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An Anarion Family History Volume I

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[!] This book arrives addressed to ‘Mika Anarion Patriarch of the Anarion family & The Anarion Family’. It is jacketed in supple leather around pages seemingly made from leaves. The writing inside is formed from the discoloration of leaves rather than ink or charcoal. Inside the cover on the single paper page is the writing of Utaria Helenson-Anarion.


Dearest Mika,


Lily said that you might be interested in learning the history of her family and started writing her own report which you may receive at some point. I asked her if she thought about including her father or sister in it, but she doesn’t seem to care much for the genealogical studies. Therefore, it became my duty as a proliferator and caretaker of knowledge to provide the historical context you may be lacking. I contacted the Patriarch himself, and he had this story to write. Unfortunately it came in a lot of leaves and as one who is a good archivist knows even the means of writing is important to know the story. I still tried to jacket it the best I could in spite of the medium. 




-Citizen Utaria Grandaxe Helenson-Anarion




Midnus Anarion

His story, sorry again for the leaves.




I, Midnus Anarion, write this now in a brief moment of chosen lucidity. I find my age to be much beyond counting, some thirteen-hundred years long or longer at last attempt. The older I am, the less I desire to pretend at thinking or acting like we convince ourselves we must to live, but I recognize that I hold knowledge sincerely lost to time.


So I write for you, those who will inherit my name, my fathers name, the name bestowed upon us by him, the Great Father Malin. I write what I know. What matters to know, as so much of one’s life is impossible to convey or otherwise born of mundanity so un-noteworthy as to bore.


I start with the family’s story. A story as old as Malin himself.

In time so far ago it is remembered only in legend and tale, our family lived amongst the ancient forests of Malinor. We, like all elves of the time, were happy and prosperous living in tune with the forest, bathed in the plenty offered and founded by Malin.


Our family, The Anarions, were shapers by trade. Building the homes elven kind lived in through guiding the growth of home trees so thick and tall they rivaled the mountains our forest stretched to. There were no divisions in our people. We were of one race, born to purity of vision by our connections to the wondrous father Malin. To this day we maintain this purity, as is our racial right, to foster the connection to our wondrous father.

Even those who are not of my blood should act with this pride, for it is who you are. When you are Anarion, you are founder. You are progenitor. You are not simply blooded by those who birthed you, but inheritors of a purity those in what was my Huelunor simply cannot comprehend.


That is our name. Ancient and pure, born from Malin’s grace directly. We live in tune with the world, the void, or whatever calls us. We are mastery, gifted by tradition and ancient rites through which we were both founded and persist.

That is what it is to be Anarion.

It is also true however, that we were our home. If not now, then at least in seeded birth. Our people lived in cities without names at the time, content to be close to the divinity of Aeriel and Malin, in unity of purpose with our thriving brothers and sisters. For many years this stayed true, but Ibleese is attracted to such unity. I believe she cannot stand it, thrives to tear it down and corrupt it.

The darkened queen blessed our people with division, and chaos took root. My parents were cast out of the nation they had called home for so very long, alongside thousands and millions of our brothers and sisters. 


It was so long ago now I cannot bear to remember why. It tore at our family though, to lose so much. The loss and pain ate at me and my brothers, and as we saw my maln resigned to grief we grew angry. We saw weakness in him, weakness that had caused our misfortune.


We turned on him and my mother. Radis Anarion, Selene Anarion.


We left, taking our children and partners with us. I believe at least,  since I cannot recall any such partner or children for myself. This story, like many, I remember more through ritual than thought. If you are blessed to live as long as I, you too will murmur your birth like prayer. Utter it again and again as you cling to the slipping fading memories of time long forgotten by all others but you. There is nothing which does not wear thin upon the weight and erosion of this force, the pure breadth of monumentality of time itself scoring at the history of a life and a people until even those who lived it tremble at the possibility it had never happened at all.


In the end, I know now that Ibleese was the true reason for our suffering. Our family, in truth, shattered like many in the wake of her destructive division.


My younger brothers, their children and I left for the new world.
We were four of us in whole, I think, by the time we arrived at the supposed refuge of Aegis.

Myself, Midnus Anarion, birthed to the full moon with connection to its movements and guidance, the only one of us to truly still know how to guide the trees.
My brother Clausj, a man beset by sight of a being beyond us all, living in service to a great god who had chosen him.
My brother, Demacian, shrewd merchant and survivalist. He bought us shelter when we arrived in Laurelin, and founded the farm we used to grow our wealth once more.

And my nephew Lothar, author and poet. Some of his novels survive to this day, inherited through libraries and weathering time unknown as monuments to his existence.


When we stepped into the old great city for the first time, we brought only the clothes upon our backs. We scavenged for goods to sell to any who would have them, first saving for a stall, and then for a home. Four men living in a home comfortable for one.


We were just four of thousands, all pouring free into the world at once as we came upon it.


Those early days were paradisal. We lived by the day, looking up to Prince Native and his guidance. I joined the guard, Clausj tore deep into the earth for metals, and Demacian sold all he could get ahold of.


The roads were dangerous, and food was scarce, but we found solace in the safety of our city and in the warm inns along the paths we traveled to sell our goods. Soon we had enough to purchase a true home, something born of a proper tree instead of construction. I guided it, expanding and growing the homestead into a place that could fit each of us in truth.

I joined an organization named The Holmes. We watched the road and whispering isles, and protected those in need. We faced undead, killed bandits, and fostered in brotherhood.


When the peoples of Aegis rose up against the undead and the dark goddess, we were there, fighting and digging as fireballs exploded into the earth around us. We slayed the hordes, we fought for truth and freedom, we fought to save our home. We failed though, as things always eventually do. Ibleese had taken root in the world, had brought too much of the nether into the nature we had depended on. Laurelin militarized, the great druids struggled, and The Holmes built a great safe refuge. But, when the end came, none stood able to survive. We ran with what we could carry into a portal constructed by the monks, ending up in the new world of Asulon.


This is where my story started, and the story of my brothers came to an end. As far as I know, they did not survive.


When the descendants landed in the new world, we were left directionless. Our leaders gathered our people and traveled day and night to found our cities. It was during this journey that I was given a peculiar set of ruins to own and call my own. I lived there for a time. Others came and built homes. We explored the ruins, discovered high elven history. We named our nation Heulunor, founded on the truth of the high elven race discovered in the ruins, and my benefaction as its sponsor and owner of its land.


Though the nation was mine by right of the elven prince, extremists positioned themselves to take control of my nation, my land. I would pretend to say I was banished, but it was more of waking to fire and hangings. Those not aligned murdered by such ingrates that sully themselves with violence against their brothers and sisters. The nation still stands, though I question if it should. It is founded on spilled blood, on a lie of purity they cannot actually attain, tinted by the original sin of theft, hatred, bigotry, and murder of the pure.


Things grow hazy here. An elf as old as I… There are times you care not to remember. I was already some eight hundred years at this point already, but the truth is that I chose to let the wilds wick away time like wax down a thread.


Time moved like water through a river, rushing along leaving me caught upon it like a leaf.


I met a woman, she was nice. We had children. We ran between lands as darkness or evil claimed each one. I had a son. Two daughters. My woman passed.


We lived in a tree. Another one I had grown and shaped over decades of time. It was calm. Peaceful. My children grew and learned to do more and be more. I taught them our ancient secrets, and prepared them to thrive and survive in the world they would join without my presence.


One of my daughters found a husband, and I traveled to some blasted rock in the middle of a land of horrors to meet him. I found him wanting.


My other daughter founded a nation. Some claimed land with names like formal wear or something. Seeing as she had actually accomplished something, I wandered into town to look it over. It was nice. Not enough life, and they lived in stone boxes like savages or humans. Seemed cold.

I met another woman there. She was interesting enough that I stayed. Met with her, learned with her. Though I was surprised to find out the druids were no longer run by the undead as they were in Aegis. They could not even be undead and druidic now. Amazing how much simpler it makes the world. It meant I could let the blood debt die, which was good because I simply cannot remember why I had vowed it in the first place.


The Owl druid taught me how to control the plants.


I could hear the song of the world, I could sing in tune with it. I heard the deep memory of the sapling I had saved from Laurelin, the echoes of our people and what we had weathered. I fancied myself excited again for a time. Though that waned as I realized my interest in her was not returned.


As the excitement died down I started to notice things I had ignored. The reality of the druids is unpleasant. They are no such different than the Humans of Alkhazar and Oren. Over concerned with one another, too lost in disagreement and scheming. Old grudges, concerns over what other groves are doing guiding them more than their duties. They act as children who have not yet weaned themselves from the drama and tales they enjoyed in the school yards, blinded to the truth of Ibleeze’s influence. They are too young, even the elven kind there. They do not know what we once were. What we should be, more echo than novel. In truth, the druids are naught but what we were when Malin’s cities fell. Shattered, divided, and far too unsure to trust.


Truely what disgusted me though was the laziness. They did not shape the trees, they did not live in earnest with balance and the path of nature. They claim themselves connected to the order of Laurelin, but the origin of their people is one ruled and controlled by the undead and Ibleeze. As such they poison lands with magics, forcing the overpresence of life believing it is grand work. Their groves are an insult, plots of decadence and the gorgeing of gluttony, filled with people who create because they can, not because we are shepherds of the forests we live both in and for.


They, like I once was, are blinded to the harm they cause by what they think is right.


So I left. I walked the great wilds, and lost myself. And when Owl left, I followed for a time, but soon departed her as well.


At some millenia and a bit, I write this down for you, those who come next. So that you will know my story and the origins of our family and what we were. 


My memory comes and goes, but who truly finds themself so self important as to live according to who you remembered you were? I wander these wilds, and I shape the trees. I foster life, and celebrate death. I live in true unity with nature, blessed in Aerial’s name, the one true goddess who watches over the lifestream I will one day rejoin.


My way is mine, but yours will be yours. You are young enough to relish in connection and community. You will find paths I never knew and will never know. That is my hope for you.


We must remember who we were. We must memorize it and know it. To forget is to fall to decadent lies any would placate themselves with in the face of failure.


We know what was lost. Only we can bring it back once more.


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Lumia sad quietly as she sat in her families estate and poured over the book. She turned each page gently, fearing she may ruin each one with her touch. Fascinated to learn of Midnis and his life. Shocked at how long he’d been alive. Alive to see continents she had never even heard of. 

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