Eyes Forward; A Speech To The Fallen, A Speech To Anthos

[racingbrother 226]

As the beautiful greens, blues, and browns of nature turn to corrupted reds, blacks, and oranges, an Hierophant of the Druidic Order finds his way to the doors of the evil North. The once beautiful cast iron that sprawled through the Malinor walls, the one that used to usher the happy men and women of the Druidic Order to and fro their grand grove. No longer do gargantuan spores, magnificent trees, lush grass, and majestic flowers live their lives freely in the land of the Druids; instead, they cry helplessly, clawing the once beautiful cast iron gate that now serves as prison bars.

 

The Hierophant stands on the other side of the cast iron gate, clinging to them, clinging to the last bit of home he will ever know. His head rests limply upon the prison bars, frustration pumps through his heart, and hate treads through his veins. Eyes red of weeping and fists clenched with rage, he pushes himself off of the gate, sorrowfully taking one last sweet look to the fantastic tree that once ruled the skyline of Malinor. His head turns ever so slowly, the druid cherishing and savoring the fading beauty of the Grove.

 

 

Turning around, a group of Druidic refugees, defenders of the Grove, trolls, residents, and an ent sit exhausted and battered sit behind him. He rubs his face with a hand dirtied with soil and rust, a trail of the mess streaking behind his fingers, cascading over his cheeks. He raises his head with the little energy he has left, tears dampening the face disfigured by dirt and trauma. He raises a single hand, saluting to all who helped the effort of saving the gem of nature that lied in the North. A meek and tamed voice exhale from his mouth, "Thank you. I thank you all..." A loud sigh is breathed as the Hierophant straightens his back, glaring over the crowd.

 

 

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"Thank you to the Mali who have always treated us as your own kin... to the Delvers who have stuck by our side, thick and thin, when our eyes did not meet one another... to the Bortus who have liberated us once before from the Empire of Oren, the fact that you still fight for us truly humbles me. The fact that you all still fight for us, when we made bad decisions and when we sided with those you hated, humbles me as much as the Aspects whispering in the wind."

 

His hand falls limply to his side, his voice trembles as he begins to speak once more, "But a thank you won't save us." The Druid points behind him to the grove that slowly turns diseased, "My home is gone, that I must accept. Alongside the Tuetonic Order, my people fall. My people fall to a monster that strikes when the moon is high, all are peacefully about their night, and all is quiet in the peaceful land of the Druian. They slither their way into my home... NO! YOUR HOME! They slither their way into the realm of Anthos, the realm that we had to take refuge in after the fall of Asulon, and before that, the fall of Aegis."

 

"This is not an attack on the Druids, this is an attack on the kinsmen of Malin, Horen, Urguan, and Krug. This is an attack on you, your brothers, and all those who surround you. This is another attempt to stray our people away from a home. An attempt. Let this attack be a warning to all who walk the dusty floors of Malin's forest, Horen's stone streets, Urguan's dark halls, and Krug's sandy dunes."

 

He brings his chin up, confidence beginning to shake his bones, and energy being spurted out of his mouth, "No longer can we have petty arguments and wars amongst one another over land! No longer can we turn our heads to a stranger who has fallen on the side of the road! No longer can we allow allegiance to a head of a nation, but instead, we must allow allegiance to this land! We must raise a sword and shield, not under the flag of a kingdom, but instead, under the banner of mortals! We must rise together, we must protect one another as brother and sister! We must fight for one another! We must fight for our home! We must fight for Anthos!"

 

The Druid's voice echoes throughout the land of Malinor, dying in the forest that waves so gracefully in the breeze. He lifts his eyes forwards to the South, to the land of Anthos... his home.

[Katherine1 362]

A breeze rolls through Malinor.

[WuHanXianShi14 0]

Art stands on the Balcony of Ac'talareh, displaying a demeanor of pride, and confidence, however there was an undertone of fear. Fear for his family, his child, fear for everything he held dear in the very ruin he stood on.

 

"For the brothers and sisters who've held Ac'talareh for so long, for the mothers and children who hold their homes here, and for everything everyone holds dear in these walls, it's time to rise. I won't see us squabble over idealogical disputes, hide in fear of zealots or waste our time gallivanting over the organs of beasts while there is a greater problem just hours from us, waiting to carve their way to my home-our home.

Expect word, Delvers, I fully intend to join the rest of Anthos in the effort to purge off this plague, and maybe we'll have a few years of peace.

For Anthos. Tan'ya Mahron."

 

The chant of the Delvers reverberates through the halls as they prepare to fight.

Tan'ya Mahron.

[Shadeleaf 1023]

Arzota looks out over the Salavian lands, thinking back to Gallamore in connection... having walked away from Art's speech and S'Scicle's recent death a thought comes to mind. He sends out multiple birds that night, soaring over the ocean and to their respective recipients, delivering messages to many outlying cities of Anthos.

 

Afterwards, he stands, flexing his hands some and letting out a breath,"If these monsters want a fight we'll give it to them, tradition be damned..." he says lowly walking slowly over to a trunk in the side of his small room, flipping it up and looking down within it. He twitches some, reaching into the trunk and pulling out a long black blade of Mali'ker make from the darkness, weighing it in his hand some and throwing a clumsy practice slash in the half light. "Goddess forgive me." he whispers, retrieving a sheath fitting for the blade, strapping it tightly to his waist and turning to the door and heading out to meet some very... very old friends.