Compilation Of Gaius's Lore Pieces

[Samson Option 9652]

During Anthos

 

Only a trail of demarcated mud, filled with the dew drops of yesternight, bore witness to the many men marching. Glinting chain-mail, reflective plate armor, and the distorting torsion of leather was all it saw as Sariants marched outward from Greywynn and lined up in neat form. Marching from dawn, the son has yet to sliver, the rays of the sun silver the rising fog as men dressed in white and black take their places, the horned helms prominent and an ode to the days of the First Continent when Hochmeister Gaius Marius made love with the grandest capital of Al'Khazaar. Five times to bed and a nation raised from birth had saw the Teutonic Order's line orderly with the sons, grandsons, and veterans of the Order of early; Hochmeister Mirtok DeNurem taking the field in traditional suit of armor and zweihander in hand. With a raised hand, Ordenmarschall Maur'Azog takes to his side and they begin to raise their heads as the sunlight creeps with more heartening spirit to illuminate the field and the grand army that stands in grim satisfaction. As in the times of elder, the Sariant-knights begin to raise their heads to the heavens and let out a shrilled voice collectively in match with Mirtok leading the foreboding chant:

 

"When we reap the lions, we are back on iron fields
When we see the signs, we are back on iron fields
When we kill your father, your mother and your son,
When we will call the arms, we are back on iron fields"

 

At that moment, a din is heard as some Sariant-Knights withdraw their swords and board, curl their shield arm and begin to tap their swords heavily against the shield and with a growl; they supply choruses in Marian of dark intent. Marching forward in a clamor of boots against roughened earth, a field to the left is approached by the Sariant-knights as they note the Blackmonts attempting to flank through an edge of forest. Upon arriving in full to the field, the front rank bends upon one knee, all Sariants withdrawing their short- and composite bows and nocking arrows in unison. With the experience of the past, Hochmeister Mirtok prepares the first volley of barbed arrows and turns the Sariants loose at the traversing Blackmonts.

 

 

The barrage of arrows was only the first assault, successful it was, onto the Blackmont falsehoods; the Ordenmarschall Maur orders the infantry to engage in melee as the Blackmonts attempt to seek refuge behind the oaken and spruce woods; using them as testudoes against the arrows. What metaphor could do justice to such a charge escapes the mind of witness, Sariant, or fallen Blackmont in what denizen of afterlife keeps them impaired. Who could describe the livid nature of the sinister befriending the fallen? Who could describe the triumphs earned in the halls of Greywynn and the reminder it had to the First Age of the Order when one sees the splayed, spliced, and sacrificed Blackmonts strewn through the field; the Sariants had a honorific guffaw as Ordenmarschall Maur'Azog in traditional Orkish fashion piles the bodies of the False House and poses upon it as he discovers his heart's contentment..

 

Upon the victory, the words of a many Sariants spread forth firstly from taverns as men sought to give tale; their eyes demanding their mouths to harken all to the glory that was had...

 

Ordenmarschall Maur'Azog

 

Maur stood in the front ranks, quickly letting out a shout ordering the Sariants to nock and aim their bows and crossbows. Maur drawing out his crossbow, aimed for the row of Blackmonts attempting to scramble to their positions on the opposite; waiting there for the Hochmeister's orders to fire. Maur stood there watching the Blackmonts attempt to ready their own missile volley, noticing that the Sariants clearly outnumbered them; a grin growing underneath his helmet. The Hochmeister gives a loud shout counting down and ushers his army to begin their volley of arrows, Maur quickly lets a bolt fly towards the Blackmonts right after Eldak, the Sariants quickly do the same. Once three rounds of arrows and bolts had been fired, Tadok'Azog shouts 'Dey iz flankingz!'. The Hochmeister quickly orders seven Sariants to answer the flanking maneuver. Maur knew that if they failed to secure flank, the Blackmonts will gain an advantage in the ensuing battle, thus he takes command of the front lines while Mirtok DeNurem helps on defeating the Blackmont's flank.

 

Sariant Victor Venator, Lord-Slayer, Defeated Augustus Blackmont
                            

Anticipation.

 

That was the only adjective that came to young Victor Venator’s mind as
he waited in the war room with his brothers. The Teutons that he had so
recently come to call family. Thoughts ran through his mind as the
Hochmeister spoke of blood and valor. Thoughts of home. Would his mother
know if he died, so far from home, so far North? Would his father be
proud? Would he die a coward, running from the battlefield only to be
shot by an arrow?

It was Victor’s first battle, and at that time, he wondered if it would be his last.

The Hochmeister spoke a final word, and chanting, roaring filled the keep.
The Teutons were on their feet, shouting, banging their fists against
their mail and armor. Gauntleted hands felt for swords, and gave a
reassuring pat when they found them. The order came for helmets on, and
all the Teutons he came to know vanished before a mask of anonymity.
They were puppets now, dancing to the strings of some unknown puppeteer.
Puppets with swords, and gleaming like silver. Victor put on his own
helmet, the vision limiting his view, and already began to sweat. The
marching of footsteps sounded throughout the keep, and the beating of
drums and the sounding of trumpets heralded the great Order as they
pounded forward. Down the stairs. Up the ladder. Down the ladder. Across
the bridge.

And there was to be the battlefield. Already his brothers, the Knights of
Winter, stood formed up in a vigil, watching across the battlefield. And
there were formed the Knights of Summer, rowdy and sinful. Their red
bandanas were the color of blood. Flame and blood. Victor felt a moment
of last apprehension before the battle began. Time slowed for him, and
he felt a sudden calm come over his mind. Then, with the twang of a
thousand bowstrings, the battle began. Soldiers on his left and right
began falling, black feathers sprouting from their armor. Hurriedly,
Victor drew his own sword. He, being only a Plebeian, had only just
learned how to use it. Rushing headlong into the battle, Victor was
surrounded by his brothers. All of a sudden, he was surrounded by
Teutons and Blackmonts alike. The Battle raged on around him, and Victor
found himself whirling about, striking out whenever he saw a red
bandana, but never hitting anything. Then a small space cleared, and
across the din and noise of men dying and the sound of swords clanging,
Victor saw a figure with his back turned to him. The figure had his
sword up to the hilt in another Teuton’s chest. With a short chortle the
figure kicked the dead man off his weapon, and turned. Slowly,
confidently.

Victor charged forward, and nearly stopped short at the sheer waves of hate
emanating from the man’s eyes. They were eyes full of scorn. They mocked
Victor, slowing his footsteps. It was as if a wall of anger kept him at
bay. Out of the corner of his eye, Victor saw his brothers engaged in
battle. They were winning. With a sudden burst of hope and confidence,
Victor leapt forward with a wild, untrained stab. The figure was still
turning when, with a wild, primal roar, Victor stabbed him through the
side. One of the many red bandanas fell to the ground. The man behind
the mask was simply a man. But the eyes gave him away. Victor spat to
the side and jerked his sword out of the man. Even dead, his eyes were
filled of hate.

Victor knew he should feel something from killing the man. Anger? Sadness?
Regret? Maybe even ecstaticness. But Victor felt nothing. It was his
job. He was a Teuton, and he had done what had needed to be done. As
this strange emptiness descended around him he looked around him and saw
Teutons cheering, as the remnants of the red ones fled the field. The
Knights of Winter had won.

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JILd8KpLRg4

[[What is better than screens? A video]]

[Ford 1996]

tldr

 

:^ )

 

I'm joking. Oh my god you've written so much. Also, I still don't understand the  Anthos Antiquity thing. Did you TRY to tie in things in the story with any of the server lore, or did you kind of do whatever with it.

[calculusdesola 1658]

This thread is amazing Gaius, so much history here

 

Keep this preserved forever.

[El Ricktador 1394]

The video of the battle is pretty cool, I've always enjoyed hearing all the yelling and banter that goes on during a warclaim. It's also a breath of fresh air to not see everyone on fire from fire aspect, :P

[lawnmowerman 3040]

This is great.

[Samson Option 9652]

tldr

 

:^ )

 

I'm joking. Oh my god you've written so much. Also, I still don't understand the  Anthos Antiquity thing. Did you TRY to tie in things in the story with any of the server lore, or did you kind of do whatever with it.

I'll explain the Zil'Maktumi Lore. Back in late Aegis, Vaquxine realized we might need a different map since the Aegis one started cropping up corrupted chunks of the world.  I was one of the first Lore Masters ever made by Vaq, Grabthar and Rittsy being the other two and I took on the task of explaining how "pre-existing peoples" could be found on what would later become Asulon 2.0. There were two "story lines" to this, one involving a hyper-fantasy method written by SerenityOnyx and I wrote the more 'realistic' one. In this thread, you may have seen the History of Hanseti, the only post with a line-break because I wrote two parts. I said that eight tribes escaped in my method, three would become the Subudai, Hansetians [extinct when we got to Asulon], and the Dervas [also extinct] and had beached in Asulon. A fourth tribe, the Zil'Maktumi, beached in what was Anthos [there were ruins in the Orc Desert]. A clan of Dervas known as the Sundur, known for making flesh-rune like magic, would cross the ocean in their runic behemoths, and pull basically a D-Day on the Zil'Maktum in pre-diaspora Anthos [before we arrived and played the map] and that is the series of parts that you read in the Anthology describing that ensuing war.

[Samson Option 9652]

Written in Anthos

 

 

 

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=twogF75dQgk

 

 

The simorgh sat his seat and a thousand wings beat

Drummed the air with a tone, they recognized the sovereignty of His alone

The peacocks bowed, the sparrows dared not turn their glance athwart

Swiftly did the eagles soar toward his enemies, his subjects took heart

A king worthy to band together the manifold kinds of the aviary

Now a man must earn this avatar, unite the seeds of man that nary

Knew each other for ages, the confederacy split asunder

Unite the masterful cavalry and resound the hooves of thunder

 

Fabled Prologue

 

He knew his moniker as Anushirwan, the Soul of Immortality. The body of his fresh with youth, but his ambition knew no mortal end. His parents instilled in him this ambition at a time of discord on the continent of Athera. He grew up learning of the past continents and the past affairs of his bloodline or, rather, what myths they invented to inspire him past the grim state they lived in. Wars brewed in Athera and those with no agency enjoyed little but suffered greatly at the hands of what conquerors required. A heavier tax levied, a boy grasped from tender arms, supplies to augment the passing soldiers, those who had little name to themselves quietly acquiesced in the bid to aggrandize the notables.

 

His parents passed away from the wear and tear, their years usurped in kind by the younger and the more energetic as Vydra's wars passed between the Dwarves to the High Elves. At the age of twenty-five, he left his arid homestead to fulfill the myth or to retie the open ends of a past history of which he could not decipher between the two. His parents extolled the way of the Subudai upon him, the nomadic confederacy of Asulon and Anthos. Their hardiness, resilience, and fleeting lifestyles made their poverty something of a parallel and they enjoyed heaping praises of the like of Sauros Alanbataar, Prince Zahir, and others.

 

The death of his parents left his younger siblings in Anushirwan's custody. The oldest Anushirwan is Phraates and he travels now with three younger brothers and a younger sister. They rest in caves as Phraates traverses Athera proper to find the greatest means to gain a greater life for them all and to even collect those with Subudain blood back under a long-tattered banner. An invitation to join Leuvaarden has already been acquired, Phraates considering the long-term benefits of this proposition from Shay Carter.

 

 

[Samson Option 9652]

Written in Anthos

 

 

 

 

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=do5TgLYJl6A

 

 

Freshly clawed soil swallowed his knees and gnarled hands, his vision served no better as if buried in heaps of earth. The cries of babes and wails of women shook him out of his premature grave as he saw torrential mist of fine grains of debris scatter across the tunnel. The stampede left a few to make up the distance from the herding of the frightened. The tunnel, subterranean and seemingly dug underneath a forest, wound serpentine through that pitch black clumps, like clots of blood that nature birthed from. Slates of rock either ran parallel with the tunnel, providing firm footing or thrust outwards and ensnared groups of the fleeing mass like teeth. The soil underneath him quivered, as if the mischievous tree roots thrust from above twirled themselves in this Maker's pot. These same tree roots made a mockery of the stampede, some of them low enough to cuff the escaping mob along the forehead or feign a choke-hold around their necks.

 

Grivna jogged through the length of the tunnel, keeping at the rear of the masses of people. The tunnel opened up into a moor with a grass glazed with frost like a field of scavenged carcasses. The smack of the frigid winds threw groups of people onto their knees as they fanned out and away from the tunnel opening. Grivna grabbed his spear and clutched his shield over his shoulder, letting the convex shape face into the direction of the gusts. People poured out of the tunnel like water lapping down a crinkled leaf, the depressions of beaten paths attracted the people who sought only to escape like the veins of the autumn down. Grivna kept his volition focused, looking about for a wooden totem indicative of directions or a small gully to duck into.

 

As is given to happen to those short of hope and given no obvious aid; that sense of predestination leads them to unravel their own inevitable fate. Grivna scanned the unfolding hillside, flat and neat as a cloth to adorn a princely table. He turned his head and shot a quick glance before him and felt his throat constricting at the sight he cursed himself to find behind him. Towering columns of kicked up soil, dust, and blades of melting grass seemed to overtake the rear like a sandstorm blowing in. The thundering of hooves to dirt, as if horseshoes could strike a blade its edge, made for an appropriate death knell. Grivna felt his knees buckle and his body prostrating before that venerable noble named Death; his body laid slump and his shield propping itself against his shoulder blade.

 

His eyes clenched and he readied himself to accept that fatal pang of spear or hoof, but neither struck. The feeling of tense readiness gave him that shortness of breathe in anticipation, but each throng of horsemen merely rode over him with irony as each set of four legs found themselves thrust into soil rather than his limp form. The quake came and went. The last of the horsemen left him nothing but haughty laughter to add insult to injury. He brought his head up painfully, the tension throttled every muscle in his body. No curse is easily retired and his death knell came in the form of a curious chirping. He lifted his head up further, fooled into the sly scout's whistle. He felt his throat bulge, the base of his sternum lanced by an arrowhead as two horsemen trotted quietly from behind him and dismounting.

 

Grivna's eyes disquieted as his life merely whistled out of the half-inch wound in the color red. He spent his last moments with no prayer, but merely pilfering as the two horsemen disrobed him of his scabbard and leathers.

[Samson Option 9652]

The Start of the Teutonic Order

 

https://www.lordofthecraft.net/topic/9874-the-rise-of-true-rectitude/?hl=teutonic#entry42716

[Samson Option 9652]

ET Idea

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9EKwUmpBYpg

 

Known is he who purified hisself, thou has reacheth the mezzanine of the heavens. Gaze upon the forlorn, those who thrust themselves at enemies past. The Lord Creator hath bestowed upon man and dwarf, orc and elf a resting place in the heavenly gladness whilst overlooking those generations they sought to preserve. - Excerpt from the account of Priest Eris Growzny

Yemekar took me upon a dream and sat me upon a ram that seemed to leap o'er the mountains, the tallest one stood no obstacle to such a holy beast. This ram leaped up and bucked me before the gates of Khaz'a'Dentrumm nestled firmly along a crater of a waning crescent. There stood Dungrimm, grim of pose and jet colored the dark mask frowning down upon me. He asked me for what I've come for, I replied that Yemekar seated me on a strong ram and here I now stand. The gates flung open and the Paragons called out to me in joy. - Excerpt from the account of High Prophet Khazrad Strongbrow

The Mezzanine it is called by man, the Hall of Heroes famed in the lore of the Dwarves. These are only two names attached to a universal phenomenon experienced by the few, the good-doer, the truly enthralled in justice and morality. Those rare few who experienced entering this place recount distinct differences, but also certain similarities. This appears to be a skyward journey, beyond the land they normally walk upon. This journey is typically led by a deity or a lower-echelon being subservient to a deity. This journey leads them to a place in which they find past persons of great interest. Not only are they interesting in and of themselves, but they are grouped together by a certain qualification. These people are known for fighting great evils in the world, ranging from Iblees to Setherien.

These people who have experienced this journey often times are questioned concerning their deeds prior to entering whatever hall we may call this. They are typically individuals who are known for their good reputation and their good conduct amongst the people and are usually allowed in. They recall asking questions and their hosts showering them with advice and admonishments.

[Samson Option 9652]

Written between Asulon/Anthos

 

Vaskaaz - Runes of the Ancient Dervas

I would like to wish the Dwarven Roleplayers a glorious read of the
information and Lore below. This Vaskaaz Lore is a sort of branching of
Lore I written earlier about a 'type of Dwarf' called Dervas from my
Lore explaining Hanseti ruins when Asulon was being made. This Lore is
approved, logical, and realistic. Some may be familiar when I was
arrived from my three month hiatus that I created a character named
Kiror Yemerdorn, a Dwarf in Khaz and under Broski's rule.
 

[Taken From the Dervas Lore written by LoreMaster Gaius Marius]
 

“It would come that my brother partaken a dangerous route,
having separated from our First Family, Trinskiril was long often
yearned. We travel easterly, but noth we were, stubborn as our feet
could suggest as it clamped on icy earth. The Duerrum Warband led us on
our first steps, infancy cooed with each breath we exhaled in the arctic
wasteland we travelled, but into adolescence we developed. Markedly as
one juvenile would do, our frustration of travelling into nothingness
caused us to rebel gravely against our Chieftain. Boag Duerrum was like
an elderly, frustrated in the calls of the more youth-like within his
parties and stepped down ceremoniously.”

- Kiror Duerrum, ‘Sent ya-ikte Jegaaz’

The
Dervas were one of few families who had separated from the Hanseti in
Trinskiril, approximated at the time of the arrival of Iblees. In
Asulon, the population had multiplied with little to no competition for
fertile lands and enabled many families to grow to larger proportions.
As the fertile land become rugged with the travels, inhabitation, and
usage of the soils, much of the Hanseti had realized that their
multiplying would come to risk the peace held within. Realizing this,
the fathers and leaders of separate families convened a meeting to
discuss what they felt may happen for their generations being fathered.
Realizing that if the entirety of the families remained, then as years
pass, the land will become few to hold and more people will vie for said
lands. With this realization, some of the families volunteered to
migrate in search of other fertile lands afar from Trinskiril.

The
Dervas was a conglomeration of families to be more accurate, drawing
their ancestry from Father Urguan. The Dervas were different from what
Aegis would eventually become accustomed to as Dwarves, as the Dervas
had been granted leave from Aegis before Iblees’s coming and eventually
the cursing of short stature; thus the Dervas were of approximate height
of a male human. The Dervas had however formed clans, but shared mutual
interest in heeding the call of a Chieftain voted upon by Clan Elders.
The Dervas preferred boreal forests decorated with pinewood and hilly
terrain, their camps were firstly of wood and draped in dried leathers,
but eventually evolved as time moved along towards hewn stone supports.
The Dervas often times formed warbands, bristled with spears and axes
and used wicker shields and eventually laminated wood.

The
excerpt above from the Sent Ya’ikte Jegaaz is describing the transition
of power between Warbands. What most may not realize is that the Dervas
were not bloodletters and vicious, but rather honorable and respecting
of authority. When the meeting, known as ‘The Secession March’ was
convened, it was Boag Duerrum who had raised the first warband to
separate from Trinskiril. Much to the chagrin of those who have found
these histories, such as Kiror Yemerdorn, Boag made a grave mistake in
the direction he chosen to lead the Warband forward towards. Having sent
the First Warband east, he had chosen a dangerous and tiring path as he
entered the colder regions and eventually besought a mutiny against
him. As the excerpt illustrates however, the mutiny was not one to cause
violence, but rather a ceremony that would demote his leadership and
promote one to Chieftain. That someone was Baaz Baradun.

Baaz
Baradun was described as a man of modest height, but foreboding in
appearance due to his muscularity and body frame to anchor such figure.
The Baradun were known for being stoic and especially as the family of
throwing axes. In their times in Trinskiril, it was their elders such as
Rornrimm of the Timber and Gurad the Tall who had developed as their
times of being the lumberjacks of the Hanseti, a unique way to fashion
their axes that allowed them to be thrown great distances and with much
momentum reserved in their thrusts. The Baradun earned nicknames to be
formally addressed, such as Thrown Axe; but did not desire to be called
formalities as if they were overseers of the Dervas they began to lead.
The Baradun had suggested that the viable route would be to head
northward and so they did.

The trek northward had bore them from a
tundra, taiga, and arctic land towards a more temperate and wooded one
as they encountered the lands that eventually would bear the weight of
Arethor. Their movements under the Baradun would last for approximately
fifty to sixty years and the leadership of the Baradun will wane as they
neared the strait now commonly known to allow access to the Alrasian
Sea. Such was the proffered mutiny against the Baradun proposed by a few
Dervas suspicious of the prolonged relationship, as hidden as it could
be, between Baradun and a clan called Sundur. Such
relationship was not simply one of brother with brother, carrying their
loads together; rather it was the Baradun giving ear to how the Sundur
had dabbled with the magics.

“It would seem one
clan spoke of commanding stone, what is a stone to a man of clay? Stone
is rigid, if anything it is stillborn whilst clay may shape itself to
work, sweat, and labor. Stone is but a weapon in the hand of clay, but
as much as clay may shape a mouth to speak, stone cannot shape an ear to
heed such spoken words. Tarrying in the unknown the Sundur seem to have
done, dabbling in magics to disrespect what nature ordained for what it
is made of.”

Borimm the Naysayer, ‘Sent-ya’ikte-Jegaaz’

As
evidenced by the excerpt of the Sent-ya’ikte-Jegaaz, the longer that
the Baradun were leading the Warbands northward; the more Dervas had
begun to speak between each other and raise suspicions of the friendship
between Baradun and Sundur. During the turn northward under Baradun
leadership, a Dervas by the name of Ovdun shared the idea of his magic,
of speaking magical chants towards a stone carved to fill the engraved
girth with a certain reply it must give forth to master’s command. Baaz
Baradun had felt intrigued by such idea, but duly felt worried that the
Dervas would see such magic as something to be left untouched; he
refused to admit his friendship publicly with the Sundur and had gave
the Sundur nicknames he would refer to them; the Keldagh or ‘Engravers’.

Keldagh
was a name to allude to the process the Sundur had gone through to
initiate runes to take their commands, they had to first carve into
stone the letters that would form sentences of the reply that the Sundur
expected runes to give forth when they called commands. Runes can be
carved from any material, however certain ores, earthenware, and
materials may be able to reply with specified commands pertaining to
traits of that material. The engravings of letters into stone when left
as they are are simply something to be read, requiring one knowledgeable
in being able to speak in a certain form and possess knowledge of the
threads of magick that the Creator has ordained to be kept within the
Void. Such knowledge that the Sundur acquired with the Wandering Wizard
before he allowed passage through the Verge with the rest of the Eight
Families that led eventually to the arrival to Trinskiril.

A rune
is left without master until a reply is commanded to be given when such
masters of the Rune, or Vaskaaz is made proper for that rune to hold.
Such Keldagh, or Engravers would know readily the reply he ordains the
stone to hold and gives it forth; filling the engraved lines of letters
an imbued discoloration. Runes are known to have effects when one nears
it, stronger upon one unintelligent of what is read from the rune; these
effects vary depending on what the rune will perform in it’s obedience
to the master who commands. Runes can be given a variety of tasks, those
found strung about Asulon will attest to this as different effects are
felt and if one becomes a Keldagh; will learn what reply the rune gives
when such Keldagh’s words are heeded.

The Sundur had felt it imperative to befriend the Baradun during their ruling so that
they may find shelter from the possible hatreds in their involvement
with the magics, promising Baaz himself runic knowledge and runes to do
his bidding. The Sundur during the beginning of the northern trek were
relatively safe behind closed doors and nom de plumes, but no secret
remained safe amongst the Warbands. The culture simply did not have the
allowance of securing secret meetings nor the passive opinion on
incestuous politicking. It was to no surprise that the learning of
Baaz’s friendship with the Sundur grew, firstly knowing them as scribes
pledging their pen in hand to Baaz, but then also to their dealings with
the Vaskaaz.

[Samson Option 9652]

Written in Anthos

 

 

"As I happened upon the noise of thunder, that noise split my ears asunder. Hardly have we been fortuned with a storm, but often we've been gifted with mere rain. This noise clapped, call and response, along with that figure dancing in the meadow. The gaity dressed hisself in a veil, but his ritual was that unlike any druidic theatre I gave my care towards. I do verily swear that what I saw was the truth and no exaggeration though you, the aftermath's witness, may argue with such a description. That figure dancing and swaying seduced the soil to break, but no green limb of a bean plant nor tawny joint of a bush sprouted. Nay, what I saw was the lusting hand of decayed flesh and sacred bone pulling the body down below out in a most sacrilegious manner.

 

That figure did spy me from his moment of ecstasy and self-indulgence and gave me a most terse cursing. I saw the two dead animated, sluggish, yet like myself in posture. Though they put up no protest, the reviver of the two approached me. This most destitute of persons called upon me a fire that buffeted smoke and swallowed unhewn trees whole in its desire for fuel and he called for me to supply myself for the best of fires he insisted ought be fueled by men and stones. Little did he know, I was no elvalah, but a Mali' and that heat wrested my Elysium fields of sturdy pines and tall spruces in the fury."

_________________________________________________________

Before our progeny saw the division, like a mote of sunbeam carved into individual colors upon a prism, we enjoyed each other's company without separate names to differentiate each other. We all enjoyed the seclusion of the thickest forest and danced in oblivion and toiled to see our lot upkept, drawn from fate and a pretty gamble we thankfully lived. The forest rebuked many and tricked few into entering her labyrinthine floors to only be guided by briars and brambles like the most devious of fingers working their bodies worn, their constitution exhausted, and their wits extinguished. The fewer who made it close to us received no welcome. We took to the canopies and hid ourselves till they thought they entered some Otherworld if you will and began to speak of noises of the dead which we taunted and a forboding scene of which they saw the girdled tree trunks that we fashioned as homes.

 

As is the nature of our triad of contemporaries, the elurukan, elvalahan, and elbortuan, we all shared the mischievous nature of adaptation. Those who wandered and wandered back out, returned with cleverer devices to tackle our environment. Trees felt the bite of the axe and swords separated the woven bramble bush. We understood then that we could not risk dispersal as we were wont to do, but rather we had to congregate in village and town and present a unified front to those of wanton intent. And so we had formed that most illustrious town of Cihivalan. We had no prior want or will for war, but we fashioned spears for its simplicity and reach. The bravest of intruders did near Cihivalan, but withdrew upon site of our organized garrison. They cursed and wiped the brow, their labor was for naught.

Little did we know, they did not come as intruders, but pushed and coaxed by something greater.

________________________________________________

What ceremony did they present, the tender-most of the elvalah. What we misinterpreted as a surrender of arms, they intended to be a show of compromise. Soon thereafter, the elurukan and elbortuan threw down their arms and armor in like manner to show us that they too held no covert intent. A parade corralled the three progenies within Cihivalan and their respective leaders dined closest to the princely so that they may confide what drove the emigres before the heart of the forest. The feasts and ceremonies threw the Elven eye open to the alien dish and foreign dance, the veil drew the layman into a lull as the chiefs spoke gravely betwixt themselves.

 

If you could imagine the highest sequoia and stand upon that pinnacle of height, may you never forget the wonders you laid eyes upon. O' what a joy for the Elf who holds the watchtower. The young relished this task and often invented games to pass the time and share in merriment what lied at all radii of the horizon. They competed in counting the breeds of birds, tested their sight for the ineffable leap of a squirrel above the canopy, and saw through the squinted eyes of interlocked branches for deer or lynx. The joy leaped from their eyes in a most grievous rout the next week after the Elves granted amnesty to their refugees as the scouts reported the columns of smog and smoke towering menacingly in the distance at forest's edge. The inferno superseded the veil of gaiety and the city of Cihivalan knew that their idyllic play came to a close and the labors of work ought be started.

 

The sounds came after the sights. The forlorn weep and curtled baying of the sacrileged kept woman and child abreast awake at night. Elven scouts returned before dusk to report masses collected and seated outside their prior pillaged tombs and the old lumberyards reclaimed as necropoli for what appeared to be a siege. A plan developed in which a hundred-yard stretch yonder the gate became stripped and flatten with mounds of packed earth to provide an appropriate terrain for sallying forth. Battalions of elvalah, elmali, elurukan, and elbortu sped through the forest before Cihivalan and laid bare the earth and returned the resulting wood to women to fashion into longer spears and round shields tipped with bosses made of flint and bronze.

 

Pray fortune to those who come upon the day in which they put their labors to the test, to check metal if worth their mettle and their makings sturdy for the weight. That day, the gates flung open with each of the four divisions filing out in swift fashion with only the Elves springing themselves alive with élan. Elmali held the center with the elvalah and elbortu flanking and the elurukan holding the rear to lay flanking maneuvers. The dawn sun warming their necks with that morning energy that makes all good souls alert and strong. The skies soon darkened as the columns of smoke leaned precariously over the masses and rained upon them a soot and salt mixture that the elbortuan and elurukan brushed against their cheeks and forehead haughtily.

 

The occupied forest broke the silence first, fielding mobs of corpses lurching sprightly towards the defenders. Arrows severed their temporary returns, pinning some lightly against the soil below them with the remainder clumsily smacking against shield wall and spear. The fight lasted for two hours total with nary a fracture in the straightened lines of the defenders. While the Mali cheered prematurely, the elbortuan and elvalahan stood a stoic vigil as if uncoiling that amateur's sense of astonishment for what came after. The forest, from its many mouthed porousness between swaths of treelines, inhaled the columns of smoke and held it tight with bated breathe. The defenders fell silent with only the sound of stuck throats twanging awkwardly.

 

The Mali hurriedly lowered their spears, their front ranks bending on their knees and held their shields to cover their forms as the second, third, and further ranks couched their spears to present arms. The forest roared with the buckled trunks of trees in a conflagration and the exhaled heat lapped at the ranks of defenders and went beyond that primordial's love for a fire's heat. The forest and her pines folded in response to the spears lowering, their own limbs and boughs bending in a phalanx against the weight of inferno and fel forces. The lines halted the charges from fel beasts of ursine nature with soldiers folding against the pressure of heat and weight.

 

As the wisest often admit, a prolonged battle dampens the constitution and the battle that waged drew the wrinkles of the old and wearied the youthful energy. That is. . until the Forefather brought himself behind and before the ranks, taking a fallen spear in hand and thrusting it forward in that most heroic of feats. Malin, hidden from the jovial, took the mask of Asulsae and created an unbreakable order for the defenders sloughed away in disorder.

____________________________________________________--

The story of these two dearest aspects made myth for the preservation of understanding that most ineffable quality of Elves, that of our anarchy, is endearingly titled Lucileh ehya Asulsae. Lucileh is best described as that of drunkenness bearing no attempted anthropomorphic manipulation while Asulsae represents the opposing nature of the Mali', that of some form of natural order and reverence for the physical non-manipulated environment. These two Aspects, a rather philosophical assertion rather than the oft-acknowledged deities of that most hallowed conclave of Druids, present the predicament given to cleave at any Mali'.

 

The Elf as a race are most often given to individuality, preferring to applaud the Mali' and his singular machination over the urge of collective congregation and organization. This is most apparent in the fact that most wayfarers are Mali', that many Mali' decide to exile themselves from any collective governance such as the past Conclave, that most disorganized state of Malinor, and other settlements throughout the histories. This anarchism leaves the Elves wont to also be surprisingly creative, but rather sloppy in execution which is most defined in the state of Annil'sul of the Mali'aheral. Theory reigns among the Elves, dine on a conversation with them and you'll see a flowering mind, but hardly an executing arm.

 

This embrace of anarchism is a beautiful marriage of the Mali' with the aspect Lucileh, the term Luci or grape is indicative of the drunkenness overtaken most Mali' and channeling their creativity much like the splash and drop of wine upon parchment, but with no discernible articulation or organized effort to play with the form of art, music, politics, and philosophy. The aspect Asulsae is often discarded, yet still present in the general Elven mentality. Elves, despite their anarchism, will hold the natural order and the vague ideas of balance in the natural environment as nearly divine. This ought to be discovered within each Elf, perhaps then pray tell we will see a better condition for all our kin.

 

Cloak yourself in the imaginative majesty of Lucileh and embrace that creativity that has imbibed your heads and hands towards the arts, visual, spoken, and sound. However, wed your Lucileh with Asulsae and strike hand to drum, swipe your fingers across the lute, bring pen to paper, and thrust philosophy into your entire life in the form of the ethics and moral behavior. You'll never earn recognition for suggestions, but you'll be better appreciated for your works of art, your playing of the finest musics in the forest to compliment that natural beauty we are oft bestowed, and your kind and respectable behavior will acquire good consequence.

____________________________________________________

 

[_pok_ 1768]

It's crazy re-reading the stories, especially that one when I was Rex, and thinking back probably 2 years to events I would have never remembered!

[Samson Option 9652]

Aye, I've been fishing them all up. The only real core writings I can't find of mine is during the Black Scourge save for one post.

[Samson Option 9652]

Written in the Fringe

 

Theodosius Visconti walks into his office and removes his scale-armored gauntlets one by one and lays them on his desk. He sees a treatise pamphlet laid neatly upon his table and walks around the desk to sit himself. Bringing his chair forward an inch with an ominous echo sounding, he skims over the pages and finds a neatly printed document with a cover sheet inscribed of the destination from which it came. From the Raevir of the Eastern Hemisphere, only few of the Carrion knew the manner in which he respectfully spoke of the lands of Carrion and led him to guess the possibility of one of the Barrow lads delivering said document to his office in Kaldonia. As each page flipped, the irises of Visconti's eyes doddered and quivered as he read each emotionally moving page. Very few of the Imperium knew of Theodosius's history, how he served in the Lucienists' ranks against the Carrion Dynasty of Heinrik and the assassinated king thereafter.

 

Each page flipped evoked sweat beads along his forehead as he stared further and further into each line of writing. His hand began to quiver and he laid the document atop the table, his breathing increased. He flipped each page quicker, darting a nervous glance at the door as if expecting a divine punishment. Finally, the last page slid to the left and the pamphlet completely read. He slipped out from his seat, his knees rocking with age, arthritis, and a hidden anguish. Stepping out of his office, rain began to carve rivulets across the sweat and grease covered face of his as he raised his head slowly. His head doddered to the right, staring down the road that eventually led one past the Church of Saint Adeodatus as his knees finally buckled from the mental strain and emotional stress. Nonplussed by the sound of squelching soil did Theodosius feel as he stared upwards hoping for an intervention disallowed by the storm clouds above.

 

With each quaking beat of his heart, Theodosius Visconti cupped his hands together in a drunken manner as he contemplated his entire youth and began to beg for mercy. "Creator above, doth give me twenty more years to my life to right my wrong. Creator above forgive me for I have slain those who upheld the right whilst I was persuaded to the wrong. Creator above know my earnestness for I shant make excuse, I have sinned and my path has been straightened. Do me this divine favor for I shall serve you nobly now that my eyes are opened before thine Ultimacy."