NationStates Jolt Archive

Songs of Lamentation were coursing through Aldaringwë like tangible rivers of sorrow. Shadowing the liquid prose, something that should not have been present was discerned within the voices – confusion.
Olorndil could see it in the faces of his people, the way their eyes sought him out. They hoped for answers, but he had none for them.
Turning away from their eyes left him facing the throne, where hours before had lain a fine layer of dust. It was still hard for Olorndil to believe that they had been the ashes of the true king, his father.

Confusion ruled his nation. One quarter of his people had become dust and the heavens above revealed that several centuries had past seemingly within an instant.
Dimly, Olorndil could feel the passing of a great power that had lain over the lands. Within the threads of the spell he could read something of its nature; Silmessë had been asleep for centuries.
Those that had not survived the ages were now ashes - a failing within the mesh of the spell or had it been planned?
The oldest, the wisest had not survived the enchantment of Silmessë and now his realm lay weak within an age it did not understand.

He should stand strong, be his people’s beacon now in this time of fear and doubt. But Olorndil had not been his father’s heir. He had not expected to fill a king’s chair.
Fleeing Lassimardë, the Hall of Leaves, he could feel the councillor Calanto’s disappointment as a weight across his back. But even shame could not force him to remain within the Hall of his father.
Swiftly, along corridors open to the air and leaves of the forest, Olorndil made his way down to the ground.
The stares he escaped, but the laments followed him as he moved among trees. Above, Aldaringwë its lantern lights spilling down a silvern light on the small white flowers that were so comfortingly familiar.

He walked without direction, hoping only to leave all his burdens behind. Until the whisper of the river drew him towards it - the muted voice promising to cloud the sorrows Elvish voices were braiding into the air.
Reaching its shores, the canopy of the ornemalin trees broke to reveal the heavens and its blanket of stars.

He had hoped to find them constant, but even the night skies had not survived untainted through the ages of sleep.
There were new stars – strange cold lights that pierced his soul with a deep abhorrence and coloured his mind with solid shadows and metallic scents.
He knew instinctively that these were not true stars though they glimmered with light, as did the stars of his memory. He measured them against the constellations he recognised and found them wanting. They moved too with a swiftness that inspired despair.
The terror escaped him and for a moment, the voices of his people and the murmuring of the river were lost beneath his shouts.

As the overwhelming fear dimmed, became a bearable shadow; Olorndil turned his attention to the shimmer of the river.
Briefly he allowed the river to unveil the mysterious changes that time had wrought beyond the mountains and across the oceans.
He saw vast metallic beasts - some that hovered, flew as birds and others that sped over land. He saw their names, their natures as fragile symbols bleeding from the images within the river.
Their reach and power was extraordinary. How could he hope to preserve his realm against such forces?
His mind turned to realms that could claim kinship with Silmessë. But perhaps time had brushed them away; or they were unimaginably changed. He found no trace, though he sensed familiar shadows as of the faces of Elven kin he’d known long ago.

Even now, he knew, the power that had hidden Silmessë from the world at large was seeping away; leaving the minds of Elven kind that had known the realm centuries before suddenly recalling something that had been long concealed from them.
They would now remember Silmessë; wonder how they could ever have forgotten the realm so completely.
Perhaps, some would send emissaries to investigate the mystery.

It brought to Olorndil’s mind how Calanto had wanted to send out riders to every corner of the realm the moment he’d awoken to a world at once the same and terribly changed. As the most senior of the King’s advisors to survive the dreamless sleep he’d been quick to soothe and seek order within Aldaringwë. But Olorndil had refused him his riders.
‘I will not let their lost kin go unmorned,’ he’d told the councillor. ‘Tomorrow let them ride, tonight we lament.’
And Calanto had approved with some part of his mind, or Olorndil would not have won so easily.

But he had not been prepared for the effects of the sorrow, the despair and the confusion that had washed over him - through him.
Sighing, he lay on the shores looking into the river, the Silmesírë and sought within its mirrored surface the secret face of that which had torn his realm from its place in history. But the river remained stubbornly a mere echo of the heavens above.

“Do any beyond the oceans remember Silmessë, her king and queen?” he wondered aloud. “And what of the heir, he who should have the throne now instead of me?”

“You speak of things that will never be,” Alassënyelle’s voice surprised him and he jumped to his feet, turning to find her leaning against a tall, wide ornemalin tree. “You are King of Silmessë now. Your people need you. Think on what is and less on what should have been, might have been.”

Olorndil considered his sister’s words, but they were not potent enough to overcome the fear that ringed his heart and mind.

“I was never raised for my father’s chair,” he whispered.

“Nevertheless, it is yours. Come brother, return to Lassimardë and sing for our father, our mother and our brothers who are dust scattered among the trees.” Sadness lay deep in her voice, her eyes, but strength and purpose too. “What comes will come, but our people will face it better with a king to guide them, to soothe them, to hold their fears at bay and their hopes high.”

Smiling, a weak curve of his lips, he let Alassënyelle lead him back towards the tree homes of Aldaringwë. Giving the cluttered heavens a final glance.
A shooting star passed over, before the canopy obscured his line of sight and a cold shadow gripped his heart.
Had the star been true, or a thing of metal and machinery?

OOC: That is the.... BEST RP I HAVE EVER SEEN!. And I thought Newbies could never make such god RPs... So what are we supposed to do.

Yay...

(Uhh Red Tide...its prolly a puppet of some January nation,not a n00b. :wink: )

OOC: Well, I'm looking for some intelligent roleplaying...and with that in mind, I'm not going to flash a litany of restrictions. I've put a lot of thought into Silmessë and her story-line as it emerges now and I expect the same from those who want to join in. Right now, Silmessë is a land suffering under a mysterious time displacement (no explanation for who and how and why here please - if you think you have something good to put in there, t'gram me first and we'll see!)
Right now...the only way to make an entrance is to go there.

Any questions? T'gram me. :D

((OOC: Muy bueno, mi amigo! Anata no hanashi wa totemo ii desu ne. An excellent plan for an excellent storyline. I applaud you virtually.))

Yah I will admit it was really good.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful...

You can stay in the region. ;)

And as far as I can see, it is in fact a newbie, IP check turns up no alternates.

~Siri

This is interesting, unfortenantly the time of the Trasians is comming to a end, we cannot join the RP due to insufficient people left in the world.

Well, a spell that massive will no doubt be felt by mages all over the world, so mind if I jump in?

EDIT: what is your tech level?

OOC: Thelas, read his post, it's... not modern. :)

IC:

The towers of Vinyatirion the Eternal shone in the light of the setting sun, the ships and the people came and went as they always did, all seemed normal... yet it was not so, for the world had... shifted somewhat. There were many who perceived it, mostly in the form of looking up briefly from one's business, sensing a change but knowing not what, sort of like the odd sensation one feels when someone enters the room behind them - but different, somehow 'more so'. In almost all cases, Menelmacari went back to whatever it was they were doing without further comment or action, the experience quickly passing from their minds, as would the aforementioned, more mundane, equivalent.

Some, however, considered it worthy of further investigation. These were the very few capable of comprehending what had occurred, understanding that somehow the world had changed in an instant, that something once thought lost and forgotten was now found.

One such was the Lady Sirithil. "Silmessë," she whispered softly to herself, standing at one of the windows of her chambers, looking down upon the city spread out like a quilt a mile below. Then she blinked, for she knew not why she had said this, only that it was somehow significant. She turned away from the window, walked across the room and through a door to the next, a library, and she scanned the shelves... pulling a datapad from one of them, she searched... and found it, reading carefully, her mind swirling with thoughts. The records had survived, but her memory of the place had not. How very odd.

http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/nationstates/sirithil/sirithilnosfeanor.gifLady Sirithil nos Fëanor
Elentári of the Eternal Noldorin Empire of Menelmacar
Regent of Lavenrunz, Chancellor of CENNA
"We have known freedom's price. We have shown freedom's power. We will see freedom's victory."
~US President George W. Bush
We Love the Iraqi Information Minister (http://www.welovetheiraqiinformationminister.com)
Clicky-clicky!

Morning diffused golden through the canopy of ornemalin leaves, spilling through arched windows into Olorndil’s bedchamber.
With the light, songbirds woke; crowded round Aldaringwë as though to banish the sorrow of the night.
Rising from bed - a dull ache where the joy in his heart had once been - Olorndil padded to the window and looked out. The city was only half glimpsed, obscured by leaves; here and there silver-grey ropes glimmered, as threads of a beautiful tree-spanning frost.
Below, on the winding road of white stone he saw that which had drawn him from his bed, the King’s riders. Leaving the city, leading mounts through the forest towards its edge.
Unimaginable that the king for whom they rode out was Olorndil himself.
He listened as voices sang out to the riders from among the tree-homes, words to lighten their spirits and songs to call them safely back to Aldaringwë.
He counted seven riders, though their horses were double that, no beasts had turned to dust and ashes.

“Sweet water and light laughter till next we meet,” he whispered. Sharp ears caught the farewell and faces brightened, eyes straying upwards.
A king to hold their hope, Alassënyelle had said. Here was the proof of her words.
It is you who are my hope, Olorndil thought.
All Silmessë lay in the hands of these men and women. With them, they bore words that he and Calanto had carefully chosen.
And if his whispered farewell could hearten them, he was glad.
He watched until they disappeared from view.

The lighter songs that moved among the treetops, the crisp morning air worked together to revitalise him. The night had been long. Hours spent in considering the fate of the kingdom, the strange enchantment that had come and gone without warning and choices that had seemed so few to Olorndil.
His council all agreed that confusion was their greatest enemy. None had voiced the unspoken fear - the realms beyond the oceans.
Olorndil tried not to think of the forms of metal he’d glimpsed within the waters of the Starlight River, Silmesírë. Something that had grown steadily more difficult as the night aged.
When the members of the royal council had gone to their beds at last, they went with hope.

Now his riders carried dispatches to the cities of Silmessë, to his lords - or as was more likely - their heirs.
The new King needed to restore order in the wake of such calamity, Calanto had advised.
Olorndil had accepted his wisdom, while his heart rebelled.
“Politics,” he’d told Alassënyelle later. “It seems meaningless against our loss, our sorrow.”
But he could not let the kingdom fall into chaos. His mind understood what his heart did not.

To Calanto and the council, these words were heralds. Order rippling forth from the Hall of Leaves and across Silmessë.
They announced what all knew, the King was dead and the elder elves with him.
Olorndil had known it in his soul before the ash-covered throne had pronounced it to his eyes.
They proclaimed the new king, a blood-heir and promised hope.
Look to the King, the dispatch closed, Look to Olorndil Sandalmáreo and abandon despair.

Other words too went with the riders.
Not all eyes turning on Silmessë would prove unfriendly; there were still Elves in the world.
Alassënyelle had offered a message reserved for them.
“A star shall shine on the hour of our meeting,” she’d said, sweeping aside Calanto’s objections.
It had pleased Olorndil and the councillor had accepted defeat.

After delivering Alassënyelle’s greeting, the riders would point to Lisselillassië, the ornemalin forest in which rose Aldaringwë.
Then the strangers would come.
How could a king bear such responsibility he wondered, knowing that he would have to learn. And soon, or Silmessë would be lost again. This time, forever.

Breathing deep of the fragrant morning air, Olorndil closed his eyes.
Shared the ancient memories of the forest, many painted impressions seeping through flesh and bone. Silently he asked for strength and wisdom, then turned away from the window.
As he left the bedchamber, he wondered if he stepped through the door a little closer to being the king Silmessë needed him to be.

http://homepage.eircom.net/~jemr/silmesse/olorndil.jpg
Olorndil
©Norma A Peters (http://elfwood.lysator.liu.se/loth/p/e/peters/bitterwind3.jpg.html)
(Used with Permission)

OOC:

Well, guilty as charged - I am a newbie. I've only RP'd once before and that was an IRC chat. But as one, who dabbles with great delight in the art of the written word, I’m sure I have the skills to keep up with the experienced.
Words you might say are my passion and in my eyes, all words are poetry.

Thelas – the RP is open and I hope that everyone who chooses to join will respect the only rule I’ve already laid down – intelligent roleplay! Take it as a serious endeavour, but uh…keep the fun! ;)
SERIOUS Brownie points to those who run their posts through a spellchecker!!
Yes, I may sound like a stuffy English Professor – I’m not, if anyone’s curious – but it’s the small things that count.
P.S. Siri’s spot on with the tech level!

Menelmacar – while perusing the forums and making my mind up on whether or not to go ahead with my RP, I came across a number of your posts. Placing Silmessë within your region was part of my ‘calculated’ plot to lure Siri into the RP and I’m thrilled to see you’ve taken the ‘bait’. ;)
Advice from a pro on managing a RP would be enthusiastically embraced!

Bruneau, Dimelda, Trailers, Red Tide - thanks folks! :D

To anyone thinking of joining; take a moment (a day, a week if you need to), consider the posts already set down and give us all something great to RP with. My single previous experience convinced me that it only works if everyone puts in the effort.

((OOC Fantastic obviously as an Elf from distant stars my people never 'Forgot' But this is where Farseers come in, the Runes shift...))

As they where often to be found, the Farseers where gathered once more and the strange Runes with which they searched through the paths of time swirled around them rippels spreading outwards as the images imprinted onto their surfaces swirled and mutated as time itself changed, as paths where chosen by others, and the choices became altered. This change however was 'different' it was as if the path had always existed yet until this moment had been hidden.

'Strange, I have studied this thread for so long Telgorthrind and yet never before have I seen this Rune.' Slowly the council turned their own searches upon the path, one that indeed they all studied for it was the Thread tied most closely with the Elves.
'Indeed it is new, let us see what then has led to this new Rune.'
As Telgorthrind spoke he added to his search more of the Runes he himself could control, the forms slowly rising to join the others spining around the new Pattern as he worked it backwards, yet no matter how many he added the reading was always the same.

Seachmall Eldarten Sema. Uel Istu-Karun Ot Silmesse Xamath te Suith, Dorcha ot Faras te Agaith Kal Elaith

The Hidden kin have returned. The peoples of Silmesse rejoin the dance, Lost to found the False Face has faded

'Strange, Galdern, take a Pack and the Carrier Vaul's Chains to Earth, the rest of the Second Khaines fleet shall stand of in the Web should they be needed, I fear what may happen should Morgoth detect these Silmesse too soon.'

Telgorthrind's mind was racing if he was reading the runes correctly these Silmesse where kin. The Rune Eldarten was his only real clue, it ment not strictly Hidden but Scouts, Eldar Scouts, or perhaps simply Elven scouts, yet what where Elven scouts if not hidden? In many cases the single most important skill when casting the Runes was the instictive feel for the main meaning of those that emerged, and so while he had chosen one translation he knew it cointained many more.

Even as he spoke Galdern was rising he too had the same fears, and the orders where as he would have done, with one Alteration.
'I will contact Menelmacar on route, if they are Kin these Silmesse, then they will be known to the Menelmacarians.'

OOC Hope that is okay if not just say. As I did last time I tried to make anything up in Eldar I may as well point out licence has been used with the very incomplete language.

The Citadel of Cala City bustled with activity as the servants and workers of the castle moved about as dawn approached. In the courtyard the captain of the guard was teaching a group of guardsmen the nuances of sword fighting.

A dignified man who was the Duke of Cala walked into the courtyard and began to talk with the captain. Suddenly a ripple occurs and the dignified man dropped to the floor in daze at the shift that had occurred. A window in one of the towers broke as a magical blade went through it. The blade flew south, towards Silmessë. The blade strapped to the Duke's back also moved at the shift, but the Duke managed to stop its movement. He stood up and walked onto the battlements of the castle and gazed south...

OOC: The two blades that I talk about are two magical blades that are attuned to the Silmessë. One of the blades belong to the Silmessë, while the other belonged to the Duke of Cala. They are swords that were wrought together and are thus attuned to each other...

I love my country

I love my country

OOC: wtf are you talking about? Don't spam!!!

I love my country

OOC: wtf are you talking about? Don't spam!!!

well dont bomb my country i want war with you

OOC

Tor Yvresse
Perhaps your runes mean - concealed?
Bear in mind that the Silmessë Elves did not choose their fate, it was thrust on them. Otherwise fine...

Five Civilized Nations
There was no 'ripple' of change spreading out from Silmessë - Elves are remembering a land that has long been forgotten. Mage-folk and sensitives would also be receptive to the re-emergence of the realm.
If the swords had indeed been forged together, your civilisation should have evolved far beyond a medieval setting; Silmessë has been 'lost' for a very long time - we're talking centuries.
Also, trade was seldom made with Silmessë; simply because they were (in the past) an isolated land, bound by ocean. In particular human realms in that age were situated far from the island. Most trade was the rare and far between Elven ships stopping over to replenish their stocks of food and water, purchase materials to repair their ships.

Background: The Silmessë elves came to the island (roughly the size of the British Isles and Ireland combined) as part of a group of Nolder and the island was a mere stop-over and not their destination.
Repairs were made to ships in the island's natural harbour, food was gathered. When time came to leave, some of the Elves were reluctant to go, having come to love the beautiful land. So they stayed and became the Elves of Silmessë (called the Silmellon; interpreted alternatively as the Silver Elves or the Starlight Elves).

OOC

Five Civilized Nations
There was no 'ripple' of change spreading out from Silmessë - Elves are remembering a land that has long been forgotten. Mage-folk and sensitives would also be receptive to the re-emergence of the realm.
If the swords had indeed been forged together, your civilisation should have evolved far beyond a medieval setting; Silmessë has been 'lost' for a very long time - we're talking centuries.


OOC: The Duke of Cala is a mage-swordsman and he is extremely receptive to changes. In addition, the two swords were forged at the beginning of the precursor to the Five Civilized Nations, before the ruinous civil war, the Aza Empire, and that was at least two millenia ago...

Through the dark night, the Tersanctus Destroyer Marlborough, cut through the murky Ocean like a knife. They were on high alert with the conflict in Al Anbar, and all the officers were making the crew work double-time.

On the bridge, Lieutenant Commander Jesse Casarez, the Ships Navigator, grabbed another cup of coffee as he went back to his duties. He yawned slightly, looking at the course he plotted.


Than suddenly it hit him. The course he plotted went strangely off a straight line in to a curve, and than back into one.

"What the Hell was I thinking?" He thought to himself. But than it hit him even stranger, there was nothing there around the curve, according to their maps, and there wasnt any news of a new landmass, so why in the hell did the Captain approve the Course?

Jesse thought about it for a moment. Was he making a big deal out of nothing? Was it wise to bring a mistake that he made to the Captains attention, when he so obviously didn’t notice it either?

He decided to call him anyway, Captain Hayworth wouldn’t put him down for this, he was a fair man. Pretty much all the officers were in close. He picked up the ships phone communication system, and pressed in the code for the Captain's Cabin. It gave off a few dull beeps, than was followed by a low, raspy, "Hello? I mean, yes...what is it, who is this?"

"Captain Hayworth? Lt. Commander Casarez...I'm sorry too wake you.."

"Cut to the chase, Jesse." interrupted the Captain.

"Matt, I got a weird thing with the Course plot...around 35 degrees lattitude and 45 degrees longitude; we make a major curve off course, than return to the original line a few dozen kilometers later. It was my mistake, but I know you saw and approved it, so I thought it was significant enough to bring to your attention."

There was a moment of silence and Jesse thought Matt was about to tear him a new one.

"I'll be up in a few minutes to check it out." Matt replied, followed by a click of the phone hanging up.

Fifteen minutes later, Captain Hayworth came on the Bridge, with only basic uniform on, and sleep still on face, with his hair that he had obviously taken time to comb.

"All right Jesse. Show me what you got." said Matt.

"Well here it is sir. The curve around....nothing, I would assume."

Matt studied the Image for a few minutes.

"Let's bring up a satellite image of these coordinates. I'm curious as to why five individuals, All my officers didn’t notice this at first. Good work Jesse."

"Thank you, sir." Said Jesse relieved that Captain Hayworth wasn’t angry.

He went to the Ships Computer and typed in the coordinates on the Satellite Image File Search Program.

....searching for results, please be patient....

Jesse rolled his eyes, a polite Computer.

Suddenly, the results came back. What showed surprised Jesse and later the rest of the crew.

"Matt!" Jesse exclaimed. "Look at this!"

Matt walked over and saw the image of an Island. Smack dab in the middle of the Mysterious curve.

"What do you think Matt? What do we do?" asked Jesse.

Matt concentrated on the Image for a few seconds before replying.

"Inform Naval Command of the situation, and that we intend to investigate. Give them everything we have on the situation." he said sternly.

Than Matt looked at Jesse his voice dropping, speaking to him on a personal level.

"Jesse, I am not a religious man, but it's obvious that something beyond what we normally perceive doesn’t want us anywhere near that Island. I may be taking the crew into an unnecessary risk. But we have too know what’s there."

I have began sending spies dressed as "Art Students" to your country to find out about Weapons,Terrorism and other important things

Olorndil was midway across the open corridor between the spiralling silver-white walls of the royal bedchambers and the Hall of Leaves. All five of the towering ornemalin trees of the royal complex were visible. Braided together by slender corridors that had more in common with arched-bridges, Minyamár was not a palace for those who feared heights.

Sensing his sister’s light-footed approach, he slowed, waited for her to come to his side before turning, a greeting on his lips.
But the words died when he saw the intensity in her eyes, the fire that had turned many a face away.

“Alassënyelle –“ he began but she cut him off, her voice little more than a whisper of leaves stirring in a gentle breeze.

"Purpose brother," she said.

"Purpose?" His eyes, pale mirrors of her own, wide in surprise. Amber-hued they mimicked the owls of Silmessë.

Alassënyelle appeared determined to remain enigmatic. Shaking her head, she allowed a small smile to cross her features. Then asked, "Do you feel even a trace of the power that lay so thick over us, the power that twisted Silmessë from her natural path?"

Glancing up, at the golden leaves that subdued the sunlight into a haze that gilded all in gold, Olorndil stretched his senses, embraced the realm and sifted through it as fingers sieving sand.

"No,” he lowered his gaze and found Alassënyelle watching him. “If it remains in Silmessë, it has gone to ground. What has this to do with purpose?"

"Everything Orn,” she sighed. Her voice reminded him always of streams, rivers and at times it could even rise to the roar of an angry ocean. “There was purpose behind the working of such a great spell. Such effort would not be spent in idle pursuit. But the reason behind it, the purpose...eludes me.” She stepped close, leaned forward and whispered urgently, “We must uncover the purpose Olorndil. More than Silmessë may be at risk here."

“Purpose,” he said. Even the trees sounded out the word in whispers that might have been imagined or real. The trees were ancient here and had never known the bite of an axe. “If the wielder of this power lingers here in Silmessë…”

“There are no ships in our harbour,” Alassënyelle stated what he should have seen instantly.

“Then we are not free of it yet,” Olorndil frowned, found fear change quickly into anger - a segue of brilliant emotions greater than he’d known could burn within him. “And it is not free of us.”

“There is a time and place for vengeance,” his sister touched his shoulder with a bejewelled hand. “But now, how do we warn the world of that which has secreted itself within Silmessë?”

“To what purpose…” the words came as an echo from both their lips.

“But surely,” he added, “with their metal incantations reaching even among the stars, these beings have nothing to fear?”
Together they looked up, through the breaks into the leafy canopy at the blue skies above.

(OOC: To any nations coming by sea; on the Eastern shores of Silmessë you’ll find a natural harbour, shaped by the Silmellon (elves of Silmessë) with white and grey stone. The natural harbour itself is massive, but only a small section has been built up by the elves. Climbing steps, passing through the arch of stars, one reaches the city of Varnamilme – hope you speak the local language!)

http://homepage.eircom.net/~jemr/silmesse/olorndil.jpg
Olorndil
©Norma A Peters (http://elfwood.lysator.liu.se/loth/p/e/peters/bitterwind3.jpg.html)
(Used with Permission)

OOC: Do you have a map? ^_^ 'Twould make visualization nice and easy.

IC post pending.

~Siri

Asra walked up the black glimmering stairs, passing torches that burnt with an unearthly green luminescence. He walked with an unearthly grace for a man with his stature, his yellow eyes slightly glowing as he entered the throne room. Atop the black throne sat the emperor of Nod Gamorra, Emperor Yurka VII, wearing a robe of black and inlaid with small rubies.

"...Sir?" Asra whispered, looking at the emperor.

"Yes, I felt it too Asra..." He whipped some black hair away from his face and smiled, his dark green eyes seeming to glow, “Fetch the Norestalt!" We'll depart immediately!"

"We, sire?" Asra questioned, rubbing a snake tattoo on the side of his face.

"Yes, I've never felt something such as this in my entire reign. I want to see what it was for myself." He stood up and walked towards the befuddled Asra, who was still in shock that the emperor would leave the palace, “My son will be able to handle things here. Have faith Asra."

"I shall get the Norestalt immediately!" Asra exclaimed, running down the hallway, his gaunt body making it almost humorous.

"F..Father?" a childlike voice from the corner whimpered, "Are you leaving me alone again?" A child who couldn't be older than six walked towards him, tears forming in his eyes.

"Erik, my son..." The emperor closed his eyes and shrugged, “Don’t fret! I won't be gone long."

Erik turned his back towards his father and looked up at the flag of the country, hanging proud, "That is what mother said before she died..."

The emperor clenched his teeth and sighed as he put a hand over his heart to combat the pain, "Erik...we all miss your mother, but no matter how much we wish, wishing won't bring her back..." He reached into his robe and pulled forth a glowing amulet, which he put around his son's neck.

"What is this?" Erik questioned, staring at the swirling gases inside.

"It is my gift to you. In the case that I don't make it back, you'll need this to fulfill your place as the new Necromancer Lord. It is the duty of our family to make sure the tradition does not die. Do you understand?"

"Alright father..." the boy muttered, walking off with tears in his eyes.

"What was that about?" Asra interrupted, wearing his formal armor.

"Is the Norestalt ready to set sail?" he sighed, tossing his robe upon the throne.

Asra nodded, staring at the robe, "It has enough supplies to last a few weeks."

Yurka smiled, and began marching out of the throne room, "We'll leave immediately. Call forth the men!"

OOC: That okay? I can change it.

http://groups.msn.com/_Secure/0UADuAtYZXkSWu7j4AHUGcpct8OtOKJAw!8V3LjxgCzp*pkivdrF5OK7Ck3O4ypGLqvXNIcRizjvYA!VbiSQlHYIDe7sBScj*kJ5 rv*oiKEjWAFK8H!SiK3SCmCgAcJgo/persolucifer.gif?dc=4675446508717357819
Emperor Drake Yurka VII

The Duke of Cala ordered an airship to take him and a crew south to bring back the Lost Sword. The airship rose into the air and with the propellers turning, moved south towards a new future.

Meanwhile, the Lost Sword continued to drawn through the air towards Silmesse. Finally arriving above Silmesse, the Lost Sword lands in the courtyard of the Silmesse castle.

"This is recon 5, recon 5. Reporting in."
"Roger that Recon 5, please report."
"Yes... do maps show a land mass nearby?"
The USS Nelson and USS Reagan and its escorting destroyers were fleeing too Red Tide from Japann. Its battleship escorts had been sunk and they were trying too make it home.
"Negative that Recon 5. No landmass in the area. Why?"
"Because... well plot your course west and youll see."
The Aircraft carriers turned west. Soon a large landmass came into view.
"GOOD GOD!"
"It looks abandoned sir. What should we do?"
"Scout it out Recon 5. If there is anybody hiding there we will find them. Well dispatch Recon 6 too help."
"Roger that"
And with that the SEA KING ASW Helicopter turned south and flew over the island. Scanning for life. The carriers were also rather close. So close that anyone standing on the beach would be able too see them and their destroyer escorts.

'Establishing Orbit around the location now Farseer'

'Excellent Captain, prepare my Transport, I want a Fighter Escort as we land, but no more than Five. after I have departed The Pack is to begin Patrols of the area, and I want a regular flight by Fighters in Support of the Pack.' Galdern stood slowly and smiled, initial Sensor scans where coming in, definite signs of Kin life, an entire Island, containg a few structures of Distinctive Elven Appearance, nothing majour, but enough to confirm in Galdern's mind the presence of Kin.

The Transport it self was large Capable of holding an entire flight of Hawks, or other personal to act as his Bodygaurd, it was fully loaded as the descent began. Twenty Banshees, and one Droid filling the crafts hold as it began to enter the Earth's Atmosphere, they had attempted communication but nothing seemed to have been recieved.

As the vessel descended lower the Fighters stayed within Formation One to either side and one directly Below the Pilots taking thier role of protecting a Farseer with a passion, and a sense of pride. It was usual for the Swooping Hawk Aspect warrior to be granted this privalege in Landing, but Galdern had deemed that unwanted here.

(you guys DO know this is midevil :lol: EDIT: Opps :oops: no problem)

((Actually Look closer he's nations been asleep since that time, but it is set now. He makes comment on Flying Metal Incantations in space.))

OOC:
As Menelmacar commands (it was in the fine print somewhere ;)), a map of Silmessë.


http://homepage.eircom.net/~jemr/silmesse/silmesse.jpg
Note: Not all cities are placed on the map.


Erm…I know I said that the harbour is located to the East; in my countless renderings this was the map I liked the most.
Thus, harbour: South-southeast :)

And as far as the RP goes - Great stuff everybody! :D

The stars do not twinkle in the black depth beyond the screen. The chill of space seems to seep into the dark chamber, where it leeches the warmth from the bones of those within. If it is any discomfort to the armored Incubus-Archon, he gives no sign of it.

His armored hand strokes the haft of his great glaive, N'wah Man, almost lovingly. It has been his companion through the long centuries, the only weapon against the byzantine politics of his Kin.

Those stars will burn, he thinks, the thought a flickering moment of inattention. A click resounds in the empty chamber, followed by a soft whir as long-dormant machines come to a semblance of life. The little remotes jet forward on little jets of raw energy mastered by the Eldar long ago.

A flash fills his vision as the first of the remotes charges him; flitting like a deranged and armed insect, it is a ruthless device meant to kill the unworthy.

His mind reels back through the mists of the years as N'wah Man flicks up towards the remote. Her face rises before him, burned into his memory the same as her wrath was burned into his flesh. The face drifts in his vision, dancing and laughing and angered.

Another flash brings the memory of an intimate moment and the bisection of the first drone; its two halves fall to the floor with a lifeless clatter.

Muscles ripple beneath taut, pale skin, guiding the fluid motions of the great glaive. His skin now begins to glisten in the dim grey lights that wash all color from the room. Many peices of his incubi armor lie on the floor, abandoned for the sake of the exercise.

It begins first as a distant buzz, which grows louder with each pounder heartbeat. The battle-trance leads him deeper into his meditations, past the fleeting images of love lost to treachery. His god is a great and demanding one: a dark face shrouded in the souls of the dead, half-glimpsed from the corners of the eye in a nightmare. The Lost God of the Eldar, the Father of the Fallen Path. Kher Rath le'Sheya is priest and warrior and champion of the Dark One, the silent elite of the Lost Eldar.

Yngir oiche haranshemash. Amure kionash idainn ashafares isheman kerun eldannar. Brylidassian, toill, wea esik man.

The last of the remotes falls, limply, to the floor, leaving Kher Rath le'Sheya panting in the darkness.

"The Star-gods come to the planet of ash and blood. The waning-craftworld farseer laughs for the long-mourned moon elves. Opener of the Gates of Doom, Butcher, sing dire songs of death." The dark god's plans stretched further than Rath could see. Perhaps the return of the moon-elves would grant him his vengeage.

"Dekar haranshemash," he orders the crew of the cruiser Blade's Kiss.

Soon, he thinks, those stars will burn.

It is a good thought.

"Silmessë...a magical word. Lost people, just like us some time ago". The Imperial Chancellor was smiling, her regal figure marked by the clear and diaphanous white dress. The elven maiden received the intelligence message some time ago, and it was her responsability as the deputy leader of the nation to take a decision about it.

Four people were assembled in front of her, in one on the beautiful balconies of the Imperial Palace of Neo Menegroth. One of the attendants was dressed in a long, dark blue tunic decorated with motives of constellations, he turned to the Imperial Chancellor, saying. "We haven't finished the Waist of Melian yet, opening the country again could be a big mistake. I'm warning you, not all people out there are as good as they seem to be. Now the ShadowPrince is in Tor Yvresse, and we sent a message to the Númenóreans. Opening ourselves to an unknown country is dangerous!".

"They're elves. Our own kin. We cannot be suspicious about our own brothers, they even look like Teleri, our long time forgotten relatives. That's stupid!", answered a white, black haired maiden, in her dress the symbols of a high-status noble.

"She's right", said the Imperial Chancellor, her gaze fixed in the wonderful sunset. "But we won't open the country. I will go to Silmessë, alone, to find about the new First Born. Prepare my ship".

As the Destroyer entered the shores of the Island, the entire crew was fascinated with the prospect of discovering a new Island, none of them however, knew about its discovery brought upon by the mysterious curve that some checking brought up that this was not the first time this or any other ship had plotted a course around it. More like every time.

Captain Matthew Hayworth stood on a deck in full uniform now, with a peacoat flapping in the wind. Up came Lt Com. Jesse Casarez who was the original discoverer of the small Island, with a cup of coffee for the both of them.

As he handed Matt his coffee, he started speaking. "Listen, Matt." he began, his breath giving off steam in the cold. "If this island is uninhabited, they name it after me right?" Jesse and Matt both began to crack up, there laughter echoing over the destroyer.

"But, seriously, I did come to talk to you about the Island." said Jesse still laughing a little from the joke.

"One of the guys is spreading rumours about the Island, says its called "Stil-messy" or something like that, says it's full of elves. And that his Mother told him legends of this place. Frozen in time supposedly, and now its revealed itself, thats why I saw it."

"Who is this person?"asked Captain Hayworth

"Finwë Eluch, one of our human-elven hybrid offspring from the Emerika Elven Refugee Massacre. so apparently, he thinks he knows a bit about this place, and that it is inhabited."

The Captain considered this a moment.

"Does Eluch know why we havent picked up any Radar or Electrical Impulse of any kind from the Island? Put him on a Recon Team just might be able to talk to the locals, if he knows so much." said Matt, followed by a large swig of coffee.

Suddenly an aide ran up the battlements, "Sir look to your left. We got a harbor!"

Both Jesse and Matt mmedeately turned, and sure enough there was a large natural Harbor massive enough for a large Contingecy of ships to travel into.

"Take us about!" ordered Captain Hayworth in a loud Voice.

The aide, ran to fill his orders with Hayworth and Casarez close behind him.

On the bridge, as they began to move westward into the Harbor, something was brought to Jesse's attention.

"Sir, um, are those stairs?" asked Jesse pointing to a large column of whie and grey stone.

"Well, I'll be damned, so people or possibly elves in this case have been here before."

"Have been, sir?"

"Well, look at the stairs, there obviously hundreds, if not thousands of years old. Were not talking any recent activity here Jesse, but I want a Recon Team to check it out anyway." stated Matt.

Within an hour a Recon Team of twelve men, began to climb the stairs leaving the Small LCAC behind. At the head of the team was Finwë Eluch, a half human, half elf, he was sent on a feeling by Captain Hayworth.

A massive airship slowly cruised over the sea on its journey to a strange land that had appeared. Lance impatiently strolled the deck. He suddenly stopped as he observed a pair of other airships following him. Seizing the rangefinder goggles from a passing sailor, Lance points them at the approaching airships. Lance realized in horror that they were pirates, when he saw the Jolly Roger flag floating on the mast.

The harbor was crammed full of people and reporters from around the region cheering and taping the launch of the famed submarine known as the "Norestalt". Dwarfing the harbor, the Norestalt made no noise as it slowly submerged below the waves and bolted away at well over 60 knots towards its destination.

"We'll be there in no time at these speeds." Yurka smiled, reclining in cabin upon a leather chair.

"Sir, I'll be in the control room. Call if you need anything at all." Asra whispered, creeping out of the room soundlessly.

"I won't, tell the captain that we need to pick up speed. I want to get there as soon as possible." Yurka smiled, quietly falling asleep.

Asra made his way through the labyrinth of metal and machines towards the main control room, which was one of three used to control the Norestalt. Getting numerous salutes from the soldiers running about on unknown buisiness he finally made it to the main control room.

"Asra? What is it?" The captain snorted, spinning his chair around to get a good look at him. The captain was well over twice the size as him and built like a rock.

"Oh...uhmmm Yurka wants you to speed the Norestalt up to full speed. Is that alright?" Asra was always a bit nervous talking to captain Gant.

"Well since the order came from Yurka himself i can't say refuse now can i? Ha!" He laughed out loud, turning to the controls behind him and dishing out orders to the crew as the ship's siren went off,"You'r better hold on to one of the guard rails.."

The ship jolted forwards sending Asra sprawling across the floor into a large metal pipe. Trying to get up Asra slipped and fell back onto the floor, "Damn it!"

http://groups.msn.com/_Secure/0TwDcAl8Z8B*WhcGy8sgpmuMdyjU7FY8*R5ddtCe7AZJztM2N4FI7GdXavCSeHZ!g15uI*jwNVwQ1VKiGq7QujTk11aSalZE3p3S 7K8DFhy2AV9iU*sEKcA/persomikael.gif?dc=4675446508719298508
Advisor Asra

((bump))

(OOC: I wonder if Silmesse is coming back? There trouble in Yurka so i need to get the emperor back there ASAP.)

"Asra, i need to return to Yurka, theres been a terrorist attack. Please take my place as representative of Yurka...That is, if they're a friendly nation." He smiled, his eyes glowing slightly.

"Whatever you say emperor. Although we should be there in another hour or so..." Asra stopped mid-sentence and saluted Emperor Yurka as he made his way to one of Yurka's V-TOL vehicles.

Asra picked up the phone to the main control room, "This is Asra, your going to have to surface as his highness takes off back towards Yurka."

"Will do sir!" The officer shouted before hanging up. Moments later the football stadium-sized submarine came up to the surface, a hatch opening revealing a group of VTOLs.

"Goodluck Asra, try not to start any wars." Yurka chuckled to himself, the country was always getting into wars. He sighed and took to the controls, jolting out of the sub northwards towards Yurka airspace.

"You too sir..." Asra sighed and sat down in the leather chair of Yurka's room, staring about the room. It just wouldn't be the same without his highness...

(OOC: Had some trouble getting into and posting on the Forums recently. Anyway, let the plot progress! )

Like lace, the woven silver jewels she’d made for him.
They were trinkets; there was nothing of the true art about them. Yet he lay gazing into them as though they, in all the world, were the only things capable of interesting him.
Their power to enchant lay in their beauty; not unlike other jewels she’d once glimpsed from afar.

“No,” she shook her head. “There is no comparison here, but these islamírë serve their purpose. Do they not?”

Alcarmbiril did not look up at her, did not even seem to hear her words.
Wrapped in silken sheets, flesh pale against the bedding the Lord of Kemenixë scarcely seemed to move. Only his eyes, vivid blue sapphires shifted in an intimate dance, following threads of silver as though he were searching the ends of a maze.
Perhaps, she considered, he was.

She moved towards him, climbed onto the bed and leaning over his form whispered, “I have decided.”
At last he acknowledged her; eyes lifted to meet hers, lips curved in a smile.
If he had looked at her half as intensely as he gazed upon her islamírë, would she have turned down her lonely path?
She let the unvoiced question pass, dim till it was nothing.

“What have you decided?” he asked her. The voice was like the ring of a hammer resounding against anvil, filled with a complex music that she could only guess at.
His was the voice that had tempted her to linger in Silmessë, when all that this world had shown her was the touch of death and decay.

“I am set on a name,” she told him, smoothing the brilliant silvered strands of his hair behind elven ears. I protected you and you alone. Would knowledge that he alone numbered among the elders of Silmessë shake him from this jewel-inspired stupor? Half her divided mind almost wished it. “I shall be Undómëfal,” she told him before his interest could wane.

“Undómëfal,” he echoed. A frown creased his brow, age flickering around the illusion of perfect youth. “It hardly becomes you, a shadow name to who you are.”

“I like it none the less,” she replied, dropping her voice when she saw him turn away. Eyes found the weaves of shadow and light in the islamírë and locked - thoughts fading away, mist conquered by the sun.

Rising from the bed, she crossed to the opened doors of the bedroom balcony. Silvered motes made of the light filled doorway an entrance into Valinor and for a moment her throat closed and tears threatened round her violet eyes.
Regaining her poise, she passed through; steadied herself against the stone barrister and looked down on the distant swathe of emerald. Closer, but more difficult to perceive were the buildings of the Silmellon city of Kemenixë.
Carved into the mountain it was all but invisible, even to those with elven eyes.

For Undómëfal, this was as close as she came to silence.
Even here, she could hear the muffled music of the silver still hidden within the Arinoronti Mountains, which stretched like a serpent across the north and east of Silmessë.
Like the Teleri, were these Silmellon in their love of silver; though Undómëfal knew that they were of Noldor origins.

Close to her skin, hidden beneath the silken layers of her gown, never quiet; sang the result of her efforts in the true art. The Coirëamírë, through which so much would be achieved and had been achieved.

“I hear the music, a fragment of the great music,” she whispered. Words that she had whispered a long, long time ago. Longer if she measured by this aged world to which she had awoken. “The music of metal.”
She pushed memory aside and opened herself to the music.

A distant song - complex and altered so profoundly that it caught her breath, stunned her - touched on her senses; closed faster than she could have imagined.
She looked up.

A sleek form, potent with power swept through the air; so engorged and enflamed with strength that she knew awe, as she had once known it.

“You did not lie to me,” she whispered to a face that lingered only in her memories, “You did not lie.”
For this one truth, almost, her secret mind could forgive him. Almost.
What she had done to Silmessë, to these Silmellon would never be washed away. Yet the music of the already dwindling metal-eagle sang to her the secrets of its design and she did not care.
Only here, only now could the Coirëamírë find full expression. She had hidden long enough.

She flung her senses wide, wishing that she could hear the thrum of thoughts as easily as she perceived the song of metal. There were beautiful constructs, through air and water, making their way to Silmessë. Let them come.
She flung her hands to the sky; wind embraced her joy and whipped golden tresses upwards.
There were songs so high above her; they had truly left the sphere of the world, powerful to be sure. So many that she gasped.
Each sang with a music distinct. Songs that she instantly gathered into the Coirëamírë; felt the swirl of energies within.
It pulsed against her skin, against her heart.

“I am Undómëfal,” she told these distant metal children, knowing that they had no capacity to recognise or understand her. They had not even the ability to sense her, as she sensed them.
Yet it would be through these distant eyes that Kemenixë would be unveiled to those who came to Silmessë.

There was nothing special about this city; there would no reason it would lure the outsiders. There were more splendid mountain courts, but she would not accept that which was not already fact.
Turning, she headed back into the shadows of the bedroom, sunlight moving across stone and closed the white bleached-wood doors.

Even had he not been summoned by a pale faced elf, Falastur would have made his way towards the harbour. There was an energy swirling there, trapped beyond the Arch of Stars that bleed excitement and fear into the air.
He was young, too young to carry the burdens of responsibility; yet there were no elders left in Varnamilme to whom he or the people could turn.
All they had left to him was dust and ashes and he did not know if wisdom could be gleamed from that.

Striding towards the Arch of Stars, he could hear strange sounds. Words that were alien and harsh, roars that were to his ears unnatural drifting up from the harbour, echoing against the rock walls and across the powerful singing of the waves.

Silver shimmers against white stone, the arch of stars came into view as Falastur passed between the gathered folk of Varnamilme.
Below, anchored within the harbour was a ship such as he had never seen and climbing the stairs towards the arch of stars, a group of Engwar.
In stunned silence, the Silmellon watched as they drew closer.

Falastur hesitantly moved to stand beneath the Arch of Stars, how tall he would seem to these Engwar. He raised his hands, silver rings glimmering on long pale fingers.

“Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo,” Falastur intoned. The liquid phrases of the greeting flew from his lips and for a moment, all seemed well with the world. A star did indeed seem to glimmer suddenly in the sky; but it moved swiftly towards Silmessë. No star at all, but something else Falastur realised and his eyes widened.
What had become of the world and how would the Silmellon cope with it?
In dismay he turned away from the false star and waited for those who climbed the stairs to reach him, to speak.

(OOC: Tersanctus, note that Finwë would not have stories passed on down by his mother – no one remembered Silmessë until this moment. Finwë either knew of Silmessë himself (unlikely it seems by your history he was born far too recently) or not at all. Perhaps he hears the whispered thoughts of the Silmellon – their thoughts must be quite ‘loud’, the confusion and the sorrow they face is daunting!
To any characters with telepathic abilities – Olorndil would be more than capable of hearing you.)

((Rath is a psyker in the same manner as the entirety of the Dark Eldar are: he can sense emotions and feelings, and hungers for souls. He has some psychic potential beyond that, but it's as yet unrealized. It's what permits him to commune with his Pheonix Lord. Yes Tor. The Incubi are fallen aspect warriors. ))

The sky over the human world is as quiet as it ever is, in the false night untold spans above the blue world. The stars do not glitter in the void; they are sure beacons burning dimly - many beyond their own demises.

It begins with a strange energy fluxuation that would only barely register on the scientific scopes of the mortals. The flux expands and grows more dense, collapsing into a raging inferno of something that resembles, but cannot turly be called light. Impossible colors swirl in the depths of the tear. Those sensitive to such energies - psychics and wizards - on the planet below might feel it: an incomprehensibly huge power seething with rage and hate, with the fear and threat of death. The energy claws at the tear itself, almost alive, almost seeking to escape into this tranquil universe to slake its horrible lust for the blood and souls of mortals.

Yet, the rage of the spirit-universe is held back by ancient technologies. The sleek black prow of a Dark Eldar cruiser pierces the surface of the maelstrom, slipping out like a knife through flesh. Bits of the torrent cling to bladelike outcroppings on the cruiser, whisps of energy that trail in its wake like bubbles in water.

The last of the graceful cruiser, the Blade's Kiss, pulls free of the grasping Immatereum. Energy flickers through its systems, pulling the tear closed with all the effeciency of a surgeon stitching a patient. The malevolent presence fades with the tear, leaving the false night undisturbed.

Rath's armored boots ring against the decking of Blade's Kiss as his path takes him from the bridge to one of its bays. Shuttles make ready to descend to the harbour below, to ferry a contigency of warriors to secure a site for the Archon's arrival planetside.

The whine of engines dies as the bay is decompressed. One by one, each shuttle lifts, in turn, from the deck, to descend towards the harbour in silence. No landing permission was requested, nor did the shuttles even announce their arrival. The Kin on the ground would know of their approach. If the Kin objected... well, the warriors were present for just such a circumstance.

His god is a great and demanding one: a dark face shrouded in the souls of the dead, half-glimpsed from the corners of the eye in a nightmare. The Lost God of the Eldar, the Father of the Fallen Path. Kher Rath le'Sheya is priest and warrior and champion of the Dark One, the silent elite of the Lost Eldar.

Yngir oiche haranshemash. Amure kionash idainn ashafares isheman kerun eldannar. Brylidassian, toill, wea esik man.

The last of the remotes falls, limply, to the floor, leaving Kher Rath le'Sheya panting in the darkness.

"The Star-gods come to the planet of ash and blood. The waning-craftworld farseer laughs for the long-mourned moon elves. Opener of the Gates of Doom, Butcher, sing dire songs of death." The dark god's plans stretched further than Rath could see. Perhaps the return of the moon-elves would grant him his vengeage.

"Dekar haranshemash," he orders the crew of the cruiser Blade's Kiss.

Soon, he thinks, those stars will burn.

It is a good thought.

OOC: Humm.... That's exceptionally interesting. I like Rath much more now...

Meditate on this, I will.

OOC: Humm.... That's exceptionally interesting. I like Rath much more now...

Meditate on this, I will.

((I'm glad you approve. :twisted: The Nightbringer likes us.... the Nightbringer likes us... wooooooooo...))

OOC: Is he predicting the future in that, or is he praying? Because if he's predicting it... well, these things have a way of coming true, and said entity will shortly need somewhere to feed...

BTW, Haranshemash is a former maiden world wasteland that the craftworlders used heavy weapons on to purge humans from... You know this right?

OOC: Is he predicting the future in that, or is he praying? Because if he's predicting it... well, these things have a way of coming true...

BTW, Haranshemash is a former maiden world wasteland that the craftworlders used heavy weapons on to purge humans from... You know this right?

((It means "The world of blood and ash". lamEldannar is notoriously fickle, and here it means Earth. If the context was kionash, it would be the craftworld. It all hinges on context. It's part prophecy, part vision of current events, part mandate, sent to Rath by the Dark God of the Incubi.))

OOC: Humm, seems to be a popular name... (Bah, I know what it means - The world of blood and tears actually, but anyway...)

We shall see.

The Menelmacari destroyer-transport Gilthoniel approached the island of Silmessë, with the Elentári Lady Sirithil aboard; if the ship of Tersanctus was a vessel such as the Silmellon had never seen, then the gravship would blow their minds - three hundred fifty meters of shining mithril, in luminous blood-red and sun-gold and void-black, sinuous, elegant, graceful, yet embodying barely-restrained power... bladelike wings, and tall comm-masts on the bridge tower, from which long triangular Elven banners snapped smartly in the breeze. The vessel approached the harbor, entering by the same means any mortal ship might, except... well, above the water instead of on it.

(OOC: Post a reaction, Silm hon, and then I'll post Siri disembarking. She's going to be somewhat annoyed about the Dark Eldar showing up, though... accursed Fallen...) :)

http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/nationstates/sirithil/sirithilnosfeanor.gifLady Sirithil nos Fëanor
Elentári of the Eternal Noldorin Empire of Menelmacar
Regent of Lavenrunz, Chancellor of CENNA
"We have known freedom's price. We have shown freedom's power. We will see freedom's victory."
~US President George W. Bush
We Love the Iraqi Information Minister (http://www.welovetheiraqiinformationminister.com)
Clicky-clicky!

OOC:Anybody notice my post?

In the Hall of Leaves, mid-sentence, Olorndil froze.
Alassënyelle, concern in her eyes, rose; began to approach him, before her lips parted in a silent cry. Slender hands tightened on the arm of a chair, turned white as her body swayed.
Power rippled through the ether, dark and potent.
There was hatred, so pure it seemed distilled, refined to the point where it had ceased to be an emotion and became a singular entity.

“Elves, Kin,” Olorndil was the first to find his voice. Cracked though it was, Elven beauty diminished, the surprise came through clear.

“No. Such hate cannot come from the kin,” Alassënyelle said, eyes wide, begging him to rescind his statement.

“Silmessë can’t survive against such…such empowered darkness,” he whispered, turning away from her. Willing his muscles back to life, he stood and stepped to the nearby window. “Above the oceans, close to Varnamilme; metal airships tainted by that hate filling the skies-”
He broke off. The source of the hatred was receding; pressure lifting and allowing him to breathe. But lingering, oil on water, the hatred remained and seeped into his soul.

“Empty Varnamilme,” Alassënyelle urged. “Call our people here to Aldaringwë.”

Olorndil, leaning against the window frame, shook his head. Golden haze, fading, spilled across his bowed shoulders. “There isn’t time.”
As he straightened, gazed out into the tranquillity of Lisselillassië, silver glittered. Caught his eye, offered him hope and an antipode to the dark kin.

“Mithril,” he gasped. “I’ve never seen so much mithril!”
Within the vision - bewitched by it - Olorndil glimpsed a craft soaring above the waves, riding into the distant harbour. How many years would it take to discover so many seams and free the metal from the rock and stone of the Arinoronti? It took his breath away and yet it was only a prelude.

His sister reached his side, leaned close as though trying to see through his eyes; breathed in his ear, “What do you see Olorndil?”

“Hope,” he replied. He could sense Elven Kin, ensconced within the exquisite vessel and a single mind that glowed brilliant, a shard of fire. Certainty swept through him and he reached, feeling for any familiar mind in Varnamilme. Found Falastur, whispered to him.

‘The mithril-ship, look to the mithril-ship.’

Then, listening only long enough to know that Falastur understood; stretched his senses further. Felt for the brilliance within the mithril-shell, ‘You bring our joy and revive our hopes.’

His strength faded and he was back within the Hall of Leaves, left to wonder if the ‘alcarëmimithril’ had heard him at all.

http://homepage.eircom.net/~jemr/silmesse/olorndil.jpg
Olorndil
©Norma A Peters (http://elfwood.lysator.liu.se/loth/p/e/peters/bitterwind3.jpg.html)
(Used with Permission)

Falastur felt hatred boiling in the skies.
It stabbed through him. Tore at spiritual fibres forgotten since the Silmellon had left the shores of Valinor.
Round him, his people were struggling against the darkness assailing them. Fighting to keep their balance, sharp eyes searching the skyline for the source of the emotional gale.

Making a deliberate effort to ignore the nausea, Falastur cast his eyes on the approaching figures, Engwar who did not seem affected by the terrible energy that whipped across Silmessë. Then looked past them, beyond their strange vessel to the far walls of the natural harbour.

A brightly hued vessel, its size defying logic, was swiftly closing on them. Had it been calling to him, through the hatred that burned his mind?
Surely, he told himself, a vessel from Valinor!

In his mind, though no thought of his own, words formed.
‘Mithrilcirya, Ela Mithrilcirya.’
These were the words of their King, not Arwë or Isilmacar his heir - the recognition flared within him, but Olorndil.
Knowledge followed instantly by an understanding of the message that momentarily left him stunned.

“Mithril?” In his surprise he spoke aloud. “Mithril!”
He looked to the craft once more. His awe of it renewed, heightened.
“And kin aboard it too,” he said, the vessel close enough to reveal aspects of its creators.
His words galvanised his fellows. Finding their hope, they fixed their eyes on the approaching craft; stood tall.

As the great craft slowed, came to a full stop within the harbour, Falastur began to descend the great white stairs.
The Engwar made way for him.
Behind him, followed the elves of Varnamilme. Drawn by an awareness of kin, they clothed the stairs in bright-colours.

Down a pier, Elven fashioned stone, Falastur strode; salt water blown by the wind stinging his cheeks.

“Be welcomed to Silmessë,” he called to the craft. Watched for sign of activity, searched for an opening within the shell.

In the silence after, even the ocean seemed to hold its breath.

OOC: Hey there Red Tide, I did post something against your earlier post. But looking over it now, I can see how it's easy to overlook!

The Aircraft carriers turned west.
You approached the Eastern shores of Silmessë, as you can see from the map I've posted the area is edged by mountains.

"It looks abandoned sir. What should we do?"
Most of the Eastern cities are concentrated within the Arinoronti Mountains; like Kemenixë they are not easily spotted from the air, or from the ground for that matter.


A distant song - complex and altered so profoundly that it caught her breath, stunned her - touched on her senses; closed faster than she could have imagined.
She looked up.

A sleek form, potent with power swept through the air; so engorged and enflamed with strength that she knew awe, as she had once known it.

That subtle section in my post in which Undómëfal made her appearance, was reference to your crafts; as I assumed that in their recon efforts, they'd be pressing inland. They were spotted over Kemenixë - take it from there. :)

The Norestalt approached Silmesse, the crew reporting an excessively mountainous coast. However, thanks to Yurka's satelites, a small harbor was spotted on the South Eastern shore. The huge Norestalt squeezed into the harbor, slowly rising like some huge black island. As suddenly as it rose, A small section of the side opened up, revealing a black hovercraft which quickly made its way to the land, the troops searching the area.

"Hmmmm..." Asra slowly walked towards the town smiling, "Tell the crew that its safe to come ashore."

The crew looked at the pictuesque landscape, not used to seeing such a healthy enviorment. Asra himself was a bit shocked at the architecture. It seemed almost familiar, yet had an aura around that he had not seem in quite some time... A slow smile crossed his face, as he would have to look up such a land in his library once he returned to the empire.

The gleaming false stars begin descending towards the planet. They drift in silence for what might be an eternity before striking sparks at the edge of the atmosphere. The sparks grow into flames, which grow into raging infernos. Like falling stars, the shuttles burn through the atmosphere, their presence heralded by the thunderclap of a sonic boom.

Slowly, engines ignite: first on one, then another and another, slowing the descent of the vehicles. Soon, the boom fades, as does the fire, and the shuttles are merely black splinters against the sky.

Their engines echo across the water, making the formation sound like a chorus of agonised screams; the shriek grows louder, and louder still, as they approach the harbor.

(She flung her senses wide, wishing that she could hear the thrum of thoughts as easily as she perceived the song of metal. There were beautiful constructs, through air and water, making their way to Silmessë. Let them come.
She flung her hands to the sky; wind embraced her joy and whipped golden tresses upwards.
There were songs so high above her; they had truly left the sphere of the world, powerful to be sure. So many that she gasped.
Each sang with a music distinct. Songs that she instantly gathered into the Coirëamírë; felt the swirl of energies within.
It pulsed against her skin, against her heart.

“I am Undómëfal,” she told these distant metal children, knowing that they had no capacity to recognise or understand her. They had not even the ability to sense her, as she sensed them.
In silence the Six vessels of the Eldar approached the world land below them and smiled in simple wonder, it was a truely amazing sight to behold. As the Craft slowly circled downwards, many things could Galdern Sense, and one small niggling thought, a presence far back in his mind.

A slight pull to a smaller sentlement than the others, a calling, yet, the place seemed less than elsewhere. He would go there soon he knew that, but not yet, for now the call was elsewhere, the call of simple duty. Somewhere below him lay the rulers of the land, and it would be to them he went, to the sea, and the port. Yet he gave an answer to the Call, in hope of contact.

'I will come, when the time is upon us, Voice, soon, look for us.

In the Harbor....

Captain Hayworth had picked it up on radar a while ago. A Massive Gravship approaching close to thier position. Another Destroyer, this one from the Nation of Menelmacar. Captain Hayworth wasn't sure if they were friendly or not, but Tersanctus had been an elf-friendly nation for decades, with 5% of the poulation being either Elf or what they termed, Elven-Human Hybrid. He hoped that was enough. This night was certainly becoming stranger and stranger,what with all the ships showing up too the same place unexpectedly.

He decided to contact the Gilthoniel, perhaps they could shed a little light on the situation.

"Attention Menelmacari Ship, this is Captain Hayworth of the TDS Marlborough. We appear to be here under strange circumstances, now with your arrival it seems to only deepen the mystery. Do you know anything of this Island or if it is inhabited? I have a Recon Team currently out in the field, need they watch out for anything? Over."

On Silmesse, with the Recon Team.

Finwe Eluch, half human-half elf, led up the recon team dressed in black with subautomatic weapons, The flashlights on the end lit the path ahead of them, as they climbed the massive column of stone. Its appearence certainly struck one as ancient, yet sturdy enough so that none could truly tell when it was built.

"So, Finwe, the rumour was that you knew about this place, that your mom told you legends of it?" asked one of the Team Members.

"What? I never said that! I said that I was hearing voices from the Island, telepathy. They were definitley Elven. They were...confused...and I heard the name of the Island. Slimesse." replied Finwe.

"Huh, Elves. Hearing voices and shit." laughed another one.

"If you do not address me respectfully, Arnez. You will not leave this Island. Now listen, I know there are people here, and the overall feeling is very confused. We will have to be very careful with what we say and do." instructed Finwe.

The Recon team advanced further up the stairs, preparing to make contact with the locals.

Flame coloured the chamber, rendered it a void in the darkness filled with shadow and sepia-toned light. Deep within the Arinoronti Mountains where few of the Silmellon cared to dwell, Undómëfal had fashioned the centre of her realm.
The air here was infused with a scent like that of rain, now smoke tainted by the flames.

The furnace, centrepiece of the vast rock-shielded room also provided the only light she accepted here.
She had turned her back on one path, Undómëfal never one for incomplete measures, ensured that her surroundings were dressed for the part she now played.
Carved from the rock that formed the walls, the floor and the ceiling of her chamber, were the workbenches strewn with discarded islamírë and tools that she had carried away from Valinor when first she’d set forth on Fëanor’s cursed crusade.

Songs of silver, mithril and gold braiding through her mind like an Elven lullaby Undómëfal worked at the seed that would be the first offspring of the Coirëamírë.
She had learnt from Fëanor’s mistakes; glittering on her chest and exposed to the dim light of the forge it lay, fused with flesh. Entwining itself every moment, every day, deeper; a weave of glassy skin, threaded with rainbows and silver threads. Never would her work be stolen from her and soon all would recognise that among the Elvish smiths, another star burned.

She struck a blow against the seed; heated it spat back, sparks of fury that winked out as soon as they touched the cold rock.
Those that touched her skin seemed to flare then vanish, leaving her skin unblemished.
But beneath each fall of the thin nosed hammer she wielded was accompanied by something only she could hear; the music of the Coirëamírë, that even more than the influence of each blow she stuck, was shaping the intricately shaped sliver of metal.
Soon, it would transcend even the marvellous creations of this age, a seed that would embody all that she and the Coirëamírë could infuse within it.

Raising the almost delicate seeming hammer, she froze.

If Undómëfal could hear the lightning as she heard metal, the music that flooded her mind would be that song. It had come sudden; coursing through the layers of rock as though it were thin and insubstantial air.
The music left her paralysed with awe; sharp and biting like a blade still drenched in blood and death, it poured into her and overwhelmed.
This music was savage, cold. And the power it exuded was beyond anything she’d dared imagine.

Unerringly she could pinpoint the source; Varnamilme.
From the voice of this metal-beast she could well imagine the minds of the beings that flew them; as cold and terrible as their ‘steeds’.

For one moment of sheer madness a moment Undómëfal was tempted to raise her mental voice, empowered by the Coirëamírë and entangle one of these airborne blades; steal it from the sky for her own.
She desired it so strongly.

But it would draw attention to Kemenixë, bring her prominently to the attention of the forces that closed in on Silmessë.

She could not sing to all these beautiful, sleek machines; could not turn them all to her will, or tear them from the skies as one. She needed to prepare.

So she listened to their music, felt it move through her as a gyrating, jagged dance and then pulled it into the Coirëamírë where it shimmered, burned and was dissimulated and reincorporated into the music that would evoke the potential of the seed.
In this way, the majestic creation was hers. Even if the physical incarnate tore through the air, joined by siblings as deadly; she would soon have her own.

It had simply not yet been born.


(OOC: Hey guys, I’m running with the Tolkien cosmology here. He believed that in time, creation lost knowledge (not scientific knowledge – which Tolkien viewed as a bit of a dark horse anyway, but let’s call it magical knowledge) inherent in it at creation.
The Wizards devolved in power and ability, the elves lost lore that had gone into the forging of such things as the Palantir and the Silmarils, even the rings of power.)

On Silmessë, with the Recon Team.

Finwe Eluch, half human-half elf, led up the recon team dressed in black with subautomatic weapons, The flashlights on the end lit the path ahead of them, as they climbed the massive column of stone. Its appearance certainly struck one as ancient, yet sturdy enough so that none could truly tell when it was built.
...
The Recon team advanced further up the stairs, preparing to make contact with the locals.

(OOC Hmmm, didn't notice Falastur walking down past you? When the Menelmacari vessel entered the harbour (I waited a bit to see if you'd put in a post and then went ahead with mine) Falastur went down the stairs and past your recon team to greet what they knew to an Elven vessel.)

As the Silmellon population of Varnamilme passed between the members of the recon team, eyes were cast on their strange garb and eyebrows raised at the coal-coloured hue.
The metal sticks scarcely received any attention at all.
Whispered words were exchanged, but whatever fear the Silmellon felt was internalised as they followed Falastur towards the mithril-ship.
It was almost tangible, the feeling of elation entangled in the knowledge that kin were about to be met.

Among the last descending the stairs, Indomír found his eyes drawn to a particular figure among the Engwar. He seemed, almost Elven in many ways, yet Indomír had never seen his like before.
Pausing before the man, he sent a fleeting glance towards Falastur; clearly visible on a distant white pier. Varnamilme was politically in shambles, the elders all dust.

There would be no delegating; Falastur was clearly inexperienced, as were they all. Making a decision, Indomír took a breath, fixed his attention back on the black clad strangers.
The mantle of ambassador to these people had fallen to him.
Hesitantly he asked them, “I am Indomír. Do any among you speak our tongue?”

OOC:Yeah I assumed it would be further up the stairs, as in my mind Im imagining a very large set of stairs.

Finwe Eluch held his hand out signalling the team to halt there advance, and put down the weapons. He ceremonially took off his Black Beanie hiding his ears and hair.

He had the reddish-auburn autumn color of hair, common too wood elves that fell behind him in a long ponytail. His ears were perhaps slighty less pointed then most elves, the only indication that he wasnt full-blooded Elf.

"<I am Finwe Eluch, Indomir. Greetings be upon you from the People of Tersanctus.>" Spoke Finwe suprised to hear the ancient language as taught to him by his Mother, but he was rusty and it clearly showed as he struggled to remeber the proper grammar and syntax.

"What the hell language is that?" asked one of the team members.

"I am speaking to him in an ancestral tongue, let me do all the talking, and keep your mouth shut. I dont want them to think we're conspiring in tongues." replied Finwe.

"<I apologize for the Interruption. We discovered this Island by chance, and were investigating why we never picked it up before. I heard the voice from this Island, I heard confusion and the word 'Silmessë'. I am the only Elf on this ship, but the land I come from has been friendly to our kind, when others in this world have not. Our mission is one of peace. Tell me of this place Indomir.>" said Finwe as close to the way he spoke as he could.

The long, thin shuttles slow in a moment as they approach Varnamilme. The lead shuttle turns in the air, almost completely still as the pilot within surveys the city and the landscape.

A slient order flickers along the communications web of the Dark Ones, from the cruiser hidden in orbit; the order is a simple one, merely one word directed to the head shuttle:

"Dekar", is the order, "Go."

The pilot hesitates for a moment while he seeks a suitable landing spot.The shuttle hisses softly, its engines screeching like a dying shriek as impossible forces lower it towards the city.

((bump))

The graceful silouette of the Aelosian ship raced through the clear sky of Silmessë, the occupants of the ship seeing the marvels of the beautiful and clean land of the newly discovered elven country.

"they live as we lived thousands of years ago, in the contemplation of nature", said a maiden with a regal look, clearly the leader of the lot.

"You will see the people soon. We're asking permission for land right now", said the captain of the vessel.

Having determined on their initial scans that no response to a request to land would come, the Farseer simply instructed his people to land the vessel wherever he felt best suitable, eventually a place just outside the main Port was chosen.

The landing seemed effortless, the Gravimtric control of the Eldar over their vessels had been perfected long before the Fall, and been maintained even during that time of upheavel and loss, it seemed almost as through the vessel had been designed for the space it filled as the landing ramp lowered and the Aspect Warriors disembarked, Fifteen soldiers dressed in covered in armour as thick as a finger but seemingly much lighter than it should. They wore Helmets that seemed to mimic in appearance some sort of creature a Scorpion perhaps, and bore proudly Blades that bore teeth along the Edges and yet seemed asleep.

Behind them strode Galdern his Armour hurt to look upon to closely, as through around it time and space shifted, and where altered, it was covered in Runes, in his other hand he bore a Balde that sang with hidden power, and did not sleep. Each of the people bore many Gemstones of different hues, but on each of them one would catch the eye, it was nestled in a place that granted it protection from the world around it, and seemed old, as old perhaps as the people who bore them. Onbe other thing did Galdern carry a simple case, small and well wrought, it contained the councils gift to the people of this land.

As Galdern's vessel landed his Aerial Escort departed back into space and to the Fleet that had brought him, and Galdern led his escort towards the settlement preparing himself for whatever wonders they might come across.

(OOC: Boy, the fronts are opening up left, right and centre. Poor Falastur is caught up in trying to get a response out of the Menelmacari vessel. Indomír has taken it upon himself to greet the Tersanctus delegation and now we’ve got the Tor Yvresse, Manmen and Aelosia…the confusion coming off Varnamilme must be a psychic sea of utter chaos!!)

Indomír examined the Engwar with the Elven characteristics in surprise.
“You’re an Elf?” Confusion reflected in the sapphire eyes for a moment, then he brushed the question aside; a graceful arc of a hand. “Yes, you have come to Silmessë and we are the Silmellon; the Elven peoples of this island. We do not know how it is that we have journeyed into the future, we do not understand why.” A sudden thought struck him. “It may not be safe for you here. Whatever moved our people and our lands through time, may not yet have finished with us.”

Suddenly, overhead he spotted the incoming vessels of the Fallen. Long thin blades, like swords; he shuddered.
“Do you know those?” He asked Finwe. “There is no one to greet them, I should go.” Fear ate through him, his words shook. The dark emanations coming from the ships of the Fallen were warning enough against such an action. But I must do my best for Silmessë.
His mouth was so dry. Two days ago, he’d run through the grass plains round Varnamilme, swum naked in the streams.
“I’m afraid.” He took the first step up the great white staircase.
Above, he could hear the cursed vessels setting down. In his mind’s eye, he saw the grass plains burn.

(OOC: To Aelosia, please let me know how you’re trying to contract the mainland. Assuming it’s by electronic means – you’ll get no answer. So RP it from there.)

Ondarien felt as if his limbs were rock.
Water had lost all ability to rejuvenate him and even Súlamen, his great white stallion, was beginning to tire.
The journey from Aldaringwë had been hard. The villages and towns through which he’d passed, had drawn him into a dark mood that made everything that much more difficult.
Everywhere he went, ashes and dust and those who remained begging for answers that he did not have.

The King’s message lightened some spirits; drove others into a frenzy of urgent questions, demands.

Now, at last the journey would be coming to an end.
Before him lay Varnamilme. Last call for this King’s Rider.

“Olorndil,” he cried out. Súlamen’s ears trembled at the sudden shout in the calm of the plain. “Forgive me, but I too am loosing faith, loosing hope.”
Tears came before he had a mind to drive them back; coursing through the dirt on his cheeks, making brown rivers.
A sudden shadow fell over the plain, grew like the hand of Ilúvatar then shrank as quickly. A roaring in the air followed; the heart of a storm descending.
Through Elven eyes, Ondarien glimpsed the distant landing of a great vessel. Even as he whispered to Súlamen, calming the trembling steed, he felt the same fear rising inside his own heart.

Was this what Olorndil had seen?

The craft had landed near Varnamilme and though he was uncertain, there was something about it that spoke of Elven origins.
Duty led him to the Port City, he gritted his teeth. He was not yet ready to abandon the King’s charge.
Urging Súlamen forward, he tried to quiet the thunderous beating of his heart and prepared to meet with whatever would be exiting the airship that had come, either from his dreams or his nightmares; he was not sure which.

(OOC Tor Yvresse Ondarien is heading your way...it's your Farseer ship he's just seen landing.)

The shuttle alights upon the broadest street of the city; it is a sleek machine, nearly organic, yet undeniably fashioned in the image of a blade. Long, spinderlike lags support it as it comes to a rest on firm ground. Its hull is a deeper black than the night sky, and unreflective, so that it seems to absorb light, to be a hole in one's vision rather than a solid object.

Its hull ticks and hisses as it radiates waves of heat from reentry. Long moments pass slowly, with only the heat and the hissing for company.

A seam splits the hull near the front of the undercarriage. The crack spreads of its own volition, defining the shape of a ramp, which descends to rest against the street.

The Fallen emerge from the shuttle: an entire squad of men and women wearing spiked and bladed armor, and carrying terrible and advanced weaponry. Each member of the ten-man squad takes a position near the shuttle or on the ramp.

An eleventh emerges, his helm a great affair with blades instead of a crest. Wicked talons grace his gauntlets, and the blades glisten sickly with some sort of poison or toxin. His voice emerges from his helm amplified, so that those along the street may hear:

"I am he who is known as Atherakhia, 'Destruction'. I am Herald of the Incubus-Archon. Who is in command here?"

The Aelosian vessel landed just in front of the Manmen's shuttle, following the Fallen vessel after failing to contact some kind of flight control near the city.

The hatch of the transport opened and a dozen of Swooping Hawks, the navy elite bodyguards, exited the dropship, creating a perimeter around the ship. Then a beautiful elven maiden, dressed in a regal red dress, followed them, just to look amazed at the tripulants of the neighbour transport. "Dark...Eldar, this is a Dark Eldar nation, Silmessë is full of Fallen. And the Prince sent me directly inside of the throat of the wolf. What now?", she asked, the fear running from her veins, freezing her blood.

The captain of the guard, a woman dressed with the armor of a Howling Banshee, stared at the sworn enemy of her kind with surprise. She heard the words I am he who is known as Atherakhia, 'Destruction'. I am Herald of the Incubus-Archon, then a question that she couldn't understand. She pulled out her sword, and start to yell orders to her men. "Everyone inside the dropship now, protect the Countess and start the engines again", Damn, I thought this was going to be a peaceful trip, the captain said to herself.

Weapons flicker and hum to life at the appearance of the swooping hawks. Each warrior raises his or her gun to an unspoken command. Each splinter rifle finds its unwavering aim upon the form of an aspect warrior. The two dark lances and blasters seek the shuttle, where their power would have greatest effect.

The tension grows palpable, an almost electric charge as the Fallen stare down their ancient enemies.

Yet, the warriors do not stand alone; further down the street, the rest of the shuttles make ready to land and disgorge their own compliments of fighters.

OOC: Has anyone noticed the Norestalt, and Asra coming ashore in the harbor?

"Now, take us out of here!, inform the Nimloth in the orbit that this country is swarming with Fallen. We need to act!, call an all-out invasion", said the captain as she grabbed the Countess and took her to her seat. The Swooping Hawks quickly returned to the transport, closing the hatch after them.

The pilot prepared the take off, looking at the nearby Dark Eldar vessels. "This is going to be difficult, those Dark Lances could destroy this transport with just one shot". He turned off all the weaponry of the transport, redirecting the power to the shields and starting the engines.

"Let's pray to Isha that we will have enough time to reach the Nimloth before those Fallen take us down", the pilot turned on the communicator. "Nimloth, this is Darkstar One, I repeat, this is DarkStar One. The country is swarming with Fallen vessels, either it's a Dark Eldar country or they are launching a raid on this nation. We are calling for reinforcements, diplomatic mission aborted, I repeat, diplomatic mission aborted, start military operations".

((This is great. They think you're the Eldar from Tor Yvresse, Aelosia.))

"Burn the Yvressi! Kill them!" Atherakhia's strained shout prompts action from the warriors. Black beams lance out at the shuttle almost as soon as it begins lifting from the ground, probing fingers of dark energy that seek weaknesses in the shields.

A hissing roar fills the air as the splinter weapons add to the raging barrage, but their needlelike ammunition is poorly suited to breaching shield or hull.

Finwe felt the dark enamations from the fallen Dark Eldar ship while the rest of the Recon Team only heard its engines.

They maintained a defensive position while Finwe who had only heard of these beings but never had contact with them, tried to give off a sense neutrality to them if they were indeed sensing them, he knew how they felt about what they called mon-keigh. If they got hostile, there wouldnt be much a simple destroyer could do singlehandedly against a Dark Eldar craft. He only hoped Tersanctus' position on respecting the Kin, would serve to help them.

"<Indomir! Do you need help? I suggest you keep from them!>" yelled Finwe.

We need to act!, call an all-out invasion"

Oh, now this is bad...

From the Menelmacari vessel, at last there was activity.

It came not in the form of disembarkation, however... at least, not in the traditional sense. From the great ship's hangars launched ten craft, sleek, deadly, bristling with weapons, and ridiculously maneuverable; indeed, they seemed to dance upon the air. Forming up, the energy fields of their defense screens crackling into place around their fuselages, the F/A-73 Thoroni accelerated smoothly, sending a sonic boom rippling across the Silmellon landscape.

They headed straight for where the Aelosians and the Fallen were engaged in mortal combat; with unearthly grace and elegance they dove into the fray, their plasma cannons speaking persuasive arguments against the Fallen's incursion...

http://www.chaosmarch.com/images/xerxes.gif
F/A-73 Thoron, Menelmacari multi-role aerospace fighter

Meanwhile, the Gilthoniel's forward entry hatch opened, and a somewhat wide staircase extended to the pier. The first to appear was a pair of soldiers, clad entirely in shimmering golden armor (ooc: picture the Elven armor from Two Towers, only fully enclosed, and modernized), with longswords and matching rifles; they carried Menelmacari flags on short poles, and placed them in small holders at the bottom of the staircase. This done, they turned inwards, presenting arms.

Finally, Lady Sirithil herself emerged; the Queen of Stars veritably shone in shimmering scarlet robes covered in intricate embroidery of golden thread. A segmented belt of mithril was around her waist, a longsword at her hip, and she wore both the ancient Daggerstar Crown of Menelmacar on her brow, and the even more ancient Nauglamír - the Necklace of the Dwarves, the finest work ever produced by that race - around her neck.

She descended the staircase, beautiful yet terrible, a vision embodying authority and sheer power, yet also warmth and compassion. The soldiers saluted her when she reached the bottom, and she returned the favor, before approaching Falastur.

With her, also, were two male Elves; both were dressed in fine robes. One, raven-haired and bearing quite the familial resemblance to Lady Siri, seemed a bit uncomfortable with all the pomp and ceremony; this was Lord Maglor, the Lady's son and heir. The other was tall, even for an Elf, gazing out at the world with a sort of air of almost scientific detachment, with an intricate staff clutched in one hand - this was Herufiriemmolië, bodyguard and aide to Lady Sirithil.

http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/nationstates/sirithil/lady_siri_figure_color.jpghttp://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/nationstates/sirithil/siriphotor2.jpg
Lady Sirithil nos Fëanor, Elentári of Menelmacar

http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/nationstates/sirithil/sirithilnosfeanor.gifLady Sirithil nos Fëanor
Elentári of the Eternal Noldorin Empire of Menelmacar
Regent of Lavenrunz, Chancellor of CENNA
"We have known freedom's price. We have shown freedom's power. We will see freedom's victory."
~US President George W. Bush
We Love the Iraqi Information Minister (http://www.welovetheiraqiinformationminister.com)
Clicky-clicky!

Even as the Firefight erupted in the Skys, and the Dark Lances Cut through the air, Galdern was seeing the Shape emerge from the settlement, the person that would greet him, as the voice of the Captain in charge of the Orbital Yvressian forces came over the Radio he was preparing himselof to meet this stranger.

'Sir we are picking up signs of Fallen Presence, they have engaged Aelosian vessels and Menelmacarian forces. We would advise immediate withdrawal of your Transport sir, until the situation can be secured.'

'Request denied Captain, I trust in the Scorpions to protect me, still Launch in support of the Aelosians, all fighters, and send for the rest of the fleet. Also I want a Seer team down here, prepare to establish Webgates. I will authorise the deployment of as many Aspects as needed. Also inform the Council of my request for the first Vaul Engine Legion to be placed on standby. Galdern out'

Even as he spoke his guards sprang into action, Swords sprang into life as the Teeth began to Churn and spin around the Blades, and five of the Warriors sprang into the surronding area, to establish a perimater, yet as fast as they moved Galdern was already moving, his steps slower and more directed, he advanced towards the figure of Ondarien, before bowing and presenting his gift.

He spoke slowly, in Queenya but of the Modern tongue, doubtless their would be problems but let it be, the Lid of the box opened as bowed, inside it surronded in Red silk lay a single Blue Gemstone.

'This is a Dreamstone, the Holder of a Dreamstone is safe from Evil, for Deamons and the dark cannot touch one who holds such as this. We offer this in honour of this meeting. I am Galdern of the Kionash Tor Yvresse, Kin from distant stars. I greet you in Ishars Memory, in the love she gave for my people.'

Behind Galdern the Aspect warriors helmets moved as they hunted kept a weary eye on the movements Shadows around them, one above the rest seemed to be more alert, his Movements like that of some stalking creature, even at rest.

'May I also apologise for the Hunger of Khailia-Mensha-Khaine that has descended upon your lands, we hope that this problem will be short, and yet we assure you we have only your safty in mind.'

In space Fighters launched and formed up in waves of Ten they entered into the Atmosphere and towards the Aelosian forces, towards the Fallen. Near mars, an opening of light as they emerged the First Khaines Glory Fleet, originally to defend against Melkorian interests now they would come for the Fallen.

The shuttle was hitted by several Dark Lances salvoes before the shields turned down, one last beam striking true and destroying the gravity device as the vessel started to take off. The shuttle spinned without control in the air, approaching to the ground.

"This is Darkstar One, We're going down. I repeat, we're going down in a hostile area. I request reinforcements. We're...", screamed the pilot on the communicator before the plane crashed against the floor in a cloud of dust and metal pieces, the communicator going silent.

In the bridge of the Nimloth, everyone was silent, the impression of the destruction of a diplomatic vessel without provocation too much for the minds of many of the officers. One of them was covering his face with his hands, other punched the board in front of him with a clenched fist. The Admiral just stared at the comm screen, placing his hand on the button.

"To all stations, we're now on full alert. Launch a extraction team and three squadrons of tactical Darkstar Fighters. We need to search for survivors and take them out of there. Response with deadly force against the aggressors".

"Sire!, the Menelmacari have landed near the place of the impact, and the Tor Yvressian launched several vessels in that direction", shouted an officer looking at the thermal detector's screen.

"Tell them to be careful, we have operatives in the area. And order to our planes to be careful too, and avoid friendly fire against our own allies", said the Admiral, his face full of grief. My cousin is inside that dropship. I need to save her, no matter what. What the hell happened?. In one moment everything was peaceful, then...I just hope that she's still alive., he said to himself.

From the launch bays of the Nimloth, three dropships full of recue tams and nine DarkStar fighters leave the Mothership to enter the atmosphere, heading to the place of the attack.

An Aelosian Dropship and a Tactical Fighter:
http://www.forgeworld.co.uk/acatalog/vr1store.jpg
http://www.forgeworld.co.uk/acatalog/Phoenix1.jpg

((As an aside my Fighters look identical to Aelosia's as do my Transports))

Events Before the Menelmacar Post

Lisselillassië, the Ornemalin Forest…

Olorndil’s mind was firmly fixed on Varnamilme where energies writhed, shadow and light.
In the waters of the Silmesírë, images reflected not his features. Scenes unveiling the terrible and the wonderful, detailing events unfolding in the great port city of the Silmellon.

Within the white stone streets, shadows had descended.
Black, blade-shaped metal vessels that had fallen from the skies…shuttles, the word fused through his thoughts, wove into the impressions in the water.
His head ached, but still he pressed for more. He was overreaching himself he knew, but there was little else he could do from Aldaringwë.
He forced the images to reveal more, saw the Eldar that emerged from the shuttles and felt them; slick like oil and filled with an endless void that tasted only of hate.
It cut at his mind, sharp as the design of their ships.
“Atherakhia.” A word that rushed up through the darkness he found within the image, a name. “Incubus-Archon.”
Their sounds were meaningless to him, but voiced, it stilled the whisper of the trees.

There are fairer things to look on.

Images swirled, light rushed in to overwhelm the darkness that had begun to spill into his soul.
A regal figure, swathed in crimson descending a flight of metal stairs. Dropship. Aelosian. Fallen. Transport. Concepts came thick and fast and he struggled to master them, assign them meaning.
It all washed away when the frantic activity boiling around the shuttles of the Dark Eldar began to bleed into the image.
The meaning was all to clear, war was breaking out in Varnamilme.

A harsh cry escaped his lips and his control over the images slipped away. Briefly he glimpsed another vessel some distance outside of the city.
Farseer. The word was so coloured that he likened it instantly to the visions he glimpsed; the ability itself. As even this image faded into the reflections of gold and blue, sky and leaf, Olorndil thought he felt a mind touch on his.
Then it was gone.
He turned away from the river. There is no choice anymore.
In Varnamilme the fate of his realm would be decided.

It was some time after he’d returned to the city among the trees, when he finally brought Calanto and Alassënyelle into Lassimardë.

“When our father,” he glanced at Alassënyelle, “sat here, in the Hall of Leaves, it was a different world. Even had I been his heir, raised to be King of the Silmellon, nothing could have prepared me for what we face.”

Silence followed his opening words, but Alassënyelle looked up at her brother, the beginnings of a frown creasing her brow.
Calanto merely nodded his head.

“I can’t know what kind of king I could have been in that world,” he sighed. “But I do know that I can’t remain here in Minyamár and be any kind of king at all in this.”

Calanto blinked, half rose, opening his mouth to speak. But Olorndil silenced him with a raised hand.

“No Calanto,” his voice strong, thought it cost him to project a confidence he did not feel. “Your King has decided. “Alassënyelle will guide the restoration of Silmessë, bring order to the chaos among our own people…with your help.”

“But Highness, where you go, I must follow.”

Olorndil shook his head sadly.
His sister lay a gentle hand on Calanto’s shoulder.

“It is something you must live with Calanto,” she told the councillor gently. “The King needs us here and here is where we will be, when he returns.”
Her eyes turned to him. There was fear in them, but he caught something else and hoped that it was approval. A fragile smile on trembling lips, she did not try to dissuade him.

“I leave for Varnamilme as soon as the archers are ready,” he told them.

“How many will you take?” Alassënyelle asked softly.

“I can mount only fifty,” he said, shaking his head when she opened her mouth to question him. “What little effect our weapons will have on the darker of those waiting for me is a matter for debate. I take them only to give Varnamilme hope, as symbols of our sovereignty.”

http://homepage.eircom.net/~jemr/silmesse/olorndil.jpg
Olorndil
©Norma A Peters (http://elfwood.lysator.liu.se/loth/p/e/peters/bitterwind3.jpg.html)
(Used with Permission)

Events after the Menelmacar Post

The Great White Steps, Tienyalossë…

Indomír stood frozen on the great white steps.
He had no idea what events were taking place in the city above, but the explosions and battle cries had unnerved him.

When the strange elf, Finwe warned him away he was grateful not to have to make a choice himself.
His paralysis fell away.

“Can you help? There are still Silmellon in the city above; those too afraid to come out of their homes.”

Then the beautiful mithril-ship opened, a jewellery box; unleashing a voice that for a moment, took away Indomír’s hearing.


Events on the Pier…

Falastur’s eyes went wide as the strange vessel disgorged the airships. Hands flew to cover his ears as these metallic creatures of the sky loosed a cry that infused the air itself and made his bones throb and shake.

A staircase emerged from the vessel, soldiers came into view.
As he struggled to quell the ringing in his ears, fingers frantically rubbing at them; he watched the soldiers place unfamiliar flags at the foot of the stairs.
And then all else faded as a figure emerged from the secret innards of the mithril-ship.
A woman, emanating power; regal and richly garbed.

As she approached, Falastur gazed at her with open-mouthed wonder.
Words from tradition were forming on his lips, but without intent, he spoke his thoughts instead.

“You’ve brought the stars with you,” he said, then flushed. Stammered, found words again and dipped his head. “The Silmellon rejoice at your coming. Be welcome to Silmessë, find the stars to guide you always back. I am Falastur and lord of this city, Varnamilme.”

Briefly, he felt Olorndil’s thoughts intruding within his own. He glanced up at the woman before him, gazed into the deep vibrant eyes and added, “Olorndil Sandalmáreo, Lord of the Silmellon comes to Varnamilme. From afar he has felt your coming and joins his voice in welcome.”


(OOC: Sorry for the long post; but so much is happening!)

(OOC2: Yay Menelmacar…p.s. Are Siri’s eyes red?)

OOC: They are indeed, and they shine with the light of the Two Trees; Siri was one of the first generation of Elves awakened at Cuivienen, etc. etc. etc. :)

IC:

Sirithil smiled gently at Falastur; she chuckled softly at his greeting - more so than words of tradition did it please her, for it was honest, and came from the heart.

"The Menelmacari Empire, the House of the Spirit of Fire, and the whole of the Noldor race bring greetings and friendship to your people, Lord Falastur," she said, her voice very much like her appearance - regal and imperious, yet warm and gentle at the same time. She introduced her companions now; "This is my son and heir, Lord Maglor, Crown Prince of Menelmacar; and this is Herufiriemmolië, my aide."

Herufiriemmolië - very tall and even somewhat burly by Elven standards - seemed quiet, and simply bowed slightly; Maglor smiled softly and shuffled his feet a bit, ever uncomfortable with the title. "Hi."

Even as she spoke to Falastur, with her mind Sirithil reached out, sensing Olorndil, he with whom she had spoken through the Seeing-stone of old. Elen síla lumenn'omentielvo, Lord Olorndil... it has been a very long time since the name of your realm was spoken. Let there be friendship and unity between us.

She looked to Falastur, frowning slightly. "I must apologize; it seems that Silmessë's return to the circles of the world has so far brought only death to your people. Yet worry not; Menelmacar will not permit the Fallen ones to harm you further. You must have many questions; I will gladly meet with you and your lord at a location of your choosing, or if you wish to meet aboard my vessel, that can be arranged also. It may be safer under current circumstances; and we can talk of many things."

http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/nationstates/sirithil/sirithilnosfeanor.gifLady Sirithil nos Fëanor
Elentári of the Eternal Noldorin Empire of Menelmacar
Regent of Lavenrunz, Chancellor of CENNA
"We have known freedom's price. We have shown freedom's power. We will see freedom's victory."
~US President George W. Bush
We Love the Iraqi Information Minister (http://www.welovetheiraqiinformationminister.com)
Clicky-clicky!

Events outside of Varnamilme, on the Grass Plain…

Súlamen bore Ondarien past the metal ship towards the curiously dressed and armed Eldar that were making their way across the grass plain towards Varnamilme.
Strange black bolts were cutting through the sky above the Port City. Lightning bolts, yet straight as the blade of a sword; striking in reverse - ground to air.
It seemed they were aimed at another metal craft rising from Varnamilme.

Dismounting to meet with the approaching Elda, he patted Súlamen.
The stallion was unsettled. He could not blame the beast, his own heart was racing and it took all his effort to stand his ground.

As the Elda bowed, Ondarien wondered at the origins of the custom. But did not imitate it; wary of what it might mean.
When he presented his gift, Ondarien’s eyes widened.

He listened carefully to what the Elda had to say, learned that his name was Galdern. Though some words eluded him in their meaning, he understood enough to realise that Galdern presented a significant potential ally for the Silmellon and Olorndil.

“Your gift is…most generous,” he said once the Elda had grown silent. “I am Ondarien, a King’s Rider, and in his name, I accept your gift. I hope that it will be a sign that darkness will not fall on the realm of the Silmellon.”

He pulled a scrolled parchment, ornemalin leaves woven into sheets of pale gold, from Súlamen’s saddlebag.

“This has not the value of your gift,” he said. “But it is the greeting of Olorndil, Lord of the Silmellon to any strangers who would wish friendship with Silmessë. As star kin, the words he choose seem…destined.”

In silver ink, neatly written in a delicate hand, Alassënyelle’s, were the words, elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo.

‘A star shall shine on the hour of our meeting.’

(OOC: Tor Yvresse, Ondarien wasn’t coming ‘from’ Varnamilme, he was heading towards the Port City from the royal city of Aldaringwë.)


In Varnamilme, around the crash site of the Aelosian Transport…

Among the rubble of white stone and twisted metal, there was movement.
Silmellon creeping forward.
Fírë, the healer of Varnamilme led the small band of Eldar towards the smoking wreck. Her senses extended, trying to locate the wounded she hesitantly drew closer.
“Friends,” she called out as loudly as she dared. “We are friends.”

OOC: Has anyone noticed the Norestalt, and Asra coming ashore in the harbor?

Attention in Varnamilme is divided between those already docked in the harbour and the terrible evens unfolding in the city above.
Head in, make for a pier and disembark.

Warriors scatter in the streets, taking refuge among the buildings of the natives against the wrathful weapons of those above. The shuttles are not idle, either: their engines whine back to life, a low screech that starts as something half-felt, and culminates in a discordant crescendo of sound.

A rainbow of light flickers in an alley. The prismatic light of the uncharted labyrinth beyond of the veil of physical reality glistens palely upon the stones of the city. So backlit, the armored figure of the Incubus-Archon, carrying N'wah Man, emerges into the city of the lost and rediscovered.

His cold gaze takes in the scene, the chaotic destruction that strikes such a jarring note against the seren backdrop of the city.

"Atherakhia... what is this?" His voice as empty as the dead gaze of the eyes of his helm.

"The Tor Yvressi Kionash attacked us, my Lord."

The statement hangs in a pregnant pause. Silence reigns in the alley, puncuated by the crackling pops of dark lance fire.

"Fool," Rath muses. His strike is swift and brutal; N'wah Man flicks out, as if driven by its own lust for blood, almost casually decapitating the Sybarite who had started the battle. Crimson splashes upon the stones of the street and buildings. For a moment, those who might be watching may perceive a vague black fog near the falling corpse, but it is gone before the body hits the ground.

A whispered order brings silence to the dark lances. The shuttles, sleek and fleet enough to be fighters in their own right, move away from the fresh enemies to take up a holding pattern over the city.

In the Crash Site:

An elven maiden crawled her way out of the remains of the transport, her body burned and wounded, with only rags where her delicate and exquisite red dress once was. Her hair was stained with blood, both hers and from others. She wanted to scream, but the blood inside her mouth prevented her of doing so. She spitted several teeth, along with a lot of blood, a sharp pain inside her chest indicating that several ribs were shattered in the crash, her eyes showed a mixture between total and absolute panic and temporary insanity.

The pilots were dead, they died instantly as the cockpit stroke the ground. Two guards were cutted in half by the punch of the Dark Lance, lying with other bodies dismembered by the impact. Blood and bodies were everywhere, covering the inside of the hulk. The captain of the guard was hanging on a broken pipe, the piece of metal entering her chest and exiting by her back. The woman was still alive, sobbing, trying to regain an inexistent breath, asking something in her own tongue, almost whispering, her helmet in her hand.

In the sky above Silmessë...

The squadrons of fighters surveyed the scene, as the shuttles of the Dark Eldar cleared a path to the fallen aelosian dropship. Quickly the dropships changed their course in that direction, hoping to arrive, rescue any survivors and take off before the Fallen even notice their presence there.

The leader of the group, a veteran pilot, sent a message to the Nimloth. "Admiral, Sire, we already sent the rescue teams to the crash site. As far as I know, we have several strong lifesigns around the place. Maybe there's survivors or the Fallen already found them. And about attacking the Dark Eldar vessels, they are surrounding the city. If we attack them the collateral damage will be enormous. Are you sure that you want to destroy that civilian settlement?"

The voice from the other side of the comm was calmed, yet a bit of anger could be felt in the tone "Hold on. wait until the ground team extract the survivors. Then hit them with all you got. They attacked a diplomatic mission!. This country is a den full of Fallen. Give them a good taste of our Dark Napalm, that will teach them to not understimate us".

((This should be fun.))

On the long white pier of the harbour…

Sadness clouded Falastur’s features.
“It would have pleased me my Lady, to give you and your house the hospitality of the Silmellon,” his eyes turned to gaze up at the city. Towers of white were now obscured in smoke and dust, which rose wraith-like into the sky; spilled too down the white stairs. ”But I dare not ask you to climb Tienyalossë, pass through the Arch of Stars into Varnamilme. The city is not safe, as you wisely say.”

His eyes fell on those that accompanied the Lady Sirithil. Open and friendly, there was nothing concealed or hidden within his gaze, though the shadow of sorrow veiled the depths; dulled them.
“You are all welcome,” he told them. “Were it but two days earlier…” his voice faltered. Yet the sorrow did not overwhelm him. “A star has come to Silmessë, you brighten these dark days. “

He turned to those of his people gathered on the pier. His voice came strong and clear; capture their attention and drew their eyes away from the darkness enveloping the white city.
“There are kin once more in the harbour of the Silmellon,” he said, “Let us rejoice as we have sorrowed for those lost. As has been taken from us, so has been returned to us. Rejoice.”

Murmurs rose gradually into shouts, until the pier rang with voices; wove through with threads of song.
Falastur turned back to the Lady of the Menelmacari let his voice rise just enough for her to hear.
“I think my Lady that your ship would be best for any discussions. We would not ask you to go where we could not assure your safety. Sadly, in this age, the Silmellon have not their strength of old.”


(OOC: For those interested:
Varnamilme was the first city built on the isle of Silmessë.
It was settled then during the time of the Noldorian quest for the Silmarils when ships travelling to Middle Earth stopped over to make repairs; restock. Those Noldor seeking to escape the dark fascination of Fëanor’s single-minded obsession remained on the isle; took for their King, the Lord Arwë and as Queen his Lady Fánanyelle. They were called the true blessed; Sandalmáreo.
If history had flowed uninterrupted, in time when Arwë stepped down from the throne his heir Isilmacar would have become Lord of the Silmellon.
But these people are among those turned to dust and ashes, through that power that hid the isle from the world.)


On the outskirts of Lisselillassië…

Fifty-one great white steeds of the Silmellon broke from the cover of the golden trees. Following the Silmesírë, they travelled west. Now south as the landscape opened before them.

They were garbed in the silver-grey robes spun by the weavers of Aldaringwë, but beneath this silvered armour; threaded through with vibrant blue.
Olorndil wore beneath his robe the armour of his father and it had proven more difficult for him to take it up than he had anticipated.
Distinctively the silver-hued armour of Lord Arwë was set with amethyst; rich violets, pure and unclouded.
He had almost left the light armour behind, but for the fear of what he might face one he closed on Varnamilme.
Breaking his steed into a gallop, his escort following suit; Olorndil threw the burden of concern to the wind.
Time enough to let worry cloud his mind when the Port City of the Silmellon was in sight.

It was sudden, the voice that came to his mind.
Elen síla lumenn'omentielvo, Lord Olorndil... it has been a very long time since the name of your realm was spoken. Let there be friendship and unity between us.
A familiar voice; something that this new world had not changed. His laughter came swift and carefree, ringing through the landscape before them; the purest song of the Silmellon, wordless joy.

Lady Sirithil, friendship there was and friendship there shall ever be between us. We ride with what speed is given to the steeds of the Silmellon, but Varnamilme lies far. I fear our meeting will be in a city of ruins.

(OOC: When was Menelmacar established as a realm; would Olorndil have known of that realm before Silmessë vanished from history?)


At the crash site of the Aelosian Transport…

Fírë fought the nausea as she felt the death surrounding the area. Silmellon, familiar faces that would never look up at her again, crushed beneath stone and metal.
Within the metal shell of the airship she felt more death; kin she would never come to know.

A flicker at the edge of her thoughts, life!
Moving as quickly as she could through the rubble, Fírë covered the distance separating her from that spark of life.
It seemed to take her forever. But at last, the final heap of wreckage scaled, she spotted the wounded Elda.

“Aaye,” she called to the woman. “I’m a healer among my people. My name is Fírë. I offer you all the help that I and my people can give you.”
Hesitantly, she waited to see if the Elda would accept her offer.
Her nerves tense; she could feel the woman’s pain. Shared it on a level that made it difficult for Fírë not to voice the scream trapped in the wounded figure’s throat.

The captain of the guard looked at the newcomer with surprise painted in her eyes. "You....you're an elf, a Noldorin by your looks, and you come to help us. Wh..where are the Fallen?, the Dark Eldars?. Please hel...p the Countess, she's...too young, and naive, she's alive...I can feel her presence nearby. Please find her and protect her...she's...too... important...search for...a red...dress. It's my duty!", said the horribly wounded soldier to Firë, grabbing her hand and coughing blood, her spark of life quickly fading, "Please take her away from the Dark Ones, sa...ve her".

As the captain said those words, quickly her hand got cold, and her face turned pale, the eyes looking at the empty void that was waiting for her at the other side of the Halls of Mandos.

Outside the transport, the elven maiden rose, still covered by the red rag that was her dress, screaming as she saw the corpses lying around the crash. But she couldn't hear her own scream, her hearing damaged beyond repair. The Sindarin names of her guards and friends echoed inside the transport...where Firë was holding the cold corpse of the captain.

A Nod as he read the note Galdern decided that it was likely best not to mention that the Dreamstone to the Eldar was not much of a gift. Although to thoseoutside of the Eldar it was, if only because they controlled production and sale of them. To the Eldar it was a vital part of their Childhood, although no symbolism was ment in it's giving.

'I thank you for this gift, between Kin the value of an item is not expressed in monetry gain but the emotion reason of the giving. You are a servent of you king then, a Rider, I would take it remisss of me to warn you that with the Fallen come to your lands your journeys will not be safe. Might I also ask where I might go next where you would advise my presence is best, for I would wish to meet with your King and tell him of the Evil that has come to these Lands, for of all that have came here, perhaps I am best able to explain.'

As he spoke Galderns face was almost unreadable, a Close look would show Crystal around his eyes, and fingers, a part of his Skin, it seemed to be in the process of growing, although at the moment no advance could be seen. Yet as he mentioned the Fallen a look of terrible sadness and hate crossed his Features, a look of someone who had seen something he could never forget, or forgive.

Fírë had no time to mourn the Elven woman’s passing.
She’d come too late to heal this woman; but even as she set her mind to undertaking the task that the dying captain of the vessel had placed on her, she heard the scream.

It was not easy to find her way through the rubble. Bodies that she glimpsed also had to be checked, just in case an ember of life lingered that she might fan back to life.
It took some time before she stumbled over broken stone and came into line of sight of a figure, a young Elda dressed in a badly ripped red dress.
Blood staining her flesh, melting into the fabric of her clothing, Fírë found herself frozen for a moment at the sight of her. The Countess.

“Arwen en amin,” she began, realised even as her senses drank in the details of the maiden’s wounds that she could not be heard. Trying to focus her mind, Fírë tried to project her thoughts to the Countess. Hoped that the pain the maiden felt would not block her attempts to reach her.
‘My Lady, I am Fírë. I mean you no harm. Allow me to give you what healing the arts of the Silmellon can provide.
As she spoke, her eyes flicked over the carnage, searched for signs that any of the twisted forms breathed yet.

One of the searchers she had come with scrambled over the broken ruins of a wall. Spotted her.

“Fírë, we have found survivors; Silmellon or those of the ship, it is difficult to tell,” he called to her.

She nodded in acknowledgement. Waited for the Countess and hoped that her skills would suffice, that she had strength enough to provide healing to those who yet clung to life.

On the grass plains outside of Varnamilme…

“I know little of what occurs within Silmessë now my Lord Galdern. I thank you for your warning, but I have a duty to the Lord Olorndil. I cannot turn away from Varnamilme now.” Ondarien shivered, eyes darting towards the city; taking in the smoke that rose into the air. The metal crafts that glittered and roared above it; dragons ready to breathe their flame.

He turned back to the Elda. “I was told when I delivered one of the King’s messages to such as you, to show the way to Aldaringwë, the royal city of Olorndil. It lies north of us. Your…craft,” Ondarien’s eyes strayed, found the metal ship. “It will carry you close to the city, but you will need to make the rest of the journey on foot as it lies deep in the heart of a vast forest, Lisselillassië.”

Bending down, fingers moving deftly through the grasses, Ondarien quickly wove a map. The lay of the land expertly revealed, even to the degree where the colours were apparent. He pointed to the edge of his design. “This is Varnamilme and here,” his fingers travelled, “is Aldaringwë. Once you enter the forest of the ornemalin, you will be known. The trees there still speak to one another and the Lord of the Silmellon will hear of your coming.”

He rose, a breeze already stirring through the tangle of grasses; unravelling the map. In a smooth move, Ondarien mounted Súlamen, whispered gentle words to the stallion.
“I must leave you here Lord Galdern,” he said to the Elda. “But hope that we are destined to meet again.”
From the advantage point above Galdern, Ondarien glimpsed the glitter within his eyes; tried to solve the mystery of them and failed.

In the Crash Site:

The Countess looked at Firë with surprise, feeling the warm and soft thoughts of the healer inside her own mind, comforting her and easing her pain, her sorrow. "Namárië, namárië, beautiful angel. I want to go home, tell me that all of this it's a lie, nobody is dead, no?, they're just acting", said the Countess, a very young maiden by her looks. She ran to the place Firë was standing and hugged her, crying like a baby. She had two ribs and her left ankle broken, and a serious wound in her head.

In the skies of Silmessë:

"We don't have a clear target, those damn Fallen are hiding behind civilian buildings, we can't fire. Cowards!, come out where I can see you!", said a voice through the comm link in the cockpit of the airplane. The leader f the squadron pressed a button, sending a message to his men. "Protect the perimeter of the crash site, enter hover mode. We will patrol the zone until our commandos rescue all the survivors".

"You and me know that there's no survivors down there. I have seen crashes like that before", said another voice through the radio.

"Maybe, but it's our duty to check it out. Remember that the Countess is somewhere down there, and she's the little sister of the leader of the Great House of Paelisi. Even if she's dead, she deserves to rest with the rest of her forefathers in her homeland", answered the leader.

Nodding his Understanding of the Map even as the Radio came to life, and the voice of the Captain came over the Radio.
'Farseer we cannot guarentee your safty of you take to the air in the Transport, I am already Stretched thin as it is up here, Fifty Vampire-Fighters are engaging the Fallen along with Allied forces and another Twenty are preparing to escort the Seer Transports in, I can't spare any Fighters to escort you!' The voice was pleading, if a Farseer was harmed on his watch, if a Farseer was killed on one of his Transports, the Shame would stain his soul, dishonour his name.

'Captain I will take that chance we will be safe I can assure you, I am more than able to protect my own Transport from Fallen.' Galderns reply was simple and direct, yet a sensitive person may have noted that as he spoke, the winds where changing around Galdern as he began to pull strands of fate together and weave a new pattern, one safer. As he did so the Crystal began to come to life, and Spread further from his Fingers now it edged ever so slowly further along his Body, it looked excruiating but Galdern seemed unfazed.

'I thank you for this guidance Kin, go with Ishars Peace, yet may Khaine bring Death to those that may harm you.' With that Galdern turned once more to his Transport and prepared to depart for the Forests and the Royal city within. He wondered what these Speaking woods would behold, would it be like walking amongest the Dome or something different.

((OOC Doh forgot to put this))

Soon after the exchange between Galdern and the Carrier in Orbit, they departed. A small force Twenty five Craft, Twenty of which where their Escort cutting through the skys over Silmesse, in the other five where Seers, whose simple job would be to create the entrances for the force of Tor Yvresse, the Aspect Warriors who even now where readying themselves.

The Fighters weaved in the atmosphere skirting as close to the combat zone as they dared, but avoiding the worst of it, for the passengers they carried would be vulnerable when they landed, they on the whole where not fighters, although each Transport did contain a warlock. They where engineers, in a sense, but they brought with them the means for an entire Army to deploy.

The Escort did not care that the ground below it was likely empty of any Fallen they took no chances as they opened fire clearing a Patch of ground of anything that might threaten their prescious Cargo, the energy of the Las-Guns scorched away vast tracts of lands, as the Transports landed and the Eldar within disembarked and set to work, it would not take long as reality bended around the group and something stired, the universe was bent, a hole was created then plugged with something else, a gateway began to form in the air, a swirl of energy.

((Today's episode of Slaughter in Paradise will be accompanied by an appropriately themed selection. A work by Pink Floyd, by the name of Dogs of War. Please make sure your seats are locked in the full upright position, and enjoy the in-flight show. Furthermore, the white-faced things in this picture (http://www.gamesworkshop.com/40kuniverse/citadelminiatures/darkeldar/darkeldar_HQ/DarkEldarLordandIncubi.htm) are Incubi. Rath wears incubus armor, so that's what he looks like.))

Dogs of war, and men of hate
With no cause, we don't discriminate.
Discovery is to be disowned,
Our currency is flesh and bone.

Six Incubi step from the portal mere moments after Atherakhia's body begins cooling. The first one to reach Rath looks down at the corpse for a moment, then back at his leader.

"The beast in the Webway is dead. Three of our comrades fell before it," the incubus says.

"Close the portal, Master Incubus. The situation here must be salvaged immediately. " Rath replies. A few moments later, the protal closes with a soft sucking sound, and the Incubus Master clips the small wraithbone disk to his belt.

"Shuttle... Are you receiving this?" Rath's voice is muted through his helm: the external speakers are off.

"Record and rebroadcast my words on every military and civillian channel you can get your hands on, at my mark. Mark:

I am Kher Rath le'Sheya. Some of you know my name. Some do not. The violence in the city was a mistake. A fatal mistake; the sybarite who gave the order to attack was killed by my blade. You will discontinue your attacks on my forces. I will not hesitate to unleash the wrath of my race upon this world should you continue. Mark."

Hell opened up and put on sale
Gather round and haggle.
For hard cash, we will lie and deceive.
Even our masters don't know the webs we weave.

"Transmitting, my Lord," come sthe silent reply over the dark eldar's communications gear, the pilot's voice obscured by popping interference.

Invisible transfers, and long-distance calls,
Hollow laughter in marble halls.
Steps have been taken, a silent uproar,
Has unleashed the dogs of war.

A gesture and a glance bring the incubi to Rath's side and out the mouth of the alley. They pick their way down the street like deadly machines among the primitive peoples. The group walks unafraid of reprisal, of even their own deaths. Each is a hard man; each an embodiment of walking death; each colder than the void, and more nimble than a laughing flame. They are the elite of the dark eldar, the greatest warriors of the hedonistic society that birthed them.

You can't stop what has begun.
Signed, sealed, they deliver oblivion.
We all have a dark side, to say the least
And dealing in death is the nature of the beast.

The party makes its way towards the harbor of the city as casually as if out for a stroll. In the streets and back ways around them, the dark eldar warriors travel. Fleet of foot and mind, they shadow the steps of their great lord, the Incubus-Archon, clearing the streets in a (relatively... ok, just nonfatally) peaceful manner, as befitting a diplomatic envoy and his guards.

The dogs of war won't negotiate
The dogs of war won't capitulate.
They will take, and you will give,
and you must die so that they may live.
You can knock at any door,
But wherever you go, you know they've been there before.
Winners can lose, and things can get strange.
But whatever you change, you know the dogs remain.

((Today's episode of Slaughter in Paradise

((Oh dear, and yes, this is meant to be a very short post, they will get longer, I pormise, this is just a trailer if you will.))

Meanwhile, unimaginably far away, repairs were completed, and preparations were made. The Harbinger of Doom had also returned to the universe...

"Did he said what?", asked the Admiral as he listened the message, playing the recording again. I am Kher Rath le'Sheya. Some of you know my name. Some do not. The violence in the city was a mistake. A fatal mistake; the sybarite who gave the order to attack was killed by my blade. You will discontinue your attacks on my forces. I will not hesitate to unleash the wrath of my race upon this world should you continue.

"A mistake?. Well, for Isha's sake!. I need to know if those Dark Eldar are native population or raiders looking for another place to enslave. Without that information our hands are tied!, send scouts, track them down, do something!, and bring back my cousin!", he yelled to the rest of the officers.

"Sire, the Tor Yvressian Forces have landed, and Lady Sirithil herself is in this nation, I have tracked her personal transport. The bad news is that Incubi are pouring into the city", said the deep tracking operator.

"Prepare for invasion. I want an entire division down there, launch the fighters first, we need to achieve aerial superiority. Then send the dropships", said the Admiral, pressing several buttons in his console.

"What will we send?", asked the Vice Admiral, checking the list of the troops ready to disembark.

"Send five thousand infantry, and fifteen Falcon Gravtanks to cover them. Send all the elites, Swooping Hawks, Striking Scorpions, the Shadow Dragon Combat Droids and the Dark Reapers. That will be the first wave"

"What about the WraithGuard?", asked the another elf.

"Not yet, we will use them only in a desperate situation. Send the Warp spiders too, we will need all firepower we could muster".

Kemenixë , in a Chamber beneath the Arinoronti Mountains…

Undómëfal at last felt the great seed to be complete.
It glowed; clouded glass, silver and sheen, rainbows and frost.
Though its voice was muted, flawed. It had yet to weave the many threads she and the Coirëamírë had fed into it, together. To make of it a single voice. Music to rival any that she had heard in the past.

“I will make light, where it has gone out,” she whispered. In her mind’s eye a face stared back at her, features cold and stern. ‘You could never know what I have known,’ his expression implied.

“Arrogant fool,” she told the memory.

Taking up her slender hammer, Undómëfal listened for the song of silver; found a strong vein that ran deep into the Arinoronti and summoned all her strength and art into focus.
The room brightened for a moment as the hammer fell. Her concentration bore a scent, iron; blood.
The silvered tool struck the stone floor of the chamber, a tremor rippled outwards, and beneath her blow the rock opened up.

Taking the brilliant seed into her hands, she touched it to the bared Coirëamírë on her chest; saw the flare of spirit passing between the two.
Then let the seed drop.
Vanish into the shadows of the hole she had made in the chamber floor.

Deep within the earth, she heard the seed take root; crawling tendrils through the silver vein. There was mithril there, gold and lesser metals for the seed to consume.
Soon, something even he of her memories could never have conceived, would be born.


In Varnamilme, beside the wreck of the Aelosian Transport…

(OOC: whimpers at the thought of anyone with a broken ankle, fractured ribs and head trauma running anywhere…)

Fírë soothed the girl as best she could.
Wishing that she could have shielded the young maiden from the sight of her friends and companions; twisted, broken, dead.

’I’m sorry,’ she told the Countess. ’I cannot tell you that your eyes lie and I cannot mend the hurt to your heart and your spirit. These are things that only you and time can heal. But it is within my power to take away the pain of flesh and bone.’

To her senses, the wounds on the young Elven girl glowed, throbbed. They were extensive, but not beyond her skills.

’We cannot linger here,’ Fírë glanced up at the skies, found that the smoke made it impossible to get a clear view of the heavens. But she could hear the approaching vessels and wondered if they would soon be disgorging more black lightning, or worse, Dark Eldar. ’The healing will not be swift. You will fall into sleep and I do not know when you will wake again. It may be hours, it may be days.’ She hoped that the Countess understood all that she said. Through the tears it was hard to tell if the girl’s eyes were alert.

’If you choose the healing child,’ Fírë smiled reassuringly at her, [i]’the Silmellon will watch over you until you wake. No further harm will come to you.’

(OOC: Exactly how old is the Countess?)



The grass plains, outside of Varnamilme…

Ondarien urged Súlamen towards the white city; wondering if the old towers still stood. Obscured in smoke, it was difficult to tell how badly Varnamilme fared.

He did not turn, or look back at the strange Lord Galdern. To look back would loose him the last of his courage; turn him away from his duty.
Instead he thought only of finding the Lord of the port city, of delivering his message of hope. It seemed that Varnamilme, of all the settlements of the Silmellon would need hope most.



Varnamilme…

From shadows, the Silmellon archers of the white city, considered the terribly garbed Dark Eldar as they made their way towards the Arch of Stars and the Tienyalossë leading down to the great piers of the harbour.

’It will not do,’ Armon, commander of the archers of Varnamilme told his scattered troops. ’Whoever holds the Arch of Stars, holds the harbour below. Whatever our sacrifice, we must prevent the Dark Eldar from reaching Tienyalossë, the great white steps.’



On the Pier, beside the Menelmacari Vessel…

Lord Falastur’s head tilted slightly as he listened to a voice threading through his thoughts. Armon.

“Lady Sirithil,” his eyes grew wide. “The Dark Eldar are closing on the Arch of Stars. If they take the high ground, we will not be safe here. There are Silmellon archers closing on the position now…but I fear they will fare badly against those armed as these-” He broke off, overwhelmed by the strength of his emotion.

OOC: What happened? I go away for a while and war breaks loose!?! :shock:

In the Crash Site:

(OOC: Let's say it's force of will, I have seen similar cases in real life. And she's very young, maybe 150 years old)

The Countess looked at Firë, nodding in understanding, grabbing Firë's clothes hard, sobbing. Then she blacked out, the effort too hard for her young and delicate body, her mind refusing to accept more suffering, both physical and mental, her body falling to the floor inconscious.

The grey silouette of an Aelosian Dropship passed just above the crash site, several figures jumping out of it as the plane left. The figures had a pair of wings attached to their backs, giving them the aspect of great prey birds.

Soon the figures glided down, the silouettes of the Aelosian Swooping Hawks slowly becoming visible. They landed perfectly, touching the ground silently.

http://www.gamesworkshop.com/40kuniverse/citadelminiatures/eldar/eldar_Fast_Attack/images/swoopinghawks.gif
Aelosian Swooping Hawks.

Three of the figures, their sky blue armor shining, approached the destroyed transport, their heavy rifles aimed at the surroundings, searching for hostiles.

Four of them surrounded the area, making a defensive perimeter. Finally the one that looked like the leader landed near Firë and the body of the Countess. The man aimed with the rifle at the healer, the metallic voice sounding from beneath his helmet, "Who are you?, raise your hands in the air, NOW!", he shouted in Sindarin to Firë, pointing at her with the barrel of his rifle. She don't looks like a Fallen, maybe a slave?. She could be a disguised assassin too, said the Hawk's captain to himself.

Near Varnamilme, in front of the Manmen advance:

The sky was filled with the silouettes of the Aelosian Dropships, coming down, full of troops ready for the invasion. They landed a kilometer ahead of the Manmen's Incubi advance. As soon as the hatches of the transport opened hundreds of troops came out, readying their equipment and checking their weapons. Several squads of Dire Avengers, the standard corsair troopers of the Aelosian Navy, spreaded out and tried to search the best cover available. The Dropships prepared their own defenses, laser batteries and ShadowBolt automated weapons, expecting the arrival of the Dark Eldar. The buzzing sound of several assault bikes echoed through the air, as the fast machines were turned on.

"We're ready, let's find out if the Dark Eldar are the native population before we blast these buildings", said the commander of the ground forces, an officer dressed with a bright red wraithbone armor.

"Don't be stupid, no Fallen would build this structures, they look like our own architecture before we moved to the stars. This is an elven country, and the Dark Eldar are invading them, trying to enslave them, as usual", said the Exarch of the Striking Scorpions, admiring the buildings. "This people must be protected, not attacked. Send a message to the high command, tell them that don't initiate any hostile actions against the native population".

"Who you think you are?, I'm the leader of this expedition!", exclaimed the officer, looking at the green helmet of the Scorpion Exarch. "Am I right?, then follow my advise. I was alive when our Kingdom of Doriath still existed, and believe me, these are elven buildings, High elves buildings", just answered the Exarch, in a emotionless tone of voice.

The officer just gave him a last gaze, and pressed a button on the wrist of his armor "This is Fhianna, we have some really good news about the native population..."

OOC: What happened? I go away for a while and war breaks loose!?! :shock:

OOC: Well, historically, that's tended to happen when a people at a more advanced level of technology have met those whose technology is relatively unsophisticated...

As the Seers ended the ritual the gate was established, and they emerged, much less in number than that which the Aelosians brought down, they where never the less enough. Over a Hundred of the Shining Spears emerged first They could almost be Knights of old, if it where not that the ends of the Lances the bore where made of light and they where mounted on Bikes that seemed to hover off the ground.

Next came the WraithLord It's huge Metal form was two maybe three times larger than a man, deep inside this machine lay a soul, a Personality long dead he had been placed within the Wraithlord now. Then came the Grav Tank, above a Turret swiveled as Twin guns where raised and lowered. Again this machine Hovered above the ground. Last of all came the Aspect Warriors, One Hundred had been sent, Twenty five of them where Banshees, women whose lithe Forms seemd to leap and duck, every move seemed a perfect balance of speed and sureness. Another Twnety where Swooping hawks who raised above the main force and went quickly to join their Aeosian Brothers in arms.

The reminder where split amongest the various aspects. Only a small scouting force, but they would it was thought be enough to rid this land of the Fallen, and gain a measure of vengence.

The message from the Fallen was quickly tuned out. Necroplois was all that they cared about, vengece would be theres for that day.

The Aelosian looked amazed at the small but elite force of Tor Yvresse, greeting them with open arms. Several of the Aelosian soldiers watched amazed as the Wraithlord towered over the battlefield, the powerful form as an ancient god protecting the Eldar.

The officer in charge approached the Tor Yvressian commander, followed by the Scorpion Exarch. "Had you contacted the native population?, our new directives is to keep them safe and avoid any harm to them or their buildings. We're expecting to engage the Incubi soon, but several of my men are scared, they have never faced our Dark Cousins".

"Speak for yourself, we have nothing to fear, they're just elves and nothing more", said the Exarch, snapping his Scorpion Claw and extending his hand to the Yvressian commander as a salute.

"Sire, the message seems to have had no effect. The dropships - "
"I saw the dropships," Rath growls.

The party stops in the street for a moment as Rath considers his next course of action.

"Shuttle. As before. Mark:

I thought that my Kin had more sense than the blind mon-keigh. I see now that it is not so. Mark."

"Recorded. Your orders, my Lord?" responds the pilot.

"I saw a forest to the north of this city. That will do for a suitable demonstration," Rath says, his thoughts distant.

"The gunnery captain of Blade's Kiss says that he sees it."

"He may fire at will. Tell Blade's Kiss to summon Death's Respite and its escorts. Send every available fighter of the Kabal in the system into the Web and bring them here. I shall need them before long, I think."

"Aye."

-----------------------------------------------------------

High above the blue world with its mottled cloud cover, the star field ripples for a moment as the energies hiding the Blade's Kiss are disturbed. Nothing seems to happen for several long moments as the energy fields roil, calm, and return to quiesence.

A nuber of great black shafts pierce the lapis sky over the forest. The massive dark lances of the ship stab at the ground and trees, mercilessly clawing at the very flesh of the earth. The barrage does not last long, less than a minute, but the black beams are infused with nearly unimaginably destructive energy.


---------------------------------------------------------

Somewhere between Earth and Mars, Death's Respite disengages from its errand. It leaves the shuttle behind to complete the transfer as invisible fingers reach out into the void, tearing open a passage from this universe into the Warp. Then, it is gone, and the breach is sealed.


----------------------------------------------------------

"It is done, my lord."

"I know, I could see it from here. Tell the captain to train his guns upon the harbor, should a second demonstration become necessary, and to keep an eye out for Kionash ships, and to stay hidden. The Respite will arrive soon, and they will probably decide to... welcome it properly. The fools."

"As it is your will, so shall it be done."

Rath leads his incubi towards one of the houses lining the street. Once, and twice, and again, the door of the home suffers the touch of the terrible glaives known as Punishers; the party forces its way inside, to begin comandeering the building from its rightful owners. They are not excessively violent towards the unfortunate civillians, but will not tolerate resistance either.

The scattered nimbus coalesces around the building, and enters.

"Sire, we have detected Ortillery firing against ground objetives. We have tracked a Dark Eldar vessel in the orbit, that fired alot of Dark Lances against a forest north of the position of our ground troops", shouted the operator as a red light invaded all the bridge of the Nimloth.

"Assume battle positions now, first approach the enemy's ship, then launch a volley of torpedoes towards them. Prepare the Dark Matter Cannons, we will make a demonstration of our newfound power", says the Admiral.

The Nimloth, a huge VoidStalker Class Flagship, steered towards the position of the Blade's Kiss.

Information was relayed across a complex web, spanning hidden installations across the solar system, most of them mere listening posts buried in asteroids. Finally, it reached the necron Shroud Class ship, Dead Air, coasting inert in the Oort Cloud. For a moment the ship lived. It sang a brief pico-second burst of data into the void of interstellar space.
_________________

Far away, aboard the ship of the Yngir until recently owned by the entity known as Kaelis Ra, by the eldar at least, the message was received - and understood.

In the darkened sepulchre of the craft, the C'tan called the 'messenger' was busy overseeing customisations to the craft, most notably ousting its previous artificially intelligent program and replacing it with one from his now, physically at least, destroyed flagship Reaper of Light.

A flat pseudo-surface flashed into existnace behind him. He turned to look at it, waving his hand to activate it. An artificial voice echoed through the room, announcing the message's source "Timestamp 26231503 - 242 - 11 - 12, Message Intercept, Necron Lord, I-12 Class, Model 1. Priority; High, 82%."

Next a hateful voice came, "I am Kher Rath le'Sheya. Some of you know my name. Some do not. The violence in the city was a mistake. A fatal mistake; the sybarite who gave the order to attack was killed by my blade. You will discontinue your attacks on my forces. I will not hesitate to unleash the wrath of my race upon this world should you continue."

"Pause" cut the voice of the 'messenger.' He contemplated for a moment, "Continue."

The pseudo screen showed the three dimensionally extrapolated view from the same necron lord some time later, in the foreground several elves could be seen, one of whom he recognised, even from behind, as the famed Lady Sirithil nos Fëanor. In the distance a forest was visible. The same spiteful voice could be heard, "I thought that my Kin had more sense than the blind mon-keigh. I see now that it is not so."

Spears of darkness could be seen falling from the sky, helpfully annotated with data estimating energy velocity, and origin. Most of the elves in the foreground could be seen to flinch at the explosions in the distance. In his mind, this was shaping up to be an excellent opportunity to resolve the 'dark' eldar situation finally. "Increase speed to 'ludicrous'" he ordered the ship. In the background, the engines could be heard changing their barely audible tone in the distance.

The Wreck of the Aelosian Transport…

Fírë considered the strangely garbed figures, frowned at the words spilling past their masks. She gave them only brief attention.

“You invade the land of the Silmellon,” she told them calmly. “It is perhaps destiny. Long ago the Noldor fought their Teleri kin; to our shame therein lie the origins of the Silmellon. But know that nothing good will come of this war on the Eldar of Silmessë.”

She knelt down beside the maiden; wondered if the figures confronting her would allow either of them to live. But of greatest concern to her was the fact that the Elven woman was now unconscious.
“I am a healer,” she said aloud, eyes fixed on the Countess. “You can bring only death. I will not let your shadow pass over this one.”

'Wake child, wake,' her thoughts tried to find a spark of consciouness within the maiden's mind. 'You cannot rest now, with this wound to your head, it is dangerous.'

Focused, all the world seemed to fade away. Fírë knew nothing, but the darkness that settled round her patient; she fought against it. Wove healing into flesh and bone; hoped she had acted in time.

Sirithil frowned grimly to Falastur. "Get aboard Gilthoniel, hurry! The Fallen will kill without thought or mercy. We can allow your king to board when he arrives. Until then, they will not dare take but a step down the white stairs with Star-kindler's guns looking to live up to their vessel's name."

She urged Maglor aboard, followed by the two soldiers and Falastur, and herself last; well, not quite - Herufiriemmolië refused to board until Sirithil had.

[OOC: I'm going to assume Falastur boards the ship.]

Once all were aboard, the hatch was closed, though the staircase remained, for the benefit of Olorndil upon his arrival. The many turrets of the gravship swivelled menacingly towards the cliffs, focusing especially on the stairs - it would be a gauntlet of death for any Fallen to pass down them.

http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/nationstates/sirithil/sirithilnosfeanor.gifLady Sirithil nos Fëanor
Elentári of the Eternal Noldorin Empire of Menelmacar
Regent of Lavenrunz, Chancellor of CENNA
"We have known freedom's price. We have shown freedom's power. We will see freedom's victory."
~US President George W. Bush
We Love the Iraqi Information Minister (http://www.welovetheiraqiinformationminister.com)
Clicky-clicky!

Within Lisselillassië, the Royal enclosure of Minyamár…

A blackened scar was all that remained where three magnificent ornemalin trees had stood.
Alassënyelle contemplated them from an open corridor, wondering if the Silmellon who had lived among the powerful boughs had known pain in death.
Destruction had come so quick, yet the smell still hung on the air many hours after the black bolt had fallen.
And the whispers of trees had become an eerie silence; the golden curtains of sunlight, a little darker.
Lisselillassië knew for the first time, anger and it was a difficult thing to bear.

From Minyamár, the Lady of the Silmellon had felt the black bolts strike other parts of the forest and with quick thought had urged her people to seek the scorched earth.
There must be no threat of flame. The forest had suffered enough.
Silmessë was incomparably young, the aged world seemed worn to Alassënyelle’s senses as she set them adrift. Here, these scars would soon be quickened and restored.
In the world at large, how life must struggle to reclaim what darkness corrupted.
But the trees themselves had been forever changed.
As she and the Silmellon of Aldaringwë listened, waited for the trees to talk among themselves, Alassënyelle reached for Olorndil.

They have struck at Lisselillassië, at the royal city of our father Orn. Ride hard, ride fast to the Lady Sirithil or our time in this age may well be brief. The forest is silent Olorndil and angered, let their anger be also your anger.

[OOC: I'm going to assume Falastur boards the ship.]



(OOC: Yes, thanks Siri...Falastur aboard the ship!
Erm...what about the thousand odd Silmellon who came down with him to greet the Eldar of your vessel? :shock: )

The Captain of the Swooping Hawks looked at Firë, amazed of the self-confident and regal tone of her voice. "You're not a Fallen, you're an Eldar", he said, lowering his weapon and removing his mechanized helmet.

His face was fair and handsome, the face of an ancient elf, one that has seen many ages. His bright blue eyes looked to Firë, his clear features showing his Sindarin heritage, "You don't understand, we're not invaders, we're...visitors. We came here sent by the Imperial Chancellor to know about the elves of Silmessë. I need that you let me take away the Countess. She's injured, and this place is not longer secure. I need to take her to a safe place, that's all I want to do", he said in Quenya, using the language of the High cousins, dropping his weapon to his side and raising a hand in the air, as to calm down Firë.

"You're in danger too, a vermin of corrupted eldar known as Fallen is invading your country. They're slavers and enemies of elvenkind. Eldar, Noldor and Sindar alike are united against them. We're warriors from the proud Sindarin Empire of Aelosia, the heirs of the Kingdom of Doriath. I'm Fëlan nos Daeron, and my father was born in Alqüalonde, of the line of the Teleri. And we're here to rescue our fallen comrades, we're not your enemies. You should come with me, and let me save the Countess", said the soldier with a perfect enunciation of words.

"What is she doing?, Commander?", asked the other soldier, still aimig with his rifle. "She...she's using curative magic, as only the most powerful of our kin can use it. She's healing the Countess. And put your weapon away from her, for Eru's sake!" answered the captain.

Blade's Kiss comes about, moving very much like a smaller vessel. Its starboard dips a little as the pilot brings it up and around in a tight, arching turn that a vessel of Blade's size simply shouldn't be able to perform. The huge night shield that hides the ship makes it a mere dark blotch of emptiness against the starry backdrop.

In the same moment that the Blade completes the maneuver, a dozen angry red portals between this universe and the Warp tear open. Each is a seething gateway to that realm of impossible evil, and from each emerges the prow of a Dark Eldar vessel.

Eleven of the new arrivals are of the somewhat smaller Corsair escorts, but one is a Torture-class cruiser, like the Blade. It is Death's Respite and its escorts, an entire flight of craft from the Kabal's navy assets. As one, the thirteen ships turn to meet the Aelosian Void Stalker. In the true Dark Eldar fashion, their dark lances speak at the moment Nimloth comes into range, a massive fullisade of half-aimed shots, meant to destroy by sheer weight of fire rather than careful sniping.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Planetside, as the light of the dark day begins to wane, the webway portal has been set up again. All the forces that had been committed to the fight against New Facsim were redirected out through it. The army splinters into dozens of smaller tasks forces that slip out of the city through the alleys and back ways, under the cover of the growing darkness.

"My Lord, the aerial attacks have ceased, though whether that is from the hour or our demonstration is unknown. The Kionashi infantry and armor have not moved -"

"Bring the talos out next," Rath interrupts the Incubus, "Prepare a force of talos and warriors, should the Kionash eldannar decide that they enjoy dying."

"Yes, sire," mews the subservient fighter.

"Also, get a white sheet from a local and give it to a warrior, send him out to the harbor - make sure the sheet is visible. He is to tell the Kin that I will speak to the representatives of this nation, and of any nationality represented in the harbor."

"As it is your will, so shall it be done."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Waving a white skirt stuck onto the bayonette of her rifle, the volunteered warrior mounts the white steps before the harbor. She is armed only with the rifle; her pistol, knives, and agoniser have been left behind as inappropriate for a diplomatic mission. Her helmet, too, has been removed.

((If Siri bothers to look closely before shooting, she'll notice a very, very striking resemblance to Mieka in this warrior.))

It was time they had greeted their friends in Aelosia and now they readied themselves for battle. The hawks began the first wave of the attack they flew silently towards their target expecting any moment to be met by fire from the surface and from foes in the air, but now was not the time to worry, their mission was simple they where to locate Fallen hunting parties for the rest of the Yvressian forces.

In the streets the Shining spears began to hunt the Fallen even as the Fallen hunted others, Directed from above they stayed together all One hundred swerving down streets and round corners, over buildings in some cases. Scanners hunting aiding the Hawks in the air, behind them came the Falcon and it's small cargo, while elsewhere smaller teams of Aspect warriors starked the streets in groups of ten, the Banshees where hunting much like the Spears. The Webgate was the only place where Eldar stayed still guarding the entrance so that reserves could be called upon.

The streets had turned into a maze and Kin sought Kin, for repayment of debts old and new.

Space

The fallens fleet emerged from the Warp to engage the Aelosians but that was not all they would face, for the Void Stalkers of Tor Yvresse turned as one upon the Fallen and fell upon them, as a pack they hunted, and as such they sought out a single vessel attempting to isolate it from the main force and batter it's hull. This was a deadly dance as both relied upon Holo-fields shots missed more than they hit, and lances of energy could be seen dissapearing into the darkness of the void. Still it was not yet fully joined as the reminder of the Tor Yvresse fleet had yet to arrive.

Galdern's Journey


The Forest seemed silent to Galdern, different to his home to the Dome, yet he sensed something a stillness he had not felt since Necropolis, it was not the same he could tell. That silence had been caused by the utter destruction of the voices this seemed, a silence of loss. Still he was approaching the place told to him, and possibly the place of answers.

The Wreck of the Aelosian Transport…

Fírë did not look up until her task was done.
When she rose, she knew that only the Countess herself could do the rest.

“I have done everything within my power for her,” she said, at last looking upon the face of Fëlan. “I do not imagine any could do more now. Only time can tell if she will fully recover. Her wounds were…terrible.”

She glanced over her shoulder, sensed her companions and the wounded they tended.

“I am certain that the Lord of the Silmellon would have you count us among those who would stand against these dark Eldar Fëlan,” she said. Offered a tired smile. “I thank you for your offer, but I could not go with you. There are more wounded on the other side of this fallen…airship. Some may be your own people.” She looked up at him, eyes imploring. “Would you not come with me? We will need help to move the injured Eldar. There are but a few who dared leave their homes. Perhaps we could bring them aboard the safety of your ships. Only then could I go with you.”


Aboard the Gilthoniel…

Falastur found the interior of the great mithril-ship more beguiling than the exterior.
But before he allowed his mind to become engrossed in studying what he could see of it, he mind spoke with Armon.

‘Retreat to Fánatar,’ he told the commander of Varnamilme’s archers. ‘Hold it against all invasion. Gather the people of the city within its walls.’

To the Silmellon who had gathered on the pier, he wove words that all could hear.

Make haste to Fánatar, use the passageways we delved long ago, before the great white steps were carved into the cliffs.’

Then a final message, one that Falastur had to send much further.

Olorndil, the Lady Sirithil and I await you aboard her craft, the Gilthoniel. Do not come by Tienyalossë. They are watched by darker beings than were meant to walk in the light. Come through Fánatar, the old muinarotto.’

He sighed. He had done all that he could.
Now the Lord of Varnamilme could only wait and hope.

The Nimloth received the first salvo of Dark Lances, the Holofields deflecting almost all the fire with ease. Two of the lances tore apart parts of the huge ship's hulk, damaging part of the starboard weaponry.

"That was the fire from their escorts, for sure the cruiser is awaiting to deliver the fional blow", said the ViceAdmiral in the Bridge.

"I have fought against Dark Eldar before, and they're trying to surround us. They're using lance weaponry, that's not going to do too much damage to this ship, but I'm afraid of the effect of the standard laser batteries", said the Admiral, pointing to the stellar map.

"Use of the power of the engines, put the ship in their flank, and fire with the starboard batteries. Launch our fighters to protect us from the bombers, the torpedoes and the assault boats. All armament in those cruisers is placed in the prow, and they can fire only to the front. If we outmanouver them, we can stand a chance".

The Void Stalker moved, and placed in the right flank of the cruiser, the sides of the huge vessels almost touching each other, then the Nimloth opened its gun platforms and delivered a huge laser battery salvo against the Dark Eldar Cruiser in close range.

The rest of the Aelosian Task Force, four Shadow Class Cruisers, escolted by Hemlock Destroyers and Aconyte Frigates appeared behind the lines of the Dark Eldar's escorts, starting to hunt the smaller vessels of the fallen with their ordnance.

In the ground:

The Aelosian line entrenched in their positions, waiting for the Tor Yvressian to atract the Fallen to their line, hoping to trap them between the hard anvil of the Aelosian line and the powerful hammer of the Tor Yvresse elite force.

The GravTanks joined the lines of Guardians and Dire Avengers in making the strong defense of the entrance, the sound of the Grav engines unnerving to those not accustomed to it.

In Aldaringwë…

Alassënyelle felt the approaching figure before she spotted him.
Though the ornemalin trees were silent and could carry no word to her, the Lady of the Silmellon was not without her own means of gathering intelligence.

And Galdern was watched long before he drew close enough to Aldaringwë to see the silver frosted weaves of the city, threading through the trees.
Alassënyelle had felt no shadow on him.
Against Calanto’s advice she’d allowed the Elda to move closer to the royal city. Had waited for him to come close enough to glimpse the edges of the vast tree city, before reaching out; weaving her voice into a breeze.
(A breeze that had not been able to stir the leaves of the trees, those voices wished to remain silent still.)

“Come forward only if you are friend,” Alassënyelle said. Her voice threading into the air, as though the breeze were now an extension of her throat. “Once you pass into the city of Aldaringwë, do not turn from your course. Minyamár
lies at the heart of the Tree City. There, the Lady of the Silmellon will wait for you.”


Between Lisselillassië and Varnamilme…

The day was drawing to a close.
Exhausted from a day’s hard riding, Olorndil dismounted and called a halt.
His companions quickly began to prepare meals and set up camp.

On the morrow, they would reach their destination and the destiny of the Silmellon would surely be revealed.
Considering the dire news from his sister, Olorndil hoped the Lady Sirithil would have answers for him. Answers that could restore Silmessë.
The other news that troubled him, was from Falastur. Varnamilme faired badly against these beings the Lord of the White City said should not have ever walked in the light. Moriquendi.

In silence the Lord pondered what fate held in store for him and for his people.

Behind Fëlan, a smaller transport landed, with the rune of Elbereth painted in red over the white hull. "I have no words to thank you. You have saved the Countess, protected and healed her. My duty is now easier thanks to your help. And you did this without knowing who was she, or what we wanted in this country. By your looks I know that you're an Elf of Valinor, one of our High Cousins. You helped to save my honor, it's my responsability to help you now."

Several elves dressed in white left the transport, carrying strange equipment, but no weapons. "They came to take care about the Countess, but I will convince them of helping you and your people, they're healers like you. And about myself, I will swear in the name of the Valinor's trees to protect you until the Fallen leave this lands, or die trying. Let me help you", Félan said to Firë, walking to her.

The deceiver watched several necron lords sitting in the bridge of the vast and almost mythical starship of the nightbringer, they had been awakened to give the impression of less advanced ship-board AI. The stars streaked back into points, and the starsystem up ahead rushed into focus. A moment later the ship was in orbit of the earth, high above the nation of Silmessë. "I am detecting numerous vessels of eldar design in combat, some are of craftworld design, some are nonstandard configurations," said one of the necron lords, pressing entirely pointless buttons, his link to the ship was far more sophisticated than that.

"Hold here, target them all, but keep weapon power at minimal, and begin AV transmission, now," said the Deceiver, and the ship obliged, transmitting on the same frequencies as the dark eldar had been using moments ago cutting over the dark eldar signals, visually on those where that was commonplace, voice only where it was not.

His form was not at that moment anywhere near human, or elven, instead it was of a golden humanoid, much larger than normal, posessing an elongated head and heavy downward arching horns, swept back as some humans did their hair, with an elliptical groove set into the long expanse of its forehead. There was something slightly malevolent in the figure's smile, which seemed at once serene, but gave the impression of looking deep into the soul and findng something that amused it. Looming over its shoulder was another figure, a cloaked image of a pallid, wasted and almost skeletal figure, whose eyes smouldered like sulphur fire that told of terrible desires and hunger.

The first figure spoke, in the language of the eldar, "'Dark' eldar of the death's-hand Kabal. You will cease your attack here forthwith and discontinue this engagement, the same command is directed at the craftworld eldar, I am certain I do not need to explain the consequences of disobidience to either of you."

He paused for a moment, "Then you will both remove your ground forces from the planet below," he steepled his fingers in front of the almost fixed grin, "Or I will be forced to remove the toys from the nursery." The smile widened slightly "Then I expect 'Archon' Rath to transmit his location. I have much to discuss with him." He twitched his forefinger and the signal ended.

For merely a moment the Captain of the small Task force was tempted to give but a single reply, one that if it where sent in English would be the equivelent of stating 'Up Yours' but he paused, and formed a more polite reply.

'Yngir, do not interfere, this is matter of no concern to you, we do not fear one such as yourself, for we are not alone, never alone.'

As the message was transmitted the Immaterium opened once more and the rest of the Fleet emerged to take their place, Support craft launching to engage the Fallen and more Cruisers racing to join the fight.

'Come Yngir if you must, but understand we do not fear you.'

OOC more coming from Galdern soon

"It appears that a demonstration has become neccessery, to counter your - inadequate - respect," shot the response.

The Nightbringer's ship turned on the flagship of the Yvressi fleet, the name of which was Nemloth's Dance of Death, in eldar and fired with one of it's gauss whips, on almost minimal power. The area of effect was great enough to engulf the ship and all of its holofield generated illusions. Insane energies pulled at the ship, ripping layers of atoms from its surface.

The ship's armour protected it at this power setting, but that was not the intent. The delicate radiation sails and engines aboard the ship eroded to nothing under the assault, and as quickly as it began, it was over, and the Dance of Death was deprived of motive power.

"And as for fearing me, I would normally teach you how, but on this occassion, I have decided to be merciful, and leave your minds as they are," came the answer, "I hope that my lesson was effective..."

((OOC, Yup, I checked with Tor on IRC before calling casualties there.))

OOC just to confirm all the casulaties where checked with me))

The fleet was in chaos, desperatly seeking new orders as the Void Stalker was laid low, adrift in space. The Yngir had brought something new to the fight, and they where not ready to face it. They needed more time, it was not long before the Council was contacting the remaining forces.

'All vessels withdraw, all vessels withdraw to the Webgate, all ground forces continue with current orders but be prepared for the order to withdraw. Do not leave the hunting area, repeat do not leave the hunting grounds. We will return another day.'

Deep in the Dome the same fears where expressed, the need for the Talismans had increased, the Yngir had found themselves a weapon of awesome potential.

'We are agreed then the next fleet to be finished shall search the stars for the Talismans. prepare a full list of potentail locations, no matter how unlikely.'

The great crescent of the necron ship turned toward the 'Dark' Eldar ships, and waited for any response from them.

"So, the Reapers have awaken again", said the Admiral, looking through the pressurized glass at the moon like form of the Necron ship.

"Sire!, the Necron ship has disabled one of the Tor Yvresse's Void Stalkers!, and rest of the Yvressian ships are withdrawing", shouted one of the officers, looking as the green dots were dissapearing from the stellar map.

"So, they're abandoning us?, well, we will fight to the last consequences, or until the Dark Eldar disengages", answered the Admiral.

"Sire, Are you sure?, if all necron ships have that kind of firepower we're doomed", said the Vice Admiral, still recalling the lightning of energy that stroke the Yvressian ship.

"Yes, if down there it's nation of elves we must protect them from the Dark Eldar and Necron alike. It's our duty, even if we die trying. Send a message to the Necrons. We will not cease fire until the Dark Eldar disengages, and any hostile action against our fleets will be reponded with everything we got", said the Admiral, placing his finger over a big red button in the deck of his console. "And find me the codes, for the first time we're facing the potential destruction of this vessel. I will activate the Aelos Last Wish".

"Aelosian vessel, this ship has come to end the 'Fallen' bombardment of the nation below you, we have no intention of harming you or your vessel if you do not endanger the population below. If you would care to check, you will observe that there have been no casualties aboard the Yvressi ship," the irritatingly calm creature said in response to their hail, "If you discontinue combat with the 'Dark Eldar,' your warships may disengage at their leisure."

"Can we trust them?", asked the Vice Admiral after reading the message.

"Have we another options?. Just keep the Fallen vessels on target, but hold the fire. If they fire another Dark Lance, obliterate them with everything we got", said the Admiral, putting his finger away from the button. "If the Necrons are speaking true, they could end the war. Scan the Tor Yvresse vessel, if the crew is still alive, we will follow the Necron's orders".

The scene onboard the Nemloth Dance of Death II was one best described as ordered chaos. Men raced trying to gain some sort of thrust to begin withdrawing. Although there where indeed no casualties, a sense of panic was creeping into actions as men desperatly tried to withdraw from the area. How had this happened? they had faced the Yngir before and not been so treated, this could not be allowed to occur again that much they knew.

(OOC: Interesting turn of events... Will make my follow up posts tomorrow. :oops: )

"We have life lectures aboard the Tor Yvresse's vessel", said one of the operators.

"Then send a message to the Necron ship. We will stand by, waiting for instructions, but if the Dark Eldar ships fires just a single round, the inferno will be unleashed again", said the Admiral.

Like a school of fish distrubed by a thrown stone, the dark eldar ships scatter in all directions; they are almost instantly lost to sight against the infinite backdrop of the void. They hover at the extreme range of their weapons, circling Kin and Necron alike, hungry sharks waiting to feast upon death. Far below, the armies of the Kabal similarly evaporate. Some disappear into the buildings of the natives, others into the lands beyond the walls of the city, still others into the Web itself, until only Rath, his incubi, and the woman who very much resembles Mieka remain.

A hint of anger seeps into Rath, the taint of rage at the attack upon his Kin, betrayers and kinslayers though they might be. His mood is evidenced by the subtle tightening of his gauntlet upon the haft of N'wah Man, the almost inperceptibly aggressive tilt of his head.

"Tell the Deceiver that we are not without our methods again him. Tell him we know the locations of both another tomb of one of his kind, and of a Talisman. Make it known that we will not speak with him from a position of weakness."

"As you will it, my Lord."

The necron ship watched, bemused as the dark eldar ships scattered. Surely they knew that it had seen them easily as spheres of darkness against the planet beyond as it approached? After that, finding them against the backdrop of space was easy enough, just pick out the stars dissapearing into the blackness, watch their drive trails and so forth. Aboard it, it's master was somewhat amused by the same action. "Target the largest vessel, cripple it as you did the others," he said composing a response.

A vast storm green energy large enough to swallow the entire ship, shadowfield and all, shot out toward the nearest of the two larger dark eldar ships, the Blade's Kiss, and the Death's Respite.

The response to Rath's message was dripping with scorn and sarcasm, "As you have so many methods against me, I believe it is time for me to prune some of them from you. I will keep doing so until you feel suitibly cut down to size, feel free to tell me when you are. Now, where was I, oh yes, you know the location of the tomb of the Outsider, as do I. I suppose I had better pay that place a visit when I am done here, and the Talisman, the one you speak of dissapeared into the warp, you no more know its location than I, do you think I cannot tell a bluff when I see it?

"At least your predesessor was something of a competant politician, unlike yourself incubus-archon. She makes a nice decoration by the way - you didn't think that she was truly dead, did you, Sirithil-Kinslayer indeed?" the transmission tailed off into a mocking chuckle...

"If you refuse to speak to me from your current position, it appears I must make you weaker in order for you to admit such weakness," the transmission ended.

In Varnamilme, by the Wreck of the Aelosian Transport…

“Thank you Fëlan,” Fírë responded. There was hope for her people if they could find friends such as these. Though times had changed, there were still Kin in the world as she remembered them.
She surveyed the wreck, turned back to the Aelosian Eldar.

“I hope that your Healers can climb with all that equipment,” she smiled, softened her words with gentle laughter. “All the wounded lie on the other side of this fallen vessel.”

She glanced down at the Countess.
“I don’t even know her name,” she told Fëlan. “You’ll take her up among the stars, to keep her safe?”

"Her name is Melian, Countess Melian, like the Maia of old. They will take her home, but it looks like you already healed her. And for that I thank you with all my heart", said Fëlan, making signals to the elves dressed in white. "You have powers that are legendary amongst us, only few of our people have the capacity of healing the wounded with inner power", said the elf, smiling.

The Aelosian medics approached the Countess, placing her in a portable bed, and trying to tend her wounds "Her condition is stable, I don't understand, she has marks of lethal trauma. This looks like a miracle to me, I have no medical explanation", said one of them, checking her vitals with a complex device.

"They don't need to climb. I will carry them, the wings of my armor are useful sometimes. Let me carry you first, while they evacuate the Countess. Inside that transport is another person very important to me, Would you accept to fly with me?", said Fëlan, turning on the wings of his armor, the bright blue of the wraithbone shining in the sunlight and extending his hand to Firë.

The Wreck of the Aelosian Transport…

Fírë frowned, looked hard at Fëlan. “How do you heal your wounded without the healing gift? It is the only means we of the Silmellon know. Unless you were to travel to Valinor, where such ailments are healed by the virtue of the land and air itself.”

She glanced up into the smoke filled skies biting her lower lip and added, “It would be interesting. Flying. And less trouble than climbing over all that rubble.” She smiled, let him know she was as comfortable with the idea of flight as she would ever be.

"We rely on technology. Medics, they call themselves, instead of healers", he said, taking Firë's hand and hugging her to take off.

He rose in the air, the wings of his armor letting him glide like a bird over the ground "Valinor...we never lived there, the older amongst us were the people of Thingol and Melian in the First Age, and they never did the great travel. The Noldorin and Vanyarin people amongst us are too young to remember the light of the trees, or the faces of the Vala. Have you been in Valinor?", he asked, the soft breeze touching them as he glided down, searching for the wounded.

((Er... isn't Valinor the Undying Lands? The lands From Which Elves Do Not Return?))

Valinor is Aman, yes. But the Noldor, and my Telerin, both left; the Silmarillion says that they were given free leave to go. They just weren't allowed back in (until the end of the Third Age, that is).

I hope you find this post acceptable; it can be changed if you don't (not in major things, though).

~~~~~

A brisk wind was rushing past, pushing the wispy clouds southwards into the ocean, whipping Telperio's black hair around his face.

The Lindai Ciriáran grinned and leaned into the wind, gazing down at the steep blue rooves of Vinialonne spread out at the foot of Tirinélio, and the harbour beyond it speckled with ships.

He was Lindai, and for his nation the only greater joy to the wind was the waves, and a good deck beneath one's feet. They had loved the sea since first they saw it; first in Tol Eressëa, then in Alpalonde, and now in Vinialonne, the New Haven.

"A very pretty view, son. But completely irrelevant."

Telperio sighed, turning to regard the speaker; his mother, the Amillitári Elenna.

"Mother, we have discussed this before," he said. That was the problem with immortality; everything that needed to be said had been said, many times over the thousands of years since they'd left Alpalonde.

"Fëanor is dead," Telperio continued. "Dead, and his bones and those of all his descendants are dust. We may be barred from Aman, but that does not mean we cannot rebuild our lives, our shattered dreams here in the Tollio Corma."

Elenna glared at her son. Her name, in the original tongue they had spoken all those millenia ago in Cuiviénen, meant "star-heart", and her gaze could burn just as fiercely as the stars.

"You are wrong, son," she said, as she'd said so many times before. "Our ships and our cities will never rival the fleets the Kinslayers stole or Alpalonde which they burned. And broken lives cannot be remade, as well you know; Mannos holds Olue tight, and will not let him go.

"And Fëanor's accursed spawn survive and flourish. I can smell them on the Other Winds. They call themselves Silmessë."

That had never been said before, in all the millenia since the First Age ended.

"Some days ago, son, I felt the working of a spell, some enchantment devised to hide the kinslayers from us. They exist. Knowing that, will you turn your back on the oath we swore? Will you allow the kinslayers to live? They killed Olue."

Telperio considered. This was a worrying development, and one in which millenia of prior experience could not assist. All these years the Noldor had hidden from them, all these years they had thought the oath negated, the Kinslayers had been waiting.

It was true that some great spell had been created; several days ago, they'd all been woken by it, and those of them who could still walk the Other Winds had divined something of it's nature. As the strongest enchanter the Lindai possessed, his mother might indeed have seen more than the others.

"No," Telperio decided, "The Kinslayers must not be left to spread their poison. I swore the oath alongside you in burning Alpalonde. But neither can we afford to be reckless; that was Fëanor's trait, after all.

"I shall send a ship to investigate. A cirianaro."

The cirianaroi, the sunships, which had no sails but great shining wings to catch the sunlight and turn it into power for the spinning blades which powered them, were frowned on by the older of the Lindai as an affront to the culture, but it was true that they could go much faster than a more acceptable sailing vessel, and they could go into the wind.

"Very good." Elenna favoured him with a rare smile, which took millenia of bitter hatred off her face. "And who shall you send to captain it?"

Telperio frowned, considering the captains currently at dock in the Ciriacúpa or the other harbours of the Tollio Corma.

"Daintáro, I think, would be best," he decided. "Brannaráto is the better captain, but he would be liable to attack the Goldórin on sight. We don't want that ... yet."

~~~~~

Several days later, Daintáro Brannavingi stood on the deck of the cirianaro Aiarmála, watching the island of the Silmessë grow larger before his eyes. Goldórin! Daintáro thought, and his hands curled unnoticed into fists.

He had lost a sister in the burning of Alpalonde; his brother Brannaráto had lost a wife, and was more bitter even than the legendary Amillitári Elenna, who had lost the Ciriáran, Olue.

Several times, strange machines had soared overhead, most unlike the stately airships of the Lindai, and there had been flashes of light and thunder they could hear even at their distance from the island. Great enchantments, Daintáro would have thought, but although the Other Wind was in turmoil over something, it bore no trace of such destructive magics. Could it be that venegance had come already to the Kinslayers from some unknown source?

"Take us in," he said, "We shall set foot upon this land the Goldórin call home, and we shall see what is occuring here. Nellcáno, Angaráto, ready the launch for this purpose. Calarielle, find another two volunteers."

There was no shortage of those, at least; as soon as he said the words, everyone was clamouring to go. Daintáro felt uneasy about a landing party of just six people, but naturally most of the crew must remain aboard the Aiarmála, to guard against possible attack. Nobody wanted to be stranded on Kinslayer land, after all.

Soon the little launch was bobbing gently alongside the much larger cirianaro, and Daintáro took his place alongside his crew at the oars. They landed the boat on a rather pretty beach (such a pity it's tainted by the Goldórin, Daintáro thought), and carried it up the sands, hiding it in the scrubby vegetation where neither waves nor eyes could find it.

Calarielle was the best archer among them, but they were all moderately proficient with the finely crafted compound bows of the Lindai, and they strung them now. They'd been told not to shoot anyone, of course (a fact which grated on Daintáro's nerves like sharkskin), but who knew what Goldórin would do? The Kinslayers couldn't be trusted, after all. The burning of Alpalonde was proof enough of that.

Somewhat nervously, they moved inland, looking for information that might be of use to the Ciriáran and his mother in Tirinélio.

"Fëanor is dead," Telperio continued. "Dead, and his bones and those of all his descendants are dust.
OOC: I wouldn't wager any money on that :wink:
Sirithil = Nerdanel with a neat new name.
Maglor = Er... Maglor.

I get the feeling that any contact between you two can only be triple-extra-fouled-up :shock:

The Death's Respite shatters under the blow, some unstable energy rending it asunder in an explosion as violent as its masters. The debris of the ship rains through the void, lightly pelting the remaining Dark Eldar ships.

Rath's mood simmers with anger at the Yngir interloper, the outsider who dared intervene in a family matter. No matter, the Kabal had survived indignities before.

"Shuttle, relay a message to the Yngir ship. Tell the Deceiver that he will summon and adjucate a summit among myself and my Kin. He is a relatively neutral party in the matter. And, as such, it would only be fitting and proper for him to host the summit, aboard his ship. Especially since he destroyed one of mine. Also, tell the captain of Blade to enter the Warp. We will no longer need our fleet presence."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A burst of energy finds its way from the Blade to the former flagship of the Nightbringer, the message relayed in lamEldannar for security. This task completed, reality suffers once more the invisible knives that open gates into living hell. Once more, hate burns the skies above the reborn nation, taints the clouds of the night sky with the color of blood.

Then, the fleet is gone, disappeared back to the hidden enclave of the Kabal.

"Lock the doors. I will be meditating," Rath orders his underlings, as they move to take shelter in one of the commandeered buildings. His gaze drifts up towards the sky for a moment, before he closests himself in one of the rooms of the dwelling.

It is your move, Ancient One, Rath thinks.

((Wow, Dark Eldar ships are spaceborne 'Ford Pinto's, I was only aiming to cripple it as I did the Yvressi ship, {Deceiver: "You were only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!"} IC post coming))

"It has been requested, by Incubus-Archon Rath, of the Kabal Manmen, that I host a summit between himself, and his so called Kin. I agree that such a summit could be useful in ensuring long term stable relations between the 'dark' eldar and those whom they consider, their kin.

For this reason, I have chosen to invite all interested parties to attend a summit, to be held aboard the Shroud class starship, Dead Air, subject to the following conditions.

1) No party may exceed one repesentative, and four other personell.
2) All persons attending are to be unarmed, and consent to be searched upon arrival.
3) The use of 'magic' or other such things to harm or influence others attending the summit is prohibited. The consequences of such activities rests in the hands of the host.
4)No person attending the summit will be permitted to harm another.

The method of arrival is at the discression of the representatives, the Dead Air is capable of landing to collect anyone who has an objection, religious or otherwise, to teleportation, and are unable or unwilling to provide their own extra-atmospheric transport.

By attending, representatives and their escorts consent to be removed from the vicinity of their nations, starships for the duration of the summit. Should the summit extend beyond twelve hours ((NS time)) in length, they will be provided with the means to communicate with their governments, to receive instructions and to report their progress.

The host reserves the right to refuse proposed representatives. All interested parties are expected to report themselves, via electromagnetic transmission on the following frequency #### (Longnumber abbriviation) or to arrive at the following location if transmission equipment is unavailable to them, within three hours ((NS time, in other words, whenever you find OOCly convinient))"

"And what else?, to go with our pants down so the Fallen could spank us better?", yelled the Admiral after reading the messae from the Necrons. "Board a ship of Necrons to meet the Dark Eldar unarmed and with four guards?, That's ridiculous!", he continued.

"But, Sire, we don't...", said one of the attendants, trying to calm him down. "You shut up!", the officer interrumpted. Send a message to the Deceiver. If we're going to meet the Fallen, it will be on the mainland, one representative and four armed guards for each country involved. And the natives of Silmessë must be present. Those are our conditions".

"Perhaps you do not understand," came the reply, "The Dark Eldar will be as unarmed as yourself - and I may add, supervised to a greater degree. Furthermore I see no reason for the 'natives' of Silmessë to be present, although if you wish them there, you may extend the invitation to them. The Dark Eldar, have requested of me that I host this summit aboard a necron vessel, for impartiality. However, I shall canvas the other nations invited, and, if they unanimously wish to bring arms, then the stipulation in that respect will be waived."

Moments later another message was transmitted, this time to all who could hear, "Groups intending to send representatives to the summit requested by Archon Rath, do you wish personal weapons to be permitted? If the response is unanimously in favour, they shall be permitted for all groups present."

"Sorry if I don't trust you, but you're universally know as the Deceiver. However. I'll attend personally to this meeting, as the highest ranking goverment officer here, after the missing of the Countess. I would prefer to attend with armed warriors, but I understand the need of making an agreement with the rest of the nations involved".

Dux Admiral Haralis Lórindel.

"Excellent, we shall await the response of the other involved persons.

"Just for reference, I prefer the names... Mephet'ran, Sathsarrion, Artemorra, Mohagg, Harrimoch, and many many others, even Jackal God."

One of the lesser incubi snorts with derision at the Deceiver's requirements.

"This is unacceptable, Deceiver," Manmen says, via a rebroadcasting shuttle, "I will be armed, as will my incubi. However.. I will deactivate our tormentor helms. Do not underestimate my willingness to proceed down here regardless of your intervention."

Several days previously

Prince Drazyen al Vvishiak sat, staring deep into the dark green depths of his scrying orb. The cold, black stone walls of his tower were lavishly adorned with fine silk furnishings, and golden ornaments, while the elegantly crafted furniture which lined the sides of the room was upholstered with deep, luxurious satin. Yet the Prince himself perched atop a simple, hard-topped stool, of some dark wood not to be found in the lands of the Young-Kingdomers, and the chill night wind swept in through the window, which was free of glass or shutters.

His eyes, as deep as bottomless wells, delved into the murky interior of the ball of ensorcelled crystal, which lay upon a beautifully carved pedestal of steel, graven with images of dragons in flight, their sinuous bodies curling around it's slender column, even as his mind reached out through it, stretching into the realm between the planes of reality, far beyond the petty material world to which men and elves were confined, in their naive innocence and youth.

He flew out among the stars, and delved deep into the vast consciousness of the universe, watching as the minds of the Young-Kingdomers shifted from thought to thought, like an endless patchwork of colour, and it was here that he saw the return of Silmesse, as a great clump of minds suddenly shimmered into existence.

His curiousity aroused, he waved a single finely-boned hand over the orb, and the faint wisps of emerald cloud within shifted and flowed together, until eventually, the shape of the island of Silmesse swam into view, even as the first few craft began to approach the land of the Eldar.

And, with the faintest of smiles, Drazyen watched the unfolding drama, pulsing but a brief thought in the direction of his third son. Prince Lykean.

Prepare your Palace and your Dragons, and travel to the land which I will reveal to you.


OOC:
Curses, I wish I'd seen this earlier! Apologies for the rushed and somewhat slapdash post...my time at the moment is rather limited I'm afraid to say!

Well done to Silmesse on the good work so far! Possibly the best I've ever seen from a newbie.

(OOC: Thanks for the compliments Kalessin. Hope to see plenty more from you! To everyone; my apologies for the delay on my posts - got a house guest! Will bring you copious posting soon!! )

(OOC: My apologies again on the delay...)

In Varnamilme, the Wreck of the Aelosian Transport…

Flight caused Fírë to clasp Fëlan tightly. It was not that she was afraid, but rather that she found the experience strangely appealing. Flight it seemed, agreed with her.
She noted with sadness how quickly it was over. As they came back down to the ground, she replied to Fëlan’s question.

“I am not old,” she sighed. “But it was not so long ago that we Silmellon left the undying lands. I remember it. It burns behind my eyelids forever. When I am healing, I feel Valinor so close I can almost believe I am there again.”

She sighed, shook her head sadly. “It is so hard to believe that centuries have swept past in the world beyond our shores, while here barely a fragment of that time is the measure of all Silmellon history.”

But all thoughts of the strange fate that had befallen the Silmellon vanished when she felt the pain and suffering close by. She gasped, turned away from Fëlan and gazed in horror at the number of wounded.

“So many.” Their pain reached through to her, twisted her insides; scraped at her nerves. “Fëlan bring your healers, bring them now.”

She did not wait for his answer but ran to where her people had laid out those that still lived. Her heart caught as she saw the dead, stretched out in the shadows of a standing wall, outweighed the wounded twice over.
So much death. So much pain. Silently she cursed the invaders; prayed that what they had inflicted on her people returned in suffering ten times upon their heads.
Then all thoughts were carried away as she knelt beside the first of the wounded, touched her pale hands to their broken flesh and felt the winds of Valinor blow through her.
Healing danced through her fingertips…

(OOC: Lindai – I am going to assume that your ships made landfall in the north, since you’ve not come into the harbour in the south.)

Nearby Fanataurë, the coast…

Níremo spotted the Eldar well before they had seen him.
Astride Estar, he was afforded a better view of the outlying land and his sharp eyes had been on the look out for such things.

He knew instantly, by their dress and their looks that they were not of the Silmellon and nervously he fingered the message from Olorndil reserved for strangers in the land of Silmessë.
Something about the strangers did not sit well with Níremo, but unable to find a solid reason to distrust them, he whispered to his stallion; urged Estar towards the Eldar and hoped that the Lord of the Silmellon would find in these curious Elven visitors new friends and allies.

He called to them long before they might have glimpsed him, hoping to reassure them.
“Be welcomed among the Silmellon and in their lands of Silmessë.”
As he drew close, he wondered if his words had proven a sweet welcome. There was a shadow over his thoughts and he could not help but imagine that somehow, this meeting would bring still more sorrow to his people.

(OOC: Níremo would have spoken in Quenya; while most of the Noldor abandoned the language for Sindarin, the Silmellon parted company with the Noldor long before this occurred and remained relatively isolated on Silmessë till their sudden disappearance from history.)

(OOC: More on Ondarien and Olorndil to follow... Tor Yvresse waiting on your response to last post regarding events near the royal city...)

Some way off the coast of Silmesse, a storm could be seen moving rapidly toward the island.

Fëlan just took off, flying above the form of the wounded, putting his helmet again to hide the guilt and shame in his face. This is our fault too, we brought our own wars upon this peaceful and fair people. Who gave us the right to involve them in our troubles?".

He landed next to the medics, who were putting the Countess inside the transport, ready to take her to the motheship in the orbit. "You both come with me. There's a lot of wounded people the other side of the transport".

"But, Exarch, all the Wraithbone armors of our soldiers are down, maybe those wounded are not our people, they're natives", answered one of the nurses.

"I don't care about who they are, you swore to help all people in need of medical care, and I think those injured are in that situation. You will come with me, gave my men the orders of what do you need to tend them and they will transport that to the other side of the crash site", said Fëlan, a tone of anger in his voice.

“Be welcomed among the Silmellon and in their lands of Silmessë.”

The Lindai heard the speech of the hated Goldórin and looked about wildly for it's source. It was easy enough to understand the words, of course, especially for those born before the Kinslaying, but impossible to trust them.

Angaráto had the best eyes of all of them, and spotted the Goldórin first, drawing his bow. The other five had arrows on the string an instant later, pointing unerringly at the Kinslayer on his mount.

Daintáro cursed inwardly; of course the Kinslayers would know this land better than they, and the Lindai would stand out against the trees in their blue-grey clothing, but surely they should have noticed a mounted rider before the Goldórin noticed them?

He cursed the fact that they'd been ordered not to shoot anybody; an accident, some accidental release of a bowstring, would be so easy right now ... no. While it might be satisfying, Daintáro didn't want to have to explain that to Telperio, or worse, to the Amillitári.

Still, he didn't order his crew to lower their bows; let the Kinslayer get a little scared, and he might tell them everything they needed to know.

"I like neither your words nor your welcome, Kinslayer," he replied in Telerin, "And I have little reason to show you mercy. Put your hands where I can see them."

~~~~~

Lassacro had been left in command of the ship while his captain went ashore; now he looked at the storm rapidly approaching, and ordered the anaroi, the solar panels, brought in to avoid damage.

The crew quickly swung the glittering black panels into the body of the ship, and Lassacro began to ponder where they might find shelter on this coast.

In Aldaringwë…

Alassënyelle felt the approaching figure before she spotted him.
Though the ornemalin trees were silent and could carry no word to her, the Lady of the Silmellon was not without her own means of gathering intelligence.

And Galdern was watched long before he drew close enough to Aldaringwë to see the silver frosted weaves of the city, threading through the trees.
Alassënyelle had felt no shadow on him.
Against Calanto’s advice she’d allowed the Elda to move closer to the royal city. Had waited for him to come close enough to glimpse the edges of the vast tree city, before reaching out; weaving her voice into a breeze.
(A breeze that had not been able to stir the leaves of the trees, those voices wished to remain silent still.)

“Come forward only if you are friend,” Alassënyelle said. Her voice threading into the air, as though the breeze were now an extension of her throat. “Once you pass into the city of Aldaringwë, do not turn from your course. Minyamár
lies at the heart of the Tree City. There, the Lady of the Silmellon will wait for you.”


.

Strange to hear the voice carried on the winds, and yet not see the branches stir, for a moment as he stepped into the clearing and saw the city his breath caught in his mouth. It was stunning, an example of the oldest styles used in long destroyed cities, on Planets for gone and far dead. A Moment of history brought to life, although his heart lay always ith Tor Yvresse, for a moment he was at peace. He answered the voice with the Immaterium, weaving a single thread that carried the message.

We come as friends, and Kin, through distent Kin, and so we greet you in the name of Ishar. We seek to know of your people and will respect your wishes and stay on the path.

The idea of meeting with the Fallen aboard a Yngir vessel was only now being recieved, a part of Galdern was shocked by the concept, and he wondered as to his response. He would hold on an answer until the others had decided. Then and only then would he reply and speak for the council.

Varnamilme…

As Ondarien made his way into the unearthly quiet of the white city, he found that the smoke was clearing. Blown away by the wind. But far out to sea, a dark storm was brewing.
An omen it seemed to him.
Dismounting, he padded Súlamen’s hooves and lead the horse down pebbled roads keeping an eye out for the beings who’d done the city such violence.


On the Outskirts of Varnamilme…

Olorndil considered the city before him.
He had never seen it look at it did now. The white of its stones were blackened; bruised. A tower had fallen and he could feel the death that lay there, the pain and suffering that still lingered.

He turned, considered the darkened visages of his men.
The damage to the city had come as a blow to their hearts and minds and they had the look of those already defeated.

“The city yet stands,” he told them. “Look not so despondent, what has fallen now can easily be rebuilt. What matters is that we secure the future of the Silmellon. We must reach the Lady Sirithil.”

He turned back to the city, spotted the tall white towers at the heart of Varnamilme.

“We make for Fánatar, the caverns and warrens beneath the high towers of the white city will provide cover to the harbour and the great craft of the Lady of the Menelmacari.”

Glancing out towards the ocean he spotted the dark storm brewing there.
Hoped that they could reach the towers before it broke over them and whispering to his stallion, urged the creature forward.


Kemenixë , in a Chamber beneath the Arinoronti Mountains…

“It comes, it comes forth,” Undómëfal crooned.

She could feel the rooting seed as it forced tendrils deep into the mountains, drank the mineral wealth of the Arinoronti as though it were a cordial infusing health and strength.

It was assimilating all that she had fed first into the Coirëamírë and then gifted through this jewel at her breast into the seed itself. What form would it take she wondered.
Like an expectant mother, she lay beside the crack in the floor of the chamber, ear pressed to the stone as she listened to her unborn creation singing its complex song to her.

“Fëanor,” she whispered to the hateful memory. “You were wrong, you were wrong.”

The silver form of the Shroud class cruiser decellerated into place next to its much larger cousin. The ship was basically a long range scoutship, graceful crescents surrounding a large stepped pyramid devided into quarters by canals of blue glowing metal, which seemed to flow toward the peak. Around that were several other pryamids glowing with the same liquid lightning effect as their larger cousin. The ship took up position ten thousand kilometers away from the nightbringer's ship.

There was a brief flurry of energy and coiling power between the two, and then the larger turned on the spot, aiming for nowhere in particular, it seemed to acellerate to a point, and dissapeared.

Several seconds later a pulse was sent in response to the dark eldar. It was the calm, collected, and annoyingly precise voice of either a necron or the ship itself.

"Your vote has been recorded. Your request will be considered."

Varnamilme…

The Swooping Hawks quickly took the medics and their equipment to the other side of the transport, then watched the perimeter, searching for Fallen vessels or soldiers. The new orders were issued, avoid harming the native population in any way, and protect them from any possible depredation of the Dark Eldar forces. The medics approached the injured, quickly putting strange tubes and starting strange machines, plugging them to the bodies.

One of the guards were patrolling near the entrance of Varnamilme, dressed in the wraithbone armor of the Striking Scorpion team, the green suit looking like an insect-like exosqueleton. She was thinking about the beautiful name of the city, when finally he saw movement near him. A native, with no doubt, with a horse (Ondarien).

She moved her mandiblaster weapon, like the jaws of an oversized scorpion, aiming at the newcomer. I shouldn't forgot my Quenya, it could be useful right now. "Who are you, Are you ok?", she asked in her Aelosian Sindarin, hoping that the Silmessë elf could understand her.

Nearby Fanataurë, the coast…

Níremo considered the angry words; found the Telerin tongue striking deeper than the hate in the eyes of the Eldar who faced him.

“You’ve embraced Fëanor’s lesson,” he murmured sadly, used their language and allowed the hurt to weave through his voice; glimmer in his eyes. “We Silmellon abandoned that road a long time ago. Longer still as you measure time.”

He whispered to Estar, smoothed fingers through the stallion’s long white mane. Dismounting, making of the action a slow and calm movement. These Eldar were on edge and he had no wish to startle them with sudden moves.

“I have a message from the Lord of the Silmellon, a welcome offered in peace and friendship. We want no blood on our hands cousin.”
He indicated the saddlebag, almost invisible, blended into the hues of his horse. “Would you not put aside your weapons?”


In Aldaringwë, Minyamár…

The Lady of the Silmellon left the Hall of Leaves, stepped onto the open corridors of the royal enclosure and gazed down, waiting the arrival of the approaching Elda.
The quiet of the trees seemed a sombre note on which to welcome distant kin. Alassënyelle could not imagine Lisselillassië forever silent, could not bear the thought of it.
Softly, she sang to the forest; attempted to draw the whispers out once more; the song itself one inspired long ago by the talking trees of Lisselillassië.

http://homepage.eircom.net/~jemr/silmesse/allassenyelle.jpg
Alassënyelle
©Norma A Peters (http://elfwood.lysator.liu.se/loth/p/e/peters/galadriel3.jpg.html)
(Used with Permission)


Varnamilme…

Ondarien whispered a command to Súlamen and the steed drew up abruptly; stopping mid-stride.
Though the being before him was strangely dressed, the voice sounded Elven; sounded concerned. The words themselves were in a tongue he had only rarely heard in the distant past.
But familiar enough for him to grasp some of what the strangely disguised figure was saying.

“I am one of the King’s Riders. I carry messages for the Silmellon and others for those strangers who come in peace,” he said in Quenya. Speaking slowly and hoping that he was understood. “Why do you stand at the gates of Varnamilme?”


Closing on Varnamilme…

Olorndil could see the mounted rider, recognised the silvered cloak and the white steed; a King’s Rider. One of his own…
But the nightmare figure standing, barring his way into Varnamilme seemed a creature dredged from nightmare.

“Make haste,” he called to his companions. He had not seen these creatures in the visions cast up by the river. Where they friend? Or as hideous within as they seemed without?

Varmamilmë...

Those words, he's speaking in Quenya, I should have brought my translator machine, the soldier thought.Maybe if I take out my helm, he will see that I'm a friend, she said to herself, quickly removing the heavy wraithbone and metal visor, then the rest of the helm.

She was a beautiful elven maiden, one of the few battlemaidens allowed into the elite group of the Strking Scorpion. Her silver hair was floating in the wind, marking her deep blue eyes. "I'm a friend, my name is Valandë, I came from the stars, to know you and to help you. I can't understand your tongue, but I can take you to some who can", she said very slow to Ondarien, smiling, and raising her right hand in the old elven salute.

http://www.tongue.fsnet.co.uk/elf.jpg

OOC: Are there any safe harbours on the north coast?

"Yes," Daintáro replied, "We learnt from Fëanor. This is what Fëanor taught the Lindai; never trust the Goldórin. So tell me, Kinslayer, why should we trust you?"

Nonetheless, he gave the order for the others to lower their bows, and none to soon; Angaráto looked ready to shoot the Goldórin, orders or no.

"I would like to trust you, Goldórin," Daintáro continued, "Truly I would. The world needs less bloodshed. But you and your kin killed my kin in the burning of Alpalonde, and the oath we swore upon Alpalonde and the blood of the slain is not so easily put aside."

Closing on Varnamilme…

Olorndil could see the mounted rider, recognised the silvered cloak and the white steed; a King’s Rider. One of his own…
But the nightmare figure standing, barring his way into Varnamilme seemed a creature dredged from nightmare.

“Make haste,” he called to his companions. He had not seen these creatures in the visions cast up by the river. Where they friend? Or as hideous within as they seemed without?

OOC: Who is that in refernece to? Myself? Manmen?

((Woo, ok, leave me alone. Just because I post only slightly more often than Siri. :oops: ))

Violence flares to life along a street near the westernmost perimeter of the city as one of the splinter armies of the Fallen are forced into close proximity to the natives. The beams of dark lances, visible only as black spears cutting through available light in the darkness, probe at the buildings of the city.

Packs of mandrakes stalk the city, breaking the tranquility of the night with the sputter of splinter pistols. They attack seemingly at random, probing the Eldar searchers for weakness. They come like wraiths in the night from allies and buildings, and disappear as swiftly.

Other strike forces filter out into the Silmesse landscape. The eerie howl of jetbike engines, sounding like nothing more than the agonized shriek of some tormented soul, echoes from the hills and trees in ever-widening circles. In many villages across the nation, the forces pause only long enough to engage the locals in horribly efficient combat.

Once it is known that the elves lack modern weaponry, many of the dark ones choose to engage them in close combat, to test their skills and take the worthy.

Above all, the offensive resembles nothing so much as a whirling storm. It ebbs and flows like a tide, slipping around fortified areas in the dark and striking where weakness is found. Horror after horror the warriors visit upon any they can catch.

One of the shuttles rebroadcasts a message from Rath, simply:
Brylidassian, toill, wea esik man. Sally forth, and let slip the dogs of war.

((OOC: You received a condescending necron message in reply, what more do you want? :)
Typical Dark Eldar, no patience...))

The Dead Air swept toward the atmosphere, descending through the outer layers toward the city of Varmamilmë. If the dark eldar insisted on testing their resolve, then they would see it, and for many, it would be the last thing they would see. In its warren of troop bays, movement came for the first time in many years.

OOC: Who is that in refernece to? Myself? Manmen?

OOC: Actually, it's to that ruling force of posting, that master of the quick return - Aelosia.
See, Olorndil spotted Ondarien and the Aelosian soldier...

(OOC: Lindai, there are no safe harbours in the North. The Silmellon never saw fit to create any harbours as the massive natural harbour of Varnamilme served all their needs since the founding of the realm. They never built their own ships; their shame over the past played a role in this. If they had had the time to develop naturally this would probably have changed.)


Nearby Fanataurë, the coast…

As the weapons were lowered, Níremo allowed hope to grow in his heart. It pained him to see such hate in the eyes of beings never made for such dark emotions.

“We are not Goldórin,” he said, voice soft and unthreatening. “We are the Silmellon as we choose to be, as we chose to be. We are those who set Fëanor’s lordship over us aside, our shame that we did not do so before the city of our cousins burned.”

He patted the saddlebag, carefully removed the scrolled vellum on which Olorndil had scribed his greeting to foreigners; wondered if their Teleri cousins counted as such.

“This is the greeting of Olorndil, Lord of the Silmellon,” he told the Lindai, eyes sweeping across them all. “We ever have regretted following Fëanor, regretted too late you may say. Your anger is justified cousin, but is there truly need for hate? Alpalonde should not be remembered in the shadows of your hearts where such that can never be fair or bright dwells.”

He considered the Elda, tried to read their faces. Did his words seem fair to them, or would their anger ever be sated while the Silmellon still lived? He found it difficult to know the secrets of their hearts; they’d held onto their rage for so long.

“We remember in song those that were wronged,” he said. “Though our people have never taken life, we allowed it to be done through our lord and liege; for that we carry the burden of our regret. Surely forgiveness is not lost among the Lindai?” His eyes, greyed by sorrow, fixed on the Lindai Elda who seemed to be in charge. “My name is Níremo, and I am Silmellon. Again I say to you, be welcomed among the Silmellon and in their lands of Silmessë.”

He held out the scrolled parchment, ornemalin leaves woven into sheets of pale gold.
In silver ink, neatly written in a delicate hand (Alassënyelle’s) are the words, elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo.

‘A star shall shine on the hour of our meeting.’

In Varnamilme, the Wreck of the Aelosian Transport…

Fírë rose from her latest patient and felt the earth whirl about her.
Her strength seemed to flow endlessly into the pain and suffering that surrounded her; leeched away.
Pain wove into every fibre of her being, she had never faced such a test of her skills and even with the help that Fëlan’s strange healers provided; Fírë imagined they fought against cold ungiving stone.

Tears streaked her cheeks, made mud-trails of the dust.
Her breathing was sharp, the healer within noted it with dismay; but her fiery spirit forced her on.
How could she leave even one of the wounded unhealed?
She stumbled to the next fallen figure; swayed and collapsed.


In Varnamilme…

Súlamen nuzzled at the nape of his neck as Ondarien struggled to make sense of the Sindarin. Found shapes in the words and guessed at their meaning; blinked in surprise at the transformation of the figure once the frightful mask was removed.
“Valandë,” he echoed. Touched his chest. “Ondarien.” Then with a half smile, pointed to the restless stallion and added, “Súlamen.”

He waved towards the shadowed road; darkness falling quickly with the coming storm.
Lead the way, his gestures spoke the words his tongue could not.
Heard the thunder of approaching horses and turned; Lord Olorndil!


Still in Varnamilme…Olorndil P.O.V

The moment the mask fell away, Olorndil felt relief the monstrous being opposing his rider was Elven after all.
As he and his companions swept forward into the city, a roar of hooves against stone echoed through the white city.

“Olorndil,” the rider cried in welcome. “I have sent Eldar to Aldaringwë, to speak with you.”

“Then they will find the Lady of the Silmellon there to greet them and converse in my name,” Olorndil told him. Studied his features and drew a name from memory. “Ondarien, who is your companion?”

“Her name I believe is Valandë, she speaks only the young tongue of the Sindar, but I believe she would have me follow her to the one who leads them.”

Olorndil turned to examine her; recalled in Sindarin and spoke them haltingly.
“I am Olorndil and I am Lord of the Silmellon. Cousin, tell me of your people; who are they?”

http://homepage.eircom.net/~jemr/silmesse/olorndil.jpg
Olorndil
©Norma A Peters (http://elfwood.lysator.liu.se/loth/p/e/peters/bitterwind3.jpg.html)
(Used with Permission)

i]In the Orbit[/i]...

"Sire, we have lectures that are informing of a Dark Eldar attack on the main city. They're surrounding our positions and trying to take the population as slaves", screamed one of the flight controllers to the Admiral.

"Inform the ground troops of the current situation, and order them to protect the population at any cost. Tell them that they'll need to contact the local authorities and brief them about the Fallen", answered the officer.

In Varnamilme...

Fëlan pickep up Firë, concerned about the little elven woman, and whipered in her ear. "You need rest, I swear that I'll take care of your people for you". The medics were amazed, examining the injured, "Someone used magic healing with this people, most of them are medical miracles, and have only the scars of what looked like awful wounds, Exarch", said one of them to the Swooping Hawks Commander. "We will call another MedEvac for the rest of them, in need more personnel and medicines. We will build a military hospital around here".

Valandë just stared at the proud elven lord, then she bowed, realizing that she was looking at a mighty ruler. "We're the descendants from the Kingdom of Doriath, the people of Elwë Thingol, the Grey Elves of Telerin heritage. We fled to the stars eons ago, to escape from the pain and suffering on Earth. We found people like us in the stars, the Eldar, and allied with them. We're here to help you to fight against the plague that comes inside the black, flying ships of the Fallen, Eldar that sold their bodies and souls to the darkest powers. They're here to kill and enslave your people, as they have do in thousands worlds before. I'm just a soldier guarding the gate of your beautiful city, but our Duke is waiting to speak with your leader". He looks like one of the fabled heroes that I saw in the ancient books, like one of those Supreme Kings of the House of Fingolfin of old times, she said to herself, awe painted in her face.

In Varnamilme…

Olorndil smiled at Valandë, dismounted.
“The Telerin,” he sighed. “It is good to have contact with your people again Valandë, to have you standing beside us.” A shadow of sorrow crossed his face, darkened his brilliant eyes. “Varnamilme was built in tribute to the Teleri, did you know? It is not a happy story I'm afraid.”
He considered the battlemaiden.
“It not a custom among us that you should bow before even the Lord of the Silmellon.”
With the flow of memory, his tongue became more graceful, the language as familiar as his own. “My name to all is Olorndil and if your Duke be nearby, then let us go to him.”

OOC: Drat. I hope the ship doesn't get too beaten up by the storm, then.

Daintáro frowned, considering the Goldórin's - the Silmellon's - words. Finally, he nodded.

"Él Síla Lúmena Vomentienguo, Níremo," he said. "Perhaps you are correct, and Fëanor should be put behind us all; but Aman is lost to us through his actions, and we cannot so easily make that abandonment as nothing.

"Although I cannot speak for the Ciriáran, nor the Amillitári, I myself am willing to forgive the Silmellon their folly all those years ago."

Angaráto looked ready to explode, and Calarielle looked sour, but Daintáro trusted that their discipline would hold.

"He's not around, he's up in the sky, in one of our flying ships. But he will come here in a moment if he knows that you want to talk with him. I could say to you to follow me to our camp, but I suppose you have more important things to do", said Valandë, smiling at Olorndil.

She continued, with sympathy for her listeners "Not too many people call us the Telerin now, at least not since the founding of Doriath, now we're called the Sindarin by the scholars, and the Aelosians by the rest of the people. I was born in the stars, after we fled, so I can't tell you how were our ancient constructions. Many people say that the Noldor destroyed our first city, Alqüalondë, in the shore of Valinor. And others say that the Noldor sacked and destroyed our Kingdom of Doriath, to steal the fabled Silmaril. But for most of us that's just ancient history, and now we're friends and allies of Lady Sirithil, the former wife of the instigator of those killings and the mother of the assassins of our people. Had you ever heard about her?".

As the great mithril gravships of Menelmacar flew sedately around the isle of Silmesse, Drazyen frowned slightly. Sending his servants scurrying away with a simple hand-signal, he closed his eyes in silent meditation for a few short moments, before lowering his hands onto the emerald surface of the orb. That night, as the stars shone brightly in the sky over the kingdom of the Eldar, a dream crept silently over them, wafting over their sleeping minds. To most, it was but a blurry half-seen fog, but some more sensitive souls, whose minds were more open to such things, mages and poets and artists, recieved the dream in its entirety, and shuddered in their sleep at the horrors they saw.

An elf-maid, tall and long of limb, her golden hair flowing down over her shoulders, and framing her stunning features, from which stared forth a pair of terrible red eyes, bright as rubys with the light of Valinor, walked swiftly down a white cobbled road toward the mighty stronghold of Formenos, home of Feanor, he who would one day slay his own kin in his madness. And upon reaching this stronghold, the elf-maid, she who then held the name of Nerdanel, daughter of Mahtan the smith, and is now called Sirithil, Elentari of Menelmacar, spent many a long hour, enraptured by the blended light of the trees of Valinor, that living fire which shone only from the gems which Feanor had created for her, claiming, in his madness that they were a gift to all the world. The Silmarils.

Then the scene faded, to be replaced by another. Now, a far more sinister shape strode down that white cobbled road, that of Melkor, who would become better known as Morgoth, the great enemy of the Valar, yet in his eyes shone the same light as that which had beamed forth from those of the elf-maid, for the same terrible greed was in him, and he smashed the stronghold asunder, slaying Finwe, high king of the Noldor, before its doors, and seized the Silmarils for himself. And then he fled, never to tread the earth of Aman again.

Then, another scene arose in the dreaming minds of Silmesse, that of the elf-maid, speaking with the lords of the Elves, telling how she had pleaded with her fey husband not to lead her sons to war and bloody ruin, yet as another scene took its place, the dreamers saw she who was known as Nerdanel screaming with unholy rage and lust, demanding the return of the great jewels that Feanor had made for her.

And, spurred on by her taunts, as his wife accused him of cowardice, and suggested that it was fear of Melkor and of the Valar which stayed his hand, Feanor led his warriors to war, and marched down the long road to Alqualonde. And there, driven on by the fiend that was their mother, the sons of Feanor fell upon the Teleri, and Sirithil laughed, endless waves of tinkling laughter spilling from her perfect features, like the song of the rivers of Aman, as those that had stood between her sons and the stolen jewels which she coveted fell. She laughed as the sons of the Teleri died, screaming in agony. She laughed as Haven of the Swans burned, and she laughed as the Noldor took the white ships, and sailed away into the east. And then she stilled her laughter, and striving to conceal her unholy joy in what she had seen, trod again the road to Valinor, tales of how she had striven to assuage Feanor's wrath and halt his insanity already fermenting in her foul and twisted mind.

At last, that dread scene faded, and the image of a tall, blond being, her fair features hidden within a deep hood, which concealed her ears, even as the blue glass dimmed the glow of her eyes, speaking with a short tweed-jacketed man, a pen in his hand, swam across the minds of the people of Silmesse.

Finally, this too faded, to be replaced by a whole swathe of images, each following the other without join or seam, and the dreamers saw how the mithril vessels of Menelmacar brought firey ruin to any who opposed its Elentari, in thought or word or deed, by plasma and steel and over all of this was superimposed the fey and terrible laughter of Sirithil, she who was once known as Nerdanel.

And then, there was darkness, and words like flame seared into the consciousnesses of the sleepers, sensitive and insensitive alike.

"What looks fair may be foul, and what looks foul may be fair. The most terrible evil is that which comes with a beautiful face and a honeyed tongue. The kinslayers walk among you."

And throughout the dream not only the images, but also the thoughts and words and ideas which came with them swam into the minds of the dreamers, and clear tears ran down peaceful elfin faces in sorrow at what they had seen.

And then at last, as the Lord al Vvishiak removed his hands from his orb, the dream ceased, and the sleepers awoke.

Meanwhile, out at sea, a great storm flew inexorably toward Silmesse.

OOC:
The storm (inside which is the Kalessin embassy) will arrive on 14th Dec RL time, since I don't have time to do an extended RP 'til then.

Two guards defending the Aelosian position inside Varnamilme...

"I dreamed with Lady Sirithil last night", said one of them in a sad tone, putting his fusion rifle away.

"Oh, kinky, I dreamed with her once that way and...", started to say the other one, chuckling.

"Hey!, I dreamed with the burning of Alqüalondë, she was there, and...", continued the first one, removing his helmet.

"In Alqüalondë?. That's not kinky enough, I dreamed that I was with Lüthien in Angband once, and Morgoth wanted to join the party and...", interrumpted the first one.

"Stop that ok?, it wasn't that kind of dream. I saw that she was the true instigator of the burning of Alqüalondë, and that Fëanor created the Silmarils for her", now he was holding his finger near the other guard's face, clearly enraged.

"OK, ok, take it easy. It was just a dream, only a dream. You should have more kinky dreams, those are more...relaxing", said the other, leaving his partner alone.

OOC: This is just a comment, to include something regarding Kalessin's post...


OOC: Who is that in refernece to? Myself? Manmen?

OOC: Actually, it's to that ruling force of posting, that master of the quick return - Aelosia.
See, Olorndil spotted Ondarien and the Aelosian soldier...

By the way, what's that suppose to mean?.

Nearby Fanataurë, the coast…

Níremo smiled; faint and fleeting.
“If I can convince but one of the Lindai, then perhaps there is hope for our two peoples to yet live in peace,” he said. Glanced over the other members of the troupe, searched their eyes for sign of some melting of their fiery anger.
“It would be poor of me to welcome you without offering warning,” he added, watched for tensions and kept his voice low and soothing. “There are…dark forces at work in Silmessë. It was not by our choice that we left the world rejoining it so late in time. We…perhaps the word is slept, under some unknown influence and now we wake to confusion. And…”
He broke off, glanced at the storm far in the south and his expression grew grim. “To the south, there are darker things stirring. Even I can feel them, threading through our land.”
A shudder moved through him and he shook it off. Soothed his stallion, suddenly skittish as though his dark thoughts had bled into the air.
“The message you hold now from Olorndil, comes with an invitation to Aldaringwë, the royal city. If you would speak with the Lord of the Silmellon I will guide you there. My duty is done and I wish to return home; I fear it may not stand long.” He looked up at Daintáro, raised his brows in a silent question. “It is seven days ride, but the land is generous and there are paths we can take that will get us to Aldaringwë within a day.”

(OOC: Which part of the OOC are you questioning Aelosia? The first part is in reference to Olorndil's POV scene when he closes on Varnamilme - he was talking about the armoured Valandë and the last part I would definitely say is a compliment on your super quick reflexes when it comes to posting a reply! :D )


In Varnamilme…

Olorndil’s features brightened, a smile played on his lips.
“I know the Lady Sirithil, it is to speak with her that I came to Varnamilme,” he said. “I cannot linger in that cause, I cannot wait for your Duke.”

He blinked, glanced over Valandë’s shoulder at the cobbled roads and the gathering shadows.
“We will make for the White Towers, for Fánatar.” He pointed them out to her through the gloom. “It is the stronghold of this city, but more importantly beneath it lie the caverns and passageways that lead down to the harbour and piers below. It will make a safe route to the great vessel of the Lady Sirithil. Tell your Duke where I can be found, it is possible that he will wish to join the Lady of the Menelmacari and I.”

He remounted, considered Ondarien.
“Go with Valandë, let it be known to her people that the Lord of the Silmellon welcomes them in friendship and hope.”

Then turning his stallion down a narrow cobbled road, he and his companions headed deeper into Varnamilme.
They melted into the shadows as wraiths, all but invisible and now suddenly silent as though the power of Olorndil stretched out over them; captured even the barest whisper of sound and banished it.

OOC: Oh, thanks, I'm flattered. But I must remark that my quick responses are a consequence of the high quality of this RP. I'm very interested in this...

IC:
At the gates of Varnamilme...

She just nodded at the words of Olorndil. "I will transmit your message, noble one. But beware, the crawling darkness has already begun to attack your city", she said, putting on her helmet again.

After Olorndil and his companions left, she turned to Ondarien. "So, that's the way we were thousands of years ago, like you. I can't say we have advanced much. Please follow me, I will take you to our camp".

The two guardians were standing still near the perimeter of the Aelosian camp, looking at each other. Suddenly a soft breeze passed near them, like a whisper in their ears, as Olorndil rode through the city.

"What was that?. I swear something passed through this street", said one of them.

"First you dream of Lady Sirithil and now you're imagining things. You drinked too much Miruvor last night", answered the other, still chuckling.

"Could you please stop talking about that dream?. And something passed through here, for Manwë!", said the first one.

The other shook his head "Whatever, please stand guard ok?. The Manmen forces are approaching the camp. Maybe they will attack us tonight".

A soft hiss somwhere near the pointed ear of the attentive guard is the only warning betrayed by the living shadow before it speaks, its voice little more than a silibant whisper, "Something did pass by us."

Reflected light flashes from the wraith's blade, the edge of which has been honed to monomolecular sharpness even after centuries of use. The mandrake disperses like fog, returning to the cover of night, before she even knows if her strike landed or not.

Shoft chuckles sound in the darkness, voiced by how many throats is almost impossible to tell.

"We have come, kinslayers of the Kionash."

OOC: Ahem...Manmen, Are you trying to kill one of my guards?. I didn't understood what you meant in the last post. I need to know if you're attacking my camp...In any case, the guard said what he said regarding Olorndil...If you attacked him, as he's distracted, I will assume that the mandrake severed the guard's head with just one stroke.

Hello, this is the Queen of Moonstone Harbor. I don't have time to read all nine pages of this, but I really really really really really *pauses for breath* really really really really really want to join in the fun, so will I disrupt terribly if I only read the first page and this one before joining?

darn, it said it had deleted this post... oh well, just disregard it I suppose. sorry about that.

Beijing, Perfect China

Empress Nah Tan Mao, the ruler of the Maoist Communist Empire looked over the report with concern. "Hmm... Sauron has become very active ever since this new elvish nation popped up... Disturbing, well we will need to keep a closer watch on Mordor in case they prove to be a threat to Perfect China." her Royal Advisor nodded and began to place a few calls, ordering that closer watch be given to the situation.


http://images.google.com/images?q=tbn:e6ffnG-cETQC:cookministries.ibelieve.com/uploads/47/3610.jpg
Empress Nah Tan Mao
The Maoist Communist Empire of Perfect China

OOC: I'd say you really really really really need to read the other pages first, myself.

Daintáro nodded. "I can feel the dark magics on the Other Winds," he agreed, "Though we knew already of your people's return - all felt it, and the Amillitári Elenna divined it's nature. She sent us here to investigate.

"Indeed, let us go to Al - Al - Allaringue, and speak to Olorn - Olornnil," he continued, stumbling over the Goldórin words. "We should speak to your king; though I may be willing to forgive, the Amillitári will not."

OOC: Argh, the shortness burns.

Hello, this is the Queen of Moonstone Harbor. I don't have time to read all nine pages of this, but I really really really really really *pauses for breath* really really really really really want to join in the fun, so will I disrupt terribly if I only read the first page and this one before joining?

(OOC: I would strongly advise reading the nine pages...but as your nation would only be arriving on the scene 'now' anyway, feel free to join. It is an open RP and I welcome the chance for the Silmellon to make more friends...or, well find out who is not so nice :) .)

OOC: Ahem...Manmen, Are you trying to kill one of my guards?. I didn't understood what you meant in the last post. I need to know if you're attacking my camp...In any case, the guard said what he said regarding Olorndil...If you attacked him, as he's distracted, I will assume that the mandrake severed the guard's head with just one stroke.

((Yes, they're attacking. I left the attack a little vague to make it a little creepier, and to leave possibilities for damage or not open. Yes, I know he said that in regard to Olorndil, but the other guard mentioned an attack, and the opening was too good for me to enjoy. Plus, it helps involve Silmesse (since Olorndil is ostensibly still nearby).))

The head of the guardian jumped to the air, elvish red blood flowing out the stomp of his neck. The another guard stood quiet, looking at the body of his former partner as it fell to the ground. Then he moved, turning on all channels of his comlink and shouting "Attaackk!!!" as he fired his fusion rifle, failing miserably to acquire a target.

The alarm was launched as the whispers of the Dark Eldar were heard by the Aelosian troops. The Falcon Gravtanks were powered up as hundreds of guardians runned to occupy their positions on the perimeter. A squad of Warp Spiders, covered by the Howling Banshees battlemaidens, took the vanguard of the entrenched line.

The General rose, walking to the command vehicle. "To fight in this city will be a shame. Only those withered wretches of the Fallen could attack us here. Minimize the collateral damage and civilian casualties. Take most of them out of here, and defend the perimeter. We'll make a last stand here", he ordered to the Exarchs in charge of the defense of the tanks, "Usual proccedures, make a strong line with the tanks and the entrenched guardians, and send the fast assault troops out with hit and run attacks in the weak spots of their line".

OOC:

*Grumbles at Silmesse's lack of reaction to his dream-propaganda*

*Grins cheerfully at Aelosia's reaction to the same*

(I'll try to read them later on as I get time. I read most of the second page last night and I can try to catch up, but it may be awhile before I can do that. I'll try to keep my involvement as non-clashing with the current story as I can with what I've already read and keep up from there.)

Sitting silently in her bed-chamber, Illundia stared out onto the natural harbor that spread below her. It's creamy translucent stone was kissed with gold and rosey tones as the sun sank with slow serenity to it's rest. Unconciously, she ran her fingers up and down across the worn velvet of her window seat, mind far away. She looked over the water at the tiny ships that sailed back and forth at what appeared a lazy pace from her vantage point.
One such vessle had sailed out... she didn't know how long ago, seeking news and she impatiently awaited it's return. After the strange sensation that had taken her younger sister, Naure from sleep and thrust her screaming and nearly hysterical into Illundia's own bedchamber, all the of Moonstone Harbor, the land over which she had only one year ago been named queen, sat on pins and needles with worry. The poor girl would not speak of it still and trembled to be alone for even a moment, lest her sleepless eyes should close to spite her. She had only once been left unattended since the incident and had been so shaken that for days afterward she would speak to no one, not even Illundia, her beloved sister.
Her pretty golden eyes, always mirror-like and full of mystery, had grown distant and hooded of late and it confounded even the most skilled of healers to delve into her much enshrouded mind.
Quietly, Illundia rose, the long hem of her gown brushing the ground whenever she moved.
In brooding silence she passed to her sister's chamber, shortly instructing the tall elvish woman who attended the girl that she should leave them for a moment.
Alone, she sat beside her sister, whose eyes followed her every movement from the bed in which she lay. The girl's long raven tresses lay disheveled around her pale, wan face, it's luminous eyes devoid of emotion.
Moisture brimmed in Illundia's copper-and-green eyes, making them shimmer even more than usual with unwanted tears she had restrained for days. Brushing a lock of her own thick cherry-wood hair behind a delicately pointed ear, she forced a smile, for Naure's sake.
"How fares my dear sister?"
Naure spoke nothing, but continued to stare at her.
"Not even one word for me, Naure?"
Still the girl watched her in silence.
Biting her lip, she nodded. "Perhaps soon you shall sleep again, and find the terror that haunts you gone... I must go again, dear one...." She hoped for some recognition, but received nothing. "I will come again tommorow." Leaning over the young queen gently kissed her sister before getting to her feet and quitting the chamber.
Much grieved, she watched the elven attendant quickly take her place before returning slowly to her bedchamber without the solace she had hoped to take from the breif visit. Her sister worsened.
Just as she reached her chamber door, a young boy rushed to meet her, his young features flushed from his run.
"Queen Illundia, a ship has just arrived and they desire to speak with ye right away."

(OOC: Moonstone Harbour – nice post, look forward to hearing more from you!)

(OOC: Kalessin, I’m not ignoring your post…I usually write offline and post the following evening.)

Across Silmessë, in the tree cities of Fanataurë, Lisselillassië and Menaldaron; in the mountain strongholds of the Silmellon and in Varnamilme younger minds woke from the strange dream and knew terror.
But many of the Silmellon still remembered clearly what had been, for it was not so long ago for them; they had walked with Fëanor and Nerdanel, knew true from false.
These Eldar, beings who had walked among the Valar cast the dreams aside and soothed kin who had not the benefits of their memories.
In homes there were whispered reassurances.

“The Lady Nerdanel had nought but kindness.” These words in many forms stilled fears, restored peace to the Silmellon.

High in the peaks of the Arinoronti Mountains, in the stone chambers of Kemenixë, Undómëfal would have laughed at the visions spun in dreams.
But her mind was closed to such things, only the music of metal could penetrate her mind; weave through her thoughts.
Her amusement would have been profound, had any known that beneath her current guise as the Lady Undómëfal, lay an older name; one that had known Fëanor and Nerdanel well indeed.

In Varnamilme, Ondarien…

Valandë lead him through the city and Ondarien was surprised by how different it seemed.
Almost another world, still where voices had once rang out; songs sung. The darkness never a threatening thing to the Silmellon, but rather a beautiful reminder of the ancient history of the Eldar.
Stars were still a matter of interest in Silmessë.
He looked up, the skies were much changed since the times when the Silmellon had sang to them; yet he still felt the old urge to sing.
Only the oppressive silence of the White City prevented him from doing so.
He followed Valandë, led Súlamen and hoped that the camp to which the battlemaiden led him was a site more cheerful.


In Varnamilme, Olorndil…

Olorndil sensed disturbances in the shadows as he and his companion’s passed. Darkness, not the mere absence of light; but the active suppression of anything hale and good in Varnamilme pressed at them on all sides.
Rather than stop, try and tear the secrets of the darkness from its hiding places, Olorndil pressed on. Urged his companions silently, to allow no distraction.
Avoiding the cobbled roads where the darkness seemed most ingrained, he led them towards the towering edifice of Fánatar.
Feeling for a familiar mind ahead, he found Armon, the commander of the archers of Varnamilme.
He had not suffered the fate of dust and ashes, but then he was younger than those Silmellon to be so lost.

Armon, we approach the gates of Fánatar. He mentally touched the mind of the commander.

His reply came strong, but warded. The gates will open to you Olorndil.

And they were.
Riding into the walled courtyard before the white towers, Olorndil dropped the weaves of silence; let the cloaking shadows withdraw.
Armon was among the Elves who came to greet them, his grey eyes filled with a strength Olorndil wished he could find in himself.

“Olorndil,” he began, “I wish that your coming was cause for celebration.”

“It may yet be Armon,” Olorndil replied, sensed that the commander would bring up the loss of Arwë and forestalled him. “Have most of the people withdrawn into Fánatar?”

“Yes, they’ve gathered in the caverns beneath. There are still many who remain in the city, too afraid to leave their homes.” His eyes turned cold. “Or trapped there, by these foul dark Eldar. Fírë is out there, she went seeking wounded. Neither she, nor the archers that went with her have returned.”

Olorndil sighed, reached for his cousin mentally; but found no trace of her. His heart told him that she lived, but nothing else could be ascertained.

“I need to get to the harbour Armon,” he said after a moment’s silence. “All this may be…resolved if only I can speak with the Lady Sirithil.”

Armon started. “There have been…dreams of the Lady. The Silmellon are not swayed by the untruths these visions attempted to impart, too many of our people knew her. But it may affect any kin who would offer us aid. Tread carefully Olorndil and warn the Lady Sirithil.”

Olorndil nodded, turned to the open doors of Fánatar and with his fifty companions passed into the first of the great towers and hurried to the stairs that vanished into the caverns below.

Among the Silmellon gathered there, whispers rose and Olorndil cast gentle reassuring words to them; eased their sorrows and confusion.
Offered them what they needed most, hope and knew that Alassënyelle had offered him the greatest wisdom on the night he came to the throne of Silmessë.
He would bring them all hope; not an empty hope, but the promise of a future for the Silmellon.

Passing through he reached the corridors that had been carved when Elves first came to the Island and smelt the sea air, salty and potent.
He sent a mental thought ahead, called to Sirithil.

I come Lady of the Menelmacari.

In Varnamilme, crash site of the Aelosian Transport…

Fírë did not wake as the dream of the Lady Sirithil faded. She could not, her strength had all but drained into the darkness of pain and suffering.
A part of her struggled against the depth of her sleep, unsuccessfully.
She needed rest, her energies so low she seemed a frail spirit; invisible to the reaching minds of her kin.
Time, was now her healer.

Nearby Fanataurë, the coast…

Níremo led the Lindai across the field, skirting the veiled shadows of Fanataurë. He decided against moving through the forest. It was better that the only Silmellon city that the Lindai visited for now, be Aldaringwë.
Olorndil would hopefully know how to appease the Amillitári Elenna.
Estar stayed close to Níremo’s side, as though the stallion were concerned for him; confused that he did not ride.

“Tell me how it is that the Lindai do not have the great metal craft of the modern world? Our Lord, Olorndil spoke of terrible things, metal-formed that spat death and destruction,” he said at last to break the silence that had grown over the group. “Yet you are armed as our archers and you have with you, none of the metal airships.”

He wondered if the Lindai would object to his riding. He had already spent many days travelling. There had been many settlements to visit, Silmellon to soothe; their sorrow and confusion still burned in his thoughts, tugged at his heart.
Though they moved more swiftly now, aided by the land itself, it was still some way to the royal city.
And there was something touching at the edge of his thoughts, some flicker of visions that his weary mind struggled to catch. Did the Lindai sense it?
He strained, glimpsed a face. Nerdanel.
Hoped that the images haunted him alone…

(Thank you very much ^_^)

Illundia's irridescant eyes grew wide against her will, a dim flicker of excitement rising in her. Perhaps this ship brought the news she craved so deeply. Perhaps it brought her sister's salvation. She could not quite restrain the surge of desperate hope that had taken root in her heart.
"Lead." She said shortly as the young creature bowed and quickly darted away again in the direction he had come. Quick and lithe since girlhood, she followed like an impatient wraith, her feet barely touching the ground. This news could mean life and death for more than Naure, it could be the fate of her entire nation.
At last they arrived in the ante-chamber that led to the throne room, in which her father's friend, now a royal adviser and a tall, broad man, (no one that she knew) waited. Casting an ill-favoring look toward the large wooden doors at the other end of the room, she hastened to greet her visitor. Illundia had lived in mortal terror that she might be required to recline upon the royal throne since the death of her parents had removed them from it.
"Her majesty?" The man bowed deeply, his thick arms crossed over his chest.
"Aye, sir, and you would be the captain of the Silver Sun?" The formality of the occasion chaffed her dreadfully as her heart longed to demand whatever news this man brought to her. But she held her tounge and remained civil despite her weariness and the shortness of her hold upon temper and desperation. Caspare, her advisor, watched the exchange in silence.
"I would be indeed milady. I bring ye dire news of happenings far from your shores. Long lost elven kin are found, but-" he broke off suddenly as if he had nearly spoken something painful to him.
Alas, he had tried the worn patience of Illundia too far and she could be diplomatic with his talk no longer.
"Speak what news you bring me sir, I shall not bear such delay!"
There was genuine sorrow in the human man's grey eyes when he turned them to her, and had iron the ability to weep, she would have sworn it did so now within them.
"I fear that these kin are the cause of the terrors that have waisted the young princess and great ill lurks among them bringing death and dispair." He spoke quickly, spitting the words as if they bit his tongue in passing.
Stricken, the young queen turned pale, seating herself upon the nearest flat surface, a wide window ledge of somewhat crumbled gilding. She had long ago remembered the lost Silmessë island and it's inhabitants, and she had no doubt that these were the lost kin of whom the captain spoke. Her knuckles whitened as she clutched at her seat to keep it.
"I regret being the bearer of such news, milady." The captain said softly, regaining his weathered hat and quietly exiting the room.
"C-Caspare?" Her voice shook, try as she might to still it's quavering.
"My queen?" Ever the proper courtier, he had refrained from placing a hand upon her shoulder as he had once done when she was a frightened little girl only just orphaned. She looked at him now, clearly shaken, her usually healthy shade turned deathly pale until it nearly matched Naure's own sickly shade.
"What am I to do...?" Illundia whispered, burrying her face in her hands as her pent-up tears at last found release.

OOC: Compound bows are considerably different from mediaeval-era bows; they have whaddayacallems, like pulleys, to alter the force so they're easier to draw and impart more force to the arrows.

~~~~~

"We Lindai tend not to innovate," Daintáro replied, "And instead we develop what we have to the pinnacle of it's possibility. Thus our bows, which have a greater range, and our ships are faster.

"Some of our ships have things, like metal leaves" - Daintáro's hands trace circles in the air before him, as he attempts to explain the anaroi - "Which use the sunlight to turn blades at the back of the ship, and these push it through the water, even against the wind. We arrived in your land on one such.

"We saw several such craft of which you speak as we arrived, but they did not seem to note our presence. We have our own ships of the air, though they are very different to those which we see here; there are certain gases which, enclosed, will lift upwards. We use these to lift craft into the sky, and push them through the air with revolving blades, as are used on the cirianaroi -"

Daintáro paused, feeling the breezes of some great compulsion on the Other Winds. Images of one he'd thought long dead. What the spell told was what the Lindai had long believed, but one thing was new to him.

"She's alive," he growled. "Twice are we played the fool by the Goldórin! The whore of Fëanor is alive!"

Angaráto, who had mellowed recently, returned to his former sullen demeanor; Calarielle looked ready to kill something. The other three looked angry also, as well they should be; what use was the Exodus from Aman if their prey had slipped through their fingers for so long?

Caspare hesitated for a moment before he spoke.
"My lady... you are queen now... the decision rests with you."
Quickly taking control of herself, Illundia managed to regain composure, breathing deeply to clear her mind.
"You have seen far more seasons than I and I would have such wisdom to guide my hand." She paused a moment, quelling the desperate urge to shake him into compliance. "Please,... speak."
She held his eyes forcefully, not allowing him to look away.
"Very well, my queen." He said at last, defeat in his aged features. "We must know more of this strange force across the world and what hold our brethren have upon it, or it upon them. My council is to seek knowledge before any action be taken. Do with this what you will."
Illundia nodded, her eyes distant and thoughtful.
"Aye. Your words are wise as usual. I will have the word spread that brave citizens are needed for their nation and if luck and fate are with us, we shall know our course soon."
Turning she seemed to remember that he still stood, waiting for her to speak or send him away. Sometimes his particular insistance upon propriety was annoying. But then, her inexperience and somewhat stubborn temperment were irritating as well, she was sure.
"Thank you Caspare, you have eased my mind greatly." She smiled wanly. Swiftly, before he could protest, she embraced him and left the room.

in the royal bedchamber

"... All those who participate in this quest for knowledge shall have the gratitude of queen and country as well as a 300 guambe reward for their efforts."
Looking down at her neat, if somewhat exaggerated hand, the young queen reread her words. Indeed, it was carefully phrased and seemed more the work of a great lady than an uneasy teenager. It should serve.
Carefully taking the document in hand, she descended to the floor beneath her own where all of the royal craftsmen kept their workshops. Her footfalls were soft and muted, yet the singing of hammers, chisels and lathes stilled at their passing. At last, she found the artisan whom she sought, the scribe, who's office was written in flowing and beautifl script of gold across the door.
Knocking upon the doorframe she was admitted and quickly arranged for the creation of the announcement papers to be distributed throughout her queendom.
Then, as quietly as she had come, Illundia retreated to her own chamber to brood over what she would do next.

In Varnamilmë...

Valandë just walked on the street, guiding Ondarien to her camp. Suddenly the sounds of the lance shots and the discharges of plasma filled the air, the lights of the fusion explosion flashing on the horizon. Soon the screams of the wounded and the Eldar and Fallen battlecries joined them, echoing through the streets of the city.

"So, the war has begun. They have attacked us. I must return to my camp and fulfill my duty, but maybe it could be dangerous for you to come with me", said Valandë from beneath the helmet, the metallic voice impersonal and emotionless. She drawn her power sword, walking again toward the oncoming battle. "I'm sorry, we have brought strife and turmoil to you, we're as guilty as the Fallen of what is happening here", she said to Ondarien.

Around the Crash Site

"Sire, we're under attack, the Dark Eldar are storming our position", reported one of the guards to Fëlan. The Exarch just looked around, seeing the medics working with the wounded Silmessian and Aelosian alike.

"We need to protect them. Prepare the defense of this position, make trenches around the dropship so we could defend us better", said Fëlan, placing Firë with extreme caution in a bedroll on the floor.

"But we're just five soldiers, they're an entire legion!, there's no way we could withstand a full out attack", said the soldier, shaking his head.

"First, we can't just go away and abandon the wounded. We will not leave them behind. Second, we're an elite force, and one of us counts as ten of their soldiers. Let Eru fill you with courage today, my friend, because we're going to need a lot of it", answered the Exarch looking at Firë.

transparent subterfuge of the C'tan

OOC: Puhleasse, they haven't even been trying subterfuge here. In fact, they've been about as subtle as a half-brick in a sock hitting someone over the head.

IC post coming later today.

Splinter fire peppers the Aelosian force from the southeast as the dark ones strike out from within the buildings of the city, from the roofs and alleys. Concentrations of dark lance fire probe at the gravtanks, trying to take them down; warriors bearing blasters snipe at the enemy infantry amidst the clouds of crystalline splinter-fire.

The banshee howl of gravitic engines fills the air, echoing from the walls and streets until direction and number are impossible to determine. The reavers do not even bother to fire as they make a quick pass over the ranks of enemy soldiers, letting the scything blades mounted to the underside of the bikes do the killing with frightening skill. The flock of hoverbikes is only over the enemy for a few moments, but one goes spinning out of control to detonate spectacularly against the facade of a store. The licking flames cast uneven and haunting shadows over the raging melee.

From the northwest, a force of warriors and wyches descends, emerging from blood red webway portals to crash against their kin and defenders.

"Take down the gravtank, it's coming arou--" "--weakening, someone get a shredder --" "--HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" The chatter of the dark eldar fills the air and airwaves.

(OOC: Lindai; I’m aware that there are significant differences between compound bows and their primitive forebearers, but they don’t look very different…Níremo still understands the bows; he doesn’t understand the weaponry of the more advanced invaders.)

On the way to Aldaringwë…

Níremo flinched at the rage in Daintáro outburst, the hate burning in his eyes and of his companions.
It rushed against him like a physical force, the burning of a city; kinslaying, it was all as one. Twined into a single strand that would never be undone. A ring, a cycle…
He could not let the moment pass without speaking.

“The Lady Nerdanel did the Lindai no wrong,” he sighed. “To hate her simply for circumstance…”
Words failed him; he hung his head sadly. Wearily leaned against Estar, felt the heat of the stallion envelope him.
“Forgive me, I must ride or I shall be able to lead us no longer. I have travelled Silmessë these past days without rest or much sleep.” He glanced at Daintáro. A questioning look; brows furrowed, eyes thoughtful. “Do you still intend to visit the court of Olorndil?


In Varnamilme, the embattled cobbled roads…

Ondarien, considered Valandë’s warning.

“Olorndil asked me to speak in his name,” he told her. “I have a duty to go with you. “
He stroked Súlamen, knew that the stallion stayed only because his own nerves held yet. There was fear in them both, yet there was strength still and Ondarien had his duty to hold him firmly on course. I rode into Varnamilme for Olorndil, for the Silmellon. Can I do less now?

He drew his shoulders back, nodded to Valandë.
“There are things we can change and things we cannot change,” he told her. “Do not worry about that which you cannot change.” He waved to the city, shadows and unfolding smoke; discharge of powerful weapons. “Let’s work together on what we can change. Lead on.”


In Varnamilme, on the great white pier…

Olorndil frowned at the silence from the Menelmacari vessel. Did the Lady Sirithil not hear him?
There was activity on the great stairs, Tienyalossë; a dark figure descending hesitantly, bearing a white flag.
He reached out for Sirithil, presented himself to her again and waved his companions forward.
Together they made for the Mithril wrought craft and hoped that they would be welcomed.

(OOC: Sauron and Tor Yvresse; perhaps I’ve been a bit subtle on this point. Undómëfal hears only the music of metal and certain minerals/gems, but when it comes to the mental voices and empathy that many of her Elven kin hold naturally, she is blind. It’s part of what makes her so unique, this strange gift for the music of making (the creation song) she hears, cuts her off from other things. But it also protects her against the minds of others; you’ll gain nothing by mind speaking to her, or attempting to wield influence over her. She’d be completely ignorant of it.)

Kemenixë, city of the Lady Undómëfal…

Undómëfal felt a flicker of rage as the young Elven girl intruded into her domain. But when not even the mind of her Lord, Alcarmbiril could reach through the weaves of the music, there was little choice in how she could be summoned.
What could tear Alcarmbiril away from the silver jewels she had fashioned for him?

“Yes,” she commanded the maiden; put herself between the sharp Elven eyes and the hole she’d made in her chamber floor. “What is it you want?”

“Alcarmbiril cannot be stirred from his bed,” she replied. Eyes dropped, unable to hold Undómëfal’s gaze.

“And so you come to me,” she finished, barely noticed the young Elf nodding in confirmation. “Go ahead, I am coming.”

She waited until she could be certain she was alone, then sealed the doors to her chamber. Locked them with a touch of her finger, empowered by the Coirëamírë; vivid light, a rainbow across the stone cut doors.
Then headed up into the chambers where light fell and the Silmellon could always be found gathering.

OOC: Oh. :oops:

"The lady Nerdanel was there," Daintáro growled, "And her hands were not clean of the blood that flowed that day. By all means you must ride, then; we must speak to your king. Perhaps he may be persuaded from this foolishness."

Níremo climbed atop his mount, and they proceeded in silence a while further. After some time, Calarielle slipped up to Daintáro's side to whisper quietly to him.

"I am most concerned, captain," she whispered, "For you seem taken in by the words of the Kinslayers. Blood is on their hands, friend; and that blood may never be washed away. We should be striking, while they are weak. The Amillitári would agree with me."

"But not, perhaps, the Ciriáran," Daintáro whispered back, "And it is he who rules in Tirinélio, not his mother. I will hear no more of this."

"Then you are a fool, Daintáro," she remarked, and slipped away.

He did not turn to watch her as she went back to the others; that might attract the attention of the tired Silmellon beside him, who had given no sign of noticing their conversation.

Valandë nodded. She recognized the elven courage and grim determination in Ondarien's eyes. "So be it. May Elbereth Gilthoniel protect us in these times of strife. I'll use my pulse detector to find us a safe passage, but I can't promise nothing to you. And also I suggest you to dismount. You're making an excellent target for a sniper, well, for a marksman...well, for the enemy archers", she said, unsure of how describe the expert Dark Eldar riflemen that were stalking in the shadows.

She quickly entered in her disciplined state of mind, to wash away all fear and emotions from her mind, and began to run through the streets of Varnamilmë, guiding Ondarien to the camp, avoiding the worst pockets of fighting.

In the Aelosian Camp

After suffering several charges from the Dark Eldar infantry, and gaining the upper hand with heavy losses, the Aelosian column moved. The tanks as the vanguard, the soldiers poured out from the trenches, using black Napalm and plasma grenades to take out the Dark Eldar from their refuges. The line pushed hard, trying to expel all Dark Eldar from inside Varnamilmë. This battle could not be gained by skill, because both armies were trained and equiped in the same way, but by sheer numbers, and in that the Aelosian had the upper hand. The Falcon tanks proved to be invaluable as the Dark Eldar lacked from heavy armoured units.

(OOC: Aelosia, Ondarien has been leading his stallion since he entered the city; remember, he dismounted and padded Súlamen’s hooves, then led the horse into the city. He hasn’t mounted since.)

In Varnamilme…

Ondarien made certain that he remained out of the battlemaiden’s way, heeded her instructions and made himself as inconspicuous as possible.
Kept pace with her, effortlessly; guided Súlamen as though the stallion were an extension of himself.


On the way to Aldaringwë…

“Do you follow your king?” Níremo asked Daintáro, though he knew the answer. “Be wary, it is all too easy to travel dark roads in service to another. It is a lesson we Silmellon took to heart. Blood for any reason, never washes away.”

Knowing that he could say nothing more to dissuade the Lindai from travelling down a road the Silmellon knew all too well.
Ahead, the fringes of Lisselillassië rose from the long grasses of the fields surrounding the forest.
“Honey leaves,” he struggled to translate the name for Daintáro. “Within is the city of Olorndil, Aldaringwë.”

The beauty of the ornemalin trees never failed to lift his spirits; golden hued they made of the horizon an echo of Valinor.

In the face of the counteroffensive by the Aelosians, the dark eldar task force simply... disappears. They fade into the black of the night, to retreat to the Web from safety. All across Silmesse, the dark eldar stop fighting, stop pillaging, to withdraw.

Nascia returns to Rath's hiding place, where an open portal awaits her.

In a flash, the Dark Ones are gone.

((The reasons for my sudden leave are here: http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?t=102359&highlight= ))

Assembled in the main antechamber, three sets of feet shifted anxiously on stone floor. Eyes flicked from door to door, waiting. An idle humming rose for a moment, but the sudden attention it gained from the other two quickly silenced the noise. Four elves in total, with the guardsman posted near the entrance and was not a part of their journey. These were the finest that Moonstone Harbor's citizens had to offer, selected from the hundreds who had come seeking the substantial reward promised.
And though they had waited for minutes that seemed like hours, the tardy queen had yet to arrive.

Princess Naure's bedchamber

"-I must go and greet them now, dear one. Be well and rest, then shall you be yourself again."
Leaving the unresponsive child with her caretaker once again, Illundia's resolution hardened more than ever before. This endeavor must succeed.

The main antechamber

Aruna was just about to ask for the third time when their hostess was to arrive when the queen herself moved quickly into the room. Her eyes carefully masked a deep and hidden pain. In the days before gaining control of her empathetic abilities, such suffering so near would have sent Aruna to her young knees with pain; but for now it was only a dull ache in her chest that was easily ignored. Curiously, she fastened her violet eyes on the queen, vibrantly red hair bobbing with her every movement.

Eyes taking each of the threesome in, Illundia heaved a silent sigh. Thus far, she was hardly presenting a majestic or encouraging picture.
"I apologize for my tardiness. I had... personal business to attend." She struggled to keep the weary note from her voice. Sitting at her sister's bedside while she raved and thrashed had taken it's toll and it had been nearly half of a long and weary hour before the girl could be stilled enough for Illundia to leave her alone with her caretaker.
"As you know, you have been summoned here to perform a great service to your nation and its people. There is a severe disturbance from the newly found of Silmesse, and we must know what happens there and how. I tell you now that you may be put into heavy danger and possibly injured or killed. We have no way of knowing what you will encounter until you arrive. I offer you the chance to withdraw now. Think carefully, for this chance will not come again."
Kaegr watched the young royal mildly, silver-white eyes cool and thoughtful. She could not possibly be much older than any of themselves and yet the fate of the entire nation lay upon her shoulders. It was not a burden he envied.
Beside Kaegr stood Kaelen, his twin. They were exactly alike except in attitude and coloration. Where Kaegr was cool to the point of being icy, with his pale straight faun colored locks always pulled sharply back by a leather thong at the base of his neck., Kaelen was a bright sunny fellow with warm sun colored eyes and a soft mop of coppery blonde hair hanging in whisps all about his face.
When the offer came to rescind their service, silence reigned.
After a long pause Illundia spoke again.
“Then I wish you all the good fortune that fate can provide you and my hopes for a safe and brief journey.”
The three bowed politely and left the room.

On the docks of Moonstone Harbor

“Do you think we will ever see this place again?”
Aruna asked softly, looking back at the city she had just left.
“Maybe, maybe not.” Kaegr answered flatly, stepping onto the deck ahead of his brother.
Kaelen, however, turned to her with a reassuring smile.
“We shall live to see this harbor again, Miss. I’ve no intentions of dying on Silmesse.”
Kaegr’s eyes warmed half a fraction as he turned to his twin, a smug half smile on his face. “You won’t.”

(I have the feeling that my last post might have been a bit vauge, so I'm going to put up a sort of mini-bio about the three questers that are leaving Moonstone Harbor in case anyone is sitting in front of their computer going "What the-?". Here's the link to it: http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?p=2332684#2332684)
(p.s. don't read it unless you're actually confused, or it'll spoil later moments I have planned.)

The shroud stopped in the air over the former Dark Eldar shuttle site, then falling though the smoke and clouds, batting them aside against its vast hull. It descended until its lower side almost touched the rooftops below. The ship seemed to glow an unnatural, almost sickly green colour, and arcs of lightning occasionally flashed into it from the ash and smoke of the clouds.

Another transmission was sent, "It appears there is no further need for my prescence," it said, and the Shroud returned to orbit, before leaving the area entirely.

The Aelosian stop their firing after the Dark Eldar withdrew. Their battlecries transformed into cheers of victory...

The General just stood there, a single tear going down his cheek..."Why are you crying?, Sire. Today you have achieved victory and the enemy have fled from our power", asked one of the lesser officers, worry painted in his face.

"Hundresd of young and fair elves have died today. And the beauty of this place has been flawed with violence and blood. This is not a day for happiness, and with war there can be no victory", said the General, looking at the streets full of corpses and the destroyed and scarred white towers of Varnamilmë.

Valandë just stopped few blocks away from the camp. "The firing stopped, maybe the battle is already over. But what happens if we lost?".

(We'll skip some travel time here, for the sake of not boring everyone to death.)

Aruna watched silently as the tiny, receeding figure of the mage raised it's hands from the dock. She could almost feel the change in the air before the ship, but she did not turn. Her courage only extended so far, and she was nervous already. Closing her eyes, she tried not to jump as the cold prickling sensation flowed over her like a freezing shower.
And then it was over and they had passed through the tear in space that had been made for them. It sealed behind them with a soft popping noise, shimmered once and was gone. It was not until someone spoke that the young elf realized that she was holding her breath.
"That was the worst of it I'm sure." She glanced over her shoulder to the twin elves who had come to stand behind her, watching their portal close. Kaelen smiled at her breifly, then made his way to the fore of the ship to watch the mysterious new island as it drew nearer. Kaegr looked her over with an unreadable expression before joining his brother and leaving her alone in the rear of the ship.
As they landed on the soft sands of the place, a strong surge of fierce joy and deep dispair converged upon her senses, mixing into unintelligable chaos. Flinching, she winced in spite of herself. Such intensity and magnitude in one was nearly overwhelming. Quickly Aruna raised her mental sheilds and reduced the torrent to a more of an irritating trickle. This would be a most strenuous journey...

"Kaegr?"
"Eh?"
"What do you suppose we're about to find?"
The colder twin shook his head, looking at a small plume of smoke that rose from somewhere inland.
"For once, your guess is as good as mine."
Silently, Kaelen nodded, following his brother's eyes to the smoke.
"Then let us hope that is a cooking fire." He said after a moment, moving to weigh the anchor.

(OOC: Forgive the delay, I’m having a really bad bout of flu – still not cured by a long shot…)

The North of Silmessë…

It scarcely seemed sea worthy, the tiny coracle that made its way to the shores of the Isle of Silmessë. Bearing but a single man, old and dressed in a faded brown robe that tended towards bronzes now in the light.
He made his landfall in the north, far enough from the Lindai ship to go unremarked.

Though there was no sail, nor oars, the vessel came quickly to the white shores and the elderly man stepped onto solid land.
From the coracle he lifted a staff, turned inland and began his journey.
The land seemed to welcome him, embrace him as it sped him on his way; past Fanataurë towards the golden horizon that was Lisselillassië.

His arrival under the honey-hued canopy came quickly and once there, he paused; listened to the unnatural silence.
Leaning on his staff he murmured to the trees in a rich, flowing voice that was barely above a whisper; yet reached far through the forest.
His words were as those voices of the trees themselves; he spoke their tongue as few of the Silmellon could.
It took some time before the trees themselves began to respond, waking from their mournful silence, whispering back to the old man.

To the Silmellon it seemed sudden, the return of the forests voices.
But even those who knew little of what the trees said heard of the tree friend walking through Lisselillassië; Malinorndil making his way towards Aldaringwë.
And turned to wait for him, for friend to the trees, was friend to the Silmellon.

(OOC: Lindai, No post? No response to previous post on page 10.)

Entering Lisselillassië, the Lindai and Níremo…

As the entered, an unnatural silence greeted them and Níremo frowned.
“These trees have voices, what could have stilled them?” he asked aloud and just as the words left his lips, a whisper seemed to answer him.

It was not the voice of the forest though, no this was the voice of a single being; fluid in the tongue of the trees.
The whisper seemed to come from everywhere and he tensed, wondering if the Lindai would find ill in this.
Though the voice held no malice, it was strange and unknown to Níremo who had known Lisselillassië for hundreds of years. Suddenly, the trees were speaking again and in their words he caught a name for the speaker; Malinorndil.
“Malinorndil,” he echoed. Interpreted the voice of the trees for the Lindai. “They welcome the one who has restored their voices, Malinorndil they name him.”

He glanced around, took in the golden rays that darted through the canopy; sought some sign of the stranger but could not even hear his whisper now.
“We make for Aldaringwë, it is where this Malinorndil goes too,” he told Daintáro.

In Varnamilme…

Ondarien frowned at Valandë’s words; wondered what would become of them if the dark had overcome the light.

“Do you not have means to communicate with your people?” he asked Valandë. “If not through mind, then through some strange device of the times?”


In Varnamilme, Fánatar…

Armon noted the sudden silence that fell across the city.
Making for the top of the great towers, he tried to see through the smoke.
Had the war ended? If so, which of the battling powers had won? Friend, or foe?
He could not tell locked here within Fánatar, the circumstances of the defeat he at last accepted. But could he risk leading his archers into the city?

Kemenixë, city of the Lady Undómëfal…

It was a King’s rider that had caused Undómëfal to be fetched from her chambers and she had to stifle the anger that bubbled to the surface of her mind.
How dare they draw her away from her creation over so trifling a matter?
She passed through the curtained hallway and into the large hall of Kemenixë; sat upon the great chair of Alcarmbiril and drew her emotions tightly under control.
Gazing at the rider with at least the impression of avid interest, she bid him speak and listened as the elf spoke of hope in dark times and of the new king, Olorndil.
For a moment she offered a smile without any hint of pretence, they knew so little.
So when it came time to thank the rider she managed to say the words with uncalculated happiness; everything was still going as she’d hoped.

"Well, I can give it a try", said Valandë. "But something in the orbit was doing interference in our messages"((the Ctan)). She said something through her comlink, waiting the answer. Another voice spoke in the little device, informing about the outcome of the battle.

Then she turned to Ondarien with a smile in her lips. "Victory, the Dark Eldar are gone. Your country is free again", she said, "now we can go quietly to my camp".

Coming to the fore of their small vessel, Aruna surveyed the distance to the island dubiously.
"Why do we not land closer to shore?" She asked, the annoyance of the strong emotion flooding the island adding an edge to her voice. Kaelen laughed musically at her sharpness, directing her eyes to the deck beneath their feet. It lay several inches further below than it had previously, and a cushion of nothingness lay between.

Aruna's eyes grew wide as realization struck her. The boy was telekinetic.
"You mean... you're going to float us over to that island?"
Kaegr looked calmly at her, standing nonchallantly on nothing as a soft breeze ruffled his subdued locks.
"There's nothing to be afraid of. He does this sort of thing quite often." Kaelend nodded agreement and before she could protest further, the elven trio was swung up and over the water and moving toward shore. Kaegr shifted his icy eyes about him as they moved, taking in the breathtaking island coast without interest while Kaelen's red-gold eyes remained fixed upon a particular spit of sand that seemed to be their destination.
It took only a few minutes, but that was long enough to set Aruna trembling and bring a faint sweat to the warmer twin's brow.
"Ah, you do not look a heavy lady miss, but you are difficult to carry." And indeed, he did look as if he'd just carried her 20 or so yards from the ship with his arms and not his mind.
Kaegr cast her a stormy, almost dangerous look for an instant before returning his attention to Kaelen and offering him some water from a flask he carried.
Having refreshed himself, Kaelen looked better and they were soon off again, seeking the inhabitants of Silmesse.

OOC: Did not see that post. Sorry.

"Then let us go to Allaringue," Daintáro replied, "And make haste; for I fear that things of import are occuring without us.

"But tell me, who is this Malinorndil (OOC: I seem to have lost my file on converting Quenya to Lindarin. Aigh.)? It is known for the waves of certain bays to speak in like manner, but I have not heard that the trees too could respond so to the Other Winds."

Saying that, he stopped a moment, and closed his eyes, opening them again onto the shifting lights of the Other Winds. The trees about them were indeed bright with that light, as they had not been before; this Malinorndil must be quite powerful, to instill the trees with such power, for the Other Winds as the Lindai knew them were as shifting as the ocean, and would not easily stay fixed for long.

It was midday in Silmesse. The birds were singing in the trees, and the sun was beaming down through the cloudless sky. There was no wind stronger than a gentle southerly breeze, which softly caressed the dewy plains, and rustled the leafy branches of the trees, along which squirrels scampered up and down, ferrying nuts to their lairs, in preparation for the coming winter.

And then, with unnatural suddenness, the sky changed, as great black stormclouds, pregnant with terrible menace, swept across the elven isle, bringing with them sheets of driving rain, and cold, bitter wind, that cut through fur and clothing alike like a knife, driving right to the bone with an acid chill, sending the birds fluttering back to their nests in dismay, as the squirrels huddled together in abject confusion.

Out at sea, in the midst of the storm, the fury of which suggested something beyond the blind forces of nature, a gigantic dark shadow loomed, its peak swathed in dense clouds through which bizarre flashes of bright-green lightening arced constantly, permeating the entire area with a eerie emerald glow.

And as this monstrous shadow swept inexorably toward the shore, the faint strains of music could be heard emanating from it, suffusing land and sea alike with a subtle melody. And this music was in no way akin to that played by elves or mortal men. This was strange, and slightly disconcerting, redolent of unimaginable decadence, and it was completely and utterly alien. And from the heart of the storm other sounds could also be discerned, flickering seamlessly through the music, the roar of flame and the screaming of the wind merging with the swirling rush of the ocean waves, and, most disturbing of all, for some few short moments, when the music had lowered and become quiet, faint gibberings and howls seeped out.

Then at last, with barely audible bump the shadow met the sandy shore of Silmesse, and as it did so, the rains stopped, and the winds became still, as the clouds, slowly but surely, began to melt away into the ether. Yet the music continued to grow ever stronger, swelling into a glorious paean, but never losing its essential character, and as it reached a resounding, climatic crescendo, a dozen great shapes, their scaley hides, some green, some red, and some blue, rippling over steely sinews as they writhed sinuously upward, leapt up into the clearing air, spreading tremendous leathery wings upon which they glided effortlessly through the skies of the verdant island.

And then the final mists were ripped away by the returning sun, and the true glory of Kalessin blazed forth, as the palace of Prince Lykean al Vvishiak, formed entirely from the purest gold, stood revealed. In size and scale more akin to some impossible mountain that to any ship or building of the Young-Kingdomers, its towers spired upward toward the sky, each topped by the banner of the green snake, the emblem of house al Vvishiak, and the entirety of its gleaming surface was covered in complex runes, glowing with an unnatural light of their own, which could be discerned even in the midst of that searing inferno of reflected sunlight.

"Will you just trust me already?! I know where they are!"
Aruna was fuming at Kaegr who stood like a stone and would not follow her while Kaelen tried vainly to settle thier trouble.
"How could you know?" He demanded icilly, his brow darkly clouded with anger. How DARE some little slip of a girl try to lead them on a wild goose chase for the sake of her pride. Why the queen's advisor had even allowed her to come was beyond him. Just because she had no skills to contribute was no excuse for-
"I can FEEL them!" Aruna shouted, breaking his reverie as her anger got the better of her usual reserve. Most of her friends didn't quite understand the concept of empathy, since they dealt only in sympathy. The idea of truely feeling another being was foreign to them and it was a topic that was usually met with uncomfortable and awkward silence.
Kaelen's eyes widened a little at the outburst and his twin's brows knitted together in suprise as he regarded her.
"Aye, well it makes some sense now." He murmered to himself.
"Have I... missed something of importance?" Kaelen ventured, glancing from one to the other.
Aruna spoke in answer, but her words were drowned out by a sudden loud boom of thunder. Freezing winds and rain that rivalled a waterfall as it immediately soaked all three to the skin. Unable to be understood over the sudden raging storm, the three were of the same mind, taking off at a sprint through the trees, looking for shelter. A strange music filtered through the air, and it's additional mental burden sent Aruna to her knees, from which she could not get up again. Just as her twin companions stopped to help her to her feet, the storm ended as suddenly as it had begun. The music however, grew stronger and more audible than before, causing the elven girl to shake violently. At last she managed to reinforce her mental sheilding enough to hold off the more painful effects of the mysterious tune, and the shaking stopped. She had to be helped to her feet however, before she could continue in their search and moved slowly as if very tired..
Leading in the direction she had indicated before, Kaegr led the way while Kaelen took up the rear to ensure that none of the party was lost.

They continued this way for several hours before at last the capital city of Silmesse came into view.
"I think it wise that we remain here until rested. There is no telling what may become of us if we enter this city frozen, tired and ill." Kaegr directed this last bit at Aruna who had seated herself on a stone nearby and was looking somewhat pale, though she craned her neck to see the city that lay beyond the trees.
"Get some sleep miss." Kaelen said quietly, bringing a small jar up beneath her nose and allowing her a deep breath of it's contents. Wordlessly, her eyes closed and she began to fall forward, whereupon he caught the already dreaming elf and guided her to the ground.
"You look weary yourself brother. Take some rest and I'll wake you in an hour."
Kaegr's tone allowed for no argument, and his words were true, Kaelen was well tired from their passage from the ship and the long trek to reach this place. Seeking himself a soft place on the forest floor, the sunnier twin was quickly asleep

In Varnamilme…

Ondarien turned to Valandë with a smile.

“The shadows have retreated,” he said. “The Silmellon owe a great deal of thanks to your people.” He glanced at the desolate and tainted walls of the white city. “Varnamilme has become a shadowy reflection of another city torn by war.”

Súlamen snorted, shifted over the cobblestones; padded hooves sounding out muffled beats.
“There boy, the war is over,” Ondarien sighed.
Then the sky opened up and rain began to pour down on them.


In Varnamilme, the wreck of the Aelosian Transport…

Fírë’s return to consciousness was a struggle.
It was as though, like a mortal, she lay beneath the earth; sand pouring into her mouth, eyes and ears.
She sensed life; a glowing veil that hung above her. Clawed her way up into it and finally after what seemed ages, managed to open her eyes.

The wounded!
Her memories surged, she struggled to rise from the bed on which she lay and fell back exhausted.
“Where am I?” she asked herself, voice weak. Her eyes took in the surroundings as she struggled to recognise something, anything.


On the outskirts of Aldaringwë…

Níremo shook his head.
“The ornemalin trees of this forest have always had voices, they whispered to the Silmellon when we first arrived here. Welcomed us and have spoke to us ever since.”
He drew in the reins, brought Estar to a full stop and listened for any trace of he whom the trees had named Malinorndil. Found nothing, the man had already passed on.
He signalled the Lindai to follow and turned onto the path that flowed into the royal city.
“I don’t know Malinorndil, but we will meet him soon.”

In Varnamilmë...

Valandë looked at Ondarien, then at the destroyed buildings "This is inexcusable, we will help you to rebuild this city, that's a promise I intend to keep", she said, a bit of sadness in her voice. Then she placed a hand with caution over Súlamen's neck. "He's beautiful, I don't know why we changed our horses for those ugly tanks. The ShadowPrince still love horses, but he has only paintings of them", she smiled. "Come with me, we need still to reach the camp".

As they walk, they looked over dozens of corpses lying on the street, the rain cleaning the stains of blood from the delicate pavement. Several guards approached them, nodding as they recognized the armor of Valandë. "Take us to the Command Center", she said, the guards just starting to walk in front of them, guiding them through the formations of tanks and soldiers, many of them looking surprised a Ondarien and Súlamen.

In the wreck of the transport...

An Aelosian medic approached Firë, with a smile in his elven face. "Stay quiet, most of them are ok, those who could make it are already stabilized", he said, not sure if Firë could understand his ragged Quenya. "The war is over, and although I've many question for you, I'll wait until you recover your strenght".

Kaegr woke his companions after the space of an hour, as promised. The empathetic elven girl seemed much improved by a forced rest and Kaelen's sunny eyes were sparkling full force, as usual. Cautiously, they approached the city.

Passing through the treeline, all three elves stopped at the very brink of their destination in shock. Even Kaegr's usual lack of expression was shadowed with horror. The streets were lined with dead elves and dried blood lay thick about them.
"I never dreamed it would be this bad..." The words were a whisper from Aruna's mouth as she stared, sickened.
"Perhaps there is a reason for... this" Kaelen said, glancing doubtfully about himself.
"For this much death?" Aruna turned her violet eyes to him with an expression that was too complex to answer. He looked away and turned to Kaegr.
"Do we dare to enter?"
Silvered eyes neutral and cold again, he nodded.
"Do we have a choice?"
Neither answered him. They did not have a choice; they would go.
Carefully and respectfully skirting the dead, they entered the city, seeking explanation.

In Kemenixë…

Undómëfal returned to the doors of her chamber, listened to the sound of the seedling; it had grown beyond the soft lullaby.
It swelled through the rock and caverns of the Arinoronti, a chorus of complex melodies beyond any music she had listened to before. It was maturing, already beyond any attempt that might have been made to crush it. Undómëfal smiled, drew curls of her away from her forehead and smoothed them behind her arched and pointed ears.

Making certain she was along, she brushed aside the spell that sealed the doors, pressed her large key into the lock and opened it.
The loud click of turning gears was barely a whisper to her ears, the music of her offspring overwhelmed everything; brought her talent so strongly to the surface that it seemed song was Undómëfal’s world.
She pressed her hand against the stone and the door sprung open.

Light blazed out of the chamber, silvered and rippling with vivid blues and shimmering greens.
“Lórien,” Undómëfal gasped. “You’ve an aspect of the Garden of Dreams.”
Through the floor of the chamber a great branch reached for the ceiling and spread like the boughs of a beautiful tree.
Undómëfal could sense a forest of them within a chamber where no Silmellon had ever delved; deep and hidden. This was but a slender thread of her powerful child, a window into its world. She drew closer, reached a hand out to touch the trunk.

There was mithril and silver woven so cunningly together with jewels, that it seemed spun glass; silvered crystalline threads. Like the silver trees of Lórien, she realised and wondered if the likeness was intended.
She’d loved that garden above all other realms in Aman, had wished for many decades and centuries even that she had lingered there beside the lake of Lórellin and never followed Fëanor across the oceans.
She touched the silvered trunk and started in surprise; it was warm and not very hard at all.

The earth trembled, her eyes grew wide.
Cracks in the rock floor of the chamber grew and silvery stairs appeared descending into the earth.
Below Undómëfal could glimpse the brilliant cavern of silver trees and he lips parted, her escaping breath a sigh.
“Russëlórien,” she named it, gave her offspring an identity though she knew it had not even begun to achieve its potential.

But that it had chosen to mimic life already spoke of her success. The songs she had woven into the seedling had been of machines and materials, she had never shown the seedling Lórien. It must have drunk of my mind while we were one, before I shaped the seedling to hold it, nurture it.

Undómëfal began the long descent, a soft smile on her lips and the light of Russëlórien glowing like a thousand thousand stars in her eyes.

In Varnamilme…

Fírë bit her lower lip and wondered if the overwhelming sense of death that clawed at her senses would ever recede.
It seemed as if the entire city had been massacred, left to corrupt the white cobbled roads and bleed into her mind like open wounds, untended.

Death was like a barrier to her mind. It prevented Fírë from reaching Armon or any of her companions; those who had come into the battle torn streets of the White City to find and aid the wounded beside and beneath the great fallen vessel of the Aelosians.
She wondered if Fëlan had survived the battle, if she would see him again. And of the first she’d healed, the Countess Melian. Did the maiden rise from her bed yet?
Struggling to draw strength into her body so that she might prove useful to her people once more.
Fírë was not one to take rest easily though ironically she often prescribed it to those she healed.

She glanced over at the Aelosian medic who had spoken with her some hours ago when she first awoke and wondered if she could draw the Elven man into conversation.

“I’m sorry,” she said to him when he finally passed by close enough. “There is too much death within the city for me to rest. Can you tell me if any of the Silmellon archers I came with are close by? I would rather be carried about, than lay in bed a moment longer.”
She hesitated then added, “Did Fëlan, one of your own people, did he… Is he okay?”


On the Pier, Varnamilme…

Olorndil frowned.
Was there trouble aboard the great mithril vessel of the Lady of the Menelmacar?
He could feel the darkness of the invading dark Eldar had lifted. There was no longer any need to hide within the caverns that overlooked the large white pier at which Sirithil had made anchorage for her craft.

Signalling his companions, he hesitantly made his way out into the light of a new dawning day.
There had been a brief storm before the dawn, but it had passed so quickly that Olorndil was not certain of the strange feeling that had accompanied it.
He could feel some new element spinning its way into the land, something that Silmessë itself resisted.
It did not augur anything promising and Olorndil was tempted to call for something he’d glimpsed in the river Silmesírë what now seemed a lifetime away. Bombs.
His tolerance for those who would bring war to Silmessë had grown thin; the land itself seemed to agree.

Stepping onto the pier, feeling the grey-light of dawn spill over him Olorndil smiled.
It felt good to be out of the cold and damp confines of the caverns beneath Varnamilme.
With purpose in his step, he strode towards the mithril craft of the Menelmacari and came to the ladder that would carry him to the door of the vessel.
Signalling his archers to wait, he climbed the mithril stairs and then as he reached where the door presumably would appear, he raised a fist and knocked against the metal skin.

“Lady Sirithil,” he called; voice raised above the hiss of surf and waves. “The Lord of the Silmellon would greet you and welcome you to Silmessë.”
Please come out.
Silently he waited to see if she would appear.

In Aldaringwë…

Alassënyelle frowned as the whispering trees spoke of the approaching Malinorndil.
Where was the stranger, the Eldar who had been making his way into the city?
There were whispered words of other strangers fast approaching too, led by a rider; Níremo. It seemed the royal city was about to entertain more visitors at once than it had in its entire history.

She hurried down a silvered open corridor, till she’d reached the soft sweet grasses that covered the grounds. Her sandaled feet released fragrant scent into the air with each step and she came to stand on the white path that led through the royal city, bisecting it almost perfectly.
A breeze raced down the avenue of trees, rushed through her hair and pulled at her powder blue, diaphanous gown.
Malinorndil was close by. She strained her eyes for a glimpse of him, for a sighting of the strange Eldar or the party with Níremo.

“Alassënyelle,” Calanto appeared on an open corridor in the Minyamár palace complex and was looking down at her in horror. “You place yourself in grave danger. We have no idea whom you will face.”

He began to call for archers, but she raised a hand and silenced him.
“There is no evil in Lisselillassië.” She turned back to the road into the city. “Here none may come but by the leave of the Silmellon.”

In Varnamilme, the streets of the dead…

Armon signalled the men who had left the great white towers of Fánatar with as he slipped through the shadows of an alleyway.
So many dead, yet he could not believe that Fírë lay among them.
He would surely know if the young healer had suffered during the worst of the invasion.

As he prepared to cross into the eastern quadrant of the city where the great steel vessel had fallen from the sky and where Fírë had headed to look for wounded; he spotted the three strangers entering Varnamilme.
He paused, considered them and then straightened.

The Silmellon had never yet welcomed kin into Silmessë with weapons aimed at their hearts. Ordering his archers to wait, he stepped into view and called out to the strangers in a rich, deep voice the fluid words of greeting.
“Aiya!”

Quenya, but simple enough that it should be understandable to the strangers even if the language was long dead to them.

"You mean the Exarch?....Well, the elven warrior with the huge wings?. Yes, he made it, he's meeting with the Admiral and the Duchess right now. Where were you?, I have been searching for you, Mistress of Silmessë, Silmessë nos Gilthoniel, as our people call you now. The Duchess is just fine, almost perfect, I don't know how you did that miracle. And she wants to talk with you too, that's why I was searching for you", said the medic to Firë, helping her to raise from the bed.

"And about the archers, well, I think that many of them left to patrol the streets of the city or something like that. Anyway, I think several of them stayed in the camp, but I can't see them right now. Stealthy guys, with no doubt", continued the medic smiling.

OOC: I'm taking over LSR's business whilst its player is unable to manage it.

This post here'll be converted into something IC soon as poss'.

Aruna was trying her hardest not to see the dead elves around her, but her senses did not allow her to ignore them completely. Though she forced it from herself, the stench of death drenched her empatheic sense and left her feeling dirtied by it's presence.

Kaelen was being quite the gentlemen, directing her where to step so that she would not have to look at the dead below in order to avoid treading on them. When the greeting was called at her, she jumped, suspecting it at first to be a dead one reanimated before divining the true source of the call.

He was an elf, but of what nature it was difficult to tell. She sensed no malice, but her mind was dulled with death and blood, so it could be easilly concealed.
Kaegr did not jump, nor start but turned slowly about to appraise this newcomer with what she had come to recognize as his typical cold and unreadable expression.
Kaelen, however, called back in greeting. Silent as a wraith, his brother appeared behind him, as if in warning against any attempts of treachery.
Quickly, she stepped forward, hoping that she did not step into a trap. If darkness lurked here, she had yet to find it and that fact made her nervous. If she could not feel the darkness, what else escaped her usually keen senses?
"We wish you greetings." She began awkwardly, ignoring Kaegr's disgruntled look in her direction. He wasn't helping any, so he may just as well stay quiet. Her diplomacy skills were hardly the sharpest, but at least she was making an effort. "And bear no malice toward those who would be friends." She finished after taking a breif pause to search for the proper words. Moonstone Harbor spoke it's own dialect but the root was the same. Aruna's grandmother spoke Quenya sometimes, when she felt something particularly strongly and she had picked up on some of the words after a while.

Kaelen cast her a breif smile that would have been considered radiant and warm for most, but was rather wan for the sunny young elf. Obviously, he was a bit exasperated with his brother, but affection kept him from speaking. Either that or she had just said something very rude in Quenya and he was only trying to be kind.

OOC: And it's gone...

(OOC: Since Menelmacar appears to be busy at the moment elsewhere and I’d rather Olorndil be useful than standing around with nothing to do – I’m going to take the Lady Sirithil out of the equation until she chooses to make an entrance again.)

Varnamilme, the Pier…

Olorndil blinked, tested the mithril surface of the Lady Sirithil’s vessel again and shuddered at the chill.
There was a resistance to his touch, as though the craft were slightly beyond his reach. It felt like a spell and one that Olorndil was not certain he understood.

He tried to reach Falastur and found a great wall of force, blocking him. It was possible that only those within the vessel would be able to break this spell; perhaps by doing something as simple as opening the door.
It did not appear to be a malevolent power; yet it resisted his efforts to read more into its nature.
It may be best to return to Varnamilme, put my efforts into securing the White City.
Olorndil turned, made his way back to the archers that waited for him.

“I do not understand why I cannot reach the Lady Sirithil. Perhaps it is not yet time that we meet.” He glanced up at the city perched above the cliff top. “There is no sound of battle above, I feel a withdrawing of the shadows. I think it is time I met with the Duke of our Kin from the stars.”

With that, he turned first to the caverns, then changing his mind headed for the great white stairs; Tienyalossë. I will not crawl into the city through the shadows, not any more.

Anxiously, his archers spread out; bows drawn and eyes watching the cliffs for any sign of trouble.

Varnamilme, the Streets of the Dead…

Armon smiled at the child-like attempt to use Quenya and wondered if the three would be more comfortable in another of the Elven languages.
He shook aside the urge to correct the stranger and instead asked in fluid Sindarin, “Is this more convenient to you?”
He laughed, added in a friendly tone, “I hope it is. As this is the limit of my linguistic skills I’m afraid.”

He signalled the archers, watched as they spread out into the shadowy alleyways, looking for any trace of dark Eldar. There was also the slim hope of discovering survivors, but Armon found he could not imagine any surviving the massacre.
They would surely cry out to him, in voice or in mind. Life was a beacon to the Silmellon and there was in this cobbled road, only death.

His humour faded quickly.
“You’ve come in dark times and the streets of the White City are decked for mourning, but the Silmellon never turn away guests.”

Movement caught his eye and he spotted more of his archers. These had accompanied Fírë.
He called to them, switching back to Quenya and firing rapid questions about the fate of the Elven healer.
Only one word eased his concern. Safe. Fírë was safe.


Varnamilme, Aelosian Camp…

Fírë smiled at the words of the Medic.

“Yes, I suppose we Silmellon are rather good at melting into the shadows. It has hopefully served our people well. But with all the dead I feel pressing at the edges of my mind, it seems too many died.” Smiled at the medic, followed his every move with eager eyes. Strange, I cannot sense healing in any of these instruments he carries about with him.

“Silmessë nos Gilthoniel,” she echoed, eyebrows drawn up quizzically. “Why would they call me that? I am only a healer.”

She did not let him answer but spoke another question as it occurred to her.
“Is the Countess here, in the camp?”


In Varnamilme, entering the Aelosian camp…

“Valandë,” Ondarien murmured, glancing around at the encampment. “Will you teach me about the world as it exists today?” His eyes took in the curious machines and the strangely garbed Elven warriors. “It seems so alien, so difficult to grasp.” Can I disappear into the forests and forget all I have seen?

He sensed a familiar presence before Valandë could reply and fixed on it; drew it out till he could identify the source.
“Fírë, the King’s cousin,” he murmured startled. “She’s here, over in that direction.” He pointed for Valandë’s sake, his mental compass not visible to her.
Súlamen seemed to sense the healer too; knew her well. She’d played medic to the stallion too at one time. Drawing ahead of them, the white horse struggled to free itself from Ondarien.
He whispered to the animal, soothed Súlamen and brought him back under control.

OOC: .... Aigh. My bad. I'll go rip it out now. Now what to write, what to write? Darn. Grumble, grumble ... I liked that post ... grumble...

In the Aelosian Camp...

"They call you Silmessë nos Gilthoniel because they saw you working miracles in the bodies of the wounded. You saved a lot of lives today, Mistress, and many people owe you favors, me included. One of them is the Countess, that's why she returned from the stars, to talk with you. She wants to meet you, after you're fully recovered", said the medic, smiling at the Silmessë maiden.

Valandë turned to Ondarien, "The King's cousin?...Is she in that direction?", said the battlemaiden, in her face an expression of tragedy. "Well, maybe it's better not to go over there...that zone...well, an accident happened before I arrived here, I don't know if...Alas, I need to talk with my commander".

OOC:

*Wonders why the Silmesse natives aren't reacting at all to the big golden palace sitting by their sea-shore" :)

The stranger smiled. Despite the fact that it seemed somewhat a patronizing look, it was a start. Kaegr looked more sour than before. His dissaproval of the situation was evident in the disdainful look in his silvery eyes.
“Is this more convenient to you?” The stranger asked, laughing lightly. The tension slowly ebbed from the encounter. In a friendly tone, the elf continued. “I hope it is. As this is the limit of my linguistic skills I’m afraid.”
Aruna nodded, a small smile crossing her face. She understood this language better. The accent was a trifle thick but they would be able to communicate. Behind her she heard a soft snort from Kaegr who apparantly was insulted by the indication that he was not a gifted linguist. Judging by his lack of speech thus far, she hardly imagined that he was. Much to her annoyance, the snort came from right behind her and so tussled her vibrant red hair somewhat.
Kaelen, however, seemed pleased to the utmost as he stepped forward to greet this new elf more cordially, Kaegr at last favored him with a nod, but nothing more. His eyes were on the archers that had appeared behind this apparant local. Aruna refrained from looking at them, afraid that her somewhat overtaxed nerves would not handle the sight well.
The stranger watched them for a moment as a tense silence returned. The good humor seemed to have evaporated from the meeting.
“You’ve come in dark times." He told them. "And the streets of the White City are decked for mourning, but the Silmellon never turn away guests.”
Kaelen nodded solomnly, something Aruna had never thought he could do, and was about to speak, but their hosts attention had been arrested by more archers that had appeared on the deathly streets. Preoccupied, he watched them for a moment before calling out to them in rapid Quenya, of which Aruna caught very few words and neither twin understood.
He was inquiring about somone and was answered that something was safe, but beyond that, she had no idea what was said.
Speaking with a somewhat more clipped version of the Sindarin that their host spoke, Kaelen ventured his bid into the conversation.
"I hate to interupt, but is there some sort of diplomat we might have an interview with? We have heard dark tales of this place and have come to discover their truth."
Aruna waited, listening for some sort of assent or disaproval from the more sullen twin. But Kaegr, for once, did not speak. His eyes were fixed absently into the distance as if watching something. He emminated a strange feeling that Aruna could not identify when she tried to read him. Then, as if suddenly awaking, he shifted his eyes to her and around the place in which they stood as one having just come out of a nightmare and who must verifiy that it was all a dream.
"Good gods..." he whispered softly under his breath before looking pointedly away from Aruna's questioning eyes. Neither their host nor Kaelen seemed to have noticed nor heard, or if they did, gave no indication. Puzzled, she made a mental note to ask about this later.
"What brings such dark times upon this city?"She asked returning her attention to their host, where it should be. Kaegr's oddity would have to wait.

In Varnamilme, Aelosian Camp…

“Let me go to her now,” Fírë sighed. “If I stay here a moment longer I will drown in all this death. It swamps me, feeds at my energies like a dark portal. I need distraction.” She looked up at the medic, eyes pleading. Realising that she did not yet know his name, she added shyly, “Call me Fírë and you, what may I call you?”

She studied him, tried to remember if she’d healed him or if his words meant that she had healed someone close to his heart. But the wounded were all blurred into a single wailing, bloodied figure that even now she fought to save. She would never heal this haunting illusion, it was forever beyond her reach. Fírë grimaced, the dead were slipping past her barriers; cold and skeletal.
Can I outrun them, can I get far enough from Varnamilme? Or will the dead haunt me forever?

“Please, she whispered to the medic. “I need to be surrounded by the living, let me join whatever company there is.”


In Varnamilme, entering the Aelosian camp…

Ondarien nodded.
Smiled hesitantly at Valandë. “If it eases your burden, she’s alive. I couldn’t sense her if she was…lost to us.” He glanced around the camp. “Is there somewhere I should wait for you Valandë?”


Varnamilme, the Streets of the Dead…

Armon turned back to the three strangers, opened his hands in apology.

“I’m sorry for my diverted attention,” he said. “But the city is in chaos, news of those we fear lost are the most precious of gifts. Forgive me, but I had to know the fate of Fírë. She is kin to Olorndil, Lord of the Silmellon and my ward.” He smiled briefly. “She is well and safe.”

Armon turned his attention to the man who had broached the question of a diplomat. “I am but the Commander of the Archers, these men you see searching the shadows for any trace of those who did…” his eyes darkened, his features grew taunt as he opened his hands to encompass the dead. “This.” A hiss that went beyond sorrow, threaded with emotion that was rooted deep. He looked up. “Yet I am as close as you will come for a time, to a diplomat.”

He shook his head sadly, sighed. “As to what brought this down on the Silmellon,” he shrugged. “Those who know, do not whisper the answers to us and if they did, I doubt we would understand.” He shook his head, paused as an archer approached and whispered something in his ear. He waved the elf away, looked once more at the three. “I am Armon. With whom do I speak and in whose name is it that you come to Silmessë?”


Varnamilme, Tienyalossë...

Olorndil and his archers ascended the great white stairs, feeling death as it lapped closer.
As they passed through the Arch of Stars, Olorndil gasped at the sight of the damage to the White City. It is only stone, Olorndil. He knew that the city could be repaired. The blow that struck hardest, deepest was yet to come.
Though he could not see them, he could feel them; the dead of Varnamilme.

As he made his way down the great cobbled avenue he knew that they drew closer to a street he could already see in his mind’s eye. A street spattered red with the blood of his people; littered with their bodies.

He had to will each step, force himself to stride into the cold void; an epicentre of death.
Hope? How can I give them hope when they are dead?

Along the coast…

Celiondur walked the lonely stretch of golden sands, wondering if the darkness he’d dreamed of in Varnamilme would reach Menaldaron.
Could the trees ever grow close enough to create a barrier against death?
He could still see the grey cliffs, the White City above glowing like a beacon until the moment shadows swarmed over it.
Afterwards, the dream had changed and Varnamilme had transformed in a haggard reflection of itself and death had called the city home.
He shuddered, tried to throw the shadow that had slipped over his mind.

A glimmer in the distance caught his eye and he paused, narrowed his gaze until the horizon swam sharply into focus.
A vast golden structure, where before there had only been blue seas; he frowned. Curious, he moved closer.
But the shadow of his dreams kept him cautious and he moved forward with stealth, moving among the scrub and grasses that reached onto the fine sands of the shore.

(yes they have surnames, I don't know why, but they do.)

The stranger turned back to them, hands open in an apparant appology.

“I’m sorry for my diverted attention,” he said. “But the city is in chaos, news of those we fear lost are the most precious of gifts. Forgive me, but I had to know the fate of Fírë. She is kin to Olorndil, Lord of the Silmellon and my ward.” He smiled briefly. “She is well and safe.”

Turning to Kaelen, he continued “I am but the Commander of the Archers, these men you see searching the shadows for any trace of those who did…” his eyes darkened, his features grew taunt as he opened his hands to encompass the dead. “This.” His deep sorrow greif and a torrent of other emotions blared like overloud music in Aruna's mind. She tried to ignore them and listen to what was said.. He looked up. “Yet I am as close as you will come for a time, to a diplomat.”

He shook his head sadly, sighed. “As to what brought this down on the Silmellon,” he shrugged. “Those who know, do not whisper the answers to us and if they did, I doubt we would understand.” He shook his head, paused as an archer approached and whispered something in his ear. He waved the elf away, looked once more at the them. “I am Armon. With whom do I speak and in whose name is it that you come to Silmessë?”
Kaegr, suprisingly spoke up.
"You speak with representatives of Moonstone Harbor and we come in the name of our Queen."
His words were somewhat terse, but true. Neither his brother nor their companion could truely correct him.
"Our names might be helpful." Aruna cast a slighly annoyed look at Kaegr for his rudeness before continuing "I am called Aruna ne Kalleagon. This is Kaelen and Kaegr Cedare." She paused a moment, considering her choice of words. "Do you know.... that the darkness has crossed the seas to our homeland? Only in small part, but-" she broke off, fearful she had said too much to one only just met. Lapsing into silence, she turned the conversation over to Kaelen who joined with an almost practiced ease, covering her social ineptitude with his own natural good graces.

Valandë looked at Ondarien with a face full of relief. "No, you're coming with me, you're the guest of honor of this camp. And the Admiral will be delighted to have a little chat with you", she said, walking to a big tent nearby.

The medic looked at Firë with comprensive eyes. "I understand, please come with me, I'll help you to find a nice place, full of life and joy", he extended his hand to help Firë, but he realized that the surgeon's glove he was wearing was covered in blood. Elven blood.

He quickly put his hand away, taking off the glove. "Eh...come with me. The Countess is expecting you", he said, conducting to a big tent in the middle of the camp (the same tent which Ondarien is going).

A voice, warm and friendly, slipped into Celiodur's mind, bringing with it a feeling of well-being and quiet joy.

There is no need for fear. Go back to your leaders and bring them to us, and we will show you beauty. We will show you light. We will show you truth.

Olorndil…

They deserved a better King. It was the thought that haunted Olorndil as he approached the wake of the battle.
Without Armon’s actions, drawing the Silmellon of the city into Fánatar, more would have died in the senseless violence that had erupted within Varnamilme. What did I do for my people?
Tears, cold and wet on his cheeks, were for the dead. Not only those of Varnamilme, but all the Silmellon lost since the Days of Ash and Dust.

They turned off the great avenue that led to the Arch of Stars and came face to face with the horror. Olorndil’s companion’s gasped.
Not all the dead were Silmellon. Some, Olorndil noted were of Valandë’s people while others exuded terror even in death; dark Eldar.
But the sight did not cause Olorndil to crumble into a sea of emotional turmoil as he had feared, rather it galvanised him towards action.
Thoughts that had glimmered in the remote regions of his mind suddenly were prominent and he held up his hand; the group came to a halt amidst the dead.

“Silmellon lie dead in the streets of the White City,” he said, hand closing into a tight fist; fingers blanched. “Where are their kin? Where are the laments? Why do they lie alone on the streets of Varnamilme, untended?”
His voice carried, bespelled to echo across the city, down dark alleys and into silent homes.
Olorndil felt his mind expanding, he could sense every one of his people; brilliant stars hidden away in the darkness. Fánatar was incandescent to his mind’s eye; here the Silmellon gathered in numbers, huddled behind the high white walls of the many-towered palace.

Come forth, his thoughts rippled over the city; quelling fears and compelling attention. They flowed as melody, rich and deep of timbre and filled with a strength that gave of itself freely to all. As it washed over Varnamilme, even the terrible void of the dead seemed to lessen in its wake. Let the Silmellon gather their dead, sing their laments and show them the way of light and joy. Let the spirits of the dead depart, let them know peace. Gather too the kin of the stars who fought for Silmessë, our cousins. But burn those seeped in darkness, let their smoke and ash be driven away by the wind and the rain.
His eyes, blue sapphires glowed with the power that lay deep in the heart of Elven-kind; rarely touched, rarely tapped.

As he released the enchantment, felt the Silmellon moving in answer to his call; Olorndil fully expected to feel drained and powerless. To feel the terrible sense of loss overwhelm him, to find doubts assailing him once more.
But the strength that he had tapped lingered, the sense of purpose remained strong and he found his attention turning to the east of the city.
The Aelosian camp shimmered in his mind, drawing him forward.
As the first notes of song slipped into the cobbled streets of Varnamilme, songs of Lamentation mingled with songs praising the fallen and the lost; Olorndil and his archers moved east.

Ondarien…

As they drew close to the tent, Ondarien spotted Fírë; skin as pale as the white stones of the city itself.
“Fírë,” he called out to her, concern in his eyes. "Himyasí Súlamen," he told his stallion, a soothing voice through which the liquid language flowed as the voice of a river. Obedient, the white horse stood its ground as Ondarien rushed to Fírë’s side.
“It is good to see you,” he whispered, through his eyes still betrayed his fears that she was unwell.

Fírë smiled at him reassuringly.
“Ondarien,” she greeted him, tried to make her voice light and cheerful. “I am well enough. There were too many to heal, without the aid of our friends and kin,” she nodded to the medic on whom she still leaned for support. “Many more would have died.”
Darkness bloomed in Fírë’s eyes, as though speaking of death opened a door into her soul, weakened her. “I need only to be surrounded by the living now Ondarien. My friend here,” she smiled at the medic. “Is taking care of that.”

Ondarien nodded, nodded at the medic revealing his gratitude.
He turned to Valandë. “Fírë, this is the battlemaiden Valandë, my escort among our Aelosian kin.”

But as Fírë glanced towards the woman, opened her mouth to speak; Olorndil’s voice seeped into their minds and everyone froze.
In Fírë the effects of the strengthening energy that flowed out from Olorndil was the most obvious, her eyes brightened and she straightened. Suddenly she seemed able to stand without aid; skin already flushing with returning colour.
“Olorndil,” she murmured. “The king is coming this way.”

Armon…

“Then you have been attacked by the Dark Eldar?” Armon frowned, studying Aruna. “They did not originate within our realm, we know nothing of them.”
He shook his head sadly. “I am sorry for your people. If you came seeking answers on how to fight them, the Silmellon cannot help. It was not by our hand that they were defeated. Driven off.”

Something came to the Commander’s attention, he cocked his head to the side as though listening then the voice of Olorndil was in the minds of all who were able to hear his thoughts.
And soon after, the songs of the Silmellon filled the air.

Their voices seemed to diminish the horror of the dead, seemed to reshape features locked in anguish until they seemed but asleep in peaceful repose.
As the singers drew closer, a silvered glow seeped into the air and a column of tall Eldar strode into view; breaking only to surround the dead, lift them up and carry them away. Wrapped in linen, edged in glowing embroidery that resembled the star-spun heavens, the dead where carried out of Varnamilme.

Undómëfal…

In the beautiful cavern of the Russëlórien, Undómëfal walked among the glittering trees. In the enchanted light of her creation, things were already growing across the stone floor; mosses and fungi that found the power of Russëlórien accelerating their growth.
The colours that now surged through the forest floor, blues and violets were making of the realm something distinctive and new.
But Undómëfal’s eyes were not captivated by this subsidiary beauty; rather her attention fell on the fruiting bodies that hung like fruits from the massive limbs of her silvered, glassy trees.

Within each fruit could be glimpsed the metallic, frosted shadows of strange unborn forms.
It surprised her, when she glimpsed more that echoed life within these shapes than did reflect the metal-machines whose songs she had sung into the Coirëamírë and in turn into her seedling. I have achieved what even Fëanor never dreamed possible. She let her deep-seated anger crumble away, basked in the light of her creation.

Yet as she wondered among the Russëlórien, dreaming of when the fruiting bodies would burst open and release her greatest creations, she came upon a small glassy sphere that revealed the influence of another.

She frowned, studied the glimmer of gold that lay partially concealed within the small fruit. She reached out a finger, touched the sphere and found it whispered with a music that bore within its heart a broken cadence; a terrible darkness that might one-day spread through the object.
Corrupt it completely.

She traced the shape of it, attempted to complete what remained invisible to her. Who has the strength of mind to reach through rock and stone, to touch Russëlórien and quicken within it a dream that was not her own?
Undómëfal guessed at the final form of the golden object, a ring. Part of it was hers; open to her mind like a windowed room into which she might peer. Part of it though, was wholly dark to her senses, belonging to another.
A darker mind with an unfathomable purpose; working to draw from Russëlórien its own shadowed nightmares.

Who has tainted you? The demand crashed over the ring, a powerful coercion that hammered at the taint that pulsed at the heart of it. A song, powerful enough to brush aside the taint she had imagined. Yet it seemed the taint was not so easily penetrated. She heard an echo of her song ripple outwards, as though the darkness within the ring broadcast to another distant mind.
If only I could follow it. If only I could listen as easily to minds as I listen to metal and minerals.
Undómëfal considered the ring. Perhaps, she thought, it would better if she destroyed it…

As Ondarien and Firë spoke, and felt the energy of Olorndil, finally from the tent four elves came out...

The first one was dressed as Firë, a green gleaming armor similar to the exosqueleton of an insect, one of his gloves resembling the claw of a scorpion. The armor wore the signs of battle, and the paint was destroyed in the places were the shells failed to break the armor. His helmet, removed, was lying in his hand, and his face showed his Sindarin heritage, black deep eyes, dark hair and tanned complexion. An eternal grin of bitterness in his lisps, as if pesimism formed a permanent part of his spirit.

The second one was the young Countess, now wearing a beautiful blue dress, decorated with stars and planets, as the map of a galaxy. She was looking all right now, although her forearm was covered with a bandage and her head was covered with a fancy hat to disguise the lack of hair in certain parts. She smiled at Firë, as remembering an old friend.

The third one was a proud elf clad in a golden armor, the metal gleaming with the touch of the sunlight. A long celestial blue cloak wavered in his back, and many blazons and medals hanged from his chest. His face was worried and happy at the same time, his eyes showing ages of strife and troubles. However in his features were shown a highly pride and the expression of those who held leadership.

The fourth one was Fëlan, his blue armor ragged and still stained with blood. One of the artificial wings of his back was missing, leaving a metallic and ragged stomp. However, his face was emotionless, in his lisps the usual smile was present, and his skin was more pale than before.

The Countess ran to Firë, as the little girl she was, her eyes open wide showing the worry for the Silmessë healer, thinking she was wounded. The others just stood behind her, looking at the Silmessë elves with curiosity. "Are...are you hurt?, I was looking for you. Firë, they told me your name was. I owe you my life and everything I have...I...I want to thank you", she said in a hurried voice, taking the hand of Firë as she looked into the eyes of the medic looking for an answer.

The medic just smiled and nodded, leaving Firë in the hands of the young elven noble. "Silmessë nos Gilthoniel is all right, she's just tired and affected by the carnage, but she's strong, and she will heal her soul", he just said, turning amazed to hear the songs of the Silmellon.

As the song echoed through the camp, the soldiers raised their heads and enjoyed the voices, many of them crying for the fallen ones, others just trying to understand the words that transmitted such a deep grief and sorrow.

Felän stood forward and started whistling the song first, then joined the chorus with a clear and beautiful voice, a single tear rolling down his cheek. Answering the unspoken question of the other two elves he said "It's a mourning for the lost ones. Thousands of years ago a Noldo teached me the song after we fought together at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, I can't translate the words, it would lose the meaning. The Silmessë people still hold the old traditions".

Aruna did not answer, she had already spoken more than she had intended, and Kaelen could only shrug. He did not know.
Something came to their host’s attention, he cocked his head to the side as though listening. A voice tickled her conciousness, but she tried not to listen, as it's words did not seem intended for her. Then songs, sad and beautiful filled the air.

Their voices seemed to diminish the horror of the dead, seemed to reshape features locked in anguish until they seemed but asleep in peaceful repose.
As the singers drew closer, a silvered glow seeped into the air and a column of tall Eldar strode into view; breaking only to surround the dead, lift them up and carry them away. Wrapped in linen, edged in glowing embroidery that resembled the star-spun heavens, the dead where carried out of Varnamilme.
Silently, they watched.

(more to come later, I'm on a time limit and may not be on very much, appologies)

The Lindai entered Aldaringwë slowly, marvelling at the city. Even Nellcáno and Angaráto had ceased their muttering to wonder at the golden trees all around; Aldaringwë was as alien to them as the canals of Vinialonne would be to the Silmessë.

There was an elven-maiden awaiting them on the path; clearly nobility, by her garb.

Daintáro motioned to the others to stop, and bowed low before her.

"Él síla lúmena vomentienguo," he said in greeting, "I am Daintáro Brannavingi, an emissary of the Ciriáran Telperio Oluenno."

(OOC: Merry Merry Everyone...IC post later! Have a wonderful day!)

Fírë…

Fírë smiled at the Elven maiden, pleased to feel the surge of vitality.
“I’m glad that you’re so improved since our first meeting, Countess Melian.” Her eyes took in the beautiful gown and she felt a flush of embarrassment surge through her. I should have asked to bathe first, to get a change of clothing.
While someone had wiped her cheeks clean of soot and the wounds on her hands and knees had been tended too, Fírë was still in the clothing that she had scrambled through the wrecked Aelosian vessel and the rubble of homes.
She glanced at Felän, sent her senses forth to reassure herself that he was well. His appearance had sent shivers down her spine and she had stifled a cry at the sight of the blood; his broken mechanical wings.
Had she not need the support of another, she’d have rushed to his side. Even now, as the Countess stood at her side, Fírë felt her attention drawn again and again towards Felän.
When he joined the songs of lamentation, she was surprised and delighted that he knew so much of their customs.

She turned towards the cobbled road, leading into the courtyard where the Aelosian’s had made their camp.
A host of Silmellon were moving down the road. Fírë felt a chill, knew that the shrouded white burdens they carried were corpses and shifted closer to the Countess. Took refuge in her vitality and health.

“They’re bringing your dead,” Fírë told Melian. “I’ve never heard the Lamentations sung for so many at once.” She glanced at Felän, knowing he’d understand more than the other gathered Aelosians. “Yet, within days, the Silmellon have sung for great numbers twice.”

She did not watch the Silmellon host drawing closer, though she could feel the dead; frozen breathe chilling her spirit.
Ondarien was suddenly at her side, standing so that she was between the Countess and himself. She felt him warding her, driving away the cold of the dead and sighed in relief. Cast a grateful smile his way.

Ondarien was speaking and Fírë had to force herself to focus, to hear his words.
“Greetings noble kin. I am Ondarien and I speak for the King of Silmessë. Though soon, Olorndil will come to you.”

Alassënyelle…

The Lady of the Silmellon considered the approaching strangers, comforted somewhat by the fact that they arrived with Níremo.
Mentally she’d ordered the archers within the trees to allow them passage, unhindered into the city.

“Glass nín le cened,” she told them, smiled. “Welcome to the heart of Silmessë, may it be a peaceful place for you as it has always been for us. I am Alassënyelle, sister to Olorndil. He who is King of the Silmellon and in his name, I greet you.”

To Níremo she added, “You have ridden hard. Go now and rest, I will see to our friends and their needs.”

She waved a hand towards Minyamár, the palace in the trees. “Come, we will speak in Lassimardë.” She smiled, added for their benefit in Sindarin, “The Hall of Leaves.” She moved towards the stairs curving round the trunk of a massive ornemalin tree. “This way, follow me.”

Above she could feel Calanto, watching the strangers no doubt with suspicion in his eyes.

"Dead killed by their own kin. How many of us will have to die to achieve peace?", whispered Fëlan, sadness overwhelming his noble features.

The Countess just stood there, motionless, as shocked by something too awful and scary for her mind to understand. She turned her stare away from the marching Silmellön, as if her eyes refused to accept what they were carrying.

The elf clad in the Golden Armor approached Ondarien, extending his hand in the classical elven salute, putting his hand over Ondarien's shoulder. "Be welcome, Ondarien, may Manwë protect you and your kin. I am Duke Admiral Atheril D'nan. I'm expecting Olorndil, to share with him our joy and our sadness. I'm sure you're tired, Ondarien, Can I offer you something?"