, the Aheral sang.

 

"El’acaele’narnirii iller acaele’narn ito el’acaele’narnirii’ata."

 

 

The suffix was sung with a small snarl, his thin lips curling as the cursed word issues from them. His steps become more deliberate, quicker now, and the dark cloak billows from his shoulders as he treads through the rain. And then... unseen by those who might behold this spectacle but all-too-visible to his tortured eyes:

 

Ghosts. They had always been seen as such, elves speaking in hushed tones of the spectres of silver and black that had inspired such fear in Thales… all gone now. His head jerked to the side, face contorting as he struggled to clear his mind. Lyu walked beside him, and his sister Vallei... Camernor Par'von and even Sinyail Maehr. Gone from this earth.

 

 

"El’acaele’narnirii’ata kina’fih ito el’acaele’narnirii."

 

Truth is written by the victors; what it was before, matters not. He was indifferent to it; that was gone too, swept away by the march of time. What remained now was the original purpose, the purpose which, in retrospect, should have united them.

The song was finished, the last line omitted. There was no need for it, for his march was over, and the Refuge stood before him. Durion gazed at the construction, frigid green eyes gliding over the familiar stonework with a certain starved fondness. Raising a gauntleted silver hand, he shouted a greeting.

 

The Wicked Moth sought the Maheral.

[Supremacy 3361]

A hushed whisper emanates from the threshold "averir iylmahnihto ernne'onarne. The Children of Silver never forget".

[Dohvi 622]

The gates to the Refuge do not open, and no one steps out to receive the visitor. 

From through a barred viewing window, a voice calls out in response to the shout.

 

"Leave this place of peace. You are not, nor ever will be welcome here. You will not be granted an audience. Your crimes are not forgotten and are not up for negotiation. You are banished."

[Fid 566]

Durion smiles at the characteristically sharp reply, placing his hands on his hips.

 

"I asked for the Maheral, not for the Architect. As our reclusive whisperer most accurately reminds us, the Children of Silver never forget... I am no exception. I believe her name is Andria, and since there is no Okarir'mali I seek her guidance."

[Overland 349]

  The sound of footsteps upon the cold, hard stone located inside the refuge slowly becomes audible to those within the vicinity of the gate house. The sunlight outside seems to illuminate Andria's pale skin and blonde hair as looks to Durion. She simply lets out a sigh, her gaze focused on him with both undertones of curiosity and disappointment.

 

  "Do I have to explain myself, Durion? Do you not recall why you are not permitted in here?"

 

  She soon folds her arms, as she looks through the iron bars that adorn the gate house.

 

  "However, it is interesting that you would considering coming to me for guidance... If you wish to be forgiven for your acts, know there is no opportunity for such."

[Lawrna 440]

The small Luna Ith'ael peeps out from behind her mother, staring at the unknown man with wide eyes.

 

"Who's he?" she whispers to Andria.

[spqrSancus 175]

A high elf in a dark blue cloak and wearing a silver, filtered, gas mask reminiscent to those used in the times of the Plague, steps out from behind them. "Maheral, is there a problem?"

[Caelria 2619]

Elvihain, leaning up against a pillar and idly filing his nails as per the usual, smiles only slightly brighter as he sees the coming coalition of Elves.

 

"Someone unforgivable? How intriguing." He says idly to himself.

 

As the Elves speak their words of hatred and anguish, his brow furrows. He opens his mouth slowly, as if to speak.

 

"Violent, volatile kin; are we not above petty feud? We live long lives. I know little of this man's crimes, but know much about redemption. If he has gone out of his way to come here, clearly he seeks it."

 

He says, pressing the file into one of his coat pockets.

 

"The maehr'sae hiylun'ehya. To be quite honest I know little of it." he says quietly, his wizened gray-blue eyes scanning the crowd. "Save for that it means progress and health."

 

He pauses briefly, locking eyes with Durion through the metal bars. "But I feel that if you thought progressively, you would find that no still-living soul is beyond redemption; no living soul too far gone. Fear is a greater enemy than him or I. Hate, the greatest enemy of us all.

[MrSyth 636]

Silvos sighs. He moves over to Kalenz, tapping his walking cane on the floor. He whispers.

"Kalenz, wasn't it your cousin? Get rid of it, please. Surely this isn't going to end well."

[Birdwhisperer 1174]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.