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Author: Zeftka
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The Return Home
It was a long and arduos journey from the frozen shores of Vellious to the forested valleys of Faydwer since the Silencing of the Spires and Closing of the Planes. By ship and foot it was indeed a long and painful journey. Here now, Aalyran finally stood at the marbled gates of Felwithe. His home. But through all his struggles to reach the ground that gave him life, the city that protected him, it was in vain. The marvelous walls that separated his beloved city from the depths of the Faydark were now charred and crumbled at his feet.
Aalyran cautiously walked toward the ruins. Hundreds, if not thousands of spears, shields, swords, and helmets littered the path leading toward the broken gates. Arrows stuck out from the ground like a small forest. The once lushes green grass that encompassed the forest floor was spotted with areas that were now brown and dead. Areas where a being had fallen and died. Its blood permanently staining the soil.
His greaves brushed against another piece of armour as he walked. The shrill noise sent chills up the paladin’s spine. He looked down. A helmet, laying upon its side swayed back and forth with the wind. He reached down. It was small, cold to the touch. Gold trim wrapped around the silver sides and front viser. He ran his boney hand across an emblem located below the broken crest. It was the emblem of the Koada’Vie. Defenders of the Koada’Dal. Two small punctures on either side of helmet told how he had died. This was the helmet of a fellow paladin who died defending the city. This is how Aalyran wished he would have died.
When he first heard the news of the attack it had already been inscribed in a tome. Had the Spires still worked or the Planes still open there was nothing he could have done. The battle would have been long over before he set one foot in the Faydark. He tossed the helmet aside. Although the outer walls were now unrecognizable to even the most wise High-elf, the inner city remained much in tact. A small crevice still allowed Aalyran to enter his once majestic city. But now it was barren. There wasn’t a soul to be found. Everything had been left in its place as if the people would return at any moment. Bottles still full with wine and half eaten bread sat upon the tables. Ceramic pieces and armour sheets sat ready to be pulled from the kilns or forges.
But no one returned. No one at all.
There was no evidence as to what happened to his people. They only thing he sensed was the residual sensation of a strong magical spell that sealed off the southern part of the city. An elaborate illusion that must have covered the path that lead to the halls of the wizards, mages and enchanters. He only hoped that this barrier protected them long enough for the wizards to transport the citizens to safety. But where? This type of situation was never imaginable to the elders, let alone considered. To his knowledge there was no safe haven where the High-elves could seek refuge. If there was one, he would find it.
He panned the forest with his eyes away from the ruins of Felwithe. The once proud trees that filled the outskirts of the city were now blackened and dead. Fire had ravaged through the wood. White ash still floated down with even the most gentle breeze. It was a horrible site. This is where he learned to fight and later protect those who would follow in his footsteps. Now there was noone. No sound. Neither the flapping of the wings from a bat, nor the growl from a wolf could be heard. The Faydark he remembered as a boy was gone. Dead.
He gazed far into the woods. With no foliage and sickly resemblances of the massive trees that once stood he could see the city of Kelethin. It too could not escape the destruction. Many of the tree structures were destroyed, but a few remained. Hollowed out from the fire. A few still smoldered. Aalyran didn’t know if any of the inhabitants survived and fled, or were still within the recesses of the Faydark. The Feir’Dal were resilient and stealthy. He could be being watched now and never know.
He turned back toward the fallen walls of Felwithe. Sorrow filled his heart. Rage entered his soul. He considered entering the city once more, but he knew it was pointless. It would only drive the pain of loss and regret of his abandonment deeper. He turned away.
Across a small valley where three paths intersected and up the next hill sat several pieces of broken siege equipment. Rotted and burned, they were an eyesore to even the environment that was left from their wake. Nearly a dozen of these monstrous weapons created a semi-circle that arched toward the city walls. Unused boulders filled the center commons along piles of charred weapons and armour. A tiny sliver of light caught Aalyran’s eye as he approached the closest weapon. He reached his hand out and felt across a silver shaft that stuck out from one of the buttresses that housed the launching arm. It was still strong and straight and was beautifully engraved. It was an elven arrow. Aalyran began to grow sick. The pent up rage that had slowly been filling his body since his arrival suddenly took hold. With all his might he hammered the evil contraption with the bottom of his foot. Huge shards of wood tore off like dead flesh from bone as he continued his malicious attack. Finally one side of the frame collapsed and Aalyran fell to his knees. Tears flowed from his green eyes down his far skin and onto the ground.
With his bare hands he pulled a handful of dirt from the trampled ground and brought it to his nose. There was still the sweet scent of blossom weed deep within that brought a small smile to his thin lips, but it was short lived. The retched smell of blood and death was too overpowering. The feelings of safety and home quickly left him as the dirt slid between his fingers back to the stained ground.
He stayed hunched over for what seemed like hours as he tried to regain the strength to stand. A cool breeze wisped through the barren trees, his long white hair danced across his checks. His slender nose twitched. A foul stench road upon the breeze. Orc! He recognized it immediately. He anxiously looked around for a place to take cover. The remains of a thick tree a few meters away instantly caught his keen eyes. Once a Faydark willow that towered high into the blue sky, it was burned to a lifeless stump just high enough to conceal the elf.
Aalyran darted toward the tree. Despite the heavy plate armour that adorned his slender physique, it made no sound greater than that of the rustling of leaves in the wind. He drew his falchion as he concealed his location and held it upright near his face. The pristine condition of the clean blade allowed him to reflect the world around him. The stench of the orc grew stronger. Aalyran closed his eyes and focused his hearing. The heavy footsteps of the cumbersome orc grew ever so louder with each passing breath and it was heading in his direction. He gripped the leather handle of his sword tightly. With his eyes still tightly shut he slowly rotated the blade. The thumping of the oncoming steps now echoed mercilessly through his mind. Then stopped.
Aalyran opened his eyes. Reflecting clearly in center of the blade stood a brutish orc. Its thick body and blue skin stood out against the ashes of the trees. Its shoulders rose and lowered dramatically as it breathed deeply. Drool flowed from the yellow fangs that raised from the thick jowls and it’s beady red eyes stared intently on the ruins of the city. It was a Crushbone orc. A runner no doubt, sent from the shores of Antonica to report back to their emperor. Or possibly he was an agent of the Teir’Dal, reporting to Ambassador D’vinn. Many orcs crossed the mountains of Butcherblock and the thicket of Faydark to deliver messages, but none have ever veered this close to Felwithe. For whatever reason it was here, it would not leave.
With one broad manouevre he spun away from the orc around the dead tree and leaped behind the foul beast, slashing downward with all his might. The orc screamed in pain, stumbling forward from the impact. But it did not fall. With a speed Aalyran did not image the orc spun around to face his assailant, a rusty hatchet in hand. It seemed prepared for the attack all along. It reached out violently flailing the crude weapon ferociously. Aalyran winced as the enemy blade slipped under his left pauldron and sliced his arm. The orc began to lunge again, but it was in vain. Aalyran’s blade was already in motion and made contact at the base of the orc’s neck slicing through completely. The head fell to the ground with a thud followed shortly by the useless body.
Aalyran sighed a breath of relief. It had been the first orc he had slain in ages. The pain from his arm quickly eroded the feeling of accomplishment. He looked over at his arm. Blood flowed from the wound, across his armour and down to the forest floor. It was more superficial than fatal, but it would still limited his mobility.
Instinctively, he began a healing incantation, but realized it would be a waste of time and energy. Just as Tunare had left her people, the divine powers she had granted to them were now diminished. It would take hours of meditation for him to regain the ability to cast another spell. Hours he did not have. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a wad of bandaging. All the pieces were tattered and stained with blood. Blood from himself; blood from his friends. He took the cleanest one and wrapped it around the wound. It would heal in time.
He silently gazed endlessly at the stain. The ground where his blood had fallen was black as the night sky. He spoke,
“Now my blood has fallen here as well, my Brethren. It was not the first and I fear it will not be the last elven blood spilled over these lands, but I vow from this day forth that I will find you all and make safe the journey to bring you home.”
He looked east toward Kelethin, then west toward Kaladim, city of the Dwarves. Far across the Butcherblock Mountains, he hoped the underground stronghold still stood and didn’t suffer the same fate as Felwithe. There he might be able to find the supplies he needed to continue. The journey would take several days and nights, but he knew he could make it as long as he rationed what little food he had left. What he didn’t know was if the mighty Stormguard, protectors of the city would still remember him as friend, not foe.
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