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Of Men and Elves

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avatar Legends of Esper
Level 14 : Journeyman Network
Of Men and Elves.
Races to the world.


Begone. Ifreets. Begone. Lishens and Strigois. This book is not of you. Return under your rock.

Gaw hark disś hærta.
“Flee what is not your heart.”



You sing to the sun, for you have no other to chant to.”

Above all, men, like I, and most likely you, reader, are a most twisted, broken race. We have left our animal counterparts, we abandoned them. But to who’s will I cannot say.

Be it our own, or by that of a long forgotten god.
You live in hovels, settlements of wood and straw, poor as the dirt in which you enslave the soil to grow your crops. Have we truly fallen so low? Can we not even rely on what life exists, can we not hunt like our ancestors did? Must we rely on the very crust, the land on which we were born.

And then we war.
Since the very day we opened our eyes, even before the first sword of bronze had even cooled from the forge.
We are a fallen folk.
Even animals have more dignity than us.
They quarrel for survival, not for coin.
King Aabrek of Reyn, Remembered Be He, Light Be He had no remorse, burning and sacking the tribes Frenkar point, meaningless writs and announcements being made to “support” the war, scapegoats.
But only was it for gold.
A shining yellow rock.
How far has man fallen?

You grow beards, you are proud. And yet you are poor.
Such is man, our lives, far greater than any creature, except one.
But still you are poor.
Your very spirit, worthless.

Then might you still cling hard, stating that man is superior. You are weak.
You have killed your own gods.
Discarded them.
Murdered them.
Betrayed them.

Now none look from the clouds to save you.
Now all you have left is the sun.
And so in vain you will pray.
And in vain you will die.
Like the rest.

Northman, Southron, Reynish, Aedritch, Farrosian, Harrow of the north tribes perhaps? You are all weak. You have fallen. And now you have been torn, from side to side, compressed together in a single culture. One with no name, a husk, a shapeless thing with no difference. A tasteless thing.
Oh, I'd believe even the ravens find our flesh without taste.

But even if we fall so low, that our flesh is ash, the raven will come. For that he is destined.
The elders, each they will tell of our past, on a small, forgotten island. We lived on the game, rabbits, fox, small critters, fish and berries. The only other equal was the bear, yet we left him alone, and he left us alone.
Death was held at bay, only there to watch us.
Until that one, frozen winter night, the famished bear was waken from its slumber by a storm. Starving, it ate two of the race of man. Male and female.
The two pleaded to the bear from its belly, the bear, pitiful, opened its stomach to let the two out.
But they had changed, they had seen death, they had felt it.
They were no longer husks.
And yet, they were torn bodies, torn to pieces.
And before this gruesome sight did the others of our race throw you to sea.

Only for you to be washed upon this land.
There you met the raven, and once again you pleaded like you plead to your precious sun.
Asking for him to knit you back together, for only the raven is beast strong enough to do what cannot be done. To make what does not exist. A vessel of eldritch powers.
For him to knit the two back together, you promised the raven immortality. And so the raven made you. Sculpted the flesh back like clay.

But your promise never was done.
For destiny exists.
None can live forever.
All, are destined to die.
Such is our quest.
Such is our fate
For if there is one thing man can do better than any other
It's dying.

And so you
lied to the raven. So now the raven moans wherever man can hear. And refuses to help.
The raven now eats your dead lifeless carcass, so that no other, can knit you back together.
For he has learned of his mistakes.
But man never learns of his mistakes.

And then there are the elves…



“Broken, unchained, feared”

If the elves have fallen, it was not by their fault.
Many ruins of old rot in the forests, hills and mountains these forms inhabit, the cause of their downfall is unknown, leaving place to speculation. But these ruins do prove one thing.
They were there before us.

Elves, Alfs, whatever you name them. And if you think them to be wise, peaceful folk that live in trees and great cities
You are weak
You are a fool
And you will die and be forgotten like the rest.
Elves, the Folk of Elder, they are savage, war mongering, tribal things.
They live in clans, or rather small bands, fighting each other for little reason.
Madness and reason has fled their minds.
Heed me, do not cross their land, do not cross the markers they place, bones and shrines covered in blood, for they usually do attack trespassers.
In most cases, when tribes war themselves, a wounded elf will be healed and run back straight to the fray.

They live in tents of hide, under old forgotten barrows and in other small, similar things.
They are usually the size of a man, their body mass usually slightly weaker than that of any man, but they are still brutal, unforgetting, hard headed things. Usually distinguishable by the body paintings their Volkhv’s draw, and with that, their long, pointed ears, as well as the beard they wear so proudly. For it is custom to them to grow and keep beards, neither do they have anything to shave with, usually brandishing old, rotting weapons they steal or find. Some are slightly hunched, with arms slightly longer than that of a man, their tongues are a pure, wine red, the rib cages of most are visible, from lack of proper nourishment, as hunts are not always successful.
Some are even said to be born with sharp teeth, although nothing can be made certain, many a man states they simply file them.

The lifespan of elves is most intriguing, rather, it is unknown, many and most elves die young. Killed in fights or from the other, many dangers of their lives, but the oldest I've ever heard of was older than two hundred summers.
The elves are usually led by a chieftain, somewhat of a king, who may sometimes be able to take ahold of crumbling ruins, a cave, or a hall of timber as his domain, these chiefs are called Kral's, usually elected.

Although not all they do is war. Survival is one great thing of importance, some make pottery, carve wood, and a multitude of other tasks.
But one thing they all do, is pray.
They howl to the moon. To the stars and to the earth. They sing to old gods, asking of their blessings, and to do this, the elves have a gruesome tendency.
Self mutilation.
Before you even remark their ribcages, teeth, or ears, you will see the scars, the cuts they've given themselves in honor of who they pray to.
An irresistible urge.
But they will also sacrifice animals and the likes to their nameless, faceless gods, leaving the bones blood and skulls as ornaments at the shrines they create, usually near the Volkhv, a Seer of sorts who live in reclusion of the rest.

These are the elves.
And they do not feast on coin.

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