It will be Wood Elves, well actually, it will just be elves in a way. I'm hoping that ninth edition allows for allies again, as my High Elves originally had Wood Elf allies. But, to the point, my ambition is to slowly create the kind of army I always envied, a complete package of paint, conversion and fluff. And whilst the models may have started with a box of Eternal Guard (with Shadow Warrior helms) and a box of Shadow Warriors, (with WWR hoods), I am much more excited to produce this, the introduction to my army.
I wanted to post this here because Ulthuan will play no small part in the beginnings of my army's story, but more so because of all the fluff I have read, Ulthuan's is by far the best, headshot, Malossar, jwg20 and Aicanor have given me as much enjoyment as Salvatore, Tolkien or Conn Iggulden, and I would like in some small way to repay that favour.
So here it is, the beginnings of my army, dedicated to Loec and the elven people, mercurial and sometimes mercenary in nature.
Please do enjoy!
And all at once it happened. The Cataclysm of Caledor. Winds of Magic chained for millennia hurtled free of their moorings.
Madness. Ecstacy.
In Lustria, deep in their golden pyramids, Slann Lords wept and rejoiced, Skink Priests capered and rolled in religious fervour and from the throats of every reptilian denizen there emerged a single triumphant roar.
In Naggaroth, true born and bred druchii, sons and daughters of Anaerion wept blood and reached for weapon. their holy work to begin in earnest.
The Deep Halls of the dawi lords rang in metallic melody not yet witnessed in the recorded history of that proud race and from forge to forge a word was passed, building in vigour and pride to a mighty crescendo. A single thunderclap.
“Khazuk!”
The Lands of Men were illuminated in the glow of innumerable twin tailed comets, crashing to earth, bringing not destruction but halos of fey light. The largest of its kind came to rest in the city of Altdorf, crushing under its weight the Temple of Sigmar and revealing in its wake a tiny male child, hammer clutched to his body and the stars and firmament radiated in his eyes.
In Bretonnia, lakes boiled dry to the accompaniment of clashing sword upon shield. Knights, radiant in countenance, legion in number, rode forth. At their head, a maiden, bow in hand, song upon her lips.
Over the boughs of Athel Loren a horn clarioned but once before the enchanted forest winked out of existence. All beings, mortal and immortal alike, knew with certainty; the Hunt had begun.
The island nation of Ulthuan, the centre of the vortex, birthplace of creation, moaned and sang in equal measures. Phoenii were born en-masse in molten explosions, dragons awoke and poured pillars of flame into the sky, and from the Shrine of Asuryan a single whisper echoed;
“Asur.”
Before the rent Gate of Chaos, eye limned in tears born of a sorrow so deep it could not even be savoured, hand held as iron around it’s throat, grovelled N’Kari, first servant and slave of Slaanesh.
It wept because it knew.
It wept because it saw.
Orion, Kurnous reborn, his hunt spilling and spreading amongst the stars.
Ariel, Isha renewed, where she stood the ground consecrated and erupted with pure untainted joy.
Tyrion and Teclis, twin pillars of burning might, Asuryan and Hoeth returned to the mortal world.
Dread Malekith, one hand clutching The Doom, the other leaking crimson and a cruel crown of iron upon his brow.
N’Kari’s captor smiled and it was assailed with the distant presence of the Maiden Lilleath, the God-Emperor and the Great and Hallowed Ancestors; Grudge and Hearth and Home.
Sobbing now and shaking, the demon felt the compulsion to lift it’s gaze. To look into the pits of Void that served as this new God’s eyes. A withered Crone giggled incoherently behind him, pulling and inspecting strands of spider silk. Morathi had finally achieved her goal. She was a God, laid reverent before the greatest truths of fate and time and life and Death.
“Behold N’Kari, I have become Death, The Destroyer of Worlds.”
And thus, by the hand of Ynnead, did the creature N’Kari bear witness to the final omnipotent sensation of Obliteration.
“Sound your Horn Orion, Rhana Dandra begins.”
Somewhere, apart and yet connected, a seeming young elf, male, wrapped and wreathed in shadow placed the last piece down upon the board. The Pawn Promoted. Smiling, no, smirking, he bowed to the exquisite being his opposite. The Old Enemy, She Who Thirsts and in triumph gloated,
“Checkmate.”
Vali Eryr pushed himself to a seated position, head swimming, and stomach roiling. Another vision, another echo of madness and pain. Or was it glory and destruction? He stood slowly, moving to the ornate opening that served as a window in this tree tower. Staggering, he lent upon it, trying to settle, trying to gain equilibrium, stretching his muscles like a drunken hunting cat, and took in the outside world.
Fyr Darric was certainly beautiful, a balance of vibrant growth and falling blossoms. Eryr Allisar, with its close proximity to both the Witherwood and the Silvan Dale, in particular, Vali thought, was a standard of the lovely. Golden grasses carpeted vale, meadow and mountain and plump blood cherries lined hills, groves and streams. A stunning land, his land, it was guarded by able archers and the peerless blades of his kin-dancers, the resoluteness of his personal guard, by magic and mighty forest dragons. Here he had, for an age, danced and fought and loved and laughed deeply and passionately, even as such things were reckoned in Athel Loren.
And yet.
And yet now each night he saw it burn. In his dreams, in the reflection of his baths, in the visions induced by the Fruit of Loec. Where once had been peace, pleasure, and quite confidence, now there was left naught but raw itch. The call for action.
But where? How?
So many questions unanswered.
Ariel would be no help, which was her typical wont, of course.
Durthu hadn't been worth a conversation in many years.
The less said of Orion the better.
Daith may have been a friend and teacher but Vali needed answers not to be found in folded steel and singing spear.
Who? Who then?
Vali could call upon assistance from the far north but was not certain his needs justified the price his father would surely exact. Nor did he want him armed with the gain of these visions, at least, not yet.
He sighed and rubbed a knot of muscle in his shoulder loose. Crecerelle had been... vigorous.
Ulthuan. Only Ulthuan was left to him. Loremasters of the White Tower, perhaps the priests of Asuryan. They would offer something, for the right price, a way forward, a direction in which to act and that was what Vali desired most.
He was a Prince and Highdancer of a significant wardancer kinband and much like the elves he governed, Vali was a creature of action.
Ulthuan then, he thought with the beginnings of a smile, the old confidence kindling. Saphery and, if need be, Eataine.
“Valk!” the clear cry peeled through the copse-manse as Vali pulled on his drake skin leggings and boots.
Girt by great experience in being summoned unexpectedly, the seneschal, Valk entered his Prince’s chambers before Vali had even pulled on a tunic. His veteran eyes took in the disarray of the room, the empty wine jugs, the bowl of Loec’s Fruit scattered by the bed and, most of all, the outline of the naked Shadowdancer wreathed in blankets at the beds centre. In response he raised a single eyebrow his Prince’s way, who, to be fair, had the decency to blanch somewhat. His eyes may have even flickered to the mighty glaive slung casually over Valk’s back. But, then again, perhaps not.
“Seneschal, bring in Taka and Heja, call my kindancers to me. I intend to travel to Ulthuan within the week.”
The request was not completely unusual; Vali was extroverted by the measure of his people and enjoyed travel and interests abroad, sometimes unexpectedly, but the timeline...
“My Prince, Taka and Heja are roving the Wild Heath, maintaining contact with your interests in the immediate World Outside. It could be some time before a messenger would be able to reach them, even one of the carrier kestrels. There is also the matter of returning them to the copse-manse. A week is little time to find two bands of waywatchers.”
Vali grunted in annoyance, midway through a long draught of wildwine.
“A week, old man. Bring them back yourself if you must. The Equinox approaches and this season I have a mind to celebrate it in Saphery...”
“Chrace.” came the silken interruption.
Standing easily, with the grace of the bird of prey that was her nakesake, bedding held tight around her, the only deference paid to the presence of the seneschal, her father, the Shadowdancer and seeress Crecerelle turned to face her Highdancer.
“Chrace, Vali Eryr, the answers you seek are not to be found in the pages of dusty books, but in the land of Chrace and the blood of the sons and daughters of the Lion.”
Mollified, the Highdancer looked at Crecerelle questioningly for a moment before shrugging and turning once more to Valk. All present knew, Crecerelle, with her gifts, was the only one Vali regularly allowed to countermand his authority.
“Chrace then. We will hunt and dance and tell our tales in the halls of the mighty Lion Brothers, and perhaps,” he added with a pointed look to his Shadowdancer, “we will find there something worth seeking.”
Soon after, details firm now, the seneschal bowed and excused himself with practised poise, though no small measure of grumbling could be heard receding down the winding staircase that led to Vali’s personal chambers. Alone, Vali and Crecerelle regarded each other for a long moment. Slowly Crecerelle closed the gap between them and laid a gentle palm upon the agitated Highdancer’s cheek. Vali could not help but notice the liquid play of the silk bedding as it pooled at her feet.
“Peace Loecson, peace and trust. Come to Chrace, Loec wills it.” She pressed a small rune stone into his palm before pirouetting to retrieve her gossamer robe. Vali turned the blessed moonstone over in his hands as she slipped into her clothing and padded silently out of the room, inspecting the marking and message in the dawn’s light.
Lioness.
A frustrated breath blew through his teeth as he settled once more by the window and the view to the lands below, emotions churning now to match his gut.
Very well then, he thought to himself, let us dance in Chrace.
So... any good?