************EDITOR'S NOTE************
This summary is the compilation of information gathered from
various sources.
Special thanks to Atania for posting on the mystic's words
after the Solhaven attack.
************END NOTE************
During the
months of Jastatos and Eoantos in the year 5103 of the modern era
of Elanthia, the very trees themselves rebelled against some
force harrowing them.
It is not known what initiated this rebellion, but the first
evidence of it was seen in Wehnimeir's Landing about the
first week of Jastatos. Woefully scarred and damaged spirits of
the trees attacked in force. And what was found was that an orb
in a Black Glade was the source of the the... torment. The orb
was destroyed, but nothing was known of its origins or its
purpose.
On the 18th of Jastatos, a similar attack took place in IceMule
Trace. (For a log of this event, seek your way to the BLACK
GLADE.) There could be no doubt the trees were in agony from
the sounds of torment that arose around the little halfling town.
The voices of the trees pierced the afternoon air, their
anguish... and anger... evident not only in whispered words, but
in groans and shrieks.
Things transpired in much the same way as they had in the
Landing. The glade was found and, within the glade, the
incarnadine orb. The orb was smashed and the trees
"rested".
But something was amiss. When the glade was initially entered it
appeared in this wise:
[The Ruined Glade]
A thick blanket of brambles is strung around the surrounding modwirs, the wall of thorns fracturing the light into miniscule, jagged slivers that shift upon the dark forest floor uneasily. Shadows dance and flicker among the trees, and a heavy silence is cast over the area like a velvet shroud. A small blackened crater is blasted into the center of the glade, burnt roots scattered around it.
But then, a little while after the orb had been destroyed, the modwirs seemed to disappear from the glade:
[The Ruined Glade]
A thick blanket of brambles is strung around the surrounding snow-laden trees, the wall of thorns fracturing the light into miniscule, jagged slivers that shift upon the dark forest floor uneasily. Shadows dance and flicker among the trees, and a heavy silence is cast over the area like a velvet shroud. A small blackened crater is blasted into the center of the glade, burnt roots scattered around it.
At this
point, the glade's connection to the Sylvankind in some form
seemed a reality that could not be ignored.
On the 14th day of Eoantos, the tree spirits attacked again, this
time in the city of Solhaven. The Black Glade appeared for the
third time, and just as mysteriously out of nowhere at it had the
first two.
Again an incarnadine orb was found and destroyed, only some of
the folk of Solhaven asked a local mystic if she might be able to
spread some light on the meaning of the glade and the orb. What
follows is the tale of what she revealed:
Volierre's brow furrows briefly, and you find the surroundings beginning to ripple -- the walls appear to melt with liquid shadow, until everything is cast in a deep, utter blackness.
The blackness slowly gives way to the light of a dawning sun, and the shadows fade into towering, ancient trees of pristine beauty.
Dewdrops sparkle on the giantman-sized leaves of the trees, and their silvery bark glistens in the morning light -- their massive trunks resembling towering sentinels of the earth itself.
Here and there, you see the forms of sylvans hidden among the trees -- each rising to greet the morning with smiles and yawns.
The sylvans begin to climb down the trees, each tending to the roots of the wooden behemoths, their expressions and speech giving them an air of utter happiness as they go about their daily work.
A little sylvan child trails behind a woman clad in vestments that echo the images of a priestess or spiritualist of some sort. The other sylvans begin to slowly gather around the woman, beneath the sagging, ancient bough of the largest tree in the forest.
The priestess begins to chant in an unknown tongue, its dialect vaguely recognizable as some form of sylvankind speech. The others smile as they pass up bowls of berries, nuts, and idols made from twigs.
The priestess slowly amasses the heartfelt offerings and places them upon an altar borne from the roots of the tree itself. She waves a bell-sleeved arm and a shower of verdant green light encompasses the crowd, sparking bouts of joyous laughter from the children as they chase the tiny sparks.
As the priestess lowers her hand, the faint WHOOSH of something slicing through the air rapidly reaches your ears -- a mere flash of black as the arrow strikes its home in the woman's heart. She gasps briefly as a pool of crimson ripples outward upon her white robes, and falls upon the altar -- the offerings smashed upon the ground as the crowd suddenly disperses with a scream.
A hail of arrows suddenly rains down from the sky, skewering the gathered crowd as they scream and flail to get away. An army of darkly-armored creatures floods the pristine glade, making quick work of those the arrows missed -- their presence a veritable storm of blackness as they march dutifully toward the slaughter.
Suddenly, the massive trees emanate a bright white glow -- the rings of light expanding outwards and simply slicing the invading army in half -- the wounds of the sylvans disappearing as they're washed in the light. In mere seconds, the creatures lie dead upon the ground, the bodies of the sylphs mingling with their murderers.
The air blurs as a tall figure suddenly appears, its form cloaked in a voluminous cloak that hides any hint of its face. A soft, feminine voice speaks from under the hood, "Good...very good."
The darkly-clad woman steps over the corpse of the slaughtered army and picks up one of the severed heads, tapping the helmet briefly, "You've served your purpose well." She tosses it over her shoulder with a sneering laugh.
The darkly-clad woman ascends the steps to the altar of the massive tree and looks up toward its enveloping, ancient bough, "Your time is at an end."
The darkly-clad woman withdraws a twisted kris, its blade sizzling and smoking with tendrils of dark incarnadine and turns toward the altar, her soft laughter mingling with the terrified sobs of the shocked survivors.
The woman raises the dagger over her head and incants a flowing phrase in a strange tongue. With one swift movement, she thrusts the dagger into the heart of the altar, and the wood immediately turns black and rotted as she cries, "Yes! Yes! Now your power shall be mine!", her face awash in a bloody glow as the trees bark rapidly blackens and dies.
Suddenly, wisps of pale white light rise from the corpses of the fallen sylvans, the faces of the souls vaguely seen against the brightness of their light. They swirl quickly around the woman, batting at her even as the huge tree rots away, its bough creaking as its limbs wither and die. She screams out in protest, her flesh sizzling as the pale wisps continually flow around her in a vortex, "You will not stop me, not when I am so close!"
The surrounding trees continue to blacken and die even as the woman's screams echo across the once-pristine forest. Their roots rise up from the ground in stiffened agony as each succumbs to the dagger's caress.
The woman's flesh is peeled away in strips as the lights seem to become incorporated within her body, and with her last dying gasp she heaves out an incantation, causing the wisps of light to blacken even as they tear her down into death. She screams, "So be it, if you kill me, then you will be BOUND TO MY FATE! You will be damned as I! Do you so truly wish that?! Do you?!"
The woman cries one last time in agony as the wisps turn a deep shade of black, engulfing her in darkness as the once-grand trees creak and groan, the thunderous booms of their mighty trunks falling echoing on the air.
The last shadowy presence of the wisps disappears into the air -- everything once there now lies dead -- nothing moves, nothing stirs...save for a rippling incarnadine orb that pulses gently upon the altar, the faint sounds of anguished moans echoing forth from its crystalline depths.
The surroundings fade to black once again, leaving you in silence.
The blackness slowly melts away into the familiar, if somewhat dreary walls of the building you were once in.
Whether the mystery of exactly what happened in the Black Glade will come to be known, or if the souls of the sylvans can again roam free to protect the trees once so tortured, remains yet to be learned.
