The city of Magara'lin, where Velulaei set sail.

[The King Of The Moon 7016]

Spoiler

 

Ker’nor was so quiet. Even in its heyday, he remembered how most of his people seemed elsewhere; encamped like “wild savages” with the Warhawkes, chasing coin in Johannesberg, or off assimilating to the ways of men and druids and all things between. Even in those isles of Axios where the ruins of Magara’lin stood - the very birthplace of the dark elves - the significance of such remained abstract to many drow, and threatening to those which sought to control them.

 

He remembered the Velulaei of his ancestors, and under Her he came to know the intangible worth of being truly maehr; a thing of countless shapes and creeds, which found unity in the Moon Mother. 

 

When Ker’nor fell, and his Shadeleaf forebears were wiped from the world whilst the Des’Nox tribe was scattered to the wind, the Pale Lady remained above and in the diaspora he found purpose. The monk came to share the tongue of Vel’luah with those wayward drow, and to the young he sang the songs of his mother’s mothers as he wandered from one doomed continent to another, chasing his fellow dreamers between even more fragile maehr states. They were all so different; Ker’nor, the Warhawkes, Rennalia, Vira’ker, Nor’asath, Nor-velyth… To Sathoro, it seemed each was hellbent on erasing their history to start maehrdom anew. Yet still, he remembered that old of the ancestors; Lynel.

 

"Ben heubo ben mege yleo tahelel	((As long as deep within the heart
Osyenel aeth Maehrzhel yx zeemaru lu mohyu,	The soul of the Maehr is tranquil with grace,
Ben heubo ben my yyrel-xebatule	As long as to the changing sea
Amel gobel Yyrul Kothel myxzu yx a’metto	The eye towards Kothel always is turned
Mebe uhv’lye xythal, zeb yx syex a’ko	Then our ambition, it is not dead
Teymo myhelel lo tom a’robela:	The ancient passion will be fulfilled:
Tom xaelunyt norel, norel aeth uhv’lye helunzh	To rebuild the land, the land of our mothers
Zydarel aeth Magara’lin, vat Velulaey ukh xutea.	The city of Magara’lin, where Velulaei set sail.
Tom xaelunyt norel, norel aeth uhv’lye helunzh	To rebuild the land, the land of our mothers
Zydarel aeth Magara’lin, vat Velulaey ukh xutea…"	The city of Magara’lin, where Velulaei set sail…))

 

But Ulln Thyone was different. Lavaelyn Maiheiuh was different, too. In these fellow maehr, each burdened by a past they refused to forsake, he would find his Primarch and he by the virtue of Velulaei’s relic, so too would he enter communion with the rightful High Priestess. Again, he shared the ways of his diaspora with the many who they had gathered, and across the sea - away from the bloodshed of Azuras - they would found a temple built in reverence of Helun-Velulaeya and all that had come before them. For a decade or so - mere moments in the life of an elf - he came to know peace and purpose amongst his people. Maehrel-Vaxu, built upon a mountain alone in the sea and the amalgam of his people's faiths all different yet true, would outlive him.

 

Then he heard the screams from the temple, and saw the blood which stained the shrines he had built to their gods. Even across the sea, his people would not be safe. The need for Pax Orenia was hidden deep in the ancestral memory of Man. Though few remembered the name for it, the wound remained in the sons of Horen; the hole in Man’s heart which would never be filled. Deep down Sathoro knew, as he meditated beneath the Moon and parlayed with the Spirits, that he would soon be among the dead of that temple. In a way, he found comfort in that; he had lived a life of faith, and perhaps would continue to serve his people amongst the Ancestors. 

 

All too plainly the monk was reminded so, when the Imperials spoke their demands. He was prepared for such, resolute in his faith that the diaspora - conquered or free - would keep the faith, and this too would pass. That was, until that word left the Primarch’s mouth.

 

“Yo’ros.”

 

There was no word for ‘please’ in Vel’luah, and this was no accident. ‘Yo’ros’ was loaned from the Mori’quessir by the dark elves of Asulon who had been enslaved by Menocress. ‘Yo’ros’ they had carried with them to the burnings and crucifixions of the White Rose. ‘Yo’ros’, they had said when they meant ‘spare me, and I shall be your slave. Less than maehr, less than mortal.’ Khel Oussana had risked his life to keep the word ‘Yo’ros’ from his mouth. It was not a polite thing to utter like the Common ‘please’; it was an admission of defeat, a vulgar, pitiful thing which forsook the self and the Ancestors. This was the cost Sathoro had witnessed Ulln Thyone pay, to spare his own people… And in that moment, Sathoro Des’Nox lost the Primarch he had chosen to rule him… And as in the wake of Ker’nor, he kept faith in Mother Moon alone.

 

“Muurb velul uhv’ta’ele, zy yto lo kokur lu uhv’maemuv.” He spat, offering the Primarch his own head as a gift for the humans he had begged. “Uhv’verb yx xygek, a’zulkaa lu uhv’osyen.” the monk hissed, forsaking his own flesh in comparison with the soul his sovereign had just forfeit.

 

An armoured finger was cast his way, and the monk was commanded to kneel in turn. He looked to Sorrgarr of the Oussana tribe and in him saw some sliver of the legendary Khel, betraying his understanding that Sathoro would do no such thing. “Yto tom allym. Ukh my Stargushel oyreoz.” The Oussana promised in turn, offering Sathoro his apologies and a place amongst the Ancestors. Again, the monk was told to kneel. Though he heard only the song of his goddess, calling him to a purpose far grander than any Empire of Men could muster, with the sovereignty of the First Primarch herself. Sathoro’s eyes fell shut, and he answered the Moon Mother with a final prayer.
 

The very same he had learned on Axios, five centuries before.

He hoped that his people's song would be remembered, even if he wouldn't.
Perhaps that was the purpose of Sathoro's five centuries.

[UniBearse 922]

The news reached the youngest of the nardozh. He could only sit at the edge of the temple beneath the statue of the Mother Moon with her outstretched arms as if waiting to embrace her children. Solaris raised his own flute as he blew out a tune, one similar to his fellow bard as the gentle hum filled the solemn sanctuary of the Maehr. "vekylel gerkgoule obelysa laav, uhv’ura vayna a'verm duran a'vekylel zy mayluel nemtu Tom'eta a'ghetul, Helun-Velulaeya tom uhv’ura honyr."

[Borin 7645]

Spoiler

??? 
 

 

[The King Of The Moon 7016]

2 minutes ago, Borin said:

  Reveal hidden contents

??? 
 

 

 

Spoiler

 

https://wiki.lordofthecraft.net/index.php?title=Ancient_Elven

 

 

[Borin 7645]

Just now, The King Of The Moon said:

 

  Hide contents

 

https://wiki.lordofthecraft.net/index.php?title=Ancient_Elven

 

Spoiler

Ah, so elves are northern irish now...

 

[PrinceJose270 1211]

To The fallen Des'nox the world may turn dark.The pain, fleeting.. Yet awaken to the sound of crackles and thunder and green streaked across ones vision. Till they opened their eyes, Awaken within a barren landscape just a few meters away from a giant, dwarfing door that deemed to fit giants at the least. Before him was a long line of displaced figures and of other warrior's ones of shaken discolor or missing pieces of themselves akin to the glass that shattered. It was a mere line of those to be judged. 

Whilst waiting, one mind something odd about Sathoro, upon his chest was a mark of some sort, one of a eclipse? Why was such upon his chest. that was until it had shined... A flash, a bink. Before a familiar face was met before Sathoro, a Familiar friend who wore that of a cloak made of darkened, almost eterial cloth, A familiar voice.. a same one that echoed his name in the land of the living. "Brother, you.. you should not be waiting in the Gundar Broshan so long... You, who sacraficed so many for your people. our, people. They will not go unchecked. I who offered nothing can at least part you with one...final gift. You whos shown more honour then most maehr of this era deserve to be with your ancestors. So I, as a Proxy to the guardian of the ancestral realm shall guide you. Your name recorded for all time as an arbiter who saught the protection of the kin of maehr."

And so a hand was offered, and guided through the lines. As if a blink, he was met before the guardian of the ancestral realm and the towering gate behind them.... Kor...As they were only mere feet away from Doraz agh Kor...


The process was well, His achievements listed throughout his life, the good and the bad, the honourable and dishonourables. Yet what felt like milenia the gate had opened. The Aid of whatever divine had well approved the cause of Sathoro being worthy at the gates allowing their form to truely turn into that of a minor ancestral spirit. Yet the story had not ended. The mysterious yet familiar guide them through the rivers of Olû Tiil Frautal... did a large canyon meet, the ride was anchient, the waft of green and tranquility and peace filled the soul. The guide pointed out one of the places as they continued the destination. 

"That, is Ruzob Ukûzrii.. The halls of eternal joy, where those who gather to recall their tales of heroism, fun and likewise. Mayhaps one day when the maehr wish to see the ancestrals. I may find you there...but for now, I shall guide you to Groth’Stroh....The grand city of our people."

It was like a fever dream, crossing fields of golden wheat, to pointing of mountains of endless war, to the distant forests of the hunt. Till Sathoro finally came across three walled cities, one orcish in nature, one a mix mash of dwarven, human, elven.. Yet before him the guide had brought him before The Grey Haven.


The city is divided into three regions. The outer shell, the  great spires rise to the sky, where the ancient star charts of the Maehr are made whole once more, and knowledge is kept. A grand temple is barred from access to any that Velulaei, first of the Ker shamans, does not wish to see. Above her, an empty courtyard bestowing the area with the pale form of Luara, Greater Immortal Spirit of the Moon. Atop the mountain, stairs and lifts lead down into ancient clan halls beneath stone , a replica of Magara’lin. Fungi thrive, homes are carved out of the bowels of the earth. Most reside within this area as a residential complex In the depths are cave expansions vaster than life. Aquifers, fungi forests, and dark narrow tunnels- a place where fauna and flora of the under-realm flourish. Few ancestral Ker call this place home, though many dive down to its depths to test their skills and live as they once did in Magara’lin.

It was here, where the hand had finally parted from Sathoro. 

"I remember back that you wished to one day see magara'lin, so this is the best that can be offered. A place one day we shall once more see in the mortal plane, So i ask you Sathoro Des'nox.. Watch over the kin as you rest in the paradise of Magara'lin... This, is where we part ways. Death, is the end of only one chapter, dear brother... Though I only claim now that you can finally rest.. I'll do my best to make sure the kins never stray from the path of Magara'lin... Goodbye, Ancestor...."

And with that, the familiar guide slowly faded, and if sathoro looked well, a smile was on his face, yet mimics of tears trailed down, before he was left alone. Once more the gates of Magara'lin... Opened for another maehr to live amongst the many of his kin and clan...


He, was home...

Spoiler

[got permission from @The King Of The Moonto do this as a final sendoff for a friend as a lutamancer with spirit walking. ]

I couldnt let my boy king of the moon not have a happy ending, Loved rping with sathoro when the oppertunities arose, So I at least wanted to give an old friend and even older darkelf a chance for a happy ending he deserves.  Hope its everything you hope for buddy!]