Qizu 4039 Share Posted April 14 THE ELVES OF Y’ELTHYR - THE CONQUEST OF SKJOLDER Cursed of the Hatred that Drove them… The Elves of Y'elthyr - The Beginning Long ago in the lands of Skjolder, covens had formed alliances and pacts with mortals of the realm. One grouping in particular that had ventured to the lands of Athera, had formed pacts with elves of the realm. These elves thrived in the lands of winter, naming themselves mali’fenn. A sect of these elves had served and worked alongside the witches of Skjolder, however through these many years they had been casted out and mistreated in their service. Strife born from this, leaving a great separation between the two sides. This spawned forth wrath and rage, as vengeance riddled the bones of the mali’fenn who had pledged their very lives to the witches. One sect of these mali fled deep into the world, having been casted out from their societies for their servitude and now from the witches. It was here that they began their long trek, wayward souls upon the world in hopes of a purpose. In their travels, the mali’fenn stumbled upon a hidden tomb, buried deep within the frozen earth. It was a place of power, a sanctuary untouched by the passage of time. Within its darkened halls, they uncovered ancient relics of a bygone era – the fabled blades of the weaver warlocks. Only five blades lay within the tomb, each pulsating with an ominous aura that beckoned to those who dared to grasp them. These swords, imbued with the essence of dark magic, whispered promises of strength and vengeance to those who would claim them. Drawn by the allure of power and fueled by their thirst for retribution, the mali’fenn seized the blades as their own. As they clasped the cursed weapons, they felt a surge of dark energy coursing through their veins, intertwining their fates with the malevolent spirits that had forged the blades long ago. These five elves, now bearing the mantle of leaders among their kin, christened themselves the Elves of Y'elthyr, swearing an oath to reclaim their honor and wreak havoc upon those who had wronged them. With their newfound power and leadership, the Elves of Y'elthyr became formidable adversaries, their hatred only fueled by forces of the unknown. They rallied their forces, forging alliances with dark creatures of the wilderness and marshaling their strength for the ultimate reckoning. Their sights set upon the heart of Skjolder, the Elves of Y'elthyr marched forth, their blades gleaming with malevolent energy. They sought not just to conquer, but to annihilate – to tear down the very foundations of the motherland of the witches that had spurned them and reclaim their rightful place as lords of the frozen realm. The First Night As the moon hung low in the sky, casting a ghostly pallor over the frozen landscape of Skjolder, the witches of the covens huddled together in their sanctuaries, their senses alert to the slightest hint of danger. But on this night, danger came not as a whisper on the wind, but as a tempest of blood and terror unleashed upon them by the hands of the accursed Elves of Y'elthyr. From the shadows emerged the five figures, each cloaked in darkness and wielding blades that dripped with the essence of death itself. With silent precision, they divided their forces, each leading a battalion of twisted creatures spawned from the depths of nightmare. The first raid struck like a thunderbolt, as the leader of the Elves of Y'elthyr descended upon the heart of a coven, his blade slicing through the air with a deadly grace. With ruthless efficiency, he sought out the mother of the coven, her screams echoing through the night as her lifeblood stained the snow below. Meanwhile, his companions followed suit, their blades flashing in the moonlight as they set upon their targets with savage glee. The second coven fell beneath their onslaught, its defenders overwhelmed by the sheer ferocity of the attack. One by one, the young witches were cut down, their bodies torn asunder by the cruel steel of their assailants. The third coven fared no better, as the third elf led his battalion in a relentless assault, his eyes ablaze with the fires of vengeance. With every swing of his blade, he reaped a harvest of blood and agony, leaving nothing but death and despair in his wake. A grave sense of fear filled the hearts of the witches in the land as terror sifted through coven’s one by one. And so it went, as the night wore on, each of the five elves carving a swath of destruction through the land, their laughter mingling with the screams of the dying. By the time the dawn broke, Skjolder lay bathed in the ashes of its defenders, a grim testament to the horrors unleashed by the Elves of Y'elthyr. The Summit of Covens As the sun rose over the desolate landscape of Skjolder, the surviving witches found themselves scattered and broken, some of the mightiest covens reduced to little more than whispers in the wind. Some covens fled into the icy depths of the mountains, seeking refuge amidst the howling winds and treacherous peaks. Here, they hunkered down in the darkness, their magic veiled in shadows as they plotted their revenge. In the depths of the mountains, amidst the swirling mists and icy winds, the witches convened a somber summit, their faces drawn and weary with the weight of their losses. Gathered around a flickering bonfire, they spoke in hushed tones, their voices laden with desperation and determination. Amidst the council, voices rose in dissent, arguing for different courses of action. Some advocated for retreat, urging their brethren to flee deeper into the mountains and forsake their ancestral lands in the face of overwhelming odds. Others, however, stood firm, their eyes flashing with defiance as they vowed to stand their ground and fight to the last. It was then that the eldest of the witches, her voice a whispering echo of ancient power, rose to address the assembly. With a steely gaze, she reminded her sisters of the sacred bond that bound them together – the oath sworn to protect their motherland, no matter the cost. And so, with grim resolve, the witches cast aside their differences and forged a pact of unity, vowing to stand as one against the encroaching darkness. From that moment forth, they would forbid any who sought to flee their motherland, forcing them to face their assailants head-on and defend their way of life with all the strength and cunning at their disposal. “The night descended, cloaking our coven in a blanket of darkness as the chilling sound of metal on stone reverberated through our frozen halls. My heart pounded in my chest as I heard the unmistakable cries of agony echoing from the depths below – the voice of our mother, the heart of our coven, under siege by unseen assailants. Dread gripped my soul as I realized that the Elves of Y'elthyr had come for us, their blades hungry for blood and vengeance.” - Stelthera of the Descloux Coven The War of Eternal Winter The Elves of Y'elthyr were not content to let their prey slip through their fingers so easily. With the taste of victory fresh upon their lips, they hunted their quarry relentlessly, scouring the frozen wastelands in search of any who dared to defy them. And so, a deadly game of cat and mouse began, as the witches struck from the shadows with cunning and guile, their spells weaving a web of illusion and deceit to confound their enemies. Each skirmish was a desperate battle for survival, as blood and magic clashed amidst the frozen wilderness. But even as the witches fought tooth and nail to defend their way of life, they knew that the tide of war was turning against them. With each passing day, their numbers dwindled and their resources grew thin, while the Elves of Y'elthyr seemed only to grow stronger with each victory. Yet still, they clung to hope, for they knew that as long as even a single ember of defiance burned within their hearts, they would never truly be defeated. And so they bided their time, waiting for the moment when they could rise from the ashes and reclaim their rightful place as the masters of Skjolder. “As the first tremors of war shook the lands of Skjolder, the witches of the Coven of Devana found themselves thrust into a maelstrom of chaos and uncertainty. Descended from the Seers of the North, who had served the legendary witch Brunhylde, our coven had long stood as guardians of prophecy, keeping a vigilant watch over the ever-shifting currents of fate from our hidden sanctuary deep within the chasms of the ice. For generations, we had foreseen the signs of a brewing conflict, our visions painting a grim tapestry of bloodshed and despair that lurked on the horizon. Yet, like a cruel twist of fate, the eruption of war caught us unprepared, our senses overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of the mali'fenn. A sickness gnawed at our souls as our mirrors and gateways of sight revealed the atrocities that would soon engulf our homeland. Gathered around our sacred altar, we beheld the grim fate of our fellow covens, witnessing their valiant struggle against the forces that sought to annihilate them. But as their numbers dwindled and desperation mounted, it became painfully clear that victory was beyond their grasp. And so, as our brethren rallied together to face the oncoming storm, the witches of Devana made a fateful decision. With heavy hearts and resigned spirits, we knew that our only chance lay in retreat. Against the sheer unexpectedness and ferocity of our assailants, we stood little chance of holding them at bay. And so, with the weight of centuries of tradition bearing down upon us, we turned our gaze towards the only sanctuary we knew beyond the icy reaches of Skjolder. For too long had our gazing eyes fixated upon the distant shores where the witches of Aevos dwelled, a flickering beacon of hope amidst the encroaching darkness. Now, as the tempest of war raged around us, perhaps it was time to seek them out, to forge a new alliance born from the ashes of our shattered homeland. And so, with determination burning in our hearts, we set forth on a journey into the unknown, our destinies entwined with those of our distant kin across the frozen wastes.” - Lada of Devana Spoiler This post describes current events upon Skjoldier, the Frost Witch Motherland. The above information only available to those who had viewed the Altar upon the Glacier, or received it via word of mouth. 22 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
Rebellionlife 362 Share Posted April 14 Deep in the heart of Aevos's northern wasteland of ice and snow a bearded witchling kneeled down as she observed these visions. A blade of Azhl drenched in dried blood as her kin knelt down next to her. It was time for a new beginning she felt, perhaps a journey to remove such forces that hurt her kin. The blades, the witches' eyes gleamed at the sight of them, her lust for power and greed was not satiated now until she had this to. 2 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
sam33497 2821 Share Posted April 14 Saldora's core writhes with hatred towards those invaders, with shattered pride towards the ones who had made her flee. They would all die. They would all die. They would all die, painfully and slowly, as would anyone who stood in her way. 4 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
Gimble 58 Share Posted April 14 A young witch looked on in horror, distraught for a family and a home that she had never know and now never would. 1 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
TheBigBubbles 699 Share Posted April 14 A haggard wench of frost clutched the form of a witch greater than herself. Her own expression was entirely unreadable, if not callous. It was a genocide against her kind, and yet... despite every instinct within her, the tiniest smile brewed on her face, only to be wiped away seconds later. Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
imkenobi 49 Share Posted April 14 The Crow watches the show, the story play out before it. Staring upon the images shown with interest. The stories, the knowledge gained and the experience. The crow breathing out air as it stares out into darkness as everything its family couldve known, and have known has been genocided and taken apart. It knew it had to prepare, and quickly. Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
sapphic_spidy 155 Share Posted April 14 A man from Skjoldier sits in Cormath, not a clue what is going on. A man who escaped a village that turned him away when he was young and full of mistakes. He never saw a witch. He never had to. No one saw the witches. No one knew much about them for certain. The whispers stretched them to have far more power than they did. They all told the stories differently, none of them entirely accurate. Not one didn't exaggerate at least one thing grossly. The man's village was not important enough to be named. It did not matter to anyone outside of it. It may not even exist anymore. Maybe he is the only one who is still alive. It's sad, really, how little he truly knows of Skjoldier. How little he knows of the witches. How little he knows of anything. He doesn't know what it's like in the citadel, what it's like in the woods, where the witches hid. He doesn't know anything beyond his little village. The only time he left it was when he stowed away to come to Aevos. All the man from Skjoldier knows is the fear that was hammered into his heart. He has no clue what is going on... And maybe he never will. It's not as if he knows much of his homeland anyways. 1 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
exogens 934 Share Posted April 14 A Paralyzed Nephilim simply heard the story, not doing anything after someone casted a bear and caused a friendly-fire. 1 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
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