TEST DRIVE MEME

[fairyfoes]

TEST DRIVE MEME

Considering apping to EACHDRAIDH? Why not give the setting a test run here! OPTIONAL SCENARIOS 01. ARRIVING IN THE DRABWURLD. The Seelie and Unseelie courts welcome you with mirthful revelry and hearty food. After you have been briefed on your purpose here, you will find an endless feast and a night filled with entertainment to placate your concerns. Mingle with new arrivals, sneak down the castle halls and make sure your eyes are always on your glass; fairies and imps have no bias when it comes to tricks! 02. THE STATION. Looking for a little slice of home? The Station gives you all that and more. Take advantage of the wifi, have a cup of fairy-brewed coffee (the one they didn't spit in) or sit back and relax on the patio. You can even move your things into one of the available rooms! 03. WILDCARD. Your own scenario! Explore the Drabwurld or simply take advantage of your Locket!

Comments

[avisionofwar]

Celegorm tips his chair back just a little, one pale hand lifting, neatly divesting a waiter and passing tray of two more glasses. The crystal of them doesn't even clink as he sets them on the table before him.

One, he slides towards Eiridan. He's frowning, doesn't yet look up at the other elf.

"Strange," it's just a murmur, soft as a sigh, a spare puff of breath. But he does look at Eiridan then, and tips back the last of his first drink.

"Why? What strength could mortal men have against the might of gathered elves? And you... you look too fine to have sprung up in such conditions."

[weightofthedead]

Eiridan can't help but bark out a harsh laugh at that, "Gathered elves? Whatever do you mean? We have no leadership, no ruler no king. We're unwanted and dispossessed, the refuse left behind from the Tevinter Imperium." His words are black with bitterness, and he favors Celegorm with a sharp edged smile. "And I grew up in the midst of that, or at least, until the Circle took me." He pauses as he mulls over Celegorm's words, an oddness niggling at him some phrase-

Mortal men. Eiridan stares once again at Celegorm, breath trickling from his parted lips.

"Are the elves where you are from," He fought to keep his voice casual, "Immortal?"

[avisionofwar]

Increasingly disturbed by what the elf before him is saying, Celegorm slowly begins to stiffen where he sits.

"Gathered elves. The elves of the Feanorian banners, drawn together in arms are... as a river of steel, stretching from one horizon to the other, a glittering host. The finest that shall ever walk the world; or it was when my father rode before it."

He pauses there, lips thinning, sharp chin inclining somewhat. "Call yourself not so, Eiridan, Warden-Commander. Whatever the state of the elves of your world, refuse is not what you are. And unless the Ainur have forsaken you, too, you are not truly dispossessed."

But Eiridan's question made his heart sink, and he wondered if the Ainur had done more than simply forsake these lost cousins of his people. "Immortal is... an improper word. We might be killed, by blade, or other treachery, or great grief. The march of time, however, leaves us only wan and cold."

[weightofthedead]

Before the Tevinter Imperium, before the elves bred with humans and began to quicken their lives were endless-

Eiridan blinks the memory of that line in that ancient text, re-focusing upon Celegorm. His hand reaches up, and strokes for a moment at the old scar at his ear, gently tracing the notch. He did not recognize the word Ainur, unless it was another way to describe the Pantheon of the Dalish gods.

"I have never heard of the Ainur." He replied, slowly, quietly. "So perhaps they have." He paused another moment. "It would not surprise me." He was silent for a moment longer before adding, "Perhaps the incorrect word, but I am surely not that." He lets out a cold, dry laugh.

"The march of time leaves you feeling like that? That isn't the purview of those with endless life."

Soon Brenn.

[avisionofwar]

Celegorm sat back, all his prior levity gone, looking tense and troubled. He frowned into the space between them, hand falling away from his glass.

We were only banished from Aman as kinslayers. What must they have done, to warrant such punishment...?

The thought is a heavy one, and he exhales slowly. "You have been a commander for fifteen years. Imagine centuries full of that. In maudlin moments, I think our long lives an unpleasant jest played upon us, a cosmic joke at our expense. Imagine living through centuries of war, battles the length of decades, your memory undulled, perfect in the recollection of every face you loved, and every body you pulled from the mire of a battlefield."

He is too haunted, for a moment, for his eyes to see the celebration, to see Eiridan. His perfect features crumple just very subtly, the corners of his eyes and mouth crimping in private pain.

If not a curse, perhaps it was a blessing.