Uloralie Plains
“There weren’t always dragons in the valley,” Eothyn says gently, closing his eyes in thought.
“My father – our father, told me so often and so fondly about his travels along what used to be called the Uloralie Plains.” He points out through the trees and brush, giving way to a sheer drop off the mountainside the four friends are perched upon. They overlook onto pale green rolling hills and in the far, misty distance, remains a blackened site of ill repute. A line, in essence, a border, stretching easily from one side of the plains to the other and much further beyond.
“Our father, he was a hard-working elf, but still simply just a glorified guardsman. Spending many of our many several years protecting travellers and nomads who would cross through these plains,” Eothyn laments, ironically, always thinking less of his father.
The slightly more spry and pointed ears of Epistle, brother to Eothyn, pricked up hearing the word Uloralie.
“I recall different significance to that name, vaguely, but there is a ring of familiarity to it. I cannot quite perfectly place it, although, if I were to make an educated assumption I believe that is where our father met our mother. As you know I did not spend much time with Euteryl. I was mistakenly always far too engrossed in my writings and documenting to fully enjoy his company while we had it,” Epistle says, venting his anger not through his words or tone of voice, but through the last few feathers torn and scrunched on the end of the arrow he’s been fletching.
The big, old and stagnant Turtole that’s been sitting and listening intently to his friends, taps his gnarled wooden staff on a nearby rock. A noticeable and now endearing form of announcing that the old creature is taking a few of his rare deep breaths, about to speak. He rolls his yellowing and withered eyes back into his pale green head, licks his cracked lips and waits to feel the attention of his friends.
“I do not believe you have yet to tell me of your father’s name, Epistle. It is quite nearly just as beautiful as yours, my dearest friend. Like his name, I suppose, I could only guess as to what became of him; would you mind?” The Turtole says, using just as much breath as he intended.
“Well, Taheton, would you desire the entire telling, or the shortened version?” Epistle asks.
“I can certainly tell you, nay, regale you with the fullest tale, with what amounts to as an uncanny and historic marriage between the Wylderryms and the world in which we live.”
Epistle watches Taheton’s eyes open as wide as he knows he can muster, and from years of telling tales to his friend, he recognizes this as a sign of interest in a classic story.
The fair-skinned elf, clad in nearly perfect, tight leathers, adjusts the best someone can on a damp and critter-stricken log. He motions to his brother and their newest addition to the party, a very quiet and reserved Laecidian. Both brothers exchange nods, knowing they’re in for a long night, and Eothyn quickly springs from his log to go hunt down some more firewood.
Epistle, vastly aware that there is a very slight window of opportunity to keep the Turtole’s attention before he nods off, draws an arrow from his quiver and lightly taps on the crumbling shell of his friend. Tapping similarly on the heavy plated armour of the Laecidian.
“Mr. Tylassien, are you okay if we speak over your rest?” Epistle asks.
“Please, call me Sonorous, but yes. I only took a few hits just then, it shouldn’t be all too strenuous of a rest. I must take this all off anyway, it’ll give me something to think about through this lengthy process,” Sonorous answers, as he begins to decouple bands and metal clasps holding his armour together.
Epistle simply cannot help but lose his focus watching and soon ogling at the gradual and greater exposure of Sonorous’ dark, navy-blue and muscular body. His tiny, but appropriately sized fins and gills on his cheeks and neck respectively, flicking autonomously with the changes of the wind. He gently places his luminous, shell-shaped shield down on the ground and lays his chest plate atop it, leaving only his verdant green pendant in the shape of a subtle holy symbol upon his chiselled chest. His breaths and body clearly showed no apparent signs of the bitter cold, late-night winds.
Epistle is only removed from his stupor by the cracking of ancient bones turning to face his direction.
“I thought I told you to stop…,” Taheton begins saying, only just now reacting to being hit on a heavily worn back. “...touching my shell there. You know that’s why my Myrtle used to call me Tortilla,” he finished, slowly and methodical as always.
Epistle instinctively rubs the bridge of his nose.
“Yes, we all know that story, my friend. Even Sonorous here is quite astutely aware already,” he says, stealing another glance at how the moonlight gleans off his ocean-dark abdomen; instantly puzzling and piecing together a poem regarding this view in his head.
“But where were we!” He exclaims, perhaps too loudly for this particular forest edge.
“You wanted to hear the story of my father and his travels upon the once illustrious and draconic, virgin-touched moss of the Uloralie plains. My, what a story this is.”
“Where we remain tonight, quite close in fact, is what used to be a highly unremarkable piece of land between our two most major continents, “Epistle says, pointing in the rough, respective direction of Icaender, just beyond the plains. He points, using a half-stripped stick soon to become an arrow, continuing to use it afterwards like a conductor directing an orchestra.
“It encompassed nothing but that of a silent, yet useful path in which to cross borders, mostly uninterrupted from those that would inhibit such travel. However, in its growing popularity, and I’m sure with its fair share of whistleblowers, it became more and more known and traversed. Eventually leading to its need for protectors, and that is where the Wylderryms come into play. I had forgotten the importance of the word Uloralie, it had slipped my mind until my brother jogged it; these plains are where my parents met.
If I recall correctly, and quite serendipitously so, on one of his contracted protectorate ventures. There was something to do with a bear attack, or she slipped from a sudden decline, there was something that led those two into one another’s arms. I should truly ask Eothyn about it, when he returns, I am sure there are many stories and poems to be told from their meeting. But that’s unimportant right now, what is, you ask, is what occurred a few decades later from their meeting.
These green hills were flooded with white.”
Epistle stops and continues to hang on that sentence for a few beats, before locking eyes with their newest member.
“A bit of context, Sonorous, as I see you’re rather equally engrossed and confused. What I am about to explain took place many several centuries past, from today. There may remain a youthful and spry appearance upon my body, and trust me, I need not much effort for such a thing,” he says with a wink and a smirk growing on his face. “But this event took place when I was but a small, nursing child in my mother’s arms. As you already know I have now seen nearly 800 solstices. Just as well, I doubt under the surface of the Laecidra Ocean they teach nor nurture much information regarding the lives of the elves up here. That is no slight on Laecidians as a whole, mind you. I truly do wish I could see more of your kind.
To return: these green plains did indeed run rampant with white. There was a mass rumour spread throughout the most heavily populated elven cities in Icaender, that did not reach quite a critical mass in Eslaide, the continent we have enjoyed for years. The rumour was a dire threat of invasion from the island continent of Yhimlatahd, which is not entirely unprecedented. As many a lineage has been snuffed from the daunting and dirtied hands of those that live there.
So in their, as you’ll soon learn, veiled threat, they sent just enough of their naval fleet to convince and send most undefended villages and cities fleeing. Recoiling from terror down the main connecting roads, which would soon spill over from capacity into nearby forests. Some thought quickly about the wide-open Uloralie Plains, so many of the influential leaders would direct their entire villages through the forests and down into the plains. The very same where the one who remained veiled behind that threat, threw off his guise.”
Epistle stops and sets down his now completed arrow, leaving Sonorous on the edge of his log. The elf takes a swig of his waterskin, remedying his throat from the pang of history, and continues.
“As so the story goes, nearly a total population of 105 villages and 18 larger cities found themselves secluded and scuttled into the Uloralie Plains. Where inlaid, under disguise and waiting was Paito upon his accursed peak. An entire mountain to which he cruelly carved with runes, incantation and Gods only know whatever else. A mountain, mind you, that was not previously existing, as my father could have well attested to. It had appeared and was revealed just as quickly as it took Paito to complete his ritual.
The details to which are known only to the few survivors of that fateful evening. No Elves, no Humans, no walking nor mindful souls were counted among the survivors of that night, however.
All that is absolutely known, it seems, was gathered in the nigh-immediate aftermath of Paito’s casting by nearby forest druids overwhelmed by the feeling and scent of death in the air. Those few druids, among which such legendary names were born, were the first to witness what Paito had done, and quickly spoke to the allegedly 3 total, surviving trees. Trees said to been blessed by the gentle hands of someone your friend might know, Taheton.”
The aged Turtole smiles and nods slowly, thinking immediately of his divine companion Geevee.
“Those trees giving all that they were able to give to the druids, such information which has been the sole and only account of those events,” Epistle continues.
“Spread through numerous generations of high-ranking officials in Icaender’s capital city; since clutched tight to their chest.
Now what you will soon see, Sonorous, is the aftermath. Of which consists 3 main aspects, a few that all have their indirect intricacies as well. Tomorrow morning, we’ll show you the largest and most obvious. As I believe your eyes take far more than a few weeks to adjust to the surface light. An Elven and Turtolan eye can spot it clear from here. It’s a scar, a meteoric gash across the face of this fair world. A place where my father and tens of thousands of his kin were chained and tortured and murdered and we remain ignorant of what and why this truly occurred.
The reason why we refer to this scar as the Chainwounds,” he ends with his famous flourish, but with a little more hesitancy. His hands and voice where usually they end on a high note and in a small bow formation, both this time and every time he tells this story, slightly off-kilter.
Sonorous looks past Epistle’s shoulder, his dark-blue eyes straining to see through the moonlight rays. He watches as a few gray owls frolic along the ground and eventually delve into their burrows.
“I can see simply now why they skip that piece of history in our early childhood studies. My friend, Epistle, I am so sorry this happened to you. Do you know what has become of Paito? Where’s he’s gone? If he still sucks air or even his intentions?”
“I have told you all that which I know, beyond which, of course, you will benefit from first having a visual aid,” Epistle answers, gently and still shaken.
“There is one more thing, I suppose. And this comes directly from a source; from a deeply entrenched and trustworthy grapevine, if you will,” he says with a slight smirk on his face. He points loosely in the direction of Taheton and traces circles in the air as if trying to accuse a spirit spinning quickly around his friend.
“This is one enigmatic force that neither of us will ever quite grasp a visual aid upon, his friend here. She is something of a deity, and as such knows much but lets on little. And if you’ve a few more minutes of patience to offer, Sonorous, perhaps we could hear more of her knowledge,” he says, letting the sentence trail off slowly to fill the air before he clears his throat and gets ready.
“Knowledge from The Great Taheton Redelliad hailing from Tileryan. An aged and archaic avatar for the equally if not greater Grapevine, the Great Goddess of the forage and harvest and speaker of all things that are brittle and buzz,” Epistle proclaims with a commanding voice. In a clear attempt to both awaken his now snoring Turtole and to inspire Grapevine to pester her avatar enough to awake him. With his hands still risen up in pseudo prayer and eyes closed, he lifts his left eyelid to look at Sonorous. “Sometimes that works; maybe tomorrow, huh?” I do not think he is going to awake tonight, the old creature.
Well, what she once told me in regards to this place was about power. A power so mighty and destructive it left behind a trail of sorts, an effect that reverberated throughout the world leaving bits and pieces that could be traced back to these plains. Like a child haphazardly traipsing through the alleyways smelling fresh bread among the wind; the dragons did so similarly. They did not fly, they did not come to this place immediately after. It took them some time to find it, but find they did. Now they sit and remain, stationary and effortlessly on guard protecting Paito’s Peak. As far as she has felt, these dragons do not move from where they slumber. Allegedly forming a type of physical barrier around—”
“Wings and fire!” Eothyn yells from deep within the forest. “Watch the skies, dear brother; flee!”
In an instant, Epistle stands to his nimble feet and draws an arrow from his quiver. Tapping his Turtole on the back yet again, knocking him aware. He notches the arrow and looses it into the night sky, waiting a few seconds before snapping his fingers, setting the tip alight.
“Don your breastplate and grab hold, Sonorous. We’ve not much time if these wyrms are in the sky.”
“Grab hold onto what?” Sonorous says, muffled as the breastplate slides over his head.
The only answer he receives is that from a long and deep roar from a cave bear, suddenly standing directly in front of him where Taheton once sat.
He stumbles and trips backwards over his log, rolling through the moss a few feet. Terrified of the giant black bear.
“Mount and grip with all your might, he’s less intelligent in these forms but far more quick. We must get to my brother,” Epistle commands, eyeing the sky and waiting for a response.
Instead, he’s blinded by a blast of orange and red light, vastly illuminating the night sky and dense thicket. Everyone quickly shields their eyes and waits for the light to disperse, except in those few seconds when it dims another sense is assaulted. Heavy, long-lived and impossibly large wings are hardly heard through the now ringing in their ears from overhead as they witness a dark figure fly above the treetops. The beguiling silhouette beating down on them from above with imposing gales of wind, forcing the lithe elf to drop to one knee into the cold mud. Epistle forces his head upwards to continue watching for a response, and finally spots it. He spies a limply shot arrow, following a trajectory seen only from a weakened arm.
An arrow that never gets set alight. He stands to both feet, wraps his wooden bow around his torso and sprints in that direction. The massive cave bear now mounted by the gleaming silver armour and blue Laecidian, charges, following after the quick elf.
