Lyavelthal Evaelas, Sword Knight of the Summer Song
- Thread starter Herry
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A frame of strength held on motions of grace.
An Ar'tel'quessir with shaded eyes, jutting chin and pointed nose - the look of a hunting predator.
Yet he is clad in the finespun and intricate armors of the Queen's own military, always in the blue of a sky both night and noon in its hue.
In his keen-sighted eyes, at once there is an energy of purpose and far distance of frost, as though a winter yet to thaw held some clasp over his judgment.
His devotion to swordcraft is a pursuit so singular as to change the nature of his form – a vessel of martial skill.
An Ar'tel'quessir with shaded eyes, jutting chin and pointed nose - the look of a hunting predator.
Yet he is clad in the finespun and intricate armors of the Queen's own military, always in the blue of a sky both night and noon in its hue.
In his keen-sighted eyes, at once there is an energy of purpose and far distance of frost, as though a winter yet to thaw held some clasp over his judgment.
His devotion to swordcraft is a pursuit so singular as to change the nature of his form – a vessel of martial skill.
A great silence.
What is a mariner without ship, what is a rider without steed?
The desolation of magic's halt had struck in no place with greater grief than Ty'athalael, the valley of fey upon the green isle of Evermeet, and perhaps in no people with such great sorrow than those elves bonded to magic, given to duty in paired flight with the pegasus, in fond husbandry with the unicorn, in songs of joy with the sprites whom were known in long ages as though brothers.
Aboard the platform of the Queen's Wardragon, a ship of polished whitewood grace, Lyavelthal felt the prow slump, and the cresting of unusual waves begin to overtake the decks.
To be an isle in itself, so large was the watercraft, that thousands of such soldiers would post upon its balconies. What had been magic to hold such a warship aloft, now broken; and without sail, without oar, without the once-calm sea – smoothened like a stretch of glass across the bay – the proud structure listed and bent under the swells.
Dire was the hour – it would seem to expand without end.
The pangs and outcry, a crumbling of the fabric as though by a shear of the crudest knife.
If Evermeet had been a window to Arborea, it was now a chamber spare of the light...
Upbringing.
Lyavelthal of House Evaelas knew a youth in Ruith, the citadel-city leading in its service of equestrian blade and flight.
So woven was his destiny with that of the sky and sea, that he felt the creator's magic in the union of motion with blade, in the stables with hand tending the coat of a Pegasus, atop the crystal bay created by the river delta which reached into the Trackless Sea, held on its perimeter by the Queen Amlaruil's storms.
He longed to excel, not for pride, but brought by an ambition woven deep within his character. So it was that with the breaking of magic, the lessening of the weave and the exodus of magical beasts, it was Lyavelthal who was determined to restore it.
No boundary would he know; not the crashing surf, the tumult of the outside world finding Evermeet for the first time. Not the Sahaugin raiders marauding the shores, redoubled in their confidence by the Queen's weakness. Certainly not, most of all, the qualms of others who might seek to deter him...
WIP.