Styrn was never at peace. The shanty town that dwelled at the base of a horseshoe of mountains used to be a secondary home to the Elves of Torq. No more. What was once a serene residence turned into a criminal harboring shady society. When the previous government was usurped by a band of marauders it caused intensive damage to Styrn, which from there on became homage to thieves, outcasts and the abandoned. Torq had tried many times to retake its sister home, but to no avail. Conflict flourished and roared, the residents under toe taking the brunt of the punishment.
Not all were in agreement with this new rule under outsiders. Many a time there were groups who collaborated and attempted to strike out at those who imposed practical imprisonment upon them. Every time ended in failure, the recoil more harsh with each following attempt, met with merciless slaughter and left to rot in distant ditches as both a reminder and warning to those who may have shared the same ideas but hadn't acted upon them yet. Race did not matter so much when it came to Styrn, only where ones loyalty lay.
Among those who held disdain was a more quiet individual, a High Elf named Elros Auren. Seated at a table in the open and adjacent to a grassy field, he had a journal in hand opened before him. Elros was clad in formal robes with a family crest imprinted upon the back, depicting a ringed, jeweled, golden dragon with flames encompassing its body. Short, somewhat messy, silvery locks hung just below his brow and over pale skin, separated at the center of his forehead. Golden eyes scrutinized the blank parchment in front of him, a slightly trembling hand holding a quill with indecisiveness and uncertainty.
A calm exhale followed a deep inhale. Elros steadied himself and began to write.
'Dear Father, wherever you are,
I know not why you dumped me here in this criminalized cesspit. What aught I do? What did I do to deserve this?
I have nothing. I cannot truly call this 'Styrn' my home. I refuse to. Surely we were meant for better?
All I have is this spell book with our family crest on it. Sometimes when I flip through it I think of you, or at least, how I think you would be. The feelings are mixed.
I intend to find you if you yet live, although by now I'm sure you abandoned our family lineage. The records are all burned and I find it difficult to trace anything worthwhile.. just scattered rumors and hearsay.
Perhaps this is my path- my purpose, to study the arcana that has been passed down to me. As the apparent sole survivor, I clutch it close.
It's all I have left.'
Elros closed his first journal entry with gritting teeth, a welled anger alive in the pit of his stomach. When Elros was abandoned at Styrn his memories had been taken from him, or so he assumed. There was no recollection of anything regarding his previous life. No family. No friends. No home. He was taken under care by a small family of locals right before the overtake of the town, but they were raided and killed not long after. Abandoned by his first family and a witness to the murder of his foster family, Elros' resentment toward the uncivilized rose to an all time high at an early age. High Elves lived long, almost to the point in which they were regarded as being timeless. At the date Elros was abandoned he was already 153 years old, not even an adult by his race's reasoning. The High Elf was now 208 years old, having endured over sixty years of this treacherous lifestyle.
To live long, to watch as entire generations of humans, dwarves, orcs and the like appear and perish.. part of him hated it. Elros always longed to live in the moment, but while time was limitless, memories were not, which became all the more apparent to someone who could live for hundreds upon hundreds of years. It was the whole reason that Elros finally decided to begin a journal, to record all of the events that were both internally and externally important to him. On top of that, it aided Elros in dispensing his emotions onto parchment rather than joining those ever forming resistance groups. He was young and ignorant, but not stupid. He knew better than to court death.
No longer trembling, a composed hand began to scrawl a second entry on the spot while the opposing clutched his crested family spell book under his arm.
'Dear Father,
They say we pure Elves are timeless. That as we progress through the rising and falling crescendo of life our perspective is different than that of.. shorter lived beings. I would think this true were I not obsessed with the finer details. If anything, it makes the amassing firmament all the more difficult to manage. I am young- I know this. But in the face of others I have lived through many generations.
They ail me still.
My purpose calls out for me, or rather, I yearn for it to. I know not much of bereavement, but I have seen it time and time again. I am not jealous of these people, yet I do not think they jealous of me as well. Who suffers more? One who has lost everything.. or one who had nothing left to lose to begin with?
If I am to master this empyrean flow.. what must I do?'
Elros calmly closed his journal and rose to a stand. A look of determination was painted upon his countenance as his brows furrowed, wind softly billowing the bottom of his robes. For over sixty years he had looked for answers, knowledge-- anything that could be regarded as a clue to his past life, his family. There was nothing. This was not his home. These were not his people. This was not his purpose.
"If I have any hopes of finding you or your remnants, they will not be found here," Elros whispered to himself, wary of the fear mongering inhabitants of Styrn.
"This is not the right way. I must explore the world beyond this hellpit. I must escape. Perhaps then I can find you, my purpose, or both."
Not all were in agreement with this new rule under outsiders. Many a time there were groups who collaborated and attempted to strike out at those who imposed practical imprisonment upon them. Every time ended in failure, the recoil more harsh with each following attempt, met with merciless slaughter and left to rot in distant ditches as both a reminder and warning to those who may have shared the same ideas but hadn't acted upon them yet. Race did not matter so much when it came to Styrn, only where ones loyalty lay.
Among those who held disdain was a more quiet individual, a High Elf named Elros Auren. Seated at a table in the open and adjacent to a grassy field, he had a journal in hand opened before him. Elros was clad in formal robes with a family crest imprinted upon the back, depicting a ringed, jeweled, golden dragon with flames encompassing its body. Short, somewhat messy, silvery locks hung just below his brow and over pale skin, separated at the center of his forehead. Golden eyes scrutinized the blank parchment in front of him, a slightly trembling hand holding a quill with indecisiveness and uncertainty.
A calm exhale followed a deep inhale. Elros steadied himself and began to write.
'Dear Father, wherever you are,
I know not why you dumped me here in this criminalized cesspit. What aught I do? What did I do to deserve this?
I have nothing. I cannot truly call this 'Styrn' my home. I refuse to. Surely we were meant for better?
All I have is this spell book with our family crest on it. Sometimes when I flip through it I think of you, or at least, how I think you would be. The feelings are mixed.
I intend to find you if you yet live, although by now I'm sure you abandoned our family lineage. The records are all burned and I find it difficult to trace anything worthwhile.. just scattered rumors and hearsay.
Perhaps this is my path- my purpose, to study the arcana that has been passed down to me. As the apparent sole survivor, I clutch it close.
It's all I have left.'
Elros closed his first journal entry with gritting teeth, a welled anger alive in the pit of his stomach. When Elros was abandoned at Styrn his memories had been taken from him, or so he assumed. There was no recollection of anything regarding his previous life. No family. No friends. No home. He was taken under care by a small family of locals right before the overtake of the town, but they were raided and killed not long after. Abandoned by his first family and a witness to the murder of his foster family, Elros' resentment toward the uncivilized rose to an all time high at an early age. High Elves lived long, almost to the point in which they were regarded as being timeless. At the date Elros was abandoned he was already 153 years old, not even an adult by his race's reasoning. The High Elf was now 208 years old, having endured over sixty years of this treacherous lifestyle.
To live long, to watch as entire generations of humans, dwarves, orcs and the like appear and perish.. part of him hated it. Elros always longed to live in the moment, but while time was limitless, memories were not, which became all the more apparent to someone who could live for hundreds upon hundreds of years. It was the whole reason that Elros finally decided to begin a journal, to record all of the events that were both internally and externally important to him. On top of that, it aided Elros in dispensing his emotions onto parchment rather than joining those ever forming resistance groups. He was young and ignorant, but not stupid. He knew better than to court death.
No longer trembling, a composed hand began to scrawl a second entry on the spot while the opposing clutched his crested family spell book under his arm.
'Dear Father,
They say we pure Elves are timeless. That as we progress through the rising and falling crescendo of life our perspective is different than that of.. shorter lived beings. I would think this true were I not obsessed with the finer details. If anything, it makes the amassing firmament all the more difficult to manage. I am young- I know this. But in the face of others I have lived through many generations.
They ail me still.
My purpose calls out for me, or rather, I yearn for it to. I know not much of bereavement, but I have seen it time and time again. I am not jealous of these people, yet I do not think they jealous of me as well. Who suffers more? One who has lost everything.. or one who had nothing left to lose to begin with?
If I am to master this empyrean flow.. what must I do?'
Elros calmly closed his journal and rose to a stand. A look of determination was painted upon his countenance as his brows furrowed, wind softly billowing the bottom of his robes. For over sixty years he had looked for answers, knowledge-- anything that could be regarded as a clue to his past life, his family. There was nothing. This was not his home. These were not his people. This was not his purpose.
"If I have any hopes of finding you or your remnants, they will not be found here," Elros whispered to himself, wary of the fear mongering inhabitants of Styrn.
"This is not the right way. I must explore the world beyond this hellpit. I must escape. Perhaps then I can find you, my purpose, or both."
Forever?
Oh, my darling,
If only you could see what war has done to me.
Oh, my darling,
If only you could see what war has done to me.
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Eiil-Kai's Hope - by deific - 10-31-2018, 12:32 AM
RE: Eiil-Kai's Hope - by deific - 10-31-2018, 02:09 AM
RE: Eiil-Kai's Hope - by deific - 12-22-2018, 06:59 AM