View source for Rhionne's Story BW XXX

Rhion is a Dunedain – one of the wandering folk of the Prime.  Wise, stoic and battle hardened they are well respected by all that know of them.  However, few truly understand the Dunedain.  Rhion’s nomadic lifestyle was born of necessity: left orphaned at an early age in Efferendil, he travelled much of Amorsland living off the land.  He met Mercantire Carass during a battle near the bridge at Girenshon and wondered at his prowess with Fastlaw.  Several Dunedain were there that day and, after the battle, shared stories of the land, as was their want.  Rhion learned of the rise of Odin and his deals with Malor, and that a lich had been seen in the Demon’s company, though it was thought to be a servant of the North.  Over time, he too was swept up in the wars that passed swiftly across the land; he quickly realised that all races needed to be mobilised to defend every part of the Prime before it was too late.  With this thought uppermost in his mind, he found his way back to Efferendil. 

The glade had been a beautiful place, typical of the sacred areas of Efferendil.  Here was once Walorin’s home, in which the Dunedain occasionally resided. The land gently rose from east to and, as Rhion recalled, had once smelled the willow herb, dandy lions and primrose which had grown in abundance all around. The large gap in the forest canopy had allowed the sunlight to penetrate and create an intense, bright green palate on which was painted splashes of yellow, red and purple. From the west, once flowed a burbling brook which had cascaded down the slope, zigzagging between the roots of the black oaks which had grown abundantly in this part of Efferendil, before dropping ten feet over exposed rocks into a clear pool below. Some fifteen feet in diameter, the cool inviting water had bubbled, eddied and rippled before continuing its journey down the slope to the east.  No more.  Not since the Drow had discovered Walorin’s house and brought the Great Demon, had such wonders of nature been beheld in this dark place.  The ground was smashed and burnt, no flowers or trees grew here and the brook was long since silenced.  The exposed, blackened rock and the scar of the deep pool was all that remained now.

The memories of this place came flooding back as he stepped through the charcoaled remains of the once beautiful sanctuary, smoke still rising from the shells of the poplar trees that once stood so majestically. Rhion was once amongst the elven guard that protected the inner stand of these great trees, including Walorin’s halls.  Just an apprentice then, he had already travelled much and was respected for the things he had seen, rather than his ability with a sword.  In the heart of the stand Rhion recalled they would pass through a door of some kind to find themselves in a corridor leading down, which seemed to be carved out of a living tree. They would then stand in a hall, not much more than a 15’ cube, decorated with all manner of mythological scenes – Odin, Thor, Frey, Freya, Fenris, and Loki. The scenes changed, almost imperceptibly as if coming alive momentarily before returning to the maple wood from which they were carved.  Everything seemed to have been destroyed.

Moving deeper into the scarred and scorched sacred place, Rhion was struck with the scene of total carnage.  The dead and dying were all around, most charred and blackened, some clinging onto life without real hope.  Rhion moved between them, offering aid where he could and dispatching the enemy, putting them out of their misery, where needed.  There were so many, his progress was slow and grim.  Soon he came upon the body of a beautiful female elf, laying on her back with her blood-drenched head angled awkwardly towards him. He quickly recognised her as the Princess Malenwe.  Checking her pulse, he realised that she lived, although the wound to her head looked bad.  

Rhion fought hard to keep Malenwe alive whilst giving others nearby as much aid as he could.  Eventually, when he was crouched over a young elf archer, Malenwe struggled onto all fours and then into a crouch. She looked around, it was a scene of carnage, the dead and dying were everywhere. She stood slowly, wincing; she seemed confused and tears welled in her eyes.
Malenwe moved carefully through the destruction whilst Rhion watched closely ensuring that no harm would come to her.  He did not dare to approach the beautiful elf at such a difficult time. She came across the rent and torn carcass of Walorin, who had been stripped naked and discarded amongst the carbonised plant life. She knelt by his side and prayed. 

Silently joining her side, they both passed through the battlefield bending to hear dying elves’ last words or assist the living, healing those they could. The enemy had left as suddenly as it had arrived. Many, like Malenwe, unfortunate enough to be in the path were yet fortunate enough to be brushed aside rather than destroyed. To Rhion’s surprise, the numbers of living far outstripped the numbers of the dead. Malenwe rallied those she could and began to formulate a plan on the move: they would go to the heart of the forest, find her father and persuade him to enter the war against both the Demon and Malor.  They knew the path well and managed to move swiftly, building followers as they went.  Nearing the heart of the forest the trees were in competition for light and grew taller and taller. The elves helped the trees: they shaped them and ensured each had its own place, rooted deeply in the forest and stretching tall to the canopy high above; they too had crafted living spaces in and between the trees. These spaces were invisible to human eye but were as clear as a bright star on a dark night to the elves. The flowers too were well tended, gathering in beautiful clumps of like colour, creating a rainbow of hues across the forest floor.

Everything was well; there was no sign of the enemy.  They paused briefly before entering Malenwe’s father’s house. She entered and paused a moment. Her passage here had been observed but no-one came out to meet her. There was no joy at her return, at the return of many of their folk. Rhion had wondered why she had not been greeted in the customary fashion but had put it down to the elves’ need to keep a low profile. But here was different. Why had her father not been waiting at the entrance? Followed closely by Rhion, Malenwe tore her way up the stairs which wound around the inside of a giant poplar.

The first room they came to was modest in size but beautifully decorated with superb carvings of all manner of sylvan tribes which once inhabited this forest. At the King’s desk, which adorned the centre of the room, was a young elf who immediately stood and bowed in greeting.

“Estoin, where is my Father?” Malenwe asked the boy.

“My Lady,” the young elf started, visibly shaken by her presence and stammered, “he has marched north to meet with Malor.” Estoin was typically dressed in forest greens and was lightly armoured: short and long swords, a composite bow and a mithril hauberk, which marked him as one high born.

“What? Meet in battle you mean?” Malenwe was confused.

“No my Lady, meet in parley. He wishes to align with the Oriental Lord to ensure his Kingdom survives the Demon’s attention.” Estoin knew he was to be the bearer of bad news. He had prepared himself for this encounter for days but somehow had been shocked by her reaction.

“Fool! The Demon does not want our land!”

Malenwe’s reaction was obvious and her words true but Estoin needed to say something, “My Lady, your brother is convinced that this is the right thing to do.”

“Of course he is; he has not seen the truth and is beguiled by Malor’s promises.” Her rebuke was forceful and to Rhion she looked guilty immediately, 

“I was once so fooled by someone I trusted” she whispered to herself, “never again!” Continuing in a more audible voice, Malenwe asserted, “No it is not the Demon who desires Efferendil, it is Malor.”

So, it was uncovered and Rhion’s fate was set in train. 

It did not seem to take Malenwe long to assimilate the news, derive a plan and communicate it with sufficient conviction to persuade a large number of her folk to travel north after her father.  To Rhion, however, she asked something different.

“You must go to Fontainver, my Dunedain friend,” the princess spoke rapidly and in whispers, “and warn them of the treachery that has taken place here.  You must tell the Sea Elves that artefacts of terrible power have fallen to the Demon and that they must prepare for war.”

It was not a direct path to Fontainver, which should only have taken a couple of weeks at a normal pace, on foot, at the end of the autumn; instead, Rhion took nearly three months to cover the distance, advancing at a snail’s pace and into deepening winter.  At all times he seemed in pursuit of the enemies’ advance east: demons, drow, gith, deep spawn of the darkest places, spiders of Ungmar and Grail of Yarlug.  He had to take care not to overtake what had rapidly become an impressive army headed in the same direction as he.  Nothing survived along the river, where good folk once plied trade and fished.  No farms were left intact and the few good people that had managed to hide from the evil host were threatened with starvation.  Indeed, there was not enough to hunt and Rhion scarcely got by on root and berry, where such things had not been eradicated by the fires of Abyss and Hel.     

Two days (at his current pace) from the Castle a different scene unfolded before Rhion.  The beasts of evil were scattered in all directions, out of control and often in frenzy; they smashed, slashed, burned and defiled everything without cessation. Rhion’s hiding skills and patience were tested thoroughly. On that, the second day, it was clear that no warning would be necessary for Fontainver must have met its end.  What was he to do?  Return to find Malenwe and tell her of this bad news or press on and offer what little he may to the Sea Elves.  In the end, it was curiosity that got the better of him – he needed to see for himself what remained and what might be salvaged.  On he pressed, risking travel through the night using the foothills to the north of the valley to provide cover and warning, he moved more rapidly. At sun up he looked down upon the once magnificent castle, which, in places, still burned.  Realisation was swift – it had not fallen!  What joy, but what now? His message was truly redundant: if the Demon had the artefacts then, surely, Fontainver would have fallen?