Holy caws beckon and I answer the call,
For I am the scales that weighs the world,
My weapon is the gift of justice,
My strike the caress of judgement.
I am the instrument of the Queen of Blades,
The crimson crow she sets upon the wicked,
From the hearth of home to the hells beyond,
I shall not waver, I shall not relent!
For I am the prophet of peace,
The right hand of righteous death,
The anointed executioner of Nabh,
Tremble and despair malefactors.
For I am the Law!
How did I lose my ear? I’ll tell you, but you need to speak up on this side!
My master once took me to serve her at the great arena of Caen Dracin. I spent the afternoon pouring wine while she conversed with her peers. As the great iron doors rumbled open for the final combat, I was awestruck. Out came a monstrosity I could only imagine in my wildest dreams! The thundering of the crowd was as intense as my horror. I assumed the beast was a dragon but for its lack of wings. It had a great serpentine head atop a thick neck and a long scaly tail. Most striking was its bright yellow eyes that betrayed an intelligence I would not have expected from a lizard. On the opposite side of the arena, another draconic beast emerged from a similar raised portcullis. This one was a little different. It had the body of a dragon but the torso and head of a gigantic human. It held a humongous axe the size of a wardrobe in its right hand, and I assumed this was one of the fabled feldraks. Without any introduction, both beasts were whipped and goaded towards each other. As they got closer, the whips and pikes of the lashmasters drew black blood on the first lizard’s flanks. As the monster became more enraged, an additional head and neck sprouted from its shoulders. The process was fascinating to watch, and I stood with an open mouth as one head became two, and two heads became four, each with snapping jaws of razor-sharp teeth. This was the first time I saw a hydra and by the gods, I’m glad it was the last.
As the two monstrosities clashed in the centre of the sand, the excitement of the crowd escalated into a deafening howl. Amid the cacophony, the bloodthirsty spectators were placing bets on which beast would devour the other: the Hydra spewing forth acidic bile or the Feldrak with the enormous axe that was now coming to grips with the numerous heads of the lizard. The Hydra sunk one set of teeth into the shoulder of the giant half-breed. The pain was visceral on the feldrak’s face. Its flesh boiled and bubbled around the wound as the acidic bile of the hydra worked its way into the skin. The draconic giant in turn cast its axe in a mighty uppercut into the neck of the gripping head. It almost carved the whole way through, and the neck started erratically writhing and squirting out black blood, covering the arena sands with dark gore.
The Hydra was undeterred. The audience screamed in delight when in place of its withered head, two more sprang from its shoulders and threw themselves into the attack. The giant was furiously parrying the bites and thrusts coming its way from all angles. Blows to the many heads and slices in the necks were seemingly ignored and sometimes the open wounds knit back together in the blink of an eye. Each additional head could bite and distract the enemy, but they did not have the same gleaming intelligence exhibited by the first head and its yellow eyes. Nevertheless, they had strength in numbers. Pressing the advantage, the handlers of the hydra goaded it forwards.
The overzealous assault allowed the elder feldrak to get in underneath the savage maws, and dropping the axe, it locked a clutch of coiling necks together with its powerful arms. The beasts became entangled and the fight turned into a wrestling match in the sand. The feldrak was trying to suffocate the life out of the hydra, whose many heads were desperately landing poisonous lacerations to the unprotected skin of its opponent’s body.
The muscular arms of the half-dragon were unrelenting. Slowly, the hydra’s heads were, one by one, falling to unconsciousness. The cries of the crowd slowly subsided as the many-headed lizard squirmed and was still. In the silence, the mountainous form of the Feldrak rose from the sand, covered in black blood and breathing heavily. As the dust settled, the slumped form of the hydra and its many heads and necks could be seen, each a wilted and lifeless helix.
Among the tangle, a yellow eye opened, glinting with malice. All of a sudden, the once still mass sprang to life as if a hundred snakes had all been angered in an instant. The crowd exploded with a roar. The speed and ferocity of the renewed assault took the feldrak off guard. It made a last desperate parry before the head with the shining yellow eyes sunk its teeth into its neck for the fatal death blow. It was now the hydra’s turn to stand victorious among the cheering crowd. The many heads began to wither and fall to the ground, until the hydra was left with just one, its gleaming yellow eyes calculating and cold. The monster proceeded to greedily consume the blackened husks it had just shed.
It was at this point when I remembered where I was, all too late. I doubled over onto the floor from the fist that connected with my stomach. My master knelt over me and, with a curved blade, she sliced off my ear. This was the price I paid for the spectacle of Caen Dracin when I should have been listening to my masters’ requests for more wine.
At dawn of the fourth day the fog was as thick as milk as we cautiously advanced upon the reported landing site of the elven raiders. The damp air and the stink of marshlands to our left doused our spirits but what made us uneasy was a constant distant tremor. Someone behind me said “giant?”, another voice replied “no, battle formations!”, yet both were wrong. The trot of cavalry beyond the horizon was unmistakable to an experienced soldier. I ordered the battalion to halt and form ranks as the rumble became deeper and faster indicating our foe moved to canter. Pickets rushed ahead to try and discern enemy location while the priest of Sunna led the prayer to steel our nerves.
The sun rising in the east silhouetted a titanic shape drifting in the clouds above, an indescribable mass of pure horror which seemed to weave the mist like some ancient leviathan of legend. Men gasped and cursed along the line. Neither my commands nor the cold light of day had the chance to break the spell before a dark shape flew above us on batlike wings and a shrill whistle pierced the air. Whatever was coming at us picked up its pace breaking into a gallop. The soil began to dance beneath my feet and too late did I realise it was no cavalry coming our way.
Panicked cries of pickets fixed my gaze to the edge of gloom and a bewildering wall of horn and hoof burst before us. The sound rolled ahead of them like a beat of an apoplectic drum and sickening thumps cut the screams of men short. On the sides of the beasts holding onto harnesses clung sable clad elves like oxpeckers, prodding and goading their charges into a maddening stampede. A heartbeat later they hit our lines with the force of a rolling earthquake, soldiers tossed aside like rag dolls died by the score. Then darkness took me and all I remember is viscous snorting, rending of flesh and thunder, endless thunder ringing in my head.
Dearest Cyrela,
Before this letter arrives, the news of our failure – my failure – will reach our shores. The lands of our ancestors remain beyond our reach, and the creatures who squat in our inheritance remain unbroken. In our arrogance, we have underestimated them – I have underestimated them. Treacherous elves, foul dwarves, uncivilised men and worse rose to resist us, the fury of a continent unleashed against our legions. Fifteen years we endured, but alas the task given to me by the Senate was beyond my ability to deliver. I entreat you to ensure the oracle of Sied Emba gets a succulent offering of figs. The lying hag promised the portents were auspicious, even had the gall to tell me that such glory awaited me I wouldn’t even need to return to Dathen to claim it. As I order the survivors to sail west, only my honour remains. I promise, my nightingale, I will make you proud. Please kiss Maebh and Cara for me and tell them their father died for their future. Eternally yours,
– Calamandran
"Lo and behold Calamandran the Black: tamer of peoples, thread cutter, manslayer, song writer, prince of the Dark Host!"
Legacy of the Black Prince
If you ask in any town or village of Sonnstahl, Calamandran the Black is undoubtedly the most notorious elf in history. The Black Prince is an antagonist of legend, and a villain in more songs, stories and plays than one could count. When the common folk think of an elven prince it is his image they have before their eyes. Yet curiously, of the few dread elves interrogated by the Inquisition, none seem to know anything about him, as if he never existed, even though they are familiar with the great war of the 3rd century. Whether they speak the truth matters little, but it brings doubt to the veracity of many artefacts and accounts from the early days of the Empire which are proudly displayed by the Imperial family as symbols of Sonnstahl’s glorious past.
Strabo
We had been grinding the elven rear guard since dawn. It was clear it was only a matter of time before they broke and we could hack apart the ships on the beaches below. It was the sixth hour past noon when the line began to buckle under the keen edges of our axes. Suddenly, the elves parted like wet soil struck by a shovel and I ordered the throng to plant their feet in anticipation of some foul play from the oathbreakers.
Through the divide I saw a warrior in an elaborate panoply of black, red and gold nonchalantly dismount his chariot. The surreal calm this individual exuded was underscored by the loving care with which he unharnessed the chariot’s two snapping beasts. For three centuries now I have served the Hold and faced all manner of monsters and madmen in its service, but I had never seen such a sight. Curse be upon all elfkind and their enchanting ways!
A spray of arterial blood brought me back to my senses as the warrior hit our line, passing through our ranks like a shadow made of serrated steel. There was nothing but red ruin in his wake. Of the fourteen greybeards of clan Kengaz who accompanied me, only corpses remained moments later. A gaping hole that could fit a royal warthrone appeared in our formation. At its centre, the elf stood with his twin blades resting at his side and a smirk of utmost contempt which awakened the ire of every true dwarf who saw it. I would have rushed at the pompous butcher had my runes not started to glow.
Glancing towards the line of elven spears, I locked eyes with their witch. Her gaze burned with malice and disgust. Every ounce of my craft was put to the test as I attempted to defend our victory against this magic and trickery. The rune of revocation I struck once, twice, thrice, four times! Yet the sorceress continued chanting and weaving her slender limbs as if handling some invisible clay, furrow on her brow growing ever deeper. For a moment of hubris, I believed I had her beaten. But she released an undulating scream towards the high havens and a chill went down my spine.
I sensed something moved beyond the Veil, something ancient and terrible with a will bent on our doom. With an iridescent flash my runes exploded, overwhelmed by arcane power. The shadow of a titanic bird could be seen above the witch for a terrible moment. Where once her words and gestures were those of a simple spellcaster, now they spread death as if trying to match the savagery of the crimson whirlwind amidst our ranks. Tendrils of purple smoke lanced towards the mouths and nostrils of my comrades, rotting their bodies from within. Strange carvings appeared on their flesh, wracking them with maddening pain, and invisible hands deflected blows that should have smote the warrior determined to send us all to our ancestors. Seeing the pandemonium unfold, the elves let out a loud cheer and charged. Then the bloodshed began in earnest.
As the silhouettes of the departing ships dwindled against the setting sun, Morag surveyed the smouldering remains of what was once the greatest war camp of the Daeb. What now seemed a lifetime ago the beach below had welcomed a thousand ships launched by the Republic to reclaim what was rightfully theirs. Rightfully theirs. Or was it? The stench of blood and death brought her back from her melancholic reverie. Her time was running out and there was one more thing she wanted to do before her hour came. Gritting her teeth and pushing down the pain, she limped her way towards the ruin of the palisades and a macabre mound of flesh, metal and linen. Atop the repugnant mass of avaricious midgets, the fine features of an elven prince glistened like a jewel. Though agony blurred her vision, the cawing of crows pushed here onwards. With what little strength she had left, she tenderly placed the prince’s head on her lap and used the tatters of her cloak to wipe away the blood from his face and the tears from her own. “You fought well little one,” she murmured. “Mother would have been proud.” Hugging him as fiercely as her aching body could, she opened her mind to the void beyond the Veil. A deal had been struck and now the price would be paid. Last she felt was a crow landing on her shoulder, and then she was no more.
There is only one true law: the strongest prevail. We are the agents of nature’s selection, and today we deliver judgment on those unworthy of life!
Dread Elves are a harsher reflection of their brethren. The same grace, the same beauty, the same talent, yet the detachment of the Highborn turns to disdain, the caprice of the Sylvan turned to cruelty. Their skills as pirates and reavers are unparalleled; entire coastal communities have fallen to cruel blade and ingenious artillery. The survivors soon find themselves aboard slave galleys and sold to worse fates still.
Their society was forged by war, and shaped further still by an unending feud with their Highborn cousins, a conflict which began with the separation of the Elves thousands of years ago, and shows no sign of ending. Even the gods of the Elves, the holy trinities, have taken on a darker note – blood rituals are widely described by rescued captives of the Dread fleets. Whatever the causes of that conflict, its echoes linger, and with the longevity of Elves, perhaps there are still those who recall the events and maintain ancient enmities.
We fought the Dread Elves at the Black Sound, a small but deep bay in the northern provinces. I was serving as a marine aboard Knight Commander Branberg’s own flagship, the Ambition’s End. That was the first and only time I’ve fought those Sunna damned creatures. You think you know about curses and magic Inquisitor? Think again. Their witches were able to bring up fogs from nowhere, lead us on wild chases, and confound sailors who were as salt as any you’ll find sailing the world. And that was nothing compared to what they could do to you if they met your gaze, it’s as if every shame and secret you hold is laid out in front of them. Let me fight a man or dwarf any day, at least they’ll just kill me, a witch will just make you wish it were so.
Last night our town was attacked. A mere day’s travel from the settlement of Alfhaven, we should have been safe from the ravages of brigands. Yet the Dread Elf corsairs are no ordinary threat. They attacked at dusk, when our watch was lowest, and when no ordinary captain would have risked a landing. Still, even with little notice, a defence was assembled which should have withstood the two attacking ships. Then one of those vessels, already sitting low in the water, rocked violently, and a monstrous shape vaulted its rail. Waves swept the dock, unsteadying the men who waited with levelled spears. A giant, on a ship! Armed with a cruel blade, it charged, scattering soldiers before it. It fought with no great skill, yet each stab of that wicked sword twisted brutally, ensuring death came to all it struck. The worst was still to come. As it approached a watchtower, with a great brazier casting light upon the beast, we saw its face. A horrifying visage, it struck terror in our hearts, an inked pattern of snakes writhing around glittering eyes. Meanwhile, the raiders rounded up captives, the giant himself grabbing up half a dozen and tossing them to the deck, pushing the ship into deeper waters before clambering aboard. By the time artillery was brought to bear, they had vanished once more into the night, and we were left to pick up the pieces.
Dread Elves The Dread Elves possess the elven affinity for magic almost as strongly as their noble kin. Yet where the Highborn have a focus on the world around them, the true power of magic for the elves of Silexia lies within the mind. Even without magic, they are masters of manipulating emotions, fear most of all. Augmented with the power of the Immortal Realm, they are able to strike terror into the hearts of a most resolute foe. Their powers also lend weight to their reputation of striking from fog and shadow, disappearing without a trace, save for the stories left behind. More than any of their brethren, they view magic as a military art, an aid in battle.
Fly above the fields of war,
above the bones of the enemy.
grim and ancient Crimson Raven wandering.
From the deadly shore of the battlefields,
Protect our deeds of war and glorify our bleeding weapons,
Exalt our heroes, consume the blood of our victims,
Witness our prowess, witness our strength,
Fly above the fields of war
Fly above the bones of the enemy.
I call for you, Lord of Matter, Lord of the Senses,
Master of excess, the very essence of life,
For you are the soul of endless pleasure,
Enticing symbol of power and joy.
You are life, you are death, you are lust beyond them,
You are the day and the night of the spirit,
You only choose those who embrace the unity of the darkest delight.
You are the knowable unknown of pleasure, the pathless path to eternity,
The embodiment and the essence of our superiority.
We look for your delight and we pray you
To protect the power of Dathen.
Sources I can find portray a grim picture of the birth of the nation of Dathen. It seems that in the First Age of Ruin, the Highborn’s Vetian provinces faced formiddable threats from barbarian hordes and dwarven enmity. Many elves fled into the West, settling in the colonies that the Pearl Throne had already established in Silexia, and began to tame that wild region. Yet this work made them grow resentful of the Aldan nobles who sought to profit from what they were building, and who had sent no aid to them in Vetia before. Aldan’s control was rejected, sparking a civil war that coincided with internal revolt in the Highborn’s home island of Celeda Ablan. It seems that in this war the ruthless spirit of the Dread Host was born and set forever, and the independence of their nation secured. To this day, Daeb ships bring terror around the world.
The Obsidian Thrones are the very core and symbol of power of the Republic. Upon them, the three Crimson Consuls embody the will of the Senate, a body of 9 9 elected individuals seated in the Tower of Gar Daecos in Rathaen. But there are other key players in the Daeb’s great game of intrigue, power and ambition - it appears three principal factions dominate the politics of this land. At the time of Sonnstahl’s birth, our people suffered a terrible assault under the auspices of the first of these: the Fatherland faction, which seeks to reclaim its lost realms in Vetia. The second, the Motherland Faction, attracts those who desire dominion over the old Empire and the Republic’s greatest enemies: the Highborn of Celeda Ablan. Finally there are the Slavers, often popular among the youngest Daeb, or the most daring on the seas. Their faction looks only to Silexia as its homeland, and seeks to build its power on trade... which in Dathen means slavery.
Graduates!!
Today we commend you to the service of the Fatherland, free citizens and true. Your time in the academy is complete, and you leave as Legionnaire or Auxiliary - a proud soldier of the Republic, bringing great honour to your family. Bonds you have made in these bloodied courtyards will last a lifetime, and what you do with that life is your own inalienable right to decide. Some of you will return to your farms, upstanding citizens supporting your family. Some will enter the politics of Rathaen. And some will join military expeditions or levy them, aiding the great might of our people to display its unsurpassed strength and will to dominate the world. The very finest of you may even be selected to compete to be reborn with a new name in the Tower Guard. Whatever your future holds, whether sailor or warrior, knight or planter, trader or senator, you will never forget what you have learned here at the academy, and you will never cease your quest for self-perfection. Citizens of Dathen: I salute you!
The Highborn do not often speak to humans on such matters, seeing us unworthy of intelligent conversation. But I was moved by the plight of your son and I pushed my contacts in Aldan as hard as I could for information. I must be blunt, it appears that if he has been taken by the Dread Elves his fate can only be enslavement. There are two most likely outcomes. First he may be put to work in the docks servicing the mighty fleet of Daeb privateers , operated by citizen traders solely for profit, constituting perhaps the most formidable naval force in the world, second he may be sent to a plantation in the vast, unknown interior of Silexia, where Dathen’s slave tilled lands stretch no one knows how far.
Finally he may be sold to a household in one of the nation’s great cities on its eastern shores. Huge metropolises by elven standards. Even the poorest elf has at least one slave to call his own they say. You must know it is almost unheard of for the vassals of the Dread to return to their former homes.
I can only imagine you pain at this news. You have my sympathy.
Q: Are the elven gods Nyb and Nabh one and the same?
A: It seems some of my readers wish to see me struck with divine wrath, debating matters of the Gods! An elven expert might be needed to give a definitive answer to such a question - presuming such an expert could be found and persuaded to divulge their knowledge. For my own part, I see Nyb and Nabh used by different elven cultures, for deities of a similar nature. Are they the same god in different forms, or different gods adopting a similar mask? Such questions are beyond academic study to provide simple answers. In matters of the Immortal, faith has a significant role to play.
Q: Who is Olaron? Is s/he part of the universal elven pantheon or unique to the Dread Elves?
A: As always, divine matters are no simple matter to untangle. I once debated theology with an elf, but unfortunately, I dozed off before she’d explained half of their web of deities and interrelations. Still, from what I recall, Olaron is known by all elves, but only considered to be a true god by the Dread Elves. Should he ever cross the Veil though, I believe we’d all live to regret it, fuelled as he is by a drive to crush the armies of the world.
Dread Elves train and work at perfecting the art of the “swing” (thrust, etc.) Starting at a young age, it isn’t uncommon for a Daeb parent to drill their children for hours each evening. Talking about glorious kills in combat to their children, parents pass on the ideals of military service, and their hope that one day their child will deliver the perfect killing blow to a wild beast or savage human. Once on the battlefield as adults, swinging a sword or spear is a trusted act perfected over childhood. The apogee of the “swing” is as perfect as mortals could achieve. Power and death are delivered in beautiful arcs of glistening steel.
The Gaze of the Kraken’s Logbook.
28th of Bomudh, 2682 DD
A dozen leagues from the West Coast of Vetia
We left Caen Dracin two weeks ago. The ship’s company is in a good mood after the past days’ trials. When the storm came, we faced it with the iron temper of our people. The slaves revolted under the cover of the tempest, seeing a chance in the turmoil of the seas. We shattered the revolt quickly and ruthlessly, avoiding the loss of slaves when possible. It was unavoidable at times. The result was one of my companion’s dead and two injured. No elven life is worth a paltry few slaves but putting down the revolt had to be put down. The final result was heavy losses among our freight: Seven slaves dead and eleven injured, three of them badly. We offered the dead to Harag the Storm Witch, in line with the wishes of the crew. The Goddess appears to have listened to our prayer. Today, as the first lights of the morning danced across the waves, the clouds were suddenly gone and a gift from the Goddess appeared on the horizon. A bulky merchant ship heading due East, with a Destrian flag flying from its top sail. We swiftly tacked to pursue them, with our blades ready and the wind in our sails. We are quickly gaining on her; it seems we will return with full holds after all.
Surrender you say? It is not you who make demands here, human, so listen very carefully. Prince Lacain Blackheart, Commander of the Legion of the Dragon, direct envoy of the Crimson Consuls, for the glory of the Republic of Dathen, commands you to take your pathetic rabble away from this land. If you don’t do as you’ve been ordered, whelp, you will be hanging from the highest tree by midnight. Your men will lie bloodied in the mud, and the women and children you fight so hard to protect will be sold to the highest bidder in the far markets of Rathaen. Understand that this is not a threat. It is just a warning. I’ve seen this in your fate, and the Gods are with us!”
Q: Elves and humans look similar from the outside, but what makes them biologically different? Internally speaking, do they have different organs? Are there "half-elves" (i.e. can humans and elves mate to produce an offspring)?
A: It is a well-known truth that elves, with slim and lithe bodies, fine features and delicate skin, have always held a fascination for humans. We see in them many of the qualities we aspire to: grace and wisdom, beauty and culture. Yet for all these parallels, it is often overlooked that elves are as different to us humans as dwarves, orcs, ogres or even saurians. Elven fragility, their adeptness with magics unfathomable to humans, and their incredible longevity – these are all indications that there is as much separating us as there is uniting. Most marked of all though is their worldview and intellect. I have engaged with their scholars, and while a trade of information was beneficial, their philosophies were utterly alien. How can one hope to comprehend the thinking of a being which can expect to live for centuries, and for whom the lives of their brethren represent a millennium of potential? As for the tawdry physical aspects – physical relationships are not unheard of between elves and humans. Each no doubt makes gains from the pairing, but offspring is not one of them. The species of this world are much too different to breed – like a horse and a cow, we may all walk on the same number of legs, and have roughly equivalent vital organs, but cannot mate. It is a blessing in truth – those liaisons are complex enough without the addition of half-elves!
My Lord,
We intercepted this communication today. I am unsure if its contents are meaningful to you but the Sage translated its contents and said it was written in the language of the Goblins.
Your faithful Servant
I took Welarid to the Shaman. His medicine’s strong but Welarid ‘aint good.
The elves ran at us, spears down an’ shields up. Shuk-Welarid stood next to me, eh’s a good stabber an’ a smart Goblin. As soon as we crashed t‘gether, the elf was like a shadow. Outa’ nowhere. A Shady he was an’ he Lunged at Welarid. Nothin’ we could do. The elf was too fast for us. But Welarid was a lucky Goblin that day. Some Hamham had been splattered before where we stood and the Shady slipped in the Hamham brains. Them bouncy critters are jus’ one big brain so there’s a lot of it about. The deathblow missed an’ only sliced the shoulder of Welarid. Was jus’ a small cut. The elf ended up on the floor an’ the rest of the lads jumped him and we beat the elves back. Nex’ day Welarid is sick. That little cut was infectioned something bad.
Welarid died bad, screaming in agony. Shaman couldn’t help him. Said it was a poison of the highest potentiate. Took ‘im a long time to go, it did. He was not so lucky after all. We all be back at the Garden now an’ need a new Shuk-boss. You need to get back ‘ere with the supply for the feast, and fast!