The Media Wizard

A smaller note would be added to the statement. It would be stamped with the sigil of a fox bearing stag antlers: the sign of the Lord Commander Amaesil Vuln’miruel. The note would read: To all. It brings us elves no joy or satisfaction in provoking this conflict. In fact, the inciting incident that occurred was heinous by all accounts and we intended to aid the Federation of Sutica in dispensing proper justice to those involved; however, the false threats of war on behalf of the Silver State of Haelun’or by the elf known as Markir were an abysmal display of foreign diplomacy by one who referred to himself as “a brute.” It is our purpose and intent throughout this conflict to bring about a conclusion. We leave it in the hands of politicians and Princes to decide our fates. HIS LORDSHIP, Amaesil Vuln’miruel, Lord Commander of Elvenesse High Warden of the Order, Lord of Kindle and Druid of the Oak Totem

Amaesil Vuln'miruel regards the note from atop the Keep of the Order. Coming to the end of the missive, he would neatly fold the parchment and tuck it into his red robe that draped across his half-plate armor. Raising the odd device Celiasil had gifted him long ago, he would peer half a world away and spot the black billows of smoke that constantly spewed from the Warnation to the north. He lowers the telescope and sets it against the old, stone railing. Gripping the rock, he'd exhale and his breath would catch in the frigid morning air. He was hardly battle-tested and was now flung headfirst into multiple conflicts of epic proportions. He was young, inexperienced and — more than anything else — naïve. How could he expect to win against such odds? A smile comes to his face. He tilts his chin upward and glares northward to the black pillars. A song he had once heard began to play through his head; a song he had heard in travels along the Orenian roadways. He sang the tune softly to himself as he marched on: to victory or defeat. "... Glory, glory — what a hell of a way to die..."

MUSIC The sun began to rise over the woodlands. Warm rays of golden light slipped through the thick canopy and ignited the underbrush in an almost ethereal manner. No rain clouds lingered in the skies on this day — only blue skies. The Emerald Guard — warriors and guardsmen of Elvenesse — awoke from their homes and donned their steel armor. They marched out into the morning air as their steel-toed boots kicked up puddles of dew in the grass as they walked. Eventually, the guardsmen exited the inner gate of the city and made their way up the nearby mountain. Within the hour, a dozen elves in gleaming armor gathered in straight lines beneath a cliff side. They looked among themselves: confused. Then, they heard the footsteps. Lord Commander Amaesil Vuln’miruel stood atop the cliffside. He was wearing the gleaming armor of the Wardens with a long red sash haphazardly strung over his left shoulder. His signature circlet shone in the morning light. Behind the new Lord Commander stood a stag of immaculate size. The beast reared its head upward and caused the sunlight to trickle through its antlers. “Draw your weapons.” The command was the first that the Lord Commander had given. The Emerald Guards looked among one another for a moment before drawing their weapons reluctantly. The singing of ferrum on leather rang out sloppily across the Hinterlands. “Look at them,” the Lord Commander continued. “This will be the last time you will see your weapon not stained with blood; the last time you will see ferrum shine like new; the last time. For too long have we elves lived in fear. No more. We may not be victors on every field and we may not fly colors to fear — not yet. We will always fight, though. We will always be there and we will spill more blood than the rivers and lakes can hold. We will be baptized in the smell of iron and emerge as elves of a new age: a Golden Age. This army will be like none you have seen before, lliran. Rise today as my Emerald Guards — defenders of the Woodland Realm and Warriors of the High Prince. Ay'elame!” A resounding chant of shouts and grunts rang out from the gathered elves. As the chant continued, it became single and unified. The war-chants of Elvenesse echoed across the Hinterlands and roused elves from their slumber. Something has changed. Then, the loud and violent bellowing of a stag. The Emerald Guard was reborn.

THE LAMENT OF BROTHER OAK The gates were open. Amaesil Vuln’miruel, High Warden and the Oak Druid, rode past the towering archway of the woodland city entrance. He rode atop his druidic companion — Estelavern the Elk — and looked around the city proper. The entrance was silent; not even birds were chirping. A frown crossed his face. His eyes flicked up toward the barracks above. He had hoped to hear the clashing of ferrum on hay, but there was nothing. Complete, utter silence. Amaesil slid off of the elk’s back and ran a gloved hand across the beast’s neck. He had just arrived from the lands of Haense where his Wardens were preparing to support the mortal-born humans in their war against invading Rimetrolls. He had not been gone long, right? Yet the city grew vacant in his absence. The elf began a slow walk throughout the city. He spotted an elf every few minutes, but they were always in a rush or having a short and aggressive conversation at a whisper. Days before, the city had seemed so vibrant and alive during the coronation, but now it was akin to watching a starving animal lie in a pool of its own making; unable to hunt and fend for itself. Eventually, the elf arrived at the foot of his cultural home — the Father Circle. A smile graced his lips as the soft singing of birds and scuttling of animals began once more. Nature had always reigned supreme in this portion of the city and it would continue to do so until the end of days; however, there was a distinct lack of voices and laughter. The druid left his stag companion behind and used the lift to ascend to the upper portions of the district. He found himself wandering amid empty buildings that were starting to show signs of encroaching nature: moss, roots, weeds. Nobody was nearby. Amaesil came to the towering, ashen tree at the center of the small pond. He was attuned here. He had begun his life anew with the name “Amaesil” and found kinship with the druids, Mani and Aspects. The memories warmed Amaesil’s heart, but it had become like a thin veil placed overtop a painting that was starting to chip. All of his fondness for this place had not saved it from the abandonment he was witnessing. Had it been his fault? Had the Wardens blinded him? Was he responsible for this downfall? No, he concluded. Only a poor hunter blames their tools. The wolf that neglects to hunt starves. He had written those words for the Wardens Way long ago, and he was seeing the true consequences of a starving beast of elven creation. Amaesil lowered down to a knee before the ashen tree and looked around. His frown grew deeper, but his resolve was steadfast. He withdrew a short dagger made of black glass — obsidian. His free hand gently cleared away some spreading grass before he impaled the dirt with the dagger. A breeze passed through the district, but no sound came afterward. He rose to his feet and looked around one final time as a Druid of the Father Circle. With that, he returned down the lift. Shortly after, the Young Fox Amaesil Vuln’miruel could be seen riding out of the city to resume his duties as High Warden. His purpose had become muddied, but he would do all he could to serve the High Prince, Wardens and Descendant races whenever possible. As he rode out, however, he was born once again. Brother Oak had become a druid without a circle.

Amaesil Vuln'miruel reads the notice with a light smile. The elf exhales slowly upon completing his read. A relieved expression overtakes his face for a few moments before he turns his eyes toward the setting sun.

What compels us to seek out power? For many, it is a desire to have purpose; for others, it is born from a place of necessity. We all have our distinct reasons for pursuing power. Sometimes, even, we lie and say that we do not want it. It is just that, though — a lie. It makes us seem humble and non-threatening to some. For myself, it was a lie I have come to accept as a falsehood. I want power. I want the position of High Prince. To many in our lands, this admission of desire is seen as ravenous and sinful; however, the manner in which that power is attained is often forgotten. So, too, is the reason it was pursued. I, Amaesil Vuln’miruel, was asked by two elves I am close with to run for this position. Despite my adoration for the title and a crown to match, I declined. Then, at the meeting of Vuln’miruel the Elven night before the council meeting, my family encouraged me. I mustered my courage and resolve before finding the man who trained me to be the elf I am today — Celiasil — and requested his nomination. The conversation was short. He gave to me his trust and placed my name forward to the council. Shortly after, I reached out to many of my close friends and family. After celebrating the beginning of this new challenge, I began to seek out the Chieftains of the Seeds and listen to them in-full. My intent for these conversations was unmistakable: I desired their vote at the Chiefsmoot. I played to my strengths and sought to build the Elvenesse I wanted — a nation of centralized authority and the explicit transparency to the Chieftains who have performed great feats of loyalty and administration in the day-to-day happenings in our city. We have yet to discuss why I want this power; what drives me forward despite the harsh words and dramatics displayed by those I call kin. What elf — no, what person — would risk their name, reputation and relationships in pursuit of a crown. The truth is that this is not about the crown: it is about the elves. The nation needs a leader who can properly agenda-set for the council and make decisions that will leave us proud — foolish, too, if need be. It is my intention to use the power of the High Prince’s seat to properly organize and centralize the power of Elvenesse so that we have a leader that the people can have faith in again; a leader that will do what is difficult rather than what is necessary. I was told recently that to be a good leader is to sacrifice your ideals so that difficult decisions can be made. I ask you all: Do you want to live in an Elvenesse where we are monsters for the sake of security? To me, true leadership is making the difficult decision not to falter in remaining who we are above all else. I do not. That is why I continue to fight for this position and this nation. That is why I accept constant attacks on my morality despite years of distinguished and reasonable loyalty. To call me power-hungry is correct, but I hunger for power so that I can fix what I see broken among our system. If the risk of attempting to save my homeland is this flagrant abuse, I will accept it. As I stand at the front line when the war horns sing, I will stand here until my people are content with the world we’ve created. Attached is a list of changes I would like to implement. If we are to discuss, let us discuss on what is to become of me should you give me faith. A DOCUMENT IS ATTACHED [Please read this hidden piece below]

Amaesil Vuln'miruel reads the missive all the way through before a slow exhale escapes his nose. The young elf folds the paper at the crease and places it smoothly into his maroon robes. Looking out across the woodland city at dusk had become a pastime of his in the last few years. Times of struggle and hardship compelled him up the steep cliff face above the inner gate to see the best views. The hound that lived atop that mountain — who Amaesil had named 'Mountain Dog' — had fallen asleep nearby as the sun began to dip below the horizon. The city was bathed in warm, golden light. Still, Amaesil frowned. His heart was heavy and his ego was wounded; how could it not be? The revelations had become political. A game was being played and the Young Fox had become its greatest loser. He had not lost his ability to play, of course, but his willingness to believe that this was the correct way had waned. The elves he had trusted in and served for years had betrayed him and the city alike. The worst part, though, was how unapologetic they had become. "Is this what is to become of us?" he asked toward the sleeping hound. The hound gave no response.

A public letter is displayed throughout the entirety of Elvenesse. The unmistakable seal of the Young Fox, Amaesil Vuln'miruel, is placed directly upon the parchment. Furthermore, individual copies are sent to each member of the Council of Elvenesse and other friends. The letter reads as follows. To my kin— I have decided to put my name forward for the position of High Prince with the nomination provided by Celiasil, the Lord Marshall of Elvenesse. In the past three elven days, I have been approached multiple times about undertaking this challenge. Furthermore, my name was suggested at two separate seed meetings by elves I consider incredibly close to my heart. The faith that was instilled in me by those who have spoken to me in recent days has led me to accepting my responsibility to stand up when called upon. I am a young elf. I was born and raised under the care of the wood elves, though, and take their teachings and ideals with me. In a time of crisis, I formed the Wardens to help organize and establish moral warriors of Amaethon within our lands. In a time of peace, I led the people of this city on crusades against dark creatures and the sirens of Balion. I do not know if leadership is the quality most desired in a High Prince, but it is a quality we need. It is a quality I have. I have stood on the battlefield with many of you. I have sat in the tea house with many others. I am a husband to my wonderful wife and a father to my son. I am a druid of the Father Circle and a teacher of the martial arts. I have made many decisions in my lifetime — some bad and some good. I have made great friendships and sullied many others. I am not the perfect ruler or the most orderly; however, I am the leader who cannot and will not stop in my pursuit to bring prosperity and strength back within our borders. I invite any elf to speak with me. Seek me out should you require it. AMAESIL VULN'MIRUEL High Warden and the Oak Druid

Amaesil Vuln'miruel leans against the trunk of the tree with his legs dangling over the edge. One hundred feet below, the clatter of a wagon down the old forest road echoes throughout the branches. A slow exhale escapes the wood elf as he reads over the damp missive — the rain clouds departing the woodlands for now. Amaesil folds the parchment over one time and rests it inside a nearby nook in the bark. He slides his right knee up to his chest and turns his brown eyes west to the setting sun. The fading rays of light warm his cheeks and forehead as he thinks in silence. The sweet smell of cooking deer soon wafts up to his nose and he stretches out his arms. The elf turns his eyes in the direction of the Uruk city. Even at this distance, the smoke stacks could be seen. Another sigh escapes him before sauntering down the branches with his elven longsword at his side.

IGN: Zilldude Character name: Amaesil Vuln'miruel Which game(s) are you signing up for: The Challenge of Agility and the Challenge of Strength.

The young fox becomes privy to the situation after reading through many of the open letters and public declarations. He frowns as he sits in contemplative silence near the Flame of Malin. The elf folds his calloused hands behind his back and peers across the farmlands toward the main road of Elvenesse. It is there that he sees Skana ap Tahorran pass by during the evening. Amaesil watches the young wood elf move across the roadway before disappearing toward the central square. For a moment, his feet threaten to give chase — a desire to bestow wisdom upon the boy; however, he does not move. The elf looks toward the Flame of Malin once again and a huff escapes his lips. "Peace in our time..." the elf mutters with a sigh. "Aspects above and Mani among us, give me patience. For if you give me strength, I'll backhand the lot of them."

Somewhere in the Soulstream, a bearded elf with worn eyes looks up from his writing. He'd hum softly and nod. "Good."

Amaesil looks at the missive where he comments on Arla drawing her sword shortly after her birth and commending the elfess on her bravery. He stops mid-fruit cup.

“To Malin, lover of nature, he promised him many children. He promised him that their laughter would resonate across their forest homes and that he would be content. Malin did not want anything more in this world than a bountiful amount of young to occupy the barren forest. Malin, I curse you with sterility. You and your kin shall forever lack the children you need. May your forest halls forever be silent and your hearts heavy with sadness.” — Unknown Author, The History of Iblees The curse of the elves is of agony. Unlike the lust of dwarves and the ardor for warfare of orcs, the elves were cursed with finality. Even with our diminished population in our forested halls, however, we have become a thriving and dutiful people. The curse is ever present, but we’ve overcome it by thriving in the half-dozen worlds we've settled. Our duties are undefined, though. As elves, we must recognize that with our plentiful numbers there is one reality: we are fewer than any other nation and Descendant race. As such, we must fulfill the requirements for our people that can often be compartmentalized in larger states such as Oren. As such, I call upon my brothers and sisters of the forest to unite in one common cause: Protecting our people. Too often has conflict come to our doorstep and dozens of elves become hapless bystanders. Too often have elves walked the streets and roads inside and outside our capital without a weapon at their side. Too often have the guards of our city been overtaken on the pathways while their kin ignore their please for support. We are fewer than other nations, but we have the population to truly turn the misfortune we’ve suffered into stability. How is it we fulfill this duty? We must place more than just faith in the Emerald Guard — we must join it. If most of our populace served our guard force in some capacity, we’d have no concern for bandits and raiders within our midst. Myself and the Warden Order serve as auxiliary units to the guard force; we are driven in this endeavor by duty above all else. A prepared and organized nation is far more powerful than pushing the responsibility of defense solely on a single set of elves. So, here is what I recommend. I. All elves of the realm ought to carry with them a longsword, armor of some make and well-cooked meat to keep them healthy before battles. Always carry these things — never feel safe without them. II. Elves of the realm should always take up arms against raiders and bandits within our city and along our roads. Let the Emerald Guard handle miscreants within the city: criminals and the like. III. Join the Emerald Guard and help defend the city while advancing yourself as a skilled warrior and elf-lord of old. Our guards need support and I know many elves of this city that could bring great skill to their ranks. This is all I ask; all that is required of us. To any elf that says they are too weak or unprepared when conflict arrives, I preach shame to you. You dishonor yourself. I’ve seen newly-made mothers draw up their swords in defense of this nation while fully capable elves in decorative chainmail flee. We must be better. "Mavallumn, kathiran'amemanor... Nae y ahkina'leh anohan'wy lle illerehane." — Amaesil

THE FELLOWSHIP OF CROWN AND WARDEN 12 of the Deep Cold, 15 SA Reaffirmed 5 of Malin's Welcome, 22 SA For the continued security and unity of the elven people of Elvenesse and the Woodland Realm, the guild known as The Wardens are to be instated as official defenders of the woodlands. In this, the Wardens are given the expressed powers, responsibilities and autonomies: I. The Wardens are granted oversight, control and autonomy over their guild, members, infrastructure, culture and actions. The Lord Marshal of Elvenesse and the High Wardens are the only point of contact and hierarchy between the two parties. The Lord Marshal will have no direct oversight and control over the Wardens infrastructure and autonomy. Any orders given to the Wardens must be approved and distributed by a High Warden. II. The Wardens are given the power to act as guards, soldiers, rangers and protectors when called upon and/or perceived to be required. III. In the event that both Wardens and Emerald Guard are present during a domestic conflict, the Emerald Guard will take precedent and have ultimate say over the outcome of the interaction. IV. The members of the Wardens will be given full custody and ownership over the north tower of the outer gates to Elvenesse and its surrounding areas as per agreement between High Warden Amaesil Vuln’miruel and former Lord Marshal Celiasil. The Wardens are given full permission and sovereignty within 32 meters of the tower’s outer wall. V. The Wardens are beholden to the Indor Tiran within the borders of Elvenesse and its neighboring regions. In the case of a criminal offense, the Warden must be given over willingly to the Exarchy for trial. IV. If Oryl Sirame, current Lord Marshal of Elvenesse, ever departs or is removed from his position as Lord Marshal, the agreement in this document is dissolved. Terms can be re-negotiated between the next Lord Marshal and current High Wardens. With the signing of this document, the Wardens become official defenders of the woodlands and willfully accept all official titles and responsibilities outside of the terms stated above. Signed, HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, Fëanor of House Sylvaeri, High Prince of Elvenesse, Wielder of the Crown of Malinor, Protector of the Almenodrim and Irrinites Reaffirmed by HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, Evar'tir Oranor, High Prince of Elvenesse, Prince of Caras Eldar, Adjudicator of Malchediael Amaesil Estelaurir, High Warden of the Order, Lord of Kindle, the Oak Druid

Amaesil the Oak Druid hears tale of the hunters and nods. He looks across the Hinterland's horizon to the beacon in the far distance — to his own approaching test.

THE MARRIAGE OF Arle Sirame & Amaesil Friends and Family — We write this letter to you in a time of great hardship and pain. We hope that we can inspire a bit of faith and goodness in the official announcement of our marriage. With peacetimes ending and Amaesil's druidic trial on the horizon, we have decided it is within our best interest to bond together in matrimony and to declare our love to the Aspects and Mani alike. We are to be wed in seven Elven Days — one year from today. We will wed later in the Elven day outside of the city gate beside the lake near the Crownrocks. The ceremony will be short and we intend to have festivities afterward within the city proper. Any and all help is welcomed by us both. At that, we will leave you to your days. Ahern ito nae'leh! Arle and Amaesil

Amaesil reads the statement with a slowly furrowing brow. At the end, he would ponder for a long while. From the elf's perch in the tea shop above the harbor, he can see the sectioned-off portion of the city. A body lies there: the body of a friend; the body of an innocent. Wrath grows in the heart of the young wood elf and his jaw tightens. His hands tremble and grip the parchment tighter. However, he stops. Amaesil looks to the letter and finds comfort in the words of his mentor. He would look around the room before wandering upstairs. There he finds parchment and charcoal. He would pen a short letter to Celiasil and send it off. Celiasil — You have trained me for over a decade. Your arrival in these lands placed me on a path of righteousness, goodness and purpose. Without your guidance, I would not be the elf of value that I am today. The gifts you have given me and the Woodland Realm can never be repayed in full, but I will be damned to the Nether before I tarnish what you have given me — what you gave to the Silver State and what they marred with their naivety. I will not fail you as they have. — Amaesil

Amaesil sat in the open field atop the mountain beside the mountain lake. He watched the clouds roll overhead as thoughts of war and violence consumed his mind. Hours passed before he pulled himself from his trance. He would stand slowly and look out across the woodland canopy to see the large statues of Amaethea. The wind blew his long, red hair backward and ruffled his elven robes. Eventually, he withdrew his journal and a small stick of charcoal. He would scribble something down and read aloud to himself: "The Elf... and the Two Wolves. A tale to guide us through the flames of wrath at our doorstep." Amaesil smiled softly. He continued to write... THE ELF AND THE TWO WOLVES A short story by Amaesil of Elvenesse Long ago, an elf stood at a crossroads. This elf went by the name of Salum, and he was entrusted to lead his people through a dark and treacherous wood. Before he would see his fellowship through, he would find the path most befitting them. He wandered into the woods. Early in his trek, Salum came upon a clearing where two wolves fought: one of pure white and one of black onyx. The elf charged forward and ended their battle. The two wolves calmed and introduced themselves. “I am Hileia,” the white wolf greeted. “In your tongue, my name means ‘peace’. In thanks, I will bring peace to you and your kin at the end of your journey.” “I am Haler,” the black wolf said. “In your tongue, my name means ‘promise’. In thanks, I will promise to lead you safely out of the woods.” Salum thanked both wolves and he renewed his march with both as companions. As they walked, Hileia told Salum stories of the treachery of his wolf-kin. As his namesake suggested, the white wolf spoke of peace and safety at the end of their journey through the woods. Haler, on the other hand, was quiet. The black wolf hunted small game and showed the elf wonderful sights and vistas as they walked. Haler kept the elf on-track and his belly full. Eventually, the three companions arrived at the crossroads — two diverging paths. Salum was stumped and looked to his friends for help. “To the left,” Hileia said. “Peace awaits us on the left.” “To the right,” Haler said — his first words since the journey began. “I promised to lead you out of the woods, and the woods end this direction.” Salum pondered this dilemma for only a moment before smiling. “I will go to the right.” “What?” Hileia growled in a rage. “You forgo peace based on his word over mine?” Salum shook his head and spoke thusly: “You are a wolf, Hileia. You would have me go left and wander these woods beside you for eternity in peace; however, you will eventually turn hungry and devour me. You will bring me peace until it suits you. Haler will fulfill his promise and lead me out of the woods. He has helped me throughout our journey and has gained my trust. I do not fear either of you, but my trust was earned by only one.” “You fool!” The white wolf suddenly changed forms like fire burning across parchment to reveal a red fox. “I am Vull. In your tongue, my name means ‘trick’. My belly grows empty and I will kill you and your people if you do not fear me and walk the path of peace!” Salum shook his head once more. “You are mistaken. I have chosen loyalty and aid over the threats of war in the absence of peace, Vull. There are now two of us and one of you.” With that, Salum and Haler slew the violent beast. The elf and black wolf then walked the right path and came to the edge of the woods. Salum’s people would walk in true peace now that the true threat was vanquished.

IGN: Zilldude Discord: Zilldude#0478 Skin: Ember Bid: 250 minas

DHASHMA AND THE RANGER A True Tale of the Father Circle The wind sifting between the treetops and blades of grass soothed as much as it unnerved. It casted shadows over peculiar spots of the underbrush. There, in the peripheral, something darted between the trees. The rogue end of a green appendage sunk behind the bark of a towering oak and caressed it’s side like a hand behind a door. There, a young ranger came to a halt. He was found where he usually would be: scouring the outer borders of the woodland realm. The darkened forest encroached on him as something black and wrathful schemed. Among the twilit Hinterlands, the ranger saw a branch shudder and fall. Revealed in the absence of light was a gaunt face towering above him. A solitary eye blinked as the scaled surface of its writhing, snake-like body wound itself around the tree’s base. The Cave Naga known as Dhashma. The elven ranger withdrew his longsword — amaelaurir — with the soft singing of ferrum. His eyes darted back to the face, but it had departed long before. The wind shifted and the tall grass began to wind and fold like waves in the ocean. A mass broke through the brush and leapt toward the elf. With a saliva-covered maw, Dhashma lunged at the ranger! “Gah!” the ranger yelped. He dove to his right and tumbled down a short hillside helplessly. With a deft foot, he caught his fall and slid to a crouched pose and leveled his weapon toward the black creature. “What foul, dark beast are you, serpent-spawn?” The wax-like face of the naga reared back toward the ranger. Dhashma was a cruel and hungry beast; no ranger of the wood elves would stop her feasting. “Hhhrrrk!” the abomination roared as it slithered down the hillside to face the ranger. Its mouth grew full and cheeks puffed as venomous spitfire bubbled in its gullet. With a violent expulsion, green ichor pumped outward in a misty spray toward the ranger. The elf’s cloak was pulled across his form and grew thick and heavy with the ghastly ooze of Dhashma. He unclipped his cape and waded back through the brush with his weapon posed to strike. In his left hand, however, there now appeared a marble-sized bead of pure white. Dhashma the Cruel hacked and coughed violently. Convulsions spurred it forward as its form passed between the ranger’s legs and wrapped around his calf. Then, a flash of white! Flash powder. The ranger fell to his back with shrouded eyes by way of his bicep. The naga screeched before bringing its teeth down toward the elf — but it missed. Confusion etched across the monster’s human-like face. Once more it attacked; once more it missed. The ranger’s leg was encased in the grip of the naga as his bones began to bend in unnatural ways. With a tightened jaw, he slowly rose the pointed end of his longsword toward the blinded Dhashma. With a final prayer to Amaethon, the ranger spoke: “Speak, you vile beast!” The bait was set and accepted. Dhashma’s blurred eye found the source of the taunt and lunged forward. The loose, aged skin of the naga was burrowed through by the edged point of amaelaurir and its skull was cracked open like a fresh-cooked lobster. The ranger’s hand sunk deep into the rotting maw of the naga as maggots writhed around his fingers from their residence inside an untreated wound in the beast’s mouth. Dhashma’s body wiggled and tore at the ground helplessly as Death began to tighten its grip around her mind. Soon, the Mother of Cruelty was dispatched. The ranger gasped and rolled to his side. Rain began to fall as he shook off the maggots and other ill insects that lived within the naga’s craw. A long, silent moment passed. A ghastly whine sounded from the tall grass. Much more calmly, the grass parted. A smaller face — that of a baby — appeared as the Spawn of Dhashma slid forth to press into the dead temple of the naga. Sorrowful weeps and cries echoed throughout the forest. The ranger watched silently for a long while. Then, he withdrew his longsword from the head of the corrupted creature and sheathed it. He took a knee beside the child as it began to furiously attack his boot; however, it had yet to grow teeth. Sadness and gloom filled the ranger’s heart. He spoke thusly: “You deserved no sorrow or fear in your life, oem’ii. Your pain is my pain — unnatural as you and your kin were.” With that, the elf grasped the child and withdrew his obsidian dagger made from the black-rock of the Firelands. “Asul lente karinto. Van’ayla.” No more crying was heard in the Hinterlands that day. A ranger soon returned to the city of Amaethea with a sack full of strange pelts — one of an adult and one of a child.

Amaesil — formally known as Onas Vuln'miruel — watches with a deep frown. His grip tightens on his gauntlets as he leans back against the outer wall of the stables with his arms crossed. In the silence of the evening, Amaesil looks to his left. Across the dense woodland brush he sees the white tips of Amaethon's statue. He would close his eyes for a long moment in silent prayer. His heartrate increases and his breath becomes shallow. Eventually, Amaesil reopens his eyes and stands tall. He would walk a few paces and look down the long, winding pathway toward the statue of the Horse Lord. There he sees Aerendyl Hawksong crouched and in mourning. The wood elf purses his lips and casts one final sidelong glance toward the shrouded tips of Amaethon's antlers. "Mavallumn, kathiran'amemanor... Nae y ahkina'leh anohan'wy lle illerehane."