Qstoryline: High Elf Warcamp
High Elf Warcamp
High Elf Warcamp Order Storyline
location: Drakewarden Keep, Dragonwake
Objective: Milaith's Memory
Objective: Mournfire's Approach
Objective: Pelgorath's Ember
Objective: Fireguard Spire
Objective: Covenant of Flame
Objective: Drakebreaker's Scourge
Chapter Lore: All across Eataine, the levies of the citizen militia marched toward the Shining Guard warcamp. The Dark Elf army was now perilously close to Lothern, capital city of Ulthuan. There was nowhere left to fall back save for the city itself, and that would be a certain, slow death as the invaders surrounded the city and laid siege.
The task or organizing Eataine's defenses had fallen to Irathir Fierceblade, a Swordmaster of Hoeth who had joined the ranks of Prince Tyrion's Shining Guard when the Phoenix King had set sail for the Old World. Like many of the older and wiser High Elves, Irathir sensed the great danger in dividing Ulthuan's armies, but the Empire's need was desperate.
Irathir watched as several wounded High Elves limped toward the camp. Those who could not walk were carried on the backs of their comrades.
"We have wounded!" cried the High Elf leader. Healers raced to their tents and began their preparations.
One of the soldiers approached Irathir, clutching at his arm. Dried blood caked his fingers.
"Master Fierceblade, I bring news from Firehallow."
"Come, sit and drink, my friend. Take your ease." Irathir pulled a chair over and offered a hug of cool water to the injured spearman.
"Thank you, my lord. We drove the invaders off, but not without casualties. Five died, and now perhaps a dozen remain to protect Asuryan's sacred shrine."
"Go and let the Healers tend your wounds, son of Ulthuan. Your brave deeds and those of your company will be recorded - I will see to it personally."
As the Spearman walked away, Irathir sighed heavily. Five more noble souls lost forever. Rage boiled up within him. he wanted to take up his blade, charge out to Firehallow and track down the hateful murderers who had done this thing, but he could not. He was needed here.
Irathir swallowed his anger and recited line of poetry in whispers to calm his mind.
"Master Irathir?" This was a new voice.
The Swordmaster looked up to see a richly-clad nobleman and his bodyguard. "I am he. What would you have of me?"
"I am the lord of Chillwind Manor, and my home has come under attack by the invaders. I demand protection."
Irathir clenched his teeth and rose up to his full height. it seemed every noble in Eataine thought his manor the most important, and visits like this were now a daily occurrence.
Patience, Irathir, patience, he counseled himself.
"Come, then, and we shall see what can be done." With that, the Swordmasters led the noble over to his map table to discuss strategy.
But in his heart, he still longed to take up his sword and repay the black-hearted Dark Elves for every soldier they had slain.