Aleuralisaen
Commander
Joined: 11 Mar 2007
Posts: 51
Location: Scryer's Terrace, Shattrath City
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 Posted:
Wed Jul 04, 2007 4:49 pm |
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I have started writing what I hope to eventually be a novel, or series of them. It will, of course, begin where the entire story and mythos of Aeraea did: With her Soverign as a troubled child. Here is the intro, and what I have written so far. The entire story will be in constant flux, with the end being little more than sketchy ideas. I am just going to copy directly from notepad, so I can't vouch for indentation and spacing and such. Hope you enjoy it, and feel free to pipe in with comments and suggestions!
I also apologize in advance for the horrid typos and occasional erratic spelling. I have not yet even run a spell check, and am almost terrified to do so. I am sure you are all aware by now that my fingers have a phobic aversion to the correct keys.
Prologue
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Today was a fine day in the early spring. The Elven Kingdom of Aeraea's perpetual growing season crept across the misty border here, bringing added warmth and an accelerated quickening to the year's first life. The cool stream serving the small fortress at a moat was full of playful otters. With the exception of a wide dirt road, trees grew right up to the banks of the stream on every side. Small though this fort was, the magnificent architecture sung the glory of its people. Grand frescoes of woodland myth danced along walls joined so perfectly that the entire edifice could have been a single piece of fine marble. The courtyard teemed with merchants and wayfarers in brightly colored clothing. Sweeping spires of Elven design soared into the sky, each crested with a silver flagpole bearing the Sovereign's royal standard.
The Aeraean king and queen were arriving to establish a treaty between warring lands, and had chosen to carry their young son with them to experience the world outside the kingdom. For the first time in his life, young prince Piergrin was leaving the enchanted borders of his homeland. He had celebrated his ninetieth birthday this past month, and the celebration had spread through the streets of every city in the kingdom. He had been piled with gifts, but his favorite by far was a shortsword made by the Royal Blacksmith from skysteel, a deceptively light alloy that was strong enough to suit holes all along the blade. These holes were part of the design needed to keep weapons from twisting with the high speeds reached during aerial combat. It carried the proud grandmaster maker's mark of Mythrylstar, the same mark worn by his line's weapons and armor for millennia beyond count. His father had taken him flying that night to practice combat in the sky, how to use the tranquil light of Mother Moon reflecting on the slightly metallic heather-grey of their wings to blur the flying elves' exact position and other tactics unique to Arial winged elves. This turning year marked his first step into adolescence, though the downy soft brown fluff of a child still showed through the silvery new feathers of his adult wings.
Tutors in everything from practical sorcery to and martial tactics to cooking and calligraphy had followed him along with a pair of Arial elite guards. None of their fussing bothered him today, though. His excitement in visiting the 'wild' country of the Borderlands had him positively shaking with excitement. Here were the strange, savage creatures of ballad and myth. Battles and glory and heroism that could never occur in the idyllic tranquility of Aeraea had to be just around each corner and behind every tree. He wanted to take his beautiful new sword and charge off into the woods after hobgoblins, humans, dwarves, and the rest. The impulsive young prince simply refused to believe the assertions of his exasperated mentors that there was no such thing within a hundred leagues.
As the summer wore on, he continued to hone his skill with blade and bow. A beautiful willow nymph with a name he could never quite pronounce tutored his innate druidic magic, placing him into a meditative rapport with plants and animals in groups of various sizes. As a concession few of her sisters ever bothered with, the beautiful tree spirit had spun herself a full gown of living leaves to keep from distracting her pupil. From her Piergrin learned to let his awareness of self dissolve into the whole of Gaia, his consciousness blending into that collective omniscience of all living things. Gaia seldom had sufficient reason to focus herself into meaningful contact in a limited area, much less coalesce her avatar to speak with single beings or grant favor. It was possible, however, to slip into a portion of that great being and exert limited influence over the living world though one's own will.
Alindriel, a kindly and ancient high elf sorcerer helped to refine the wild surges of Arial power that adolescence had awakened within the Arial youngling. He learned to open gateways to other worlds and tailor their size. His favorite application was to attach gates to a pocket dimension to his back with wings inside and don a loose robe so he appeared to be a common wood elf. He learned to shroud things he was touching in the vibrant dark blue flame of Arial power. He had not the long practice needed to form it into shapes, but delighted in endless hours twirling with lighted sticks to make azure trails in the air as other children did with flash powder sparklers.
His favorite topic, however, was history. His teacher, a solemn silver dragon, escorted him to and from her cave so that the prince was able to dispense with the protective shadow of his guards. She spoke to him at length of ages past when his ancestor had battled angels, demons, and gods in the War of Awakening. The first Sovereign, King Ellarin DuLac had been an angel who sought balance and an end to the constant war. He took a lovely demon of like mind to be his wife. A small army composed of both sides, angels and demons which sought balance, fought to bring a barrier between the two sides and their endless war. Together, they carved a plane of neutrality from the chaotic firmament of raw creation. With the help of his Queen Syrallia and the Companions, he had channeled the last chaotic powers of raw creation into a sentient barrier known as the Myst that would surround this young world and keep it safe for all of time. Atop the highest mountain he summoned into being a lake of pure elemental water from which life would flow eternal. On it's shores was built Ellaraea, the first city. All creatures of the Fae, of balance and nature were welcomed. Elves of pure heart and peaceful spirit from all worlds were gathered by the Myst and made Aeraea their home. The royal line of Ellarin and Syrallia DuLac would rule there always in perfect harmony, and their people need never know famine, pain, or sorrow. The blood union of celestial good and evil intermarried with elves, and thus produced the Arial. These winged elves of divine origin retained much of the potency from each, assimilated into a single power for balance. For aeons after, the Arial would lend their might to domains ravaged by the cosmic warfare. Aeraeans believed that their land was the first stable domain all of creation, and that the rest of the solid worlds had formed with the shrouded kingdom of Aeraea as their anchor.
Aeraea had held a standing army for many thousands of years. Though no defense save the Myst was needed, there were small colonies and villages just beyond the border that catered to people come to seek the aid of the Arial. Most of these supplicants could not pass the Myst due a lack of sylvan blood, or some stain of hatred or jealousy on their souls. It was these villages that needed defending, and Aeraea's small army kept them safe. A land of such perfect harmony has no other outlet for adventurous spirit, and this alone caused a whispering of malcontent to zephyr beneath the natural harmony in the cities. It was Piergrin's great grandfather who implemented the solution. Three millennia ago, he sounded the call to war. Young elven hero hopefuls and Arial nobility flocked to the banner of the Harmony Brigade. Their purpose: to bring Aeraea's love and peace to the world. They sought out not evil, but injustice. Armies of pious crusaders fell as rapidly as bands of marauding orcs, but peace was not to be bought with blood. For all the valiance of the Aeraean host, they were no match for the numbers driven by dark emotion. No sooner had balance been brought to one land than a warlord seized control of another. Daunted by the unpredictable nature of the chaos they faced, the battered host fell back to the Borderlands. Small units were sent to aid one side or another in some of the conflicts, or to provide relief to survivors, but the great offensive had failed.
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It was midsummer's day when Piergrin's father received a delegation from the Holy Guard, an order of humans one Aeraean brigade had thwarted. The Guard's campaign to bring their view of truth to the world by way of murdering anyone who didn't swear fealty to the Holy Light at sword point had taken nearly a thousand Rangers backed by gryphon cavalry and two dragons to halt. The prince was sent off to study while terms of surrender and peaceful coexistence could be discussed. He listened to the dragon's tales for well into the late afternoon, and returned to the keep late. That late lesson had very likely saved his life.
The first deepening of twilight could not cover the violent orange of the blazing fortress A battle still raged, but the Aeraeans were clearly making a last stand. Elven dead were sprawled in front of the walls, and fresh blood stained ugly patches across the grass. One tower had been cloven in half, a straight slice burned through, and a large portion of it had fallen into the water. Many of the otters there had added their bodies to the day's dead. A flash of blue flame and human screams pouring from one window told him that at least one of his parents was still alive, but searing golden-white light blasted a wall from the keep in answer. That flash was the last he saw of the battle, for he fled in terror and hid himself in the top branches of a mape tree. He looked up again once when he felt movement in the air, and above him passed three angels, their brilliant white wings and crystal swords smeared the blood of his family. Racked with grief, fright, and shame, the Elven kingdom's heir wrapped himself in his wings and cried until shattered consciousness faded into oblivion.
In the last still hour before first light, Piergrin opened eyes red and swollen from tears. As memory flooded back, he folded in on himself again. It was shame that drove him forth at last. Shame that he had turned and fled when everyone he cared for had needed him. He knew that his parents were dead... that everyone was dead. There was no feeling of life from that charred wreck of a once noble building. He hated himself for his cowardice. He hated his father for not sending the army to destroy the Holy Guard. He hated the world for allowing this to happen. He let the rage overcome his terror and give him it's courage as he approached the smoldering ruins. It nearly gave out as the sight of the first ruined corpse, but he willed himself not to see, not to think, not to feel. Wandering through the ashes and blood in a fog of nightmare, he managed to find the work buildings. Much of the fire had been contained, and the solid stone had preserved many rooms.
Piergrin managed to not see the bodies he stepped over. Lack of food for most of a day kept him from retching at the smell of charred flesh. He gathered enough of the remains.. food, water, supplies, traveling clothes, etc. to survive in the wild for a time.
Only when there was nothing else to do did he steel himself enough to seek out his family. He found his mother in her room, backed into a corner behind a small mountain of human bodies. At the sight of her, pierced by crossbow bolts and a lance impaling her body, his carefully held composure came undone. He fell upon her cold form with an unearthly wail of grief and faded into darkness again. He came to still clutching her with sun slanting through the window. Rising heat of the day brought out the stench of death and was nearly suffocating, even with great portions of the fortress open to the air. With tears running freely, he kissed his mother's brow and closed her eyes, then slipped her dagger through his belt and went to find his father. The king was in an inner courtyard laying across a fountain sluggishly circulating macabre red water. The last stand had been here, and Holy Guard crusaders were thrown everywhere. The stench here was worse than the rest combined. Six Arial elite guard and his father had killed at least thirty of the attackers in this room, and at least one angel had fallen to Anarmegil, the sunblade of King Ellarin himself. Infused with the raw essence of natural balance, it could easily kill agents of pure good or evil, and enhances an Arial's natural resistance to their powers. Worthy of the blade or not, he could not leave the sword for an agent of the Guard to come back and find. No doubt those three angels were the only survivors of the assault, and they were not able to touch it. That did not mean that they did not have worshippers nearby who could come back. He unhooked the baldric and wrapped it around his waist, tying it on quickly with twine. He wanted to run, to be as far away from this place as possible as fast as he possibly could.
His father and mother dead, and himself an only child, they would give him the crown. Was an unfit cowardly fledgling to rule the greatest of kingdoms? Even if he could bring himself to face his people, he knew he could not rule them. Would his lineage even allow him through the Myst, or would the murderous hatred seething in his soul wall him out forever? Would they ask him to rule from exile? What wisdom did he have? What courage? No, he would run. He would hide himself away among the ephemeral races and learn their ways. He had been taught to hide his wings with magic. He could wear a hooded cloak and none would ever see his face. He would learn to fight, and to kill. Then one day, when he was ready, he would unleash a vengeance such as these wretched creatures had never known
1
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Torrents of rain hammered on the cheap clay tiles of the village rooftops. A searing blaze of light shredded through the night's sodden gloom, and it's thundering roar a second later shook the dirty panes of cracked windows that might have never been replaced. This was the worst storm in the memory of any of this transient village's permanent residents. Trailhaven had started as a small inn for travelers set at a crossroad, and had spread haphazardly. Most of the villagers had settled here either because they had no money to travel further, or because this place was beyond the reach of whatever law they fled. It had few farmers of any side, and relied almost entirely on the travelers which passed through for commerce. Saloons drew the majority of their income from running crooked gambling tables, and pickpockets preyed on unwary passerby like carrion vultures. Narrow streets leading between the shacks had never been paved, and this night's tempest had them whipped into calf-deep sludge. The few people out in the streets moved about their business quickly, and the screams those who strayed too far from the greasy light of flickering street lamps was drowned by rain and thunder.
Pier was laying face-down, sprawled across the rank straw mattress and dozing restlessly when a knock sounded at the door. The echo was dull, woodworm having turned what had never been decent wood into something like loosely cohesive sawdust. He stirred from the bed and pulled an old tunic over his head. Wondering who could possibly have a job for him in the middle of the day, the disheveled elf cracked the door open and peered out with bloodshot eyes. The fat, greasy human who managed the inn gave the door a savage push and tossed a parcel into the room. “If’n ye want me ta be yer bleedin’ mailman, I’ll add ten crowns to yer rent Ghar” he spat, and stomped away without awaiting a reply. Ghar was the assumed name he was using as a mercenary swordsman.
The package was decidedly upscale for this hole of a village, being of good boxwood tied with red ribbon. One side had cracked from the rough handling however, and the reek of decomposing flesh poured from it. He ferried it to the cheap pine table that served as the only available flat surface and sat down on a salvaged shipping crate to open it. The wax seal holding the ribbon bore a strange device consisting of a scythe and spade crossed over a stylized flame. Pier left the seal intact and cut the ribbon with his dagger. He cautiously slid back the lid, nearly gagging as he was assailed by an odor of recent carrion. There was a note laying on top that simply read ‘We are of like mind. I await you in the common room’. What remained in the box was something foul wrapped in oilskin. With the tip of his dagger, he flipped the top of the loose wrap off, nose wrinkling at the gruesome contents. Inside were at least ten severed fingers and each one still bore the golden signet ring of the Holy Guard. Even deigning not to examine those at the bottom, two of them had an officer’s diamond setting.
Did the sender of this package know who he was? The Guard had acquired a great many enemies. Trailhaven was as yet beyond their reach, and had more than it’s share of refugees. The Aeraean signet ring had hung out of sight from a steel chain around his neck ever since he fled the Borderlands, and could not have betrayed him even if someone in this place could have recognized the lavish emblem. It was entirely possible that his attitude had been discerned from a conversation over cheap wine at the inn’s common room.
With a sense that he may not return, Pier took inventory of his meager belongings. The only decent outfit he had was referred to as ‘work clothes’. Soft black leather generously studded with dull bronze rivets that never held a shine was tailored into mantle, tunic, and leggings. The light armor was backed with thin, heavy padding which could slow down anything but arrows or the thrust of a blade. A durable baldric of heavy hide held the skysteel shortsword at his right hip and Anarmegil slanted over the same shoulder next to a light quiver. The heavy dagger was thrust into the belt on his left hip beneath the large pouch in which he carried tail rations and assorted tools. With a final decisive flick, he covered the lot with a thick greased wool cloak, picked up the closed box, and headed for the door.
The Trailhaven Inn common room may be the only structure in the entire town that had been built well. This was the original traveler’s coach house, and the rest of the sprawling structure was added haphazardly to it’s solid core like creeper vines strangling the life from an ancient oak. The walls were good masonry, though it was not easy to tell through layers of greasy dirt. Good hardwood flooring had not been maintained in years, and it’s creaking was muffled as much by the seldom-changed sawdust as by the tortured noise of a third-rate minstrel’s strumming on a homemade instrument near the hearth. Only one lamp in three was lit, and what should have been a bright and airy chamber was plunged into dingy gloom.
A hooded figure detached itself from the bar and signaled to him while returning to a table in the corner. The majority of inn patrons here kept their hoods up against recognition by real or imagined enemies, so this was nothing unusual. The cloak was spun of rather fine wool in a rich dark green, and the figure moved with surety that more arrogance than grace. If he wanted to meet in a common area, it was unlikely to be any sort of trap. There was a second figure at the table, this one with the look of hired muscle. Any who had heard of him would be unlikely to bring only one brute along, so he dismissed this one as a bodyguard. None of the other figures in the room had any look of thugs, nor did any show the least interest in the trio. Showing undue interest in another’s business here could be fatal.
A drink was waiting at the table, which he ignored. Pier took the indicated seat and leaned back to survey the duo. The bodyguard was an overlarge human with the marginally slanted eyes and slight point to his ears that may indicate some elven ancestry. Apart from that, he looked to be an awkward oaf. Secondhand maile and a few mismatched pieces of plate armor could be seen beneath a dirty cape that may once have been red. A studded wooden kite shield hung from his back, and a wide bastard sword of poor quality lay propped against his chair. He seemed to be vaguely nervous, though that seemed to have more to do with the location than this meeting. The other figure could not have been more of a contrast. Pier now realized that it was a woman. She had small breasts and sylvan features. So used to seeing humans here, the wayward Arial had thought her a slender male. The fine cloak was tailored to her shoulders and lined with some sort of lightweight fur. She wore a fitted doublet of green crushed velvet with slashed sleeves over an embroidered light linen shirt. An emerald pendant on a thin silver chain flashed at her neck, setting off deep green eyes. Her skin was white and flawless as porcelain, and ruby lips twitched with a cryptic smile. He found her spectacularly beautiful, and she seemed to know it.
“I ordered you red wine, if the offal they serve here can be called thus. I am Cerana of House D’euril, and represent one who may find use for your services. I understand you work as a mercenary, have some skill with both arms and sorcery, and have little love for the Holy Guard. All correct?” He watched her for several heartbeats before giving a single nod. He did not yet trust his voice, and wanted to know more before he volunteered anything. A lady of this caliber was seldom seen here, and was many steps above those who usually hired him. For one such as her to be here, and with a grotesque offering at that, there must be some reason for seeking him out specifically. He waited for her to continue, but she raised a brow and tilted her head. “You must surely know that I would not discuss more in this most common of common rooms? The Guard has it’s spies everywhere, and I find it a certainty that several are here. If they have heard of your distain as we have, it is possible that we are observed. I have paid your rent in full. You look to have known you may need to travel by your dress. You do not need to accept the contract at this time. I have a carriage waiting at the stable, and the storm will keep interested parties from following. It should be obvious that I cannot tell you where we are going. Will you accompany me? |
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Lady Aleuralisaen Kriana Willowheart
Commander of Aeraean Forces (Azeroth)
Matriarch of House Willowheart |
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