The Mantra

[WuHanXianShi14 0]

Spoiler

 

 

A young elf ran through a forest older than time, within the massive tree canopy, homes were burning. Something was running down the trunks. Sap? No, blood. He ran through the streets into the southern hills, up into the mountains where none would pursue him. Hours had passed, he gasped for breath, then finally turned around to see the view before him. An ancient forest, pockets of fires burning throughout, a once glamorous city in the trees, now kindling.

 

A White Rose flew over Leumaelin.

 

This youth, full of anger and zeal, decided that day that his people deserved better than this. Deserved better than to end up on a cross, or to be burned alive. He decided that some day he would take control, and in doing so bring his kind into a golden age. In the coming years, be he licking his wounds from another brawl on the streets of Kingston Salvus, or hiding away in a hole in a mountain, he would repeat the mantra that drove him.

 

You will deliver them from destitution someday. Never give up. Never let go.

 

A young elf dashed through the trees, the ground beneath him was rotten and dead, laden with patches of grotesque, pulsing red. He was wheezing, out of breath. The trappings of the void had sapped much of his muscle. He heard shambling, a skeleton with a deformed skull, bones black as night approached him. The young elf screamed with the desperate ferocity only wounded youth can manage, and cleaved the creature in half with his blade. He looked up.

 

The Mother Tree of Lenniel was encased in cursed ice.

 

What remained of the town’s defenders were dead, the rest of his people had fled deep into the forests, or to the Conclave where they could find shelter. The Demone’s manor was encased in the rot of Setherien, and would soon be converted into a slave labour camp. There was nothing left for him here. He ran, and even then, he repeated the mantra he’d begun many years ago.

 

You created for them a home, the beginnings of a culture. This is only the beginning. Never give up. Never let go.

 

An older, weathered elf stood in a subterranean fortress. To his sides grimly stood dwarves, and those who had entrusted him to lead them. Mali’ame clad in steel and ivory, preparing for the worst in this coffin of a fortress they had dug under their beloved city in a last-ditch attempt to fend off the invaders who sought to destroy it. A sudden loud CRACK was heard. The shelling had begun. Lava poured from the walls where the foe’s explosives had made a dent. And in poured the Orenians and the High Elves, poisoned by the malice of Kalenz Uradir. The melee was short, and soon the defenders were routed.

 

Leyulin had fallen to the Silver invaders.

 

For decades now they had stifled and crushed his people. When would it end? The rage of battle had subsided. He crawled out of a pile of corpses, grittily wiping the blood and viscera of a warrior he had once known off of his face. He managed to go unnoticed as he crawled his way back through the forest of Fiandria, to the edge of the woods, where what remained of his people would regroup. All the while, he repeated his mantra.

 

Our own nation, our independence. You cannot give it up. Fight till the end. Never give up. Never let go.

 

It was the celebration of a new year. Almost a century had passed. An older elf stood before a blazing bonfire by a beach which overlooked the city of Laurelin in Vailor. He had weathered lines under his emerald eyes. No longer did the flames of youth burn so brightly within them. He looked upon the crowd before him, a crowd he was meant to be addressing. Elves, true elves, just liked he’d dreamed of since he was young. Proud warriors in intricate armour, druidic priests adorned in the trappings over nature. This was a nation, a people, a culture, a true society.

 

But it had not been easy, every set of eyes that looked upon him now had been a challenge. A project. Someone to win over to the old faith, Aspectism, which he had worked so hard to revive. There had been opposition, controversy, and as he became a beacon of hope to many, so too did he become a symbol of hatred to many more.

 

For so long he had fought foreign threats and abominations of the dark just for the chance to build his culture, his society, his people in peace. And now he had achieved that, he found opposition and resistance from his own people, who he only wanted to help. Why go on? Why continue? He shook such thoughts from his head. He puffed out his chest and looked upon the crowd of faithful elves who had helped him build the society he had always dreamed of, then delivered a new year’s speech worthy of a Prince.

 

A society ruled by men falls apart when those men are gone. A society ruled by tradition endures. Tradition transcends lives. Never give up. Never let go.

 

The normally peaceful shore of Axio’s Lake Linandria was interrupted by an ugly, shrill SCREECH. An older elf, eyes burning with the fury of centuries of struggle, cleaved a glowing aurum blade across the spectral, cloaked body of a wraith. The undead abomination released an ear-grating hiss and turned, releasing a telekinetic force that sent the elder elf spiraling into the dirt before he could react. The elf looked up, grimacing as he saw the wraith raise its blade to deliver the killing blow, only to be impaled from behind by a trio of golden javelins. The wraith dissolved away into nothing, the elf looked up to see his saviours, three armour-clad warriors of Sirame.

 

The elf was helped up by the warriors, muttering under his breath as he held tight his druidic staff for balance. This was fourth day in a row they’d had to drive off the undead from within sight of their city.

 

When would it end? When would they be able to stop fighting to keep everyone alive and just enjoy peace until the end of their days?

 

The long-attuned Druidic Elder limped across Linandria on his way back to his home. All seemed prosperous. He saw priests he had trained to teach the faith conversing with the young in the streets, elves drank and chatted in the tavern. Warriors patrolled the streets. Was this not the model society he had worked so hard to build? Hadn’t he wished for this since the beginning?

 

If so, Why wasn’t he happy?

 

He brushed into the humble shrine he had built to the Aspects, a place of worship for all the elves of Linandria. There he knelt before the burning sacraficial brazier and sought the god for answers, his head bowed and his eyes closed.

 

And there he received his answer in the form of an epiphany.

 

It would never end, never be over. There was never going to be a point where the building of his culture, his people and his society would be “done” or “complete”. There was never going to be a happily ever after, where he could enjoy the fruits of his hard work and retire in peace.

 

No,

 

For as long as he lived, he would have to fight. There would always be those who sought to uproot everything the wood elves had, sought to throw them back to the dark days of Anthos, when the White Rose and Setherien’s scourge scattered them to the four winds, to the tragedies of Athera, when they were drowned in acid and slaughtered by the likes of Kalenz Uradir.

 

For as long as he lived, he would need to teach. To spend day and night teaching, preaching and converting. Every single individual he would need to see to as if they were his own child, bringing them up in the old faith of the mali’ame and the old traditions to ensure that all his people would know of both’s importance. Never would he be able to rest.

 

There was never an end in sight.

 

A part of you knew from the start that this had no storybook ending. You gave everything you were to your people, and now you are nothing on your own. Be the beacon they need until the end of time. Never give up. Never let go.

 

Artimec opened his eyes, leaving the shrine and climbing up onto the higher plateau of the city. Above him lay the two elder trees in which housed his people, before him lay the city itself, and the great bridge that spanned across the lake, the colossal statues of Cernunnos and Cerridwen on either side.

 

He had built something great, something out of nothing. It had taken him centuries of blood, sweat and tears. But he had done it, not alone, but he had done it.

 

It had taken its toll on him. An eternity of fighting, physical or otherwise had done a number upon his body and mind that would likely never recover. As he looked upon his city and his homeland, he resolved to himself. Was he happy? No. It was likely he never would be again. But he was proud, and for all of this, he was willing to tie his fate to his people until the end of time.

 

Never give up. Never let go.

 

 

 

[Your Favorite Impure 736]

An elf donning the golden uniform of the Sirame would turn his gaze over the city from atop the stairwell spiraling to the upper tiers of the city. The bearded elf would emit a faint sigh as a small breeze rustles the boughs of the many trees within Linandria. His weary expression would soon house a faint, yet genuine, smile as he would spot his old friend, Artimec, glancing about at what he had helped build over the numerous years. Oh, how time has a strange way of changing individuals, causing the most hated of enemies to become your most staunchest of allies. It has the powers to cause them to even become one of your oldest friends. The bearded elf's gaze drifts back onto the figures in the distance; conversing, laughing, enjoying the peace that was hard-fought over what seemed like an eternity.

 

Look at all that you have accomplished, my friend. What we have accomplished. 

 

An amiable chuckle breezes past Aenor's scarred lips, before he takes up his spear within his gauntleted grasp, continuing on with his patrol of the city on the lake. 

 

There will be many more hardships ahead, kae llir, but at least we have this moment, no?

[Dry Crackers 268]

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[Leric 1097]

An elf sat in solitude within his study, his normal ornate drapery of various fabrics having been abandoned for something far more comfortable whilst he'd work among the various parchments containing documents, reports, and listings. After several minutes of silently scanning through the largest stack of papers settled before him he'd rest an elbow atop the tables surface and press his face into an awaiting palm. A pair of fingers pinching at his brow before his lips would part with a tired sigh, teeth grating against one another before satisfying his addiction with a brief pull of drink from a crystalline chalice nearby. Savoring the churning liquids within his maw he'd settle back in seat, normally straight and refined posture going lax whilst his gaze toward the wall furthest from him. His thoughts racing as he'd recall the events in his life leading up to now, the bastard of a White Rose race traitor whom once aided in the very genocide of his own kin, becoming a Kalenz brainwashed elf whom only repeated his fathers actions of slaughtering his own kind, finding himself seduced by a citizen of the very people whom he'd killed, and concluding in becoming their leader for well over a century. His lips pursed, a frown seeming to appear upon his lips before his tired features were soon replaced with an air of pleasantness and a warm smile, dipping his head in self-approval. He'd soon pen a small, short letter to his Council.

There is always work to done. Our job: the job of those whom have dozens, hundreds, and even thousands looking to us, relying upon us to make a decision and keep them safe is eternal. This blessing of our lives being able to yield centuries is something that mustn't be taken for granted, it is something that must be used to its utmost capability.  To be a leader, something that people place their trust in order to make decisions that might impact their lives in the most drastic ways, one must understand one simple fact; there is never an end. There is always progress to be had, something that must be done, fixed, and improved upon.

 

Take heed of this. 

 

 

[The Lion 736]

Artimec. Once a child before my eyes. I watched you wander through life in our howling existence. Developing into a man, you abandoned the silly ways of magicians and became someone to respect. Regarded as an enemy until you blew respect back into the scattered Malinorians. When the Conclave put the Princedom to rest, you proved yourself a strong leader. Resisting losing your cultural identity in face of the Justiciar Kalameet whom I laughed many times at when you outsmarted him constantly. Truly you are a political mind.

When the Scourge took your home from you, I decided to take it back out of respect for what you had created. The Disciples of Sol liberated Lenniel, but mostly in vain as we moved on from the world of Anthos shortly after. When I gave Elf free choice over their new leader, I was hoping your name would rise, but it was instead Kalenz Uradir who won. Perhaps it was for the best. You would not be the man you are today without the heinous actions of The Butterfly Who Is No More. I offer you the head of Kalenz Uradir, the elf I silenced on the shores of Vailor.

You won, we honour you.

*He says from outside the gate because he's not allowed in. Artimec in-fact probably didn't hear him being so much further away than voice could travel. Maybe someone will relay the message.*

[DahStalker 3692]

An elfess of bronze flesh weaved herself through the various chattering others in an ocean of their bodies, limbs constantly shifting for her ambling never threat to cease anytime soon. "Karin'ayla, lil' saplings." She'd greet time to time only to receive wide stares from youth directed towards three crooked slashes against her once flawless face, puffy and pink with old healed skin. A heavy hand had gone to latch itself upon a bare arm, an absolute frantic muddy gaze casting about in flickers of mere seconds, jaw clenching with unease of being surrounded; clinking of goods from merchants, the squeals of few children running about, and arguements of the old. "He's still up there, isn't he?" Mare inquired in a hushed tone, lids falling shut as she spoke not to an individual, but a simple sprite of green hue which remain perched to her shoulder, in response they were granted a confirmation of such. "Oh, how living for centuries can be a curse itself - being a tome of time in your own self, watching death and life pass by as if ripples in the water. However, to build on your own elements? It's chaos - what we drift on." 

---------———

  Melia squints, snorts escaping from her nostrils are she watched Artimec in close inspection. "Must be the age getting to him. Crazy."

[KorusPrime 130]

"You're all such drama queens." Cinh chuckles as he passes through Linandria boredly.

[DahStalker 3692]

6 hours ago, KorusPrime said:

"You're all such drama queens." Cinh chuckles as he passes through Linandria boredly.

Mare frowns, lips curling downwards. "And I wonder of your better accomplishments within life?"

[Guest]

"The times of a united Laureh'lin are long gone, the spine of our people has been bent beneath the pressures of an ever changing world to which we hardly belong."

 

 

Kairn had his knee bent before a shrine of the Aspects, his expression placid asides from the fury that lay within his gaze. Ever the pessimist he stared at the prized statue with his back straight. His son Elenion was next to him copying the movements of his father, albeit with far less grace and more reluctance, confusion even.

 

"I yet recall the names of men and women I knew in Leyulin, son. Good hardworking men and women who defined the stature of our society, one of the greatest in the history of the elves. You ought to remember them as well in these times. Never absolve yourself of duty unless your superiors demand it. Carry yourself courageously and understand the consequences of idle wroth and passionate words."

 

His son stirred, briefly nodding in agreement before directing his gaze towards the dark sky, rain soaking his typically well-kept hair. His mind fell prey to the old ventures of the past to which he belonged, the ever growing shadow of a people he loved devoutly that might be on the verge of complete and total annihilation.

 

"Never forget who you are son; because the corpse-eaters will. Do not allow yourself to become a statistic of war, some casualty lost in a seemingly benign conflict. The way of a good man is one of cunning, that is the only route to which you'll owe your success. Not your skill with a sword or spear, not your popularity  with the women, it is your mind that you should tend to with the highest regard."

 

It was to those solemn words that they mutually agreed. Elenion's mind drifted now to the recent circumstance where Artimec was wounded, while he did not bare witness to the grotesque act at the hands of an Ash Wraith he surely knew of its relevance. 

 

"... Father."

 

"Yes?"

 

"Druids are meant to be the wisest among us, yet the undead come in droves unheeded except for the defense of the military and a few rogues inside our city. What shall we do?"

 

"Only time will tell. They have an advantage we don't -- infinite resources and no responsibilities. They reawaken to cause harm, they die as a consequence. The only way to keep them away permanently is by inconveniencing their damned schedules." 

 

"Will Artimec heal?"

"No doubt."

 

It was with those words that they returned to prayer in that private location, the hallowed words which they spoke lost to time and memory.

 

 

[Guest]

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

 

If you feel this is a mistake, please contact myself or any FM and we'll restore it.