An Address to Any Proud Mali'ame

[Nectorist 7423]

 An Address to Any Proud Mali’ame

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Not only do our woods burn, but so too does the vibrancy of our collective spirit.

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We as the Mali’ame have entered into our darkest period. Whether overran by stronger forces of wider Elvendom, or stagnating by our own mistakes, we have withered as a people. Gone are the days of our preeminence as the Dominion, an era that grows further from our living memory. Gone are the days of safety, of art, of thought, for they have been subsumed by idle vices which themselves have given way to breakdown in order. The result of this is playing out before our eyes with the current defeats in the field suffered by the Vale of Nevaehlen, proving that we are unable to defend ourselves and our livelihoods in our present condition.

 

I am resolved in my belief that we must return to a system similar to that enacted by the Bronze Rebellion centuries ago. A vanguard must be present to defend the gentle people of the Mali’ame, those who are disinterested in warfare and the toil that comes with the state of war. This bronze vanguard, composed of the most dedicated fighters, serves as the militant arm by which the Mali’Ame defend themselves from those outside forces that would endeavor to disrupt our way of life. In turn, those of the passive variety will provide a measure of economic support for the vanguard, whether it be through farming, cultural expressions such as art or literature, medical services, and other such functions. It is through the cooperation of these two arms of Mali’ame society that our people may prosper.

 

If the arm of strength is neglected, then we will be consumed by forces greater than ourselves.

 

If the arm of culture is forgotten, then we will have no object to fight for, and thus fall into a ruin of our own making.

 

I wish to join the causes of any and all Mali’ame who share my general views on the necessary direction of our people, little-articulated as they presently are. I ask that those who may find some interest in a movement to revive the culture of our people and ensure its protection write back, for I wish to make myself a willing and able servant. The day when our poets write well and freely, our swords stay sharp and glimmering, and our homes are maintained and unburnt, is the day that I wish to live again and will undertake any necessary action to see it so.

 

Galar Ithelanen

[Pancho 2536]

A mali'ame of blood unknown read the missive, nodding as he donned what little he had and set out to adventure.

[Neviah 977]

A lost Princess' hazel eyes darted across the missive with a frown, before ripping it off the post it was attached to and shoving it into her satchel.

[TeawithFrisket 2636]

"E' wonder whom he could be talking to?" A Solarii' spoke in a extremely doubtful tone

[DrunkCapybaraa 176]

A Taliame'onn chief in exile thought to the days when he first showed up to Elvendom, back to the times of the Wardens and his brother's words about the weakness of the Mali'ame - and how they must have strength to remain together. In his years, despite being young for an elf, he saw the words of this missive to be true-- whether he enjoyed it or not, "I do suppose pride always was my downfall..." he'd crumple up the missive and don his helmet, aiming to return to a realm of his past, "I just need to tie up one more loose end..."

[Juno. 1286]

The flora and fauna sang sweetly as their lady lounged amongst the foliage, her fingers stained with earth and vines entangling her limbs. A lantern of faelight illuminates the missive within her hold, breath hitching as a vulpine gaze met its signature.

 

Ithelanen

 

Nature paused its song as the woman stirred, chewing on her inner cheek.

[critter 2470]

Glass bottles littered a moss-covered stone. Sister Vine stooped over the papers which sometimes found their meandering way to her, and paused.

Ithelanen.

 

Distantly did she recall memories of the last Ithelanen to write and speak of Bronze, almost as distant as last she called seeing any she might call brethren. It had been far too long for her to assess this supposed state they were in. 

A visit, perhaps, was due. 

[Dry Crackers 230]

A shower of sparks is struck down on tinder, which catches slowly under the inducement of Arhiln's breath.  Crumpled beside the tinder in the bottom of a furnace is a broadsheet from an Ithelanen, along with half a dozen other pieces of paper litter, which soon add their own heat and bright yellow flame to the effort of lighting the mass of charcoal that is to fuel the furnace;  a furnace charged deep with iron ore and scrap, in some hours to disgorge a mass of steel to be beaten into arms and armor for the defense of the 'Ame.

 

Arhiln, content with the strength of the growing blaze, closes the furnace and sets to his next task:  organizing the veritable battalion of Elves appearing to take their turn in the filth of the tannery.  Though his voice is hoarse from continually calling among the fumes of industry, though his fatigue-duty surcoat and leggings are worn and stained, though unaccustomed labor brings blisters to his hands and sends sweat pouring from his body, national pride shines unmistakably from beneath the grime on his face and reflects off the badge of a noble stag's head pinned to his breast.

 

"Ayla, lliran!" he calls, seeing the effort of his brother-workers.  "This is how we defend our people!"

[Wavey 1446]

A distant wood elf found the missive during one of his adventures offshore. He pondered for a moment as he then mused. 

 

“Maybe I should return home.” 

[Wand 932]

The elven once-Prince, now-Templar, takes note of the author's name. It had been too many years, but perhaps he might seek this one out.

[Rigorous 1548]

 

 

Something stirs amongst the treeline, the nation from which Galar claimed descent may be long since dead, but the son of Camlannen had evidently found his calling. Claiming descent from Kairn the Conqueror, a fabled Elven mortal-king who joined forces with Emperor Aurelius Horen to subjugate the entire world centuries before. Galar had grown now into a man of over two-centuries of age with a honed mind, astute senses, and a sense of honor that compelled him to help his kin. 

 

Galar could recall next the words of his long gone father, who had long since entered self-imposed exile after burning Camlannen to the ground himself and leaving for reasons unknown to him. His father, he thought, the one they called Usurper. A memory of his childhood replayed itself over and over in Galar's mind, a reminder of the philosophy instilled within him through years of hardship. Advice that his father had given him long ago when he was being bullied by another younger boy. A boy Galar had conceived to be his friend, but in reality was jealous over a girl they were both friends with.

 

"The world is cruel and people are even crueler. All men you meet are your enemies. Even your allies shall desire your power, and in the possession of power you must always be covetous. The first man to compromise on terms that aren't his own shall never rule for long. Remember this, my son, and you will be a wise chief. But being a wise chief and being a good man are two goals that cannot exist together. To be a chief, you must be willing to kill even those you love. Learn from my mistakes."

 

The old and grizzled elf's mechanical arm whirled as he laid his bronze-tinted hand upon his raven-haired son's head, ruffling the boy's hair in a simple gesture of affection. However, the boy could not make sense of any emotion on the old chief's marred features, his tan face horrifically burned and scarred from centuries of combat. Centuries spent as a warrior.

 

"If I had displayed the same cruelty I showed my enemies to those who betrayed me, fewer people would have suffered. After all, what is a couple more dead elves really, especially if they do not contribute to the society they live in anyways. No, my son, there are those who have the strength of will to make the hard choices so that the pack survives, and then there are those who shall hide from their responsibilities and allow their subjects to suffer. Power is about dominance. If you cannot dominate somebody, how do you ever expect to be treated with seriousness? So, the next time that boy comes for you, hit him until he does not move, and allow Nature to dictate his course. There is no place for the weak in this world."

 

Somehow, Galar could still sense his father watching him. As the waylaid Alder Elf looked into the distance, he was met with the distant image of a coyote shrouded in darkness that possessed a single eye which glinted in the moonlight. Upon blinking, the beast was gone, and he found himself unsure of what to make of that ephemeral illusion that had come and gone so quick.

 

I need a drink.

 

@Nectorist

Edited October 5, 2023 by RIGOR

[Toffee 1127]

An elder Wood Elf read this missive in the Illivira apothecary, surrounded by drying herbs and the tools of her calling. Followers of other Wood Elven creeds believed in internal balance, embracing both the Mother and the Father, healing and the hunt. This Elf followed the Way of the Mother. What need was there for internal balance when societal balance pleased the Aspects? The young Ithelanen had the right of it. There needed to be warriors and hunters as well as healers, poets, and custodians of the faith. In all things, the balance, lest their people continue to be slaughtered and subjugated. 

 

Yet she had also known each of the three Bronze Princes, those mythic figures who rose from the mists of the Bronze Rebellion. One would call himself King, yet there was No King But Malin. Another would preach dreams of a united Elvenesse while sundering the Elven people with his violence and hubris. The third tried to walk the line between their cracking triumvirate and failed. The Dominion of Malin may have shone on the pages of history, a glittering golden era, but it loomed dark and decaying in the memory of those few Elves who had lived to see it rise and fall. 
 

She sensed an interesting conversation in her future. 

[Honourary 650]

Somewhere far, far away, digressed from civilization, an elf of a bygone time catches wind of his brother's missive.

[Lirinya 2662]

An elfess worked away through a pile official papers. Some letters from their enemy, some discussions of trade, and one it seemed, a missive of sorts.

 

She read it through several times both quietly, and aloud:
"Astoundin'," she stated to her partner, @Terry, "tha' it takes th' subjugation of ah settlemen' of folk ta rouse them from their slumber. Where were they when th' 'aheral firs' made their war public? Or when they took our folk 'ostage in raids? Opportunists. I will believe it when I see it."

 

The missive was promptly folded and stored away- filed into the bookcase where discarded letters remained for the rest of their days.

[Tiresiam 462]

Spoiler

 

 

An elder Ithelanen trekked upon the wilds, down the paths of his forebears. Foraging amongst the dense bush, checking traps, and plucking game. He danced with mute purpose through a forest as his dinner, a large rabbit, dangled therein from his belt by its feet. This would be a hearty meal he thought. Its bones well suited to a good broth, boiled well with the greens spare at camp he had plucked the day before. There would be little worry in moving further south when it came time to break camp at dawn.

 

It was only once sat to cook, that he could portend the signs. As his bronze pot was set boiling above sizzling fire, only then did he hear the whispers. In times past he might've ignored the call and continued his wanderings, but that night on a whim he allowed nature's voice to whistle in his ear. A breeze brushed through the tree line and unto camp, the fire flickering ever briefly. It was enough to pull his attention from his preparations. Setting down a knife he was using to chop mushroom he left his work where it lay to follow that wind to the edge of his abode beneath the canopy. As he looked into the darkness encompassing his fire lit camp eyes glint back at him, given away by an unblinking glare. Moving forward though, the closer he moved the more uneasy the small creature became. Finally as it was within reach it began to squeal, and ran back into obscurity. A boar had found him there in his roving, and he mused on the meaning over supper.

 

When he awoke in the morning he made quick work of cleaning bronze-wear a the nearby creek, settled all accounts as he packed for the path ahead. He thought, "Great Moccus has sent a sign perhaps?" as he hauled his supplies upon his back. Ready to leave the winds changed, the boar beckoned, and the Ithelanen moves forward, his course is altered, the arc of his stride bound unknowingly for his proud kinsmen. The gods alone tracing his path.

 

Edited October 5, 2023 by Tiresiam