Tais
Wanderer

Tais,

I see that Dimma is here, does he have full access to the forums still?

Cahl was here, rawr.

Hi Tais,
find me please when you get on.

art thou still playing shadowbane?

I saw someone w/the name Tais something or another on Thurin with MM.

The leaves above whispered a quiet lullaby, while below Sirthas dreamed, sitting cross-legged below the branches of the ancient oak.

His eyes were closed and his breathing slowed to echo the gentle creak of the oak. Even in repose, his body exuded a sense of power, of resilience. He was far from the fastest or most deft of Mirdain, but his hardy hands had delivered an end to a great many enemies of the Forest.

In the count of years he and the oak were not far apart; as its sapling roots had taken hold, he had marched back into the lands of the Mirdain after the most deadly battle of his long life.

His brow furrowed now with the memory of it.

Scouts had reported a mass of foul orks on the borders of the Eastern Forests. Foul, incomplete creatures, made deadly through pure hatred and aggression.

The elflords had conferred briefly, and despatched a battalion of resplendent young warriors to destroy the horde. A excellent time for them to be blooded, to be tempered in the heat of a battle against a weak and disorganised enemy.

Sirthas recalled the pride with which he donned his armour that day. He carried a pair of light swords and a longbow, as beautifully crafted as his fine armour. Nor did he waver as his company gained sight of the Orkish horde. His faith in the superiority of Mirdain steel was untested, and unquestioning.

The battalion halted with trained precision, and in seconds the sky darkened with their long, light arrows. Hundreds of Orks fell, but hundreds more remained.

As the surviving Orks closed with frightening speed, screaming with bloody hatred, Sirthas spied a monstrous chieftain in their midst. Standing head and shoulders above the burly warriors beside him, he swung a mighty club. Even as the drool bubbled from his lips, his eyes peered out with a predatory intensity. His gnarled face was scored with three deep gouges, as though a great talon had been dragged across it. Unbeknownst to the Mirdain, this was the mark of the Dragon. He raised his weapon as his warriors closed with the Mirdain lines. With the first clash of steel, he brought it down, bellowing his command.

With the blood-lust of young warriors, the Mirdain tore through the orkish lines. Foul blood and limbs slicked the ground underfoot as the mounds of dead grew around them. This was to be their undoing.

The signal from the chief brought hundreds of Orks streaming from the nearby hills to join the fray below. Now desperately outnumbered and outflanked, the Mirdain line began to falter, slipping in the crimson gore and borne down by their stiff armour.

Under the sheer weight of numbers, and the cunning direction of the chief, the Mirdain fought and died. Yet a core of exhausted and blood slicked survivors held fast amidst the carnage. It was Sirthas' own company, welded together in the heat of battle, and directed by the pure will and determination of their commander, Cirail of the Silverleaf House.

The ebb and flow of the raging battle brought the company in contact with the chief's own guard, all vicious and brutish Iron Orks. The intensity of the battle rose, and warriors fell on both sides. The quick Mirdain blades severed limbs and blinded eyes as the mighty axes of the Orks caved in helm and head alike. Sirthas fought in the thick of it, hid silver blades now dulled with blood.

Turning his weary head, Sirthas barely dodged a massive blow from the ork chief himself. Seizing the chance, Commander Cirail leapt at the chief, his single long blade arrowing towards the Ork's piggish eyes.

Sweeping his axe upwards with impossible speed, the chief deflected Cirail's valiant attack, driving him back into the Mirdain lines, but it was Sirthas' turn to strike.

With a final effort, Sirthas drove both blades into the exposed belly of the chief. Loosing a deafening roar, the mighty ork curled around the wound, and around Sirthas.

Sirthas' memory of that bloody day ends there. By the setting of the sun a great chief of the orks lay dead, and his unruly, leaderless army scattered to the wind. Of the hundreds of Mirdain that had joined that battle, only a handful lived. They marched victorious through the great gates of their city, but their faces were downcast. Their faith was shaken and their hearts were wounded but they had not broken.

In all the Mirdain to fall that day, not one turned to flee. Each fought to the bitter end in the mud and grime, knee deep in the mingled dead. They were the unbreakable. Even in that most bitter defeat was forged their core of strength, determination and the will to live.

Sirthas blinked away his reverie, a single tear rolling down his craggy face. That day his company had learned a bitter lesson; trust no one but the Mirdain warrior at your side. Be prepared to live or die with him, and trust him to do the same.

When the company returned to the city, they relinquished their family names. On that day, a new house was formed; the Aelori, the unbreakable ones. Establishing their headquarters within the near empty shell of their barracks, the Aerloria are devoted to the principles of the Mirdain and the protection of the forest.