I want to begin with a story. Like all stories, it has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Like a cycle of nature. I am not certain where the story begins, and I am not certain where it ends. The story could start with my ancestors' arrival, the First Elves, to the shores of Thain. It could begin with Nimmeril, the White Rose of Arvandor, as she led my people on an exodus and founding the Stronghold in Feywood. But, I think I want to begin many centuries later than that, atop a wall built around eastern Feywood.
We built the wall to protect our people from the emerging Darkfey, from the spreading Void, and Kallista. I fought dragonkin in the Kinswar and devils in the Great War. I fought the Thayans when Dwent Chambers set his mind to destroy the Heart of the Forest. I fought the Tel'Mordere as they made our forest their hunting ground, and I fought with the Tel'Mordere after I assumed the title of their Huntmaster. I fought Zeraphil, a fallen champion of my people, and his host of misguided fanatics. I battled my kin, stabbing countless brothers and sisters and putting countless more to the torch as I made Cr'ia immolate what used to be Poisonwood. Yet none of those battles was as terrifying as the one we fought atop the wall, in eastern Feywood, against an enemy we so gravelly misjudged. I call it a battle, but it was a slaughter. Helplessly outnumbered and outmatched, I watched as the lives of my people were snuffed out like candles by a hurricane wind, desperately defending against a host that had no form. We lost that battle, and we would have lost the whole Feywood were it not for ancient fey who sacrificed to stave off inevitable destruction. The price for survival was steep, too steep. Wives were bereft of husbands, husbands of wives. Brothers lost sisters and sisters lost brothers, and mothers and fathers watched as their children gave their lives for the forest. Unlike the feren, the human race, we elves feel those losses more keenly. My people reproduce at a much slower rate, and the loss of a generation is felt for centuries. That is the beginning of my story, a begging towards a fast-approaching end.
After the Battle on the Wall, Feywood has been eking out a survival. North of the Stronghold, hordes of savage gnolls fuelled by demonic rites and touched by the Void amass at our borders. The Darkfey gather in ever-growing numbers in the east, bolstered by Kallista's brood of demonic vermin. South of us lies the Rift Cave, driving beasts and animals to madness, contorting their forms into bloated and hideous shapes. Finally, the Spire of the Five rises to the west, Kallista's seat of power, a fell beacon to all the monstrosities and craven men that call Dragon's Watch home. As I tell this story, I stand atop our tallest tree, the Grandfather Oak, watching the lands below swallowed up by enemies on all sides. Is Cycle's End, the end of our forest? From birth to blossom, to wilting?
I do not know. All I know is that soon, Kallista will make her move. I know this because I know her. I know her intimately, perhaps better than she knows herself, and I know it is only a matter of time before the darkness she embodies spills over Feywood. What must we do to defend our home, what can we do? Will we remain and fight, sacrificing what little numbers are left of my people to hold back a tide of endless night? Must we, like our founder Nimmeril, uproot ourselves and bid out ancestral home farewell? Again, I do not know these things, and the decision is not mine to make. The sole candle in the dark is our newfound unity with our kin in the south. I now put faith in Queen Yu'syu in the south, hoping she sends her greatest heroes like Elith the Ancient One and Captain Kellendill to answer our desperate call for aid.
If ever there was a time for the elves of Thain to stand together as one, to prove true to the world and ourselves that our peoples are bound in love and respect through a shared bloodline, now would be that time. Whether Feywood is to fall or prevail, whether we are meant to endure or die defending it, at least we shall do so together. As brothers and sisters.
Kallista still remembered her first change of the seasons.
How strange it had all seemed to her at the time. An exiled daughter stumbling onto the surface, staring up into the light. The way that the leaves had fallen from the trees and swirled in the wind like fire, like nothing she had ever seen. The first day that the snow had started to fall, haunting and alluring and frightening all at once. The Underdark held no seasons. She had spent so many nights wondering what it all meant.
She had learned the truth, after a while. The cycle of the seasons. She remembered thinking how beautiful it was. The winter’s descent. The rise of spring. She had watched the skies each night, smiling as everything changed.
No more.
The Witch of the North stood atop the towers of Dragon’s Watch. Clad in a cloak of whispering shadow. The autumn leaves swirled before her, evoking no emotion. Only memories of emotion that once was.
The memories swirled past her eyes like the autumn leaves. Faces, not seasons. The Huntmaster’s smile as he’d offered her peace so many years ago. The wide eyes of a wild elven girl, as Kallista had brought the knife down. The beauty of her daughter’s first song…
”Always yours…”
No more.
She remembered her attack on the Feywood wall. Mounted on her dragon, fighting alongside those closest to her. She had never felt joy as she did in that battle. How her laughter had filled the air as she descended, the bottom dropping out of her stomach while she rained death on the pale elves. So like a child…
The secrets of elven high magic. The cracked laughter of Syann, as the lich had told her what was to come. The screams of her enemies. The screams of her family. The screaming of her own voice. Faster and faster, they swirled before her.
No more.
The war to come. The last war. There would be no laughter for her. Nor any tears. Stillness, and silence. That was all she wanted for herself now.
Over the Watch, the first snow had begun to fall, too soon. A light dusting of white trailing over the walls. Softly, the Sorceress whispered the words to herself.
“I want it to end.”
A storm was gathering, high above. Shadowed clouds swirling high overhead as the witch turned her gaze to the north, blanketing the walls in the dusting of snow. She saw the distant light of Feywood’s barrier. The light of the pale elves of Feywood, who had taken away her last spring.
”All of it…”
Her dark fingers closed, grasping strands of shadow and weave.
Registered Member #2559
Joined: 11:25:11 am GMT 10/20/12
Posts: 83
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Somewhere in Steinkreis...
Elissril woke from a slumber in her safehouse, an award afforded to her for working with Hammersong against a threat. She rolled to one side and groaned in discomfort, she was still just days fresh of a street fight, and now recovering from a night of heavy drug use.
She blew out a breath and her lips settled into a faint frown of sadness as she recounted her reflections the night prior. She had been out of her mind for perhaps eight hours at the most, but to her, it felt like a lifetime.
Beginning right back to when she was a more poor girl years ago, and Kallista had paid for her taxes, at first, to the drugs that she provided for her, to even being cut off from them, but gaining a crew she'd form as the Shadowrunners later, because of it. It had always been shaky and sometimes with trouble between them, especially once she gained a crew. There were many moments that were easy to love, a number of adventures that she could look back on and remember fondly, once upon a time perhaps she might have even been able to love her, like a mother, but also numerous bitter, painful moments.
Eventually there came the day, that Kallista had approached Elissril, asking for a key of some sort. Elissril had at the time, hope it might bring her some more opportune moments in the future; she made her peace with this Kallista of that particular time.
But now that Kallista is no more.
And now, Elissril no longer recognizes her. Even in just the two times she had encountered her since that fateful day, she was not even certain if she was speaking to Kallista anymore. Instead, she felt more like a distant star, speaking of everyone and the island as if it was mere things, rather then anything she could even smile at anymore.
It was depressing. And the fact that she might now be well willing to rise to Feywood's defense, was even more depressing. She had enabled her to become like this, to let the Kallista she might have liked, die as she knew her. Now it was no longer her, and it haunted her. Haunted the back of her mind for many months.
She wiped a tear from the corner of one of her eyes and she climbed up to sit at the edge of her bed. There was work to do.
-------------------------------------Two days later---------------------------------------
Upon the roots of the Grandfather Oak, a basket filled with belladonna berries is left laying, all of them are dulled.
Registered Member #25299
Joined: 3:54:32 am GMT 06/03/19
Posts: 253
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Crimson infused clouds covered the rise of the morning sun. It was like staring into the heart of a smoldering inferno. The winds mitigated; a stillness that made soaring through the colorful illusion exhausting. Together, Ramiel’s wings folded around his body like a cloak, and he descended towards the earth. Through the autumn’s brisk air, he created a wind surge that separated leaves from their branches. At the last moment, and a powerful thrust of raven black feathers, he landed on the borders of the Feywoods. Verdant eyes peered out towards the silent woods. Expecting commotion, or even a ruffle within the brush.
Sensational as it was, there was an unmistakable crackle within the air. It expanded up, and up, until his gaze settled on a rising storm, like no other he had seen on these lands. Ramiel found himself at its zenith. Lifting himself from the earth in a rush, he body arched and spiraled through a rising storm. He felt in his soul the pain of what was already going to come. Flying past him with great haste, a flock of birds, until the sky dotted with hundreds of them fleeing south.
“In my creation beyond the gates of heaven, would settle its resolution in the battle to come. I am warrior angel. And if my fate is to serve the Arch Devil’s bloodthirsty desire for carnage?
Then I welcome my destinies end. For what other choice have I under the shackles of inferno bindings?”
Registered Member #24041
Joined: 4:19:01 am GMT 01/24/17
Posts: 2213
Endings and Beginnings
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Legebriewyn moves carefully through the undergrowth of the western Feywood, past the twisting vines, corrupted by darkfey magic to reach and grasp anything that strays too close, the swarms of vermin and carrion eaters always on the lookout for a new meal, past the crawling and slithering monstrosities that now call the woods- his people's woods- their home. It is only when he reaches the ruins of the wall that he stops, gazing up at the moss-covered stones that were, for a brief moment, the barrier between the elves of Feywood and the forces of darkness.
But it too fell.
The wall is shrouded in some mystery- some of the elders of the woods claim it was planned by a dwarf, though they are evenly split as to whether this is a positive thing, as dwarves are unmatched in stonecunning, or a negative one, as the wall, for all it may have been a show of might, ultimately fell, and there are those who whisper that the dwarves may have left it vulnerable on purpose, for they have never loved those who dwell in trees and are full of life.
Whatever the reason, the wall fell, and the darkfey, and the witch, and the creatures of shadow all delved deep into the Feywood, twisting trees that have grown since the island was young, making them turn foul and hostile, even to the elves who sang them awake and cherished them like children.
And now the darkness grows deeper- a fist slowly clutching down on the Feywood from all sides. The gnolls in the north, the witch in the south, the fey to the west- and the cold and unrelenting sea to the east. They are surrounded, and the darkness is closing in. Their last hope is in the fey barriers which protect the stronghold and the closest villages, but the witch has been targeting their safeguards, and unless there is a miracle from the Seldarine themselves, the woods cannot hold out forever.
Legebriewyn rests his hands on the stone, letting the strange magic of the fey flow through him. Though he himself cannot see it, his eyes begin to glow a vivid green, and a voice that is not his own, a deeper and older voice, speaks, addressing the air.
"There is life yet in these woods, and if this is to be an end, then we will not be the only ones to fall into oblivion."
There is a flash of green light, and the elf is gone, stepping away into the air.
Registered Member #23976
Joined: 1:31:54 am GMT 11/30/15
Posts: 155
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Spirit Samurai
Wounds would heal, over time. The life of a man that had turned from once a dark path that only ended in death, to now one full of life, and hope. Full of the spirit. Truly, in no greater way, had he the chance to truly walk the fine line of life and death as this. But there is balance in all things, and their home, their world, was showing that now. In a far away place, filled with the spirit, the movement of wisps, echoes of their vicarious lives, wandered. They lived in their moments of glory, in their moments of joy and sorrow, in their moments of being, like one stares into the rain or the sunset; it was all just a moment. However, one by one, each of these spirits stopped walking. Each of them stood still. Each of them turned their head and looked at something for once. The disturbance was palpable.
Sam rose his eyes, opening them and looking on pensively with the peace of his meditation filling him. He slowly watched the unusual behavior of all of these spirits, each of them stopping for a moment. Each of them looking outward from the grove. Even in this place, filled with the power of the Spirit, there was a depression on it all. A momentary ripple, that grew. The Hin planted a foot down, and stood up. He looked at this ripple, this thing that even touched the grove. In silence, he took a step forward, and another, before the light of the portal crossed over him. He looked back and saw, for the first time, the Spirits were looking at him. As the light wrapped around him, two black wings unfurled and rose from his back, disappearing into the light as he left this sacred place.
With the grove around him, and the stillness of the Lumenshire, he looked at a storm building, coming fast, and soon. He murmured to himself, "I have faith, I have hope. Teron will be done soon. I have but to see what I'm seeking in the shire. Mortal's haven't given up on you yet, I promise." He stepped out of the grove and towards the tower at the center. There was more; Sam believed in this Spirit, if he could find other sources of it, other motes of it across the Island, and seek it out, it might be willing to rise up with the vivaciousness of life to stand before the hopelessness. The spirit was everyone, it was the will to live, the joy. If anything could stare at the yawning maw with courage, it was there. Sam, however, was beginning to believe that perhaps the Spirits thought so too. Looking on the distant storm, he considered where it was heading over the island, and his expression hardened a little more. "Just hold out for a little longer, you won't have to fight this alone."
"Perhaps, I am not the opponent you expected. I know I was not." He said, to himself. To someone? Someone nearby. Someone far away. His expression was, kind. Forgiving. "But few things are precisely what we expect, aren't they? No, this will be good. This will be a good story, this will be a good moment that will live on in the Spirit. A tale for the young told by the old, those who will remember, the thoughts that will live on where some of us may not. And maybe for once, at the end of it all, we can give the pain and the sadness to the void, to give it what we are supposed to, and to make a bright future as we see it. This will be our chance to hear your story, to see you live it out, won't it?" Wistful defined his expression, as he spoke to, everything and nothing, watching out at the rolling storm.
She is no great elven hunter, her greatest kill is an ogre in halls long forgotten, in a desperate shrieking flurry of stabs and tears. She is no great elven mage, her only magic is that which she has stolen. She is no great elven warrior, her only steel is the small piece of Fey-steel at her back she uses as a dagger.
It is no elf at all, but a young halfling who awakens in a little treehouse in the Feywood to horrible visions of the Drow Witch who haunts her every waking and sleeping hour. Her little body shakes like an autumn leaf in a strong wind, as her eyes bolt open from some indescribable horror unfolding under sweat-soaked sheets. Her gaze snaps from the open canopy of stars above her head, to an Umber-Hide bag open on its side in the corner of her little treehouse. Her hands rise shakily from under her pillow, clasping a pitch black orb inside them. With unsteady motions, her little feet slip the edge of the bed, and carry her across the room, where she puts the object back inside its protective satchel, robbing the room of its dark, whispery light.
As peaceful darkness overtakes the room, Eleshandrea's keen little eyes adjust and move across the wicker shelf she has been given to keep her things upon. They settle on a little rectangle, face down on the shelf. She does not need a mirror anymore. Her aged and wrinkled hands reach up to pull back hair shocked white and grey in places, dry and brittle as autumn straw. Finished, the hin tugs back the collar of her damp nightshirt, revealing a creeping, horrible, dead patch of skin spreading down her collarbone.
"You are dying."
She knows it is true. Knew it before the sorceress told her. She could not know the words for why, but she knows it is true. She does not know what High Magic is, does not realize the significance of the sliver of power she took from the dark elf... But she knows it was too much. It was something hin were not meant to carry, something older and more ancient than their time in this world. It is the winter of all would-be thieves... and she knows with certainty that it is aging and killing the Drow Witch as well. Perhaps it will take her hundreds of years... Legebriewyn would know... but as surely as the days get shorter, the elf's time is coming to an end, too. For a moment, she allows herself the luxury of recalling a bleary-eyed and tired Kallista D'Mora. The witch of the north, vulnerable, just for a moment. Her back so inviting, awaiting a dagger that never fell. The little woman had seen something unexpected then... something like regret. Something maternal. Love?
"Give me back my rose"
Her rose... Eleshandrea ponders what a tangled web her life has become since the day she'd left her home. Seasons have spun above her head since she'd first laid hands upon the orb, but her friendship with Nicolette is more recent. The young woman's tutelage has provided her with something close to control over the orb... A small white swirl of light perks up in the room at the memory. The halfling looks down to find the orb in her hand again. Her hand closes upon it, and she tries not to recall the battered, defeated, tortured woman she pulled from Kallista's dungeon. No, not love. Not love as she knows it. Not family the way she knew it. Need, and desire. Need, for the light that could keep the witch alive when her collector comes due. Desire, for a family she doesn't know how to keep. The witch knows it now, that there are things power cannot take... things it cannot keep, and things it should not try to steal. Eleshandrea knows it too, as she peels the night shirt off her body and replaces it with a dry one, carefully resting it across the dead skin. She places the orb back in its bag, and turns to get dressed, mind latching on to the chilling parting words of the dark elf.
"I will kill everyone you have ever loved. Family. Friends."
She knows the witch meant it. That it wasn't a warning, it was a promise. And she cannot linger here anymore. She does not have much time left. Her heart stops in her throat briefly as she acknowledges it, but recognizing it steadies her feet for the first time in days. No, she does not have much time left, and if she does not make haste, neither does Sandburrow. Her old and fading jacket has no trouble slipping over her once ample chest and stomach. Her pants buckle with ease, two new loops poked in a too-long belt that hangs off her frame. Only the boots fit as they should. As an afterthought, a small belt of scrolls, and the knife buckled at her back... And she looks down to the forest floor below, dusted already with fallen autumn leaves. There are pacts to renew, and old magics to save.
Her last winter is coming. Her voice cracks, throat parched, but whispers a word.
"Legebriewyn"
And with a small swirl of green magic from the orb in her hand, she touches down lightly thirty feet below, and hurries off through the autumn night toward her last winter.
It meant "dread black wolf" in the old Elven tongue, a fitting name for a beast nearly the size of a small steed. It was a black thing born of the night, with black fur, black claws and black eyes. Often, mothers would tell their children to beware the Draugorn if they misbehaved, and Feywood rangers would often tell tales of a black wolf prowling the forest at night, always at night, watching from the shadows though its presence mainly was felt and seldom seen. But for every cautionary tale about the Draugorn, there was a story told about a wolf that protected the Stronghold, hunting creatures that neared the Stronghold with fell intent.
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As had become a custom to the black wolf, it prowled Feywood come each dusk. If someone were to observe the wolf - though no one ever did - they would notice that the creature moved in specific routes. First, it circled the Stronghold, watching out for enemies intent on harming the elven people and their abode. A shadow in a moonlit forest, it snuck through the trees, keeping close to the patrolled roads but never close enough to draw notice to itself. Sometimes the black wolf would pause, sniffing the air for smells and twitching its ears for sounds that did not belong to the forest. Then it moved north. As it did for countless nights before, it did so again this night.
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North of Feywood, in the stretching swamps of Gerdamlath, the wolf preyed on creatures that some might mistake for its blood kin: gnolls, part-canine and part-men, creatures born of death and demonic rites. These cursed dog-men held that Gerdamlath was their land, but the Draugorn did not share this opinion. It made its objections known by stalking the swamps at night, picking off gnolls that were foolish enough to stray from their den and sometimes even attacking them in their own sanctuary. The Draugorn did this on many nights, and tonight was not an exception.
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To the west of Feywood, the Draugorn moved with a slow and pained gait. There were many memories lodged within the rubble of a ruined wall in those parts of the woods. The Draugorn reminisced of battles fought and battles lost atop that well when it yet stood whole - of all the lives of kin lost to an enemy that came borne on wings of shadow and death. It recalled the screams of the dying and the laughter of a witch and her blood-winged consort. Each night the Draugorn neared the wall, it howled so loud the slumbering woods awoke with trepidation. It howled for death and it howled for vengeance. Tonight was no different.
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South of the ruined wall lay a forbidden cave. The Draugorn knew the cave well. What lurked in the cave had bereft the Draugorn's people of their greatest hero, the founder of their home, as it had bereft Steinkreis of theirs. Each nightfall, the cave would spout its tainted brood into the world outside: bats, rodents, vermin, all crazed with madness. That was the price for straying inside the cave's forbidden bosom. Corruption.
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Finally, to the east, the Draugorn circled the perimeter of the Feywood Docks. The waters were placid, and the sounds of the waves had been soft as sighing lovers after the poisoned ones had retreated in the aftermath of the Poisonwar. Still, the Draugorn had cause for vigilance. Its eyes narrowed each time their black gaze fell upon the sea, upon the silhouette of a five-spired tower rising in the near horizon. There, the black wolf knew, its enemy lay in wait, scheming and preparing. Often the wolf would see her vague shape and her silver-spun hair atop the spires, and it swore it saw her again tonight. As the Draugorn kept staring that way, it felt that she stared back. The black wolf retreated into the shadows at the break of dawn, but it did not disappear; it re-appeared as something else, an elf.
In Feywood, some suspected that the beast was the creature's true form and that the elf it turned into at dawn was a disguise. Others knew that the beast was a form borrowed by someone who was not lupine. That someone they knew by several names. Draugorn. Finlossen. Black-Eye. Huntmaster. And, spoken on occasion, Renneleth Margaladhon.
On his way back to the Stronghold, Renneleth could not escape the dread of the sensation that one day soon, he may see his home for the last time. Of late, each time he approached his home, his steps would slow, and in tandem with his steps, his breath and beat of heart. He would look around with a slow and deliberate gaze, committing to memory all the nooks and crannies of the forest he had taken for granted. His walk was slowest of all when he stepped through the gate to the Stronghold, where his eyes and ears were soothed by the sighs and sounds of laughing kin and of loving kin, of brothers and sisters keeping up hope even if the world outside - to the north, east, south and west - conspired to tear it down. If that were what the Fates truly intended for Feywood, Renneleth would meet that destiny head-on, with both blades drawn. Come what may, he would stand firm. And, he hoped, he would not stand alone.
The alliances he had forged, the friendships he had made, the favors he had earned, now was the time to cash in on all of it. Now was the time for all, or nothing.
Two elves, one young and one old, peered at a map of Feywood. "Repelling the witch's army will buy us reprieve, but not victory, or even survival. We need the Guardians alive for that," said the younger elf. The older elf, grizzled, brooding and several centuries his senior, replied with a clipped nod: "I will buy you as much time as I can." That was last week. Today, to the sounds of hundred elves setting war camp and building wooden walls, the older elf once more perused a map of Feywood. Enemies of elves encircled the forest. The elven people were, in every way, hemmed in on all sides. The death knell would be delivered soon when the witch and her horde set sail toward the Feywood docks, effectively cutting the elves off the only route of escape if Stronghold fell.
"She does not come to conquer," the White Rose had said. "She comes to destroy. Victory won't sate her hunger for vengeance unless every Feywood elf lies dead at her feet." How does one counter such wanton, ruthless evil? Years ago, the old elf would have thrown himself into the fray to kill or get killed. But years ago, he was not a symbol of hope, a beacon toward which his people rallied. Years ago, he depended on no one, and no one depended on him. Years ago, the lives of his people did not hinge on his decisions. He knew that the elves could not repel the witch without allies, not without a grievous number of casualties - soldiers and forest caretakers, but also children. Alone, the elves might win, but their legacy would die with only a handful of survivors. For their legacy to survive, they had to compromise; he had to compromise, though the very word made him cringe and grunt. And even if he determined to compromise and call for outsiders to help defend his home, how far could he stretch his list of allies? A small number of allies fought beside the elves in the Feywar, but that number did not suffice, and Feywood had lost. In the Poisonwar, more allies had come to the defence of Elisara's city, and still, it did not suffice.
The old elf looked back down at the map and the heap of letters scattered across it. The recipients were many: the Keepers, the Greenwood Queensguard, mages from School of Magic, Kreis Knights, Hammersong Hoplites, Sandburrow Wardens, the Empyreans Aurora Order; every faction that once comprised the Kreis Alliance. There was another letter there, too; a letter addressed to the Shadowrunners whom he had challenged on their own turf not a tenday ago. He sifted through the letters, each one weightless in paper but weighty in request.
"Make your decision soon, your people cannot afford the wait." A dryad, her sudden appearance taking even one so keen-eared as the Huntmaster by surprise. "What would the Elder Council say about humans on elven land? What would the Seldarine think of an elf petitioning dwarves for aid? And what of your own pride and principles?" "Fuck the Elder Council, fuck the Seldarine, and fuck my pride. The lives of my people come first. Have your sisters deliver the letters.." "How many letters?" "All of them."
"To Kellendill of the Queensguard, to Lily of the Keepers, to Teron of School of Magic, to Samuel of the Quick Folk, to Elissril of the Shadowrunners, to Malam of the Circle Grove, to Jestin of the Sheltering Wing, to Celestine of the Blood Guard, to Malaka of the Kreis Knights, to Commander Darienne of the Empyrean Aurora, to King Rugar of Hammersong" wrote ...
Heroes of Greenvale, Hamley, Steinkreis, Hammersong, Sandburrow and Castra Aurelia,
I write to you not as the Huntmaster, but as a son of Feywood. My people are in dire need of your aid. We face a threat we may not overcome on our own; an enemy that, if left unchallenged, will spill her darkness to the rest of Thain. Many of us fought side by side during the Great War, but the Kreis Alliance is a relic of the past, and you are under no obligation to risk your lives fighting to defend lands that are not your own. Even so, I would ask that you come to Feywood's aid as we face an enemy that is not only an enemy of Feywood but of Thain at large. Too long has Kallista's reign of terror been unopposed. Too long has Dragon's Watch rebuilt and mustered its forces without challenge. Stand with the Taur'otharie if only this once. United as one, let our blades deliver a resounding reply to Kallista and all who rally to her cause: that Thain will not, now or ever, abide by evil.
Signed, Renneleth Margaladhon
[OOC Info: The war council will be hosted tonight, 10pm GMT+1. If you would like to attend but cannot make it tonight, the Feywood Docks will serve as a staging area in the imminent event of defending Feywood against Kallista and her allies, so there is the whole of tomorrow and a bit of Saturday for you to get involved!]
[ The Island of Thain ]
Cycle's End
