Nwalmaer
02-04-08, 06:51 PM
“The regime has fallen. The state of affairs of the government is pathetic. Shambles of the once militaristic isolationism nation are scattered and free for those willing to rise up and take them. It is not unrealistic to assume that the very name of Alerar could be erased if order is not restored. Yet, the damned officials do nothing. They sit in their keeps, behind their walls, on thrones of gold and hope the taint of chaos does not touch them. They do not know what harm they cause. The corruption they fear is already eating away at their hearts, their minds, and their souls. They fear it because they cannot see it, and because it is very real.
“For those outside the walls, those people that cannot defend themselves from the roving sell-sword out to earn an easy coin, or the rage filled Kyorl that roam the streets, there is no compassion in Alerar today. The once glorious Thoracis with his shining example, his fucking pride, promised but never delivered. The drow assassin that followed, little more than an impractical prick having filled a position of power for the promise of dominion over others alone; he has long since disappeared. His wake is not gone though. No, it lingers in the shadows, in the alleys that were once safe to walk. It lingers in the fleeting name of The Banishment, on the tongues of the outcast mercenary, Kyorl.
“Neither leader was good for the nation. No prosperity was brought, the economics dwindled just as fast – if not faster when Praenuntio held sway over the political relations – the affairs to the east were no closer to being closed. ‘Great General Thoracis’, the people that survive without his ‘glorious’ leadership have all but forgotten his name. His deeds were once unanimous with the betterment of the nation, once the name was revered by the children for his war against the Raiaeran elves. No more do they celebrate his memory. No longer do any of us.
“For a new power is awoken, a far more dangerous thing than any of Alerar’s people could have imagined. It woke when the realization of the weak infrastructure was realized. It budded in the minds of everyone in the drow aristocracy. Bloomed with the dying breath of the queen, and flourished on her last word. All hail the end of days! All hail the usurpers who took the throne! All hail the refuse engulfing the drow, the rot that eats at our society!
“Not us. No. We will not be like them. We will rise above, be something more. In the remembrance of the queen we will eliminate the revolution that has stirred and boiled. We will remove that which is embraced due to obligation, not respect. The Kyorl has been destroyed, the Banishment has been strewn across our great nation, and only one truth threat remains. The remnants of an attempt to build a more sinister, wicked version of those devious assassins still lingers.
“The Sereg'wethrin are hiding, their numbers unknown. But by our blood we will destroy them. We do not fight with blind rage, but for the irrevocable purification of our home land. This filth waits at our hearts. They give heed to the word of the traitorous head of the throne of power. And with their destruction we will give way to the age of prosperity, Alerar’s preparation for the final destruction of the Raiaeran elves, and our dominance on Althanas!”
~X~
The words weighed heavily the one yet lingering within the hallowed halls of the Elen En’Alerar. The speaker of the house, who’s face was never to be seen or their identities known, had offered a speech much like he had the previous few days. They were turning more violent, more zealous, and more inspiring to those that believed in the seeds he was planting. Many were like the young drow Feredir, emboldened by the words screamed from the pedestal, flustered and ashamed by their lack of devotion to the cause. The young drow is a warrior though, not a fickle mage of Raiaera. He would kill the profane that polluted Alerar just as the speaker commanded – a man who might as well be god to the Elen En’Alerar.
Never mind the fact that the mass murder of fellow drow is for the simplistic and trite excuse that they disagree with what you have to say. It is not war because it is attractive though, is it? Would it have been something palatable it would not be warfare, it would be an attractive painting hung on an aristocrat’s wall for their vain pleasure. No, conflict was not something that others looked highly upon, though the necessity of it is undeniable. Feredir was one of the hundred that would dawn the mask of war, hide behind a miasma of lies, and remove the threat of the Sereg’wethrin – unholy assassin spawn created by drow technology and ingenuity, and Salvaran magic.
He rose from his place. The others are already gone, the room quiet, just a lone drow pondering thoughts in the shelter of the hidden room. The cloud of deceit was thick, hard to see through. The mask was firmly in place, sliding into grooves worn and dug by the words of the true ‘righteous’ of Alerar. Peering around the room with a visage of resolve a sigh passes his thin lips. It was a pleasure being a member of so true and real a society as the Elen En’Alerar. His soul is sold, his mind warped, but the enemy he seeks is not an enemy easily found… nor one that he would so willingly gamble his life against should he had known.
The shambles the speaker had preached was true. Alerar had fallen to a state of disrepair, long overdue for the rise of the lower classes. Would they have taken an initiative and done more, instead of cowering in the mire of their own refuse, they would have spurred the economy. The distant, powerful orator lectured on the downfall of the common man, he spoke of the garbage they spew from every orifice only to lie in it for comfort of mind. How ridiculous had society become to allow the avarice of the government to overrule the needs and desires of the backbone of the very culture?
The drow warrior touches the right door frame as he walks through. He touches his forehead with his first two fingers, kisses the two outstretched fingers, and touches the frame again. Behind him the emptiness of the room is consumed by the only true omniscience reality can claim; darkness and shadows. To look into the room is to feel the empty void looking back, as if the proverbial eyes and ears of the room’s four blank walls are watching every move. Feredir looks back; his stoic eyes a muted stone coloration, his mind racing. No one waits, despite the feeling of a pair of piercing eyes stabbing his back when he turns. He was the last. All that rests is the babble soaked walls, screaming thoughts that bound about the room freely, emotions that drown the very sensation of sanity with there passing.
Under his breath he sighs again, turning finally and closing the door behind him. It clicks lightly, quietly. The latch falls, and the recoiling noise is barely audible, yet sounds worse than a clash of swords on a clear hushed night. He pats his blade, mumbling: “Soon enough.” His mumblings are those of the disturbed, the depraved and morbid souls who find pleasure in their grizzly tasks. But young Feredir’s mind is filled with promises of the purity of Alerar. Being a child of the nation and having lived for over seventy years throughout its gradual and sharp decline alike, why would he will for anything less?
“For those outside the walls, those people that cannot defend themselves from the roving sell-sword out to earn an easy coin, or the rage filled Kyorl that roam the streets, there is no compassion in Alerar today. The once glorious Thoracis with his shining example, his fucking pride, promised but never delivered. The drow assassin that followed, little more than an impractical prick having filled a position of power for the promise of dominion over others alone; he has long since disappeared. His wake is not gone though. No, it lingers in the shadows, in the alleys that were once safe to walk. It lingers in the fleeting name of The Banishment, on the tongues of the outcast mercenary, Kyorl.
“Neither leader was good for the nation. No prosperity was brought, the economics dwindled just as fast – if not faster when Praenuntio held sway over the political relations – the affairs to the east were no closer to being closed. ‘Great General Thoracis’, the people that survive without his ‘glorious’ leadership have all but forgotten his name. His deeds were once unanimous with the betterment of the nation, once the name was revered by the children for his war against the Raiaeran elves. No more do they celebrate his memory. No longer do any of us.
“For a new power is awoken, a far more dangerous thing than any of Alerar’s people could have imagined. It woke when the realization of the weak infrastructure was realized. It budded in the minds of everyone in the drow aristocracy. Bloomed with the dying breath of the queen, and flourished on her last word. All hail the end of days! All hail the usurpers who took the throne! All hail the refuse engulfing the drow, the rot that eats at our society!
“Not us. No. We will not be like them. We will rise above, be something more. In the remembrance of the queen we will eliminate the revolution that has stirred and boiled. We will remove that which is embraced due to obligation, not respect. The Kyorl has been destroyed, the Banishment has been strewn across our great nation, and only one truth threat remains. The remnants of an attempt to build a more sinister, wicked version of those devious assassins still lingers.
“The Sereg'wethrin are hiding, their numbers unknown. But by our blood we will destroy them. We do not fight with blind rage, but for the irrevocable purification of our home land. This filth waits at our hearts. They give heed to the word of the traitorous head of the throne of power. And with their destruction we will give way to the age of prosperity, Alerar’s preparation for the final destruction of the Raiaeran elves, and our dominance on Althanas!”
~X~
The words weighed heavily the one yet lingering within the hallowed halls of the Elen En’Alerar. The speaker of the house, who’s face was never to be seen or their identities known, had offered a speech much like he had the previous few days. They were turning more violent, more zealous, and more inspiring to those that believed in the seeds he was planting. Many were like the young drow Feredir, emboldened by the words screamed from the pedestal, flustered and ashamed by their lack of devotion to the cause. The young drow is a warrior though, not a fickle mage of Raiaera. He would kill the profane that polluted Alerar just as the speaker commanded – a man who might as well be god to the Elen En’Alerar.
Never mind the fact that the mass murder of fellow drow is for the simplistic and trite excuse that they disagree with what you have to say. It is not war because it is attractive though, is it? Would it have been something palatable it would not be warfare, it would be an attractive painting hung on an aristocrat’s wall for their vain pleasure. No, conflict was not something that others looked highly upon, though the necessity of it is undeniable. Feredir was one of the hundred that would dawn the mask of war, hide behind a miasma of lies, and remove the threat of the Sereg’wethrin – unholy assassin spawn created by drow technology and ingenuity, and Salvaran magic.
He rose from his place. The others are already gone, the room quiet, just a lone drow pondering thoughts in the shelter of the hidden room. The cloud of deceit was thick, hard to see through. The mask was firmly in place, sliding into grooves worn and dug by the words of the true ‘righteous’ of Alerar. Peering around the room with a visage of resolve a sigh passes his thin lips. It was a pleasure being a member of so true and real a society as the Elen En’Alerar. His soul is sold, his mind warped, but the enemy he seeks is not an enemy easily found… nor one that he would so willingly gamble his life against should he had known.
The shambles the speaker had preached was true. Alerar had fallen to a state of disrepair, long overdue for the rise of the lower classes. Would they have taken an initiative and done more, instead of cowering in the mire of their own refuse, they would have spurred the economy. The distant, powerful orator lectured on the downfall of the common man, he spoke of the garbage they spew from every orifice only to lie in it for comfort of mind. How ridiculous had society become to allow the avarice of the government to overrule the needs and desires of the backbone of the very culture?
The drow warrior touches the right door frame as he walks through. He touches his forehead with his first two fingers, kisses the two outstretched fingers, and touches the frame again. Behind him the emptiness of the room is consumed by the only true omniscience reality can claim; darkness and shadows. To look into the room is to feel the empty void looking back, as if the proverbial eyes and ears of the room’s four blank walls are watching every move. Feredir looks back; his stoic eyes a muted stone coloration, his mind racing. No one waits, despite the feeling of a pair of piercing eyes stabbing his back when he turns. He was the last. All that rests is the babble soaked walls, screaming thoughts that bound about the room freely, emotions that drown the very sensation of sanity with there passing.
Under his breath he sighs again, turning finally and closing the door behind him. It clicks lightly, quietly. The latch falls, and the recoiling noise is barely audible, yet sounds worse than a clash of swords on a clear hushed night. He pats his blade, mumbling: “Soon enough.” His mumblings are those of the disturbed, the depraved and morbid souls who find pleasure in their grizzly tasks. But young Feredir’s mind is filled with promises of the purity of Alerar. Being a child of the nation and having lived for over seventy years throughout its gradual and sharp decline alike, why would he will for anything less?