Watyll

"He complains about how his enemies make too many posts...by making a post."

Victor shrugs. "Raevir logic."

Words needed:

cry

tear

monster

Iblees

am (as in I am)

hurt

harm

injure

father

husband

wife

Suggest words for each and they'll be added

"Which side of the civil war is this order on?" Questions Victor as he looks at a flyer.

((So... Seeds are like the Human Houses and Dwarven Clans?))

((That is the idea, but there is no central hierarchy. Each Seed is it's own mini-state, and some are mobile.))

((It's the same draoi from the first story))

Updated.

Previous part of the story can be found here: https://www.lordofthecraft.net/topic/118429-the-war-of-the-tyrants/

Caeldir of the Beloun Seed sat perched within the foliage of the tree as the rain poured down. It was now late morning, and it had rained for three hours now in a steady drizzle. Caeldir stayed well hidden, brown and green paint mottled the parts of his body that were showing. He wore naught but a loincloth, for the Aspects were his armor. The rain had washed some of his paint off, showing cocoa brown skin beneath. Caeldir clutched his bow, hewn of the yew tree from his Seed’s ame’lie. It was his life. It was all his companion’s lives, save for those that carried the spear. He seemed alone in his tree, hushed and silent. But, with a practiced eye, one could see that arranged to the sides and to the rear of him, in the hundreds, perched Wood Elves like he. They were all motionless, waiting, watching. Like part of the tree, they swayed when the wind blowed; their balance was something out of legend. Only one mark at the base of a tree identified the land as that of the Beloun seed.

Carved into the wood, any that passed into the Seed’s territory would meet certain death. Which was exactly why the army of Ame had gathered here today. Caeldir kept his eyes scanning the trees in front of him. That was where his enemy would appear. Movement flashed directly in front of him. His sensitive eyes, practiced from years of drawing and firing a bow, picked it up even in the darkness. Silently, he made a hand motion. Two trees over his father, Iodir, First Son of the Beloun Seed, nodded. With another signal all the ame swiftly nocked arrows.

“Watch your left.” whispered Caeldir to his brother Aelchon. “They’re more direct than us, but every once in a while they pull a flanking maneuver.” Without warning, an arrow whistled through the air, cutting through the raindrops and piercing into the throat of the elf to Caeldir’s left.

“Elor! Demon!” swore Caeldir. He leapt up two branches as three more arrows thunked into the wood where he had sat moments ago.

“Forward, Beloun!” shouted his father. All the arrows of the Seed sailed out in front of them, heralds of their coming. Figures dropped from the trees in front of their position, crashing through the branches and slamming into the forest floor. It had begun. Caeldir checked on his younger brother before diving headfirst out of the tree. He grabbed onto a branch of the next tree, several yards away and swung into it, coming face to face with a member of the Chirr Seed. Of course, it was not certain if he was a member of the actual Seed, or one of the lesser seeds that had sworn under them. His own Seed had such lesser seeds. Nonetheless, the differences between the two elves were enough to tell that the elf poised before Caeldir was an enemy. The Chirr seed was descended from the Haldirim, and the Beloun were descended from the Celeborim. That meant the Chirr had slightly lighter skin and a more angular face. The Chirr went on the offensive, slicing at Caeldir with his spear. Caeldir drew an arrow from his quiver and looked for an opening, dancing lightly on the narrow branch. The Forgotten Folk were best accustomed to fighting in the tree tops.

An opening appeared, and Caeldir slipped in close, where the Chirr’s spear would not help him. He stabbed the Chirr through the heart as another member of the seed appeared, aiming a nocked arrow at Caeldir. The young Beloun prince dropped off the branch, grabbing it with one hand as he fell. The arrow struck the wood directly behind his hand as he swung to the next branch over and beneath him, swiftly nocking an arrow and aiming as he landed. With an inhale to steady his aim, he released. The Chirr fell backwards, shot in the hip. The arrow wouldn’t kill him, but Caeldir heard the snapping of the other Ame’s neck as he hit the ground. Around him, the sounds of battle raged on, the war screams of the tribesmen echoed through the rainy forest.

He did not delay, going right back into battle. Beside him, Aelchon stuck his spear through the stomach of another Chirr, sweeping him to the side off the tree. To his right, Caeldir saw one of his own tribe members fall to the arrow of a Chirr, who then retreated through the foliage. A scream sounded to the left of him, and Caeldir cursed again. The Chirr were trying their usual tactic of slipping through on the left flank. Caeldir jumped from branch to branch, heading to where the shout had come from. Sure enough, the Beloun seed members guarding the flank were heavily entrenched, set upon from two sides by the Chirr. Luckily, First Son Iodir had prepared for this.

With a yell, squads of Beloun Seed members jumped from the very tops of the trees, vines looped around their waists. They swung through the trees. Some of them had their vines cut by clever Chirr members and crashed to the forest floor, and Caeldir heard the snap of bones. Others  of the vine swingers shot Chirr mid-swing, and did so again on the return pass. Soon the remaining Chirr members fled back into their own territory. Caeldir shot the slowest ones that lagged behind. He turned back to the forefront of the battle, where his father was mopping up the last bits of resistance. The full exchange had lasted perhaps twenty minutes. Battles in Seed Wars were usually quick, and this was but a light raid. Bodies, shattered, littered the forest floor. The majority were Chirr, but many bore the cocoa skin and square-jawed features of the Celeborim descendants. Caeldir touched two fingers to his head and said a short blessing to the aspects. Many kina’ame would be planted this day. The Chirr seed would be granted access to bury their bodies as well. Such was the respect between Mali’ame.

Caeldir made his way over to his brother and father.

“Aelchon, surely you have proved yourself a strong Beloun!” his father said, beaming upon his younger son. Aelchon was but 21, and Caeldir was at a hearty 67. This did not matter, for Caeldir was still considered a youthful elf. Iodir, First Son, nodded to Caeldir as he came over.

“You did well also, Caeldir. I noted your help with the left flank, though your place was at the front with your brother.”

“The left flank needed my help more, father.” he said, keeping his expression neutral. His father had mysterious ideas about right and wrong, and Caeldir was not sure if he did the right thing by disobeying this time. In truth, the left flank hardly needed him at all. Iodir grunted, his eyes, filled with untold wisdom, glinting.

“I suppose so. Let us proceed home.” Iodir was a son of Celebor himself, and he was old enough to remember the strife that had once brewed between the two sons of Malin, Celebor and Haldir. Caeldir clapped his little brother on the back.

“I saw that Chirr you killed with your spear. Good job.” Aelchon nodded nervously, eager to impress his older brother. Caeldir laughed. “You’ll be a warleader yet.” It was only Aelchon’s second battle, in truth. None of the members of the Beloun Seed, however, knew of the many battles were to come. They would make the strife of today look like a merry stroll through the woods.

~~~

Tegilbor, First Son of the Chirr Seed, grunted in anger as he passed the threshold into his Seed’s camp in the treetops. Unlike some Seeds, the Chirr were nomadic throughout their established lands, moving along the boundary and raiding as they went. A member of the Lareh Seed, a Seed sworn under the Chirr, saluted Tegilbor by bringing a flattened palm to his torso and bowing his head. Tegilbor barely noticed him, rubbing the insignia of the Chirr carved on the tree at the entrance to the camp.

He had lost many warriors today. The Beloun seed were almost as good as the Ibar Seed when it came to resisting his raids. But they needed a win. The Beloun food stores were what fed his people. The land of the Chirr yielded little fruit, and without successful raids his people would starve. Even now, haggard children with sunken eyes watched as he entered the camp. Who would be left fatherless this time? The weeping of widows had already begun, soon the young ones would find out. It would be a night of tears.

A young Chirr member, Tegilbor’s son Maenor, walked up to him, cradling a body in his hands. It was his younger brother, Barachon. Tegilbor placed his hand upon the youth’s forehead. He pushed Barachon’s hair back from his painted skin. It looked like his son was merely sleeping. It was his third raid.

“Plant his kina’ame.” he said softly to Maenor. Maenor nodded and walked away. Neither of them shed a tear at the passing of their kin. They were Chirr, and had already seen too much misery. They were accustomed to it. Almost as an afterthought, Maenor turned.

“There is a Druid waiting for you in your quarters, father.”

Tegilbor nodded. He wondered why a Druid had come to speak with him. Probably to try and cease the hostility between his Seed and the Beloun. He walked at a steady gait to his quarters, and entered. A hooded figure stood before him, flanked at either side by two others just like him. The Druid exuded a strange aura.

“I am Garthon Morncalaq.” said the figure. “I come with grave tidings.” Tegilbor grunted.

“Now is no time for grave tidings, but speak what you must, Druid.” The Druid nodded.

“The other Seeds have committed atrocities against the Aspects. They have turned from the way of Malin, and no longer walk the paths of the forests with honor. Alone among the five greater Seeds, the Chirr still hold to the ancient ways of respect to the Aspects. I have seen this in my visions. I call upon you to perform a holy task, First Son Tegilbor. You must destroy the other Seeds.”

Tegilbor stared at him. “Holy Druid, surely you know I cannot perform such an impossible task. My people dwindle. We have not the numbers to destroy even a single seed.”

The Druid smiled from beneath his cloak. “Fear not, I will bestow a blessing upon you and all your kin, so that you may defeat your enemies. You will claim the fruited land of your rivals, and be able to feed your Seed once more. Your son and future sons will have safety. This is your great task, Tegilbor.”

Tegilbor thought. The Druid’s offer was good. If they had the blessing of the Aspects themselves, nothing could stand in their way. And his people needed food.

“Very well.” he said, saluting the Druid. “My Seed is by your side.”

He was the squid. This picture speaks for itself of Lark's majesty.

Spiff's the man. I've seen him only become better the longer he has been in the Ikuras Cult. I'm willing to vouch for him. Wonderful role-player, hard worker. 

Hot damn, I'm only just finding this now. I'll be making sure my guys use that song before any battles we're in. That first verse is pretty brutal.

Thanks!

The Rise of the Tyrants

Garthon arose from his bed of leaf and twig, greeting the rising sun which shone through the foliage of his chamber. The elder Druid stretched, letting old joints pop into place and the blood in his veins to begin to flow. It was an important day, and Garthon needed his wits about him. Slowly he walked over to the branch which outstretched like a gnarled hand from the wall, and took his leafy cloak from it. Garthon stroked his ivory beard contemplatively. He was one of the few who was able to grow them. A wooden staff, seeming more shaped from the wood than carved, leaned in the corner comfortably. Garthon took this as well, a symbol of his power as an Archdruid, as well as an instrument to wield the forces of nature. As the elderly Wood Elf walked out of the door and into the spiraling staircase of the great Mother Tree which was named Coleth, two Druid Guides fell in step behind him, ready to brief him.

“Archdruid,” spoke Hannor in a whisper, “The outriders have returned.”

“And were they successful?” asked Garthon, not bothering to turn as his staff tapped against the wood of the stairs.

“Yes.” replied Gawon curtly. Garthon nodded. Success in finding special items was always something to be happy about, but he would not show his emotions so easily to his subordinates. The group fell silent as a young Dedicant, overburdened with books, trundled up the stairs, passing them on the way. Gawon resumed speaking. “Archdruid Rosson and Archdruid Magolon have been kept in the dark, as you ordered.” Garthon did not reply, continuing to proceed down the stairs. At the bottom of the steps was a clearing from which a spring bubbled up from the ground. Two druids in flowing robes conversed. Magolon and Rosson, the Archdruids. Rosson spied Garthon out of the corner of his eye, and the ancient Mali’ame turned to look at him.

“Garthon, karin’ayla.” he spoke civilly. Magolon said nothing, peering over hooked nose at Garthon. Rosson was the eldest among them.

“Karin’ayla, Archdruid Rosson.” spoke Garthon in a respectful tone.

“Where are you off to this morning? I have not espied your countenance in the Mother Tree for many days now. Come, sit with your fellow Archdruids and converse with us.”

Garthon paused, shaking his head. “I cannot, Rosson, however I may wish it. I have students to train elsewhere, away from the grove.”

Rosson sighed. “As you wish then, but I pray to Cernunnos that your footsteps return you to us soon. I fear there is yet another Seed War brewing.”

“Of course, Archdruid.”

~~~

Garthon rode into the clearing, miles away from the grove. On horses to either side of him were his attendants, Hannor and Gawon. The horses panted, worked into a lathery foam from the hard ride. Garthon dismounted, walking to the center of the clearing. A carved stump, covered with runes and ancient Elvish symbols dating to before the disappearance of Malin sat there. Garthon was among the few who could still remember Malin’s face. It was beautiful and just. The followers of Larihei and Velulaei may have forsaken the father’s teachings, but the Forgotten Folk, the Mali’ame, remembered. Patting a hand affectionately on the runes. Garthon turned to look upon the edges of the clearing. Dozens of Druids gathered there, hooded and cloaked. They waited silently for his words. He was their teacher, their master.

“Bring forth the child.” he bid one of the druids. The hooded elf gave a curt nod, disappearing into the trees. Moments later he returned, bearing a swaddled human child in a soft woolen blanket. The elder druid took the child gently from the Mali’ame. It ceased its weeping, gurgling softly within the Elder Druid’s benevolent presence. Garthon set the human down upon the stump as the other Druids began to chant, linking arms and swaying back and forth in a circle. The drone of their voices lifted high above the trees as clouds covered the sun.

“There is no light in darkness.”

“There is no birth without death.”

The simple chant was repeated over and over again, increasing in volume and exuberance. Standing over the infant, Garthon reached inside his robe, revealing a jagged dagger. He held it high over the babe, and it seemed rather to absorb the light than reflect it.

“There is no light in darkness!

No birth without death!

We are forsaken!”

The dagger plunged down.

~~~

Garthon flicked the crimson liquid off of his blade, turning in a circle to look at each of the Druids under his command. The name would no longer suit them. They did not commune with nature now. They controlled it. Unable to master his own frenzy, Garthon let out a wild laugh, raising his hands with his palms facing downwards. He focused, and felt his absolute mastery of life. Beetles squirmed and writhed at the ground ‘neath his feet. The trees shook and trembled. He faced the horses, and with eyes rolling into their heads, each bowed to him. The other Druids knelt in submission to their new ruler. Raising his voice to carry above all of them, Garthon spoke.

“I am Garthon Morncalaq! First of the Tyrants!”

Right then, to start off, this sequence will begin a part of the story of the Wood Elves. In the style of Gaius, grand master of lore via storytelling, I'll be releasing short stories whenever I can in this part of Wood Elven history known as the War of the Tyrants. Many things will be revealed in this story- familiar faces will be unveiled, familiar locations will be founded. I have been given permission by wardog4445 and birdwhisperer to begin this project, and this will be the hub. When this story cycle is finished, the full lore for the Wood Elves will be released. 

Part 1 - The Rise of the Tyrants

 

 

The Rise of the Tyrants

 

Garthon arose from his bed of leaf and twig, greeting the rising sun which shone through the foliage of his chamber. The elder Druid stretched, letting old joints pop into place and the blood in his veins to begin to flow. It was an important day, and Garthon needed his wits about him. Slowly he walked over to the branch which outstretched like a gnarled hand from the wall, and took his leafy cloak from it. Garthon stroked his ivory beard contemplatively. He was one of the few who was able to grow them. A wooden staff, seeming more shaped from the wood than carved, leaned in the corner comfortably. Garthon took this as well, a symbol of his power as an Archdruid, as well as an instrument to wield the forces of nature. As the elderly Wood Elf walked out of the door and into the spiraling staircase of the great Mother Tree which was named Coleth, two Druid Guides fell in step behind him, ready to brief him.

 

“Archdruid,” spoke Hannor in a whisper, “The outriders have returned.”

 

“And were they successful?” asked Garthon, not bothering to turn as his staff tapped against the wood of the stairs.

 

“Yes.” replied Gawon curtly. Garthon nodded. Success in finding special items was always something to be happy about, but he would not show his emotions so easily to his subordinates. The group fell silent as a young Dedicant, overburdened with books, trundled up the stairs, passing them on the way. Gawon resumed speaking. “Archdruid Rosson and Archdruid Magolon have been kept in the dark, as you ordered.” Garthon did not reply, continuing to proceed down the stairs. At the bottom of the steps was a clearing from which a spring bubbled up from the ground. Two druids in flowing robes conversed. Magolon and Rosson, the Archdruids. Rosson spied Garthon out of the corner of his eye, and the ancient Mali’ame turned to look at him.

 

“Garthon, karin’ayla.” he spoke civilly. Magolon said nothing, peering over hooked nose at Garthon. Rosson was the eldest among them.

 

“Karin’ayla, Archdruid Rosson.” spoke Garthon in a respectful tone.

 

“Where are you off to this morning? I have not espied your countenance in the Mother Tree for many days now. Come, sit with your fellow Archdruids and converse with us.”

 

Garthon paused, shaking his head. “I cannot, Rosson, however I may wish it. I have students to train elsewhere, away from the grove.”

 

Rosson sighed. “As you wish then, but I pray to Cernunnos that your footsteps return you to us soon. I fear there is yet another Seed War brewing.”

 

“Of course, Archdruid.”

 

~~~

 

Garthon rode into the clearing, miles away from the grove. On horses to either side of him were his attendants, Hannor and Gawon. The horses panted, worked into a lathery foam from the hard ride. Garthon dismounted, walking to the center of the clearing. A carved stump, covered with runes and ancient Elvish symbols dating to before the disappearance of Malin sat there. Garthon was among the few who could still remember Malin’s face. It was beautiful and just. The followers of Larihei and Velulaei may have forsaken the father’s teachings, but the Forgotten Folk, the Mali’ame, remembered. Patting a hand affectionately on the runes. Garthon turned to look upon the edges of the clearing. Dozens of Druids gathered there, hooded and cloaked. They waited silently for his words. He was their teacher, their master.

 

“Bring forth the child.” he bid one of the druids. The hooded elf gave a curt nod, disappearing into the trees. Moments later he returned, bearing a swaddled human child in a soft woolen blanket. The elder druid took the child gently from the Mali’ame. It ceased its weeping, gurgling softly within the Elder Druid’s benevolent presence. Garthon set the human down upon the stump as the other Druids began to chant, linking arms and swaying back and forth in a circle. The drone of their voices lifted high above the trees as clouds covered the sun.

 

“There is no light in darkness.”

“There is no birth without death.”

 

The simple chant was repeated over and over again, increasing in volume and exuberance. Standing over the infant, Garthon reached inside his robe, revealing a jagged dagger. He held it high over the babe, and it seemed rather to absorb the light than reflect it.

 

“There is no light in darkness!

No birth without death!

We are forsaken!”

 

The dagger plunged down.

 

~~~

 

Garthon flicked the crimson liquid off of his blade, turning in a circle to look at each of the Druids under his command. The name would no longer suit them. They did not commune with nature now. They controlled it. Unable to master his own frenzy, Garthon let out a wild laugh, raising his hands with his palms facing downwards. He focused, and felt his absolute mastery of life. Beetles squirmed and writhed at the ground ‘neath his feet. The trees shook and trembled. He faced the horses, and with eyes rolling into their heads, each bowed to him. The other Druids knelt in submission to their new ruler. Raising his voice to carry above all of them, Garthon spoke.

“I am Garthon Morncalaq! First of the Tyrants!”

Part 2 - War in the Treetops

 

Caeldir of the Beloun Seed sat perched within the foliage of the tree as the rain poured down. It was now late morning, and it had rained for three hours now in a steady drizzle. Caeldir stayed well hidden, brown and green paint mottled the parts of his body that were showing. He wore naught but a loincloth, for the Aspects were his armor. The rain had washed some of his paint off, showing cocoa brown skin beneath. Caeldir clutched his bow, hewn of the yew tree from his Seed’s ame’lie. It was his life. It was all his companion’s lives, save for those that carried the spear. He seemed alone in his tree, hushed and silent. But, with a practiced eye, one could see that arranged to the sides and to the rear of him, in the hundreds, perched Wood Elves like he. They were all motionless, waiting, watching. Like part of the tree, they swayed when the wind blowed; their balance was something out of legend. Only one mark at the base of a tree identified the land as that of the Beloun seed.

 

 

Carved into the wood, any that passed into the Seed’s territory would meet certain death. Which was exactly why the army of Ame had gathered here today. Caeldir kept his eyes scanning the trees in front of him. That was where his enemy would appear. Movement flashed directly in front of him. His sensitive eyes, practiced from years of drawing and firing a bow, picked it up even in the darkness. Silently, he made a hand motion. Two trees over his father, Iodir, First Son of the Beloun Seed, nodded. With another signal all the ame swiftly nocked arrows.

“Watch your left.” whispered Caeldir to his brother Aelchon. “They’re more direct than us, but every once in a while they pull a flanking maneuver.” Without warning, an arrow whistled through the air, cutting through the raindrops and piercing into the throat of the elf to Caeldir’s left.

“Elor! Demon!” swore Caeldir. He leapt up two branches as three more arrows thunked into the wood where he had sat moments ago.

“Forward, Beloun!” shouted his father. All the arrows of the Seed sailed out in front of them, heralds of their coming. Figures dropped from the trees in front of their position, crashing through the branches and slamming into the forest floor. It had begun. Caeldir checked on his younger brother before diving headfirst out of the tree. He grabbed onto a branch of the next tree, several yards away and swung into it, coming face to face with a member of the Chirr Seed. Of course, it was not certain if he was a member of the actual Seed, or one of the lesser seeds that had sworn under them. His own Seed had such lesser seeds. Nonetheless, the differences between the two elves were enough to tell that the elf poised before Caeldir was an enemy. The Chirr seed was descended from the Haldirim, and the Beloun were descended from the Celeborim. That meant the Chirr had slightly lighter skin and a more angular face. The Chirr went on the offensive, slicing at Caeldir with his spear. Caeldir drew an arrow from his quiver and looked for an opening, dancing lightly on the narrow branch. The Forgotten Folk were best accustomed to fighting in the tree tops.

An opening appeared, and Caeldir slipped in close, where the Chirr’s spear would not help him. He stabbed the Chirr through the heart as another member of the seed appeared, aiming a nocked arrow at Caeldir. The young Beloun prince dropped off the branch, grabbing it with one hand as he fell. The arrow struck the wood directly behind his hand as he swung to the next branch over and beneath him, swiftly nocking an arrow and aiming as he landed. With an inhale to steady his aim, he released. The Chirr fell backwards, shot in the hip. The arrow wouldn’t kill him, but Caeldir heard the snapping of the other Ame’s neck as he hit the ground. Around him, the sounds of battle raged on, the war screams of the tribesmen echoed through the rainy forest.

He did not delay, going right back into battle. Beside him, Aelchon stuck his spear through the stomach of another Chirr, sweeping him to the side off the tree. To his right, Caeldir saw one of his own tribe members fall to the arrow of a Chirr, who then retreated through the foliage. A scream sounded to the left of him, and Caeldir cursed again. The Chirr were trying their usual tactic of slipping through on the left flank. Caeldir jumped from branch to branch, heading to where the shout had come from. Sure enough, the Beloun seed members guarding the flank were heavily entrenched, set upon from two sides by the Chirr. Luckily, First Son Iodir had prepared for this.

With a yell, squads of Beloun Seed members jumped from the very tops of the trees, vines looped around their waists. They swung through the trees. Some of them had their vines cut by clever Chirr members and crashed to the forest floor, and Caeldir heard the snap of bones. Others  of the vine swingers shot Chirr mid-swing, and did so again on the return pass. Soon the remaining Chirr members fled back into their own territory. Caeldir shot the slowest ones that lagged behind. He turned back to the forefront of the battle, where his father was mopping up the last bits of resistance. The full exchange had lasted perhaps twenty minutes. Battles in Seed Wars were usually quick, and this was but a light raid. Bodies, shattered, littered the forest floor. The majority were Chirr, but many bore the cocoa skin and square-jawed features of the Celeborim descendants. Caeldir touched two fingers to his head and said a short blessing to the aspects. Many kina’ame would be planted this day. The Chirr seed would be granted access to bury their bodies as well. Such was the respect between Mali’ame.

Caeldir made his way over to his brother and father.

“Aelchon, surely you have proved yourself a strong Beloun!” his father said, beaming upon his younger son. Aelchon was but 21, and Caeldir was at a hearty 67. This did not matter, for Caeldir was still considered a youthful elf. Iodir, First Son, nodded to Caeldir as he came over.

“You did well also, Caeldir. I noted your help with the left flank, though your place was at the front with your brother.”

“The left flank needed my help more, father.” he said, keeping his expression neutral. His father had mysterious ideas about right and wrong, and Caeldir was not sure if he did the right thing by disobeying this time. In truth, the left flank hardly needed him at all. Iodir grunted, his eyes, filled with untold wisdom, glinting.

“I suppose so. Let us proceed home.” Iodir was a son of Celebor himself, and he was old enough to remember the strife that had once brewed between the two sons of Malin, Celebor and Haldir. Caeldir clapped his little brother on the back.

“I saw that Chirr you killed with your spear. Good job.” Aelchon nodded nervously, eager to impress his older brother. Caeldir laughed. “You’ll be a warleader yet.” It was only Aelchon’s second battle, in truth. None of the members of the Beloun Seed, however, knew of the many battles were to come. They would make the strife of today look like a merry stroll through the woods.

~~~

Tegilbor, First Son of the Chirr Seed, grunted in anger as he passed the threshold into his Seed’s camp in the treetops. Unlike some Seeds, the Chirr were nomadic throughout their established lands, moving along the boundary and raiding as they went. A member of the Lareh Seed, a Seed sworn under the Chirr, saluted Tegilbor by bringing a flattened palm to his torso and bowing his head. Tegilbor barely noticed him, rubbing the insignia of the Chirr carved on the tree at the entrance to the camp.

 

 

He had lost many warriors today. The Beloun seed were almost as good as the Ibar Seed when it came to resisting his raids. But they needed a win. The Beloun food stores were what fed his people. The land of the Chirr yielded little fruit, and without successful raids his people would starve. Even now, haggard children with sunken eyes watched as he entered the camp. Who would be left fatherless this time? The weeping of widows had already begun, soon the young ones would find out. It would be a night of tears.

A young Chirr member, Tegilbor’s son Maenor, walked up to him, cradling a body in his hands. It was his younger brother, Barachon. Tegilbor placed his hand upon the youth’s forehead. He pushed Barachon’s hair back from his painted skin. It looked like his son was merely sleeping. It was his third raid.

“Plant his kina’ame.” he said softly to Maenor. Maenor nodded and walked away. Neither of them shed a tear at the passing of their kin. They were Chirr, and had already seen too much misery. They were accustomed to it. Almost as an afterthought, Maenor turned.

“There is a Druid waiting for you in your quarters, father.”

Tegilbor nodded. He wondered why a Druid had come to speak with him. Probably to try and cease the hostility between his Seed and the Beloun. He walked at a steady gait to his quarters, and entered. A hooded figure stood before him, flanked at either side by two others just like him. The Druid exuded a strange aura.

“I am Garthon Morncalaq.” said the figure. “I come with grave tidings.” Tegilbor grunted.

“Now is no time for grave tidings, but speak what you must, Druid.” The Druid nodded.

“The other Seeds have committed atrocities against the Aspects. They have turned from the way of Malin, and no longer walk the paths of the forests with honor. Alone among the five greater Seeds, the Chirr still hold to the ancient ways of respect to the Aspects. I have seen this in my visions. I call upon you to perform a holy task, First Son Tegilbor. You must destroy the other Seeds.”

Tegilbor stared at him. “Holy Druid, surely you know I cannot perform such an impossible task. My people dwindle. We have not the numbers to destroy even a single seed.”

The Druid smiled from beneath his cloak. “Fear not, I will bestow a blessing upon you and all your kin, so that you may defeat your enemies. You will claim the fruited land of your rivals, and be able to feed your Seed once more. Your son and future sons will have safety. This is your great task, Tegilbor.”

Tegilbor thought. The Druid’s offer was good. If they had the blessing of the Aspects themselves, nothing could stand in their way. And his people needed food.

“Very well.” he said, saluting the Druid. “My Seed is by your side.”

Part 3 - The Wolves Descended

 

 

It had been two days since the strife of the battle with the Chirr. Caeldir of the Beloun Seed shouldered his quiver and exited his little house in the trees, heading down a well established wooden pathway to the forest floor. Unlike some seeds, the Beloun were not nomadic. This little establishment, known as Taliame’lin, had been the Beloun’s home for as long as the Seed had been in existence, formed by his father Iodir after the death of Celebor. Within the treetops, scores of other little huts and pathways wound, with other Mali’ame such as himself going about their business. He saw a group of Harvesters pray before an apple tree before plucking some of its fruit. Taliame’lin was more than just the home of the Seed: it was their food source.

Caeldir saw his brother practicing his spear forms and waved to him. Aelchon waved back with that excited grin he always bore and went back to practicing. Caeldir laughed and continued on his way. When he reached the ground, his footsteps crunching the leaves beneath him, Caeldir found his way to the ame’lie of the Beloun Seed. Others were already there, hacking away at the tree limbs. Caeldir picked up a two-and-a-half-hand axe and looked for a suitable branch. The Zenith of Spring was coming soon, and it was important that he had a present ready for his younger brother. Aelchon did not yet possess a suitable bow.

A sudden shout interrupted his thoughts.

“Caeldir, come over here!”

Caeldir turned. It was a friend of his, Balchel. She waved to him from a yew tree, already with a branch chopped off of it. Caeldir made his way over, smiling at her. Once he had harbored romantic feelings towards Balchel, but after getting to know her better it was obvious nothing would come of it.

“Karin’ayla, Balchel.” Caeldir said. She returned the greeting, getting to work on the branch she had downed. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Making a new spear.” she replied. “My last one has half of it embedded in a Chirr’s gut. It was a good spear too.” her facial expression became agitated. Obviously she had not forgiven the dead elf for being killed by her. She looked up at Caeldir as he began to chop at a different branch of the yew. “And you? What are you doing here?”

“Spring Zenith is soon. My brother needs a proper bow, yes?”

Balchel nodded approvingly. “That he does. I kept an eye on him the other day. That bow he has nearly snapped on him a few times!” Of course, she exaggerated. Wood Elven bows were of the finest make, and very few had ever been known to break. Caeldir finished chopping down the branch. Some visitors to the Wood Elves wondered why the Ame took such offense to some forest trees being chopped down, and didn’t care at all when others were cut. What visitors didn’t know is that each Seed possessed an ame’lie, a manufactured grove. There were no clearly defined boundaries that could be seen by the eyes of other races, but to the Wood Elves it was quite obvious. Every tree in the ame’lie was planted by the Seed that owned it, not like the ‘wild’ trees that the Ame revered with a passion. Caeldir took a seat next to Balchel, beginning to strip the wood down to the size of a bow.

“I never got to ask you how many you killed.” he said nonchalantly. Balchel raised her eyebrows.

“You first.”

“Fifteen.”

“Twenty-three.” she said with a wicked grin.

“Elor.” he muttered under his breath, continuing to carve.

“Don’t be bitter, Caeldir. It doesn’t suit the Second Son.”

Caeldir grunted. He was all too aware of what he was supposed to act like, as heir to the Seed. “Don’t you start on me too, Balchel. I already get enough of that from my father.” She chuckled, finishing the carving of her spear.

“I’ll see you tonight. I’m going to go through the forms with this new spear.”

Caeldir nodded. “See you tonight.” he said as she departed. The next few hours flew by as Caeldir continued to work on the bow. He made sure the recurve was not too much, for this was a longbow, and stretched the hempen rope just enough to make sure it was taught. Finally, the bow was finished. Caeldir carved a series of spirals into the wood that were uniquely Wood Elven, and walked away, placing the two-and-a-half-hand axe at the entrance to the ame’lie. He carefully proceeded up the walkway, looking around to make sure his brother was not in view. When Caeldir was positive Aelchon was no longer there, he continued on the path to his home. He pulled open the flap to his hut and, making sure Aelchon was not inside, ducked in. Caeldir wrapped the bow in a leather hide and stuffed it under his bed as his father stepped out. Iodir raised a brow.

“A Zenith present for your brother?” he asked. Caeldir nodded.

“Good.” his father said simply, before stepping out. The First Son was a busy man, and there was likely work to do. Caeldir stretched his arms out. The work had been tiring, and he was hungry. The young elf walked to the kitchen and grabbed an apple, biting into it. He grabbed an orange or two as well. Caeldir loved the sweet fruit, and it would tide him over until the evening fire. He went outside and spent the rest of the day practicing archery with his own bow. True, Wood Elves were talented in the ways of arrow, but talent alone was not enough.

The sun began to set, and on wide platform in the very center of the little town, a fire was lit. The platform, unlike most around it, was cut from stone, so that the fire would not consume the homes of the Wood Elves. Caeldir made his way over to the flickering light and sat next to his brother. He nodded to Balchel, who was across from him. Darkness came, and the entire Seed gathered around the platform. Food was served, fruits and vegetables of all kinds, some roasted over the flames. There was meat as well- a fresh deer. The whole Beloun Seed was welcome to this tradition, as well as the members of the seeds that had sworn under the Beloun. It was a nightly affair. First Son Iodir stepped up to the fire.

“Karin’ayla, brothers and sisters.” he said.

“Karin’ayla, First Son.” chorused the assembled Wood Elves, quieting down. Iodir smiled lightly, before gesturing to a figure at his side. “This is Archdruid Garthon Morncalaq. He would like to say a few words before going on his way.” Iodir stepped aside, allowing the elderly Druid to step forward. Many in the audience exchanged hushed whispers. Caeldir was greatly surprised. Archdruids almost never left the grove, and it had been years since the Seed had been visited by one. Druids didn’t come to you. You came to them.

“Greetings, my children.” began Garthon in a soothing voice. “I trust you are enjoying the feast?” The Seed members all nodded. The Archdruid smiled. “It is good to see such a flourishing Seed in this era of distrust and war. It was not always this way, you know. Once the Elves were all united under one Elf. Malin. I am one of the few to remember him, you know. People speak of him now in a reverence that was well earned.” Caeldir raised an eyebrow. He wondered what the Archdruid was getting at. “Of course,” continued the Archdruid, “When he disappeared, we were left helpless. Our brothers the Mali’ker went with their Velulaei, and the High Elves with their Larihei, and we were forgotten. We, the only ones who dared to stay with what our father had taught us.” Garthon looked around the fire, into each Wood Elf’s eyes. “But we are fractured. Elvenkind is fractured. The time for a new King of the Elves is come.” Caeldir’s eyebrows shot up. Was the Archdruid mad? Who would dare crown themselves King in Malin’s stead? The Druid sighed, rubbing his temple. “However,” he said with a note of deep regret, “Like a snake shedding its skin, this new age must arise from the decay which covered it. Sacrifices… Must be made.” There was a silence for a moment as the Archdruid closed his eyes, taking a breath.

A shrill scream split the night. Caeldir looked for the source of the noise, and across the fire, his eyes alit upon a young Ame maiden, her gaze transfixed upon the heavens. She had a look of absolute terror on her face as she wailed in an unceasing screech. Unsteadily, the maiden raised a hand and pointed a single finger to the sky. Caeldir looked up, and felt fear shake his core. Scores of arrows, flaming, descended from the heavens.

“Sacrifices… Must be made.” the Archdruid said regretfully, before whipping his cloak about, and vanishing.

((Though I'm not affiliated with Dark Elves, I've suggested the use of spears to Dakir before in OOC. I always thought that would be cool, as Wood Elves have bows, High Elves have magic, and yes, in lore Dark Elves are the best at sword wielding, but spears are very underdone. A culture of spear wielders would be rather interesting.))

A magical hobo would be happy to correct Salamandra's misconception and point out that due to Iblees no longer being trapped in the Void, and now free to walk both our plane and his own, the Nether, he is likely far more powerful and far less restrained!

Unfortunately a magical hobo is not available at this time.

An Ikuras cultist would wonder why, if Iblees is truly far more powerful and far less restrained, he doesn't just destroy the entire continent within minutes of being released like last time!

Fortunately for most people such cultist is busy spreading the glorious word of Ikuras.

triplewing no i forbid it

you are the artist of the ikuras cult and us alone

do not abandon us you belong to us now

Could you perhaps add the words for terror, full, and empty?

 

 

And some new example sentences using various different forms of grammar and tenses? 

 

I'm afraid grammar isn't my strong point.

Suggest Black Language words for these words, and I'll get to it.

Well... I just wrote a really long and detailed post to each individual... and it vanished. Not sure what happened there... anyway... I'm going to shorten it a bit...

I actually think being a dwarf would be a lot of fun, I'm just still not sure where I fit properly. Thanks for all the information. That will help a lot.

I'm curious about the Ikuras cult... looking it UP I found a couple of forum posts but what is the cult exactly?

To Caivs Marivs, that lore is fantastic! I only read the first part, but I noticed you have lore master as your title. Does that mean you do that all the time?

Those were the main ones... but thank you to everyone for replying. I'll probably be sending you all little pms to ask about different things.

The Ikuras Cult is a wonderful group of role-players that delight in playing evil, spooky things. We have a long-term goal of destroying the world slowly in insanity and fear, and worship the Greater Spirit Ikuras, though the cult believes he is a Daemon. Though we have a tough exterior vibe In-Character, OOC we're all wonderful, welcoming people. Even the people we murder love us OOC! 

If you're into blacksmithing..look at my signature.

I'll show you the world(of metal)

Lark is also in the super mcswagdaddy Ikuras cult

If you're into evil roleplay I.e. Spooky villain rp, you could always chill with the Ikuras cult.

((I had a one eyed pirate character named Scag who had every std known to man

snip

The Nightmare Weaver floats out, past Aerxuis and Kraal. He beckons them to follow outside. Slowly the figure hovers out from the swamp, to the isolated place far from any prying eyes, where Skale and Asher wait. The being floats over to Asher, tilting its head curiously at him, before raising a pale limb and delivering a vicious slap with the back of his hand to Asher's face. Its head then swivels to Skale, neck popping as it regards him, normally amused countenance utterly devoid of humor or patience. It opens it's mouth in a rasp.

"Do'tilam do-thara Siggourdnbad. Badurz-rud hearr nuzk kalathgnu-ka. O'kuram-rud do'sek tergnu."

The Nightmare Weaver floats gently after Siggourdnbad, proceeding to an isolated spot outside the fortress. He alights upon the ground and awaits the rest of his followers to arrive. 

The Nightmare Weaver lets out a cackle.

"A daz'kyoni volr pelosr narn Ikuras." he says within the minds of his cultists, still giggling.

Darkness

Void

The being strayed out of thought and mind. How long had he been here? It could have been five minutes, or a thousand years. Suddenly, a presence invaded his little conscious.

"Who am I?" the being asked.

"One who serves me." the presence replied.

The being felt a small tingling. He had memories suddenly. The Cult. Ikuras. His name. 

"I am Kknotos." he said in the darkness. The being felt like something was missing. Memories of a woman? No, it was gone now.

"Yes." said Ikuras. "It is time for you to return to your world."

~~~

In the Elvish ruins, deep within Fiandra, a dark gathering came together. The Necromancers, a few Dreadknights, and the Ikuras Cult. A red haired elf, fiendish in appearance, stepped forward, nodding to each of the beings there. 

"It is time." he said.

Swiftly the group proceeded through the darkling paths of the forest, quietly approaching the Druid Grove from behind. Siggourdnbad led the group to the very top of the Great Tree, before turning to the Necromancers and the Dread Knights.

"Take up posts at the base of the tree, hold off the nature-scum."

The beings nodded, hurrying downwards. The Druids engaged in combat swiftly, revealing weapons in sudden shock at the intrusion. The Lich, Kraal, set a ring of fire about the three who remained at the top. Siggourdnbad drew a pentagram upon the ground in blood, and each being took up their places at the points of the star. 

The spot for Kknotos, was of course, empty. As the battle raged on at the base of the tree, each of the three beings atop it began to shout a chant to the heavens. 

Ikuras, a'razi do eg burz y serthekhur!

A tingle entered the souls of all within the grove, evil or good. It was as if massive eyes, ancient and filled with malice, had turned their attention to the battle. 

Ikuras, a'razi do eg burz y serthekhur!

The tingle grew into a pressure that was easily felt by all Clerics, Shamans, and Druids.

Ikuras, a'razi do eg burz y serthekhur!

With this final chant, a rip in space itself appeared, a dark portal with issued forth tendrils of shadow. A thousand thousand screams shrieked from the portal's opening, wailing in agony. Above it all, a deep voice spoke. 

"YOU HAVE DONE WELL, MY FOLLOWERS." Ikuras said. 

Siggourndbad bowed. "We wish for you to return Kknotos to us."

"SO BE IT. YOU HAVE MET THE TASK OF SUMMONING ME WITHIN MY ENEMIES' LAND."

The dark being began to taint the surrounding area, laughing. Its tendrils then reached within itself, dragging something out. A being. The being was forcefully expelled from the portal before Ikuras disappeared, leaving behind the being and the echo of screams. 

~~~

The wind upon its skin and the heat of flames. It could feel.

The smell of soot and rot. It could smell.

Screams of the wounded and dying. It could hear.

Saliva, new and thick in its mouth. It could taste.

Slowly the being looked up. It could see. It recognized its followers from a previous life, but now it's happiness boiled over into a mad cackle as it raised its face to the sky.

"My lord?" asked Kraal. The Nightmare Weaver payed the Lich no heed. The druids were now advancing up the tree. With a gesture, Siggourdnbad ordered the third member of the group to attack.

Roaring in fury, Vorrul, the Balrog, charged down the tree. Dozens were crushed beneath his claws, and yet more scorched to a crisp by its flaming skin. The creature ravaged the druids as the dark beings were able to escape, Kraal leading the Nightmare Weaver by the hand. As they finally made it a few miles away from the grove, with the shrieks of battle still audible, the Nightmare Weaver halted, looking at itself in a stream.

Where once there was a face, now there was but a mouth, and a cavernous bowl where a brain should lie. Within, ash spewed forth, blowing away in the wind. Blackened horns rose on either side of its face. The Nightmare Weaver let out another cackle.

The being once known as Kknotos had returned.