Nuar'verthal - Beneath the highest moon

[Lucania]

The Green Isle (1243)​

As so often, a gentle and pleasant wind drifted across the forests and meadows of the Green Jewel, the realm of Queen Amlaruil Moonflower. It moved through the ancient trees and across the open fields, a quiet reminder of the calm that had long settled over Evermeet. On such a day a child was born. From the union of Calaeron and Myrielle came a young gold elf, a rare blessing among a people for whom the birth of children had become uncommon.
As was the custom among the elves, the event was celebrated by their community, not because the child was thought to be special, but simply because a new life had joined their people. Calaeron and Myrielle lived in a small settlement not far from the shining city of Leuthilspar, whose white towers rose above the forests of Evermeet. Calaeron served there as one of many warriors sworn to defend the royal domain. Like many of the gold elves, he was reserved and disciplined, a man who rarely showed strong emotion except among those closest to him.
Myrielle was different. She was one of the copper folk and possessed remarkable skill with the bow. Her nature was warm and open, and she carried a gentle smile with her wherever she went. Yet behind that warmth lay a quiet longing. For some time she had wished to visit her kin again, who lived across the sea on the mainland of Faerûn.
For many seasons she spoke of returning, and for just as long Calaeron refused. The world beyond Evermeet was far more dangerous than the island, and traveling with an infant seemed unwise to him. He wished to wait until the child had grown older. But in the end, his love for Myrielle outweighed his caution.
And so they made their decision. They took a ship from Evermeet across the sea to Faerûn, bound for the shores of the Sword Coast. And with that voyage began the first journey in the life of the young elf, who had only just opened his eyes to the world.​

Faerûn​

The small family boarded a ship with bright white sails and lines which resembled the natural outlines of the waves. Though modest in size, it was exceptionally fast, and before long the mainland came into view.
They landed at a small bay between Baldur’s Gate and the Trollbark Forest, not far from the city of Daggerford. The task of finding their way fell to Myrielle, who moved with the precision and grace of a wood elf accustomed to the paths of the Green and those of the meadows likewise. They passed briefly through the Trollbark Forest and skirted the edges of the Misty Forest.
All the while, Myrielle revealed just how much she missed the High Forest and the towering trees of the High Trees region, trees so massive they resembled mountains more than anything else.The higher her spirits rose, the more silent Calaeron became, his concern for the dangers of the wild never far from his mind. Dark tales of Dhaerow, who emerged from the earth to ambush unwary elves, had long been told, and he could not ignore them. Yet Myrielle’s enthusiasm and skill always dispelled his worries, at least for the moment. After crossing the Delimbiyr River, they finally reached the Great Everwood under the cover of night, the dense forest welcoming them quietly as they entered its shadowed depths.

The Great Everwood - A journey's end​

It had been arranged that the small family would be guided deeper into the forest by their kin, members of Myrielle’s own tribe. Many areas were not only difficult to navigate, even for skilled trackers, but could be deadly. Myrielle was well aware of the dangers. The meeting place was all too familiar to her. A clearing, bordered by smaller trees yet no less grand in their presence. These were the same trees she had first seen when she had dared her first longer journey alone. Surely they had grown since then, she thought. By the Eye of the Foresthunter, she shared the concerns of her Soul-bound, though she masked any unease with a radiant smile. That smile first fell upon the young elf in her arms, a child who bore so much of his father, green eyes like Calaeron’s, but in whose brows she saw her own reflection. It was in that glance that she saw both her partner and the love they shared.
It was a night shadowed by memories of her childhood, surely one that lay more than three hundred winters behind her. The air was pleasantly cool, though not so cold as to numb the skin of the elves. Still, she drew the cloak tighter around the small child in her arms, then handed him to her partner so she could climb a tree and make sure of their position. Her senses were as sharp as ever. She had not lost her way, yet… she remembered the auditory signals that should have reached her, like the sharp whistle of an owl. She expected that signal from her kin. It was custom, a form of communication that reached beyond the limits of sight. The goal of their journey lay ahead, a few arrow-shots to the north, she was certain of that, and yet the sound was absent, every note that should have sung through the leaves of the trees was silent.
Although nothing had yet revealed itself to pierce the veil of danger, she began to shiver. She climbed down from the tree that had served as her lookout and shared her concerns with the sun elf. His expression grew grim. She knew that look all too well; rarely did it appear without warning of death. She studied him for a moment, then her gaze fell on the child in his arms. Emerald eyes met hers, and a broad smile spread across his face in response to her own, a smile she could not help but return. Calaeron, love I cannot even offer to the green of the forest or the light of the stars, give me our son. May the forest hold its branches over him.
She stepped to the tree she had recently stood upon and wove a kind of harness, fashioning an improvised cradle from branches into which she placed the young elf.
Her gaze turned to her life partner, who murmured softly, ancient words, as he drew his arming sword. In the stillness of the forest, the litany of arrows rang out, only to be pierced by the whir of a crossbow bolt and a painful groan.

The clash of metal on metal cut through the night, as did the whir of arrows and bolts. Several dozen heartbeats may have passed. All of it accompanied by cries of pain and an elvish dialect, strange and rough compared to the sounds of those who walk beneath the warming rays of the sun. That noise, one would have thought, might have awakened the instincts of a child, even provoking uncontrolled cries of pent-up emotion. A wail that trained ears could have heard across great stretches of the forest. Yet the crying never came.

The Great Everwood - Preserved by the shield of the forest
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Just as the winds carried the noise of battle across the forest canopy, so too did it disappear. Only the wind itself remained, gliding through the canopy of leaves and occasionally rustling in the undergrowth. An hour of silence surely passed before soft footsteps quietly approached that promising place, followed shortly thereafter by mournful and fervent weeping.

Then the dam that had held back the young elf in his seclusion broke. He cried and howled, not understanding the circumstances that had unfolded before him, merely caught up in his own confusion.
The infant's cries did not go unanswered. In response, soft words whispered in elven song and those almost silent footsteps approached his improvised nest.
With a soft rustling, two heads appeared before the young elf, one belonging to a woman who resembled his mother, but her face was marked by grief, redness from tears flowing down her eyelids to her cheeks. Next to her was a solemn-looking wood elf. It was the latter who lifted the infant, still wrapped in a forest-green cloak, and left the scene of the carnage at the elf woman's side, passing by the slaughtered herd, which was marked by the sanguinary forest soil. Two motionless bodies, children of Green Isle, as well as the obsidian-colored figures clad in black and purple leather.

The Great Everwood - A seedling from distant meadows
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Descents into the realms beyond the Star of Day were scattered across the Realms. Stories are told about them. Deep passages, some connected to wolf dens, old dwarf mine shafts, some seemingly haphazard craters in the forest floor... All these entrances provided space for those who were cursed by the Fellowship of the Brothers and Sisters of the Forest to wander eternally in darkness. Hated cousins, kinslayers even.
Before the young sun elf heard these stories whispered in rumors, his foster father Lyreth thought it appropriate to anticipate these legends and explain their origin, which is why he now walks among the branches of the Tall Tree Region and the face of his parents is only an early childhood image which, if Lady Moonbow wills it, will remain in the realms of his reverie, or so he thought. That thought anchored him here among all those copper-siblings whose family ties he had grown to love, and yet a rage channeled itself within him that overshadowed those bright memories.

The Great Everwood - The Sword's Path (1263)
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The young sun elf, still a child, was raised by those who call the green meadows and forests their home. While his adoptive mother, Aelrindra, tried to gently encourage him to follow in her footsteps and pursue archery, for which he showed neither talent nor dexterity, his now father, Lyreth, taught him how to handle a blade. In doing so, he allowed him few moments of rest, sometimes roughly, sometimes almost fanatically driving the boy to practice with mock battles. The apprentice often suffered scrapes and bruises. Aelrindra considered these injuries foolish and they were often a source of contention between the two soulmates.
The young gold elf quickly realized that his wood elf father's rough behavior was not born of animosity, but rather of a desire to prepare him for the perils of the outside world. In many moments, when the back of a sword struck him once again in a practice fight, he recognized a deep melancholy in his teacher's eyes.
Where his foster father was quick and elegant, the young sun elf was mostly rough and relied on his strength to break through defenses. An affinity that would accompany the elf for even longer.

If the young elf was not engaged in physical training, his heart found joy in wandering through the thickets. Yet he did not always walk the forest at random, for more often than not his steps led him along a familiar path to a small clearing, framed by weathered stones. From among those rocks sprang a modest spring, above which a gnarled tree spread its branches and leaves.
An old wood elf woman there as he so often did, her back turned to him, so that the young elf could see little more than the sky-blue flutter of her cloak. It was a curious sight amid the dark tones of the Green Sea that surrounded them, so the young elf thought.
The moment the sun elf spoke to the older elven woman revealed itself to him as one that would take deep root in the landscapes of his mind. At that time, the young elf saw little. The mystical presence that surrounded him was part of his natural reality and took little pleasure in granting him more attention, yet in that moment he sat upon a rock beside her without asking for permission and observed. Several tens of days passed before the words were addressed to him, telling how it came to be that a gold elf had ventured so deeply into the realms of the Everwoods. The soft trickling of the spring beside him accompanied the cascade of words that left the young sun elf.

In the course of time, it became clear that his tales were rewarded with teachings about the Seldarine, the names of those who served the Coronal of Arvandor.

The Great Everwood - Epiphany (1268)​

It was beneath a star-laden sky that the towering boughs of the Everwood rose above the young gold elf. Too soon, so it seemed to him, was he drawn from the peace bestowed by the Daughter of the Night Skies. Whether it was the whispering wind that stirred his blood, or the moon’s pale radiance that bathed the faintly damp forest floor in silver, he could not tell. Yet the restless pounding of his heart urged him onward, away from the place where he had found his rest.

His measured steps quickened, becoming a run as he crossed the twilight-veiled reaches of the Tall Trees Region, guided only by starlight. The land shifted beneath his hastening stride: gentle slopes gave way to treacherous rises, to paths choked with stone and twisting roots. In that restless flight, his foot slipped, and he was cast down an embankment, awkwardly, helplessly, with no chance to turn or soften the fall.

The brilliance of the heavens vanished, swallowed by the black embrace of night.

Yet the darkness endured only briefly. Upon the far edge of his awareness, a pale line emerged along the horizon, sharp and slender as the flight of an arrow, piercing the veil and unveiling the immensity of an unknown forest beyond. Then darkness returned once more, settling over his thoughts as his inner sight drifted upward, framed by leaves of deep green and the distant glow of the sky.

With a sudden gasp, his body answered the call of waking. Convulsively, breath and sensation returned to the limbs of the golden elf as his eyes opened with effort. A dull, throbbing pain blossomed at the back of his head, momentarily eclipsed by the rush of thoughts that followed. As though guided by the wind moving through the branches above, his right hand found its way to the wound. Warmth spread beneath his touch, flowing through body and spirit alike, a quiet reassurance to the young elf.
Yet beneath that comfort lingered a fragile certainty, born of the dream’s final moments, as though the Reverie had shown him how the long song of his steps would one day fall silent.

He was now aware, each time his heart beat, that his blood seemed to resonate with the one who had created him and all other elves. At the utterance of his name, a wave of confidence and joy washed over him. And yet and yet he was astonished by the power revealed to him, the power that healed the wound at the back of his head through a surge of warming energy that flowed from his hands as if cast in the clear white silver of moonlight.
He gave himself the name Nuar’verthal, words that truly resonated within him in that moment, as did the soul that flowed through him with its presence. May Corellon, the Coronal of Arvandor, Bearer of the Blade of Sahandrian, Father of all elves, henceforth guide my steps. May I walk in equal measure along the paths that protect those who share his blood, and honor the artistic essence that, through his spirit, nourishes the realms of his people.

And yet, within the still-youthful mind of the elf, there joined a strange premonition, one that never fully yielded to his euphoria.

The Great Everwood - Of Forests of Providence and shadows of the past (1300)​

Where the light slips through the canopy of leaves, shadow too settles upon the brown and green of the forest floor. A modest wisdom, perhaps, yet one his foster parents taught him early. Which juices drawn from fruit may be safely drunk, which mushrooms may be eaten raw. Which clearings you may seek, and from which creatures you must keep your distance. Always the quiet dichotomy of light and shadow that awaits anyone who walks beneath the roof of the forest.

The gold elf heeded this wisdom most of the time, though the recklessness of youth so often tempted him. And when he did give in to folly, it was often because of the nature of his companion upon the path, Lethariel, there was in her a restlessness that the forest itself seemed to encourage, a quiet daring that made caution feel, for a moment, like an unnecessary burden.

Lethariel had hair black as the raven’s wing and eyes nearly as dark, and a laughter that, so he believed, outshone even the quiet glow of the stars. In her presence he found a quiet solace. Where the shadows of his past briefly yielded to the light of her heart, he felt a deep release from the tightening grasp that so often followed him, even amid the warmth of the People who had taken him in. The tribe had given him shelter, guidance, and a place beneath their boughs, yet some part of him had always remained set apart, as though a thin veil lay between his spirit and the peace they offered. But when she walked beside him, when her dark eyes carried that living spark and her laughter wandered freely through the trees, the weight he carried loosened. For a while, the old shadows drew back, and the forest seemed less like a place of quiet watchfulness and more like a path that might truly be walked without fear. In her song lived the courage of Corellon, of that he was certain.
It was she, too, who, after hearing the tales of Nuar'verthal, came to long for the sight of the Green Isle. The tidings had stirred something bright and restless within her, and she spoke of it often as they wandered the shaded paths of the forest. With shining eyes she would dream aloud of the adventures that awaited them should they set out toward the Sword Coast, those distant lands she knew only through the voices of traveling taletellers.

She spoke of the short-lived folk, the countless humans whose numbers, she claimed with a hint of wonder, rivaled the stars in the night sky. Of the vast sea whose waters stretched farther than any forest trail, and of the proud ships that sailed beneath the banners of the navy of the Queen of Evermeet. All these visions she laid before the young sun elf like treasures gathered along the road. And more than that, she spoke of the ancient paths that once had been walked by his parents, paths that in time must have led westward, toward the same distant shores.

Between her eager dreams and the quiet pull of that forgotten heritage, his resolve slowly took shape. He began to believe that the road to the Sword Coast might truly be meant for him.
Yet half a century would pass before the elf chose to walk beneath those stars of which his companion had so often spoken.

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[Lucania]

Faerûn - Illumined by sorrow beneath a sea of stars (1359)​

One night, as Nuar’verthal rose from his Reverie, the veil between dream and waking still lingering upon his thoughts, he found that he was not alone,
She was already there,
Lethariel stood at the threshold of their dwelling among the branches, where the quiet breath of the forest slipped through leaves and living wood. She had come prepared. A traveler’s pack rested lightly upon her shoulders, filled with careful provisions, her bow lay close at hand, and at her back a full quiver bore silent witness to her intent,
For a brief moment, Nuar’verthal said nothing. Yet he did not need to,
Understanding came to him quickly. The hour they had spoken of so often had come,
She meant to leave,
She met his gaze without hesitation, and in her dark eyes there was that same quiet daring he had come to know so well, now steadied by resolve. Her voice was calm when she spoke,
“We depart before the first light touches the boughs,” she said, as she turned and began her descent,
He followed without protest,
Together, they slipped from the tree-bound dwelling, moving with care along the living pathways that wound between trunk and branch, until the earth itself welcomed their steps once more. Above them, the canopy stretched wide, broken only by scattered starlight,
As they walked, Lethariel spoke again, “We will make first for Loudwater,” she said,
It had taken them a long while to pass the southern reaches of the Great Everwood, yet the Seldarine seemed to favor their path. Aside from a few wandering wolves and the distant cries of hunting owls, their journey remained largely undisturbed,
Several cycles of the sun passed before they finally reached the edge of the forest,
When at last they found a bridge that spanned the Delimbiyr River, it took them several more days before they reached the settlement that lay cradled deeply within the embrace of nature,
It was a place where wood and stone stood in quiet harmony, where the wild had not been driven back, but shaped and guided. According to the tales carried along the roads and whispered among travelers, this was a land touched by the presence of a favored of Khalreshaar, one whom many had come to call the Green Regent,
They had passed through Loudwater without incident,
The settlement had been as Lethariel described, watchful, cautious, yet alive. Traders moved through its streets, guards kept a steady presence along the wooden palisades, and rumors lingered in every corner. They did not stay long. Supplies were gathered, questions asked sparingly, and by the next morning they had already taken to the road once more, heading southward along the forest’s edge,
For a time, the journey was uneventful,
The path they followed was worn but not heavily traveled. To their left, the trees of the High Forest stretched deep and shadowed. To their right, the land opened into uneven ground, scattered with brush and low hills. It was the kind of place where neither forest nor road offered true safety,
Lethariel slowed,
Nuar’verthal noticed it immediately. Her posture shifted, her gaze no longer wandering, but fixed, listening,
“What is it?” he asked quietly,
She did not answer at once,
“Too quiet,” she said after a moment,
The words had barely left her lips when the first arrow came,
It cut through the air with a sharp hiss,
Nuar’verthal turned, but not fast enough,
The impact struck hard against his side, just below the ribs. The force alone drove the breath from him, but it was the burning that followed that made him stagger. Heat spread from the wound almost instantly, unnatural, searing, poison.
“The Spawns of the Cursed One!” Lethariel shouted, already moving,
Figures emerged from the tree line, large, crude shapes forcing their way through brush and shadow. Their armor was mismatched, their weapons brutal and worn, but their intent was clear,
Another arrow flew,
Lethariel loosed her own in answer, her shot striking one of the charging orcs in the shoulder, turning its advance into a stumbling roar. But more followed, too many to hold in open ground,
Nuar’verthal tried to steady himself, his hand gripping the shaft lodged in his side. His vision blurred at the edges, the forest seeming to tilt as the poison worked through him,
“Leave it!” Lethariel snapped as she caught his arm. “We move, now!”
He did not argue,
They broke from the path, forcing their way toward the trees. Behind them came the heavy thunder of pursuit, boots against earth, guttural shouts, the crack of branches under careless strength,
Another arrow struck the ground near them,
Lethariel pulled him onward, weaving between trunks, choosing ground that would slow larger pursuers. Her breathing remained steady, controlled, but her movements had lost none of their urgency,
“Can you run?” she asked,
“For now,” he managed, though his voice was strained,
The burning had spread. Each step sent a sharp pulse through his side, and his limbs were beginning to feel heavy, as though the forest itself pressed against him,
They pushed deeper into uneven terrain, where roots twisted through the earth and stones broke the surface. The sounds behind them grew less certain, slower, more scattered. The orcs were strong, but not careful,
Lethariel led them down a narrow decline, half-hidden by brush, until at last they reached a shallow hollow between rising slopes,
“Here,” she said, guiding him down,
Nuar’verthal sank to one knee, his strength faltering at last. The world swayed again, darker now,
Without hesitation, Lethariel broke the shaft of the arrow and reached for the wound,
“This will hurt,” she said,
He gave a faint, humorless breath. “It already does,”
She pulled,
The motion was quick, precise, but the pain that followed was sharp enough to tear a low groan from him. Dark blood followed the arrowhead, thicker than it should have been,
Lethariel’s expression hardened,
“Poison,” she said quietly. “Not crude. They planned this,”
She worked quickly, pressing cloth to the wound, reaching into her pack for what herbs she carried. Her hands moved with practiced certainty, but there was tension in them now,
Above them, the forest remained restless,
The orcs had not given up,
Nuar’verthal drew a slow breath, forcing his thoughts to steady despite the creeping weakness in his limbs. His hand tightened slightly against the earth,
“Then we do not stop here for long,” he said,
Lethariel glanced at him, then nodded once,
“No,” she replied. “We don’t,”
After Nuar’verthal had pulled the arrow from his wound, he revealed his healing hands, pressing them against the edges of the entry point. Warmth spread immediately, knitting flesh and easing the searing pain enough for him to stand,
They set off again, moving carefully through the shadowed forest, searching for shelter. After some time, they found a hollowed tree, its trunk not entirely healthy, yet large enough to hold both of them. They climbed into the cavity, settling side by side in a natural nook. It was perhaps eight feet above the ground, precarious but safe,
They remained still, holding their breath as the orcs passed beneath them, grunting and roaring with crude satisfaction. Only when the sounds faded into the distance did they exhale in relief,
Lethariel gave Nuar’verthal a slightly worried smile, which he returned. But the relief was brief, he noticed the fragment of an arrow lodged near her lower back, close to her spleen,
Before either could react, a sudden, burning pain shot through Nuar’verthal. It struck him as if a hammer had cleaved both his being and his body at once. The presence that had so often walked with him, the first of the Seldarine, vanished. In its place came a complete emptiness, a blackness that pressed in on every side,
Through the haze of pain and shadow, he glimpsed just enough to see Lethariel’s face. It had gone pale-blue, twisted in terror, her lips moving soundlessly, screaming his name,
Nuar’verthal’s body trembled, his hands clenching instinctively as the void seemed to swallow both the forest and the moment.
When he awoke again, a terrible pounding filled his head, a pain that felt as if a sword were slicing through his very mind. His vision blurred, his legs unsteady, yet he forced himself upright, eyes wild, searching desperately for his companion.
He found her leaning against him, utterly pale, gasping for breath, a strained smile on her lips. “By the Leaflord… you live,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes.
Nuar’verthal remembered her own wound and, with trembling care, turned her gently to inspect the arrow lodged in her back. The sight was horrifying. Deep purples and violet streaks marbled her upper back, climbing toward the spot where her heart lay.
He could not find words. Panic surged through him as he slowly drew the broken arrow free, and she let out a sharp, agonized scream. His mind reached instinctively for the source of starlight within himself, the power he had often called upon to heal wounds.
Even then, when his right hand pressed against the ragged edges of her flesh, the light did not respond. Again and again, he tried, hands shaking, heart hammering, while Lethariel’s breathing grew uneven, sometimes pausing entirely.
Desperation gripped him, a cold, suffocating weight, as he pressed harder, willing the healing light to answer, willing her to live.
For what felt like an entire hour, though he could not be certain, Nuar’verthal struggled in vain to channel the waves of positive energy within him. At last, his companion spoke, her voice trembling, barely more than a whisper:

“Nuar’verthal… how many winters have passed since I last felt the light of your heart, a smile from you?”

Where his heart burned and his thoughts wrestled in a terrible dance of chaos and despair for control over his being, he tried to force a smile. He could not. His eyes filled completely with tears as his childhood companion’s breath slipped away, the very life that the Coronal of Arvandor had breathed into her, fading before him.
A gentle, final breath escaped her, and a complete emptiness settled over the eyes that had once been warm, as she froze in stillness.
The young gold elf stared, uncomprehending, into the now vacant eyes that were laid bare before him.
He wept, he screamed, he howled, cursing even the stars themselves as the full weight of the loss hit him. He buried his face in his hands, clinging to the one who had once been his anchor, holding her head to his shoulder. His voice echoed through the hollowed tree and spilled into the forest beyond, and he cared not who heard.
Cursed be you, Elffather! Where was your spirit at this hour? Where was your watchful gaze when your child was taken from you? Where was the blade of Sahandrian when my parents were ripped from me, Creator?!
He did not know how long it took him to reach the lands of the Great Everwood once more. All he knew was that a silver elf had offered to accompany him as he passed through Loudwater again. Her name had already escaped him, yet he believed she wore a silver-white robe.
He remembered only faintly the burial of Lethariel, but he could not forget the piercing, reproachful, even contemptuous looks of his tribal kin, nor the deep disappointment radiating from his foster parents.
As the silver elf spoke words of reverence and Lethariel found rest beneath the gentle shade of an oak, the young elf turned away from the gathering.

Lone tears fell to the soft moss at his feet, and a warm smile stole across his lips, though it was born entirely of pretense, his smile, a deceitful mirror, hiding the fracture within his heart.


The Great Everwood - As Leaves Fall

In the wake of recent events, the young elf became increasingly withdrawn. Wherever his foster parents walked, he avoided those paths; whenever narrow side tracks opened up, he lingered until they had passed him by. The circumstance that his inherent magic had failed and that silence still accompanied him weighed heavily on his heart, yet the toll of his losses weighed even heavier. He reproached himself for his inability to ward off the harm that befell those who were dear to the light of his heart. However, whenever he found himself unable to avoid contact with someone, the young elf would wear that same deceitful smile, the one he had once tried to bestow upon Lethariel, now a silent memento, a vow to her, that he would not let the growing shadow of his own self fall upon others who crossed his trail.

In those brief moments when his thoughts felt lighter, he spoke quietly with the older elf in the sky-blue cloak.
Her concern about the vanished magic and the silence of the gods did little to comfort him. Still, she spoke of a kind of kinship, seeing in him something familiar, a cleric devoted to the Bearer of Sahandrian.
She explained the customs of her order, describing how the Seldarine were worshipped differently among the various elven peoples, how tradition and belief shifted with each kind. He only half listened.
He felt certain his path lay elsewhere.
A dream from long ago still stayed with him, a promise of distant forests and unfamiliar woods, where, one last time, he would lift his green eyes to the star-filled sky.

The decades passed, and as the years went by, the flow of the Weave returned, like a mountain stream forcing its way through a winding path of broken stone. The years did not spare the young elf’s spirit, nor did they heal his wounded heart; yet that deeper truth of the elf manifested itself and drove him onto the path of preparation. He devoted himself more intensely to the practice of swordsmanship and to harmony with the magic that strengthened his arm in that art.

He increasingly sought out danger, those goblinoids and orcs that could be found in the forests of the Everwood; he sought their presence with a suicidal folly... He was often close to death; more than once he considered seeking that path himself, letting the prime of his life wither away, but each time he changed his heart, recognizing it as a betrayal when his blade still served a purpose in the service of his cousins.


It was not a specific day, of that he was certain, and yet he gave his silent farewell to the settlement in the Tall Trees, clad in armor, a blade at his side, before slipping quietly away.
It was the season when the leaves turned to shades of fire and earth. He left the warmth of the settlement behind and stepped into a clearing etched deep into his memory, the place where the blood of his parents had once darkened the moss-covered ground. There stood the elder wood elf, a gentle smile resting on her lips. She came to him and placed an azure-blue cloak into his hands, speaking no words.
He returned her smile, though his own was hollow, and turned from her. He knew he would not walk those forests again. And as the leaves drifted down around him, they marked more than the turning of the season, they carried the quiet certainty that, once fallen, they would never find their way back to the branches above.​

 

[Lucania]

Where do these paths lead? Your moonlight has revealed to me nothing, Elffather, but the bleak gray of a lifeless wasteland. Why do you remain silent when I call to you? I am lost, like starlight torn from the sky, its reflection trembling upon the surface of a lake, never to return to the firmament from which it came.

Prayer - Wealdath, Court of Starlight (1371)




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