I Was There

The common peoples of the world do love a joke.  Pity they tend to joke about things of which they are ignorant.  I have yet to encounter a Human, a Dwarf, a Halfling – any of the lower races – who was there when the highest tower of civilization began to crack.  If they were, then perhaps they would not be so jovial.

A fallen warrior finds a smile hard to crack, which is why you might not see much grinning on me.  When the Schism came I was a Far Scouter in service to the Queen, trained in combat, stealth, and reconnaissance.  We had all the craft of our Wooded brethren but without any of the coarse habits or predilection for the filthy and low.  Far Scouters were the elites.  We may not have reported directly to the Queen but our intelligence was always transferred to her untainted by the grimy hands of politics and base courtly intrigue; when the Far Scouters spoke, the Queen listened. 

It was a surprise, then, when our great leader turned a deaf ear to us for the first time in living memory on the eve of an event that would change the course of history.  Despite our reports of subterfuge and dark alliances, the Queen consented to hold an unprecedented gathering of holy and unholy warriors.  We were staggered.  Perillion had never played host to such wicked types as the warriors of Bane or priests of Lovatar, nor had a sitting King or Queen ever gone against the express warnings of the Far Scouters.  We whispered and quarreled in secret, wary of other prying ears but baffled and incensed nonetheless.  We even debated taking drastic action, for we were confident – nay, certain – that the Queen was unwittingly installing a trap in our very home.

In the end, we raised no voice, and the trap was sprung. 

I was in my quarters at the time, enjoying some very rare rest, when the alarms were sounded.  I emerged to find chaos, which soon swept me away and took me toward the conflict.  The pearly white halls of our city were crowded with lumbering oafs, dark figures, and foul abominations.  I waded in with blade and bow but made little headway in staving off the rampage.  We seemed locked in a stalemate, while outside the great beasts did battle.  I escaped the deadly bottleneck in one of the great hallways and emerged into a nearly starless night sky.  Many a great warrior, Elven and otherwise, had been felled and more were dying.  Even the great Stedwick of Helm was pummeled near to death before being dispatched in a flash of bright light by a hulking, unholy behemoth who raised the great man’s helmet in triumph and crushed it with one hand.  Hope seemed to be sucked out of every good-natured creature in the region.  To this day, I do not know how we managed to preserve the city.  The rest is a blur; I only hope I honored myself in keeping death at bay.

As it was, the forces of evil retreated, leaving us to mourn over a once beautiful jewel now smashed and only barely recognizable.  We had not lost our home but we knew it was weak, and we knew that another attack would be imminent.  Broken and humiliated, we turned our anger on our Queen, the one who had welcomed these hellish fiends with open arms.  The Far Scouters were among the first to call her leadership into question, for we knew how deep her folly did run.    She stayed our fury, though, and, whether through magic or rhetoric or sheer force of will, rallied us together and made clear the dire straits we faced.  A set of heroes had been sent on a mission.  The fate of the world was in their hands.  We would do our part to make their work worthy.

So the Far Scouters, still swamped with suspicion and stinging with betrayal, shouldered the burden of monitoring our enemies and got back to doing what we did best.  We spread throughout the lands and traveled in as much secrecy as we could, afraid for the first time that the outside world, gripped by some mysterious curse, would well and truly overpower us if given the opportunity.  We shadowed the movements of these poor, mindless slaves, scouted the settlements of the Orcs, even traced the dark footprints of the Drow.  It was overwhelming, like swimming through ink.  Never before had the forces of darkness seemed so prevalent and so bold.  It did not take long to realize how dire our situation truly was.  Even when news came that the mysterious band of heroes had done their work and stayed the advance of the Bastard God, we knew the fight was hardly over.  Evil had landed a heavy blow on the Good of the world, and it could smell blood.

Blood.  No matter how big they are, all savages crave the taste of it.  The blood that was shed in the Schism drove the great beasts of the world mad.  One might say it even drove the great minds of the world mad, for in the end it was one such mind that invited the beasts to the dinner table.

My memories of it are so clear that I can conjure them up and live in them like an illusion.  I was in a tree when I heard the news.  I had found a long, thick branch that would support my weight, allowing me to stretch my legs and rest my back against the trunk.  The night was the quietest I had encountered in what seemed like ages; only the crickets were out to cry at the moon.  It had been a warm day but a cool breeze was sweeping through to wick the last beads of sweat away.  Peace had come to me at last, peace that was shattered when a brother came to me and spoke those fateful words, “Perillion has fallen,” words that struck so heavy they nearly knocked me from my perch.  Looking back now, it seems that was the last true day of peace for me.  My world has been nothing but chaos since.

We rushed back to our home as soon as we could, but it still took a week.  By the time we arrived, there was nothing for us to do but look on from the edge of the valley at charred and crumbling remains.  The towers, once razor sharp in the light of the sun, had been blunted.  The white stone was black with soot and scorch marks.  The garden that sat beneath the floating city like a lush blanket ready to catch it should it fall was nothing but ash.  The sky, legendary for being crisp, blue, and welcoming to only the most pleasant of clouds, was red with fire.  Looping in and out of that fire like death on wings were the Scarlet Sisters, our vanquishers flaunting their new prize.

The devastation on display paled in comparison to the devastation in our hearts.  As one, the Far Scouters, certain then that we were the last of our kind, wept into each other’s shoulders.  Millennia of cold, clinical training melted away in a stream of hot tears, which in turn fell onto the warm, beaten ground of Dragon conquest.

Of course, we were not the only survivors of the onslaught.  The alarm had been sounded in time for many residents to depart.  But the casualties were still astonishing.  Many had stayed to fight, others tried to leave too late, some could only watch in horror as the flames swept toward them.  Even then, in those early days of shock and bewilderment, there were some who envied the dead, for they were not around to see the proudest civilization of the Known Realm suddenly reduced to mere nomads.  I count myself among the many who flirted with ending it all at the edge of a blade.

Such despair can be conquered, though, and it is often most easily conquered by hate.  When news filtered in that the Dragons had converged on our home to avenge a broken deal with our Queen, a new fire was lit.  She had apparently sought the assistance of the Dragons in the event her mysterious heroes were unable to defeat the Bastard God and offered ample reward in exchange.  When their services were not needed, the Dragons nevertheless felt entitled, and took it upon themselves to collect their reward when the Queen refused to pay up.  As one, we, the last of the High Elves, turned our fury on the Queen and drove her out of our midst, wishing nothing less than the bowels of the Nine Hells for her punishment.  I, myself, had hand to blade as the anger of the mob reached its violent zenith, but alas, she was too quick for us, and teleported away even as hails of arrows and daggers cascaded toward her.

High Elves are rarely given to such blind rage and for good reason, as it rarely ever leads to results, as was again proven in this instance.  Banishing the Queen did not solve our loss of home and pride, nor did it heal divisions that had emerged and festered since the Schism.  With no base left and no leader to guide us, our civilization shattered like a dropped vase.  Some sought new pastures in largely human lands where their long life and predilection for magic could prove useful.  Others made for Seran’vine and the chance for welcome from the Wooded brethren.  Still others went mad and delved into lives of crime, or even joined forces with the Drow.  Families were split down the middle.  Old friends turned to bitter rivals.  The Dragons may have knocked the High Elves from their perch, but it was the Elves who truly made themselves extinct.

As for me, I had vengeance on my mind.  I joined a cadre of fellow Far Scouters bent on claiming two targets: the Queen herself and the Dragons who had taken her place.  Our hearts burned with the shame and indignation caused by these great conquerors, one of them a bumbling fool, the others malevolent to the highest degree.  We formed a pact there, but a stone’s throw from the new Dragon Keep, and swore that we would see justice done long before we saw death.  I gripped the hands of my brothers and sisters tight in that moment as we passed strength and love from one to another.  We were at once burdened and enriched by glorious purpose: to balance the ledger of the High Elves, or to die trying.

Sadly, many did die trying.  Over the next hundred years or so we scoured the Known Realm for signs of our fallen Queen, looking in every nook and cranny, working ever last contact we could make.  Surely someone as powerful and, as much it pains me to say it, as beautiful as she could not hide for long, and yet there was no trace of her.  It didn’t help that the Known Realm itself was in the midst of a crisis.  The after-effects of the Schism had rocked the societies of the Realm to their very core, and an age of relative order was now giving way to chaos.  Soon we did not know who to trust, or where to go, or even if our search was entirely in vain.  Perhaps even she, mighty though she was, had been overcome by forces beyond her control.

The Dragons, meanwhile, were making a name for themselves as the true merchants of chaos.  United for the first time in centuries by a common purpose, the Scarlet Sisters ravaged the great kingdoms of Humanity, plundering them for all their worth and hoarding tons upon tons of treasure in their stolen Keep.  We dared not engage them in open combat, nor we did we feel strong enough to breach their lair.  The lesser peoples of the Realm, meanwhile, cowed by the force of the great beasts and no longer able to turn to the Elves or the holy warriors for guidance, would crumble at the first sight of red wings on the horizon.  The Scarlet Sisters flew where they wanted and took what they wanted, and soon other Dragons did likewise, attacking otherwise peaceful lands almost at random, emboldened by such unchecked force.  It soon became clear we were living in the Age of the Dragon, and the Age of the Elf, if there ever was such a thing, seemed more distant with each passing day.

Nevertheless, we kept hunting and kept fighting despite the odds, which is why I am now the last of the Far Scouters left standing.  Most of our brethren died, and those who didn’t soon gave up, no matter how much I pleaded for them to stay.  It was as if the Dragons and the forces of chaos had been nefarious enough to break our strongest, knowing then that the weaker ones would give way soon after.  But that would not explain why I remained.  Perhaps they have a personal vendetta against me.  Perhaps they know that with each rattle of death and each turn of a back my heart breaks a little more.

When the last one left me I knew weakness like nothing I had ever encountered before.  My heart continued to burn bright but my mind and body were growing weary.  I found myself seizing at the tiniest hint of a trail or straining to hear even the faintest of whispers.  Surely, surely there was something for a poor, worn out, homeless wretch like me.  But I found nothing.  The nights grew longer, the days colder.  Life itself became a burden that not even my hate could bare.  I found myself passing time with other wanderers of lesser stock – Humans and Gnomes and the like.  A small band of would-be “adventurers” took me in as “one of their own” with promises of thrills and treasure.  Really, I just wanted to see if joining up with them would stir up something, anything of use to me.  Alas, they have proven more troublesome than anything.

I was just when I was about to turn and leave them to their childish escapades when I began to pick up on some tantalizing rumors.  They would surface every now and then in the dingy, common pubs while we rested our feet and choked down our cheap mead.  They concerned someone referred to as “the Mad Queen.”  I thought nothing of it at first for I assumed they spoke of a Human queen, Humans being much more prone to petty madness than Elves, but something intrigued me.  It was the way they talked about her in hushed, almost reverent whispers.  This Mad Queen, as it turned out, was no mere mortal; she was powerful.  Very powerful.  What little had been gathered of her strength, her manner, even her visage suggested a being that had not been seen in the Known Realm for some time, someone very old and wizened, yet very dangerous.  The rumors seemed to be emanating from the south, where all manner of exotic peoples and places could be found, including a place called the Uran Oasis, a land of beautiful and terrifying power; in other words, a place where a once great being could find some solace.

I was so jaded by my experiences up to that point that I first tried to convince myself that these were just stories.  I couldn’t bear the thought of chasing another wild goose only to find heartbreak on the other side of the field.  I even approached the brink of giving up entirely, so as to spare myself the trouble and pain.  But I could not get the idea out of my head.  It gnawed at me night and day, begging me for a pursuit.

So I have rededicated myself to the pursuit.  My allies are gone and the world is not what it was, but I remain.  I will have to adjust my strategy, no doubt, which may involve depending on lesser creatures more than I like to.  Graft and guile are part of being a Far Scouter, though, and I must not lose that part of me.  I must not forget who I am, who I was, and who I was meant to be.  Let other High Elves toss aside their heritage and pride, for I will hold mine tight.  I am Simeele, last of the Far Scouters, Hunter of the Mad Queen, Bane to the Dragons, and I will have my vengeance – our vengeance – or die trying.

And there is no joking about that.