The tunnels were dark, so dark a man could kindle a torch and still only see a foot or two ahead. It was the rock embedded in the earth that snuffed out the light; it ate it, devoured it, hungry for sustenance. The rock absorbed more than just light, though. Sound, too. The tunnels were so quiet that a breath sounded like thunder in contrast to the eerie stillness. Or maybe the quiet was just the natural consequence of there not being a soul in the tunnels. No man or animal, not even vermin or carrion eaters. All those things added together - the viscous and impregnable darkness, the oppressive silence, the air that was so stale that neither bird, nor mosquito, nor horsefly would dare to make a winged descent - had one arrived at the conclusion that the tunnels served as a hallway to someone or something's tomb, one would not have been remiss for thinking it. But as it were, the tunnels were part of no tomb; rather, they extended into an immense cavern. Like the tunnels, the cavern was a vacuum, immune to light and sealed from sound. In this cavern, three men laboured to see, to breathe and to carry their own weight, let alone that of their mining tools.
"How much o' this shit do we need?"
"Three crates, the tall elf-fellow said."
"Three crates!? F'tarek's glowin' prick, we ain't gonna last fillin' up a single crate!"
"You shut your hole, Gerber! We're gettin' lotsa gold for this, and ain't like we can find work elsewhere in them here troubled times."
"Aye, Marl's right. Them here troubled times, thems are."
"So why's them pointy-ears needs all this stuff, anyway? Thems going to build themselves a new Blackrock?"
"You know better than to ask, Gerber. S'the same answer we get every time, eh?"
Registered Member #1563
Joined: 10:49:16 am GMT 03/30/10
Posts: 35
It was approaching dusk. Too quiet and the acrid scent of the woods crept through the city of Elisara like some form insidious green curse. A light wind had whipped up from somewhere and I could hear fighting in another area of the city. Arben faced Estel in the most gruesomest of close quarter fighting, street by street. House by house. Families that had refused to leave were butchered in their homes where the walls merely echoed back the cries of their young as blade found flesh.
I could still hear the cries though I tried to block it out from my mind by trying to spy troop movements from the battlements where I had positioned myself away from the searching arrows of both defender and attacker alike. There was something moving down there perhaps another treant. There appeared to be an inexhaustible supply of them and the Greenvale Druids would find it and set it ablaze and the whole twisting burning wreckage would fall into the now dark streets sending up a shower of green sparks.
Dele had gone to bed hours before. Red eyed and crying she had asked the same question over and over. I can still see the pleading in her eyes, “Why is this happening, Any? Why does nobody help us and why do they keep killing”. I’d seen this before on the frontline. Exhaustion from long nights planning and trying to decipher the reasons for why being kills being. The soul searching she was trying to do to keep her strength going. To keep the plans afoot and her head above the waters of despair. She would awaken in the morning with the same resolve she always has but everyday a little of her hope died.
What did I think? If you’d asked me at the start of the war I’d have given you the normal gung-ho answer about killing more of them than they kill of us or some platitude about knowing the enemy better than they know themselves. Now? Well, I suppose if you bought me a wine and asked me I might wearily suggest that one can’t easily demoralise fanatics. I’d killed hundreds of Arben. I’d spent days on the frontline killing with the same dedication that Dele saved life. The enemy shows no sign of relenting in its ferocity or it’s desire to reach ever further into the City.
“What about the Enclave, Anyndel you miserable bastard?” You might enquire. I would suggest to you that Thayan self preservation and a hopeless situation strategically has lead to their downfall. It didn’t seem to slow the assault much on the city and I knew a hollow victory when I saw one. There were a few good folk remaining but they all showed the strain of the conflict and continued on with varying degrees of optimism.
I’m no pessimist. A realist? Yes! There remained three avenues to explore outside of direct conflict. All three proposed were gambles. All three had the potential to see allies fall that could not be replaced. Desperate times calls for desperate measures and despite Dele’d disillusionment with the direction of the allies it would seem that things were moving slowly towards a conclusion.
Somewhere a horn called out. I creakily stood from my crouched lookout position, flexing my aching knees and running a hand across my soot blackened face. I could feel the handle of my great axe alive in my hand. More would fall tonight but then perhaps so would I. The child killing murderous sons of the Verdant Wood would feel a few more wounds this night before the morning came. Unfurling my wings I swooped into the darkness already searching for my first kill.
Registered Member #1120
Joined: 4:36:33 am GMT 07/27/07
Posts: 491
The green-clad mage stoop on the wall, which was where he found himself most often these days. His tabard and cloak were ragged and splotched with gore as it had become meaningless to clean and repair them except for the fleeting occasions which he took to step away from the violence.
The bleak view registered through the haze of exhaustion and poisonous clouds. Fires smoldered among the stones, residual energies of the magics slung by besiegers and defenders alike. Clerics and volunteers tended to the injured, healing those that they could and attending to the bodies of those they could not. Soldiers dealt swift ends to any dying Poisonwood elves they came across. What truly struck Teron from every aspect of this tableau was weariness. This conflict had dragged on for weeks, and its effects were plainly on display. It showed most clearly on the countenances of the non-elven volunteers present, but even the Tel-quessir were exhibiting the strain, if one knew what to look for.
Something was needed, and this lull in the struggle provided an opportunity, After a slow, deep breath to calm his mind, gather his thoughts and magically amplify his voice, he planted his metal-shodden staff onto the stonework of the parapet and began: <div class='spacer'>[ image disabled ]</div>
Registered Member #25436
Joined: 1:59:54 pm GMT 03/22/20
Posts: 58
Birk Moll and Avaggdu met at the Hellshire Cave in order to discuss how to clean it on the poison spores that blew in from the plants outside. They agreed that they would use fire to scour the walls and floors of the cave. With their combined efforts, they were able to incinerate the spores, leaving only a thin layer of ash behind.
((I forgot to take screenshots. We left a "you see" in the cave which is paraphrased as: "The cave smells of char and smoke. A thin layer of light grey ash covers the floor. Whatever spores from the plants outside were inside the cave are no more."))
With the plants outside the cave being drained by the Kralshaman's necrotic skull pikes, and the air spirits asked by Avaggdu to redirect the breeze away from the cave entrance, no more spores should be blowing into the cavern for now.
Registered Member #787
Joined: 8:48:31 am GMT 05/30/06
Posts: 1761
Kana'ti sat within the raining forest as heavy droplets manage to force their way through the dense canopy above. Despite the damp and seemingly ever-wet terrain, and the often less-than-pleasant reactions the elves there gave him, he was nevertheless pleased to be again in nature. Though he had the rain's calm, something yet did not settle well: the report he had written, and intended to deliver. Surely it was nothing the Wood Matron did not already know, and what use is it to waste ones time--especially if he was trying to establish some measure of rapport with these ire-fueled elves.
He knew he could walk in places these poison-addicts could not, and he would use this to show his value; his uniqueness to their cause. For if he could provide knowledge and insight where the Matron's own could not, he'd become a much valued asset; and valued assets, might yet hold some measure of sway. Making way from tree-to-tree, and using overgrowth and brush to mask movement, he left the elven compound, and found himself soon in the stone-and-tree city of Elisara. He'd need be patient for guise of distraction, lest keen elven eyes and their magics lay his plan to ruin.
He needed not wait long, before a skirmishing force entered, and began to fight at the base of the queen's tower. Slipping in behind them, he entered the city, and set about his task.
Matron of the Poisonwood,
I have the in parchments following, scouting notes; those pertaining to the exterior of the city and its entrances, and of those with the mission of the wizard's tower. I also have generalized observations of troop movements, and perhaps updated points of interest.
Exterior Scouting
I suspect this information is already known to you, but perhaps troop position might have updated since last your scouts had eyes on.
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The main gate's exterior is well fortified, with the bottleneck of bridge serving to funnel troops where few might stand against many. Not only is such a frontal attack unwise, but with the glade entrance not far, a flanking force from there would find immediately the attacker's back line.
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With regard to the glade's entrance, they've set up troops--even some of their more elite. They even have some form of labor going on; without being able to get closer to see, I would suspect fortifications and earthworks. Returned scouting is suggested to confirm and keep tabs on what work is being done there.
Interior Scouting
Poisonwood troops seem more able to skirmish up to the queen's tower; some even pushing beyond it, and attacking the interior guards of the front gate before being repulsed. Were it not for the city's most elite, advantage observed thus far shows in your favor in ground forces. Further observation of their effectiveness in pushing back the lines of Elisara need be done, but this may open opportunities for deeper strikes within the city's walls.
The bathhouse location has become a hot spot for Elisaran champions, among them those noted with their knowledge of trap-setting. With only the one ingress and egress point, in so narrow a space, I would advise against utilizing this structure unless further ground can be made within the city, and better defensive structures taken for any form of command or outpost.
The interior walls of the city, if able to be breached and set upon, would provide not only an incredible vantage point for archers--that they might see across the marketplace, and current area of fighting--but would be difficult to dislodge, if the ground were held. If a siege upon the tower itself is planned, ballistae and other such weaponry would ensure no line of troop could move out on attack, without taking severe casualties.
Wizard's Tower
In this section of the city, where tower and tea shop reside, of this scouting, were mostly unarmed civilians. A handful of guards--including some of their most elite--were stationed at gates and defensive locations. Otherwise, this location is all but defenseless: suggesting the bulk of their forces are needed elsewhere to reinforce, or they remain hidden and out of sight to obfuscate. Returned scouting over time may help solidify these hypotheses.
The most direct route I would suggest to the tower, would be through the interior gate; following in an assault of Poisonwood forces. Presuming defending forces remain constant, the issue of fight would be near the tower itself, as reinforcements from whatever is stationed at the glade would be easily made. However, a more stealthy approach is perhaps possible.
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In my scouting of this area, I found none who patrolled the waterfront. I do not know the conditions of the sea; whether there be blockade or if ships sail without hindrance, but this may well be a way in. I was able to walk from these docks, up to the door of the tower, and there was not a soldier or civilian in sight--though note this was when night was upon the city.
The interior of the tower is as it was before--though lacking in the elementals that once graced the main floor. The doorway that allows entry into the stairwell, is still too easy to access, which continues to lead me to believe it is all bait for a trap. The narrow passageways, however, if made proper use of, would be a defensive nightmare for any attacker. I am still concerned for the metal door towards the crown of the tower; it is one I cannot open, and in my limited experience, would hazard it to be one fit for a locksmith or master thief. I will continue to see if there is anything I might make use of to gain entry.
For as long as he can remember, he had been entrusted with a singular task. All his brothers, sisters, cousins, uncles, aunts, nephews, sister's mates, brother's concubines, parents and grandparents, children and grandchildren, had, too. If he lent it some thought, he came to the inevitable conclusion that everyone he knew, had ever known or would ever know was given that one same task: "walk the tunnels, find and stab the food, stab any trespasser, and, above all, tend and protect the barrels." Filling up, stacking and keeping an eye the barrels was the duty that overrode all other duties, even nourishment and general survival. Sometimes, when left to his own reflections, he pondered why this was; why was it paramount that they stash explosive powder in barrels? Not two or twenty barrels, but hundreds upon hundreds of barrels. Thousands, maybe? He didn't know to count above thirty-seven, but he imagined a hundred or a thousand was a lot, and looking at the rows of barrels stashed in every which corner of their cavern-home, he thought he was not remiss in his estimate. So every day and every night - although, if he had to be honest, there was no difference to the daily cycles to him - he walked the tunnels, he stabbed the food, and, always, he tended the barrels. He carried them, he nailed them shut, he stacked them one atop the other, he polished them, and he kept the powder dry. So did his brothers, sisters, cousins, uncles, aunts, nephews, sister's mates, brother's concubines, parents and grandparents, children and grandchildren.
Then the tall, dark-eyed elf had come, cleaving his way through his kin with a sword so radiant it blinded his eyes like the burning orb on the surface sky. The tall, dark-eyed, plundering elf! The thief had unabashedly ransacked not one, but many of their precious barrels! He had tried to stop the elf. He had drawn his little dagger - a sharpened bone passed down to him by his father, and to his father by his father - and waved it threateningly at the elf. "-stab any trespasser, tend and protect the barrels!" That was the creed he lived by, and he would die by it, too! But he would take the elf with him to the grave, oh yes he would! Except the tall, dark-eyed, plundering thief moved too fast for his eyes to follow. When he felt the stab in his hollow, malnourished gut, he had not even seen the thrusting sword. He fell to his wee little knees, crawling, then, when all strength had abandoned his arms and legs, worming his way across the ground and toward the barrels. He felt his world go dark and dim, all colours turning muted before they became grey, and all sounds growing distant before they were replaced by a faint static. He hugged one of the barrels with his dying arms, duty overriding even the cold hand of death. "Tend and protect the barrels.", he whispered. "Tend and protect the barrels!"
________
"El tu sep grok," wheezed the dying goblin in its foul, yapping tongue. The Huntmaster regarded the wretched creature and narrowed his eyes. Was it intent on setting light to the explosives before it died?
"El tu se-." Silence. With his other blade stabbed through the goblin's throat, the Huntmaster worked fast to secure the contents of several barrels of explosives. Then he disappeared, leaving in his wake a trail of dead goblins who had all, without exception, died screaming the same feral lingo at the Huntmaster. "El tu sep grok!"
💅 Registered Member #463
Joined: 1:37:12 am GMT 03/10/05
Posts: 7900
Rumor quickly leaves the City of Greenvale on the winds of fleeing refugees and traveling merchants that, under evening sky of wind and rain, two elven ships from the north arrived at the garden harbors. When they landed the flags of Feywood flew high above their mast and shortly after scores of Feywood Taur'ohtarie, led by three apparent elven captains, marched forth into the verdant gardens and were met by a host of Greenvale's Estel Tirindor.
Rains poured over the city, yet still onlookers gathered on outcroppings and balconies, watching the scene under cover of awning and cloak. The elves spoke at length, then Feywood continued its march into the gardens. The next morning, over the smell of petrichor and with the rising sun the Estel Tirindor announced to all who would hear: "By Order of Her Majesty Queen Yu'syu of Greenvale in conjunction with The Elder Council of Feywood, the Tau'ohtarie have arrived in unity in our darkest hour!"
Greenvale: Gardens of Elisara - The Night of Arrival
The ships had landed and below deck twenty of Feywood's Taur'ohtarie stood, green cloaks draped over their heads as they stood at ready with bow in hand. Captain Aras'emel looked over them all. It was only weeks ago when he served alongside these brave men and women as an equal, a peer. Pulling his own golden-hide hood over his head he felt the weight of his new position upon him. He felt the words of the Feywood Council in his own as he ordered the march off the boats and onto the docks of the garden.
He led, his head held high despite the torrent of pouring rain that lashed the city of Greenvale. In the distance he could see not the fires of war, no, but a green smoke that rose and silhouetted the Tower of Elisara. The plume was alight with an arcane glow, and he could tell the gas that rose from the city was but the hand of war that Poisonwood had forced upon his distant cousins in Greenwood. Still he marched forward, meeting at the end of the docks with one of the Estel Tirindor, their cloaks not unlike those of Feywood but a sense of refinement that the elves of the north lacked was woven into the green fabrics. Aras'emel approached, holding up one hand that quelled the sound of the marching soldiers behind him. As he lowered his hand all soldiers turned at once, all in unison-- in unity-- all faced the great city of Greenvale. "Vendui, Taur'ohtarie," spoke the Estel under hood and mithril helm, their voice echoing with a metallic drone that would be alien to all in Feywood, "The City of Elisara opens her gates to you."
Captain Aras'emel bowed his head, returning, "As Feywood offers her aid in your time of need. Though our numbers small we come to you so that we may guide you through these shadows. Together, brother, we shall see ourselves through to the other side."
It was hard to read the eyes of the Estel, masked by helm and hood, but still the Feywood Captain could sense inquiry in them that was soon realized in word from the Greenwood Soldier, "It is good to see the banner of Feywood in our ports and gardens as friend. Though I must ask... you are mantled with furs of gold. It is curious, I have not heard of the council's soldiers bearing such."
Aras'emel shifted, allowing his cloak to billow in the storm's wind. Beneath his cloak he wore ironwood armor, the insignia of Feywood's Council shown clear on the front but the pauldrons and lining adorned with runes and symbols of Greenvale. In his hand he held not one blade, but two, curved blades of Feywood that were fused together to form one... a ritual the captain witnessed but five nights ago when he was officially elevated to his new position, "The council sends me, Aras'emel, among the first of the Maethor'Estel. Crafted by the Elder Council's word, we are bound to the oath of unity-- and will fight alongside all who join in such until a day comes when all nations of elves exist peacefully under one banner."
Registered Member #24064
Joined: 6:33:55 pm GMT 03/29/17
Posts: 131
Ataxia
Various attempts at besieging queen's throneroom have, thus far, failed. To knock on the tower's doors invoked the disciplinary attitude of Elisara's defensive line. It stood its ground with valiant effort, protecting what was deemed most vital and sacred. Can it be breached? Devious plots to instil discord and thus hinder this impassable barricade's line were put to the test, one after another, to finally unveil a conclusion that means of true unbridled disorder were necessary.
A group dedicated to Poisonwood's victory have long spread rumours of their possible attack on the tower of magi. Was it to be an obvious diversion? A bold, hostile takeover? An attempt to dispel abjurative runes and glyphs erected by Elith? Perhaps a cunning plot to steal whatever artefacts and scrolls the mages have stored there? No. The ambitions were even greater.
~~~~~
"Oh, brothers and sisters of Feywood.... You really don't want any part of this! Best retreat before it's too late!" shouted the dancing knight, trying to keep the Feywood kin at bay. But they wouldn't yield, wouldn't run. Their recent arrival and curious deployment within the garden district has nearly demolished the effort within the tower. Through bloodshed, shadows and abyssal harassment, a trio of dedicated assailants slowly made their way to the tower's magical core.
Forsooth, the group had many ideas on how to tackle the place - from utmost poetic attempts at communion with the spirits of ancient Greenwoods, to sheer destructive force targetted upon the mystical well. But time was of the essence and they had little of it. The mages of the tower responded swiftly, bringing with them guards, elementals and Feywood's troops, all held in the narrow corridors by virtue of Kana'ti's traps and the hexer's demons.
The trio came prepared. A huge limbo's crystal was placed by the weave's well and words of spellslinging were cried. Rita could only assist in the placement of wild magic's residue before her means of spell and song were forced to become those of sword and defense. The enemy kept coming, never dissuaded from effort, and the elf could barely sing anymore with the wildness butchering her blood's magic. As she fought, she watched in awe how in spite of all this encroaching chaos, the Evoker of Poisonwood remained by the well.
Elarion.
His dedication needed no further proof. Whilst arrows and spells were cast his way, the sorcerer continued with the task at hand. Though barely clinging to life, he kept his chants most audible. His boiling blood turned to a gleaming spectacle of dazzling lights and, right before his body finally broke, the limbo's crystal erupted and pierced the tower's core. The slaadi came to feast, much like they've once did in old Davenshire. The tower quaked as beams of strange, spectral lights shone upon the district. It drew attention from city's defenses. It drew it well enough.
~~~
Rita and Kana'ti took to the paths of the shadow realms, leaving the confused forces of Elisara imprisoned by the wild magic's eruption. They took haste, eager to join with Poisonwood's druids whom were thus far escorted across the city only by Arakhor and Lucan. But were they too late? Mere inches from the tower's doors, Arakhor stood upon a pile of corpses turned to noxious fumes. The mists of the woods engulfed the tower, spilling in and out of every crack and rising from beneath like a river of toxic green. The High Druidess of the woods grinned, claiming some manner of triumph before ordering retreat ; Retreat, which Rita may have listened to had she the mind to take orders. But the remained, taking in the sights, still driven by purpose. As the High Druidess began her departure, a winged champion bursted out of the tower and shone blinding light upon those whom remained. Draxus himself has arrived. A truly worthy foe at last! His blood, his end, would turn the tide of this war. Perhaps even end it. But on this day, the celestial-blooded champion stood no equal. On this day, in spite of bubbling corruption of Limbo and caress of poison across the blood-speckled streets, the group only grazed the winged herald of light ; Only sampled a morsel of his precious blood before falling prey to his zealous will and being cast away.
Registered Member #24064
Joined: 6:33:55 pm GMT 03/29/17
Posts: 131
Ataxia pt.II
Upon waking up, surrounded by Poisonwood trees and mists, some nearby voice exclaimed that she had fallen from the stars. A ridiculous notion, and yet... she could swear that she's passed by a beautiful, purple star just mere minutes ago ; graced it with a single touch whilst she danced in the sky. An illustrious reverie, no doubt, but dangerously verging on reality. Were it but a reverie, it has briefly returned her to her youth, when things used to be simple and her parents spoke to her of protecting the world under starlit sky's secrets. She smiled, lazily opening her eyes to look around, when a sudden groan of pain struck her mind and spine. The memory of Draxus making swift work of her swordsmanship stung like mockery upon resolve. This celestial adversary was beyond anything and anyone she's ever faced before. So strong, radiant, nearly impenetrable. Undefeatable. Or was he...?
She could reminisce of a hundred worthy foes that payed tribute to Doom's vengeful wish when her champion delivered the executions. They were strong. Godlike. But even they were outwitted, outcharmed and soon broken. One day, her sword ought find Draxus' weakness and ordinate that foul, misguided light of his onto a proper path.
As she mused and plotted foe's end, she found herself rather forced to think about what has been done, as though something or someone nudged her mental state onto a different path: Yes, there was chaos of limbo surging through the city. Yes, there was Draxus' presence and smiting blade. Yes, the High Druidess proclaimed some manner of victory amidst all this ataxia. Yet, through mind's eyes Rita would mostly see the fallen elves. She couldn't help but witness their mangled, dead forms that were left in the wake of her plots.
Such a waste. Such a sorrowful waste. Surely collateral damage was expected, but at expense of Feywood's lives? So rare they were, unwelcomed here in this war of doom where poisons swirl to let the world know their pain.
She and Kana'ti both agreed that death toll within the tower was, to some degree, unnecessary. The diversion would've worked equally well absent excess slaughter. But at the end, perhaps it provided the freshly arrived Feywood troops with proper insight. One of fear.
The elf, unable to wash this gnawing stain of grief, driven by vow of protection, went to the gardens of Elisara to leave a message, signed and resonant.
"Children of Feywood. So you've dared step into the warzone of aching poison and felt a sting most severe. How many of your lives have been needlessly put to ruin when you've decided to act against the supernatural machinations and forces? I've once told you that you are not ready for this. I have walked amongst you to let you know that demons, chaos and worst of fates are truly breaching the horizon whilst you, yourself, figured to keep to your old ways instead, craving to escape all that you could not understand. Nature struggles in face of such powers. It truly does and we have both come to know it. Though long ago you have dismissed my tutoring and gifts, even when they protected you, now I sayeth onto thee again:
You are still not ready.
Leave this place so that it may conclude its fated end ; So that suffering of the poisonwoods might find abatement absent feasting on your lives. Know how it spreads across this coast. Witness the unnatural forces that have swept you off your feet tonight. Leave, for your lives need not be extinguished by this war. Do so, and one day I'll offer you that which I've once offered before. Retreat from damnation whilst you can. Your presence would only prolong the battles, the sufferings and war's greedy claims. At the end, the results would be the same, but may they not be buttressed by your agony and death."
From Sandburrow to Lumenshire, avian messengers brave treacherous skies to deliver the following letter to all those who have fought to defend Greenvale:
Renneleth Margaladhon wrote ...
I am told that prior to the resurrection of the Blood Guard, a woman wandered the island and repeated the following question to all who cared to listen: "How much more suffering must Thain endure before her children will wake to righteous action?" I now pose the same question to you brave men and women who have come together under the banner of the United South. How many more atrocities must the South suffer before we take the fight to our blighted enemy? They have invaded City of Elisara, but perhaps that does not spur you to dire deed. They have nearly suffocated the South with poisonous air, but still you may hesitate. Know this, then, you whose commitment may be wavering: our enemy has committed the foulest offences to be enumerated in the black book of this war: they have stolen the tomb of Lady Talyrenne, blessed and honoured foremother, and they have attempted at the life of this island's most sacred guardian, Draxus Ultimax.
Thus I repeat unto you what the Blood Guard have been bellowing for a year: Othovor na-othovor! Enough is enough! We stand united, we brave men and women of the South, and, finally, we have the means to definitively challenge our enemy. Well, I say, let us bloody challenge them; let us cleanse their blight from the South once and for all!
Objective: Join the United South to take the fight to Poisonwood. Date: Saturday, May 9, 7 PM GMT+1. We meet in the Queen's Tower in City of Elisara.
[ The Island of Thain ]
Poisonwar
