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OOC: From now on I’ll be writing these posts in a somewhat dramatic story-telling fashion. This was not uncommon in ancient times. Most history was written in rhyme or in a the dramatic. (It’s also more fun)

 The sweltering sun beat down upon the thirsty dark elf. Used to the cool of the forest trees of Siramenor, the heat of the desert plains during the Sun’s Smile fell like a hammer on his shoulders. The sound of his footsteps sounded hollow across the barren landscape. A soft, hot, humid wind ruffled the gray grass. It whistled past small rocks that stuck up from the red dusty earth. 

The crimson eyes of the ‘Ker rose slowly to glare at the sky. His lips were curled in a slight grimace as if daring the sun to shine. The sun paid no attention to the small, figure. The light of the sun seemed to sparkly lovingly off the red sand. It jumped from stone to stone. Yet as the elf cleared the next small hill, his gaze fell upon an orc who lay dead upon the ground. His mouth was open and his tongue protruded from the side, cracked, swollen, and stiff. 

The dark elf glanced at the orc. He walked over to the body and knelt by its head. The voice of the elf sounded in the deathly silence, croaky but still with a touch of sadness, “Hello my friend, I suppose you fell to the sun’s embrace.” The elf then smiled at the orc, a smile that seemed entirely out of place in the brutal heat so close to death. “May you have died so that the sun does not seek to take me.” The elf paused looking at the orc before continuing on, his feet plodding, each impact releasing a fine cloud of red dust. 

It was for ambition that the elf was to be found on that day, on that road, in that heat. His eyes shared a kindred spirit with that terrible sun, as they burned with the intensity of fire, his irises flickering. Yet who are we to judge the sins of elven kind or of the morality of powerful ambition. For do we consider the world to be filled with only those perfect and those evil? This elf struggling through the heat was no saint. But like the sun, a force of nature, he bore no ill will to those that stood in his way. Like the sun, his hammer would fall regardless of race, creed, or allegiance. Should we call that evil, or immoral? If you define it be so, yes. But, like the sun, this elf could be gentle, giving life to those he loved. Like so many emerald trees, the fruits of his labor would grow and would be loved. 

Perhaps, in the end, we shouldn’t think of this elf as the sun that killed that orc, or as the sun hovering over the trees of Siramenor, but instead as a flawed being just as any other. Good and evil in equal measure, internal struggle radiating outward, burning and loving, killing and growing. On this day, he was none of these things. He wasn’t the sun, or  powerful elf. He was a small figure who was thirsty and lost. The elf was searching for Ker’Okarn. He hoped to bargain with the ‘Ker who lived there and begin the building of the tower of Sirame Khel. He hoped to start a great dynasty lasting thousands of years. Yet, on this day, he was nothing but a young wandering poet. 

It was many days till he reached the sea port of Ker’Okarn. He looked down upon the small city, his throat parched, his eyes stretched thin, his water bag empty. Yet the salt air woke his tired mind. His thin ashen lips curled in a smile as he surveyed his new home. He could imagine where the tower would stand, a little off to the side, and near the shining sea. This was a dark elf without family, without a father, without a clan. A dark elf who lived during one of the the most dangerous and terrible times for his race. Yet as this elf of little means looked down from that small hill his lost heritage didn’t matter. He would forge a new family, a new clan, and a new future for the dark elves.

Poem written by Tide Falkmoor at this time:

A deep sorrowful note,

A long forgotten song,

A wailing from each throat,

The tale of those long-gone.

Silence upon the scene,

For birds knew not to sing,

When the oldest did keen,

When death the breeze did bring.

No comfort for the weak,

No promise to forgive,

Paradise they did not seek,

For they sought not to live.

A rushing of dark wings,

As quiet ravens flew.

The dissonance now rings,

Of stories sadly true.

Deadly rain,

Fire of incessant pain,

Fire of a realm insane.

There is no light. 

Except burning deathly bright.

Light that only dead may see. 

Entry two of “The History of Sirame Khel and its Rise to Power” by Selion Drogon
 

This is a series of entries in a journal that are written by a historian about Sirame Khel. They will be entered into the grand library of Dragur upon the event of Tide Falkmoor’s death or that of the order. (OOC: so you can't use this information until Tide Falkmoor has died)

On the 15^th of the deep cold, 1780, Sirame Khel was founded. There was no fanfare or celebration. This order would forever hide in the shadows, protecting itself from prying eyes. At the time there were only three dark elves whose only connection was their hope for the future and their belief in the honor of the Ashen Folk. Their names were Tide Falkmoor,  Salaron Chaeydark, and  Selmas Chaeydark. They pledged to change the world and the fate of their race. 

Salaron Chaeydark was a brazen, tall, and haughty ‘Ker. He believed that the dark elves should be proud and thought that an open assault upon the order of the realm would soon be necessary. He wore dark leather and carried with him a short sword. He spoke with great conviction of the plans of the order and was determined to see it as far as he could. Little did he know that his part in the story would end sooner then any would think. 

Selmas Chaeydark, the sister of Salaron Chaeydark, was a quiet, younger ‘Ker. She had a full and loving heart and wished to help the growth of Sirame Khel because her brother was invested and she believed in helping those poor and powerless. She would speak slowly as she then could not speak common as well as most but still understood more about the future of Sirame Khel then any other. 

Tide Falkmoor was a sly, quiet ‘Ker. He, unlike Salaron, believed that the authority of Sirame Khel and of the Ashen Folk could only be grown through slow and gradual growth. He was a poet, a singer, and an expert swordself. For Tide, the world changed through words and not actions. He considered fighting to be beneath him and through his methods, the power and influence of Sirame Khel would grow exponentially. His speech was always considered and careful. Yet beneath this veneer of genteel, cultured, intellectualism hid a vibrant, dangerous elf who, when faced with a challenge, would forge forward no matter what obstacles stood in his way. While not evil, Tide Falkmoor would never shrink from any method so long as he got what he wanted. 

This small group of dark elves immediately began building a network of elves and spies. At first success seemed inevitable. Elves flocked to join. Sirame Khel even made a deal with the leader of Ker’okarn to gain land in the city of Krugmar. There they began to build the tower of Sirame Khel. This would be the place where the members would meet met for many years. However, tragedy struck sooner than any would have expected. Salaron Chaeydark was slain during a moonless night by a faceless guard. This death destroyed Selmas Chaeydark. She had lost her father only a few years earlier. Now she was without family and for the Ashen Folk, family is everything. This also meant that the order of Sirame Khel had lost someone who was important to the cause.

Tide Falkmoor was determined to continue the order in memory of his friend. He was now the sole leader of Sirame Khel and as a result, the methods of the order would from then on would follow only his philosophy of quiet subterfuge and would avoid antagonizing any group, race, or nation. However, Salaron would always remain at the heart of the order, leading it in his name. His excitable spirit would guide the order towards higher heights and would never be forgotten by those who followed the order. 

The Tide

A poem written by Tide Falkmoor at this time. 

Roaring waves,

Pouring over deep red stones.

Slow water,

Flowing into sharp wide cracks.

For years, the tide has risen,

Yet now waves lap on shores.

Sparkling drops,

Flying orange in bright rosy light.

Streaming rays,

Turns oceans to gold,

Rocks to pillars,

And fish to angels.

When water hits a wall,

Mountains move.

Entry one of “The History of Sirame Khel and its Rise to Power” by Selion Drogon.