The Morghun Host (title image)

OOC Info
The Unit
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The Shard

I just remember the glory of the fallen city of the race men call elves. I of course was but a babe, still at my mother teat, having been born some eighty or so years after the sundering, or as the humans term it, the Cataclysm. However I remember what was left as if it were a sweet dream. The ruins of the city in which I was born have long since been swallowed up by the land as a fitting testament to the transience of life, even the long, long lives of my race, but I remember. There were spires, tall, slender, and a beautiful pale green that was at once also all the colours of nature. Even in their shattered and ruined state they were an awesome sight to behold. Leaf carved pillars stretched up into the gentle dappled shade of the Tatharhim that grew through the cracked and greyed paving of once mighty plazas. I saw this all but briefly, but it will stay with me for all of my long life.

There was a noise from the forest, and a glimpse of bronze could be seen through the trees. My father froze. He listened. Looking to my mother he whispered "Rima, gothrim! Rima ten'ta!" - Run, foes! Run away! - As mother turned he pressed a shard of stone into her hand, that she might defend us in our flight. My mother heeded him and slipped like a mottled shadow into the trees. She ran fleet of foot, swift as the wind, from our ruined home. Behind came the sounds of battle, and after to short, to short a time a single anguished cry. My father.

We survived, and to this day I carry that shard as my dagger. It serves to remind me, lest I forget, that life is but fleeting, and can be undone by the careless hand. And I will always remember those red shields, and bronze armour.

Source: S. Erridge

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