The Journal of Taleraed sol'Bellator

An excerpt from the Journal of Taleraed sol’Bellator following the battle of Guthwood. Lord sol’Bellator was later raised to the rank of Warden of the Woods, or d’Lan’lo’Ter’so, following his successful capture of the Feor’l outpost at Raven Eye, and his campaign upon the plains of southern Flandor


The battle had ended. The last of the Feor’l cut down. Their army vanquished and cast from our shores at last. Around me, lay my brothers, High-elf, Heor, paladins. They were scattered about, their bodies twisted and torn by the Black Elve’s blades. Feor’l blades. The wounded were being collected already by Heor clerics, and Eo, wood-elf, druids already. I began walking towards a collection of survivors and druids, blood oozed from too many wounds to count, hopefully all minor.
I stepped over bodies...so many bodies...a mental list began to form in my mind. A list of friends lost, of families gone. Dargen-a childhood friend, he, a wood elf archer, had been slain when a fireball had erupted amid his squadron. Jeliun-a human cleric, newly arrived in elven lands. Veris-an Eo, Dargen’s cousin, the first girl I had ever kissed. Frensa and Jwen, both paladins, married, their child would have arrived this winter. They died side by side.
I sobbed, I cried because of the madness that was here, present, and overwhelming. My heavy two-handed sword slipped from my limp fingers and sank deep into the grass. I collapsed to my knees, a clattering roar in the dead silence of the forest. I made no effort to steady myself, I didn’t fall forward or back merely by virtue of my armors design. Blood coated my once shining plate. It stained my white cloak and tabard. It coated me inside and out.
I fell unconscious soon after.

I was awoken by my armor. Strong arms lifted me, my armor protested. I was too weak to look about, too weak to walk or stand or speak. I hung limply like a slaughtered animal, greaves dragging in the tall ever-dewy grass. Carefully, they laid me on the ground near a fire, propped against a log. I luxuriated in the flames warmth- and soon was unconscious again.

Again, my faithful armor awoke me. It felt like ages between these awakenings, but in reality I believe it was but moments. This time, I roused to the sound of my helm being removed. I opened my eyes just as it was pulled free, crouching near me was a druid, marked by her leathers and furs. She was beautiful.
“Rest, Sir Knight,” she said with a sad smile. I made no attempt to respond. I don’t think I could have anyway. “I will tend your wounds.”
Delicately, she pulled free my bloody cloak, tossing it aside. Quickly, the druid began to unhook and loosen the straps on my breastplate, I watched her as she worked.
She wore the standard druid leathers, supple leggings and a short vest lined with fur. A heavy hide bag sat on the ground nearby, I assumed it was a medicine bag, salves and such. She was bronze skinned, and wondrous, her features soft and full. Her hair like fallen snow...like the cloaks of the fallen paladins...
(Later, I learned from Aerlyn that I had whispered my thoughts that day, I added my thoughts of her only after she had confessed of my audible mutterings.)
I sobbed as she pulled free my breastplate, a mournful sob of pure pain. Pain from my wounds, pain from the madness that taunted me from the depths of my mind, pain for the loss of this day. She undressed me and cleaned my wounds, bandaging and medicating the worst of them with poultices from the heavy bag. She gently washed my face and arms of the day’s blood, and left water and oil if I wished to clean my armor. She asked if I wished to be moved to the Knight’s Pavilions, an off which I refused, dramticly sighting that the Mother’s embrace would heal me faster than any manufactured bed. She simply nodded. Then, she was gone, promising to return later with food when the others were all tended to. I nodded dumbly and fell once again into catatonic slumber.

When she returned, we spoke long, watching the last of the day’s light fade in the clouded sky. Of happier times, of our homes, our families. We stumbled over the last, one cannot describe properly how difficult it is to fondly remember those so recently lost. I learned her name, Aerlyn d’Jyu, and that I had known her brother, Ailikan. He was lost early in the war. Soon, too soon, too damn soon, there was a silence, and tears. Reality was hard to avoid these dark days. She left without a word, her beautiful silken blue eyes, painfully red. I watched her retreat into the darkness, headed in the direction of a handful of small pavilions. I passed out again, the fourth time that day.

I awoke to the scent of death. The sounds of axes echoed through the forest ominously. I carefully tested my strength, happy to discover that, if I moved mindful of my injuries, I had near full motion. I spent the morning polishing my armor, buffing out the dings and dents.
Aerlyn, the miracle that she is, brought me a small mix of nuts and berries with which to break my fast. I asked her the news, she spoke of the activity by the remaining knights to secure the woods entirely. I asked if I could be of service, to which she responded by poking the heavy bandages up my chest and arms, nearly causing me to, once again, pass out.
“My lovely Knight,” she said in that melody some call a voice, “your brothers, while severely weakened by your absence, I doubt they’ll falter against the remaining Black Elves.” I puffed out my chest dramatically, to which she laughed and forced me to sit with one graceful hand. Her laughter was the most joyous thing I had heard in so long...
When questioned about the noise, she spoke of the pyre under construction for the Feor’l dead. A massive thing, it had to accommodate nearly twelve thousand corpses. (For those unfamiliar with our funeral rights, elves are almost always buried, believing that entrance to Li’Terra’Galas’Sol’Mor can only be gained through accepting the Mother’s embrace. In other words, and simply, we don’t gain entrance to our afterlife unless buried. Though, that is the most basic of explanations. Feor’l, on the other hand, do not adhere to our religion, so burning the uncollected dead is a polite and expedient way to dispose of the bodies.) I shuddered at the number, knowing that ten-thousand Knights, Conjurers, and Wood-Folk had been summoned for this battle. I asked how many had survived. She hesitated long, and finally answered that two-thousand two-hundred and seventy-eight Heor and Eo remained. I did not reply. I sat silent so long that finally she departed saying that a squire or page would be along shortly to help with my armor.
When the Squire finally arrived, I recognized him as Giddian J’du, the son of Lord Gwynin J’du, one of the heavy cavalry and a friend of mine, and squire to Sir Haroke Du’lok. I asked him how his father and master faired, to which he replied, “My father passed in the night, Sir Haroke took an arrow to the chest. The healers say that while it wasn’t a severe wound...the arrow was poisoned...” he stared straight ahead, he did not cry, he did not falter. “...they say he will probably not survive the day.” I could not speak, this young man, nay, child, carried his losses with a stone heart. A fact I still do not know to be for the best.
Upon reaching the camp, I was greeted joyously by a number of acquaintances, they reported that my name had been added to the list of dead and missing when my sword, but not I, was found upon the battlefield. I laughed mildly and collected my belongings from Sir Jrut g’Koyundil, who had been holding them in the hope that I lived. Before I dismissed him, I asked young Giddian to write a letter to his mother and family, stating that I would send word of his father’s death. I sat by the fire and briefly penned a letter to Giddian’s mother. I could not forget what it said if I tried.

Dearest Elisy,

I, with my deepest regrets and sorrows, must inform you of your husband, my friend, Lord Gwynin J’du’s passing. He died in the night, succumbing to his wounds sustained in battle. You have my deepest condolences, I share your pain in this loss. I must also report that your son’s master, Sir Haroke Du’lok, lays mortally wounded. Should Sir Du’lok pass, I, while too young to take my own squire, will find another knight who I believe would have met Gwynin’s standards. Again, Elisy, I am sorry for your loss. I weep for Gwynin’s death, and pray that the Mother shows mercy upon Haroke.

Regretfully,

Taleraed sol’Bellator

I admit, I shed no tears for Gwynin, I slept, exhaustion of mind and body once again overtaking my will.

A note on terminology;
In his journal, Taleraed used the elven names for the three elven races almost exclusively. These are Heor, Eo, and Feor’l, being High-Elf, Wood-Elf, and Black-Elf respectively.