| SUMMONING THE OLD GODS OF THE FOREST |

[Princedom Of Elvenesse 354]

The Summoning

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Brothers and sisters, the wild anguishes in pain. The personal and communal harmony with nature upon which our way of life is founded upon is threatened to its very core. A blackened maw opens up in the desert, pouring disease, malflame and the cold, impassionate obsidian blades of war from its foul jaws. The Elves of Siramenor have woven ironwood into our hearts, we are resolved to fight until the last tribe falls against the Inferis of the desert, but spears and arrows alone will not bring us salvation. 

 

Brothers and sisters, it is time to invoke the fury of the wild. It is time to act upon the prayers and the precepts of the elnarnsae’ame, by which we have lived since the time before Malin. I call upon us to summon the ancient spirits of the forest. Let us bring down upon our blighted foe the chaos, the cruelty, and the cold, impassionate hand of the Children of Cernunnos. The Mani of War. 

 

I call upon all the Green Priests of the Mali’ame. I call upon every wise druid across the Irrinite Glade to the Savannah of the Talus Grove. Let us convene, let us draw council on how to draw the attention of the Gods. Nature is in anguish, brothers and sisters, and it is time her guardians rise with fang, tusk, and claw.

 

Hiylu’evar,

Priest of the Coyote

 

@
 

[Guest]

 

Astride horses sit a myriad of blackened, hooded figures bearing terrible malice. The equestrian beasts were black too, bearing horse armor and saddles a hue of onyx not unlike their Elven masters. The four horsemen disembarked from their horses, before dragging a bound and gagged figure down before the shrine. The prisoner’s features were obscured by a veneer of shadow beneath the looming sunset. He or she was indiscernible, just fresh meat and blood to bless the soil from then on. A shriek of fear directed at the Pagans managed to escape the prone figure’s bound lips; but it was far too late for them. The head of the four figures spoke in garbled tongue, before drawing a falchion-- now one imitating a fabled blade of yore-- to separate the figure’s head gracelessly from his neck before the altar. Blood spurted outwards and fed the ground, as a variety of mystical runes began to thrum red, the blood feeding into the ancient stones. The Commander’s smiling helmet and its hollowed out eyes regarded the fallen prey with no mercy. Blood spurted outwards and fed the ground, as a variety of mystical runes began to thrum red, the blood feeding into the ancient stones. 

 

The altar was formed from a mound of four rocks with odd symbols adorning the front of them, etched generations before. Once, it had consisted of seven, but that practice came to an unceremonious end fifty-years before at the Razing of Alderyn. 

 

”Death rides for every Fiend. Every aberration. They shall be buried.” 

 

 

[osumanduas 1442]

Spoiler

 

 

 

 

 

 

Aneir’in Ithelanen for the first time in many years saw himself exorcized from the path, spit out from the wilds like a a hot iron from the forge. In his wake his heart of lupine fervour set the trees and plant-life into madness, like a choir of angels beating their branches to his battle spirit. The batshit druid would arrive quickly, ready to find fellow clansmen to halt the heretical ceremony; the pride of Irrin’s kin who sought to bend the will of his gods to their mortal fibre. “The withering eagle has flown his corpse cart too close to the sun.” an Aldemari passerby might hear, though the elder Ithelanen too was becoming just so, less a man, more a bulwark of faith; a simple pillar of ancient antiquity and the culture of his ancestors.

 

 

[LaffenOutLoud 355]

 

The air was still, and what some might call heavy. A Mali’ame made of wood and leaf was seated cross-legged on the floor in the surgical basement of an apothecary. He coughed violently, followed only by sneezes and endless scratching at a rash on his chest. In what felt like an eternal quarantine, the Mali’ame used this time well. Bottles filled with both horrid and unique ingredients were cluttered all over the floor. Herbs of all kinds were lined up all around the man. A cluttered journal was opened in front of him, where he often crossed out various ideas. In this journal was a drawing of a malflame burn present on the bicep of a familiar Elf. He scribbled away in the other side of the book, drawing various clusters of symbols from the material alphabet, putting every ounce of his pestilence-tainted energy into finding a cure for malflame. While he chaotically wrote these down, he was whispering beneath his breath. “Surrender yourself to the miracle of the sea.. Hamatsa can save us.. Hamatsa can sa-“ his whispering was interrupted with a chain of more violent coughing.