Places of the World: The Reveries

Millenia beyond reckoning have the Reveries been hovering over the continent, standing afloat in the sky as the closest thing to the stars ever known to the people of Terra.

Terrestrians, as the people of the Reveries call most outsiders, usually refer to them in turn as High Elves, in part for their shared ancestry with the Feyland Elves, in part for the fact that they inhabit, of course, places very high in the sky.

High Elves usually do not care for such arguments, however amusing; their eyes are always and at all times pointed outward. Skyborn, they call themselves, and some never even set foot on the ground below in a lifetime.

Elvenkind from Feyland say that their distant kindred rose to the clouds a long time ago, as dissidents of their own kind. Skyborn, however, beg to differ: in their own history, they never ascended, but, in fact, descended from a higher existence. 

They put their origin at the stars. There, somewhere beyond what is known to the sentient races of Terra.

Unfortunate, for them, who are so judicious and keen-eyed, there is no proof or evidence, except the old stories. Aware of their traditional sense of self-importance, Skyborn spend their lives looking for clues of their heritage, or, at least, musing about it, through their long woven, tightly narrated stories told and sung and played. Skyborn are generally known for how long they take to tell any event to another, and of how they speak with great subtleties.

Perhaps that explains why Skyborn are also generally distant, aloof, or even conceited. Their minds are bred to focus up high, and not down below. When pulled to the everyday struggle of Terrestrians, they simply try to get over with it and to return to the Reveries.

The Reveries are not a single place, but many; the gathering of fortresses in the sky built in times immemorial, connected by many bridges that connect and disconnect as its individual fortifications come and go whenever needed. It is also home to one of the most unique depositories around the continent: the Cloud.

The Cloud is a complex structure of stone and glass, used by the Skyborn to practice their arts of cloud-reading and through which they try to gaze into the history of time and space following the patterns in the clouds. What some put aside as baseless claims, glorified truth-saying and an insidious variety of pseudo-divination, others see it as a sophisticated technique of scrying that actually elevates divination to a level of unmatched precision. As a matter of fact, the Cloud manifests itself in such a way that it allows even the least gifted of the practitioners to read its patterns, effectively functioning as a library of sorts that convey all kinds of knowledge and information. In general, it is easier to read present events, with more difficult patterns being left to the past and the future, which deepens as far you venture into either of them.

Traditionally, the Reveries are ruled by their most skilled Cloudreaders, who are thought to access events with most precision and who are smart enough to know when and how to make the best choices for the Skyborn.

As with other communities, Skyborn are not all intent on figuring out the mysteries of the universe. Many pursue other goals, specially with the Dragonborn, on their high towers, the Birdfolk, in their wandering fleet, and Terrestrians in general. People from the Reveries have sympathy for their distant cousins from Feyland, but the dwindling numbers of the latter have led to less and less contact over the past few centuries.

The Reveries are not being affected by the White Eternal, and for that reason Skyborn are not quite concerned with the ramifications of the perennial winter over the continent.

Biographies, Pt. 3: Rae Maodar

"I'm not sure you're following me."
Rae Maodar, from the Reveries

Most of Maodar's life has been dedicated to the tomes of various shapes and origins, through which he quietly channels his unquenchable need for information of all sorts. The grounds of knowledge of the Reveries are like no others, and many Skyborn like himself are prone to losing themselves - and, more often than not, their minds - in the study of all things past, present and future, half-hidden and half-suggested by the Clouds.

In one of his intellectual wanderings, however, Maodar came in touch with a mysterious, shrouded entity that invited him over his realm and showed him everything he had yet to learn. Of course, only if he allowed himself to surrender to the immense promise of power that laid on the other side.

Disturbed and disquieted, Maodar sought the advice of his elders but to no avail: Elves from the Reveries were never the kind to reply to any question directly, but only through hints and mildly suggested intonations that implied rather than explained.

Usually skilled in such exchanges, as a born and bred citizen of the Reveries, he found it exasperating not to have a clear solution to his dilemma. And when he found himself again somewhere beyond the astral realms, his answer came as quickly as it came unexpectedly: "Yes, lead me through."

Ubbub, the Outlander, grew inside him in a fraction of his galactic presence and bestowed upon him a force and energy he had never felt before. Over the spam of a few weeks he became taller, bulkier,  with figments of arcane energy obeying his every thought and whim; and still, there was room for improvement, for greatness.

For knowledge.

The gift, as usual, had not been given freely.

"There is something I need", echoed Ubbub, swimming among his thoughts.

Maodar's mind was sharp, crystalline, like never before. He never hesitated.

"You need only say what."

Biographies, Pt. 3: Nikelas Ilanthiel

"Wrong things tend to grow when the garden is tended by the wrong hands."
Itamor, head of the Children of the Tree

Ever since Nikelas was found by Boris and the others in the ruins of the ancient coliseum she felt a growing restlesness pulling her thoughts back to somewhere far beyond her mind. The concern of her occult patron became sharper with alarm and anxiety, and she knew she was both coming closer to her (their) objectives and to a will as powerful as Qellerion's own, and as deeply concerned with the fate of the artifact she now had in possession.

Or, that they now had in possession. For, as unfortunate as it was, her party had also come across another Elf, a cousin of her own people among those who left Feyland millennia ago, and that now resided in the highest abodes among all peoples, far beyond the tallest mountains. She saw Maodar at first with suspicion, and little by little she wrapped her head around what he was and what he was doing. Now, she was sure he suffered from the same demands she was burdened with, but the entity he answered to was not at all clear.

Now, after experiencing an extract of the petty wars waged by less clever folks, she pursued her goal with doubled eagerness. The unleashing of her swift eldritch explosions had become as easy as breathing in the course of each battle, and she knew her potential was unlimited.

He reassured her so every step of the way. With amusement, she recalled the look in the eyes of the half-orc when she came over her in the heat of the skirmish with the Black Orcs and invoked the pure essence of the Fey itself to strike her foe in her vile, undeserving heart. Victory is all the taste she has need for, and she wants more.

She knows she has to be careful from now on. Very careful. Whatever her patron is looking for, it is close and, when the time comes, a very difficult decision will have to be made.

But Nikelas, she is not afraid of the cost.

Places of the World: Caribdis

Caribdis is the jewel of the Far West, a ravishing urbanity built upon the cobaltic remnants of a city that existed long ago. Once occupied by the Crimson Brethren after their mythic crossing of the Long Wastes, the settlement grew and now attracts caravans from all places Western of the continent.

A traveler who happens to find their way to the urbanity will immediately be taken aback by the sheer height of the immense structure that is located in the very center of the urbanity. Along with the other buildings around it, its architecture is filled with jagged lines and sharp contours, which surely lend a violent elegance to the whole urbanity.  

It is currently ruled by the Weld of Seven, a council of the strongest, most powerful or most dangerous among the Red Orcish society. Their will is supreme and their decision is enforced with an iron fist over their subjects. It is said that if you finally become one of the seven, you will retain your position until you die (which by no means offers any comfort). Some also speak of a binding ritual that prevents them from directly harming one another, but any evidence about that is still very scarce.

Their main body of enforcement is aptly named the Numbers, masked agents that pursuit unfortunate outlaws in the shadows and that obey every order of the Weld without hesitation. Their masks are ritually painted with Orcish numbers; once one of them dies, another one takes their place, adding to the enigmatic nature of the organization. The Numbers are essential to the Weld, as terror is more necessary than not in the keeping in line of a race so hard to tame as the Orcs.

As a trading hub, it is placed in a very privileged position: situated between the counties of Lizardfolk in the South and the Human settlements up in the North, it is midway for everyone that lives to the West of the Long Wastes. For that reason, there is a considerable presence of those races living among the Red Orcs in Caribdis. They are restricted, however, to the trading districts, as their passage to the other districts is strictly forbidden.

Ever since the arrival of the White Eternal, a perpetual state of Winter that took over the continent a few months before, Caribdis has been taken under the power of the the most apt among those of the Order of Meshana, the Scarlet Witch. Constant rituals of evocation have maintained a spheric barrier that protects the urbanity from the harsh weather. However, its resources are starting to dwindle. It seems to be just a matter of time before Caribdis too succumbs to the rages of the white doom.

Apart from the digging of underground shelters and trading routes, it is not known how the Weld will manage to circumvent this climactic time bomb. There is no doubt that measures are being taken, but still, it remains to be seen.

On Dragonkind

Dragons are a thing out of the far, distant past. No one quite knows what fate betook them nor what kind of tragedy befell upon them, but one thing is clear: their undeniable extinction.

Some dragons, however, high in power and in stature, could walk among mortals under the appearance of seemingly humanoid figures. The offspring of such events led the way to the birth of a dragonborn race that still lingers to this day.

The Dragonborn are receptacles of the blood of those dragons that once roamed Terra, as their blood trickled down upon their descendants. Their settlements are located very far and between over the continent, and their numbers are among the fewest in relation to the other races. One could live several tens of years without seeing one.

In truth, Dragonborn are indeed a dwindling kind. They live in high, robust towers atop mountains and are mostly concerned with themselves. Dragonkind have always struggled to find a way to revert their plight, to return to the majesty of their ancestors, when dragonblood ran fast and strong within their veins. But now, every drangonling born is more distant from their lineage, away from the very cradle of their existence.

Some among them have lost the faith that, one day, they will return to their former glory. They say there is no point in trying anymore, for, in a few more hundred years, the Dragonborn race will all but break completely apart from their glorious ancestry.  

Some Dragonborn communities, however, have a very close relationship with lizardfolk, to the horror of the most purists among their kind. Such purists call them all degenerates who seek to destroy whatever hope they have left by mingling with inferiors. Fierce arguments usually follow from such outbursts, with "degenerate" Dragonborn fighting tooth and nail for their choices and beliefs.  In general, lizardfolk themselves take little offense and usually move on with their business, despite a few serious altercations over the years.

Dragonborn societies do not enact capital punishments. Instead, they condemn those charged with the gravest crimes to life as a subject to what they call bloodline experiments. None of those who go to such dungeons ever returns.

Most within Dragonkind pray to Draconic entities who are believed to correspond to the Givers of Life, those who once walked on Terra as mortals. Such entities are associated with a diversity of natural elements and aspects, all figuring around the Chromatic Pentagon: Telera, Acera, Virmira, Zestina and Uxal, the Mothers of Dragonkind. Dragonborn urbanities often adopt one of them as patron deities, and organize festivals around their myths and lore every year.

Some astute minds have already hypothesized connections between the chromatic nations of Orchenkind to the chromatic nature of the old Draconic gods. The boldest among them even once posed that the Orcs might be in fact a direct result of failed outcomes from bloodline experiments of old, but her voice has not been heard again ever since...

On Orchenkind

The Orchenkind is by no means a unified race. They are scattered all over the continent under the banner of the five chromatic nations, each with their own laws, cultures and beliefs.

The Red Orcs, or, how they call themselves, the Crimson Brethren, are the most socially advanced of the Orcs, standing on top of their loose inter-nation hierarchies. Crimsons abide at the Far West, beyond the Long Wastes, and live under the rule of a circle of the most powerful among them. Caribdis is their most populated urbanity. Crimsons pursuit knowledge and arcana more than any other of their kind, and nurture the insatiable ambition of putting their nation above any other. They worship a wide variety of deities, chiefly among them Meshana, the Scarlet Witch.

Red Orcs see Half-Orcs of any color with pity, though they tend to favor more often than not the ones with which they share part of their blood.

The Blue Orcs, also known as the Boatfolk, generally populate shores and the high seas. They effectively live on their ships and boats, leaving only to raid, plunder or pillage whatever ship is unfortunate enough to cross their paths (or coastal villages that also happen to be on the way). Like all the other chromatic nations, except for the Reds, the Blue Orc nation has no unified power nor urbanity, as they believe the high seas is their true home. The Boatfolk are very protective of their own tribes, and skirmishes among them and others is rather common. Blue Orcs worship almost exclusively Tirano, the Many-toothed, who rules the seas, and despise Ybe, the Many-handed, who rules the depths of the ocean. 

They value bravery at sea, though they believe to die by drowning is one of the most shameful deaths a Blue can have. According to their myths, those who die in such way is reclaimed by Ybe and trapped by one of her infinite tentacles forever.

Blue Orcs see Half-Orcs as half-brothers, and welcome them to their ranks without hesitation. Some of the fiercest Blues are of non-Blue or even non-Orc ancestry.

The Green Orcs, who some call the Green Devils, are particular to certain woods and forests of the continent. They bury deep between the roots of the trees and come out at night to hunt or to feud. They trust little anyone else besides their own tribes, and will look suspiciously over anyone whom they do not know. The Devils perform intricate rituals before any important task, be that a healthy birth, the sharing of spoils of war or the wooing of partners. In Green Orcish societies, the females are generally in charge of looking out for male partners in potential.

The Green Devils believe that all trees have their own little gods living inside them, so their pantheon is virtually infinite. They also pray to those who have passed away and to other ancestors, as they believe that every Green Orc goes on to inhabit a tree when they die. For that reason, the chopping off of trees is generally punished by death.

Green Orcs see Half-Orcs with less suspicion than other races, provided they are Half-Green Orcs. Half-Orcs with whom they share some ancestry are tolerated in their societies, thought they probably do not receive any other favor than that.

The Black Orcs are also known Wounds of the Earth, and they enjoy that title a lot. They are natural to the Underground and are divided into several tribes that have been engulfed in the Forever War, a perennial skirmish among them that has been raging for centuries.

Throughout Black Orcish history, the Forever War has only been interrupted a handful of times, most of them related to wars against Tiefenland, their sworn enemies. The wars between the Black Orcs and the Tieflings are subject to numerous legends and folk tales, most of them told from the perspective of the Tieflings as Black Orcish oral culture is not widely known.

Wounds do not have writing systems much alike their White counterparts, but their storytellers and musicians are among the finest in all of the Orchenkind. Along with soldiers, warriors and battle strategists, they constitute the backbone of Black Orcish societies.

Black Orcs see Half-Orcs with contempt, and even anger, as they see their parents as traitors of their kind. 

The White Orcs, also known as Snowblots, populate the most Southern regions of the continent. Besides their off-whitish color, they can also be readily recognized by their distinctive furcoats, which they wear as an insignia of pride. The young Blot, when the time comes, will be sent on a journey to collect the fur of the biggest bear they are able to find in the wild. If they return with the scalp of its mark, then they are considered part of the tribe. Those who fail and return are shunned and live as ghosts, and many decide to exile themselves by choice.

White Orcs generally believe in Tralgo, the Beast Queen, who is thought to provided game to their children who excel and who rains fury upon her enemies. Tralgo is generally depicted as a fearsome polar bear wearing the skull of an animal some say is a shark. This has led to theories concerning the (ill) relationship between Tirano, the Shark God, and herself, though the truth of the tale remains a mystery. Regardless, Blue and White Orcs bear no particular ill will towards each other beyond that which the nations normally bear.

White Orcs abhor Half-Orcs of any kind and will attack on sight. 

Tying Ends

With the defeat of Jevalet and the scattering of the Black Orc tribes, the adventurers found themselves in a dilemma concerning the fate of the artifact: Boris and Raibeart wanted to give it back to the Blackstone, while Maodar and Nikelas wanted to keep it from them saying they did not trust the organization. Ideal went missing in action during the Battle of Bloodriver.

After a long discussion, the group decided to bring it to the Blackstone. Once there, Master Stebanelos took the item into his guard, upon which the contract was accomplished and the parties released from any obligation. Nikelas, Maodar and Raibeart were invited to leave, while Boris was re-assigned to another Blackstone outpost, out in the fringes of the Underground.

Nikelas and Maodar, incited by their supernatural masters and suspicious of the true intent of the organization, tried to convince Raibeart to take back the artifact from the Blackstone, but failed. The dwarf decided to quit any relationship he had with them and, still feeling the loss of Lordani, Faye and Ideal, he left, not to be seen again.

It was up to the Elves alone to retrieve the artifact. They set up a careful heist and broke into the Blackstone facility, obtaining the artifact back from the guild and fleeing with the angered druids behind their backs.

Hence, the two Elves stroke an uneasy alliance, with each of their masters requesting the artifact for themselves while the magical piece slowly bewitched its captors, a situation which was bound to erupt into further chaos and deceit...

Excerpts from Boris' Journal

25 of Junno

Received a message from the Blackstone. We arrived at Lelantos and said farewell to Feffa Highleaf. A day of grief.

We found out that Jevalet had been there a year ago, and then spotted in the North days before then. We took the road to the nearest Blackstone branch. 

Most auspicious meeting after departure. Possibly witnessed the "Bringer of Winter" of whom some talk about, under the shape of a white beast. It, however, did nothing more than to look cool -- if you know what I mean...

----------

26 of Junno

A bit tired. We walked by the Penedo River, frozen, of course, and reached the magical entrance to the Blackstone. Stebanelos gave us the hardest time and I met Neiderlin again. Sweet as ever, but looked a bit suspicious. Stebanelos made them sign "the" contract, but there was nothing I could do. Our goal: to locate Jevalet and recover the artifact she stole from the Lowlo Mines weeks before. We have our work cut out for us indeed.

----------

27 of Junno

Today we started on one of  the Thousand Roads to the Underground, and, again, I guided them. No trouble so far. Perhaps I'm a better guide than I gave myself credit for.

----------
4 of Julo

Too soon. Six days we trailed with luck on our backs, filled with underside rivers and crystal caves, but on the seventh I took a very wrong turn and we ended up in what could only be the fabled Corridors of the White Spy. The Spy itself, a terrifying statue that moves whenever we are not looking. Horrible, horrible. Everyone escaped, thankfully.

But then we got ourselves into a place where the stoney roof was just too low and the flanks too wide and open. A series of small, fiery rats started sprouting out from the ground and attacked us. We ran to a coliseum-like structure down in in the immense slope. We met an intriguing woodling Elf who answered by the name of Nikelas Ilanthiel. With the rats behind our backs, we teamed up and looked for a way out. We had, however, to figure out an ancient puzzle on the walls, and, after a while, we got in.

Within the void, we saw scenes out of the depths of history, from when giants roamed Terra. We were like rats ourselves inside a huge inn. We managed to pass through without being crushed by their phantom feet and then we finally arrived at Cailac, a charming place to take a rest (of course, governed by our kind). The whole town is carved into the corpus cavernosus of several species of fungi, including amerlipants, dinderuffs and canny-trappers, very ingenious.

Here we met Madame Gilenas and her son, Giles, really exciting hosts.

We also met another researcher Elvian fella, by the name of Maodar. Looks sharp and intellectual, sometimes looking down on us. I don't like it, but he offered help, and we took it. For some reason, we keep coming across these strays. The Cailacquian gnomes had asked us for help in preparing for an incoming attack from the Black Orcs, frightful figures! Of course, we also helped. Here everyone helps everyone, it seems like. I try not to think of the cost.

Nikelas and Maodar went out looking for a library, for some reason. Raibeart, Ideal and I tried to help the city with the best of our knowledge and in-depth strategies! Raibeart and Ideal, seasoned warriors as they are, I mean. I, of course, served as a most prestigious liaison between them, as not all gnomes  in the Underground know how to speak Terran. I'm proud to say I also gave extensive rapport in everything that concerned gnomic cultural practices! Really exciting evening.

Ideal went to meet the Village Council with their most honorable Mr. Gilroy, Mr. Gilory and Mr. Gilbaert. Nikelas and Maodar came back talking of the altercation they had with the owner of the library, a certain Baron Le Guizam. Small trifle, I presume.

Raibeart just set fire to the palisades. Nice trick, I must say.

There are two dark shadows in the horizon. They don’t move. The village awaits in anxiety, mylself included.

----------
6 of Julo

Well then! Much to say, though not enough heart to do so. There was a siege and the Orcs found a way underground. I also found a way under an Orc, unfortunately, as the fiend fell over me after a hit by Raibeart. Luckily, he came to my aid, the good pal.

He however, in a stroke of bad luck, set the Mushroom Forest on fire. As it neighbored the whole Eastern side of the town, everything was at the risk of being engulfed but the flames. He told me they repelled a breach by that direction and went across to the other side. They discovered the bulk of the attack was coming from that point.

The blood rivers, as we call them red, thick waters stemming from Tiefenland. From there one could see the ruins of some ancient empire of theirs, as well as an incoming swarm of both mudcrabs and  of Black Orcs. How had they managed to be grouped together we didn't know... But we would soon enough.

Though the battle inside the fences was mostly over, another was about to begin, and one in which we were terribly outnumbered and outmaneuvered. Fearful thing indeed.

Lucky for us, gnomes from connecting villages stormed over the plains and helped Cailac as much as they could. Of course, they probably knew the Orcs would not stop there if the village fell, that is certain. We are a smart bunch, I say!

Our party, however, was suddenly caught in a cause greater than us and we had no business with it.

That, until she showed up. The red menace! Jevalet! Sending her hordes to us as she herself was protected by a circle of adepts that wielded strange magic.

We got separated in the ensuing battle, crushed between two small armies. I saw Raibeart ride a large centipedean beast and kill an adept with it, weakening the sorcerer's defense. Nikelas, on her end, released several hits against our target, but not everything went well to us. I was hit several times and am still recovering from the blades and maces and bludgeoning from those foul creatures. Poor Maodar was effectively impaled, dare I say. I hope he recovers.

Most of all, my client, but also a budding friend, Ideal, was lost amid the chaos. We could not even recover his body. Perhaps the blood rivers reclaimed it, and they reclaimed the body of many, Jevalet's included, as we fought amid them at waist-high, thick ocher colored mud.

In the end, even as blood trickled over my eyes, I saw Nikelas obliterating Jevalet with her immense arcane power. It was hard to look at.

And... It was over. Just like that. We got the relic. Now we decided what to do next. The relic itself is decidedly unlikeable... It gives off fearful vibrations, I can even smell it from afar. It is a crude representation of a humanoid, trapped between surfaces over its head and under its feet. It seems to be trespassed by several pointy sticks. The whole thing seems to be made out of a metallic rock of some sort, and even I couldn't tell which one.

We are, as of now, under an impasse. Raibeart and I have a duty to fulfill, as per contractual obligations towards Blackstone. Maodar and Nikelas, however, seem to have other notions. Maodar says he wants to study it, and Nikelas says that it's too powerful to be handed to the likes of the Blackstone.

Raibeart suggested we think it over on their way back to the surface. It would be hard to disagree with that, I suppose, specially with all the looks he was giving them after all of that debacle.

It was a very eventful day, I'm afraid. I feel so tired.

On Tiefenland

Tiefenland. Land of the free. Haha. I wonder how many times leaders would make us believe that we live in freedom. We’re no fools! War is all there is. Bastards.

Long ago the tiefenkind were driven to the underground of Terra, just like that. They wanted no devils like us on the surface, so we were forced to live under it. It’s been so many centuries it doesn’t even make sense anymore.

And still here we are, glorious Tiefenland. Land of war, land of blood. Cities made of cobalt, lava streams flowing like rivers, dark towers standing tall and bleeding fighters to whatever cause they’re fighting for. I was once one of them, but like many, I’ve escaped to the surface. I’m an outcast, all right. I’d give no rat’s ass to return to that damp shit.

They say tieflings were born from the blood of Urgal, the oldest of all the old demon gods, and dead much long before Wresenwurm was but a shitty viper. Since back then we’ve done nothing but struggle, we’re told. Not hard to imagine. Tieflings won’t believe in gods. Never needed, never bothered. I know I wouldn’t. What people call gods just happen to be overpowered people, and I’m sure we’ve had enough of those.

As far as I can remember, Tiefenland’s been forever a place of warring feuds. Alliance’s are broken and rivalries mended, though tieflings do have a weird sense of establishment. Loyalty acquires a rare taste there, in a way I’ve never seen anywhere else. As long as you’ve pledged to someone, you’ll never break that bond unless the terms of that contract were broken themselves. And tieflings know a thing or two about disrupting a contract. Some even say that there are two types of demons walking in plain sight: tieflings and attorneys.

I’d know that plainly. I’m a tiefling AND and an attorney, all right. 

Ulfgang Frost

A Brief History of Elvenkind

The Glorious Elvenkind dates back to countless ages ago, when the stars shone new and the grip of the land upon the hearts of beings was strong. Legend tells us that we were born of Qaúlathënas, Mother of Queentrees, when She bore fruits that fell on the ground and germinated our kin. Physical proof of our Sacred Ancestry lies in the many leaves that entangle our hair and in the sap-like colors of our eyes.

When Elvenkind was born, we spread on the land and founded a many civilizations upon Terra. We were innumerable and proud, sending emissaries to the Mother of Queentrees every solstice to celebrate our anniversary and to worship Her Holiness.

However, it was in one of such moments that a grievous tragedy befell our kin, tainting our blood with neverending waves of pain and guilt. As it happened, the Firstborns of Qaúlathënas, elves of dream-like powers, sought to distinguish themselves from each other in the praising of the Mother of Queentrees. They grew restless and envious, for each of them wanted to praise more and to worship best. Soon, hearts inflamed and war was raged right before the Seeder of all Elvenkind. She felt indescribable sorrow.

That is the story of the Withering of the Mothertree, and I shall not speak of it further. It hurts my feelings and numbs my senses. Yet, it is hence that Qaúlathënas imprisoned herself and poisoned all around her with deadly spores, thick with death and burning with decay. Many were trapped within the demise of the Mothertree and thus they also perished, with only a few escaping to safer woods.

Few of the Firstborn survived, but with them they kept the seeds of the Queentrees, Firstborn before the Firstborn, much alike their Mother in likeness and in spirit. With them the survivors entered their newfound lands and cared and nursed the little, golden spirals of hope. After centuries the Queentrees grew tall and strong, resembling the Mothertree such that often would they charge Firstborn with bitter tears for their seeing of them.

It was then that the Feylands were forged, Elvenkind territories scattered all above Terra, home to the Firstborn and ruled by a Queenstree. The Firstborn were Gods to the Elvenkind and the Queenstree was the God of all Gods, and thus they thrived and prospered with their lesser siblings.

Nevertheless, the fog of corruption and conflict spreaded and infested, both within the lands and hearts of the Elvenkind. Their presence grew weaker and more discontinuous, until only a few Feylands were left.  Now, there is all but one. The eponymous Feyland is the last standing reign of Elvenkind, blessed them be by the Mothertree.

Now, the Feyland is all but a shadow on the final note of a long requiem in Elvenkind History. All but one of the Firstborns is left, and it is under the undying tenacity of the Bright Eyed Qallantë that we must cast our prayers in the hopes that we will prevail over the Long Demise.

Blessed be Qallantë, high in Her Seat, and may the Mothertree have in Her Embrace the ghosts of all Queentrees, Firstborns and Elvenkind alike.