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  1. The Fennic Conclave “From the ashes of our ancestors will be born a stronger people.” This is the declaration of a new era within the history of the Mali’Fenn. No longer are our people bound to one reining family, the Tundraks. We will be a people united by our kinship under the Lord of Cold. Wyrvun has blessed his people with the grace of falling snow and resolve of the ice spikes that lined the great ice wall of Atlas. We are the remnants of Fenn however, we are not Fenn. We are the Mali’Fenn of Wyrvun. We welcome any who seek to rejoin their kin. The lost, the disowned, the damned and cursed. It is through joining once more of arms we can find ourselves and seek redemption. It is under Wyrvun we will return to what we should be, his children of frost. What matters is our survival, not grudges of the past and poor decisions made. Among our ranks are those who see home within our people, regardless of their race, or orientation. Our doors are open to all whom seek solace and refuge within Wyrvun’s embrace. Bloodlines Atmorice The Atmorice Bloodline can be traced back to the beginnings of the Mali’fenn to the first Matriarch of the family, Siol Atmorice. This Bloodline, because of the events that Siol lived, has fallen responsible to keep the religious and culture aspect of the Fennic people in check, many of the Bloodline members becoming priests and high priests thanks to this and serving within the military aspects as well. Though this family might be cold to outsiders, they continue to hold honorable ways towards all, keeping a great respect and love towards the Mali’fenn and their family members, making them also overprotective to the previously mentioned. They hold specializations in the areas of Archery, Horsemanship and Spear/Lance wielding. Matriarch: Chomylla Atmorice [Comic D#5274] Drakon The Drakon Bloodline has long been intertwined with the history of the Mali’fenn. Because of the closeness between the Tundrak and Drakon Families, in times of uncertainty where leadership is questioned, members of the Drakon Family tend to step up to become the leader when a Tundrak is in absence. Besides this, Drakons tend to have an affinity for maritime pursuits, whether that be for military, trade, or diplomatic relations. The historical weapon of choice for Drakons are trident or some form of polearm or spear. Matriarch: Aroiia Elena (Drakon) Tundrak [Sygnus_#1161] Sylric The Sylric bloodline is a backbone of the Fennic people. Praised for their smithing ability, they make many of the weapons wielded by the Fennic people and build many of the walls that shelter them. Sylrics have been known for their military prowess and length of service as one of the eldest bloodlines, seconded only by the Drakons. Matriarch: Velatha Sylric [EnderMaiashiro#7430] Tathvir The Tathvirs are one of the swiftest and the healers of the Fennic people. They are often the scouts of the military serving to be the best scouts in the military. The Tathvirs also are great alchemists most often healers among the people. Matriarch: Valerica Tathvir [Mewliet#6297] Other Notable Families: Akal’athri Oath to the Mali’Fenn Any resident of the Fennic Conclave can take an oath to protect the Fennic people. Having the blood of malin is not required. Any who seek to protect the ‘Fenn and residents of the Fennic Conclave are encouraged to take such. Contact the Marshal or Chieftain if you are interested. Must be a resident of the Conclave however this can be avoided under certain circumstances. Location The majority of the Conclave residents take solstice within Elathion. A few reside in an assortment of other nations but are just as much supporters of the cause as those physically with the Conclave. Alliances Norland Leadership Cheiftan: Velatha Sylric [EnderMaiashiro#7430] High Priestess: Morael Akal’athri [Little_Lulah#6528] Marshal: Taveric Sylric [GrimDeValhalla#6996]
  2. THE RESURGENCE OF PROGRESS Issued 8th of the Deep Cold, 1771. A new entrance has appeared by the Acid Pit Observatory... The newly appointed Okarir'tayna calls within the square for attention, as he gestures toward the gazebo on the other side of the fountain. The entrance to the Acid Pit Observatory, the stairwell that had been barred by a gate and a glass wall for months, was now decorated with cyan ribbons. Silvos called out for those present to follow him down, leading the way side by side with Sohaer Miravaris. Upon entering, the citizens would notice a new telekinetic elevator, barred by a silver gate, has been constructed on the other side of the balcony, topped by a sign simply stating “The Eternal Laboratories”. The Okarir’tayna hands the Sohaer a pair of scissors to cut the thin ribbon standing between the public and the elevator, and with a swift *snip*, the Laboratories are opened! The gate rises, and any and all mali'aheral are allowed inside to finally see the halls that will soon host a myriad of experiments, research papers and scientists. At the end of the offices a small hall branches off, aptly titled the “Hall of Discovery”. The Okarir’tayna announces: Mali'aheral of Lareh’thilln, I am pleased to welcome you, finally, to the new laboratories. When I returned to elHaelun’or after my long slumber, I was appalled to find a lack of this integral institute which has allowed so many great discoveries, so much progress, in the past. The place I held most dearly within elcihi, the establishment that provided the Eternal Library with new knowledge, absent. Now, in these difficult times, the one thing we can always agree upon shall remain our loyalty to elMaehr’sae Hiylun’ehya. And Maehr’sae we shall seek once more. I am glad, that I can proudly present to you these halls with such purpose. However, at the moment they are dull, void of any research and progress in the works. This is where I need you. On the desk beside the elevator you will find an application form which you may fill out, if you wish to join me in discovering ever more greatness. I shall provide you the space. I shall ensure your safety. I shall guide the progress. If necessary, I shall expand these halls tirelessly until every single Mali’aheral wishing to do research, can do so, right here. I look forward to working with you. Application form: Please do note that to qualify for a labspace you must: -Be of a mature age (50+). -Be a citizen of elHaelun'or. -Be pure, of course. -Follow elMaehr’sae Hiylun’ehya closely. Signed, Okarir’tayna Silvos Sythaerin Sohaer Alaion Miravaris Maheral Acaele Lazul
  3. SUNDERED ELVES I. Origin + History [Sorry can’t make this two separate sections you’ll see why] Ancient History | The First Phase [This is the same as the past lore.] Part I: The Experiment The tale of the Mali’fenn begins with the schismatic war of the ancient Elcihi’thilln of the High Elves, or the Silver City. The untouched visage of the would-be ruler of the Mali'aheral, Lomal, after the inferno died around him during his trial by fire had stunned the many Mali’thilln of the Silver Hall, among them a young researcher named Aelthos Thuln’diraar and those of his laboratory. They stood then as he called for followers, a fire sparked in their hearts by the claims of elevation and destiny, and joined Lomal. They would be among the first of the Elsil’Parir, the Swords of the Harbinger, the flock of their prophet. As Lomal, who now called himself the Elannil’Ilum, chose Aelthos to be among the first to ascend the steps to his word altar and change his form, Aelthos would continue his research in a spectacular way - to ask for a change akin to that of the Golden Pools that their parents and grandparents had bathed in centuries before. Instead of gaining the fantastical form of a half-animal, and instead of gaining vast magical resistances, he would seek his version of the completion of maehr’sae hiylun’ehya - to become what he would call thill’al, purity complete. Physically his ears shortened and became more triangular as the hair around it bleached to a snow-white color. His eyes became a bright silver, and his skin paled to just more than that of a ghost. His muscles became more pronounced, his arms toned and hands dextrous, and his height shortened to an even six feet. He, however, would not take up any of the truly transformative properties that many other Elsil’Parir had chosen to take as he saw himself as the embodiment of physical perfection. His experiment, then, was to question whether the use of the word altar would fundamentally change them, and to do so he would enlist his laboratory. His researchers, scientists, the sparse few mages of the laboratory, and their families would gather at the altar one day and Lomal would change them one by one, granting them all nearly the same changes as Aelthos before them, with slight individual modifications of eye and hair color. Some had eyes a deep amethyst color, while others chose hair a pale blonde color instead of white. He saw them as family, then, and they tested themselves and each other. Part II: Purity They would, however, soon be forgotten by Lomal for those he had changed into more exotic and powerful forms, and by Larihei’s folk for their lack of connection to Lomal thereafter. Indeed, though originally entranced by their new forms, the lack of change during the stagnated conflict left Aelthos disillusioned, and whilst he had thrown in his proverbial lot with the Elsil’Parir, his people wished to return to their cousins and their purpose of forging their own destiny. He would, late in one Snow’s Maiden night, send a message across the wall asking for return. Months later, they would enact their plan on the third night of what would be called the Ball of the Century. As Lomal hosted perhaps the most grand ball the Silver City had ever seen, with magical displays far beyond that which had come before, Aelthos and his band stole away across the wards of the great wall put up to protect Larihei’s people from Lomal’s, assisted by those of Larihei’s followers that had been trying to undermine Lomal’s influence. They found themselves quickly isolated, however, as many of those that had once been their friends now declared their forms impure. Those that sought to join them thereafter were a tenth of the number that had applied previously to the once-prestigious laboratory, and indeed they found themselves to be a different definition of pure than their brethren. While they had set themselves back on the path of progress as they had once known it, peace would not come to them easily. When Larihei called upon Lomal for a final debate and shot in front of their many followers, and when Lomal’s supporters then broke through great wall’s wards, they fled with their brethren. They fled through Tahn’s great plains and ancient wilderness, and when they came across the portal, they too trusted in the missing Larihei and jumped into the portal. Part III: Ice When they found themselves deep in the Aegisian wilderness, they wandered separately from the many that would later assimilate into Laurelin. Instead, they would find themselves in the deep North, far past the future location of the Human city of Winterfell, where their changed bodies would not be called a curse by their cousins. Here they found that they had indeed lost some of what had once made them Mali’aheral - their eyes had only flecks of the deposits once vibrantly glowing within, and their search for health halted as soon as they had become accustomed to their "perfected" bodies. Instead they sought to defend themselves from the constant ringing within minds, the effects of the loss of the word altar. For decades, the men and women of the laboratory tested everything they could, subjecting themselves to intense training and work to delay what had taken the minds of their weakest. Indeed, deep in Aegis’ northern tundras, Aelthos seemed to be the only truly sane one of them. For this reason, they would not scout far past their frozen laboratory until the advent of Iblees, which forced them to flee south and into the Verge with the rest of the Descendants. In Asulon, too, they searched for a cure for decades with little luck before the continent was destroyed in fire and flood. Aelthos, while a good leader and smart in coupling his people, knew he would not be able to hold their new curse at bay for long. He had slowly found himself less in control, and while the changes of the word altar on him were small, he had still accepted Lomal's changes those many years go. Though outwardly he was still the same grand leader his people had always seen, he felt the lack of the altar eating at the edges of his mind. For Aelthos, though, he most cherished and cared about his young and growing son. When his son showed to be under the same mental strain as he, Aelthos knew finally that for their survival they must leave their laboratory. To find a cure for his son and his kin, Aelthos and his two original laboratory managers searched Anthos far and wide before finally standing at a frozen, bright blue lake far beyond the Wall that mirrored what had once kept them from being true High Elves. They had travelled for years, and their wills were all but broken by their lack of success. Their last lead had brought them to this lake, but they’d found it to be devoid of even the slightest lead. Here, as a tribe of mutated Bohra began to surround the group, they finally collapsed. Aelthos, for the third time in his life after his change at the altar and leap into the portal, placed his life in the hands of a greater being than he. Here, despairing for his son and their family’s fates, he prayed for salvation. Part IV: Fenn Whether by luck or by the will of a higher being, they were saved that day. As the Bohra closed in, the mountains framing the valley trembled and shook as great sheets of white thundered down around them, annihilating the small army of Bohra that had surrounded them and subsiding enough by the time it reached them to only push them onto the ice covering the lake. Also, perhaps because he sensed the avalanche, or perhaps of sheer luck in passing, Wyrvun, the Aengudaemon that had once fallen to corruption, learned of their survival, their drive in searching for sanity. Delving into Aelthos' half-mad mind, he pressed himself in a vision to Aelthos, delivering a verdict - bind himself to the Lord of the Deep Cold and have his people returned to sanity, or condemn all that had followed him those many years ago to the continuation of the painful spiral they had endured. Aelthos made up his mind in a heartbeat, and the effects were felt the next. When they returned to their laboratory, they were welcomed with great fanfare. To their new savior, Wyrvun, they dedicated shrines, temples, even their laboratory to him, renaming it to Fenn for the crystalline sheet that had covered the lake, saving Aelthos' group from death by Bohra or avalanche. They so truly followed their new lord that they took to calling themselves Mali’fenn, and neither Wyrvun nor Aelthos would stop them. Those joyous times, however, would not last. Only three years later, Aelthos would pass in his sleep. He was given a grand funeral, with a display of magic and people none of them had seen since Elcihi. It, however, raised the question of who would be the next head of those of the Deep Cold. Thill’al, that notion which had separated them originally from the other Mali’aheral of the city, gave their answer - his son, he who had inherited his father’s silver eyes and “perfected” features. There could be no other. They were a new people, then, with large numbers and a new leader. Aelthos II, whose original name is now lost to time, declared Fenn a Princedom in honor of Malin, only true king of the Elves. He became Grand Prince, for he was declared thill’onn, born of purity. His people, some now exhibiting the traits of those who had joined later rather than those created, worked to make their newfound Princedom their pride, and Aelthos II would open the Princedom to the outside world. Modern History | The Second Phase [This is a quick recap of events since the race began play] The Snow Elves’ entry into the world at large, however, was not met with the fanfare Aelthos II perhaps expected. Instead, what awaited them was the grim reality of the Fringe’s early years. In an attempt to stabilize the human realms, the Snow Elves were turned into scapegoats, blamed for their problems, and executed en masse. The few that survived fled to the far corners of the world, and the Princedom collapsed. When, half a century later, they began to coalesce once more, again they were purged - this time a matter of principle rather than politics. So began a cycle that would last until the end of the Fifth Empire, when a Tundrak warlord would help lead a coalition to collapse that beacon of human dominance. Upon that change, the Princedom began a long, relatively uninterrupted existence of isolated peace. Eventually, however, that Princedom too would see its end - not by the wars of the past centuries that had inflicted so much horror upon their small world, but to the inevitable decay that all Elven societies eventually face, that of declining population emptying their splendorous cities. The Sundering | The Third Phase [The New Stuff] The decline of Elven societies that caused the fall of such polities as Vira’ker and the earliest iterations of Haelun’or, however, would not have the same fallout as the slow death of Fenn, for a simple reason - the curse of the Snow Elves had always been compounded as compared to those of their brethren. The Snow Elves had once been High Elves, after all, before their alterations at the Word Altar - and, had it not been for the timely intervention of a higher power, would never have survived to the modern era. They, for a millenia, strictly followed the teachings of their founders, laying prayers and worship at the altars of Wyrvun, their patron deity. This was the cornerstone of Fennic society, and indeed they were kept safe from unnatural corruptions. Fenn’s decay, however, meant the decay too of their religious systems - in the end, the Grand Prince made a decision to try to improve upon the ways of his forefathers, creating the Idhren’tirn and promoting the worship of six lesser beings, whom they called Facets. The Contract was made tenuous with the addition of these beings, but still it held for a time. The final straw, however, was the reclusion of many Aengudaemonic powers that began in Arcas, among which was Wyrvun - and with it, the bond that had been forged between Aelthos of ancient legend and his god was broken at last. The effects of this were felt immediately - across each Snow Elf’s bodies rippled what was to be called the Event, the aftereffects of the Word Altar finally affected them as it had affected Lomal’s followers so many years ago, their alterations ripping apart their minds and bodies. Yet Tayl’s event had happened in the years of legend - of Larihei and Lomal, even of Horen and Krug. What had once been a major mark upon the altered elves had long degenerated, whether through interbreeding or through time, into less purposeful tendrils of deific magic within their beings. Many would survive the weakened backlash caused by their ancestors’ decadence, though found themselves altered beyond recognition in the aftermath of the collapse of their passed-down alterations. The newly-reborn sons and daughters of the Deep Cold would have to find a path in their new forms, or not at all. II. Description The trademark of Sundered Elves is the effervescent glow of their eyes and hair - shocking, almost radiant shades unnaturally light up their irises, and their hair accented by luminous highlights. Their eyes themselves can be so altered, in fact, that the entirety of the eye is a single color, appearing almost as a glowing orb. Their bodily makeup too is changed - where once their skin was pale, now it is nearly translucent, and beneath their skin the pulsing of blood in blue veins can be easily tracked by their dull glow. The appearances of their forefathers, however, is not truly lost - their eyes range in the same colors as previous, from whites, to electric blues, to deep amethyst, and everything in between. The glow in their hair matches, though now their hair’s natural colors are limited purely to the whites they were so known for. Thin frames, though not quite so thin as their High Elven ilk, are the norm of the Sundered Elves, their average limits capped by the Event. Normal heights, too, are reduced - 5’6” remains the floor, but none grow taller than 6’1”. Another key alteration, however, is the appearance of Quirks – that is, physical manifestations in some part caused by the ripples of the backlash. These can come in any number of forms – from unique coloration (think birthmarks) on the skin, perhaps vaguely resembling animals, as the Word Altar was so often used to mark Lomal’s followers – to ingrowth of a patch feathers, to warped or misshapen bone or facial structure. This is not enforced for use, and is not allowed to be used for any mechanical benefit. Quirks vary throughout the Sundered Elves, but rarely is it completely different from parent to child – if a parent has a quirk, for instance, it’s likely that if the child has one, it’ll be similar in some degree. Mental inadequacies can also be passed down among Sundered Elves, a remnant of the mental deficiencies once rampant among their population. It is encouraged, but not enforced, that if a parent is afflicted with something, the child also rp as having that same affliction. These can stack as well. III. Culture https://www.lordofthecraft.net/forums/forum/682-princedom-of-fenn/ I’d set up a potential new cultural doctrine for Sundered Elves, but as there is currently an established playerbase (though it’s somewhat inactive atm), their culture will be the moving-forward culture for this new phase. IV. Abilities They get to look cool. Their eyes and hair glow in the dark. 4 block radius. Obviously not through walls. Not useful against any magics or creatures. Just for seeing, I guess. They can see well in the dark. V. General Red Lines -All Sundered Elves are full-on lunatics by the age of 500. Please think of it like this - imagine an old man, say in his early nineties. His friends from youth, from college, maybe from the military - they’re likely all dead. If his wife isn’t dead, she’ll die soon, and he knows it. What he remembers of the past, if he remembers it, is faded. Now, take this imaginary old person, and imagine them living twice as long. Then double that. -No different-colored eyes. -No multicolored eyes. -No gigantism, no dwarfism. -No deity magic. The tendrils left behind by Tayl’s Altar still affect them to some degree, preventing connections to other Aengudaemons or their powers. -No dark magic. The self-sacrificial nature of dark magic would rip them apart. -Voidal magic is ok. -Quirks (Defined in Description) may not be used for any mechanical or crp or pvp benefit whatsoever – they are meant to be a unique aspect of the character, but cannot be used for anything useful. -IMPORTANT SIDENOTE: All current Snow Elves will be given the opportunity to choose between becoming a Sundered Elf or reverting to High Elves upon this lore’s acceptance. This is to let magic-mongers keep their stuff if they’d like without really altering their characters, and the rest of us get to be Sundered Elves. Win/win. VI. Purpose [OOC] I’ve been hearing for about two years now that people are planning on rewriting the Snow Elf lore into something less janky and more unique. It’s true - my original lore was essentially planned out in such a way as to scrape by and make it in through the rules at the time, because the group had been trying to become a subrace for four years at that point and it had gone nowhere. It was more of a desperation play than anything else, and it was a measure of the times - change and unique rp was generally shot down as special snowflake (even though, ironically, we’re on a fantasy minecraft server), and complaints included but were not limited to the fact that many of us had been human players, that the dark elves were still weak, and that we weren’t incredibly different from High Elves. Well, they never rewrote it, so here’s me doing it for them. VII. Citations owo what’s this? a link to the past snelf lore? omg who wrote it? Me. I wrote the original Snow Elf lore. This whole thing was a giant ego-stroking maneuver. Accept it please, so that there’s also physical differences between this subrace and High Elves. Credits to @Junar for telling me deal, and to @Gladuos for telling me to do it.
  4. || IN THE PRESENCE OF SPECTRES || ”Lo’ return the age of Lutaumen, conduits to Kor. Purge of the remnants to the Soul Stream, that shall be the law.” EAR HERE, LO’ DESCENDANTS AND BRETHREN IN ARMS, AND LET IT BE KNOWN GHOSTLY APPARITIONS OF ALL ILK, AND DIFFERING IRE HAVE SPAWNED WITHIN THE HEART OF OUR REALM. THEY HAVE TOO LONG TAKEN TO A TRIFLING WITH THOSE UNDESERVING OF THEIR UNBEKNOWNST TOYING WITH. ROTHERS AND SISTERS IN HOREN, MALIN, KRUG, AND URGUAN, OF ALL IRE, REJOICE IN THE NAME OF KOR; SERVE CONDUITS TO HIMSELF, ALONG WITH THOSE OF MY OWN, AND SO SHALL WE PURGE THE SCOURGE WHOM HAVE LEFT THE SOUL STREAM WITHOUT HIS OWN FAVOUR, THE SPIRIT OF PERISH. Dominus to His Rexdom, Ugrad Lur, Grishnaakh’Raguk. Lûp’Izgul, Afar Izgul.
  5. Hereupon came midnight, Dominus Grishnaakh’Raguk having awoken from the midst of a slumber, of which he struggled to slip deeply into, similarly so to previous nights. Rising back unto his feet, the elf looked up to the stars, that glimmered a white hue through his tired eyes. This night was no different from that of the night he’d spoken with Phaedrus; just as tiresome and dull as such. The air, which took a deep hue of grey, was more akin to the hue of a bayou, just as murky and heavy. In a struggled attempt to reconnect with his troubled thoughts, Grishnaakh returned from whence he usually strung about; the bottom level of the shaman’s den. Drapes and vines swept across the surface of his long locks of blonde, glare of several torches appearing in the mint green of his beady eyes. The heat, having scalded upon his, now dried, branding of Skalp’Raguk manifesting a throbbing pain upon his flesh. T’was then that it came to him, Skalp’Raguk. A name he knew much of, but seldom heard of since beyond yesteryear; many, many moons beyond. But alas, to Grishnaakh, himself, there was, and will nay ever exist true death, only a change of worlds. And hereupon, so began the elf’s first journey into the Ancestral Realm, since that of Phaedrus’Yar, the Honourary Rex to his own Rexdom during Athera. The Lutauman sat at a rug, reaching into his pockets for a pipe of maple, of which’d previously been imbued with a weak strand of Thunderkrug, from whatever much was left from his mentor’s personal storage. With the burning of herbs, the scent of sage lingered through the heavy air, a sweat coming upon Grishnaakh with the eternal burning of the mind-altering flora, a psychedelia therein materialising in his own cerebral plane of thought, and vision. He brought his fists down upon a set of alligator drums, of which he’d harvested and crafted on his own, the pelt of the poor creature tearing and grating across his long nails with every beat of his free hand against its weak surface. Boom, the drum went, seemingly in unison with the thumping of the Raguk’s heartbeat, the ringing of his ear serving as an instrumental to such. And therein, the chanting began. “Lok Stargûsh-hai agh Kor; gothûrz, dûrburz Kor, ob amut taargus-izg.” He began to chant, either eyelids coming to a close with the beating of the drums. “Thrak-izg taar-thu, krum botlab-û urzkû, agh gaakh-izg irz-tuk mâdûrz.” Slowly so, the elf’s eyelids grew heavier, and heavier with the increasingly loud beating of the drums, the tiresome feeling having come upon him later than he’d anticipated it, earlier upon his day, when the night was still young and prosperous, and when clouds still wafted through the unwavering boredom of the sky high o’er heather. And, as it did the time prior, a near translucent aura manifested under the roof of the shaman’s den, embellishing the air surrounding himself at a slowed pace, however surely so. He’d grown familiar to this sensation, if he remained awake to watch as it managed in a calm struggle, and had grown to a liking of such a manifestation. A tether pulled at him therein, tying back at his stoic form, as a metaphysical noose would, like a burden, the beating of the drums coming to a halt promptly. Grishnaakh’Raguk succumbed to the tether. At first, there was nothing, only chaos reigning the domain of his mind, coupled with a backdrop of pure darkness more akin to onyx than much else. With a blink of an eye, he regained sight; with the thundering of storm clouds beyond, he began to hear; and, with the cool breeze hitting against his face mercilessly, he began to feel. For, as he did one previous time, the Raguk had walked, and did such beyond his own realm of existence. Emerald fumes rose from the ground below himself, that of Gundâr Broshan, cracks in the ground mirroring those of the sky which held a dull jet colour to itself. Above, deep grey clouds loomed ominously, a reason for concern amongst those who seldom frequented Stargûsh’Stroh, however a reassuring sign to himself. Before himself stood the Gate of Kor, shackles of unknown origin feeling against the edges of such, as though to represent the nature of death, in and of itself. The orthodoxy of the world he walked most of his days having left him behind, all oddities and obscurities that may have occurred under the sky of the Ancestral Realm retained a mundanity to them, in the eyes of Grishnaakh, for this was only a matter for further appreciation of the spirits. “Lûk-ob Maehr, broshân urzkû.” A simple lantern of aquamarine fry came to be from the obsidian which formed the walls of Doraz agh Kor, a hand of similar tonality materialising in the air before Grishnaakh, bringing itself down near the ground to pick the elf up, raising him beyond the ceiling to the sky. With a flash of a bedazzled grin, the man scanned the lands before himself, managing a glance at Turu Dobu Ziimarum through his naïveté, Kor having taken notice of such. “Atîg, lok gothûrz Kor.” He replied gently, gates swinging beyond his view at such, little hesitation therein from Kor. “Hon-tû.” The spirit responded at such, dematerialising into a hazy fog as he motioned for the elf to pass through. And so began Grishnaakh’s walk to the Fields of Many Tranquility, passing through several passages along the way, with cloaked sons and daughters of Krug and Maehr watching the high elf expectantly, as though he were to fulfil something in particular. Finally so, the Dominus arrived at whereupon he’d hoped to go, presumably, passing through the buffalo grass of Turu Dobu Ziimarum until he’d managed to see the blindness of an empty corridor. Seldom prospered much in these halls, which took to a projection of utter silence, and darkness, save for the eternal flickering and crackling of fry before himself. As though an endless spiral, and descent into nothing, the walls before Grishnaakh took nothing but further blindness, if any such was possible at all. There was little space to wander amuck to and from, the elf therefore opting to remain stood upon his own two feet. “I have come a long way for you, o’ honourable Clan Father, Skalp’Raguk.” Grishnaakh’Raguk called out expectantly, in the old tongue, the hollowness of the halls instead returning but his own echo in concurrence to his heed of call. Little else became of this silence, the eternal burning of oak continuing to meander in smell and sound. “Broshan, Grishnaakh.” A voice uttered back apathetically, as though not all too eager nor excited, only bored and dull. “Why have you come here, into my own domain?” Such a voice could only be matched to his own might, Skalp’Raguk the Honourable. “I require your guidance, Skalp. Just last cactus day, I spoke with Phaedrus in a spirit walk, with the same request, and yet-” Grishnaakh’s voice echoed through the entirety of the corridor, if there was any such thing as an ending to the constant darkness to it. “I feel just as lost as I did then.” “Speak then, Grishnaakh.” Skalp’s disembodied voice urged for the elf to continue. “I feel lost, as though I do not even know who I am any longer.” He began, a troubled smirk coming upon his visage, in signifying his distress at such a situation, club of bone gripped tightly within his other hand. “All I have ever done is for the sake of pleasing others. I become other people, for such purposes, and now I do not know who I am.” “Nobody asked for you to do so, Grishnaakh.” Further off, Skalp snickered at such naïveté, as though seeing the silliness in such a remark. “Why should you care for the opinions of others, besides yourself?” The voice spat, continuing along its answer. “**** them. You are your own person, Grishnaakh, and you may so go on to do whatever you wish.” “I see.” Grishnaakh placed a hand at his Adam’s apple in a further understanding of Skalp’s philosophy, an uncertainty therein in his neutral, tentative tone. “Well then, perhaps it was high time I searched for who I truly am.” “You are leaving now?” His voice heeded once more, tongue continually brash through the entirety of the interaction, however not at all in a harmful, nor disrespectful sense. “Well then, go make a ******* shrine for me or.. Something. I didn’t die for people to disturb my rest.” With the uttering of a final chuckle, Grishnaakh bobbed his head in reverence to the spirit, stumbling backwards only once before tripping unto the floor in a hurried crash, therein leaving the silence and crimson of the room behind, as he jolted back awake in a cold sweat, amidst the thick, warm air of the shaman’s den.
  6. A single page of a succinct, but professional document was placed neatly on Lareh’thilln’s imposing notice board. Lettered in a legible albeit twisting cursive with blue-black ink, the thing seemed to detail a current event intended to inform the populace and were it to be removed unexpectedly, a new handwritten copy was replaced promptly. Mali’aheralonn Lareh’thilln Haelun’or’ehya, It is with utmost condolences afforded that one must announce Our Tilruir’indor Talia Kae’areh to be incapacitated by a pesky illness, and make it known that well wishes in any form of object, writing or spoken word may be delivered to and within the Seregon Mansion where she is being carefully treated. That being well and good, the fact of the matter is that the Eternal Library waits for no sick leaves. Tilruir’indor Talia Kae’areh has graciously sought to appoint a substitute for her duties in the meantime, these being the duties that her other Mediir’indor, important as they still are, cannot perform without additional training and only further delay. It was in every one’s interest then that the Author of this notice themselves was selected after deliberation, for one’s previous experience in the job of Tilruir’indor and the knowledgeable as well as senior qualities one displays as a part of the few present Asulonian Mali’thill left. So it is that Laurir Aiera Sullas has become the Tilruir’s eyes and ears, capable of accepting donations in return for the valuable Library Cards, Pins, and Mediir’indor positions that are still being offered out to prospecting Citizens or foreign book keepers. Current Mediir’indor are welcome and expected to report to Laurir Sullas for advice and aid or to inform, while one dutifully attends to the upkeep of the collection itself. It will be an honor to work alongside the people again. Maehr’sae Hiylun’ehya, Thy Author, Mediir’indor Aiera Sullas
  7. The Call to Victory Written by Hraaken Underhammer, To every living descendant across Arcas. [Music] Where the Dwarves rest did a lone candle streak through the inky darkness. No forge was lit, no hammer rung, only blackness occasionally interrupted by the dim glow of bubbling magma below. An armored figure marched up the winding spiral of Kal-Evraal barely illuminated by the flicker of a lit wick. Shortly after did Hraaken Underhammer finally arrive in the clergy hall where a few other lit candles welcomed his own. As he entered the main chamber, Hraaken could see the High Preceptor passed out at a desk to his right, buried in parchments and books detailing the gods and times of old. To Hraaken’s left, Kazrin the Brown sat silently regarding him as the rest of the city slept restlessly, their uncertainty resounding through the quiet caverns. Hraaken then moved to pass the cave dwed, taking in details such as a newly forged axe by Kazrin’s side, and a few open books in front of him. He wondered whether the sage-like Starbreaker he saw was reading multiple books at once, he wondered what purpose such a person would have to be up while the rest of the world lays uneasy in their beds. Regardless, he continued on and left Kazrin to his work. Hit footfalls echoed to the shadowy back end of the library where he quietly took a seat on one of the wooden chairs, a small creak coming from under his armored weight. He took off his helmet and set it aside, the blackened glass inside metalwork faintly reflecting his candle as he passed the flame on to a few more candles at the table. There Hraaken sat, unfurling a blank parchment and beginning to scribe away at a document with enough power to potentially shape the future into a new fate. ”In this message, I wish to address all living descendants on Arcas. You may not know me, I am an Underhammer, a dwarf belonging to an old race, an old family of wise and unshakable workers. In my time on this land I have come to learn that despite those who are sun stricken being assailed by the light, they lead happy lives. They have families as I do, they have cultures, they have values, they have dreams and ideals they wish to hold to the end of their days. Countless others before me have wrote tales and recorded history, and I intend to believe that countless others after me will continue to do so. There are warriors of men, mothers that hold their children dear, there are lovers that embrace each other even during this perilous time. All of it would be for naught should we lose it all to the spawn of Khorvad. That being said I do not make this letter to bring yet another scroll of sympathetic dread to your doorstep, as I have heard of the mighty heroes across our many lands and realms of old. I have heard of the might of Kjell, I have read the wisdom of elves past, I have seen the will of Humans, the ferocity of Orcs. I have seen what occurs when all descendants band to together, they write history so strong that even the book recording their actions trembles at the raw power of change. I write this to all living descendants reluctantly, as it is not my place as a simple elder to ask for this. I am no king, I am no emperor, and I am no leader, but I am calling for every last one of you to band together once again to bring forth the tides of change to our history books. To that end, I will be gathering a small force including my son and grandson to travel to each of your major cities and discuss actions to be taken against the incoming threat. There is no where to run this time, there is no city to abandon this time. It is do or die, we have no time to bicker among each other over wrongdoing or one’s honor. What matters is that we win for those who have fallen as well as those who have not yet had time to enjoy the world of the living. I urge any nation leaders that may be reading this document to band together with your neighbors despite your differences, for they can be settled afterwards once we have ensured a future for us all. To reinforce this claim, I have already gathered workers to produce the resources necessary to fortify the lands with which our final stand will take place. I do not wish to win, I wish to beat them back into their hole, a total call to victory.” – Thane of Century Omega II and Clan Elder, Hraaken Underhammer With his document done did Hraaken rise from his seat, quietly push in his chair, and make to the exit of the clergy hall in haste for there was work to be done. As he proceeded past the tables where Norli slept, Kazrin still sat reading away as if sleep were not a concept applied to him. Hraaken gave him a solemn nod as he left, regardless of whether he noticed. It was only then did Hraaken come forth to endure the Endless Toil yet again as he ventured back down the spiral of Kal-Evraal’s walls. His footsteps again being the only disturbance to the snoring of countless dwarves in their homes. As he drew near the Underhammer clan hall, he passed his parchment to a figure hooded and cloaked like the dark itself before letting them walk out of the city into the night to spread his word in good faith. Soon after Hraaken returned to the small forge in their hall and unstrapped his armor to reveal his tree trunk arms with valleys of gray muscle rippling across. He would grab a hammer and continue to shape the Gorix-Az on the anvil in front of him as he prepared for war.
  8. This account is written by Selion Drogon. The information included is supposedly an exact account of the creation of Sirame Khel. The Empty Agreement There was mist, a slight wisp that traveled over the cracked and dusty ground. It was out of place in the dry air of the desert night, crawling over warm dirt. It seemed to speed up rushing angrily and haughtily into the air, screaming into the ashen night, devoid of moon, or stars. Its topmost tendril reached for the darkness, its shadowy form stretching for nothingness and then it was nothing, a little mist, the smallest amount of vapor, floating through the air. Tide’s eyes glanced quickly over the mist as he walked up stairs. He thought nothing of it. His mind was focused upon the task ahead, convincing the council of Ker’Okarn that his group should have a place near their city. He took one step after another, feet making a rhythm on the sandy floor. As each step fell, he went over the same mantra in his head. The same mantra that had been in his head for the last thirty years. The one thing that drove him above all else. In fact, for this diminutive dark elf walking in the corner of the world, this mantra might have been the only thing left. It’s a strange idea that a living thing can so entirely be consumed with one thought. We often consider this to be a good thing, a sign that progress will be made and dreams realized. I suppose, on the whole, the greatest achievements come from mindsets entrenched with a single thought. Those types of people, no, creatures, are often considered the harbingers of effort necessary to produce a desired effect. In the world that we live, no other method seems to be possible. Failure is expected and success only comes from a driven personality that defeats all odds. Was this the idea that made Tide think he had a chance to turn the tides of the world? Was it something else? Perhaps he didn’t think about it. In fact, I’m sure he didn’t. For Tide, it wouldn’t matter if individuality was a myth or if individuality was the best way to induce change. His one thought was the change itself and not whether he had a chance as one among millions. Tide glanced to his side. Artius was walking slowly up the stairs to his left. “Why does the meeting have to be at night?” Tide asked softly. “Would it not be better to have this in the morning.” Artius held his hand behind his back giving the sense of calmness and sternness. Yet, his fingers twitched behind him, a sign that this position had been carefully designed for the very purpose of seeming calm. He was still a young elf and his presentation meant a great deal to him. Yet the absence of experience betrayed itself in his slightly stiff posture. Tide wondered how such a young dark elf could become so powerful. He’d have to ask him at some point. “The council was busy in the morning,” he mumbled curtly not looking at the dark elf. Tide felt a slight tightening in his throat. He didn’t know why Artius was being cold to him. He hoped it had nothing to do with the council. His trek over the desert would become useless and he’d have to start over at the beginning. At that moment, a cool breeze ruffled Tide’s white hair. His chin lifted almost imperceptibly. His eyes narrowed and his finger, which had subconsciously drifted to touch his face, returned to relax at his side. His eyes closed and a small sigh escaped his mouth. Mind blank, he continued to step forward. Each footstep sounding loud and unnatural like a drum in the night. Finally, they reached the council room, which was nothing more than a table. It stood on a raised platform with railings on each edge. Vines were growing around wooden pillars that held up a simple roof. This was the highest point in the city. None of the council had evidently arrived yet so Tide walked over to the edge of the platform and looked over the edge. There it was. Laid out before him. Ker’Okarn. Light flickered below like a vast constellation of stars. His hands grew white as he grabbed the railing that was built into the platform. Unseen by Artius, his mouth split into a thin smile. “Would you like to sit down?” a high, authoritative voice interrupted his thoughts. He turned slowly back to the table. Before him were six dark elves. They had already sat down. Tide didn’t know how he hadn’t heard them come up to the platform. He seemed to be missing a lot of things since his coming to this city. His first instinct was to walk swiftly to the table and apologize for not noticing them. His right foot stepped forward to do exactly that. It was what he would have done on any other day. His face hidden by the moonless night, he paused. He waited, standing there as the nights cool air blew his colored cloak around. After many seconds, he stepped forward, taking as long as possible to sink down into one of the chairs. He folded his fingers and closed his eyes for a few moments longer than was necessary but not long enough to seem as if he was agitated. His ashen lips tightened. “My name his Tide Falkmoor, suliin of Sirame Khel, son of Norn Falkmoor.” He said calmly with poise, almost aristocratic-like. He stared at Artius, who was sitting at the head of the table, his eyes sharp as an eagle’s beak. “Tide Falkmoor, you sit with us today to discuss an offer you made to me the moment you were able. I hope you are not wasting the council’s time. Please state your case for why we should give you land and the protection of this city.” Tide began, his words collected, his phrases lilting, his face emotionless, “Sirame Khel is a group of dark elves dedicated to the preservation and honor of our race. We were founded after the fall of Renelia. We believe that ways of old where dark elves largely stayed out of the dealings of other races is long past. We believe that in order to bring about a better world we must work within and around the cultures of other lands and civilizations.” He paused looking around. The dark elves who were sitting had their face turned in interest. As he stopped talking, however, Artius cut in. “We have stayed apart from the dealings of other races for good reason. There is no reason to needlessly embroil ourselves in silly wars and conflicts. Furthermore, as I’m sure you’re aware, the dark elves have a history of coming undone when they extend themselves too far. Why should we permit your group to begin tension that has long since died down?” Tide made absolutely no motion that showed he had even heard Artius speak. However, eventually, his head turned back to the elf “we will not start conflict. We will not endanger the race. Those of other cities and races will not even know that we intend to impact their lives.” His voice was clipped and somewhat cold. “Sirame Khel is not a group that will, as you put it, engage in silly wars and conflicts. We do only what is necessary.” “What is necessary might be different for every person! How do you know that your people will not do something stupid” Artius glared at Tide with an unexpected angry expression. “Training” “No amount of training can make someone smart,” Artius said his strange angry outburst disappearing as soon as it materialized. “It can make them careful,” Tide spoke calmly, yet swiftly. “Aye, I suppose that’s true. But if you intend to send dark elves across the realm why do need a place here?” Artius asked. “Everyone needs a home Illr,” Tide said dismissively “While they travel the realm, they must have a place to return to.” He glance again to the so-far quiet onlookers sitting at the table. At Tide’s words, one of the dark elves sat up a little. His face becoming clear in the light from the lamp attached to the ceiling. He said softly “home is something that shouldn’t be treated so lightly Illr.” Tide faced him, considering him for a moment. He was thin, carrying a cloak with strange symbols on it. His eyebrows were large and his face worn. “I suppose my view of home is tainted as mine was torn away from me as I was still very young.” Tide paused before continuing, “yet many of our number have face the same fate as have most of our race. It is the way of the world. Yes, in a perfect world, you are correct. We have no choice these days but to lose what was considered important in years long past.” Artius suddenly stood up, his armored hands smashed upon the old wood. “I have heard enough.” He paused his eyes narrowing, “If the council agrees with me, I think it time to start writing up the agreement. Poem written by Tide Falkmoor at this time: The Last It seems things That last, Are memories, Of loss. It seems things That die, Are eternal, Nonetheless. It seems things, Survive, Not in this world, But above. What will happen, When you are the last, When you are the note, Held before applause. What will happen, When you sing, When you run Out of air. What will happen, When the harsh Sound, When the harsh Sound, There it is. The last note. The one before applause. When the song stops, What will you sing? Entry five of “The History of Sirame Khel and its Rise to Power” by Selion Drogon
  9. On the Brink 11th of the Amber Cold, 1782 The cogs of war begin to turn, and out of the churning machine sail ships of naval warcraft. Dispatched with orders to blockade, the duo of battleships make headway from the Firelands unto the shores of the evergreen forests North. Racked with cannons and ballistae, food and water, and tools with which to build, these ships crept up the Wildlands coast into the bay of Gehenna. Here under their watchful and mighty masts donned with the Standard of Azdromoth, no ships would enter nor leave. No supplies would come, no people would go. Only now did Farrador have the tall mountains to their East, treacherous to cross with anything more than the clothes on their backs. As draconic soldiers began to patrol the pine woods in advance of approaching armies and siege weapons of the field, this stronghold of Xan would soon begin to run out of options. Soldiers aboard the three vessels cheer and holler into the night as they take anchor, the bay presently empty and devoid of traffic. A naval command ship would follow within the month, with frigates in tow. Where would they run to? Where would they hide? The impending siege was soon to come – this blockade, was the first step.
  10. Chapter 1 - The Dread War. The history of the Mali’ker, like all elves, begins in a fiery war that consumed the known world. In ancient times, while the four brothers were young, the archdemon Iblees rose to power and sought to bend the mortal realm to his desire. The elves were a distinct race at this time, lithe and pointy-eared, but it would be a long time before they had split. During the great war, the elves were merely the sons and daughters of Malin and had nothing else to their name. As the war progressed, Iblees attacked all fronts, isolating the four brothers. Malin and his children were pushed back to a few strongholds on what would become the isles of Axios. Slowly the war turned back into the favor of the elves. Taynei’Hiylu, the green dragon and ward of Malin pushed away much of the archdemons’ blighted undead army. Taynei was soon sealed away to prevent any risk of the dragaar being corrupted and turned against the forces of the living. The great war had begun for an isolated elven kingdom. Besieged by the forces of the archdemon, a daughter of Malin found herself upon the front-lines of armageddon. Given the name Velulaei, this elf issued commands to an elven legion known as the Maehr. There was no official record of how many dead litter the ancient battlements of Malins’ fallen kingdom. During the days of the great war, thousands lost their lives to drive against the demonic hordes of the archdemon. In a campaign that lasted years, the elven forces pushed forward to drive back the archdemon for another age. Though the great demon left none of the four un-touched. Cursing them each. To Malin, he spoke this. “Malin, I curse you with sterility, you and your kin shall forever lack the children they need. May your forest halls forever be silent, and your hearts heavy with sadness.” The elves had not undergone drastic physical change like the dwarves or the orcs had, but Iblees’ final curse had hit them hard. In the years after the war, many a mother lamented, even took their own life due to having to look into the eyes of their stillborn child. Sorrow ran rampant among the newly long-lived, but infertile elves. However, Malin, the forefather of the elves, pushed on. The war had cost him an extraordinary pupil, a dragaar he had considered his daughter. It had cost him the lives of many of his people. But he would bring his kin into a golden age. The elves- now a long-lived yet infertile people, were his to lead. In this newfound era of peace, on the lands which would become Axios, he would build his kingdom. Chapter 2 - The Maehrs’ plight The isles of Axios, the lands which had once been a fierce battleground against iblees, became Malin’s kingdom. Malin set to building his kingdom. Marvelous cities which would have been alien to the eyes of men and dwarves, great halls hidden deep in the thickest forests, homes which weaved their ways seamlessly into the trees, built perfectly to co-exist with the wild, not replacing it but becoming a part of it. The greatest settlement of Malinor was on the isle of Malin itself, an island named by the forefathers’ children as well. The city built upon this center isle of Axios was more magnificent than any other, though its name has been lost to time. It was there Malin’s throne lay, in the trunk of the eldest elder tree. It was there he ruled his people from. As Malin’s kingdom grew, he became very aware of the fact that he had to take steps to prevent another great war. Already his kingdom had become stale. Joyless. Most of his people died. Larihei had left with her followers shortly after the war’s end. Velulaei spoke to those that remained of the Maehr. Their brothers and sisters died long ago or were gathering their own things. Velulaei offered guidance, away from the lands of Malin. There was nothing left in fields grown with the blood of friends. Veluluai and the Maehr traveled far and wide, finding refuge with the other races were they could upon their long caravans of wagons. With few, remaining where they were. The Maehr drove on, to Arcas a spell. Living among the sons of Krug. Until the interest of Azul, drove the Maehr on boat. To a lone isle beyond the edges of Axios, he heard whispers of something older. Nameless, ancient deities never worshipped or spoken of. Azul followed the whispers. In many ways, it was a wild goose chase. The Maehr sailed down the coast of the ancient isle of Asul until they found what he was looking for. A dense jungle. While it was within the edges of Malin’s domain, the harsh nature of this jungle made it so no elf wished to colonize it, and so it remained primal and wild. The Maehr ventured inside with her guild in tow, hoping to find evidence of this ancient, unspoken of god. Chapter 3 - Curse and Exile "We had heard crashing against the rocks the night before, during the storm. So once the weather calmed, we ventured out to investigate. We found them there, their ship a mess of flotsam, themselves ragged and strewn across the rocky beach. We approached to help them, but then they rose... there was something in their eyes.. something I cannot describe. It gave me the chills. They drew what weapons they had and attacked us. Eleyas and Maia w-were...were cut down. We ran. They chased after us, stormed into our defenseless city where we'd lived for centuries, killed everyone they saw. Some of them didn't have weapons... they just picked up sharp rocks and...and bashed at our skulls." ~A survivor’s account of Veluluai’s insanity driven attack on Vallei’onn Ruins, the massive, rotting carcass of a once-great empire. The Maehr pushed into the heart of the Asul jungle to find the husk of an ancient city. It appeared once to have been made of gold but was now rusted and rotten. Its’ once gleaming, twisting spires and statues now crumbled and fallen. Azul was amazed, as the architecture was certainly not elven, yet also afraid, as he could sense disease and decay in the air. Nevertheless, he pushed on with his mothers followers behind her, into the heart of what had once been a grand palace. Standing in the decay of the great hall, something incredible happened. A great demonic figure stood raised over the ancient throne hall. There was naught but few words exchanged. The demon declared, for their aid in driving the archdemon away, The Maehr would forever be cursed. Red mist engulfed the Maehr, they collapsed to the ground, screaming in pain and clutching their heads as if their souls were being torn from their bodies. When the mist faded away, all of them ran like startled cats. They would run not out of free will, but as if an ancient, deific presence was compelling them to. Their hues had turn ash grays and darker hues. Hair turned bright ivory, their eyes reflecting the gems beneath the earth. Veluluai and her people were shaken beyond belief and quickly boarded their ships to sail back to Tahn. Returning to Malin, gradually the true nature of what had happened to them began to set in. Their minds were no longer their own, they had gone insane. It came in lapses, but the oarsman of Maehr ship lost control of his head, steering into shoals and running the vessel aground. They survived and found they had crashed nearby a coastal town within Malinor. The nature of Veluluai and her followers had changed, the very core of their inhibitions. No longer were they creatures driven by reason and logic, but now by emotion and anger. The Maehr raided and pillaged the coastal town, killing many innocents. They did this not for any logical reason, or any material gain, purely out of the anger and confusion which had been cursed into their hearts. Of course, word reached Malin of what the time was an unheard-of amount of violence between elves. He was devastated, first at the needless loss of life, and second at the fact it had been Veluluai who had done it. Malin took swift action, yet he could not bring himself to execute one of his original daughters, even if it would be the safest option. Malin exiled Veluluai and the Maehr to roam the icy isle of Ceru, never to return to the mainland or dwell among the rest of elf-kind again. Chapter 4 - Birth of Magara’lin The Maehr landed upon the isle of Ceru. Not acclimatized to the icy peaks and rigid pines of the isle, they quickly began to starve and freeze. They formed rudimentary camps and did what they could to survive, eating pinecones and twigs. Veluluai grew desperate. It was already hard for her to control her mind, the curse of the unnamed god she had encountered deep in the Asul jungle had halted her inhibitions. Sometimes she saw some of her people freezing by a campfire, and simply felt the desire to kill them, and she couldn’t think of any reason why that would be wrong. Her mind would reel after when her morals returned to her. The insanity faded with time, leaving a wounded people to re-cooperate from devastation. With their wits finally their own. What remained of the Maehr followed Velulaei into the caverns. To start life on the frozen wastes in a place that could support them. Magara’lin was born. The Mali’ker was truly alive for the first time. Chapter 5 - Era of the Magara’lin Veluluai named her new budding underground kingdom Magaralin. Land of Caverns. Several clans formed during this time. Prominent families who would find themselves in roles of government and leadership in Veluluai’s new kingdom. Among these were Oussana, Des’nox, Ravexi, Klaren, Zanexes, Taloha, Shadeleaf, Nightheart, Ipos, Uuthilini, though all current Mali’ker clans come from the great city. The dark elven population grew over time. Veluluai leads the new Dark Elven nation. Her title was High Primarch and she had a council of three lower Primarchs beneath her to give her counsel. Among them was her lover Uradras, who was the strong arm of Magara'lin, forming the masked Vindicators to keep peace in the cavern streets, and Azul, the gentle bookish son who imparted his knowledge to his mother, just like Veluluai had done for Malin. Culture in Magaralin revolved around worship and academic research. with the Warhawkes finding their ways upon the star observatories that rose from Magara’lin. Beneath and across Ceru shrines to the spirits grew. When the clouds were ever clear, would many early Mali’ker stare out to the night sky above. Another form of faith that had developed- Ancestral veneration. The practice was born from various family clans and spread to the rest of the dark elves. After all, who better to guide your actions than your own family? Your own family from a time before they were cursed. With the guidance of their ancestors the spirits, and celestial bodies above, the Mali’ker knew a bountiful existence. This was not to last. Chapter 6 - Azul’s Ambition “Who are you to claim what is best for us? You, whose actions have brought us nothing but misery. You are why we were forsaken by Malin. You are why we must spend our lives appeasing lessers. YOU, mother, are why we must hide in caves while our cousins forge their own destiny.” “My son, you speak as if I willingly sought out our curse. As if I had any other option than to seek the blessing of the moon mother. I beg you to see sense, our temporal urges are not our nature. They are a burden laid upon us by a malicious god. I implore you, child, do not pursue this dark path. Come back to us.” ~Exchange between Veluluai and Azul As the culture of the dark elves, Veluluai and Magara’lin slowly set into a comfortable rhythm, one mali’ker slowly became more jaded and bitter over time. Azul, the firstborn son of Veluluai and one who sat on the council of Patriarchs, ruled by his mother. Azul was a studious man, he, unlike many dark elves at the time, had been present when the demonic curse had inflicted the curse of insanity. He had watched his own skin turn dark, and his mind turns to rage. Azul had been on diplomatic missions to the various cities of the Mali’thilln high elves, and the deep forest tribal Seeds of the wood elves. Neither of the other two subraces was the old original children of Malin he remembered. He began to see things differently. Why were the dark elves the pariah folk? The exiles? Where the rest of elf-kind not as mutated as they? Were their mindsets no less changed? Punished for a curse he leads them into. The wood elves enjoyed their forests and the high elves their silver spires. If the other descendants of Malin could embrace their true nature, why must the dark elves abstain? Why must the mali’ker hide? spirit to keep their most basic inhibitions at bay when they should be embraced? Azul knew that to publicly swear off on the ways that brought peace, so he was cautious. He created a conclave, a small group of likeminded mali’ker, and slowly this group grew, right under the nose of Veluluai. Perhaps out of vanity, he named this secret faction the Azulites. He prepared to strike, but tactfully, for he loved his mother and wished no harm upon her. The two met on the peak of the highest mountain in Ceru, on the night of a full moon, under the shelter of a temple to Luara. They met not as political opponents, but as mother and son. They spoke of small things, of Azul's childhood, of their lives before the curse. They teased Uradras, their father and husband respectively, for how buffoonish he was. Then, the conversation turned to ideology. Veluluai was no fool and knew what had been brewing in her son's mind. The debate began gently, then escalated, emotions flared, not even the calming light of the moon could dampen the passions of the two mali'ker. Towards the end, Veluluai's anger bled away, and instead, she simply began pleading. Pleading for her son to forget all this, to see how foolish it would be to embrace insanity, embrace the curse. Azul, looking into his mother’s eyes and seeing her sorrow, seemed to agree. The pair calmed down. Azul poured them both a glass of vine and proposed a toast to their family. They drank, Veluluai choked, and fell to the floor, unmoving. Azul had tried to maintain a composed, stoic gaze, to no avail. He fell to his knees and wept before the body of her mother, wept until the moon was nearly gone, and the sun had almost risen. He had not wanted this, but he saw no other way. He loved his mother, more than anything else, but duty came before love, and it was his duty to free his people. The violence began shortly afterward. The Azulites saw their chance and would make guerilla attacks on populated areas and cities in Magara’lin. They would burn down taverns, farms, and kill civilians. The Azulites fought with savage insanity, as they lived deep underground. Above all targets, the Azulites would storm and burn down as many structures and homes, Mali’ker horribly mutilated then killed. Uradras was crushed by the death of the love of his life and was distraught at the actions of his own son, he had no choice but to fight back. He drove his Vindicators and willing citizens forth. Whose job was to root out Azulites and sympathizers. They did their job brutally, capturing and burning anyone they suspected to be an Azulite cultist, in the name of the fallen Maehr. The war had truly become a contest of wills between two factions. The Maehr and Azulites. Azul had once been his pride and joy, but Azul had taken his lover, he was guilty of matricide. He was no less corrupt than a ghoul or a lich. As far as Uradras was concerned, he had no son. So the schism war continued. During this time, the culture and traditions of Magara'lin came to a standstill. Veluluai had very much been the cultural mother of the ker, and everyone was simply too busy either fighting or surviving to live a normal life Slowly, the fighting turned in the favor of Uradras and the Mali'ker who believed in order, sanity. The Vindicators were simply better armed than their Azulite counterparts. The Azulites were burdened with the growing curse of insanity which came from their voluntary isolation from moonlight, this made them more disorganized, savage. It was Azul himself who managed to maintain any semblance of order in his cult. Yet, in the last year of the war, Azul was captured, a covert operation finally managed to pin down his location and take him alive. He has draped his chains and taken to the Magara'lin throne room, presented to his father. Uradras, who had always been a stone-hearted warrior since the days of Malin, looked upon his son. He saw savage, wild eyes staring back at him. Yet, in that moment, he felt something he rarely had in the past, sympathy. Yet, Azul had torn apart the Mali'ker at their foundations. Punishment was necessary, but it was not in his hands. Uradras took his son onto the same mountain top where Veluluai had been killed. Before the Maehr that remained. His followers fleeing him on boats away from the frozen hell. Azul met his end upon the mountain, Uradras unable to stop the Maehr from casting Azul from the peak of the mountain. Killing a blight that had too long burden them. Uradras' heart was shattered, his family gone. Uradras would take his sons body, forsaking the Maehr now in a depression. Hiding away within a crypt to mourn his wife and son. The rest of the cultists had fled. After all, they operated on embracing their curse of insanity, and without Azul to guide them, order broke down. It became easier for the Vindicators, guided by a Ravexi to track down and burn the remains of the Azulite army. Chapter 7 - The Final Schism and beyond The war came to no true end, but instead a slow, painful decline. Being unable to hide and having lost most of their organization, the Azulites fled from the caves and back out onto the surface, where no Mali’ker had lived in centuries. The Azulites scattered across the four corners of the world, creating a large diaspora. The result was many dark elves in many different nations, often self-assured, cocky, and to varying degrees, insane. Even to this day, the descendants of Azulite dark elves remain across many settlements across the various continents the main races have settled in. Meanwhile, many dark elves remained in Magara’lin. They held true. Uradras called upon a conclave. The clans of the mali’ker and the remaining Primarchs met in a council. There, the Des’nox, Oussana, Ravexi, and Zanexes among other families and dignitaries came to a decision: Without Veluluai to guide them, Magara’lin was no longer sustainable. After sending out envoys, the dark elves got the word out that the mali’ame of the deep Seeds had recently migrated and formed a new city on the island Malin himself had been born on- Aegis. They decided that it was time to finally make the great exodus out of the cavern expanses under the isle of Ceru. It was time to rejoin the rest of their kin. The Mali’ker was a stable, sane people now, their internal troubles were behind them. Azul had been right about one thing, all the elves were equally mutated now. No longer should the dark elves be the pariah folk. It was a harsh journey, and the great fleet the Mali’ker built was hit with rough waves, but they made it onto the shores of Aegis and found the fledgling city of Ker’Velu. The mali’ame, weary of their own recent civil war, welcome the dark elves with open arms. That was the end of it. The Maehr pushed on, in time the two cultures of the Mali’ker grew to blossom. The path of the Maehr open, a nomadic people call strange plains home. Credit This is simply a clarification on dark elven origin lore, which can be found here. This work is not my own, simply edited to read as above instead of as seen below.
  11. [!] A single letter would be delivered to the Maheral’s office by courier pigeon. The handwriting is unrecognizable by anyone in the Silver State. TO RANSOM A SOHAER A sketch of the Sohaer locked in a damp cell dated 8th of the First Seed, 1782. For too long the allegedly (and self-proclaimed) blessed elves have lorded from their silver pedestal, as if untouchable by the gods themselves, till now. We have apprehended your poor excuse of a Sohaer as penance for your egotistical and self serving lifestyles, where you’ve resorted to cowering behind the ideals of purity and deceiving those who once walked your scorned path. Even still, your pathetic ideals could not save your Sohaer from us. You say your philosophies preserve the Mali’thill, but they are the downfall of the Silver City time and time again. You say your knowledge preserves all, but let’s see how well it holds up against actual threats. As reparations, for the people of the Silver State belittling themselves with their perverted ideals, we demand a full sum of 20,000 minae delivered to the Hallowed Order for the life of Sohaer Nelgauth Maehr’tehral. You have an elven week to debate his fate.
  12. T h e S u l i e r ’ i r Kingdoms and nations come and go, but elven-kind always endures. The Mali’ame and greater Elvenesse have long enjoyed a period of peace and plenty not seen for centuries – children are orphans no longer, and the echoes of song and dance reverberate throughout the forest for days at a time. Yet with all that is good, those that would seek to corrupt and destroy it still linger. No longer shall they be granted so much as even a single breath on our lands. To the foreign eye, the Sulier’ir might be a rather elusive entity. In actuality, it exists as the unblinking eyes of the elven forest – its constituents often found atop unseen perches within the thick of the woods, diligently and vigilantly scanning for any that carry ill will. In fact, these constituents are rangers, who have dedicated themselves to eliminating anything or anyone that threatens Mali’ame way of life. One seeking to cause trouble would likely be met with swift retribution and an arrow into their sternum. From where? One could not tell. Born deep within the woods, gifted with the blessing of the Aspects, and armed with elven steel and ironwood, the Sulier’ir was founded by Abelas Caerme’onn and Rhathalas Caerme’onn with the purpose of reconciling combat expertise in its various forms with discipline and wisdom that – in concert – make for a truly formidable force. I n i t i a t i o n & T r i a l s Admission into the ranks of the Sulier’ir is earned and pursued after. Those who wish to join will not be turned away, as all with the desire to protect their people ought to be given the chance to do so. Those who excel, however, will be distinguished. Initiation is granted in one of two ways: 1. Conditioning: Those who wish to join the ranks of rangers must undergo intensive physical development if they lack skill with weapons. Prospects must prove their worth in mind and body if they claim proficiency. 2. Invitation: Being sought out does not typically grant privileges, unless the initiate is highly adept. This occurs either through the Okar’ir’s personal scouting or the recommendation of current Sulier’ir rangers. As prospects deem themselves developed enough for initiation, they must undergo a series of trials to demonstrate their capabilities. These trials will be overseen by current rangers. · 1st Trial - Marksmanship. Prospects will demonstrate their skill with the bow, and will be judged based on technique, accuracy, and speed. · 2nd Trial - Hand-to-Hand. Prospects will demonstrate their skill in hand-to-hand combat through a spar (pvp & rp) with either another prospect or initiate, matched by a ranger’s choosing. To initiate is to commit to service until death or discharge by the Okar’ir. This commitment is enacted by the bending of the knee before the shrine of the aspects, where a verbal oath is declared before the witness of rangers as well as kin. Tattoos are often then engraven onto the initiate’ but are not mandatory. A s c e n s i o n A ranger in their truest form has laid down self-preservation in favor of the life of their kin, whether by blood or citizenship. More specifically, they exhibit: · Absolute partiality in the protection of mali’ame and the broader Elvenesse kind, never discriminating by means of personal preference or even blood ties. · Absolute trust in and unanimity with fellow rangers and especially the Okar’ir, never sowing in-conflict of any form. · No condescension or abuse of authority over citizens of the Elvenesse nor their fellow rangers, but rather goodwill and even compassion. · Composed disposition and careful discernment at all times. The ranking structure of the Sulier’ir is as follows (highest to lowest): · Okar’ir – The Warden – the final word and the overseer of all matters regarding the protection of Siramenor and the greater Elvenesse. On the field they patrol the forests, perform administrative duties, and lead training sessions and patrols. · Hesto’ir – The Captain – a distinguished, exemplary ranger who embodies the ideals of the Sulier’ir. Captains have the utmost trust of their fellow rangers and demonstrate excellent leadership. Responsibilities include reporting directly to the Okar’ir, performing administrative duties, leading training and patrol sessions, and gate duty. · Othelu’ir – The Ranger – makes up the body of the Sulier’ir who are adept in multiple forms of combat, are sharp in their senses, and swift to respond to danger. Responsibilities include gate duty, patrols, and other duties as assigned. · Taelu’ir – The Acolyte – prospects who have dedicated themselves to learning and training for initiation as rangers. T r a i n i n g Training is held either by the Okar’ir, Hesto’ir, or a guide of expertise. Sessions emphasize the development of proficiency in various forms of weaponry – typically bows, swords, spears, maces, and shields. Attendance is not mandatory but highly recommended. Furthermore, rangers are expected to hone their skills in and out of formal training sessions, whether that be individually or amongst one another. E n l i s t i n g Comment with the following below: Minecraft name: Character name: Character race: Combat experience and preferred weapon(s): Discord user: Time zone:
  13. Weeding out the weak. [!] A simple letter was sent around the realm of Arcas. A stone wall, a dead end. You cannot bring peace to those who wish to fight. After the destruction of Korvassa, the Irehearts decided it was time for a more friendly way to go about the trials, one that was less lethal in order for us not to form any sort of barrier between the Arcas population and survival. For this reason Utak Ireheart, an elder of the clan, brought a beardling onto wood elven territory with one simple task, finding an elf to have a friendly duel with. When the first elf was approached, a horde of weaponized elves stormed at us like little ants, only to realize the Irehearts meant no harm. The 2 groups, Irehearts and elves, sat down and had a bunch of friendly duels, helping each other up with a smile once the duels were concluded. One might think it was settled then, the elves and the dwarves could finally work together against the Khrovadic invasion. By Yemekar’s beard, if it was only that simple. Our elders used to tell us : “Trusting an elf is the first step on the staircase to death!”. We lived by this statement for generations upon generations of dwarves, centuries if you will. But for this one occasion, we turned our backs towards their advice, neglect it completely. this is why the elves will form nothing more but a simple pebble on the rocky road towards glory, for they have wronged us… again. A blooded Ireheart wandered in the elven forests, not a slither of hate or distrust in his eyes. The dwarf idly sat close to a tree. He blinked once, not twice, and suddenly he was surrounded by a pack of elves, weapons on their waist. One must not have a massive beard to know what was going to happen. They cornered him, insulted him, took the dwarven beard and ultimately sent him to Dungrimm. A true act of dishonor after the great warrior clan decided to halt any and all hostilities towards the elven kind during the demonic invasion. We took this issue up with our King, a great friend of the Sea Prince, he gave the elves a simple ultimatum.. one that if the demands were met, would allow the 2 peoples to continue on a path of collaboration. “Hand over the body and the murderers of Urist Ireheart, or enjoy more company of Kjellos’ kind.” Ofcourse, the elves seemed to enjoy the company of the Irehearts, as seen from their numerous complaints and endless whining, this is why they decided not to meet the dwarven monarch’s demands. We offer your kind a second solution, meet us on the field to hand Laetranis the murder over , or meet us with sharpened swords to face our kind like men. A true test of honor or cowardice, for the elves of Siramenor. A solution that leads to no war, so our peoples can focus on Khrovad’s spawn once more. OOC: Contact me in discord at Elite Snipes#3582 to talk about a time and place.
  14. At 3 PM EST, there will be a festival at Ker’Okarn. More details can be found here. These are the five poems that were written by Tide Falkmoor and will be performed at the festival: A Forsaken City The last gong rang, Through empty streets, No dreams, no dreams, When the city fell. Sometimes rock crumbles, Sometimes bells toll, For fallen lies, And darkened souls. There was no sound, No laughing voice, No crying child. Sometimes sorrow, Comes after nothing. Sometimes death, Comes before life’s end And then the bell tolled. The stones sang. The stars fled. No dreams, no dreams. And the bell rang. The Last It seems things That last, Are memories, Of loss. It seems things That die, Are eternal, Nonetheless. It seems things, Survive, Not in this world, But above. What will happen, When you are the last, When you are the note, Held before applause. What will happen, When you sing, When you run Out of air. What will happen, When the harsh Sound, When the harsh Sound, There it is. The last note. The one before applause. When the song stops, What will you sing? Darkened State The heads bowed, Statues, shrunken. The weak cried, Eyes, sunken. The strong sighed, Backs, broken. The liers lied, Tongues, forked. A meeting of hope, lost A meeting of future, past A meeting under stone stars, A meeting never to be had. Light thought not to leave, Must in sky be hidden. Shadowed flame burned, Eternal life stricken. Fire killed, Like mist, it fell, Burning cold, Freezing souls. The Door Mist deepened, Sound damp, Silence screamed, Through ashen night. Words spoken, Seemed stolen, From that quiet, Deathly dusk. Now, nothing, No glaring sound, No hopeful grin, No guidance from the past. Perhaps forgiveness, A furtive goal, Was as shapes, In roaming mist. Then light, Blazing brilliant light, It flooded, Burned, Battered, Drove away soaked statues. As wind on early winter days, The mist lifted. Mirth of Loss This world is full, Its story old, And always, love, Leads to loss. For things that last, Are memories, Of what once was. This world is full, Its story old, So let's not wallow, When one closed. We sing, we dance, We revel in The mirth of loss. This world is full, Its story old, We must not cry, When one is told. For all of us, Are here at last, To revel in The mirth of loss. This world is full, Its story old, So let’s not let, This day grow cold. We drink, we crow, A merry sight, For all those, Here tonight. The world is full, Its story old, And now I must Join the throng. My stories done, My voice spent, Let’s join together, to revel until loss is lost. After being performed, they were categorized and entered into the history of Tide Falkmoor by Selion Drogon
  15. This account is written by Selion Drogon. The information included is supposedly an exact account of the creation of Sirame Khel. The Next Morning Tide Falkmoor laid in his bed, wondering whether to get up. His throat felt like someone had poured sand down it, though that was an improvement from last night when it felt as if it was splitting from the inside. He tried to close his eyes more than they had been before. It seemed to him as if opening his eyes would mean a great deal of trouble, which he just didn’t feel the need to start at the moment. He rolled and turned over. Tide Falkmoor considered just lying there, just waiting until something forced him to do something. Then he remembered his reason for traveling across that desert, for living with minimal water for so may days, for finally walking into the city at dusk only to be frightened at the sight of a small bear. He instantly sat up, his red eyes jumping open like a fire starting ever so quickly. His hands jumped from under the cover and began to sweep away them away, intending to throw himself off the bed and search for someone to talk to. “Slow down, illr. You need to drink something first.” Tide eyes jumped incredibly quickly to the elf standing in the light of the morning sun, his features dramatic, lit as they were from the suns early orange light. “You need to take it slow. You almost died out there.” The elf said as the light of the morning sun began to abate. Tide Looked at the elf standing impressively in the door frame. He was the same elf who had stopped him from killing that poor bear during the night. Now that the shadows of dusk no longer hid the elf from Tide’s searching gaze, he could finally see him. He was wearing plate armor, held together by leather, which was well treated and smooth. His face was gruff and worn with a large beard, unusual for a dark elf. “My name is Artius Morvayn. I don't know if you remember our conversation. You were a little out of it at the time.” He gave Tide Falkmoor a harsh and impenetrable smile. “Here, you should drink. We tried to give you some while you slept but it was difficult.” He handed Tide a flask of water. Tide stared at the dark elf for a couple seconds before slowly taking the flask. “Thanks,” Tide softly mumbled in a gravely, throaty voice as he began to sip from the flask. He wasn’t fool enough to try and drink it all at once no matter how thirsty he was. His throat began to clear itself. Artius waited patiently for Tide to finish drinking. He took the empty flask. “You can have more after we talk. I think you said your name was Tide Falkmoor?” He asked in a sharp questioning voice. Tide nodded assent, his eyes still taking in the impressive figure of Artius. Artius was peering at Tide, evidently doing the same thing. Tide was wearing a multicolored cloak, which seemed to shimmer, changing colors as one looked at it. His hair was bone-white and his eyes blood-red. There was a curious scar under his left eye. Whatever had given Tide this scar had come within an inch of taking out Tide’s eye. Artius waited, continuing to observe Tide. He believed that silence sometimes told more about a person then speaking with them did. Tide simply waited, giving Artius a knowing look. Tide knew that it was better not to speak first. Artius, seeing this, spoke one word in a seemingly brusque businesses-like manner “alligence?” “Mali’Ker” Tide answered, copying Artiuses tone. “Mali’Ker huh? Very idiosyncratic of you, choosing to be allied with our entire race. You don’t consider one group more important?” Tide looked at Artius still trying to discover whether it was safe to be open with the elf. Finally he decided that there really was no choice either way. His decision made, his face split into a warm and open smile, “as you said, my name is Tide Falkmoor. I have lived among wood elves, dwarves, men, and animals. I have seen much of this world and written of it as well. I now return to my race, a changed elf, ready to give my allegiance, not to one group, but to the honor of the ashen folk. I was hoping that I would find help in this city.” Artiuses face began to twitch ever so slightly in a frown. “The dark elves as a entity are difficult to hold allegiance to. I think you’ll find that by helping some of us you’ll bring pain to others.” Artiuses face would then lose its momentary unhappiness. “Still, it is a noble goal no matter its impossibility. You’ll want to stay here then?” Tide’s eyes would stop flitting around the room and stare straight into Artiuses. “I actually came representing a group, which has the same allegiance and goals as myself by the name Sirame Khel. We seek a place near other ‘Ker to call our own and begin operations,” Tide said in a surprisingly open and truthful fashion. Artius paused, his hand, covered by a steel metal gauntlet, was moving forward ever so slightly before falling back to a resting position. “And what would we gain from such a... uh... drastic move,” Artius asked, his face not betraying anything about what he thought about what the elf had so haphazardly and confidently asked. “An alliance which will prove beneficial to you in the future. Our group will exist no matter where we call home, but I thought it a good idea to offer our services and loyalty. to someone who might have vested interest in our success.” Tide’s former smile no longer left any trace upon his lips. His face was deadly serious as he watched Artius considering his offer. Artius spoke in a careful, articulate manner that still did not divulge any of his thoughts, “It might be a good idea. However, we don’t just make decisions so rashly. We may not take as long as high elves, but it will not be a quick matter, Illr. You’ll have to stay here many moons. I’ll have to discuss it with Ker’Okarn’s council. If they think that we should consider allowing you to make your plea, you will speak before them. After that, if they decide to permit discussion, we will talk about the many aspects of this potential allegiance.” “That is all I could hope for,” Tide stated, while he thought about the inefficiency of bureaucracy. Poem written by Tide Falkmoor at this time: A Forsaken City The last gong rang, Through empty streets, No dreams, no dreams, When the city fell. Sometimes rock crumbles, Sometimes bells toll, For fallen lies, And darkened souls. There was no sound, No laughing voice, No crying child. Sometimes sorrow, Comes after nothing. Sometimes death, Comes before life’s end And then the bell tolled. The stones sang. The stars fled. No dreams, no dreams. And the bell rang. Entry four of “The History of Sirame Khel and its Rise to Power” by Selion Drogon
  16. Whom’s Appreciation for you. » La Musique « Family estate [!] A small note would arrive at the feet of one who were meant to see, dropped from the break of a snowy dove, pristine white in colour. Should you pick up the note, whom would be greeted with the sight of neat cursive handwriting, a start of a beckoning. Content: ”Dear Lani, I love you, so, so much. You are the light in my life throughout the darkness in which shrouds over it. The one who guides me to the light at the end of the tunnel, my guardian angel. When you are not here, I’m always thinking about you and what we will do next, where we will go and where we will explore next, what will happen on our next outage! But ne matter, I have a surprise, a place I stumbled across in my lone. A place in which I think will do nicely! Its certainly warm, but new to the both of us.” [!] To the bottom of the page would be Delsos’ signature, written in curled handwriting instead of cursive, along with the signature of a pup, forged with an inky pawprint.
  17. This account is written by Selion Drogon. The information included is supposedly an exact account of the creation of Sirame Khel. Tide Falkmoor entered the gates of Ker’Okarn. His eyes flitted from side to side, taking in the surroundings. Was this place what he was looking for? Could this be the very place to bring his plans into action? His piercing red eyes roamed swiftly over the sandy walls. He breathed in. The sea air again rushed past his face. His white hair wafted in the wind. His tired eyes burned in the darkness of the late evening. The silhouette of broad walls fell on the ground. Shadows filled the corners giving the light from torches posted periodically a sinister gleam. They danced, endlessly fighting the darkness, or perhaps embracing it. Tide glanced slightly fearfully into the darkness. His footsteps rebounded off the walls echoing in the night. “Perhaps it’s abandoned,” he muttered to himself as much to quench his irrational fear of the dark then anything else. He then shook his head. A dark elf afraid of the dark, what joke. He laughed quietly at himself. He had spent too much time with forest elves. Then a sound burst from the shadows behind him. It was a sound that would have chilled any heart, of any race. For in the quiet, the dusk, the night that so quickly falls upon deserts like an axe on wood, there was a terrible growl. Tide froze. He hadn’t seen anything when he came into the city but he supposed that the shadows must have been too heavy. Tide’s hand fell to his sword hilt, sweat forming on his knuckles. Tide knew that there were many beasts in this realm for which his sword would have no purpose. If one of those creatures laid behind him, he would surely die. He now would have to lay his life into the hands of the ancestors. He took a deep breath, knowing that once he moved the creature would surely spring. His sword sprung from his sheath like water from a mountain spring. Tide whipped around, his sword blade diving forward like a spear, its point turned slightly downward. The sound of metal striking metal rang through the small city. A gruff but powerful voice rang across the square. “Trying to kill something, are you?” Tide immediately retracted his sword. He looked to who had spoken. It was a ‘Ker, tall and proud. He was also sheaving a beautiful and well-wrought sword in his leather sheaf. He gave Tide a suspicious look. “You don’t have to kill everything that moves, Illr.” He motioned to the shadows, “could have killed snowflake here.” Tide saw that the thing he had heard was an altogether harmless looking polar bear who was tied to a post. He let out a breathe. He had, after all, been frightened of nothing. “I’m truly sorry. I think the night may have made my mind believe in monsters that weren't there.” Tide glanced at the ‘Ker’s face, which was not unkind. In fact a small smile broke out at these words. “Ah ,even the best among us are still afraid of the night. The dark elves are not named such because of their affinity with that which is dark or evil!” The stranger paused before continuing “though some among us seem to have forgotten this.” The dark elf shook his head bringing himself back to the conversation. “So, what are you doing in Ker’Okarn at this time of night?” Tide walked forward, and gave the ‘Ker a slight bow. His eyes, however, never left the ‘Ker’s hand, which was still resting upon the jewel encrusted hilt of his sword. Tide had long ago learned not to take a friendly voice as proof of friendly intentions. “For the moment, Illr, I seek only a place to stay the night. Any conversations of my intent could wait until the morning couldn’t they?” The unknown ‘Ker frowned, his eyes also not straying from Tide. “Let us at least exchange names first. I can see you are tired from your journey...” the ‘Ker glanced at Tide’s sun-burned face and cracked skin, “and soon I can give you all that you might need, but I need to be sure that I can trust you. My name is Artius Morvayn, Patriarch of the Bands of Ker’Okarn and you are?” Tide glanced at the ‘Ker. He realized that he should have given his name earlier but his manners had abandoned him. His legs buckled, unable to hold his weight any longer. After the scare with the polar bear, any adrenaline that may have been fueling his ability to stand straight was no longer there. “Tide Falkmoor” the elf managed to mumble before his legs gave out and he fell to the ground. His eyes closed from exhaustion. The torchlight played on the backs of his eyelids. They laughed and cackled, their eyes black as coal. They stabbed each other, danced with each other to music only they could hear. Now they were carrying him, lifting him to the sky, to the light, and then Tide Falkmoor could remember no more. He awoke in a comfortable linen bed the next day. Poem written by Tide Falkmoor at this time: The water bubbled, Dark from dirty depths. Rising like many messages, Under the glow of a setting sun. The pond hid its face, Shy from prying light. It grumbled gently, As the bubbles popped. I stare as the sun does, To find a hidden gem. Deep below the surface, A secret must lie. I stood as the sun sinks, To slowly walk, The orange path, Away from little bubbles, Entry three of “The History of Sirame Khel and its Rise to Power” by Selion Drogon
  18. Praise to the dark elven kin that see the spirits as their savor. Ruathar had convinced Qudlia to have child. The woman swore off having anymore. A child of thirty plus years, which had changed the dark elven womans mind. Calling upon the might of the spirits to defend mortals. She hoped she would make it beyond, for the sake of her son that she threaten to depart with the call of Inferni. she made a promise.To return to her kin, her son, when all this was over... Holding off the demons Qudlia sat upon the bridge, glancing around to see if any saw her. The dark elf removes her mask, tears running down her face as she attempts to collect herself. The pain of likely loosing so much life defending Korvassa struck her with grief. Her gaze shifting to the sands. She had gathered followers to help her prepare the far folks. Her heart tinged with guilt, feeling she could do more to the farfolk, which had offered the dark elven people aid in days of need. It was time, she did the very same. After calling upon the might of the spirits, Qudlia retires to the lands of Horen. Moving into a chapel of GOD. The dark elf, offers prayer to the spirits outside the temple of GOD. praying to her spirits in silent. For the first time in her days, she offers GOD praise. Cutting her palm to offer the spirits praise. She asks the lord of earth for praise, and to the north Bregthar sends Qudlia...to offer her aid to the mortal races...and she was never one deny the call
  19. [!] You see a flyer that has been plastered across Arcas, it looks brand new. It is signed in a very curly writing. It’s in both Blah, Elven, Adunian, and English! Blah: DA NUBDED hab started fighting all ober Arcas, and it's time for ub to see we must leave! Arcas hab becub an barren wabland, ib you care about your bruddah, you will want to leave Arcas! But of course, all the Twigizes , Quickzpawn, Gazat, Bruddah, and Zquealz will need new lin. Wheb the time comes, you might want to join Ayandria. Wheb we move (which is inevitable) I will start a new goi! We will be open to all races, cultures, and religions. May you and your bruddah all be safe. Elven: THE INFERI have started attacking all over Arcas, and it's time for nae sulier we must leave! Arcas has become ata, if you care about your onn, nae will want ay leave Arcas! But of course, all the Valah, Malin, Bortu, Uruk, and Tali'bortu will need new lin. When the time comes, nae might want to join Ayandria. When we move (which is inevitable) kae will start a new linan'sae! We will be open to all races, cultures, and religions. May nae all be safe. English: THE INFERI have started attacking all over Arcas, and it's time for you to see we must leave! Arcas has become barren, if you care about your kin, you will want to leave Arcas! But of course, all the Humans, Elves, Dwarfs, Orcs, and Halflings will need new home. When the time comes, you might want to join Ayandria. When we move (which is inevitable) I will start a new city! We will be open to all races, cultures, and religions. May you all be safe. Adunian: THE INFERI have started attacking all over Arcas, and it's time for you to see we must leave! Arcas has become barren, if you care about yohn clahn, you will want to leave Arcas! But of course, all the Sehrin, Malin, Halmyn, Gnekyr, and Halflings will need new Ildic. When the time comes, you might want to join Ayandria. When we move (which is inevitable) I will start a new Ildon! We will be open to all races, cultures, and religions. Alexandria Valjron OOC Discord: https://discord.gg/mFRn3P4
  20. OOC: From now on I’ll be writing these posts in a somewhat dramatic story-telling fashion. This was not uncommon in ancient times. Most history was written in rhyme or in a the dramatic. (It’s also more fun) The sweltering sun beat down upon the thirsty dark elf. Used to the cool of the forest trees of Siramenor, the heat of the desert plains during the Sun’s Smile fell like a hammer on his shoulders. The sound of his footsteps sounded hollow across the barren landscape. A soft, hot, humid wind ruffled the gray grass. It whistled past small rocks that stuck up from the red dusty earth. The crimson eyes of the ‘Ker rose slowly to glare at the sky. His lips were curled in a slight grimace as if daring the sun to shine. The sun paid no attention to the small, figure. The light of the sun seemed to sparkly lovingly off the red sand. It jumped from stone to stone. Yet as the elf cleared the next small hill, his gaze fell upon an orc who lay dead upon the ground. His mouth was open and his tongue protruded from the side, cracked, swollen, and stiff. The dark elf glanced at the orc. He walked over to the body and knelt by its head. The voice of the elf sounded in the deathly silence, croaky but still with a touch of sadness, “Hello my friend, I suppose you fell to the sun’s embrace.” The elf then smiled at the orc, a smile that seemed entirely out of place in the brutal heat so close to death. “May you have died so that the sun does not seek to take me.” The elf paused looking at the orc before continuing on, his feet plodding, each impact releasing a fine cloud of red dust. It was for ambition that the elf was to be found on that day, on that road, in that heat. His eyes shared a kindred spirit with that terrible sun, as they burned with the intensity of fire, his irises flickering. Yet who are we to judge the sins of elven kind or of the morality of powerful ambition. For do we consider the world to be filled with only those perfect and those evil? This elf struggling through the heat was no saint. But like the sun, a force of nature, he bore no ill will to those that stood in his way. Like the sun, his hammer would fall regardless of race, creed, or allegiance. Should we call that evil, or immoral? If you define it be so, yes. But, like the sun, this elf could be gentle, giving life to those he loved. Like so many emerald trees, the fruits of his labor would grow and would be loved. Perhaps, in the end, we shouldn’t think of this elf as the sun that killed that orc, or as the sun hovering over the trees of Siramenor, but instead as a flawed being just as any other. Good and evil in equal measure, internal struggle radiating outward, burning and loving, killing and growing. On this day, he was none of these things. He wasn’t the sun, or powerful elf. He was a small figure who was thirsty and lost. The elf was searching for Ker’Okarn. He hoped to bargain with the ‘Ker who lived there and begin the building of the tower of Sirame Khel. He hoped to start a great dynasty lasting thousands of years. Yet, on this day, he was nothing but a young wandering poet. It was many days till he reached the sea port of Ker’Okarn. He looked down upon the small city, his throat parched, his eyes stretched thin, his water bag empty. Yet the salt air woke his tired mind. His thin ashen lips curled in a smile as he surveyed his new home. He could imagine where the tower would stand, a little off to the side, and near the shining sea. This was a dark elf without family, without a father, without a clan. A dark elf who lived during one of the the most dangerous and terrible times for his race. Yet as this elf of little means looked down from that small hill his lost heritage didn’t matter. He would forge a new family, a new clan, and a new future for the dark elves. Poem written by Tide Falkmoor at this time: A deep sorrowful note, A long forgotten song, A wailing from each throat, The tale of those long-gone. Silence upon the scene, For birds knew not to sing, When the oldest did keen, When death the breeze did bring. No comfort for the weak, No promise to forgive, Paradise they did not seek, For they sought not to live. A rushing of dark wings, As quiet ravens flew. The dissonance now rings, Of stories sadly true. Deadly rain, Fire of incessant pain, Fire of a realm insane. There is no light. Except burning deathly bright. Light that only dead may see. Entry two of “The History of Sirame Khel and its Rise to Power” by Selion Drogon
  21. Tigers Outfit Auction 。☆✼★━━━━━━━━━━━━★✼☆。 Heyo, so I’ve recently been seeing a bunch of these on the forums and I thought why not? All of these skins are either brand new, never used, or used maybe once. The categories will go as followed: Elvish, human, bundles and Miscellaneous. Please excuse some of my older works their shading is a bit wacky. None of these skin have been uploaded to pmc. If you later down the road upload it after being bought please remember to credit me!! ゚+*:ꔫ:*﹤RULES﹥*:ꔫ:*+゚ Once you post a comment, do not edit it! Please add a new comment to up the bid. You must be able to pay the full amount once the auction is over. Bidding starts at 500 minae, and the minimum it may increase by is 100. There are a few ones with recolours those come together and start at 800 mina Increase of bid by 100. Bidding will on end Saturday, August 8th. So you may bid properly it goes Spoiler, underneath it the name of the skin. BID FORMAT: Discord: Skin Name – Bid (List multiple separately please!) No editing your comments! 🙤 · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · ꕥ · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · 🙦 Elvish ⋆┈┈。゚❃ུ۪ ❀ུ۪ ❁ུ۪ ❃ུ۪ ❀ུ۪ ゚。┈┈⋆ Mani Eagle Golden Beach Purple Party His sunlight Human ⋆┈┈。゚❃ུ۪ ❀ུ۪ ❁ུ۪ ❃ུ۪ ❀ུ۪ ゚。┈┈⋆ Rouge Court Babushka’s Festival Watermelon Sugar Prince Edward Daisy Princess Navy Dream Morsgrad Child Ruska Violet Helena Magenta Magic Student Miscellaneous ⋆┈┈。゚❃ུ۪ ❀ུ۪ ❁ུ۪ ❃ུ۪ ❀ུ۪ ゚。┈┈⋆ Desponnia Autumm Wedding Peach Hanbok Forest Gladiator Bundles (skin with recolours) ⋆┈┈。゚❃ུ۪ ❀ུ۪ ❁ུ۪ ❃ུ۪ ❀ུ۪ ゚。┈┈⋆ Gothic & BabyBreath Druid Houzi Hanboks Dusk & Midnight To the dudes im sorry there are like 3 male outfits in here. sorry boys
  22. Hello! I have tons of skins and am willing to auction them off so they are being used and not just taking up my space on my computer and so you can enjoy them just as I did! Here are the rules. Once you post your bid, do not edit it! Please only comment to up the bid and no spam. You must be able to pay the full amount once the auction is done. Bidding starts at 800 minas, and the minimum it may increase by is 100. The auction will last until 8/9/2020. Skins Format Skin Name: Bid: Previous Bidder:
  23. This is a series of entries in a journal that are written by a historian about Sirame Khel. They will be entered into the grand library of Dragur upon the event of Tide Falkmoor’s death or that of the order. (OOC: so you can't use this information until Tide Falkmoor has died) On the 15th of the deep cold, 1780, Sirame Khel was founded. There was no fanfare or celebration. This order would forever hide in the shadows, protecting itself from prying eyes. At the time there were only three dark elves whose only connection was their hope for the future and their belief in the honor of the Ashen Folk. Their names were Tide Falkmoor, Salaron Chaeydark, and Selmas Chaeydark. They pledged to change the world and the fate of their race. Salaron Chaeydark was a brazen, tall, and haughty ‘Ker. He believed that the dark elves should be proud and thought that an open assault upon the order of the realm would soon be necessary. He wore dark leather and carried with him a short sword. He spoke with great conviction of the plans of the order and was determined to see it as far as he could. Little did he know that his part in the story would end sooner then any would think. Selmas Chaeydark, the sister of Salaron Chaeydark, was a quiet, younger ‘Ker. She had a full and loving heart and wished to help the growth of Sirame Khel because her brother was invested and she believed in helping those poor and powerless. She would speak slowly as she then could not speak common as well as most but still understood more about the future of Sirame Khel then any other. Tide Falkmoor was a sly, quiet ‘Ker. He, unlike Salaron, believed that the authority of Sirame Khel and of the Ashen Folk could only be grown through slow and gradual growth. He was a poet, a singer, and an expert swordself. For Tide, the world changed through words and not actions. He considered fighting to be beneath him and through his methods, the power and influence of Sirame Khel would grow exponentially. His speech was always considered and careful. Yet beneath this veneer of genteel, cultured, intellectualism hid a vibrant, dangerous elf who, when faced with a challenge, would forge forward no matter what obstacles stood in his way. While not evil, Tide Falkmoor would never shrink from any method so long as he got what he wanted. This small group of dark elves immediately began building a network of elves and spies. At first success seemed inevitable. Elves flocked to join. Sirame Khel even made a deal with the leader of Ker’okarn to gain land in the city of Krugmar. There they began to build the tower of Sirame Khel. This would be the place where the members would meet met for many years. However, tragedy struck sooner than any would have expected. Salaron Chaeydark was slain during a moonless night by a faceless guard. This death destroyed Selmas Chaeydark. She had lost her father only a few years earlier. Now she was without family and for the Ashen Folk, family is everything. This also meant that the order of Sirame Khel had lost someone who was important to the cause. Tide Falkmoor was determined to continue the order in memory of his friend. He was now the sole leader of Sirame Khel and as a result, the methods of the order would from then on would follow only his philosophy of quiet subterfuge and would avoid antagonizing any group, race, or nation. However, Salaron would always remain at the heart of the order, leading it in his name. His excitable spirit would guide the order towards higher heights and would never be forgotten by those who followed the order. The Tide A poem written by Tide Falkmoor at this time. Roaring waves, Pouring over deep red stones. Slow water, Flowing into sharp wide cracks. For years, the tide has risen, Yet now waves lap on shores. Sparkling drops, Flying orange in bright rosy light. Streaming rays, Turns oceans to gold, Rocks to pillars, And fish to angels. When water hits a wall, Mountains move. Entry one of “The History of Sirame Khel and its Rise to Power” by Selion Drogon.
  24. THE PACT OF THE TITAN Haelun’or and Lareh’thilln are the bastions of true civilization in Arcas, serene safeguards which -- like all sovereign nations abroad -- face the grave threat of the Inferi Menace. Many Mali’thill and lesser species alike fear that we face certain annihilation, that any endeavours to combat these vile beasts will bear no fruit. Elheial’thilln beseeches you: fear not -- for as we Descendants share this world amongst one another, so too do we share it with Him. He who is the balance between Light and Dark, He who offers us refuge from the wicked, He who will ensure the timeless legacy of Elmali’aheral will continue on. He who is the Titan Azdromoth, The First Drakaar, Son of Dragur; Heir to the World. Rejoice then, for under Him all countries and peoples of Arcas will endure! Several new policies are to be enacted henceforth and in perpetuity to ensure the survival of the Mali’thill in these trying times, approved by Elheial’thilln and deemed true to Larihei’s philosophy of maehr’sae hiylun’ehya by his pure eminence the Maheral, and can be found attached to this missive below: I. The First Drakaar, Azdromoth, is to be revered within Haelun’or, for it is He and He alone who offers us safety. Worship of the First Drakaar is only applicable to lesser species. Mali’thill will revere His might, His knowledge, and His protection of our people only. II. Practitioners of the Light or Dark, Xannites and their ilk, dark magicians and devious monsters such as shades, are to henceforth be expelled from Haelun’or unto the end-times. Those practicing the common worship of various worldly religions are permissible, should they adhere to the standards above. This rule applies even to those who do not spout their rhetoric or share their ideals, for their connection to the Light or Dark is folly itself. No exception is to be made except by The First Drakaar himself. III. Sons and daughters of The First Drakaar, Azdromoth, Elazdrazi, are to be welcomed into Elcihi and treated with the same respect as our fellow Mali’thill. Azdrazi, despite their relation to Him, are not exempt from the standard laws and regulations imposed upon all inhabitants of Haelun’or. Any crimes they should commit will result in the same fate as any typical transgressor. It is also expected that Azdrazi extend the same respect to Mali’thill as we would extend unto them. Any raucous or discourteous behaviour will not be tolerated. Those Azdrazi welcomed within Haelun’or are required to appear only in their natural forms, wearing no guises or false faces. The Document was passed 1778, and amended 1779 signed, The Maheral, Ikur Sullas The Sohaer, Nelgauth Maehr’tehral Maehr’sae Hiylun’ehya
  25. [!] A figure wearing a hood and robes would walk through the city of Haelun'or in the dead of night. The person would seem to have a stack of papers in their hands as they placed them on every nook and cranny of the city. On the doors of every citizen and the notice board for all to read. Should anyone be awake at this point and catch a view of the visage of this individual all they would see would be the mask of an owl staring back at them. To the citizens of Haelun’or, It comes with great sorrow that I am posting these missives where all can see. In the hope that my voice can reach out to you and instill some reason within you. Look upon your once great city and see what it has become now: a den for the Azdrazi and their corrupted lord. A powerful force that offered you shelter and protection from a demon menace that has hardly even encroached upon your city at all. Why would they reach out to you not even days after a group of thill were killed by demons. Not when the armies appeared but only when our own citizens were killed, doesn’t this strike you as strange, llir? This benevolent Lord - as he’s so put it - offered you his aid to protect you against a Demon threat that exclusively resides within the island of Korvassa for the moment. So, why were these demons so far away from their legions? Though I suppose it matters not at this point other than to point out the strange coincidence that has occurred. The issue at hand, however, is that we have given ourselves over to a tyrannical leader once more. The same force that we once fought and rallied against within our own city to be rid of. Now we stand once more under the oppression of a Tyrannical Lord. A corrupted and impure being who has used Haelun’or as a stepping stone to gain and obtain power. He doesn’t care for us or whether we live or if we die. He only desires for his own power to grow and be fueled. His influence spread, that is why a majority of the council that swore to be democratic has sworn their absolute loyalty to him alone. They have given themselves over and become Heralds of Azdromoth and his will forcing it upon the citizens of the Silver City. Do not let your eyes be covered in wool, llir, look upon what is happening in our city. Look at those who lead it, who now only serve their Lord Azdromoth. We fought for our freedom, for our voices to be heard. Do not let the death of our dear Maheral Azorella be in vain. Do not let her death be for nothing as a new dictatorship takes over our city. Stay safe llir, and watch for the corruption that now spreads through our city like a disease. Keep your eyes open to the truth and do not be fooled by the sense of security that you believe you have. Keep yourselves educated and aware, do not be ignorant in these matters. Maehr’sae Hiylun’ehya, The Night Owl
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