SwampRump

North of Cloud Temple, past the rolling planes and lush forests of Almaris is a frigid expanse of snow and ice that few dare traverse. The Rimeveld is the sprawling tundra battered by windswept snow and the formidable arctic hills whose very being seeks to consume whoever may explore their depths. It is an unforgiving land that provides little in the way of civilization but is bountiful in its hazards. The powerful storms and dangerous terrain is enough to send most men into an early grave if one does not watch their step, but the Far North is home to more dangers than simply snow and ice. The beasts that roam the lands are often hungry and seek more than simple crops to live on. They are pillagers, scavengers, and hunters looking to feed upon any unsuspecting victim that might cross their path. For those who travel through the Rimeveld, either claiming their bravery or hiding their foolishness, there is a single settlement beyond the northern travel hub that may provide shelter. The Dual Principalities of Nor’Asath and Fenn stand in opposition to the battering storms and prowling monsters that roam the lands. Those who call the city their home have been hardened by the environment they reside in, adapting to the challenges that they face. These stewards of the Rimeveld frontier serve as the mediator between the civilized lands of the descendants and the wild front of the far north. “Through all my travels of Almaris, across the deep southern savannah, through the lush forests of the western coast, and over the mountains of the Dwed, I have come across no land more formidable than that of the Rimeveld. If Almaris were forged by some higher entity, then the lands of the Rimeveld were intended as a cruel joke to be played upon the Descendants. Whether it be by toothy maw, billowing storm, avalanche, or fenatic cultists death looms ever present within the Far North. But for the lucky few who may prove their strength against the looming dangers of the Rimeveld and answer it's call, glory and honor will certainly follow.”

"I approve this alliance." Arevthor Tathvir, the proud Snow Elf, nods.

Nestled deep within the far north, clouded behind the whistling winds and blowing snow, the faint sounds of music can be heard ringing through the hills and mountains. Carried upon the winds would be the faint smell of grain, complimented by a tinge of something sweet. The closer one would come to the source, the stronger these senses would become. The music would reveal itself to be a number of string instruments being drowned out by a heavy THUMPING of dozens of boots keeping rhythm, all of which being accompanied by muffled singing and ambient chatter. The scent would grow heavy with alcohol, so much so that some might even claim that the smell alone was enough to intoxicate them. To those who knew the northern Tundra well, there is only one location that could produce such stimulating smells and scents, WYRVUN’S LANDING, located within Ikur’fiyem of the Fennic Remnants, maintained by the famed Quenters. Since the dawn of the Mali’Fenn there has always been an attempt to pass on historical and cultural traditions. For centuries a grand library had stood amongst the ‘Fenn, filled with books detailing the rocky history of the tundra dwelling elves. But as tragedy struck and Cataclysms shook the people to the brink of extinction the library steadily lost more and more of its sprawling collection. As the mighty Fennic Capitals were brought to ruins by all manner of disaster it quickly became evident that a new system needed to be devised, one that could survive the struggles of a Cataclysm and live on through the surviving community. Thus, the Quenters were born at the dawn of the Fennic Remnants. An amalgamation of various artistic forms brought together under a single roof to be practiced, performed, and passed on from generation to generation. Under the guidance of the Mavalmir (Head Quenter) the Quenters have flourished into a sprawling network of cheerful musicians, artists, performers, story tellers, barkeeps, and brewers. Structure and Hierarchy Titles of the Quenters [!] A notice is hung upon the wall of Wyrvun's Landing. In an elegant handwriting it reads... ༺══════──────────────────────────══════༻ While it may appear so, do remember that looks can be deceiving, as Quenters are more than just Tavern wenches and innkeepers. They are the lore holders for the Fennic people and those who have decided to call these walls their home. They are bardic artists, composing cultural ballads and crafting unique instruments of their own design. They are spirit brewers concocting unique mixes and drinks, and they are story tellers passing on lessons and history through tales. Quenters serve as the heart and soul of all Fennic people. If you are an individual who has been captivated with this brief explanation, please seek out one of the many Quenters in Wyrvuns Landing to explain more of the structure of the artistic collective within Fenn. ༺══════──────────────────────────══════༻ Schools of Art [!] At the bottom of the poster a number of tear off off squares can be seen... •──────────⋅☾ ☽⋅──────────• Please fill out and return to a bartender if interested in joining the Quenters. Name: Race: Age: [[OOC]] Username: Discord: Timezone: (Post application as reply) •──────────⋅☾ ☽⋅──────────•

Arevthor Tathvir pats Vytrek on the back as he signs the missive, a sly grin across his face. “What an interesting time we live in.”

Arevthor Tathvir laughs hysterically upon reading the letter posted in his own tavern. "House Hawksong is endorsing an honor duel between CHILDREN?!" Arev continues to laugh, sharing the news with all the patrons within the tavern. "Oh how far the nobles of Elvenesse have fallen to encourage their children to fight. A century ago the 'Fenn would have been accused of barbaric actions such as these!" He hops up onto a table, pointing a finger across the tavern. "I can assure to all who hear my words and wherever my words carry, if Dyr so chooses to accept this duel he will most certainly come out victorious!" The words of the 'Fenn would carry far beyond the walls of the tavern, likely reaching the ears of many within Elvenesse, but most notably that would be shared was his laughter.

The sound of trickling water echoed through the cave. How many nights had it been by now? Arevthor Tathvir could not determine accurately, but he knew that more time was still required. A month was the given task, to live entirely within darkness with but a single lantern to offer light. There were little threats for him to face. The occasional insect or wandering soul seeking directions. The greatest danger to him was boredom. Boredom acts as a gateway to various other plagues of the mind, most dangerous being insanity. His mind would wander, reminiscing on the people and events that led him here. Trial of Birth: Cute was the first word that popped into his head when he stumbled across the young bird in the Norlandic wilderness. Gray fuzz covered its body, doing little to protect it from the arctic temperature. Arev scoped up the young creature into his hands, wrapping it into the loose parts of his cloak to provide warmth. As time carried on the bird would grow and develop, revealing itself to be a Goose with black feathers tipping its wings. Prenu was the name Arev would bestow upon his companion, who would quickly prove to live up to the name of “Theif”. The sound of hooves would trod past, awaking Arev from his sleep. The rider paid little attention to the man or his dying flame, but left behind the trigger of a fluttering memory. Trial of Peace: Thudding of a half dozen horses drew his attention first from the gates, well dressed Valah with colorful robes and clothes mounted upon their steads. All it took was a single question, a request to understand their people better. Never before had Arev written so much, preferring the value of spoken word over that of written, yet the representative of Yong Ping kept explaining more of their culture and Arev didn’t have it in his heart to stop him. Nightmares had become a commonality for the ‘Fenn, previously an asset vacant from his life. Sweat rolled down his brow as he awoke in a fright, reaching desperately for his sword. Visions of assailants, foes and those who would seek harm to his loved ones plagued his dreams. He knew the threats his home faced, something had to be done. Trial of War: Long had the fight dragged on. Arev barely managed to stand over the creature, a club made of bone clutched tightly in hand. Out of every game to be found within the Tundra, the Crowdrake has been his chosen target. Whether by mistake or choice he could not remember, he could only remember the relief after the battle. Wounds dotted his limbs, many would heal as scars over the years, acting as a reminder of the challenge he had overcome. Desperation had begun to kick in as the flame’s fuel had run out. Straw strewn about the cave had already been used, the rotten wood of the bridge proved little to no use anymore. His robes were found to be an adequate source of fuel, providing the flame with enough to last for hours on end. Despite his willingness to burn sections of every piece of clothing he had with him, a single cloak remained untouched, a gift that would remain untouched till his final breath. Trail of Death: Little was remembered of this experience, the sinking into the lake, the last breath he had taken, and the drift into the darkness. Yet that darkness did not persist long before being consumed by a blinding light. Golden in hue and pure in essence, it conveyed a message to the Tathvir that seemed clear as day to him. He accepted the task before waking next to a fire, Varan Atmorice watching over him carefully. “What did you see?” Was all he was asked, and Arev could only answer truthfully with a single word… His eyes opened slowly, requiring little adjustment despite the lantern’s light. A sigh escaped his lips, followed by a sarcastic chuckle. Arevthor discovered the true meaning of this trial and why it had been chosen to represent his moniker. He stood, collecting what little supplies he had remaining, his food rations and the cloaks he used for warmth. Finally he picked up the floating blue flame of the lantern before walking upwards through the cave away from the trickling water. A task dependent entirely upon time; this is what Arev had believed when he entered the cave, that his trial was simply one of endurance. In truth, the goal was for him to truly adapt to his moniker. Trudging footsteps carry him up the stone path one foot after another. The distant sound of a raging storm can be heard from beyond the cave. ‘This storm’ He thought to himself, ‘Dark mages and practitioners of the forbidden secrets, they threaten my home. My kin. My loved ones. They cower in our shadows, hiding in the dark while they plot against us.’ Arevthor’s vision is entirely obscured by the blizzard as he reaches the mouth of the cave. Within the blizzard he can see faint figures of apparitions pausing to stare at him as he pulls the cloak tight to his body. He clutches the lantern tight in hand before taking a step into the storm, thus rising the Vigilant of Light. ‘In deepest cave, in darkest night, Where evil hides, and spreads its blight, I bathe it all in white so bright, I purity, for I am light.”

"Strange" Arevthor Tathvir states to the patrons listening to him within Wyrvun's Landing of the Fennic Remnants. "That one will sit here and write about the value of unity across all Mali, yet do little to work towards this effort. I personally do believe that unity amongst our cousins and brothers is within reach, in fact I believe it's even closer than many think. That being said of course it is not simply something that a boy with foolish dreams and little planning can accomplish. This requires planning, understanding, patience, and most importantly persistence. We must be willing to find compromise amongst ourselves while ensuring our individuality and cultures remain true; distinguish a course of leadership without subjugating ourselves; and find it within our hearts to truly trust one another. Unity amongst Elves is closer than we think lliran, just requires the right nudge." He cracks a wild smile, raising his glass as he finishes his rant, the patrons returning to their evening.

MC Username: Trekwars RP Name: Arevthor Tournament: Ranged, Melee

+1, put this in now

"What was that?!" Arevthor cries from the side lines, furious at the Ref's unfair call. It would seem that the Fennic Audience would be on his side, as an angry uproar would quickly wash over the crowd. It wouldn't be long until the passionate fans would likely storm the streets, taking their anger out on the local businesses and establishments.

The Snow Elf Arevthor Tathvir is unbelievably elated that the ABAD has been introduced, and even more so happy that his team managed to succeed in a major upset. Naturally he would participate in the after game riot that would occur, charging the opposing teams stands and any local merchant shops whose doors would still have been open after the game, all the while whistling in Snow Elven.

Arevthor Tathvir is disappointed to find out that Fenn wasn't invited to this. He was once one of the greatest players of his youth, if only he could have the chance to prove himself once more.

"It's about time someone pointed out the blatant foolishness." Arevthor explains to his companion Neia as they both sit within Wyrvun's Landing, sharing a round of drinks together. "I never thought I'd live to see the day when the 'Fenn serve as a beacon for Mali strength."

Arevthor Tathvir, tired from his recent voyages, lazily reads over the missive. Slowly he rises from where he sits, a wicked smile crossing his lips allowing his aged teeth to gleam in the warm light cast from the fireplace. Slowly he begins to mumble to himself, speaking as if preparing for an audience. A shadow has been cast across our people, our lands, and our beliefs. This is not only an act of sacrilege, but a challenge of our strength. These 'Vampyres' believe that the Vigilants of Isvinity, and to a larger respect all of the Mali'Fenn, will sit aside and allow them to do as they please? Feed upon whom they so chose and convert our kin to their dark ways? If any other had been approached as we have mayhaps that would be the case. But we are Mali'Fenn, born of the Ice and Snow of the north under the grace of Wyrvun. We will stand fast against these foes who threaten our way people, our homes, and we will cast them back into whatever pit they dragged themselves out of. No corner of this realm will provide them safety, for our light will triumph over their blight." After a moment the Snow Elf shrugs, deciding that will do for now before heading towards the local tavern to share his thoughts and words.

"How strange." Arevthor Tathvir mumbles as he reads the series of missives from his bed within the Fennic Remnants. The Snow Elf eventually rises to his feet, his mind quite focused on the actions of his High Elven cousins.