'Sil'na at-fíen Ervathial.'

∝ ——— Teias

MUSE INFORMATION

Name: Teias Cniva
Date of Birth: 9015-78
Age: 32
Height: 5' 9”
Weight: 148 lbs.
Hair Colour: Blonde
Eye Colour: Teal
Gender: Male
Species: Human
Ethnic Origin: Iėthílsh
Racial Origin: Borsien
Epithets: Lord Cniva | Bastard of Esûr | Pagan of the Black Craft | Sûr-ind’lír
Occupation: Lord
Affiliation: Noth-Garia | Court of Milnól

The section below for 'THE TELLING OF THE FALL OF NOTH-GARIA' is my way of conveying an overall narrative not in my words, but rather through another character.More sections will be added at a later time to help better explore Teias' character (e.g. Personality, Talents / Skills[?], Likes / Dislikes, Lore in his World) Until then, I hope you enjoy the minimal content given so far and feel free to DM more in-depth inquiries if you would like to start something with my muse.*

The Telling of the Fall of Noth-Garia

‘It certainly has been a while, Ervathial.’ a man spoke softly.
‘This tree has a name, Weordyn?’ spoke another; a child.
‘Indeed it does, Young Master.’ From his back Weordyn bore him and placed the youngling by the lip of its stout roots. Though this tree had reached feet above the man by a hair’s breadth, its haggard complexion cast off wispy flames that lit the nibs of its sprigs. The land they had roved for many was barren yet donned with hoary sands for distances beyond; a creek darker than the black of night compassed Ervathial like a ring that tore the sand dunes asunder and led back to a vale of olden. Its waters had no flow as it were not swayed by motion and were arrayed in a mosaic of stars. And for but a weighty moment in this atmospheric inertia, a veil of repose passed by.
‘How long must we continue with this fare? I fear I am beginning to succumb to ennui.’ the Young Master murmured. Hearing this, a hint of laughter crept upon Weordyn’s frayed visage.
‘How about a tale? Mayhaps a telling of the Giriad Thrík of Dhalgor?’
‘Enough, if you will. You have a heart to repeat the very few tales you know of as Dhalgor’s Knight of Night is thrice told of, by none other than yourself.’ he scoffed in jest. ‘You are a master in the lores of the Lands of Old, are you not? If such is true, then pray tell of Noth-Garia. I have heard their great deeds of their age in words of few only. Tell me of how they took up arms against Sû’tar Ç-’
‘Speak not lightly of that accursed name, Héragin Bruk!’ shouted Weordyn. A breath of smoke frolicked about the searing nibs of Ervathial that unbridled embers of a sombre sheen in retort to the allusion of the name. This, Weordyn had become aware of. Héragin was quite frightened as he had not once heard of his tone this way save for the ages before him (according to hearsay nevertheless). ‘Your delight in knowledge is most taxing, Young Master. Better left unstirred, wonder can be; you have heard many accounts no doubt and in history the lay, but this one has yet to etch its days in yore. It is but a woeful mercy Irgonath had no relation to the Court of Milnól - that, Lord Silrao made sure of.’ He took a deep breath before bending knee for apology, but it only further emboldened Héragin’s curiosity. The Young Master insisted, but Weordyn gave no heed. Then a thought of Silrao’s image flared; for he had - just as his heir - no parallel with a passion for knowledge. Even he could not dare to set side by side their grasping of lores as it paled to Silrao and a wise Lord he became known to be. Alas, remembrances of their friendship is a force too great to be warded, thus did he at last yield. ‘Very well, Master Héragin,’ said he, ‘I shall retell of the allied forces of Noth-Garia, but only once and in short manner, for I do not know the entirety of its tale so to mind, you will bear that.’
‘Then I shan’t defer you in any way, pray go on.’

‘Then I shall begin. Listen well, Master Héragin: Deserted is Earun-gär’s Seat of Power. Ere long will the Land succumb to foreign shades and the forfeit throne quelled by the Dark One; for when The Seven furnishes the Cradle of Narga, felled be all to the fetters of torment. This tale begins upon the Great Burthol stowed at the heart of Earun-gär whence the line of Heruor reigned - City to the kith and kin of the Urabęil. Fair and just was the unity of Burthol; Ithid Heruor governed the Black Citadel as King in 7953-64 and was cherished by all, even beyond their land’s marches. Conflict was absent between the lands and long did that remain gospel for the warring ages had been conquered by Gilron’s reign hitherto (4871-39). A pillar of fellowship this city was as it served as the cardinal root of Earun-gär in all it’s revered serenity. And though strife and blood set off in history, the fashion of battle remained; for as graceful as the Urabęil were, they knew the hour of peril is bound by none. But all in all, the King flourished as ruler for the years to come. Along this blooming path, he met his consort, Ónnaethë Heruor, which later bore an heir for the Seat; Yor’dahn. And willed to the preservation of Burthol, their son - not unlike his predecessors - flourished with hearty wisdom and valor upon the tide of time. The ages meandered through and the King was at last to bequeath the Seat of Power to his son, his heir (9027-78). That was until a queer happening that took to their skies. The Urabęil were overwrought with ambivalence; upon the ether of the Black Citadel loomed a gate of mighty proportions, Kûbiq it-Shåg’yor - as the Urabęil named it, for it riddled their minds with ill omen. The forces of Burthol foregathered at the central part of the citadel as Ithid took precaution, but it was not until the darker stages of twilight that day that the gate had at last wakened with activity. Kûbiq it-Shåg’yor became unbarred; from within, a blackened sun could be caught sight of, along an obscure distant shore - it is now known as the Shores of D’zuth. Seduced they had been by its sombre lambency, the populace were pierced with a horrid chorale that rung the hallowed halls of the citadel. And then they came forth. Out-of the gate, seven scarlet robed bodies emerged, each wielding blades melded to black chain. Their blades were held high aloft their hooded and shadowed faces as they made their descent. And of foreign tongue did The Seven speak maliciously to the common, yet to halt were they brought as they faced Ithid and Yor’dahn, that stood ground upon the city’s focal platform. No one knew what brought upon this bizarre phenomena, but no good would come from it - this they all sensed. As such, the Warriors of King convened, bordering the unknown invaders, then a veil of morbid soundlessness overcame soon after. The Kurådîm - Burthol’s Highest Order - took stance, armed for battle, but no match had they been as felled they were by The Seven Mûrid-Gål. It was then where another figure manifested from the chasm of Kûbiq it-Shåg’yor. Earun-gär was then buried by an ashen darkness as it stood above all, clad in armor blacker than the Ravine of Nubgal, emblazoned by a searing dark scarlet mantle. It sounded singed hymns - a calling of a legion unknown, spoken only by the Dark One. Ascendent-bound, the Mûrid-Gål were as they shifted their beings before their ruler, had taken kneel as a horde of begotten blasphemies writhed out of the gate and hoisted their grand assault on the citadel without a second’s passing. As expansive the Urabęil were in number, the legion proved to be more mightier. The blackened halls of Burthol were then soon canvassed with gore as the slaughter ensued and upon seeing their inevitable decline, Ithid wished the line of Heruor to persist, thus did he take Yor’dahn to secret passage, one beneath the sod that led wayward out of the citadel. Yor’dahn of course rose with opposition, however, as he felt fealty for the people of the kingdom, but hexed he was by a slumbering spell - one of very few Ithid mastered back at Brūgan Hėlgr. A great steed was then called forth and the restful Yor’dahn had been fastened to it. He bore no heed as he bid them off into the distance, never to return; as long remained the King, his Just Blade, shall too.

Some days had passed then. The spell that bound Yor’dahn to slumber waned. The steed that burdened him laid to rest for the day; felled of the starry drapes had the night began to descend and it was then when two individuals - a woman and child - with their torches aflame noticed the snoozing couple. Worn-out seemed Yor’dahn atop the steed in which beckoned the one-eyed child and woman nigh with heed, seeking out whatever valuable items he held in possession, if any (none). It was their apparent scavenging that wakened him at last, and baffled he was at first sight, for he had been in the Rivangilč Vale, far beyond the reaches of Burthol, being robbed apparently (and a failed attempt it was at that). Fended off the thieves were in restless manner, as raved about the citadel in peril he did, but to mention of the city, the child spoke ill of its ruination. Set in uncertainty, the woman apprised of what befell in the far-flung city, if ever there was one to begin with. To rid of doubt, she had given Yor’dahn a sort of advanced instrument he knew well of (only few are made and prohibited) that permitted one to see anything in the distant by a considerably vast unit. That was then when he had witnessed for himself, as he peered in the direction of the Black Citadel. There was no kingdom to be found simply put. Or at least not anymore, for the walls and halls of Burthol had been overtaken by a lingering darkness. Fearing worst had come to pass, he knew journey there was both impossible and mindless. The thieving woman spoke about the state of lands shaken by unnatural inflictions. Unspoken diseases made advent and animals began to rot with leaden steps. With Burthol deposed, Yor’dahn would surely seek reclamation, but his power - as he knew - simply lacked. There were other kingdoms upon the Land, allied with the City of Heruor that he would soon seek out, and much to dismay, the two thieves would follow suit. Denied as they had been, she tenaciously insisted, speaking of their becoming. Phosėre, the mid-aged woman was of a Dark Fae lineage that often roamed in the Rivangilč Vale, garnering slivers of Nirthstone that were later vended to merchants to stabilize their well being. Long ago was she exiled from G’har Nuin, dwelling place for the Dark Fae and voyaging beyond the Waters of Great she had, Phosėre would eventually in due time have crossed paths with and salvaged the child, Teias, from enslavement by the Elvish. It was thereon the penniless duad roved to the West of Earun-gär, ever to wander the outer marches. Journey of the sort had become their matter of course and so the thought of an heir’s quest that lied in the many lands far off kindled their spirits greatly. Refused even still, Yor’dahn parted with them as he took upon his steed and rode out of the wooded vale. And still to his dismay, they followed, upon steeds of their very own (more-so stolen). He knew quarrel would do no good and so he demanded they kept clear of his road; a vexed acceptance it was to their coming along.

By the age of 9039-78, Lord Heruor stood by Teias and Phosėre not as a mere rover, but as a comrade in arms as a trinity in bonds of closeness. During the years, they had met and fought many along the destined road. Yor’dahn had similar standing as a noble figure with a blade in hand while Phosėre honed her knack in many magicks; for her caliber lay in the roots to the Troth of Besina. Teias, contrarily, was not particularly up to par in any combat in spite of his training under Heruor. From dexterity being short of average in sword wielding to a sprinkling knowledge of amateur spells, his strength lay in tenacity and benignity. But they weren’t the only ones who took to Heruor’s fellowship. As mentioned vaguely prior, Yor’dahn sought out allies and allies, he did find. Sikr of the Qarca Ring, Vadreu, daughter of Élgran, the Yeg-Twins, Argin and Borjå, and Nuardôl the Skin-Eaten (9043-78 — 9047-78). These five along their respective lines and provinces allied themselves with Heruor that would soon later become written in historical records by the Court of Milnól as Noth-Garia. During these years of endeavor, Sû’tar Çil (formerly known as Burthol) had also grown with influence and power; sieges and mass slaughter eerily crept upon the resistances of Earun-gär. That was until the allied forces of Heruor had at last convened and marched once more into the heart of his Land. Mighty were they in number, several contingents in the army were appointed each a discrete task on their approach to Sû’tar Çil’s margins. Led by the wise and tactical, one by one they infiltrated the walls of the moldering citadel and successful they were as Lord Heruor had long known every inch and cranny of the city’s passages. The foes that bid there were of various unnatural shapes that instilled unknown horror in their spirits, but valor proved to be a more bullish factor as they charged and slayed the things that crawled in the city. Many on both ends had sustained parlous casualties, but none thought to cease unless the other had been vanquished entirely. This regime change had well lasted a few days. And even as scarce as the enemy were in weight now, still they plowed through the allied forces - or at least made attempt - only for them to at last be slain off. That day, they had lay to the sod a triumph over the dreadful citadel, however there was a more pressing matter at hand. The Dark One nor The Mûrid-Gål had made their appearances to the battlefield. At night, it was further in Sû’tar Çil’s halls that the throne room in which the Seat of Power bore its roots, had pierced the skies above with a shrieking flare. And so while the battle had not yet been willed to end, the remnants of Noth-Garia marched to the Seat’s room hemming them in so none from within could possibly make flee. The five leaders of their respective provinces alongside Phosęre and Teias were marshaled by Lord Heruor as he made ingression at last. Upon scrutinizing the Dark One that nonchalantly rested on the Seat, Yor’dahn charged forth but was soon broken off by the armed Mûrid-Gål. It was then when his fellow comrades formed formation as they began to do battle against them. Those who remained of the forces too, drove in full, armed, and joined the fray. Some were slain; some were heavily scathed. The Seven proved to be mightier, and amid all the clustered frenzy, the Dark One rose, at long last, behind the faltering Heruor bearing down a blade for the kill. Killed, he was not, as Teias plunged himself to bring the heir out of harm’s way, however it did not make blunder to pierce flesh as it had been writ large as Teias’ already veiled eye had been burrowed out a fair deal. Phosęre was swift to take notice and strove to heal his affliction with magick, but that too was intercepted as one of The Seven bore down on her. He lay to rest upon the ground as he gazed around, seeing Heruor still fighting for hearth and home. His courage for reclamation made him think the end would be in Yor’dahn’s favor, but he can’t explain why that is. And gently, his hazed vision had come to a close as unconsciousness bested his will.

When roused to reality, everything around had been polished in a satin black - the unvarnished colours of the Black Citadel. The skies were lit with an ephemeral blue and all seemed homely. The entirety of the Great Burthol had been rightfully restored; Yor’dahn - now-crowned King Heruor - had unraveled their triumph in battle which was 10 years passed, meaning Teias had slept for many to come. And disturbed were he, for he had been restful well over the years, Yor’dahn comfort him to the best he could, but the final battles were still to the fore. The Dark One and The Seven fled to the West nigh of Horia which had beaten the lands all around with their influence. Burthol was now enveloped in a barrier that kept the festering lands at bay; for beyond their borders, all became enveloped by the Dark One’s power. In spite of the dire days to come, the new people of the city flourished as Teias did when acceptance weighed in heart. Six years onwards and the world had not changed in limbo; the King often spoke with the five Lords weighing up their approach to the resilient darkness. Phosęre became the Grand Mistress of Crecia, versing those who are inherently adept in the crafts of magick. And Teias, in due course met and betrothed a Djinn that walked the line of Élgran. Of the fellowship, he had been the only one to attain love and with that yearning came to them a child that Morça, his consort, later bore; Narga. Life had been thereon, tranquil up to the time that change befell. Thick roots of unknown origin spurted from the boundaries of Burthol and swelled until Earun-gär had completely been sowed with it’s stocks. No affliction came from the eerie happening and the darkness that prowled about the Land was powerless to bend the root to their influence. That same day as night bowled it’s purdah, seed-bearings along the sundry orifices of the roots had taken to bloom which set the Land aflame with a phantasmagoria of beauty and enigma. Put off from any other thing in reality, Teias could not help, but stare into the matter. And swathed he was in blurs of scarlet, the Seven Mûrid-Gål - that secretly made passage within Burthol undetected - encompassed him within a veil of their foregathered robes, conjuring speech in arcaneness. A calling for aid had been proven useless as his speech was sealed and just in moments, his mind had succumbed to a plight of unconsciousness once more. Wakened again, he found himself in regions unknown to him for he had not known yet that he had now been in the timbers of Mardul beyond the Waters of Great. Stumped he was, he walked the lands strange to him until stumbling upon Goribir. It was a village not expansive, yet its villagers were most welcoming. To own-dismay, the Chief of Goribir told of what the ages come to; that is that Burthol was never, at any point, reclaimed and that Noth-Garia had perished many years ago the same days they initiated their assault on the city. But Teias was overwrought with rebuttal and took to the Shores of Dúgon Garrow, which led him on his voyage back to Earun-gär. The travel itself had taken many months, but once come to, he did not falter to belt in the direction of the citadel. From the very shore lines and even a part of the Sea near Earun-gär, the lands were engulfed in gory and writhing masses that would turn any mad at sight alone, but he was far too focused on Burthol. Focused so much that he had been hedged into trap by vague atrocities that skulked in the marred terrain. He tried to make escape, but his weakness in strength overshadowed his will. Covered in masses of deformity as he now was, the creatures pulled his skin apart until all remained was a figure of skinless flesh. They donned lumps of his skin and now that he’d been in searing agony, they heaved his brooding body to where he sought: Burthol. Before long, Teias was brought before the One in the citadel still barren of any thing conventional and in that time, its colours were at last shone; the Dark One unhelmed itself, revealing to him what lay abode within its blackened mail and armor. Once he set sight upon its true shapes, Teias saw not the Dark One, but his consort and then everything around him that had been repulsively putrid and vile turned back to beauteous shapes. He was stricken from madness, engulfed by it, and felled he was by one of the servants of the Dark One thereafter, leaving Noth-Garia now ever a bygone relic.’

Ervathial’s flames had dwindled as Weordyn brought the tale to a close and the mind of the Young Master was beset to a hollowed silence for a moment to spare. It was a dark tale, no doubt, but Héragin grew with much puzzlement. ‘Goribir’s chieftain told of how Noth-Garia perished the same days they severed the walls of Sû’tar Çil according to the words you have spoken, but lies in conflict with the aforementioned “reclaim” that the army of Noth-Garia had managed to attain for a supposed ten years.’
‘That is precisely right, Master Héragin,’ said he, ‘the truth abides in difference of perspective. What I have spoken were words recounting Teias’ perspective alone as he had been the lone remnant, but for the reason why the One did not slay him then and there as it did the others, I do not know, yet I fear the reason.’ In muck sweat he was, for the prolonging talk of the Dark Days of Eld chilled him with a searing flame to the marrow.
‘What ever do you mean? Still, I am very lost. I thought Teias was slain.’ said Hèragin doused with confusion.
‘When the boy’s consciousness faded just as the remaining forces of Noth-Garia begun their attack on the Seven and One, they had not reached victory - not even in the slight. Slain, they were all, save Teias. As I have said before, I do not know why they did not fell him then, but it bids me no good omen when I had heard of this. The Dark One cursed the boy, twisting reality in his vision alone. When he had awakened then, everything that seemed ordinary, simply were not. To him, Burthol had been reclaimed, but in the horrors of reality, out of that accursed warp, Teias had formed friendship with creatures and carcasses alike thinking them allies. As if not done cheaply worse than that, the Dark One delivered unto him a “consort”, only this was by no means a “person”. The boy ended up growing intimate with a faceless deformity coated with the skin grafts of members of his former fellowship. That deformity later bore something that simply - should not be; Narga is its name. As to how Teias had managed to be swept, let alone across the Waters of Great, I do not know that either. Irrelevant it was though it seemed to whomever aided and cleansed him of his shaded vision as he simply marched back to the doomed kingdom where Death awaited a new end unto him. I have told you all that I know so let us bring this to an e—’
‘Wait! I have one more inquiry! One more and you can be rid of this telling,’ hollered the Young Master, ‘I promise.’ With a prompt incline by Weordyn, he continued, ‘You speak of these accounts as if you had seen it from his very own eyes. How did you come by what transpired if you had not been there yourself?’
‘I was not there, but I have close relations with Męríth’lar, the Twilight Witch of Dal Thûria. She among very few have the ability to govern the verboten magicks of Besina. Though at certain cost, Męríth’lar is able to pass the Walls of Malór - a fortress between the living and fallen where history is writ in scripts; everyone and everything as it is absolute. However the only history that is writ are of all those - and only those - who have succumbed to Death. There, without constraint, can pore over anyone’s days of old, thus she had done so with Teias and all others from Noth-Garia. She shared upon me the knowledge in which she had attained from Malór through the use of other magick that lay beyond me, but both sickened and beholden I had been, for now I know at least a sliver of this imminent peril to the days of new. This is how I know, Master Héragin, of the Fall of Noth-Garia.’