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.

╔═════━━━━━───── • ─────━━━━━═════╗ Quenter's Handbook: Fennic Folktales and Myths Collected and spread by Arevthor Tathvir ╚═════━━━━━───── • ─────━━━━━═════╝ ────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── Due to the numerous cataclysms the Fennic population has faced over the centuries, maintaining a consistent library detailing written history has been a difficult task. Because of this, many ‘Fenn opt to pass on stories of history through word of mouth. As years go by and generations rise and fall, these oral tales slowly alter and evolve, being twisted from the once historical accounts. This is most often the origin for Mali’Fenn folklore, existing as a twisted view of reality where nightmarish creatures and outlandish heroes are frequent. While the validity of these tales are questionable at best, most of the written works that could counter these tales has been lost to one of the many cataclysms, thus leading almost all Fennic children and even most mature Mali'Fenn to believe in these tales and the values they hold. The folktales themselves almost entirely take place within fin'hesin, and are often used to explain natural phenomena, teach lessons to children, and urge listeners to aspire towards certain goals and values. The creatures within these stories frequently range from fantastical horrors of the imagination; to deific creatures depicted in religious works; to well known, common monsters. The lessons that are intended to be shared will often be representative of the core values of the Mali'Fenn as well as warnings meant to caution young children. While the range of stories told is vast and ever changing, one of the most consistent points that will always persist is the oral method in their retelling and their ever changing and evolving nature. Bestiary A collection of obscure tales that describe creatures more than an actual story. These range from common house gnomes to horror inducing creatures living under the sea. One commonality of all these tales is the distinct lack of characters, using its time to describe the form and habits of these folk-landish beings. Arctic Elementals In the darkness of night, unlit by fuel-burning fires, some speak of light appearing in the thickness of the black beyond the walls, not of normal shades of fire-light, no oranges or yellows, but rather of whites and blues glimmering at times. It’s as if in a single moment the pitch-black would come alive with resistance in its center as an elemental attempts to wake and wander the walls of Fenn in search of ways in. Some say it’s not a creature but rather Wyrvun gathering power away from the watchful eyes of other higher beings, yet others exclaim it is merely the moonlight scattering in shards of ice and onto the neighboring environment. Vul-kina Howls from afar, through the tips of the trees, through the valleys of snow & ice, through the timber and stone walls of the capital: a deep howl. Many Ivae’Fenn reports recall a deep and ominous howl coming from afar, nothing like any known beast, yet without fail, someone is always found dead near or around the sounds. Some Guardians outright refuse to go anywhere near those sounds until at least a full day has passed, reports of disobeying orders and outright fighting in defiance, as if the deepest part of our strongest fighters is screaming at them “don't go there”, and rightly-so, cases of lone Guardians or small patrols of two investigating and never returning are all too common. Something prowls around for whatever reason, it’s a certainty of death and an impossibility to find, unless it wants to be found. Faesullral The Faesullral is trapped in the sea for most of the year, but emerges from its watery depths in the winter months. It looks like a horse with fin-like appendages, translucent skin, and blood-red eyes. It's gaping maw permeates a toxic vapor that causes crops to wilt and livestock and children to fall ill. The Faesullral is so dangerous that, traditionally, its name is hardly ever spoken, whispered only in hushed tones that are quickly followed up by a prayer. If you see the creature, it will pursue you, and the only way to escape it is to cross a running body of freshwater. As a creature of the sea and of sickness, the Faesullral cannot stand freshwater. The sound of ice cracking over water is said to be the sound of the Faesullral neighing. Malnii’lin These little folk protect the homes of those who invite them in and are known to leave tiny gifts for their house-folk, though often Malnii’lin will pick a home without invitation, almost acting as a pest themselves. Often felt but rarely seen, they act much like house cats, warding off pests and unwanted vermin. In return they will often steal small portions of food and perhaps the occasional sock or small piece of cloth. They often adorn their heads with cones made out of cloth in order to keep themselves warm. While they are fearful of adults, they will often take a liking to small children, viewing their innocence as pure and allowing them insight into their tiny world. If one is to ever find that their food rations are running low, jewelry or puzzles pieces missing, or socks and gloves wind up unfound often the Malnii’lin will be blamed. Folktales This is a gathering of various stories and tales depicting the growth and development of various characters within Fin’Hesin. Many of these stories hold a message within them, sometimes cautionary sometimes inspiring, to help guide young ‘Fenn. Much of these stories exist within the basis reality, referencing historic events and locations, though the events that make up the stories themselves seldom have other works or evidence supporting their validity (perhaps a result of the written works being destroyed years ago). Av’iler, the last son of the Fenn’asul Upon a setting dusk there stood a Fennic line renowned for their skills in tinkering and healing. Fenn'asul is what they called themselves, brandishing the name with pride. Tragedy would strike however in the form of a Cataclysm, demolishing the bloodline and leading any remaining members to be hunted. There was a single ounce of hope for the survival of the bloodline in the form of Av’iler, the last son of the Fenn'asul. With him he carried the collective knowledge of his kin and their ancestors. His fate was already sealed however, as he was hunted and killed by enemies of the Snow Elves. It is said that Wyrvun offered Av'iler eternal slumber within Fin'ciwn, but he refused the offer. Rather he insisted that he be sent back to Fin'Hesin as a Diraar'maya, taking the form of a bear reminiscent of his family's crest. To this day Av'iler wanders the tundra, seeking to remind the Fennic people of his ancestors, and the ancestors before them. A whistling sound can be heard echoing through the tundra, said to be the call of Av'iler, the Last Son of the Fenn’asul, calling for all to remember. Fiym’fih Faitil was a young Fennic man who had struggled all his life with his devotion to Wyrvun, failing to believe in his strength. One fateful day Faitil found himself on a hunting expedition with a group of like minded men before tragedy struck. A blizzard rolled in, stranding the party in a nearby cave for shelter. Days went by and the party still found themselves stranded within the cave, struggling to find the necessary rations to survive. Faith was held by all that Wyrvun, Aengul of the Deep Cold, would guide them to safety and relieve the storm, all but Faitil. In the dead of night he slayed his companion and feasted upon their flesh. Wyrvun was furious at the lack of faith and the willingness Faitil had to turn on his fellow man. A curse was placed upon the young ‘Fenn, transforming him into a Fiyem’fih. Fiyem'fih walks the lonely stretches of taiga far in the north, constantly searching for a new hunt. Though it towers at a whopping fifteen feet, Fiyem'fih is often described as being emaciated, suggesting that it is never fully satisfied with its cannibalistic urges. It gives off a strange and eerie odor of decay and decomposition. Unlike other carnivores, it does not rely on chasing its prey; rather, it mimics human voices to lure people in and draw them away from civilization. Myths Synonymous with historical events, these Myths depict very real events that have happened within Fennic history. There are many ‘Fenn still alive who remember these events, some even were apart of them, still sharing their perspectives to this day. Of all Fennic tales these are the most valid stories, with multiple sources referencing their validity. The Call to our Ancestors Fennic folk are quite familiar with finding themselves fighting an outnumbered battle. While any other would drop their weapons in fright, the ‘Fenn are far too stubborn. In order to even the odds, a Call will be made to their ancestors, asking them to leave their slumber within Fin'ciwn for but a moment to bear witness to the glory their descendent carries. The call takes many forms, a muttering of chants, a song limerick, the banging of one’s shield, or even a simple whistle. It is said that the ‘Fenn can feel the presence of their ancestors’ spirits fill the surrounding area, slinking from the shadows and the rolling forest, perhaps even being glimpsed by a lucky few. These onlookers will never lift a hand to their descendants aid, rather believing that they possess the strength to bring glory to the ‘Fenn by themselves.

[!] A white goose can be seen flying across the lands of Almaris, dropping a missive wherever it may land as it seeks to spread word as far as possible. A number of specially addressed invitations would be sent to royals and leaders of respected groups and nations. “Lliran, the time has come, as it always does, for a show of strength to be held. I’ll keep this short since I know many have limited literacy skills. A tournament will be held within the Fennic Remnants to decide a champion of combat. As I imagine I’m sure many reading this have participated in similar events, this one like many others will be fists only with no armor advantages. I call to the sellswords and bandits, the guards and soldiers of Almaris, to come and prove their strength for honor, glory, and a two hundred mina prize.” - Arevthor Tathvir [!] Accompanying the missive is a number of extra sheets to be used for an application into the tournament itself. OOC: Tourney will be held on 7/8/21, starting around 8 pm EST or once enough participants are gathered, Applications will be closed at 6pm EST to give organization time Application Link: https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLScL2VlMwxiIAJnC45ZlMGTx0UlvPX7nRCiCJ5qu6YD3P3l8GQ/viewform?usp=sf_link

Name: Arevthor Tathvir Race: snelf Age: 180ish Gender: male [[OOC]] Username: Trekwars Discord: Trekwars Timezone: CST

With this being a vassal of Hnor, how do culture lines and laws work? Will this be its own sovereign settlement or something else?

Arevthor Tathvir can't help but whistle a tune out of excitement. Those who would hear it would immediately recognize it as an old Snow Elven song.

My friend bring whatever you want for RP. Bring both if you want! (Though the poltergeist might get gacked as time goes on).

The Eccentric Arevthor Tathvir flashes a sly grin, a gleam crossing his eyes as he reads the missive. "It's about time you listen to us!" Arev cries, clapping his hands together as he stands alongside both Vytrek and Aldred.

Like I said; WE'RE BACK BABY

WE'RE BACK BABY

Somewher in a smoke filled tavern, A soft smile crosses the lips of Arevthor Tathvir as he learns of the news, reminiscing on the kindness that he was shown over the decades. Lifting his glass into the air he offers a silent toast in the man's name before downing his last drink of the night.