It is said that the very race of elves sprung from the blood of Corellon, during his many battles with Gruumsh. Corellon was a noble warrior, while Gruumsh was cruel and honorless. Their battle became the battle between the races they created. While Corellon defeated Gruumsh, he could not quite kill him, just as the elves cannot quite rid the world of the orcs. The length of such a conflict, one that is sure to be eternal, explains how the fair folk could harbor such a deep-seated hatred. Only their feelings for the drow, who most tel’quessir dare not even mention, rival it.
Aelthas had given a lot of thought to the story of the battle between Corellon and Gruumsh lately. He stood in the middle of the windy plains south of Jiyyd, the plains the orcs claimed. The sun elf was watching the gates of their fortress, with narrowed eyes. The only sound coming from him was the occasional clank of the full plate he now wore, gifted to him by the elven bard Vine Spellsong, or the rattle of his bow against his back.
“Tula, Aelthas.” Raryldor motioned for Aelthas to follow him back onto the road towards Jiyyd. The younger priest nodded and turned his gaze from the orc fortress calmly, without a word. The blood was beginning to dry on his blade; he would have to rinse it in the pond the two used for prayer and sometimes reverie. The sun followed the moon back to Jiyyd, finding a very bustling town inside the walls. Raryldor did not seem to take much interest in the crowd gathered around the campfire, but Aelthas was mildly curious. He stopped, taking a moment to search for any familiar faces, while Raryldor headed off to the pond. Soon enough a pair of smiling blue eyes stood before him.
“Aaye!” Silmathienia greeted him, making her way out of the crowd.
“Mae govannen, Silmathienia. Sut naa lle?” Aelthas asked her how she was. He glanced back to the crowd, seeing a variety of n’tel’quessir he was familiar with but never introduced himself to. He understood how short-lived the other races were, and based on what the sun elf had seen on his journey to Narfell he preferred to stay with his own people. Aelthas looked back to Silmathienia.
“I am well, and you?” She looked to the blade he still held, dark with orc blood.
He shrugged, eliciting a clank from his armor. Grinning he replied, “I’m not sure I can wear this armor much longer.” She laughed lightly; it was a sparkling laugh. By this time the moon was high in the night sky. “I should see to my prayers,” he explained, speaking softly. Getting a nod from the blonde elf, he turned and headed for the pond in the center of town. Raryldor was sitting quietly at the edge of the water, now clad in his grey robe. Aelthas knelt down next to him. After washing his blade in the pond, he closed his eyes and began his prayers with utter calm and tranquility.
“Corellon, may your grace grant…” He prayed for the strength to protect his people. He prayed for their prosperity and well-being. He prayed for their triumph over the forces that would have them destroyed: the drow, the orcs, the servants of malicious deities that he knew to reside both above and below ground.
When Aelthas opened his eyes, Raryldor had left him. He heard the yells of orc and man and his eyes widened in realization. The priest picked up the blade beside him, drew the elven shield from his back, and ran towards the sounds of battle. He came to the west gate. The crowd that had been peacefully gathered around the fire now stood at the gates, which lay broken and splintered at their feet. A few orcs were in the same state, arrows protruding from their bloodied bodies. There were mages and warriors, priests and bards, in a roughly assembled force. Jiyyd was certainly lucky to have them.
An all too familiar drum sounded in the distance. Retaining his calm, Aelthas reached the gates to see Raryldor, whose armor continued to shine despite the orc blood upon it. But there was more to be spilled. Through the darkness they approached, tall hulking figures. An ugly chant filled the air, accompanied by an ominous drum. Aelthas gripped his sword tighter.
The orcs leapt upon the defenders from the thick night fog, the gate torches illuminating their hideous faces. Aelthas drew up his shield to meet one particular orc that had its heart set on the sun elf. When placed next to a human warrior the priest appeared slight, let alone an orc. Its axe met Aelthas’ shield, shoving the elf back a few steps and off the broken gate. The sounds of metal clashing, voices yelling and grunting, and arrows whizzing by surrounded Aelthas. The young priest gritted his teeth and swung back at the orc, but only grazed its arm. The orc gave a dark laugh, its face twisting into a snarl. It went to lunge at the elf again, when an arrow buried itself in its shoulder. The orc groaned, giving Aelthas the opportunity to strike. He did so hurriedly, his tranquility giving way to the heat of battle. Down went the orc, and up came the sun. Aelthas joined Raryldor as the older priest fought, and the battle continued for quite some time.
By the time daylight had arrived, the ground was strewn with orc bodies. The sons of Gruumsh had been defeated. None of the defenders had fallen. Aelthas came across the body of one especially large orc, and chanting a prayer to Corellon he flecked out its eye with his blade. He felt especially proud. Sheathing his blade, he only now took notice of the people around him. With Corellon’s grace he healed the wounded as best he could, rather dutifully, and then made his way to the inn for reverie. It was another victory against the orcs, but battle always unsettled the young sun elf.
Aelthas opened the inn door to see, to his surprise, a short, silver-haired elven woman smiling brightly to him. About her neck hung a pendant of Angharradh. She introduced herself as Celestine.
