The Story of the Sanctuary of Moss
In the beginning, among the primaeval forest and the trees, Sanera, Queen of the Dawn, established a Kingdom among the Jungle Ferns. Taking the Fern as her symbol and the Moss as her Sanctuary, she called her Kingdom Vema Ralimi, which in Elvish means, literally, 'The Sanctuary of Moss.' Their small green city was renamed to honor the Fern and the Zeal with which Sanera set forth on her mission: to unite the Elves of the Southern Jungle.
As her influence expanded, so too did her Kingdom. Due to her radiance and beauty, the people bestowed Sanera with the name Alinocilole, which in Elvish means 'To Out-Shine the Dawn.' And Shine she did: for almost 100 years she spread her message among the Elves of the Forest, uniting them across the length of the Jungle.
She led them through the beginning of the Dwarf Wars, when the Dwarves of the Southern Mountains began assaulting their Jungle retreats.
She led them through their first contact with strange, round-eared creatures of the Western Plains, and preached her ideology of peace to her people. As the years wore on, the World grew crowded and violent but Sanera did not lose faith in her people. She and her people grew up isolated from the world, taking flight at the sight of Dwarves and Men. The violent races had their conquests, but Senera and her people had the Forest, and no amount of murder and savagry could take that from them.
This Golden Era lasted a century, and the Elves of the Jungle lived in peace with the animals among the trees. But the world grew jealous of their peace, and 94 years after Sanera began her quest the Dwarves of Deler Tishis, the Steel Spirals, invaded the Jungle in waves and took their lands and homes, burning their trees and killing their beloved Queen.
This began the time of chaos for the Elves. As Sanera had no heirs, the title of Queen was claimed by one Elf or another, all seeking to avenge Sanera. Some elves were harldy old enough to lift a bow, others so old they lacked the strength to pull it. The initial Dwarven Invasion ended a year after it had began, and it ended with the subjugation of the Elves under the Rule of the Dwarven Queen Rovod. She was a harsh Queen and a Just Queen, and she called a stop to one of the oldest and noblest of Elven traditions; the Elves had, since a time before time, been known to consume their dead and the dead of the enemy in order to absorb their knowledge and strength. The edict went out to every village that this practice was to stop, and the funeral feasts must be brought to an end.
The very next year, however, something unexpected happened. Queen Rovod, though she was not yet 200, died in her bed. Her death prompted a split in the Vast Sanctuary of Moss. The Elves of the North, being far removed from their New Rulers in the Mountain Homes, led a rebellion against the dwarves and all creatures not of elf stock. Being, as they were, creatures of peace, the list of the dead is long and numerous and their failure many. Every elven Child can name the 47 Queens of the Elvish Rebellion, from Hillspread, killed by a Giant Mosquito in the early years, to Tonguegully, the Unkempt Cactus of Volcanoes, perhaps the most skilled Elvish fighter to have lived in all the World.
The Wars they fought could fill volumes and with every passing year the elves grew more adept in the art of Combat. Everyone knows the story of the Queen of the Skywinds who, after being captured in a skirmish in the Western part of the Forest, escaped not once, but twice. The bards sing of her daring dash through the castle and her prowess with spear and bow. She could fell 10 men with a single arrow, and was found amid the rubble of their capital surrounded by a hundred corpses in bloody armor.
All men know the sad tale of Queen Fellstorm, captured by the savages of the far West and held in captivity for 100 years. In fact, it is rumored that she sits there today, held in some remote castle in the untamed wilds west of the plains.
And there are other tales, tales of Queens returning from the dead to fight alongside their decendents. Tales of Sanera herself coming to lead the rebels in their cause. But most famous is the tale of Fawetha Alothayemeni Ethacimasami Amoya, which, being translated, means, Fawetha of the Tongue-gully and the Unkempt Cactus of the Volcano. She was more beast than Elf, it is said, with hair like fire and a tongue that could burn the ears off a sailor. She consorted with demons, it is said, and flew through the sky on wings of air. But the truth is more than enough for any story.
Fawetha lived in the village of Camoyeditari, the sister village of Zeal-fern, the capital. She stood with Sanera as she formed the Sanctuary of Moss, and became one of her closest advisors. For 100 years she spread peace among the jungle in the guise of a herbalist of some renown. In the year 99, three years after the start of the rebellion, she changed. Nobody knows what happened or why, but Fawetha, 200 years old and a novice to War, stood up to defend the Elves against the Men of the West. She led 99 Elves to their deaths that day, and though they fought valiantly, could not hold the invaders back.
As the men advanced, Fawetha disappeared into the hills. At first they assumed her dead, killed by a wandering soldier or beast. But two years later she returned, saying she had been chosen to lead her people to victory against the round-eared invaders. Scarcely had she finished her speech, however, when the invaders were spotted charging through the battle-scared highways of the forest towards the capital. Undaunted, she told the people to stand back, that she would go forward alone to face the enemy.
As the Men and their horses drew up to the gate, she stepped out boldly to meet them. The Men didn't know what to do with this fire-haired Queen of the Elves, and as the rebels watched, Fawetha was seized and bound and taken away out of the woods and the capital was burned. Fawetha, it seemed, had failed.
80 years passed. The humans had taken many of their northern strongholds before suing for peace, and the elves were in a desperate place. The dwarven clans of the south had begun to squabble over the pitiful remains of this once great Elven Kingdom. Ducim Akil, a small Dwarven clan in the South-West mountains, won the right of conquest.
They made no secret of their plans. The elves, by this time, were few in number and the dwarves had hundreds at their command. It had become a game to them, a play of war. The elves knew they had no chance, but prepared themselves regardless, holding copies of the worlds of Sanera in one hand and their children in the other. They would go in as their ansestors before them, full of the flesh of their loved ones and their enemies. They had many feasts in those years, and many elves died of despair. But they held fast to the things they knew, and prepared for death.
Two years pass in this way. The elves know they have little time left. A few have secretly given up hope and have fled with their families to the Kingdoms of the Far East. However, in the early spring of the year 182, a miracle happens. Out of the Banded hills with a bow in one hand and a shield in the other, Fawetha the herbalist is seen entering the city gates. She looks tired and wan, and her hair is sharp and unkempt. But the fire in her eyes and the confidence in her step proves her identity, and she is welcomed warmly to the hearth of the Elven folk.
Their last Queen, she learns, was killed almost 40 years previous and her successor had fled to the East. They had fought on largley leaderless, and were now doomed to destruction at the hands of the dwarves. Their deaths were almost a gaurantee. But now the old Queens had come back in the form of a red-haired warrior named Fawetha. It was almost as if Sanera herself had returned. Hope was restored that day, and the Kingdom of the Elves stood ready.
The battle was to be fought at Snake's Circle, a village in the far south of the Jungle. The dwarves made it clear that they planned to sweep from the south to the north, killing every Saneran Elf they met. The soldiers gathered from both sides, and the jungles and mountains were nearly emptied that day. Almost 1500 dwarves had gathered for their latest sport, and they looked mighty indeed next to the pitiful Elves.
The battle was about to begin, and the Dwarven King Olin stepped into the clearing. He called out loudly for any Elf brave enough to stand against him and said that if any could survive, he would cede the forest to the elves and leave, never to return. All eyes turned to Fawetha, and without hesitation she stepped forward. This was the moment that had been fortold all those years ago, this was the moment she was meant to fulfill her destiny.
Still carrying her bow and shield, Fawetha stepped out and acknowledged the King's challenge. He laughed at the sight. Here was a frail, elvish woman, nearing 300 and holding nothing more than a bow, offering to fight a mighty armored Dwarven King and his battle-axe. It looked to be a short battle.
With a giant roar, the King charged at the elf, aiming to chop the frail woman in half. Without a sound, she stepped aside, drew her bow, and let loose on his armor, knocking him back five feet and leaving a dent in his side. Enraged, he charged again, and again she dodged, letting loose another barrage. It went on like this for what seemd like hours, neither giving any quarter, the King's fine armor repelling every shot and Fawetha's nimble feet and quick hands dodging every blow while keeping a steady stream of arrows coming from her quiver. Finally, inevitably, the King stopped, swaying on his axe. Fire burned in his eyes as he looked at this aged elf who had somehow managed to outpace his every move. With a yell, he raised his axe as if to charge again, but this time he did not charge alone.
At his shout, a thousand and more dwarves rushed from the trees towards the elven stronghold. The elvish army, prepared, rushed out to meet them, but Fawetha held up one hand, halting the Elven advance in its tracks. Instead, she met the Dwarven charge alone and head on, and the Gods seemed to lend her strength. Against a thousand dwarves she let loose a thousand arrows, each one finding a chink in mail or sheild, each one striking a fatal blow to her enemy. Alone she stood, and she stood on every side at once. She sprinted in cirlces around the city, letting loose arrow after arrow and somehow, impossibly, one elf held back over 1000 dwarves.
After hours, the onrush of bodies slowed and became a trickle. Fawetha slowed her barrage, and her quiver, which must have held some magic, remained full. Soon, the dwarves stopped advancing and those that were left looked in awe at the carnage she left. The jungle was stained red with the blood of countless dwarves. Bodies made small mountains among the trees. Amidst it all stood Fawetha, alert, aware, and ready. The King himself, looking out on the carnage, looked with newfound respect on the old elf before him. Here was a creature who could best an army, the best army the dwarven nations could muster. It was not mortal, it could not be mortal, and before such a creature he knew he stood no chance. With a bow, he ceded the forest to the elves, and turned to leave.
What happened next happened quickly. All present claim to have seen it, but none saw it coming. From nowhere, a small dwarven female, enraged at the carnage, snuck up on Fawetha and with a single swipe of her axe struck the warrior down. She fell easily, gracefully, and in the shocked silence that followed she breathed her last. The dwarves honored their word, however, and withdrew from the field. The elves had won the day with only a single loss. At the cost of a single life, the Moss of Sanctuaries was saved. And, in that old Elvish tradition, the elves devoured the dead.
From that day onward the rebels fought no more battles. They were again peaceful creatures and lived in harmony with the forest. Several years later, the Queen that had fled, the coward Itha Plainsbulb, was eaten by a mighty cave dragon in some far Eastern city. When news reached the forest, a princess by the name of Fima Feciciemofe, Fima Glittered-Adores, a princess who had lived her life in the Dwarven-controlled cities of the south, was named as the new Queen. She did not know battle, she did not know how to carry a bow, and she was subject to the Dwarven king in every whit. The rebels acknowleged her, but did not follow her. They followed instead the ways of the forest and of the trees. Those elves who had fought for so long and so hard to keep their lands and their lives became one with the forest, and when the elves of the Southern cities ventured north, they found their cities abandoned, their retreats empty.
It is said that you can still sometimes see them, wandering in the forests and jungles. Occasionally they will sit by your fire and share stories of the old times and the old Queens. Perhaps you might even hear the story of the Nut of Nutrality, or Queen of the Yellsboars. But every year on the anniversary of her death, they tell the story of the Queen of the Unkempt Cactus, Queen Fawetha of the Fire-Red hair, and honor her with ancient song and dance. And perhaps, just perhaps, if you are very, very lucky, they will offer to share their meal.
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Please tell me what you think! Comments are welcome. I stayed up way to late writing this, legends mode just sucked me in. But the story of this civilization is just amazing.
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Topic: The Story of Fawetha the Unkempt Cactus (Read 718 times)