Those Who Honor, Duty, and Magic Define: A Story of the Crown Wars
“Those Who Honor, Duty, and Magic Define”
-10,445 DR</b>
“Osu’Tan, it cannot be that it is time for you to leave yet, is it?” the young Elven child asked.
The regal figure towering above him replied quite matter-of-factly, “Yes, Aldramar, it is time. The coronal summons me, and I must do what is my duty, for crown and country.”
The young child sitting on the floor blinked back tears as his Osu’Tan continued adjusting leather straps of the gleaming breastplate affixed to his chest. Aldramar uncrossed his legs and lunged at the Elven knight, clinging to his leg.
“It is not fair,” Aldramar pouted, looking up. “Osu’Tan, you have lived with me, O’Su, and O’Si for as long as I can remember. Illefarn is not involved in the many battles that are going on. You don’t have to leave! Please don’t leave, Osu’Tan…”
Letting his sentence trail off, the young child began squeezing the leg he was holding on to. His cheek, flushed with anger and fear, was quickly cooled by the cold metal armor the knight was wearing over his calves.
The older Elf tightened the metal gauntlet affixed to his left arm, and then bent down, resting on his knees, to regard the young child. Young Aldramar had his mother’s eyes, icy orbs of powder blue, and her skin complexion, the baby blue that was common in Moon Elves. But, in the child, the knight also saw much of his brother, and of himself. Most of all, he had the determination and will that characterized so many Dark Elves.
“Aldramar,” the knight began, “I have lived with you and your father for many years, yes, but my loyalties lie with Ilythiir. She is fighting a war with Shantel Othrier right now, and Coronal Sethomiir has called for all of the scions of Ilythiir to avenge Miyeritar. I am a knight of Ilythiir, and I cannot ignore the call of my Coronal. Your father is a citizen of Illefarn now, but I am not. I appreciate everything that Illefarn has done for me over the years, but Ilythiir is where my heart lies, and I cannot abandon her when she needs me. I hope you can understand that, Aldramar.”
The young Moon Elf let go of the armored leg he had been holding on to, and used the sleeve of his olive shirt to wipe away the tears in his eyes that he had been holding back, to no avail.
“I think so, Osu’Tan. It’s just that…” The young child looked down at the wooden floor before looking back up, into the golden eyes of the knight before him. “I will miss you. What if we do not meet again? What if-”
“Aldramar,” the knight interrupted. “I promise that we will see each other again. Like Kethryllia Amarallis, I would fight through the Demons of the Abyss to come back and see you, and your mother and father again. I have no children of my own, but you, Aldramar, are the closest thing I have to a son. When this war is over, I will come home, and everything will fine. You’ll be older then, and maybe old enough that I can begin teaching you some swordplay, like I promised. Would you like that?”
Aldramar bashfully smiled, nodding slightly.
“Good,” the knight replied upon seeing his reaction, reaching out and tousling the young child’s wispy platinum hair.
The Dark Elven knight stood back up, his knees cracking in the process. His armor clacking lightly against itself as he moved, the knight reached out to take a rather plain looking cloak off of a peg in the wall that it was hanging upon.
As he fit the cloak over his armor, and clasped it around his neck, the knight said to the young boy watching, “E’Su’Tan, if there is only one thing I can teach you, it is loyalty to your cause. Always be true to yourself. Always be true to your cause. If you cannot be true to yourself, to what you believe in, then what can you be true to?”
Looking back over his shoulders, the knight saw Aldramar still sitting on the floor cross-legged, watching the knight almost reverently. By the look in his eyes, and on his face, however, the knight was unsure if the youth fully comprehended the life lesson he was trying to impart in him before leaving for war. Folding the hood of his cloak over his gray hair, the warrior turned around, slowly walking towards the door.
“Sweet water and light laughter, E’Su’Tan. Until we meet again.”
-10,003 DR</b>
Aldramar Oakwood slowly made his way up the crumbling stone steps pockmarked with blackened stains from all other kinds destructions that magicians can unleash but with a few mystic gestures and utterances. What had used to be a small outpost in the High Forest, built long ago by the Elves of Aryvandaar, was now nothing more than a collapsing staircase leading up a hill, and a stone mesa at the top, with a few crumbling columns. Reaching the top, the Moon Elf surveyed the immediate area. The forest was thick in the area, untouched by all of the destruction being wrought by the Elven Crown Wars. Indeed, the High Forest had emerged relatively untouched throughout all of the warfare. The same could not be said for other forests, however. Aldramar noticed that the forest seemed to be growing stronger, ironically. Grass grew in the cracks of the stone masonry beneath his feet. A few scattered saplings also grew from ground as well.
How ironic, the Elf mused. In the end, regardless of what we accomplish individually, or even as a nation or race, all is reclaimed by nature. I wonder how much will remain a thousand years hence, how much people will remember of the Crown Wars, of Aryvandaar, or Ilythiir, or Miyeritar, of Illefarn…
As he though of all of the Elven dead who had been killed in the centuries of fighting between the powerful Elven empires, Aldramar silently mouthed a prayer. His patron, Corellon Larethian, would be sure to hear. Though he was no priest, he had a special connection with Corellon Larethian. Since his tutelage with the priests and priestess’ began back in Illefarn, almost two hundred years ago, Aldramar had been one of only a handful of Elves to hear the special call of Corellon Larethian and become a champion of the deity, a holy warrior who fought on behalf of the Protector. Indeed, over the decades, Aldramar had learned to harness and command this special blessing from his patron, and channel it into special miracles, such as being able to heal wounds with but a touch, or channel the divine power of Corellon Larethian into his very weapon.
His full plate armor gleamed in the thin shafts of sunlight that were able to penetrate the thick canopy of the High Forest. Though tough enough to stop the blows of the sharpest of weapons, the armor was quite light, being made of mithral. Though he sometimes wore a mithral helm, to complete the suit of armor, the knight had chosen to forgo the accessory, choosing instead to wear his platinum hair greased and combed back, its ends brushing against his armored shoulders. In more formal situations, Aldramar wore a white cap emblazoned with the emblem of Illefarn, but the knight chose to forgo the formality in this case.
From behind him, somewhere in the thick green understory of the High Forest nearby, Aldramar’s keen senses picked up rustling. The Elf quickly spun around to face the direction the noise had come from, soundlessly drawing his thinblade from the leather scabbard at his hips. The thinblade, an exotic, rapier-like weapon about as long as the longsword, but much lighter, was Aldramar’s weapon of choice, and he was highly proficient with it. In the blink of an eye, the weapon was out and Aldramar was in a defensive posture, ready face his unseen attacker. Much to his relief, however, in lieu of an attacker jumping out to attack him, a small brown flying squirrel leapt from one branch to another, causing more rustling.
Replacing his weapon in its sheath, Aldramar turned his back, crossed his arms over one another, and leaned back on the remains of what had once been a stone column that supported the roof of the ruined outpost.
Could it be that he is not coming?, Aldramar thought to himself.
The Elven knight mulled the idea over for a few brief moments, before pushing the ridiculous thought from his mind.
Of course he is coming. He is a knight, just like I am. He knows his path leads here, just as I knew my path led here.
In the distance, walking down the same path that he himself had taken, Aldramar noticed a dark figure making its way towards the ruined citadel that the knight had chosen as a meeting place. The small citadel was built nearly one thousand years ago, during the Third Crown War, when the nations of Aryvandaar and Shantel Othrier went to war with each other. The site had only been a small garrison, a checkpoint of sorts, manned by only a few soldiers. But, by the clues the ruin told- the scorch marks, the destruction, the abandonment- things presumably did not go well for those Elves who manned this particular site.
From atop the hill, Aldramar watched in silence as the second individual slowly and purposefully made his way to the ruins. Finally, after a span of one minute that felt like an eternity to the Elven knight, the second individual had made his way atop the stone mesa, and was now staring Aldramar squarely in the eyes, Elf to Elf.
Pharom Darkleaf stood just about as tall as Aldramar did. The Dark Elf’s face was wrinkled slightly, and on his visage, he could see ritualistic scars- Blood Marks- that the Elven warrior had carved upon his skin. His balding hair was covered with a silver helm placed upon his head. The chain shirt that he wore as armor matched in color.
For a few moments, neither Elf said or did anything. The two locked gazes, their faces masks, unreadable.
Moving nary a muscle, the older Dark Elf said to his opponent, “Deep down, I knew it would come to this. As a warrior of Ilythiir, I have my duty. I will ask you only once: Surrender yourself.”
Aldramar, his tone equally neutral, replied, “I cannot do this.”
Pharom bowed his head every so slightly to the Moon Elf, and stated softly, “That’s a good lad.”
With lightning speed, the Dark Elf pulled from the scabbard at his hip a scimitar, and pulled it across the midsection of his foe, seeking to eviscerate him. Metal scraped against metal as his attack was countered by Aldramar’s own blade, which had been pulled from its scabbard in just enough time to deflect the blow meant to gut him. Using the momentum his attack afforded him, Pharom spiraled to his right, taking a few steps to put distance between his foe and himself. Ceasing to spin, Pharom came to a stand still with his blade raised in a defensive position vertical to his own body, both hands steadying the weapon. Aldramar, as his foe was spiraling away after his failed attack, had taken the time to whisper a prayer to his deity, Corellon Larethian. The Protector listened to his plea for assistance, and had answered by imbuing Aldramar’s blade with a rosy glow that emanated from the weapon.
Thrusting forward, it was Aldramar this time who initiated combat. With a lunge, he thrust his weapon at the Dark Elf, aiming for his heart. The Dark Elf easily batted the attack away, only to realize at the last moment that it had been a feign. As soon as Pharom pushed Aldramar’s thinblade to the side, the Moon Elf lifted his armored leg and drove his knee into Pharom’s stomach. The Dark Elf wore chain mail, which absorbed most of the blow, but did not protect Pharom from getting the wind knocked out of him. As his body instinctively doubled over, Pharom took his momentum into a tumble, rolling to the side of Aldramar, putting space between them.
As Aldramar turned, Pharom had already recovered, and was standing on his two feet, concentrating past the pain continuing to burn in his stomach. With a slow and calming breath, Pharom closed his eyes, and let the meditative trance of the Bladesong wash over him. Musical whispers barely audible spilled from his lips, and Aldramar suddenly realized what his opponent was doing. Pharom Darkleaf was a Bladesinger, an Elven warrior who immersed himself in the Bladesong, a transcendental state in which music, physical exertion, and magic all became one. Blessed as he was by the Seldarine, Aldramar still feared facing his opponent in such a state. Leaping like a gazelle, unencumbered by the bulky armor he was wearing, the Moon Elf aimed his sword for the heart of his opponent, seeking to score a critical blow before the Dark Elf could reenter combat, bolstered by his magical trance.
Aldramar was too late, however. His blade sailed directly towards his opponent’s heart, but Pharom, in the blink of an eye, lifted his scimitar and pushed the attack aimed for his heart wide. In rapid succession, he then attacked the Moon Elf. Aldramar compensated, bringing his weapon up in a defensive position horizontally across his body, but he was too slow. Pharom’s weapon did not hit its intended target, but it sliced cleanly through the metal armor Aldramar wore over his right arm, his sword arm, biting into his flesh and drawing blood. Hissing in pain, Aldramar shot out his left arm and grabbed Pharom’s wrist, stopping the Dark Elf from bringing his scimitar down upon him again. For a moment, the two were locked in a struggle, as Pharom wrestled to bring his sword down on Aldramar once more.
Rethinking his strategy somewhat instinctively, Pharom sung the song to a spell, and suddenly disappeared, reappearing almost instantly nearby, out of the range of Aldramar’s weapon, by the staircase that led up to the ruined citadel atop the hill the two had met on. Singing the words to a spell once more, the Dark Elf lifted his free arm and pointed at Aldramar, hurling a bolt of crackling electricity at him. The Moon Elf had been expecting such an attack, and was already willing his body behind a nearby stone column. He successfully avoided the lance of electricity as it slammed into the ground he had been standing on only a moment before, scoring the stone with carbon and scattering chips of masonry. Taking a moment to use the stone column he was pressing his back on as cover, Aldramar mentally recited Corellon Larethian a prayer and was rewarded with a rosy glow on his left hand. He pressed his hand against the wound on his right arm, and felt his wound knit itself. The bleeding stopped and the physical wound faded into nothing but a darker blue line on his light blue skin.
The brief respite in combat was only a temporary thing, however. As Aldramar spun from behind the column to face his opponent, the Dark Elf Bladesinger was already charging towards him, blade up in the air, ready to strike down with deadly precision. His eyes were half-shut, and his mouth wordlessly recited the tune of the Bladesong, so Aldramar knew he would have great difficulty defeating the veteran warrior. But, for the sake of Illefarn, he would try!
The Moon Elf darted forward, ducking under the attack of the Dark Elf as he brought his sword down in a slash. Before the Bladesinger could turn himself around fully, Aldramar thrust forward with his thinblade, scoring a glancing blow before hurling his momentum backwards, to avoid a slash from Pharom’s scimitar. The Dark Elf began slashing recklessly, causing Aldramar to focus all of his attention on deflecting the blows. The slight puncture wound on Pharom’s abdomen that Aldramar had managed to land did not seem to be slowing the veteran warrior down in the least. Left and right, left and right, Aldramar parried blows with his weapon, being forced backwards with each blow.
The Moon Elf mentally willed the magic in his boots to flare to life. As they did, things seemed to move slower, including Pharom’s flurry of blows. The Moon Elf knew that this magical effect caused by his boots would not last forever, however. He moved closer to his opponent, nearly pressing his own body against that of his opponent. Before Pharom could recover- to his perception, Aldramar was moving supernaturally fast- the Moon Elf thrust his thinblade into the gut of his opponent twice. The weapon, magically enhanced by mortal craftsmen and the blessing of Corellon Larethian, tore through the thin chain that Pharom wore, and bit into the flesh of his stomach. Ending his assault, Aldramar leaned back, as to avoid Pharom’s weapon, and gave the Dark Elf a mighty booted kick. The Bladesinger, slow to react by Aldramar’s perception, took the blow directly in the chest and began falling back in slow motion. As reality returned to normal for Aldramar, Pharom’s slow stagger backwards turned into a back flip in which he landed cleanly on his feet, facing the warrior of Illefarn. His left arm held his stomach, which was oozing red blood from the blows Aldramar had scored upon him, but his right arm still held aloft his scimitar. The Dark Elf showed no emotions on his face as he was lost to the musical harmony of the Bladesong, which he repeated absentmindedly on his lips.
As the Moon Elf began to consider his next course of action, he realized too late that his opponent had begun casting a spell. Consumed in the Bladesong, casting a spell required no somatic components, and Aldramar had not noticed the change in tempo and timbre of the song Pharom whispered to himself until it was too late. Pharom appeared as a blur to Aldramar, having cast the same exact spell that the Moon Elf had summoned from his magical boots only moments earlier. Aldramar raised his thinblade to counter Pharom’s attacks, but the Dark Elf moved too fast to completely register. He began to counter Pharom’s assault, but was unsuccessful. In the span of only a few eye blinks, the Dark Elf had charged forward and unleashed a spectacular assault. The scimitar bit through the mithral armor protecting Aldramar with ease, and bit into his flesh time and time again. When Pharom ended his assault, Aldramar flew backwards, landing on the ground with a thud, bleeding heavily from multiple wounds on both sides, as well as his stomach and head. His armor had been torn apart, and at some point while Aldramar attempted to feebly defend himself, Pharom’s scimitar had bit through his sword as well, sundering it near the weapon’s pommel.
His mind reeled as pain threatened to overcome him. Furthermore, the magic in Pharom’s scimitar seemed to have paralyzed him. His body suddenly felt heavy and clumsy. Clenching his teeth, fighting both the wave of pain that washed over his body, and the wave of darkness that was slowly creeping up on his mind’s eye, Aldramar struggled to raise his head, to look at himself, and his opponent. As he feared, he seemed to have been wounded quite badly. He was lying in a pool of his own blood that seemed to grow larger by the second. Pharom slowly walked towards the Moon Elf lying prone on the ground. His left hand pressed against his stomach, the wounds that Aldramar had inflicted upon him earlier obviously causing him pain. His right hand clutched his scimitar, and the deadly weapon was pointing tip down, signaling the end of Aldramar’s life.
Willing his broken body to respond, Aldramar moved his right arm to his leather belt. As he did so, he summoned from the depths of his spirit the ability to speak.
“This…is how it ends, then. I have…no regrets.”
Pharom, who had exited the embrace of the Bladesong, nodded his head, and said to Aldramar, “You were a worthy and honorable opponent…Take solace…in this fact. I will ensure that your body…is returned to Illefarn, and that you are given a burial ceremony befitting…of a warrior of your stature…and presence.”
Making eye contact with his opponent one last time, Aldramar said, “Unfortunately…Osu’Tan, I will do what is my duty, for crown and country.”
In an eruption of pain that the Moon Elf had never before experienced, Aldramar grasped a magical wand that he kept at his belt. The wand had been enchanted by a war magician that he knew, who fought for the Illefarn as Aldramar did. Flicking his wrist upwards and mentally exercising the command word, a tiny bead of red shot from the orb, rising slowly into the space between the two combatants.
“Sweet water and light laughter” Aldramar forced through his pain.
As the tiny red orb expanded into a fiery maelstrom that engulfed both Aldramar Oakwood and Pharom Darkleaf, the Moon Elven knight though he heard a response from his uncle, as his existence faded into nothing but darkness.
“Until we meet again.”.
1,374 DR</b>
“And with that, two heroes of the Crown War vanished,” the storyteller said.
The storyteller was a Sun Elf with black hair- and a few streaks of gray, signaling his age- pulled back into a ponytail who leaned upon a large rock, with a crowd of five young Elves sitting cross-legged all around him. He wore a cream colored tunic made of silk that was only a few shades lighter than his golden skin, and brown pants. He wore a black cloak over his tunic, with gold clamps keeping it suffixed to his person.
“Storyteller Daerian, is that a true story?”, one of the Elven children sitting in front of him said.
Stretching a half-smile across his face, Daerian nodded and replied to the young Moon Elf girl.
“Indeed it is, Phelorna. The Crown Wars happened long ago, and sadly, there were many cases of families being torn apart because of the fighting.”
Another one of the Elven children, this one a young Sun Elf boy, shook his head as he stood up.
“My O’Su told me that the Drow were evil, and that they started the Crown Wars.”
As Daerian looked at the child, the slight smile on his face melted away.
“No, Halflar Evanara, this is not always the case. Why don’t you go ask your O’Su about Aryvandaar. It’ll be interesting to see what he says.”
“He told me that many of the stories we know from that time are just propaganda, and lies, told by the Drow and by other N’Tel’Quessir,” the child responded.
Daerian began to respond, but stopped himself. He extended his right arm and made a sweeping motion.
“Be gone with all of you. Let an old man rest now. I hope you all enjoyed your story for today.”
The Elven children, all at once, got up and began to frolic away, laughing as young children are wont to do. All of the children except for one, however. Daerian looked down at young Luthais Tir’ent and raised his brows inquisitively.
The young Sun Elf boy said quietly, “I believe you, Storyteller Daerian.”
Daerian smiled genuinely, and put his hand on the boy’s head, tussling his hair.
“Of course you do, Luthais. Of course you do. I know…Now, why don’t you be on your way. All of your friends are playing by the pond over there. You don’t want to miss out on the fun.”
He gave the boy a light push in the direction of the pond, where the other Elven children were playing. Luthias Tir’ent took a few steps in the direction of his playmates, stopped for a moment, looking back at Daerian, and then began running towards the other Elven children, laughing and giggling with glee. Daerian watched the child as he went.
“I know you do, young one. There is still hope for the future…”
As he said this, the Sun Elf drew back his cloak slightly, exposing the sword that hung attached to his leather belt, among other pouches. Repeating what he had just said in his mind, Daerian’s right hand brushed gently against the steel pommel of the longsword. As his flesh made contact with the cool steel, Daerian felt within him the familiar presences of two other sentient entities within his own mind...
“”
Set in the Forgotten Realms
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