Malathir Weavesong
Within the age of Myth Malathir was sprung within the realm of Gyhran, with peace and serenity weaving within the song from Alarielle. It was a time of great wisdom and council. Malathir however was unusual amongst his kin, the seasons seem to ebb and flow effortlessly around his being, in a constant flux. Whether the seeding had caused this effect or whether it was a blessing from Alarielle none truly know. It is however not a simple change as the seasonal effect also influences Malathirs mind, from a calm spring breeze to the cruelness of winters chill.
However as with most tales there is tragedy. When traversing the realms on a mission of peace, Malathir and his host were flung into the Interstice pocket realm. As soon as Malathir regained consciousness he took note of his surroundings and noticed an eerie silence… no more could the song of Alarielle be heard clearly except from a glimmer from time to time. In unison the wailing ensued and there would be nothing that could console Malathirs host. Seemingly unsure on what action to take Malathir began heading for the closest forest. Weaving a spell to amplify Alarielles song the host began to understand their peril. Much conflict and strife occurred during their resettlement within the Interstice, and seeding new life into the pocket realm. So it was they formed the Mirrorwood Glade.
Have you met Malathir while within The Great Weave? Or have something to add to his story? Do that here!
Opportunity Cost
The Ghurish jungle of the Dell was a puzzle. It was always somewhat familiar; rainforest birds sung in the trees, and all manner of crawlers scuttled on the vegetation or swarmed low to the ground. It was these similarities that only caused more...
Bound Within Blood
“My, my, this seems a bit overmuch,” said Maemori, shaking her head.The tower of wrought brass and iron rose above her, slicing through the wild growth of the Dell like a twisted blade. There seemed to be no door or other means of ingress to its interior, and its...
Trees of Ghur
Gerwig Litcher stumbles his way toward the riverbank. He falls to knees and begins to hastily cup water from the River into his hands. He drinks, no regard for the old Trade Pioneer guidelines for purifying water. Plagues be damned I’d die from thirst firstHe then...