Tyrielle

[Noa]

Wystro
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Posts: 56
(7/13/02 1:09 am)
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Time does not pass for the elves as it does for other races. While others who walk the world participate in the circle of seasons – while others live and grow and die with the movement of the world, the Koada'Dal pass through life at a different pace. The Koada'Dal are the enduring echo of Tunare's grace.

That grace does not completely sustain us from time's touch. The endless movements that fuel the advancement of other races ravage Elven civilization. The changes of the world wear on us in their own way. Look into the eyes of our eldest, past their unmarred faces, and you will see them look beyond you to a vision of other realms. Perhaps the old ones have not moved from the world as much as the world has moved away from them.

The story I am about to tell takes place in my childhood, when the Elddar Forest yielded to the merciless advance of the Desert of Ro, and the glory of Takish-Hiz began to bleach and crumble under the unrelenting glare of Solusek's anger.

A new home was being built on the far-off continent of Faydwer – with the invaluable aid of our dwarven allies, the marble walls of our fair new city were being raised. I accompanied my grandmother Tyrielle to the site where Felwithe would soon stand. My parents Khessal and Lyrian remained in Takish-Hiz to collect our household and aid in the royal court's transition.

Tyrielle was preeminent in her order, and she therefore was the chosen one to weave ever-enduring enchantments into the flawless marble of Felwithe. As her only grandchild, I was permitted to travel with her and escape the scorching heat of our beloved, dying home. Greater Faydark teemed with lush green leaves and wondrous forest creatures – I thrilled at roaming through a land so full of life.

My best friend in the whole world was a tiny summoned earth elemental that I named Clumpy. At that time, he was a little man about two hands high. When we played, I was the Terrible Giant and he was the Helpless Villager – Clumpy ran as I mercilessly attempted to crush him underfoot. One bright morning I chased him past the watching eyes of Felwithe's builders and off of the forest path.

I found Clumpy and was preparing to deal him his deathblow, when I myself was engulfed by the shadow of another. The creature was large and hulking, and all I could do was stare at it as it walked towards me. It was composed of arms, legs, and head, but beyond that, it bore nothing in common to an elf. It smiled, and I could do nothing but watch as it drew back its broad hand to strike me. Darkness swallowed my memories after that point.

I awoke to find my legs trapped by cold, heavy iron. Thick chain links trailed to manacles that were crudely crushed to fit my tiny form. Dark castle walls encased me, and the acrid scent of refuse invaded my nose and stung my eyes.

As I put the pieces of the world together, I caught snatches of conversation.

"Don't touch it," an oily voice uttered, "It is ....a gift for the ambassador that the Dark Ones are sending. The gift will be more prized if it remains untouched."

I looked up and saw more of those dull blue faces over me. Their eyes were like black stones – I couldn't see anything in them. I attempted to crawl inside myself as the night grew around me.

***********
I awoke to the clamoring of swords and the flashes of distant light; I peered through the narrow window that was close to me. My eyes fell upon the sight of dwarven masons and elven paladins cutting through whatever brutish monstrosities were in their way.

My eyes did not remain upon the advancing warriors; they were drawn to the same sight that consumed the denizens of Crushbone. I stared at the Lady Tyrielle.

It was as if all of the stars in the night sky chose to shine only through her. Tyrielle radiated with overwhelming beauty. Her glamour burned though the orcish brains and ate all of their thoughts. Her melodious voice was compelling and true as she gently directed the trusting creatures to stand quietly and die.

My grandmother had always possessed great beauty, even by elvish standards; but I had never witnessed her before in the garment and adornment of her craft. Appearing to the world as a maiden in the fullness of youth, only her flawless grace betrayed the greatness of her age. She walked through the cold, barren waste of Crushbone like a thousand spring mornings.

The paladins and dwarven warriors broke through into the empty throne room where I was kept chained. Tyrielle entered then softly whispered to the cowering blue hulk that had the misfortune of watching over me. And as my grandmother spoke, its empty face suddenly flooded with devotion. The brute hurried off and soon returned with a key that it had ripped from a now-dead slavemaster. The dull blue thing crawled to Tyrielle and offered her the prize as if he were her devoted puppy.

Pale and lovely, my grandmother accepted the key from the scarred creature and then she turned away. A rain of mithril blades then broke the creature down into a splintered mass.

Tyrielle walked to me and unlocked the manacles – she smiled softly and wrapped me in the folds of her robes. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the orc with the oily voice; the one I had heard when I first came. Unlike the other of his kind, he held fast against the elven glamour.

"Die, pallid witch! You stood by as your homeland crumbled, you will not ruin ours!"

The orc leapt out from its place of hiding and slashed Tyrielle with a jagged dagger. A ruby line formed on her flawless arm. She then turned upon the monster, and her beauty turned to fire in his blood. The creature screamed and clawed as its flesh burned away from the inside. What was once an orc collapsed to the ground in a heap of smoldering gristle.

The captain of the elven guard approached my grandmother.

"Lady, the enemy has gathered itself. A phalanx of legionnaires approaches our position – the time to withdraw is now. Felwithe is not yet in a position to engage in all-out war."

Burning with the beauty of an angel, Tyrielle turned upon the captain.

At that moment, I feared more for the man in shining metal than I did for myself. It hurt to look at my grandmother, and I turned away. The other guards shrank from the sight of her, but the captain unflinchingly stood his ground.

The Lady Tyrielle gathered herself and her beauty cooled. She then turned to me.

"Come, Wystro. It is time for us to leave"

She took my hand and led me through an utterly still crowd of stupefied orcs. As we finished passing through, she whispered sweet words that ripped the last shreds of sanity from her thralls. The blue creatures then proceeded to rip into each other. I couldn't take any more; I held on to my grandmother's hand with a steel grip and shut my eyes as hard as I could.


************
The acolytes at Felwithe's new temple tended to my bruises. The caretakers were gentle and kind, but I curled into a ball on my cot – my stomach was knotted with fear. I did not see my grandmother near at that moment. I wasn't sure I wanted to see her.

I did not know until much later that she was answering to the king for her actions. I did not know that she would have gone into Crushbone and torn it down with her bare hands if the captain of the guards had not forced an escort upon her. No one was beyond the rule of law, not even one of the First. The vulnerable and unfinished city of Felwithe was not to be put in danger, even for the life of a child. I do not know what price Tyrielle paid, but it was not long before she followed the call to other realms that the rest of her kind had since heeded.

*************
I was still curled up and holding onto my blanket tightly as my grandmother entered the temple. She came to me without the adornment, wearing only a simple gossamer robe and a plain velium circlet that held her golden hair in place.

She approached me, and I cringed slightly from her; and for the first time that I could recall, her graceful air crumbled slightly. She paused. Her face then filled with a deep emotion that I could not name and she started to sing softly to me.

Her words were from a language I did not understand – they were the words that Tunare sang to bring my grandmother to life at the dawn of the world. These were the words that the holy ones sang to heal the wounded, and the most learned priests used to lead the lost soul back to its abandoned body.

These words were sung now by a grandmother to a frightened child. I felt the terrors and fears wash away from me, and the love of a being that had walked the world since the dawn of time come over my soul. I was then filled with the certainty that I was utterly safe and cared for.