There is a tale to be told of the beginning of things, of how the world once
just “was”; a featureless place without form or purpose, but this is not that
tale. There is yet another tale to be told about the first race, the Fae, who
although unchanging of will and static of thought brought this void
structure, form and purpose, took that world to war and devastation, but
this is not that tale either.

This tale is that of their servants and advisors and the fate of those that
survived the great war conducted in their masters name. This is the tale of
the Elves, created and bred to resemble their progenitors but capable of
adapting to the changing world in which they found themselves.
The first and greatest of this race, strong in magic and blessed with
libraries of knowledge and items of great power were the high elves. These
were the closest and most trusted advisors to the Fae who spawned them
and resided with them in great palaces and places of power.

Drawn to these comforts and seduced by knowledge and power; over time
these elves became haughty and withdrawn aping the ways of their former
masters and paranoid like dragons defending their hoard. Convinced that
others would steal that which they treasured they withdrew from the world
around them and over time became corrupt and base.

Yet more of Elven-kind resided in the dark and dank places of the world,
in caverns and holes in the ground. Driven to these places to escape the
destruction around them, there they encountered dark and ancient powers
and became lost to them emerging only when their need drove them to
seek allies upon the surface world. These elves pale of hair and dark of
skin became known as the dark-elves chief amongst them the matriarchal
Drow led by their spider queen.

At this point I should introduce our peoples into this tale. The humans
were I believe bred to act as disposable troops for the Fae in their war.
Like sparks born of fire we burn brightly, living short, active lives. Imbued
with near insatiable need for action above wisdom, curious to a fault and
a need to reproduce we have spread far and wide to become the dominant
race of our world.

There were some of elf kind who lived out in the open places of the world,
who sought to live amongst the new peoples of the world including these
new tribes of humans. They chose to adopt their customs, dressed as they
did and mourned their own inability to live as the short lived with focus
and urgency. These Grey Elves over time have lost their own identity,
what began as a cloak to hide behind has become their reality.

This story is not about the humans nor the elves who lived amongst them.
They required mention for as with the wind driving the storm before it the
humans brought great calamity and change to the last of those that speak
and the focus of this tale.

The final group to tell of in this story are the wild elves. These were the
farmers and huntsmen of the Fae; those who lived in the wild places, the
forests and the mountains far away from civilisation and the emerging
races. These above all else valued living in harmony with the land
maintaining its balance and honouring its life giving power. They
remained truest to themselves and their ways wanted little and wanting for
less.

This is where our tale begins; we tell the tale of one such group of Elves
living in the Great Forest in what are now the lands of the people of the
Steppe. This is the story of origins, the story of the Seledhil.

The Seledhil are, will be and were a tribe of wild elves living in the Great
Forest. There they lived in balance with the trees taking only what they
needed and tending to the life that roamed and the life that grew. All was
well until as time went on the humans that roamed the plains grew ever
closer to the forest.

The ways of humans and other races were not the ways of the Seledhil.
They took more from the forest than was necessary for their need. They
hunted often just for amusement not using the meat nor wearing the skins
and came in ever greater numbers upsetting the balance. Yet worse they
ravaged the trees both young and old to build their fires and burn the
slaughtered meat of the animals they slew.

This inevitably led to conflict. The elves filled with the fury of the protector
tried to chase them out, to hunt them, yes to kill them but mostly to show
them that this place was not their place but was protected, was claimed.
For a time the elves held their own and drove the humans back. However
their curiosity was unlimited and their number beyond counting.

So they kept coming and coming like an oncoming storm relentless and
without mercy. The elves did not understand this point but the greater the
challenge, the deeper the mystery, the more enticing the prize was to these
frontiersmen as so they continued to delve ever deeper into the lands of
the Seledhil seeking its forbidden heart.

They came with farming tools and blade, they came with burning torch.
They came and they burnt, slaying and taking prisoners. Prisoners whom
they sought to corrupt into following their wasteful ways, to wear their
clothes and to mate with their women.

So it was that they drove deep into the forest until, weakened, the elves
were forced to retreat to the very centre. The beasts sensing the change in
balance turned upon the elves and then in turn unto themselves, harmony
turning to chaos, as beast took to flight and took to fight; blindly seeking
survival above all else vicious in tooth and in claw balance torn asunder.
At the centre of the forest was a tree, an ancient oak that shaded its glade
and those that sought its sanctuary physical and spiritual. As with all
things the tree had its own balance where there was life so to must there
be end. As with the fountain there is the void.

To balance its life giving nature it had its twin a ferocious beast, a being a
spite and of poison, sharp of claw it could fatally wound with but a swipe,
and sharp of sting it could rend the hardest plate slaying with the most
virulent of poisons.

The beast had a name given to it by those who knew of it and that name
was “Whiro Te Nuku”. This beast brought a swift end to any that
threatened the balance of the forest as it patrolled its borders.
When all seemed lost and the elves were pressed on all fronts. It was then
out of desperation one of the elves thought to call upon Whiro for aid.

This was alien to the elves, for ages untold they had remained loyal to the
mother, the life giving aspect of the land represented by the tree. To call
upon the corruption, the void, the end was anathema but it had become
clear it was the stronger force and strength was what was needed to hold
back the foes they faced and besides they wanted the same thing … to save
the forest, to protect the old ways, to maintain the balance.

So they called for him but he did not answer for he was at the edges of the
forest hunting those from whom the elves had fled as was his nature.
Disheartened the elves gathered before the Great Tree and summoned
their deep thinkers and those with a connection to the ancestors and the
old magics. Here they resolved to bind the peoples there gathered in a
single and solemn act of faith, to summon Whiro Te Nuku to them, to save
them, their way of life, the forest, somehow, but none could imagine how.
This continued for some time, but something about being gathered in one
place, being of one shared purpose to save that which they held dear, a
desperation of plight, a defence of a fundamental truth strengthened their
resolve and so they held the depths of the forest free from those who
pillaged and burnt its boundaries.

And so it was, that eventually Whiro Te Nuku returned to the great oak
tired and wounded from his constant battles with those who threatened the
forest. He saw the elves gathered there in large numbers and prepared
himself for battle. As tired as he was, he raised himself to strike however
at the last moment hell recoiled noticing the tree. It was stronger and
healthier than it had ever been before. It was glossy of leaf and strong of
bough radiating life; for the elves had, as was their way, been tending the
tree, nourishing it. It had even given fruit to a single, gleaming, golden
acorn.

Astonished Whiro Te Nuku stopped in his tracks. The elves in turn fell
upon their knees in worship of Whiro Te Nuku in whom they had placed
their faith.

For some time Whiro and the elves regarded other in uneasy truce but
eventually Whiro became restless once more. It was at this point the
greatest of the elven keepers of magical lore, a great shaman by the name
of Penedh stepped forward. He opened up his soul to Whiro Te Nuku
sharing a deep understanding linking him with the ancestors. So it was
that over many moons the elves through grunts and growls, through
snarls and bellows they learnt to communicate with their protector.

Thus ensued the great battle for the forest between humankind on the one
side, the elves and Whiro Te Nuku on the other. The elves and Whiro Te
Nuku had on their side the beasts of the forest who added their faith in
Whiro Te Nuku to that of the elves. This faith and a shared sense of
purpose in defending the forest strengthened beast, elf and strengthen too
Whiro Te Nuku.

However the humans were relentless and beyond counting in number and
so it was that Whiro and his elves were slowly driven back in forest
towards the great tree. As strong as Whiro was he was but one and
needed more of his kind or for his elves to be stronger if the threat was to
be defeated.

Thus it came to pass that another great ritual was performed by those
versed in such magic. The elves and Whiro gathered at the great tree to
share the power of Whiro and the Great Tree across all of those that
defended the forest. The ritual was formulated to enhance the link between
the tree and Whiro and between Whiro and those assembled.

At the culmination of the ritual and much to everyone’s shock and dismay
a great bolt of power shot down from the heavens and hit the great tree
shattering it and scattering its form across the forest glades. Of Whiro Te
Nuku there was no sign, not then, not since.

All that remained of the great tree was its stump glowing a putrid,
unnatural green. Dismayed the elves gathered at the stump and looked
into its shattered form. Inside they saw movement, the swirling forms of
spirits groaning for release. A brave soul, a young warrior, noticing the
movement put is hand into the stump and collapsed as the spirits
overwhelmed him.

Rushing to his aid, his brethren helped him to his feet, and noticed him
changed. Instead of red blood, a black ichor dripped from his nose, and
his eyes aglow with a bright green light. As his elders examined him they
realised far from an ailment this young elf had acquired a blessing,
Whiro’s blessing, his blood poisoned, his veins blackened. This toxic
blood was most potent; capable when smeared on weapons of felling even
mighty foes.

And so it was that the Seledhil became known as the poison elves.
The moral of this story ? for sadly it cannot be said that all lived happily
ever after. A tale of faith and its power most certainly, the power of
conviction and shared purpose. A tale too of the importance of balance
in all things, a natural order to be disrupted at the peril of all.

As a teller of this tale; I, Tarik, have admiration for these elves, they stood
firm against a threat to the land and their families and indeed their very
way of life and that must be commended. In such a situation would anyone
wish less of themselves ? Was the balance of the land disrupted ? of this
there can be no doubt. As we seek to restore the great tree through the
planting of its seed recently recovered one can only hope a new balance
will come to these people, this land and peace finally for all involved.
Tarik and Gunnar Reisende

16th Day of April 1123