Estivon, or Nuihadhas to it's locals, is a shore of revelry, dancing and wine. Lush towering forests conceal bands of wisps, travellers and native alike. Large ancient Elven buildings stand as a testament to their once great power, but now only a whisper. Large lakes with peaceful currents flow through the hills and forests, creating a sweet petrichor much alike to that of a farmland. The native Elf population build their homes in the sturdy barked trees, unaware of any outside news other than the next wine season. They live for enjoyment and willingly invite the other races to join them. More than not, travellers go insane with the music, wine and dance for nearly forever, due to the long age of the Elves. Insane travellers are then swept up in the enjoyment, becoming much like the Elves. Once, there was some modicum of bloodshed via conquest, but the Elves seem to forget their history easily, due to their lack of care for it. Humans are free to pass through whenever they want, and there is a large military encampment to provide shelter for travellers, lest they wander off and turn insane, or even worse, die. The nights are extremely cold, and the days are extremely warm, the monsters in the forest, who do not seem to enroach upon Elven territory, nor attack their holdings, are very savage and bloodthirsty, and there has been cases of even Werewolves attacking travellers passing through. Because of this, the area is a prime place for questing adventurers seeking fame and glory, due to the harsh trials that one has to endure.
With all the danger around them, the Elves live in a suspended animation, with no real purpose. Fighting is completely unheard of but there are telltale signs of magic energies floating in the air, in the form of will-o-wisps. They are large beams of light which lure travellers into a false sense of security, before consuming them completely, to feed it's appetite. Such odd creatures created by such odd energies mean that the Elves have no explanation, and worship one god, which they believe control the forest and look after them, dispelling all invaders of their peace, enjoyment and revelry.
The God-War took it's toll upon the Elven populace of Estivon. Once, there were whispers of sanity in the Elven colonists who sat deeply entrenched in their newfound landmass, holding on for hopes of an end to a new god war, brought to their lands by the dark-skinned Drow, but slowly their will was shattered by the invaders, who were busying themselves by taking to preying upon the populace, causing countless casualties among the populace. A once thriving tree of Elves, more than a million women, men and children lay dead, gutted by Dark Elf blades. The immediate response to the invaders was to curl up into a ball of complete shelter, and weep for the lost ones, as the Elven populace do now, but the expression is different. In the wake of the Dark Elf invasion, the large setting of the God-War and the tremendous loss of culture, the Elves weep for their lost ones by dancing, and this is a possible link to the endless dancing and escapism via joy by the Elves.
The god as described is eight-feet tall in height, with flowing golden hair and pointed ears. His long sleek and angled face is an iron mask of no emotion, his green eyes ever-watching and ever-vigilant against invaders. He carries the burden of a-thousand pains upon himself, and it is said that when a living lifeform dies in the forest, the god's anger grows with it. Wielding a large staff of blinding light and a huge sword of great proportions, he wears golden plate armour and sits on the forest canopy. This is all however, just Elven talk between themselves and is generally shrugged off as superstition by the Human locals in the area.
Some cities, such as below, carry great amounts of strain, even stone can be built upon the great white trees. The branches are lush and ripe with fruit, but most of it is poisonous to all but the Elves, which is where their wine is made from. There are no shipyards and the forest is mostly undiscovered, but adventurers die and arrive every day to seek more wealth and fortune.
"Peace be to all who visit the realm of Nuihadhas, for within the perpetuity of peace lies the immortal gift of happiness for all. Go now, my sons, my Elves, and live your lives to their extents, for I am the ever-vigilant guardian of Estivon, of Nuihadhas." These words are inscribed above every entrance into the continent on a large rune-stone as a reminder of conduct inside the realm. No-one knows how these rune-stones got there, but it is another mystery of the Elven-folk of Estivon.
A large Talibarian-controlled fort with a lumber mining camp lies to the north, allowing entrance into the lands of Imperia and beyond. Large iron stakes drove into the dirt provide defence against any assault and is considered harmless and is tolerated in general by the Elven population. It keeps a fairly easy holding over the lands and is governed by a commander of one of the Talibarian military. It serves as a lookout and vantage point to observe when the land is ready to be colonized. Some time ago, various traders and diplomats moved through the territories, but when they went missing, any entrance was prohibited to all but licensed mercenaries with contracts or warrants.
The Battle of Duiniron, Narn e-Dant Nuihadhas
Spoiler:
The heart of the Elven army was heavy, their bloodied banners and swords alike. There were endless waves of dark skinned enemies seething from the caves, and over the landmass towards their already broken army. The four talans of the army were bloodied and ripped by the previous enemy wave. Their lives were squandered in a seemingly endless battle for the God-War. The river Duiniron was one of the key locations of battle in the endless changing of the territory-line in Nuihadhas. Countless arrows were buried into the dirt, and some portruding from mangled heaps of bodies. Dark, pale and sharp eared. Angular Elven-folk faces, grim with determination and peace of mind in the fact that each man knew he would die that day.
The commander of the army kept his voice clear of any telltale signs of weariness or resignation, strengthening the resolve of his fellows. "Gurth an Glamhoth!" He shouted, echoing over the battle lines to his men. "A si i-Dhúath ú-orthor, Ú or le a ú or nin!"
The dark mass of bodies rose and fell with the drumbeat of it's marching rythm. The impetus of the charge was devastating, bodies upon bodies, spears into flesh. The cries and lament of the Elves was amplified by the enclosed space and carried away by the wind towards the lands of Talibar. The dying cries and souls of the Elves created a chorous of battle, and a great loss of culture. Each Elf knew the pointlessness of such war, but each folk had determination in his heart and the willingness to fight. Willingness, however, was not enough. Slowly but surely, they fell to the power of the Drow, and were embraced by the dark clutches of insanity. The army, once sane and weary, became almost extinct, their souls turning to the only source of comfort, mourning. The same words repeated over and over, in a sad tone filled with melancholy. "Hiro hyn hîdh ab’wanath." "I Estivon cân ven na mar."
The army fled to the hills and far beyond, and the dark hold of the Drow moved over the land, a menacing cackle of black terror. This was to be the breaking battle of the God-War.
The Ten Fears of Dúlin's Folk, Acas Cae Dúlinnae-Dôr
Spoiler:
The band of robed men, clad in gilded armour and golden blonde locks, polished to perfection trodged through the grove. Their large two-handed swords sat on their backs, swaying with the movement of the breastplates. The men were tired, their angular slanted faces showing signs of wear. Their golden eyes scanned the treeline with sorrow, as they glided inbetween the great white oaks. Silently and softly, they tread in a single line. They were filled with sorrow, and the songs of the Adanadar chimed slowly through the pass with the wayward leaves of a dying race. The group were the last of their kind, soon to depart to save the land of Estivon from it's total destruction. Five Côlhoth, alone to wander towards their destination, with the sure steps of death following them. The leader kept ahead of the coloumn, long silvery tears streaming from his welling eyes. He was taking in the last of his beautiful world whilst he could, for it would be the last thing he would remember. A few more steps and the group arrived at their destination.
The grove was a mess, the plants torn from their roots, burnt grass, and what was once a proud, beautiful work of a gilded statue, now headless and dismantled. The two sides were so concentrated on the fighting, that they did not see what they had caused before they had time to weep. The realm of Nuihadhas, destroyed, burning and lifeless. No longer was the god of Nuihadhas watching over the place, for he could not without weeping. He must have turned his back and cried deeply into his palms when he realised his race had turned against itself and caused so much destruction it was meant to prevent. The Elves set out moving in a circle, as the leader knelt down to the grass, his energy gone upon seeing the statue. Slowly but surely, he said his farewells to each of the animals in the forest, and they cursed him with malice for destroying their home, and their lifestyle. This was the first fear of Dúlin, the leader. The animals had turned against the Elven populace, and now even in death they threatened to kill every surviving Elf in the realm. He said his farewells to the trees, but they creaked and groaned; their tangled roots seeming to creep towards the Elves. This was the second fear of Dúlin, the leader. He sent out a farewell with the wind, to the last of the Elves in the land, waiting for their time to come. The wind never took the message to them, it was instead cast into the ocean by the unrelenting gusts of wind. This was the third dying fear of Dúlin, the leader. The wind had refused to help the Côlhoth for the first time since their creation. Again, Dúlin whispered to his friends and family, gathered with him. They cast him a burning look, straight to his soul. Through tears, Dúlin realised that his family no longer cherished his presence, but resented him, the fool of a leader who fueled the God War. This was the fourth fear of Dúlin. Looking deep into the future, he saw the sea, and no trees. He saw no wild hummingbirds, eating seed in the gilded trees. He saw crashing waves, and the realm of water, and all that is feared. This was the fifth fear of Dúlin, the leader. All was lost at the final moment of the God War. He knew it would never end, but what he would do would stop it from ever occuring in Estivon. Finally, after realising his fears one after another, he saw the vile blackened form of a dark god, casting his tainted hand over the landscape with a sickening cackle. This was the last fear of the leader, Dúlin.
The dark face of the Drow burned deep into his mind, and he soon grew weak, and the Elves around him comforted him, and reminded him of what they had to do. They had caused all the suffering of each mortal, and now they were to end it. They placed their hands together, and prayed to their god to take their pure lives to return the forest to it's original state, with no memories for any of the animals to be retained. And their wish was granted. They were brought up to the heavens in a great shaft of light, or so it is said; and burned like the brightest day-star until all mortals were drawn to it, and away from the God War. The forest licked it's grevious wounds, and the God War slowly entered it's final stages of combat in Estivon, for it was soon to be pure again.
Sun Jun 27, 2010 3:51 am
