Eagerness devolved into a panic with the speed of a mudslide. Whilst Avaggdu, Dele and Caster worked in unison to combine Nature, the Power and the Art into a single destructive force, the ancient poison-vine tree started to rock alarmingly as Arben soldiers swarmed around it, trampling each other in their haste to obstruct the ritual. But it was too late. With a tortured creak the whole tree lurched sideways, buckling, bark splintering like matchsticks, twisting, falling, people pitching over the exposed roots and tumbling through the darkness. Renneleth dragged Gram through it all, or Gram dragged Renneleth, ignoring the swords, the arrows, and a tattered-robe druid on her elbows staring at the bone sticking out of her wrist. Then came the explosion. Seventy jars of goblin black powder had been lit, and the ensuing detonation shook the earth and the sky with such force it might as well have ushered the Third Cataclysm. After that, it was every man and woman for themselves. Poisonwood no longer felt like a nightmare, it was one. Soldiers dashed gibbering through the madness, lit by the spreading flames on Renneleth's side of the grove. Blades glinted, elves and Men and orcs and dragon-men clashed and fell and rolled, floundered in streams of blood. Whose, impossible to guess. Renneleth saw a burning spear whirling onto the few branches of the ancient tree that had somehow survived the explosion, curling lines of fire shooting across the leaves and catching hungrily. He acquired the strong impression that it had been his own hand that had thrown the spear. Arrows flickered in the darkness. One stuck in the mud near Renneleth, hissing with venom and acid. His ears rang with words screeched in a myriad of languages. There was another thunderous detonation and he cowered as splintered wood spun high, smoke roiling up into the sky. Anyndel had Dele by her cloak, was dragging her kicking through the muck. "We can't do any more! We're leaving! We're leaving now!" yelled the Black, over and over. A feverish hand clutched at Renneleth ankle and he struck out with the flat of his katana, tore free and struggled on, not looking back, sticking to the outline of trees to his left. High above, at the top of the nearest ridge, three men were silhouetted, two with bows, a third with a sword broken at the fuller. They stood calm and pale as ghosts, and Renneleth swore they even looked the part. All three wore ruined uniforms of the Estel Guard, but only one of them leapt from the hill and crumpled in the mud, without a sound. He attacked Gram, and Gram retaliated - or tried to, but Renneleth dragged him on. "We should—" "No! No fucking time! We are out of here!" All around them bodies were strewn about like neglected firewood. Some were motionless, others flailed their limbs in desperate calls for aid and mercy. But mercy, along with all the finer trappings of civilised behaviour, was a luxury Renneleth could ill afford. Besides, Poisonwood had earned none. For all Renneleth hoped, the longer it took the burning and bleeding Arben to die, the sweeter the joy. You reap what you sow, and Poisonwood had sowed only black seeds of death.
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And there it is.. The silence was finally broken, and the enemy showed what they had been planning for so long. The tree they had not only dared to desecrate by taking samples is now nothing but charred lumber.. This was the final straw. There will be no more focus on culling their numbers. No more focus on destruction. Now is the time for nightmares.
They had sent Poisonwood's agents to the abyss, they had mangled their bodies, they have burned their bodies, they have desecrated their holy sites.. The next steps now will have to be planned well. If there was one thing that came from this, it was that sending the prisoners against them had worked. How delightful. Not only that they had been deployed, but the traitors had seen their own forces used against them. How truly delightful. One can work with this.
A nightmare can always be worse, and the blackest, most destructive of sadistic hearts will personally see to it. Besides, what was it the traitors hoped to accomplish by attacking a holy site? It held great emotional value for those of the woods. It was their spirit tree. The tree where all their dreams were gathered. To know this tree was to know their woods.. but with that gone? There is nothing left but the Poison, and a forest filled with rage.. Or is it? They still have their lady. If anything, the destruction of the tree only strengthened Poisonwoods resolve, empowered the Lady, and ensured more prayers to Syann.
It was a heavy blow for sure, but the war has only just begun..
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Joined: 8:28:45 pm GMT 08/30/07
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(From Styvn's journal)
I attended the meeting. Renneleth and Anyndel laid out the plan. At first, I could not believe what I was hearing. Were they serious? Did they really mean to destroy that ancient, magical tree? The answer was so terribly wrong to me. I have pledged and given my aid to Greenvale's cause, and to my long time friend, Queen Yu'syu. But my intent is to destroy the evil hearted elves who live in the poisoned woods. Not the woods themselves.
I could not. I WOULD not take part in the destruction of that tree. I am Tel'Varataurie. I am sworn to protect the woods of Thain. I am a servant of Mielikki, the Forest Queen. To harm that tree would not only go against my very nature, it would have caused me to lose the favor of my Goddess. My very heart and soul would have been destroyed by my own deed. I told them then and there that I would not participate in the destruction of that tree. So I volunteered to go with the diversionary force, to the docks.
There were eight of us on the docks team. Kellendil was our commander. Then there was Brazik, Jiztroyer, Elhan, Ryleena, Vroshnak, Kaeridris, and me. It was quite the eclectic group. Elves, human, half orcs, and a dragonkin. All fighting together against a common enemy.
It sounded simple enough on paper. Go to the docks, kill all the Poisonwood warriors, destroy the docks. Things never go the way they look on paper. This was no exception. We had no idea there were that many warriors at the docks. I've never seen so many of Syann's "Hands" before. They just kept coming. It seemed there was no end to them. Their clerics and druids rained down fire on us, as the "Hands" hacked and stabbed us. Their archers arrows were like a hailstorm with no cover. Summoned spiders and elementals appeared at the most inopportune times and places. And the Treants sprouted from the earth to block our path. We fought, and bled, and fell. And our own healer would call down blessings from the gods and bring us back up on our feet, only to do it all over again. Blood and bodies, and pieces of bodies, covered the earth and made it difficult to maneuver. Our breath came in labored gasps until we thought our lungs would explode.
And finally, there was quiet. All the Poisonwood warriors were dead. The Treants were felled. The summoned creatures were sent back to their own planes. We had won the docks. We set explosive charges on the docks. I set several on the dock side of the gang plank leading down to one of their ships. We set them off, and the explosion blew a hole the size of of an Elephant in the side of the ship, and half the dock was in ruin. And it all burned. And we watched it for a brief moment.
As we all gathered near the entrance to their supply depot, Jiztroyer made known his desire to investigate the depot. To see what was inside, and likely destroy the depot as well. It was my instincts that first warned me this was not a good idea. Something didn't feel right about it. And then my acute hearing picked up the sounds of armored feet coming from inside the depot. Many, many armored feet. The depot was full of more than supplies. That was the sound of Syanns' Hands marching to meet us. And they were not alone. I did not waste another second on contemplation, or discussion. I cracked a shadow gem on the ground and pulled us all to the Shadow Plane. Some were disappointed, and others were relieved. No matter. It was done.
Kellendil commanded that we take the path that would take us closest to the Poisonwood south, so we could aid the other team should they need it. Aiding the other team was not to be. Before we could get to the channel of shadow that leads from the Shadow Crossroads to the Moribund Bog we were attacked by a great host of powerful shadows. They were intent on keeping us from going that way. We fought them back and made our way into the channel despite their efforts. We came out of the deep shadow on the Moribund Bog, and as we tried to make our way toward the path into the Poisonwood, we were set upon by many foul creatures of shadow, and undeath. Again we fought them back. And even more powerful shadow creatures came and attacked us. They pushed us back to the south as we destroyed them. Finally, when we were pushed back nearly to the path that leads out of the Bog to the southern outpost, a great ghost dragon appeared. We fought still, and had nearly won the battle against that fell creature, when the first rays of the morning sun could be seen in the east. And the ghost dragon took flight and vanished.
It was then we all decided to make our way back to the City of Elisara, and report to the Queen. And to make sure the city was not under attack. It was fortunate that we did, because as we arrived in the city, an assault began at the breach in the north wall. Exhausted though we were, we would have no rest. They came in waves, like the surf on a stormy day at the beach. As we fought them we discovered a most alarming sight. Some of the warriors attacking us were undead Greenvale soldiers. This new terrible development only served to strengthen our resolve. We put them to blade and arrow, knowing it was the best we could do for them. to give them the final rest they had been denied by our enemy. When the third wave hit, we were elated to see our compatriots of the other team come into view. With their aid, and the city's guard, we beat them back into the Poisonwood, and they came no more that day.
Our foe came with the moon and the shadows and took us by complete surprise. I remember waking to find City of Elisara changed overnight. Gone were the hanging gardens and the sprawling bazaars, and gone were the cobbled parks and the gentle canals. In one night, the whole of the northern city had been erased. In the span of eight hours, the Poisonwar, previously only an imagined possibility, had mutated into a full-scale war. How we, the Elves of the South, paid for our laxity. I have lost count how many brothers and sisters died during that fateful night when the Arben breached through City of Elisara's walls. Hundreds? Thousands? Our foe outnumbered us, they were better prepared, and they were more ruthless. Poisonwood had all the prerequisites for winning the war. Except for one thing. Allies.
While Poisonwood alienated the good peoples of Thain with their deliberate malice, we, the true Elves of the South, recalled the foundations upon which City of Elisara was built: trust and togetherness. We reached out to friends and previous foes. While Poisonwood poured their hatred into burning all bridges to the world that surrounds their forest, we reinforced ours. We reached out to our kin in the South. We reached out to Sandburrow and to Heartwood. We reached out to the orc-kind in Lumenshire. We even reached out to Carson and to those Thayans who were willing to forsake profit in favour of good works. Not all of our alliances were stalwart and reliable, but they were enough to inspire us to endure. We suffocated and we bled and we watched our kinsmen die, yet we endured. And now, finally, the tides are turning.
We have destroyed our enemy's outposts and fortifications in the Ridgeshield. We have denied them their navy. We have burnt their ancient poison-vine tree. And now, we prepare for the final battle, the battle that shall forever determine the fate of the South.
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Joined: 4:36:33 am GMT 07/27/07
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It was all a fool’s errand, this ridiculous notion that if he uncovered some missing, undiscovered pearl of insight he could “unlock” this puzzle and find an ending to it that did not result in a mountain of corpses. The scars were too old, the hatred too real, the gap too far. With news of the destroyed tree reaching his ears, Teron’s course was made clear to him. There was only fire and death that would lead this to its conclusion, to its synthesis, and Teron’s presence was needed to deal out both. Thus, once more the man found his blue tabard billowing in a noxious breeze, his ears buffeted with the moans of the dying, one hand grasping his blade, his Will, the other hand glowing in preparation for the Arben forces now entering his view.
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Joined: 8:54:42 pm GMT 08/30/19
Posts: 124
The Heart of Corruption II
She could taste the ash in the air. Poisoned ash, like Cathalya had called it. Arakhor felt empty as she stared at the remains of the ancient, once proud tree. Each of them, whether blessed by poison or solitude, had a voice. A mind of its own. And the one they had destroyed was perhaps the oldest tree on the island. Its age and knowledge had no match. Some, like Avaggdu, even said and thought that a spirit, an aspect of spring, lived within. It was also the tree where Daniel slumbered. It had seen civilisations rise and fall. Its voice was revered in the song that those touched by the poison could hear, if they wanted to.
And now, it was gone, and the twice-reborn creature could not understand why. The enemy had destroyed something unique. Something they held dear, yes, but that would not alter the course of the war. It would not weaken or stop them. The docks she could understand, especially after Renneleth had told her that they would be a target, but why strike a being that belonged to the entirety of Thain? Unlike their foes, they waged war against false kin, against ignorance. All forest-kin had strict orders not to harm the trees in Elisara and Greenvale. They only fought their former brothers and sisters and those foolish enough to participate in a war few cared to understand.
The song wept and wailed, deeply as well, but the dryad could not afford to react as harshly as others had. Seryn had battled similar loss when her old home burnt to oblivion, when forcing herself to believe that an alliance with the living flame inside Hammersong was necessary. Neither Sylvox nor Syfana had liked the idea, but there was nothing to like. She had to do what she had to do. Whether it hurt her, whether it annoyed her, whether it darkened the circles around her eyes and drained colour from her wings was irrelevant. Painful but irrelevant. And the burden of the war kept getting heavier with every night, with every battle, especially after that encounter with the infamous Draxus. Her actions and their consequences had become nightmares. Others ran away when they saw her, afraid of what she might do. But she had brought it on herself, and now the feyling had to deal with it.
She strived to remember that they fought for a reason. A real, tangible reason. It was her guiding light, but it had bred all manner of discord. There were details that she had dreaded to share even with Cathalya, and though she had tried to be as open as possible about everything, especially with Lucan, the changeling was too observant and insightful not to notice that, for all her sincerity and affection, she had chained him to her. All the secrecy, the constant plotting gnawed at her. But Arakhor could not give up. She knew that Vryx was right. That the war, if anything, was a means to an end. She had to endure. For her home, the dream, their undying Queen-
“Mother.”
That monstrous voice echoed inside her skull, and she gasped in terror. It disturbed all train of thought, left her shaking and mewling.
“Mother.”
They had planted the Heart of Corruption in Feywood, just as she had decided, but the memories of the ritual..
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..were as blurry as those behind its creation. She could recall resorting to Rhandum's gifts, everything she had learned from his encounters with Seryn-
“Mother.”
Why did it call her that? Why not the others? She had hoped to unleash its power upon false kin, but something had gone wrong. When it sampled their purpose, their emotions, too much was offered. All of it different, contradictory. The impulse to strike fear, to be afraid, the will to do something and the doubt to hesitate, the desire to destroy and inflict just revenge, the regret and pain of it. In the end, it absorbed everything and freed itself. A selfish, carefree, careless thing. It had not rained destruction upon Feywood, but it had seeped deep into one of their mightiest trees. And it had grown into something else. Fey magic, deathgloss, poison from the Glorious Woods, adaru toxin and a heart from the Abyss mingled with mortal passions. What had they created? What would it do? Did it care about Poisonwood? Would it remain true to the purpose that had fashioned it?
“Mother.”
She rocked back and forth in Holzstod’s arms, hands covering her ears. No matter what she did, the voice of the Heart grew louder and louder.
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Joined: 2:58:00 pm GMT 01/23/19
Posts: 604
So much to do, so much to do.. The heart of corruption had been a success and their creation couldn't have made the evoker happier. Even the smallest creatures spawned from it tore trough the northern elves with ease, and he could only wonder how effective the large treants are.
But this is not the time to ponder the effects of such. The creation and implanting had been a success, and they had made something no one can ignore. If they do? Well then, it shall be their doom.
[ image disabled ]
So much to do..
He did what he could, and returned to the battlefield. It was every bit as chaotic as it have always been, and their Estecallons were just as big of a threat as they always have. Good thing they were able to grab a few. Demons were called back inside the city, and the battlefield was filled with even more chaos, and in the middle of it, the evoker sent a little pixie in to find out what is beyond the grates their waters come from. Either they find hidden chambers or just a spring and source of water, they will no doubt find some way to work with it.
He has gotten his hands on quite a bit of firepowder, which will no doubt be useful in the coming days. For now, they are all brought carefully into a tight container, like a little bomb sausage. Will they find use for it? Who knows, but it is better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it.
He had to think about who they will need for the next steps of their plans, and they all agreed it is time they all call in allies. A name that came up, that they can use is the demon known as... what was it again? Rhandum? A fitting name. The demon seemed quite random. Never the less, he might prove most useful, and so the evoker set out for the place he could think of with the closest connection to the rift without being too dangerous to him. He recalled a place he had come across earlier in his travels. A collection of ruins north of where the bugbears wage war. He put on the ring the demon once gave him, and fiddled with its energies. Either it will lead him to him, or the ring will call for its old master, and bring him to the elf. Whichever it is, it will show soon enough.
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Joined: 8:48:31 am GMT 05/30/06
Posts: 1761
We are. The elven male paused as he took a breath; a deep gurgling sound came from his chest, as if his lungs were filling with a liquid. Awake. With what air was pushed from his lips in a hushed whispering sigh, the body before him putrefied, and fell to the ground in a wet slop; a putrid green fluid that slicks off the gore, and soaks into the soil. Vibrant mesmerizing flowers grew up in place, and the Watch knew of this terror for but brief fearsome moments, before fire cleansed.
The elven husk had been sent to find him, to show him, of what their ritual had birthed. He knew he'd need find what others he could, so they could all witness what was born of themselves. The drumming thumping was truly well in his mind; the others, seemingly heard a different song--one more joyous, as they walked with almost a dance. [ image disabled ] They'd watch as the elves of Feywood sent patrols to combat the growth, but each fell; the vines burrowing under flesh, and re-purposing the form for its own. These warriors and druids, scouts and elite; one by one, their bodies rose, and joined the ranks of the others around the tree. Still more came, and still they watched: massive treants crushed elf under bark-encrusted foot. This combined offspring of theirs seemed it would re-purpose all life-- not just elf--for itself. The vines stretched outward, crawling, slithering through the tall grasses; unsuspecting life would surely get caught up in this.
When would this new life have enough? Would this be sufficient to turn Feywood forces from Greenvale, to defend their home? It would turn their hearts to stone of fiery vengeance, surely; yet would they withdraw? Would this act spur others on the proverbial fence--would they join the forces of Elisara out of fear of what might be done unto them, or would that same fear keep them neutral, and looking to their own security while looking not to antagonize those of the Poisonwood?
Those of us who claim and boast the vaunted title of a scholar pride ourselves on understanding the world in all its diversity and complexity, and in all its dimensions. We think that there is no mystery too great to unravel, no knowledge too esoteric to understand. Omniscient as we believe ourselves to be, even the gods are not immune to our scrutiny, our quest for all-knowing. But for all our accumulated lore, rarely are we scholars wise. Had we been wise, we would understand that knowledge is never finite, that it is always in a constant dialectic with ignorance. And so, what follows below is, at best, an approximation of truth.
I want to talk about the Seldarine. Specifically, I want to talk about the enigmatic demi-deity known as Shevarash. Ancient literary sources speculate that Shevarash was once a mortal elf, a proud warrior who distinguished himself through countless battles with the drow. So unwavering was Shevarash's loyalty to the Seldarine and to his people that even when he was mortally wounded, he would not surrender or abandon the battlefield. For this, for his sacrifice and his undying devotion to the way of the Edhellen, the Seldarine elevated Shevarash to sit and rule among them. The deified Shevarash became known to his followers as a taciturn and violent patron, who was consumed by thoughts of bitterness and revenge. He never displayed any emotion aside from anger and brief exultation or triumph after a victory over his most hated foe, the drow. He had no patience for those who did not share his zeal for vengeance, and he had no interest in moderating his crusade in the interests of peace. He inspired a small, but extremely devoted and disciplined following. Like Shevarash, these followers were consumed with a quest to root out and destroy the drow and all sources of power of their dark gods, chief among them Llolth, the Dark Mother. Come each twilight, the followers of Shevarash would shout vows of unceasing vengeance into the night. In honour of their lord's original vow, they would swear to never again laugh or smile until all foes of the Elven people were utterly destroyed.
Does Shevarash advocate just vengeance? Assuredly, he does. Does he inspire wrath and ire in his followers? There can be no doubt about it. But, I think, those who understand Shevarash only as a vessel of vengeance and hatred are blind to Shevarash's purpose in life and, indeed, the manner of his death: sacrifice of self. Greater even than Shevarash's hatred of his enemies was the man's desire to spare his people grief. Some forgotten texts even mention Shevarash as a grief-eater, an individual who would wander from door to door of suffering kinsmen so that he could take their pains upon himself. Perhaps you think this aspect of Shevarash incongruent with the more widespread interpretation of his purpose as a brutal settler of scores? Consider, then, Shevarash's holy teachings. Contemplate upon them and see if they do not align better with a deity who is more than just hateful, but who is also selfless and compassionate:
"I take upon myself the hatreds of my people so they may know requited love."
"I take upon myself the despair of my people so they may rekindle flames of hope."
"I take upon myself the sorrows of my people so they may rejoice in joyous dawn."
"I take upon myself the pains of my people so they may live even if I must die."
________
On a lone hill overlooking the docks of Feywood, a lone hunter is cradling dying brothers and sisters. He weeps black tears and whispers silent words into their ears.
"I take upon myself your hatred, o kinsman, so that once in Arvandor, you may know requited love."
"I take upon myself your despair, o cousin, so that once in Arvandor, you may rekindle flames of hope."
"I take upon myself your sorrows, o brother, so that once in Arvandor, you may rejoice in joyous dawn."
"I take upon myself your pains, o sister, so that once in Arvandor, you may meet our Makers with peaceful heart."
"With all the Seldarine as my witnesses, I swear unto you, o kinsman, o cousin, o brother and o sister, that I shall not rest until I bring wrath and destruction upon those who have wronged our people so!"
[ The Island of Thain ]
Poisonwar
