Lord Aravar Galdean and Lord Aseiar
Posted: Sun Oct 31, 2004 1:46 pm
hey all u people, both Druchii and Asur alike. Spartan and I have been working on a series of fluff for our characters, listed above. here's parts one and two (sorry they're not seperated)-----
Lord Aseiar walked into the dimly lit antechamber of Loremaster Anyaebar. It smelled heavily of incense, an odor that was popular among Aseiar’s brethren but one that he had never gotten used to. As he continued forward, an aide emerged from a door across the room, carrying a large load of scrolls under his arm.
“The Loremaster is in his study, and I have notified him of your presence; he will see you momentarily. In the meantime please make yourself comfortable,” said the aide, making a sweeping gesture towards the conglomeration of cushioned chairs in the center of the room. Then without another word he walked past Aseiar and disappeared, scuffling down the long corridor with his burden of parchment.
Aseiar chose not to sit down but instead strolled over to the window, preferring fresh air over the thickly perfumed couches. The view from the top of the Loremaster’s tower was amazing; he could see all of Arnhelm, from its pristine, stalwart gates to the west and the bustling port to the east. He could also see his home in the distance, dwarfing the nearby mansions of the local nobles. Aseiar was reminded of many fond memories in that estate, memories of his family and fellow soldiers. But one feeling tore through all of this, one that cast him out of his peaceful reverie: the recent death of his beloved father. Normally such a peaceful death would not cause him this anguish, but these were different circumstances. His family, though residing in Arnhelm for the last several hundred years, was originally from the mystical province of Saphery. Magic flowed in the veins of Aseiar’s line, and it had been studied by every family member up to Asiear himself. Instead, he had chosen to learn the art of combat, a choice which his father had not disputed, but his displeasure was ever evident on the old elf’s face. What was that my father once said? Ah yes, “Saphery is our true father, Aseiar. It nurtured our family from the world’s beginning, and though we may now live far beyond, we must all learn to repay it in our own way. Always remember that, my son, lest we impugn the honor of our dear homeland.” Ever since the moment his father died, Aseiar had pondered that statement. He had always meant to carry on his family’s honor, but up until now he had ignored his heritage completely, being absorbed only in swordplay and serving the army of Arnhelm. Now he was resolved himself to fulfill his father’s only wish of his only son.
“Enjoying the view, I see?” Aseiar whirled around in place, caught unawares by the Loremaster’s sudden appearance. He had always prided himself on his acute senses and was disappointed at being caught off guard.
“Loremaster Anyaebar,” Aseiar said with a low, sweeping bow. “I am glad that you agreed to see me.”
“Yes, yes, Commander Aseiar, I have heard much about your aspirations. You seek training in the magic arts, this I know. Your entire bloodline has followed this path, and I can sense their talents flowing within you, too.”
“Then you will teach me?” Inquired Aseiar.
“Of course not, young fool! Have you learned nothing from your father? I can see inside you, Aseiar; you have neither the strength of mind nor the wisdom to learn the arts of Saphery. Return perhaps when you have wisdom and stability to undertake the study of magic, but not before.”
“But my lord, you must understand that my father–” began the commander.
“Your father had the patience to wait for experience and strength of mind before he so rashly requested training, young commander. If only you had been raised in Saphery, you might know of what I speak….. But never mind. I have made my decision until I have reason to believe otherwise. Good day, Aseiar.” And with that, Loremaster Anyaebar made a quick motion with his hand and disappeared in a brilliant flash of light.
Aseiar resisted the urge to draw his sword and rip the couches of that damned mage to shreds. How dare he speak to me in such a way? I have the same skill as my father before me! Afraid of showing his anger before the loremaster who was undoubtedly watching him through some type of magic, Aseiar began some calming breathing exercises that his father had shown him once. He closed his eyes, folded his hands and breathed deeply, and after several seconds he was beginning to feel more collected already, when suddenly he heard a great blasting horn from the east. Snapping out of his meditations, Aseiar sprinted to the window and peered with his elven eyes at the distant harbor. Cruising swiftly into port was a great armada of High Elven ships, and sailing at the front of the formation was a grand, sleek Hawkship, with its sails unfurled in the wind. Upon these sails he could barely make out a single rune, the symbol the province of Tiranoc. This is the third fleet of this size that has arrived this week, he thought. Who now is this Lord of Tiranoc that has come to aid us?
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Aravar walked off the plank from his flagship, The Sapphire Dragon and stepped onto the dock of the famous city of Tiranoc, Arnhelm. Looking around him, he took in the many sights, sounds, and smells of the exotic city called Arnhelm. Gaudy merchants were selling goods at small stands, like long yellow fruits from Araby, or even druchii daggers taken from their masters at the conclusion of a battle. Aravar scowled at that, tinking that it was heresey to be selling Druchii daggers at the same time we were at war with them, even right now, tense fighting in the wraith gate was reported, with both Druchii and Asur casualties rising every day. Looking away fom the merchants, he noticed taverns, some even modeled after the famous tavern of Elendal, where many famous elves, and even loremasters come to drink fine wines and talk of the physical and metaphyisical. Looking up from the inns and the taverns, he saw training halls, where Asur were to be trained in the art of swordplay and commendeering of armies. Word had even reached his ears that the famous Ryo was conducting classes on the use of calvery in the greatest one of those halls, the Hall of Ages. Looking up from there, he saw his final destination. Rising high above the training halls, and the taverns, rose the towers of Arnhelm. The towers formed all the areas of governing and religion. He could barely see the towere of Asuran, with flames rising from every window, and a giant eagle keeping watch at the top. But it was not these towers that drew his attention, but it was a smaller tower, a loremaster's tower of some repute that he set his horse, Maevar, to a gallop to.
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Arriving at the base of the tower, Aravar saw the inscription that read that the tower was that of his friend and cousin Anyaebar. Walking inside, he just caught sight of a tall and strongly built fighter elf running out, refusing to meet anyone's eyes, probably out of embarrasment. Walking up the many flights of stairs was a task in itself, but once Aravar got into the plush waiting room, with many couches and a great view of Arnhelm, he decieded that now would be time to see his cousin. Knocking on the door, and calling for Anyeabar, he felt apprehension. "Finally!" he thought "After setting sail from Middenhiem and sailing for two months, I am finally here!" Anyaebar opened the door. He was a kind and lean elf, who could have been a fighter if he had not taken up magery.
"Hello, cousin Aravar, I see that you are well." Said the loremaster, idily stroking a plush drape, "Now, I assume, you have something to ask of Me."
"Yes, my friend. Do you remember the times in our childhood when we would hunt together?" Aravar asked his cousin and friend, "We worked together so well, and I believe that we can do it again."
"That, Aravar, seems like a wise decision. We cannot let the Druchii get even closer to our homes. We must make a strong offensive now, to drive them from our lands forever." And with that, the lean loremaster, and Aravar, a stunningly handsome elf with flowing blond hair, tied up in knots above his head, and both dressed in flowing blue and yellow robes, the colors of house Galdean, walked out into the light, to peace, and to war.
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Riding out of the city of Arnhelm, Aravar spied a large camp of elves preparing to assault the wraith gate assembling. He thought to himself if it would be a wise decision for himself and Anyaebar to go there and announce themselves, and then he decided against it. There was no need to, seeing as they would be rendezvousing with his army, the glorious third army of Tiranoc, under the banner of Prince Aravar Galdean, operating under the provincional commander of Tiranoc, Feldarion Nightstar. Looking toward the Asur camp, Aravar also saw the same wiry elf that he saw running out of his cousin’s tower the day before. He was riding, just like they, toward a series of banners declaring him loyal to Enthrendon Anar, like Aravar was loyal to Feldarion. Turning toward his cousin, he asked the sagely mage, “who is that elf? I had seen him before running out of your tower when I was walking in.”
Anyaebar responded with a tactful sniff and he replied, “His name is Aseiar. He is an elf from Saphery, and his father was a famous Sapherian mage that just died. I’m sure you heard of him. He was known as Althienen the Green. As his last dying wish, he told his son, Aseiar, to follow in his footsteps and become a mage. Aseiar had disgraced his family, which had all trained in the Sapherian art to become wizards. Aseiar, who had been a native Sapherian, but who had lived in Arnhelm for the most recent years of his life, came to me in my tower to ask to become a mage. I turned him away.”
“Why would you turn a man away, especially one with parentage such as that?” Aravar asked, perplexed.
“His heart was not pure.” Said Anyaebar. “He had a great potential to become a powerful mage, but his soul was clouded with hate for the Druchii and the training he had taken to become the powerful fighter that he is today. To become a mage, he must let down those shells and let true emotion flow forth.” Aravar sat on his horse and mused about his friend’s words for the next hour until they neared his army. Seeing the light glint off the metal, and his banner, twin dragons entwined around a glaive, with the everlasting fire of Asuryan at its base heartened him. Rank upon rank of beautiful silver helms, nobles taken from the house of Galdean, his cousins and sons and grandsons all, stood ready to fight for him. A score of the silent but deadly shadow warriors, Anyaebar’s personal bodyguard from his tower in Arnhelm, stood ready to defend their master. Twenty members of the elite phoenix guard, gifted to Aravar from the Phoenix King and Tyron, stood silent at the ready, with their leader, a native Tiranocian and a master of the flame, Sethianis, standing in a chariot, his face aglow from the inner fires of his sword, and the holy blessings that the omnipotent god Asuryan bestowed onto him when he rose up to become a master of the flame. Aravar bowed to him, to show respect for his religious status. Looking at all his proud regiments and good friends, all dressed in the colors of house Galdean, blue like midnight and a yellow akin to gold, and all armed and armored with the best that Ulthuan had to offer. With this cursory glance, Aravar trotted towards the head of his army, and with a strong voice, said, “Now, we go to war. Some of us may not come back, but know that each and every one of your deaths must be worth the deaths of a hundred Druchii!” The glorious army of Aravar Galdean let out a throaty yell, and then they were on the march once more.
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Lord Aseiar lifted the flap of his tent and stepped out into bloody glow of the morning sun. He and his men had been confined to base camp outside of Arnhelm for over a week now, waiting for his commander’s decision to proceed on to the Wrath Gate. He could tell since the beginning that his troops were ready for action, and feared that they were already losing their concentration. Had Aseiar not sworn allegiance to Enthardon of Nagarythe, who had already moved on to the Wrath Gate, he would have disobeyed his foolish commander and begun the march.
Aseiar strode out into the fresh air and stretched his arms wide, ridding himself of his cumbersome morning fatigue. Stepping away from the nearby tents to the central fire pit, Aseiar unsheathed his keen sword and began his morning exercises. He forced all of his discontent, his frustration into his swordplay, letting him be free of his emotions for those glorious few moments. His motions flowed with practiced ease; a thrust here, a lithe spin, a feint followed by a deadly slash, transformed into a parry and a flip, all as Aseiar combated his imaginary foe. This was his was of maintaining his inner peace, not the solemn meditation of the old loremasters, but the rush of the warrior’s deadly dance. Aseiar’s soldiers knew it was wise not to disturb him during these sessions, and thus he was startled by his subordinate, Elthanai, who came dashing into the sleeping campsite with an urgent look about him.
“Lord, the horns have sounded! Smoke gathers to the west; the Wrath Gates are under attack!”
Aseiar quickly sheathed his blade and listened intently, gazing westward. He could hear the faint yet clarion sounds of High Elven horns in the distance, sounding the call to battle. And, sure enough, the smoke of the fires of war began to seep into the far off skies. “Yes, Elthanai, the battle has joined; we cannot be refused the right to proceed now! Go now, and rouse my men for the march. Young one, it is finally time to go to war!”
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Wiping sweat from his brow, Aravar fought to keep atop his horse charging into the thick of the Druchii line. He could see Anyaebar blasting the slanneshi sorceress with a spell where the holy flames devoured her corpse long after she had fallen. Sethianis’ chariot smashed into a large regiment of barely clothed Druchii, the devoted of Slannesh. Needless to say, he decapitated the largest and nudest of the devoted and he and the Phoenix guard ran them down. Looking away from his silent friend, Aravar focused on a target ahead; a regiment of Druchii weirdly mutated by Slannesh, with a Druchii in their midst, an anointed of Slannesh. Aravar’s mouth went into a wry smile, anticipating, and planning out the fight that was to come. He would die before he let another filth of slannesh go free to wreak havok on his land. Bringing his horse to near-suicidal speed, Aravar courted death. Slamming into the unit, he handled his glaive deftly, all the while keeping his eyes on his target, the Druchii anointed in the regiment. He was dodging the blows of the champion of the silver helms unit that he was fighting with, and his sword moved like a snake, darting quickly and stabbing with much force. Finding a weak spot in the defenses of the young noble, the Druchii anointed snarled and stabbed his sword through the unfortunate elf’s heart! The sword grew, and energy from the elf’s soul traveled through the wicked blade into the Druchii’s arm. It smiled, showing elongated canines. It was a shark’s smile. Aravar, dispatching the feeble Druchii closest to him, charged into the anointed, still savoring the soul-stuff that it had inhaled from the champion, but was beaten to it. A young elf, moving like quicksilver, and holding a sword bedecked with Sapherian runes, jumped towards the Druchii lord. Seeing the anointed’s two-faced smile, the young elf bellowed a battle cry and jumped into furious melee. After a few moments of fierce combat, with the young wiry elf barely avoiding the Druchii’s stabs and thrusts, a kick from one of the spectators around sent the elf reeling onto the floor. Not wanting to see any Asur be killed, Aravar dismounted and stepped forward to divert the killing blow. He then stepped into the spot that the wiry elf had left and began to fight. He let the spirit flow through him like a mighty stream, directing the glaive to deadly patters that were blocked by his adversary. Aravar feinted, sending his glaive up high, and pretending to swing it down. The eager Druchii fell for it, and Aravar’s kick to the groin sent him reeling. The prince of Tiranoc, in all his glory, rose up for the killing blow, and decapitated the Druchii. With a smile that was half brag and half grimance, Aravar recognized the elf on the floor.As he was getting to his feet, he said calmly, “Hello Aseiar, I believe I have just saved your life.”
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A hail of dark bolts cascaded over Lord Aseiar’s head, darting into the unfortunate regiment of archers behind him. The sky was darkening and the sun setting in the west, but this battle, though it had continued all through the day, was far from over. Aseiar took a moment to withdraw from the main combat and observe the surrounding actions. After a sweeping glance of the battlefield, he had seen enough. On the far left of the battlefield, a great force under the banner of Tiranoc was well ahead of the Asur battle line, apparently separated from the main force some time ago. Wasting no time, Aseiar sat high upon his steed and raised his sword, signaling his accompanying regiment of Silver Helms to gallop toward the Tiranocians. If they pressed the attack hard enough and regrouped with these charioteers, they could turn the entire Druchii flank.
Battling his way through the fray, Aseiar headed his company stalwartly toward his goal. He trampled and sliced a bloody path through the Dark Elves, several times having to dart his steed left and right in order to avoid crushing several Asur that got in the way. He finally turned his head, momentarily halting his incessant hacking through the enemy, and found that almost all of his Silver Helms had stayed with him thus far. He turned around to the front again, but only an empty field lay in front of him; he had broken through the Druchii line and had a hundred yards between himself and the enemy flank. Once a gain raising his sword, he thrust it forward and his musician at once sounded a charge. The Silver Helms–momentarily separated from the confusion of battle and magnificent in their glimmering armor–lowered their lances and charged across the open plain toward the menacing foe. The Aseiar roared as he charged full speed, his voice bellowing a triumphant battle cry; the horsemen company around him braced for impact against the enemy line.
Aseiar began to bring his sword back in a swing–but was halted halfway as a Druchii commander, concealed behind the Dark Elf infantry, snapped a command. A wave of black-fletched bolts erupted from his foul brethren. Aseiar was thrown from his steed as a bolt took it in the knee, but managed to lessen the impact with a deft roll that brought him to his feet. He looked around, but saw nothing of his Silver Helm contingent, only the noble Tiranoc charioteers and a seething mass of Druchii, warped and mutated horribly by the powers of Slaanesh. Forcing his anger into the battle, he became a blur, his lethal blade slaying any foul Druchii brave enough to try and stop him.
Suddenly, though, something caught Aseiar’s attention; a Druchii Anointed, the same that had ordered the bolt volley that had so dispassionately slaughtered his horsemen. Sprinting towards the foe and leaping high into the air, Aseiar flipped and landed directly in front of the startled Druchii. Aseiar struck quickly, bringing his glowing blade in an upward slash that should have taken off the Anointed’s arm. The Dark Elf, however, deftly spun around, using his momentum to thrust his dark blade with incredible force. Aseiar brought his own weapon up to parry the blow, but only partially deflected it; the malignant blade cut a shallow wound in Aseiar’s shoulder, and almost instantly the wound became ice cold and pain coursed through his arm. Tossing his runed sword to his left hand, Aseiar began a swift downward sweep and feigned a thrust, but twisted at the last moment and angled the blade straight toward the Anointed’s heart. He felt victory at his fingertips and forced all of his energy into this one last blow; but, at that moment a sharp kick to the head from a spectating Druchii sent him flying to the ground , and for a few moments all went black.
When Aseiar shook off the unconciousness and opened his eyes, a tall Asur, glaive in hand and adorned with the symbol of Tiranoc, stood over him. The Anointed lay dead in a pool of black blood, the like of which now stained the Tiranocian’s strange weapon. Putting the facts together, Aseiar realized that this new ally had stepped in and carried on the fight for him.
The Tiranocian reached down and offered his hand to Aseiar, and nonchalantly said, “Hello Aseiar, I believe I have just saved your life.”
Aseiar, stunned, could think of nothing to do but rise to one knee and act humbly as his father had taught him. “My thanks, liege. My life and my honor are now in your debt. Upon the honor of Saphery, I….I offer myself into your service, noble one, until my debt be repaid or death take me.”
Lord Aseiar walked into the dimly lit antechamber of Loremaster Anyaebar. It smelled heavily of incense, an odor that was popular among Aseiar’s brethren but one that he had never gotten used to. As he continued forward, an aide emerged from a door across the room, carrying a large load of scrolls under his arm.
“The Loremaster is in his study, and I have notified him of your presence; he will see you momentarily. In the meantime please make yourself comfortable,” said the aide, making a sweeping gesture towards the conglomeration of cushioned chairs in the center of the room. Then without another word he walked past Aseiar and disappeared, scuffling down the long corridor with his burden of parchment.
Aseiar chose not to sit down but instead strolled over to the window, preferring fresh air over the thickly perfumed couches. The view from the top of the Loremaster’s tower was amazing; he could see all of Arnhelm, from its pristine, stalwart gates to the west and the bustling port to the east. He could also see his home in the distance, dwarfing the nearby mansions of the local nobles. Aseiar was reminded of many fond memories in that estate, memories of his family and fellow soldiers. But one feeling tore through all of this, one that cast him out of his peaceful reverie: the recent death of his beloved father. Normally such a peaceful death would not cause him this anguish, but these were different circumstances. His family, though residing in Arnhelm for the last several hundred years, was originally from the mystical province of Saphery. Magic flowed in the veins of Aseiar’s line, and it had been studied by every family member up to Asiear himself. Instead, he had chosen to learn the art of combat, a choice which his father had not disputed, but his displeasure was ever evident on the old elf’s face. What was that my father once said? Ah yes, “Saphery is our true father, Aseiar. It nurtured our family from the world’s beginning, and though we may now live far beyond, we must all learn to repay it in our own way. Always remember that, my son, lest we impugn the honor of our dear homeland.” Ever since the moment his father died, Aseiar had pondered that statement. He had always meant to carry on his family’s honor, but up until now he had ignored his heritage completely, being absorbed only in swordplay and serving the army of Arnhelm. Now he was resolved himself to fulfill his father’s only wish of his only son.
“Enjoying the view, I see?” Aseiar whirled around in place, caught unawares by the Loremaster’s sudden appearance. He had always prided himself on his acute senses and was disappointed at being caught off guard.
“Loremaster Anyaebar,” Aseiar said with a low, sweeping bow. “I am glad that you agreed to see me.”
“Yes, yes, Commander Aseiar, I have heard much about your aspirations. You seek training in the magic arts, this I know. Your entire bloodline has followed this path, and I can sense their talents flowing within you, too.”
“Then you will teach me?” Inquired Aseiar.
“Of course not, young fool! Have you learned nothing from your father? I can see inside you, Aseiar; you have neither the strength of mind nor the wisdom to learn the arts of Saphery. Return perhaps when you have wisdom and stability to undertake the study of magic, but not before.”
“But my lord, you must understand that my father–” began the commander.
“Your father had the patience to wait for experience and strength of mind before he so rashly requested training, young commander. If only you had been raised in Saphery, you might know of what I speak….. But never mind. I have made my decision until I have reason to believe otherwise. Good day, Aseiar.” And with that, Loremaster Anyaebar made a quick motion with his hand and disappeared in a brilliant flash of light.
Aseiar resisted the urge to draw his sword and rip the couches of that damned mage to shreds. How dare he speak to me in such a way? I have the same skill as my father before me! Afraid of showing his anger before the loremaster who was undoubtedly watching him through some type of magic, Aseiar began some calming breathing exercises that his father had shown him once. He closed his eyes, folded his hands and breathed deeply, and after several seconds he was beginning to feel more collected already, when suddenly he heard a great blasting horn from the east. Snapping out of his meditations, Aseiar sprinted to the window and peered with his elven eyes at the distant harbor. Cruising swiftly into port was a great armada of High Elven ships, and sailing at the front of the formation was a grand, sleek Hawkship, with its sails unfurled in the wind. Upon these sails he could barely make out a single rune, the symbol the province of Tiranoc. This is the third fleet of this size that has arrived this week, he thought. Who now is this Lord of Tiranoc that has come to aid us?
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Aravar walked off the plank from his flagship, The Sapphire Dragon and stepped onto the dock of the famous city of Tiranoc, Arnhelm. Looking around him, he took in the many sights, sounds, and smells of the exotic city called Arnhelm. Gaudy merchants were selling goods at small stands, like long yellow fruits from Araby, or even druchii daggers taken from their masters at the conclusion of a battle. Aravar scowled at that, tinking that it was heresey to be selling Druchii daggers at the same time we were at war with them, even right now, tense fighting in the wraith gate was reported, with both Druchii and Asur casualties rising every day. Looking away fom the merchants, he noticed taverns, some even modeled after the famous tavern of Elendal, where many famous elves, and even loremasters come to drink fine wines and talk of the physical and metaphyisical. Looking up from the inns and the taverns, he saw training halls, where Asur were to be trained in the art of swordplay and commendeering of armies. Word had even reached his ears that the famous Ryo was conducting classes on the use of calvery in the greatest one of those halls, the Hall of Ages. Looking up from there, he saw his final destination. Rising high above the training halls, and the taverns, rose the towers of Arnhelm. The towers formed all the areas of governing and religion. He could barely see the towere of Asuran, with flames rising from every window, and a giant eagle keeping watch at the top. But it was not these towers that drew his attention, but it was a smaller tower, a loremaster's tower of some repute that he set his horse, Maevar, to a gallop to.
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Arriving at the base of the tower, Aravar saw the inscription that read that the tower was that of his friend and cousin Anyaebar. Walking inside, he just caught sight of a tall and strongly built fighter elf running out, refusing to meet anyone's eyes, probably out of embarrasment. Walking up the many flights of stairs was a task in itself, but once Aravar got into the plush waiting room, with many couches and a great view of Arnhelm, he decieded that now would be time to see his cousin. Knocking on the door, and calling for Anyeabar, he felt apprehension. "Finally!" he thought "After setting sail from Middenhiem and sailing for two months, I am finally here!" Anyaebar opened the door. He was a kind and lean elf, who could have been a fighter if he had not taken up magery.
"Hello, cousin Aravar, I see that you are well." Said the loremaster, idily stroking a plush drape, "Now, I assume, you have something to ask of Me."
"Yes, my friend. Do you remember the times in our childhood when we would hunt together?" Aravar asked his cousin and friend, "We worked together so well, and I believe that we can do it again."
"That, Aravar, seems like a wise decision. We cannot let the Druchii get even closer to our homes. We must make a strong offensive now, to drive them from our lands forever." And with that, the lean loremaster, and Aravar, a stunningly handsome elf with flowing blond hair, tied up in knots above his head, and both dressed in flowing blue and yellow robes, the colors of house Galdean, walked out into the light, to peace, and to war.
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Riding out of the city of Arnhelm, Aravar spied a large camp of elves preparing to assault the wraith gate assembling. He thought to himself if it would be a wise decision for himself and Anyaebar to go there and announce themselves, and then he decided against it. There was no need to, seeing as they would be rendezvousing with his army, the glorious third army of Tiranoc, under the banner of Prince Aravar Galdean, operating under the provincional commander of Tiranoc, Feldarion Nightstar. Looking toward the Asur camp, Aravar also saw the same wiry elf that he saw running out of his cousin’s tower the day before. He was riding, just like they, toward a series of banners declaring him loyal to Enthrendon Anar, like Aravar was loyal to Feldarion. Turning toward his cousin, he asked the sagely mage, “who is that elf? I had seen him before running out of your tower when I was walking in.”
Anyaebar responded with a tactful sniff and he replied, “His name is Aseiar. He is an elf from Saphery, and his father was a famous Sapherian mage that just died. I’m sure you heard of him. He was known as Althienen the Green. As his last dying wish, he told his son, Aseiar, to follow in his footsteps and become a mage. Aseiar had disgraced his family, which had all trained in the Sapherian art to become wizards. Aseiar, who had been a native Sapherian, but who had lived in Arnhelm for the most recent years of his life, came to me in my tower to ask to become a mage. I turned him away.”
“Why would you turn a man away, especially one with parentage such as that?” Aravar asked, perplexed.
“His heart was not pure.” Said Anyaebar. “He had a great potential to become a powerful mage, but his soul was clouded with hate for the Druchii and the training he had taken to become the powerful fighter that he is today. To become a mage, he must let down those shells and let true emotion flow forth.” Aravar sat on his horse and mused about his friend’s words for the next hour until they neared his army. Seeing the light glint off the metal, and his banner, twin dragons entwined around a glaive, with the everlasting fire of Asuryan at its base heartened him. Rank upon rank of beautiful silver helms, nobles taken from the house of Galdean, his cousins and sons and grandsons all, stood ready to fight for him. A score of the silent but deadly shadow warriors, Anyaebar’s personal bodyguard from his tower in Arnhelm, stood ready to defend their master. Twenty members of the elite phoenix guard, gifted to Aravar from the Phoenix King and Tyron, stood silent at the ready, with their leader, a native Tiranocian and a master of the flame, Sethianis, standing in a chariot, his face aglow from the inner fires of his sword, and the holy blessings that the omnipotent god Asuryan bestowed onto him when he rose up to become a master of the flame. Aravar bowed to him, to show respect for his religious status. Looking at all his proud regiments and good friends, all dressed in the colors of house Galdean, blue like midnight and a yellow akin to gold, and all armed and armored with the best that Ulthuan had to offer. With this cursory glance, Aravar trotted towards the head of his army, and with a strong voice, said, “Now, we go to war. Some of us may not come back, but know that each and every one of your deaths must be worth the deaths of a hundred Druchii!” The glorious army of Aravar Galdean let out a throaty yell, and then they were on the march once more.
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Lord Aseiar lifted the flap of his tent and stepped out into bloody glow of the morning sun. He and his men had been confined to base camp outside of Arnhelm for over a week now, waiting for his commander’s decision to proceed on to the Wrath Gate. He could tell since the beginning that his troops were ready for action, and feared that they were already losing their concentration. Had Aseiar not sworn allegiance to Enthardon of Nagarythe, who had already moved on to the Wrath Gate, he would have disobeyed his foolish commander and begun the march.
Aseiar strode out into the fresh air and stretched his arms wide, ridding himself of his cumbersome morning fatigue. Stepping away from the nearby tents to the central fire pit, Aseiar unsheathed his keen sword and began his morning exercises. He forced all of his discontent, his frustration into his swordplay, letting him be free of his emotions for those glorious few moments. His motions flowed with practiced ease; a thrust here, a lithe spin, a feint followed by a deadly slash, transformed into a parry and a flip, all as Aseiar combated his imaginary foe. This was his was of maintaining his inner peace, not the solemn meditation of the old loremasters, but the rush of the warrior’s deadly dance. Aseiar’s soldiers knew it was wise not to disturb him during these sessions, and thus he was startled by his subordinate, Elthanai, who came dashing into the sleeping campsite with an urgent look about him.
“Lord, the horns have sounded! Smoke gathers to the west; the Wrath Gates are under attack!”
Aseiar quickly sheathed his blade and listened intently, gazing westward. He could hear the faint yet clarion sounds of High Elven horns in the distance, sounding the call to battle. And, sure enough, the smoke of the fires of war began to seep into the far off skies. “Yes, Elthanai, the battle has joined; we cannot be refused the right to proceed now! Go now, and rouse my men for the march. Young one, it is finally time to go to war!”
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Wiping sweat from his brow, Aravar fought to keep atop his horse charging into the thick of the Druchii line. He could see Anyaebar blasting the slanneshi sorceress with a spell where the holy flames devoured her corpse long after she had fallen. Sethianis’ chariot smashed into a large regiment of barely clothed Druchii, the devoted of Slannesh. Needless to say, he decapitated the largest and nudest of the devoted and he and the Phoenix guard ran them down. Looking away from his silent friend, Aravar focused on a target ahead; a regiment of Druchii weirdly mutated by Slannesh, with a Druchii in their midst, an anointed of Slannesh. Aravar’s mouth went into a wry smile, anticipating, and planning out the fight that was to come. He would die before he let another filth of slannesh go free to wreak havok on his land. Bringing his horse to near-suicidal speed, Aravar courted death. Slamming into the unit, he handled his glaive deftly, all the while keeping his eyes on his target, the Druchii anointed in the regiment. He was dodging the blows of the champion of the silver helms unit that he was fighting with, and his sword moved like a snake, darting quickly and stabbing with much force. Finding a weak spot in the defenses of the young noble, the Druchii anointed snarled and stabbed his sword through the unfortunate elf’s heart! The sword grew, and energy from the elf’s soul traveled through the wicked blade into the Druchii’s arm. It smiled, showing elongated canines. It was a shark’s smile. Aravar, dispatching the feeble Druchii closest to him, charged into the anointed, still savoring the soul-stuff that it had inhaled from the champion, but was beaten to it. A young elf, moving like quicksilver, and holding a sword bedecked with Sapherian runes, jumped towards the Druchii lord. Seeing the anointed’s two-faced smile, the young elf bellowed a battle cry and jumped into furious melee. After a few moments of fierce combat, with the young wiry elf barely avoiding the Druchii’s stabs and thrusts, a kick from one of the spectators around sent the elf reeling onto the floor. Not wanting to see any Asur be killed, Aravar dismounted and stepped forward to divert the killing blow. He then stepped into the spot that the wiry elf had left and began to fight. He let the spirit flow through him like a mighty stream, directing the glaive to deadly patters that were blocked by his adversary. Aravar feinted, sending his glaive up high, and pretending to swing it down. The eager Druchii fell for it, and Aravar’s kick to the groin sent him reeling. The prince of Tiranoc, in all his glory, rose up for the killing blow, and decapitated the Druchii. With a smile that was half brag and half grimance, Aravar recognized the elf on the floor.As he was getting to his feet, he said calmly, “Hello Aseiar, I believe I have just saved your life.”
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A hail of dark bolts cascaded over Lord Aseiar’s head, darting into the unfortunate regiment of archers behind him. The sky was darkening and the sun setting in the west, but this battle, though it had continued all through the day, was far from over. Aseiar took a moment to withdraw from the main combat and observe the surrounding actions. After a sweeping glance of the battlefield, he had seen enough. On the far left of the battlefield, a great force under the banner of Tiranoc was well ahead of the Asur battle line, apparently separated from the main force some time ago. Wasting no time, Aseiar sat high upon his steed and raised his sword, signaling his accompanying regiment of Silver Helms to gallop toward the Tiranocians. If they pressed the attack hard enough and regrouped with these charioteers, they could turn the entire Druchii flank.
Battling his way through the fray, Aseiar headed his company stalwartly toward his goal. He trampled and sliced a bloody path through the Dark Elves, several times having to dart his steed left and right in order to avoid crushing several Asur that got in the way. He finally turned his head, momentarily halting his incessant hacking through the enemy, and found that almost all of his Silver Helms had stayed with him thus far. He turned around to the front again, but only an empty field lay in front of him; he had broken through the Druchii line and had a hundred yards between himself and the enemy flank. Once a gain raising his sword, he thrust it forward and his musician at once sounded a charge. The Silver Helms–momentarily separated from the confusion of battle and magnificent in their glimmering armor–lowered their lances and charged across the open plain toward the menacing foe. The Aseiar roared as he charged full speed, his voice bellowing a triumphant battle cry; the horsemen company around him braced for impact against the enemy line.
Aseiar began to bring his sword back in a swing–but was halted halfway as a Druchii commander, concealed behind the Dark Elf infantry, snapped a command. A wave of black-fletched bolts erupted from his foul brethren. Aseiar was thrown from his steed as a bolt took it in the knee, but managed to lessen the impact with a deft roll that brought him to his feet. He looked around, but saw nothing of his Silver Helm contingent, only the noble Tiranoc charioteers and a seething mass of Druchii, warped and mutated horribly by the powers of Slaanesh. Forcing his anger into the battle, he became a blur, his lethal blade slaying any foul Druchii brave enough to try and stop him.
Suddenly, though, something caught Aseiar’s attention; a Druchii Anointed, the same that had ordered the bolt volley that had so dispassionately slaughtered his horsemen. Sprinting towards the foe and leaping high into the air, Aseiar flipped and landed directly in front of the startled Druchii. Aseiar struck quickly, bringing his glowing blade in an upward slash that should have taken off the Anointed’s arm. The Dark Elf, however, deftly spun around, using his momentum to thrust his dark blade with incredible force. Aseiar brought his own weapon up to parry the blow, but only partially deflected it; the malignant blade cut a shallow wound in Aseiar’s shoulder, and almost instantly the wound became ice cold and pain coursed through his arm. Tossing his runed sword to his left hand, Aseiar began a swift downward sweep and feigned a thrust, but twisted at the last moment and angled the blade straight toward the Anointed’s heart. He felt victory at his fingertips and forced all of his energy into this one last blow; but, at that moment a sharp kick to the head from a spectating Druchii sent him flying to the ground , and for a few moments all went black.
When Aseiar shook off the unconciousness and opened his eyes, a tall Asur, glaive in hand and adorned with the symbol of Tiranoc, stood over him. The Anointed lay dead in a pool of black blood, the like of which now stained the Tiranocian’s strange weapon. Putting the facts together, Aseiar realized that this new ally had stepped in and carried on the fight for him.
The Tiranocian reached down and offered his hand to Aseiar, and nonchalantly said, “Hello Aseiar, I believe I have just saved your life.”
Aseiar, stunned, could think of nothing to do but rise to one knee and act humbly as his father had taught him. “My thanks, liege. My life and my honor are now in your debt. Upon the honor of Saphery, I….I offer myself into your service, noble one, until my debt be repaid or death take me.”