Icelokk

”General.” “Yes Sentinel?” The General was an older gentleman piercing gray eyes. He turned towards the Sentinel- he was a young lad but perceptive and one of the Green Glaive's best scouts. “There's no way past the toxic Blackthorn bushes. The Myrks have fortified their encampment well.” This was not good news but the General was undeterred. “Talk to our Sylvan Priestess and tell her we need the Old One.” “General, you know how the Sylvan feel about waking them- she won’t agree to do it.” The General scoffed. “She will once she knows what's at stake.” In a dense forest lay an entrance to the Innerworld of Arva. It was a mountain side pocketed with cave openings. Encircling the entire length of openings sprouted thick gnarly bushes with large sharp thorns. They could pierce the thickest leather and were dripping with toxins that when injected under the skin, burned hotter than the sun. It ran like lava through the veins. Several men from the Green Glaive were gravely injured and were being treated by a Sylvan healer- but the wounds and toxins were difficult to treat. The Myrks are the inhabitants of this Innerworld and of the outer encampment. They were a pale grotesque race of mischievous beings of low intellect. They hunger for wealth and the flesh of Aboveworld livestock. They devastated large herds of deer kept by Grun- some deer came from a longline of ancestral Harts that the Grun had bred for years. They were irreplaceable and some breeds were irrevocably extinguished. The Myrks were the color of rotten things- brown like decaying leaves, white with gray mottled like mold, mustard yellows like dark urine, black like tar. They had small beady eyes, sparse brisly hair, long hooked noses, thin wrinkled skin. They were shorter than the Sylvan and Mannar and loathed the light of the sun. It weakened them. They were wiry and thin yet strong and cunning. What they lacked in intelligence they made up for in scheming artifice. They were greedy and coveted the abundance and splendor of the Middleworld- especially Grun. They were obsessed with precious gems and gold coins. The Myrks live in anarchy and each one is treacherous, quick to betray the next. But this encampment was different. The Myrks seemed more united and organized. They were working together to fortify the encampment and seemed stronger, possibly fortified by dark sorcery. The General was nervous about such development in the myrks, not that he let his men know how he truly felt. Outside in the green forests of Grun, near the Myrk fortress, yet concealed, a Sentinel approached the enormous oak tree. Beside it stood a woman. The Sylvan Priestess was in the autumn of her life cycle but her beauty nonetheless was radiant. Sadness clouded her usually cheerful countenance. She looked at the Sentinel with grave eyes. “I don’t like this.” she said. The Sentinel approached her silently. “We don’t have many other options.” He regarded her with respect, as she was one of the best Priestesses in the Green Glaive. However he was also resolute on destroying this hive of Myrks. “We need to direct him towards the Myrk camp. Once he’s broken down their defenses, we’ll rush in and defeat the remaining myrks. They’re tough but unskilled, it will be a quick battle.” The Sentinel looked over at the Myrks occupied with preparing defenses. They scuttled like tiny beetles crawling over a pile of dung. “You don’t understand what you're asking of the Old One. He can’t just go back to his resting place once he awakens.” The Priestess put a hand on the trunk of the Oak tree, her face solemn. "There won't be a forest here much longer if we don't rid this nest of Myrks. They will burn this forest to the ground. You know they despise the green things of the Wilderness." The Sentinel looked hard at the Sylvan Priestess, determined to get his point across. She was grim but then the realization of what could happen to this big beautiful forest lit up in her minds eye. Fire, destroying trees that had been alive since the dawn of time, burning the homes of the forest animals that dwelled within– it broke her heart to think of it. She knew what she must do. She whispered, "The One must be sacrificed for the many." The Sentinel nodded and began sprinting silently towards the encampment of the Green Glaive. The Sylvan approached the ancient one. She opened her Druadic tome and began to cultivate her arcane energy. Her eyes began to glow and her hands became discs of light. She whispered ancient words of power and green flames encircled her. The wind began to stir, at first gently but soon stormwinds were billowing through the trees, The Spirit of the Forest lending its power to the Priestess of the Wild. The Oak tree began to stir. He woke as his tree trunk split in two and he began pulling his roots from the earth. They formed his legs while two thick arms sprouted from his trunk. A face of distorted agony and anger formed as a low rumbling roared from him. He began to step towards the Green Glaive camp gazing menacingly at them. “He’s furious! I- I can’t control him!” The Sylvan Priestess raised her hands, chanting secret words of power, harnessing the green energy of the forest to fortify her magicka. The Sentinel called to the men of the Green Glaive: "RISE MEN OF GRUN! WE POUR FORTH TO BATTLE! AT ARMS, AT ARMS!! The myrks noticed the wind had picked up. Myrk Scouts saw in the distance, a whirlwind surrounding a large tree–like figure. But they had never seen anything like this one. A Myrk Overseer blew the horn of battle and the Myrks poured out of the caves to prepare for an assault. The archers aimed their poisoned arrows at the Tree and the Commandant gave the signal. A black arrows flew through the trees and struck the Oak. But he felt none of this, they were needle pokes to him. One arrows whistled over the grassy meadows. The Sylvan Priestess had no time to escape. She turn to look at the hive of Myrks but she was pelted with arrows. They pierced her forest robes, injecting her with immolating toxins. The pain was immeasurable and a normal mortal would have succumb quickly. The Priestess fell to her knees and let out a wailing keen, like a stormwind howling in the dead of winter through a barren forest. Then her body fell down onto the grass of the green meadow and her last thought was how the earth smelled of rain from the night before. Then she knew no more. Her spirit flew into the air and surrounded the Oak in radiant lights. The Green Glaive pulled their hoods up as a gesture of respect for her loss. But this loss hardened their spirits and fortified their minds. The Oak absorbed her essence and roared up at the sky. The Ancient One’s soul became bonded to the Priestess’s and she was able to direct themselves towards the myrks. A tempest unlike anything the mannar had seen surrounded the Ancient Oak and blasted away the myrks defenses. The poorly shod walls and blackbriar thorns burst forth in a protective whirlwind around the Oak. The Green Glaive poured in after the Oak and began to slaughter the wretched fiends with a fierce assault. Soon the encampment was captured and the ancient one receded. They slowly vanished into the wilderness of the great forest of Grun. The Green Glaive pushed back the myrks deep into the caves of darkness that led to the Innerworld of Svartha. There were toxic plants, poisonous potions, sharp daggers, chains and cages for holding prisoners. They only found one prisoner that wasn’t killed before the mannar could get to them. They had killed what prisoners they couldn’t take with them to destroy loose ends. The Myrks had left her to die and she looked like she was on the edge of death. Her skin was pale gray and she was feverish. A Sentinel that found her was shocked and filled with pity. He called to the others and a small elderly woman was ushered through the crowd. “Move back!”, shouted a Sentinel. The Mannar began kneeling before her. All except one. He didn’t understand what was happening. An older Sentinel smacked him in the back of the head and demanded he kneel. As the newer recruit clumsily fell to his knees, he asked in a whisper, “Who is she?” The older Sentinel answered “She’s the Mistress of Healing” The Elder examined the wretched Spright. Her skin was pale, clammy, and feverish. Small droplets of sweat beaded on her forehead. On her arms were carved the accursed runes of a dark sorcerer who was in the process of corrupting her so he could transform her into a Shade. She must have been in the middle of being corrupted when they got interrupted by the sudden assault. A Sentinel stepped forth, ready to dispatch the Spright, as to end her misery. But the Elder heard something. She hushed the Sentinels and leaned in closely to the lips of the Spright. “I… I see, the light. Mother.” The Spright breath was hot and putrid but the Elder heard her quiet plea. The Elder indicated to the General. As he walked up to her, she demanded the Spright should be carried to her carriage where she could begin healing her.