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Aythyinae

To the Mali'aheral of Aegrothond

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“I weep for their departure from tradition.

 

I weep for the victims of their ambition.

 

When will their trumpet call for the dark finally end?”

 

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The Maheral addressed the gathering in the Silver Citadel of the Swaymoors. The cold had laid claim to the islands, the halls and towers receiving a shroud which glistered in the light of a cold moon. As he spoke, an aura of tranquility embraced the Enclave. As he paused, the Elves gathered could hear the whispering of ancestors carried with the wind and pained wailing with the waves.

 

For the lost Mali’aheral of Aegrothond, we weep. By the guidance of Larihei we came to our prosperous and blessed existance. We departed from the stagnant and oppressive grasp of Malin to Larihei’s warm embrace – to the Silver City, the cradle of Mali’aheral glory. The Mali’aheral have always guarded and advanced their position and tradition since the Motherland’s reascension in Asulon. Our bounden duty is unwavering opposition to all who speak to the decline of Mali’aheral culture. Our bounden duty is to resist and endure all their cultural executioners – their rewriting of history.

 

The Maheral placed a hand to his chest, a frown deeply wrinkling his forehead. At this, Mordu Fae’anarwan Thrantillon approached the podium, head lowered respectfully. The well-armoured High Elf put a bundle of white cloth on the table before the crowd, pausing a brief moment before unwrapping it. The gathered Elves held their breath, the Silver Citadel kept hostage with anticipation – or anxiousness. Kacper Silma’s pale-blue clean-cut finger was revealed to the audience. The Maheral raised his voice again.

 

I weep for their departure from tradition. I weep for the victims of their ambition. When will their trumpet call for the dark finally end? All executioners of tradition who step into Haelun’or will leave wielding their cleavers with 9 fingers.

 

To Belestram Sylvaeri and all Mali’aheral of Aegrothond, adopt maehr’sae hiylun’ehya and the Silver Law. Atone for your crimes against tradition and let the ancestral light shine upon your ascendency again.

 

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The Maheral extended both of his arms, gesturing to the city beneath them. He spoke the term, the Maheral expecting the crowd to respond in unison;

 

maehr’sae hiylun’ehya!

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“Looks like it’s time to trap them in the gates again...” Csaba hums, a grin spreading across his mottled grey face. 

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17 minutes ago, xxx said:

“Looks like it’s time to trap them in the gates again...” Csaba hums, a grin spreading across his mottled grey face. 

"Ave Vydra." Ander mumbles.

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Aldir'tor looked up to the Maheral, nodding towards him. – This act of maintaining purity brought to mind an old piece of poetry.

The Maheral’s Hymn

The Most Blessed in succession,
The Maheral of the Elves,
He lead the vanguard of progression,
To protect and raise themselves!

His guidance shall be heed,
His hymn again be sung,
His courts unsullied by weed,
The spirit of his blessing spread among!

After he said these blessed words in his head, he took a deep breath before responding to the Maheral, raising the banner of the silver state in his right hand.


maehr’sae hiylun’ehya!

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“The Haelun’orians always have made for weak soldiers, and a lethargic people,” notes Aelthir, sharpening his spear. “This should be easy."

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The Sohaer, Kiljarys Isilliath lingered behind the most noble and wise Maheral, a symbol of purity and grace to his people. He strode forward at a languid pace, arms creased at his back per the mali’aheral sovereign’s wont. The Sohaer’s ancient, graying eyes surveyed the crowd gathered below, shifting between each and every observant face. Memories of decades past returned to him as the tide returns to the battered shore. His thin, pale lips were wrought into an infelicitous grin upon the conclusion of the Maheral’s speech.

 

The sovereign stood beside the Maheral. His arms were raised high, thrown skyward with great elan. 

 

”Kaean’leh evareh! Maehr’sae hiylun’ehya.”

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“A tradition is the transmission of customs or beliefs from generation to generation, or the fact of being passed on in this way... If the Mali'aheral of Aegrothond do not want the transmission of these customs; will not reciprocate these beliefs; and are not of the generation held with responsibility for further tradition-passing... Then it is not their responsibility. To each his or her own, let them be.” Remarks Zastro, continuing to write in one of his many papers and books.

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Amorette Blondelle of the prestigious house Acal’elor would beam at the news! Running to grab her servant to furiously shake at her sleeve.

 

“Did you hear the news? Our glorious elchihi has come under new leadership! I cannot wait to meet him!”

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Edrahil would laugh 

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((Honestly, great city, on my adventures I needed food, although when I had entered the city to buy such the customer service was terrible. Good food though.)) 2/5

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Aryen remained quiet, protecting himself from the burning sun with his trusty umbrella.

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Aeluin watches Aelthir sharpening his spear and laughs. “Why even bother?” He would then go back into the Citadel.

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"Damn it...looks like 'aheral still gave not changed. I thought nigh two hundred years would change things between Haelunor and the rest of Malin's children, but they are just as impotent now as they were when I fought them in my youth. We will gain our vengeance and protect the traditions of Malin from such heinous assaults. They will learn not to assault the great houses of Elvenesse, that I swear." Elros Silma would say with a deep sigh of disappointment when hearing of this all and seeing his ma'lonn's maimed hand

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“I doubt the whole two ‘Aheral on that damned salt-island is worth making a political fuss over. Might be regressing a bit in our opinions... Or maybe the Maheral is simply playing a smarter game than I care to follow.” Renarion mumbles

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