Interlude
Posted: Sat Oct 20, 2012 8:56 am
It is said when the undeath came to the world; when the dwarves locked themselves away in their cavernous homes; when the races of men fell like sheaves of grain; when goblin-kind was decimated, large and small; the fey races fled to other shores, forsaking all others to this plague upon the earth.
That is what's said, at least...
What is not known is the true fate of the Folk. Many perished, much like those around them; fallen to gruesome deaths. Magic aided them little in the face of overwhelming hordes. They took to their fortresses built in the hearts of ancient groves, elevated above the earth and the plague below them. These living fortresses were their solitude and their salvation....for a time.
Refugees and marauders, survivors of the undeath driven mad with hunger and desperation, came to their doorstep. In small numbers, they were welcomed. There were those, though, who felt the elves did too little. Giving shelter was not enough. They must take the offensive and strike back.
The High Council humored these petitioners at first, but they soon grew to lose patience with the insolent, short-lived creatures whom they tolerated as one would a pet dog. Insurgencies formed in the human races; vandals, anarchists, and other malcontents. The benevolent nature of the elves reached a limit and the lesser races were expelled from their elders' haven. The survivors banded together into a raving mob. They camped on neighboring hills, surrounding the elven fortresses, biding their time until their rage boiled over.
In the night, the fires came.
Hundreds of torches, moving like a blazing tide, closed in upon the living heart of the elven nation. Wooden fortresses hold no defense against flames of that magnitude. That night the forest burned. The inferno consumed everything and everyone; human, elf, and the few remnants of races who found shelter in numbers.
Those who fled the flames fell into the arms of the undead, amassed at the borders of the arboreal habitations. The elves fared the worst. Fleet of foot and familiar with the land, they were the first of the living to meet the wall of dead.
That night, the last empire fell and their survivors were scattered to the winds as all the other races. Distrustful and resentful, the elves seek solitude away from all others, regardless of the isolation this brings.
Despite the casualties that night saw, no elven undead have ever been seen.......
That is what's said, at least...
What is not known is the true fate of the Folk. Many perished, much like those around them; fallen to gruesome deaths. Magic aided them little in the face of overwhelming hordes. They took to their fortresses built in the hearts of ancient groves, elevated above the earth and the plague below them. These living fortresses were their solitude and their salvation....for a time.
Refugees and marauders, survivors of the undeath driven mad with hunger and desperation, came to their doorstep. In small numbers, they were welcomed. There were those, though, who felt the elves did too little. Giving shelter was not enough. They must take the offensive and strike back.
The High Council humored these petitioners at first, but they soon grew to lose patience with the insolent, short-lived creatures whom they tolerated as one would a pet dog. Insurgencies formed in the human races; vandals, anarchists, and other malcontents. The benevolent nature of the elves reached a limit and the lesser races were expelled from their elders' haven. The survivors banded together into a raving mob. They camped on neighboring hills, surrounding the elven fortresses, biding their time until their rage boiled over.
In the night, the fires came.
Hundreds of torches, moving like a blazing tide, closed in upon the living heart of the elven nation. Wooden fortresses hold no defense against flames of that magnitude. That night the forest burned. The inferno consumed everything and everyone; human, elf, and the few remnants of races who found shelter in numbers.
Those who fled the flames fell into the arms of the undead, amassed at the borders of the arboreal habitations. The elves fared the worst. Fleet of foot and familiar with the land, they were the first of the living to meet the wall of dead.
That night, the last empire fell and their survivors were scattered to the winds as all the other races. Distrustful and resentful, the elves seek solitude away from all others, regardless of the isolation this brings.
Despite the casualties that night saw, no elven undead have ever been seen.......