Post by Daeron on Mar 13, 2018 12:46:22 GMT -5
Daeron Turwaithiel
The great victory of the People
The Beginning
Daeron had the basic humble beginning as many of his brethren did, driven and accompanied by wanderlust born of the moons heart and so readily reflected by his elders.
His mother and father always had the greatest difficulty remaining in one settlement or forest, perhaps a lifelong goal to see and experience everything they could viably do over the extensive span of their lives, and so time was not their enemy, till one of many loving trysts produced the focus of this archive.
They called Evermeet home, practically children themselves as Raina and Rhovanion Turwaithiel only broached their early two hundreds, long enough to raise the fiercely independent Daeron amongst the safety and familiarity of the Tel’Quessir, the People.
The raven haired, blue eyed moon-child was as thick headed and free spirited as those that bore him, and the Evermeet began to tire the three. The roaming spirit was a beast not easily vanquished, and the love for Daeron was the only such force that caused it to hibernate for as long as it did.
Through their endless journies, the occasional clash with beast and highwaymen, they found themselves along the great city of Arabel, one of the larger cities in the Forest Kingdom and young Daeron found himself unspeakably enthralled with the bustling life and mixed communities within the city and the woods itself. The allure was enough for him to declare that his journey, the trek through life was to begin here, and his feet had discovered its path.
Rania, and Rhovanion embraced their child for what was likely to be the last time in several decades, perhaps centuries, for their roaming was not finished.
Foolish child
Daeron thrived in Arabel, and the surrounding woods. What better place for a moon elf? There were communities of the Tel”Quessir, humans, dwarves.. He could spend the entirety of his life meeting and learning of new things and cultures, and return to his makeshift home amongst the treetops of the Kings Wood. The marauding orc parties never bothered him much- for they couldn't readily see him, and even if they could, the ignorant brutes couldn't possibly reach him.
They would not have to, as time would tell. He was always wrongheaded, overconfident and believed himself the incontestable master of his little domain. He believed he could not be bothered with the Orc and their nonsense, until the rotten fiends decided that the very tree he called home was to become part of their encampment.
He woke in a cold sweat from his net, when he heard the unmistakable sound of a great axe crashing into the bark of his tree. A sound he would never forget, and one that drove a pang of sorrow into the depths of the youths mind.
The handcrafted rudimentary bow he kept with him was retrieved, with a plain steel sword at his hip, and Daeron began the quick decent down his own uniquely devised rope system. He had the element of surprise, superior speed and weaponry, and as per normal, figured this was a simple task.
Feet expertly planted on to a strategically placed pile of leaves, bow prepared in short order. The would be lumberjack turned, and had only a moment before he was ejected from the mortal coil. His axe still buried in the tree, the orc collapsed, eye socket used as an improvised quiver.
Daeron stood smugly, nudging the body with the tip of his bow. “This is my home, you wretch. The beauty of these woods is not for you.”
Naive, overconfident, impulsive. These all described the young elf, and for it he paid dearly. Only the sound of natures alarm, the snap of a twig, kept him from being swept into the rivers of death. The bow clattered to the ground, as he spun, sword fluidly replacing it in defense of what was the end of the boy elf.
Orc made cleaver split the world itself with the rage it was swung with, accompanied by a maddening snarl of a feral warrior.
For Daeron, time had frozen. He had been too slow, and the orc far too fast and strong. The cleaver crashed into his longsword, and the sheer weight of the blow drove the edge of his own sword into the side of his head, lacerating from his cheek to half way through his right ear. The cleaver rolled from the sword, to deal its final insult, with a spray of raven colored blood soaked locks lost to the wind.
He howled as a dying animal might, as both blades struck him, and threw him into his hometree. All light drained from him, and he had no strength to fight through the previous injury. The orc stood, savagely enraged that his quarry clung to life, and raised the dripping slab of jagged metal once more.
“No.” One word, a single word, reverberated through the woods, vibrations disturbing the otherwise calm forest.
A swirl of light rushed through, and took shape, just briefly as a horned equine. The vibrations turned into the cacophony of hooves, paired with the horrified yell of the simple minded Orc.
“Urk!”
Hooves, or what the fading Daeron beleived were hooves, impacted with impossible, otherworldly force, sending the Orc briefly airborne and into the trees far from view..
His eyes partially opened, looking with awe as the scintillating equine outline approached.
“Remember the wild ways, for they are the good ways. “ Ushered in a musical voice, far more pleasant than the angry voice used earlier.
A storm of leaves rose, and in that very instant Daeron felt his blood stop fleeing, anchoring him back.to the land of the.living. The blinding light was gone, as stillness returned, and the leaves settled.
Only a beautifully decorated wooden carving of Meilikkis crest remained, in Daerons hands, but he had his life.
The tale of the child had ended, and gave way to the fledgling that would emerge several years later as a Spring Stag of the Forest Queen.
The end, for now.
The great victory of the People
The Beginning
Daeron had the basic humble beginning as many of his brethren did, driven and accompanied by wanderlust born of the moons heart and so readily reflected by his elders.
His mother and father always had the greatest difficulty remaining in one settlement or forest, perhaps a lifelong goal to see and experience everything they could viably do over the extensive span of their lives, and so time was not their enemy, till one of many loving trysts produced the focus of this archive.
They called Evermeet home, practically children themselves as Raina and Rhovanion Turwaithiel only broached their early two hundreds, long enough to raise the fiercely independent Daeron amongst the safety and familiarity of the Tel’Quessir, the People.
The raven haired, blue eyed moon-child was as thick headed and free spirited as those that bore him, and the Evermeet began to tire the three. The roaming spirit was a beast not easily vanquished, and the love for Daeron was the only such force that caused it to hibernate for as long as it did.
Through their endless journies, the occasional clash with beast and highwaymen, they found themselves along the great city of Arabel, one of the larger cities in the Forest Kingdom and young Daeron found himself unspeakably enthralled with the bustling life and mixed communities within the city and the woods itself. The allure was enough for him to declare that his journey, the trek through life was to begin here, and his feet had discovered its path.
Rania, and Rhovanion embraced their child for what was likely to be the last time in several decades, perhaps centuries, for their roaming was not finished.
Foolish child
Daeron thrived in Arabel, and the surrounding woods. What better place for a moon elf? There were communities of the Tel”Quessir, humans, dwarves.. He could spend the entirety of his life meeting and learning of new things and cultures, and return to his makeshift home amongst the treetops of the Kings Wood. The marauding orc parties never bothered him much- for they couldn't readily see him, and even if they could, the ignorant brutes couldn't possibly reach him.
They would not have to, as time would tell. He was always wrongheaded, overconfident and believed himself the incontestable master of his little domain. He believed he could not be bothered with the Orc and their nonsense, until the rotten fiends decided that the very tree he called home was to become part of their encampment.
He woke in a cold sweat from his net, when he heard the unmistakable sound of a great axe crashing into the bark of his tree. A sound he would never forget, and one that drove a pang of sorrow into the depths of the youths mind.
The handcrafted rudimentary bow he kept with him was retrieved, with a plain steel sword at his hip, and Daeron began the quick decent down his own uniquely devised rope system. He had the element of surprise, superior speed and weaponry, and as per normal, figured this was a simple task.
Feet expertly planted on to a strategically placed pile of leaves, bow prepared in short order. The would be lumberjack turned, and had only a moment before he was ejected from the mortal coil. His axe still buried in the tree, the orc collapsed, eye socket used as an improvised quiver.
Daeron stood smugly, nudging the body with the tip of his bow. “This is my home, you wretch. The beauty of these woods is not for you.”
Naive, overconfident, impulsive. These all described the young elf, and for it he paid dearly. Only the sound of natures alarm, the snap of a twig, kept him from being swept into the rivers of death. The bow clattered to the ground, as he spun, sword fluidly replacing it in defense of what was the end of the boy elf.
Orc made cleaver split the world itself with the rage it was swung with, accompanied by a maddening snarl of a feral warrior.
For Daeron, time had frozen. He had been too slow, and the orc far too fast and strong. The cleaver crashed into his longsword, and the sheer weight of the blow drove the edge of his own sword into the side of his head, lacerating from his cheek to half way through his right ear. The cleaver rolled from the sword, to deal its final insult, with a spray of raven colored blood soaked locks lost to the wind.
He howled as a dying animal might, as both blades struck him, and threw him into his hometree. All light drained from him, and he had no strength to fight through the previous injury. The orc stood, savagely enraged that his quarry clung to life, and raised the dripping slab of jagged metal once more.
“No.” One word, a single word, reverberated through the woods, vibrations disturbing the otherwise calm forest.
A swirl of light rushed through, and took shape, just briefly as a horned equine. The vibrations turned into the cacophony of hooves, paired with the horrified yell of the simple minded Orc.
“Urk!”
Hooves, or what the fading Daeron beleived were hooves, impacted with impossible, otherworldly force, sending the Orc briefly airborne and into the trees far from view..
His eyes partially opened, looking with awe as the scintillating equine outline approached.
“Remember the wild ways, for they are the good ways. “ Ushered in a musical voice, far more pleasant than the angry voice used earlier.
A storm of leaves rose, and in that very instant Daeron felt his blood stop fleeing, anchoring him back.to the land of the.living. The blinding light was gone, as stillness returned, and the leaves settled.
Only a beautifully decorated wooden carving of Meilikkis crest remained, in Daerons hands, but he had his life.
The tale of the child had ended, and gave way to the fledgling that would emerge several years later as a Spring Stag of the Forest Queen.
The end, for now.