The Forest of Myreth

{{Fiction
 * hasSetting=Larisnar
 * storyBody="You cannot defeat Death... but you can chain him." ­ High Queen Tepheroth

The Elven forest is dark and shadowed, an ancient wood where mist clings to tree roots like flesh to the rotted bones of the dead. Deep within its sheltering boughs, tremendous cities of bone spiral up between ancient oaks, reaching toward a pale, moonlit sky. Their culture is cold, and their arcane arts reach beyond the borders of madness, into the depths of the soul and the steel of flesh and bone. Within the borders of the ancient forests, the Elves practice their long-forbidden Necromantic arts. Freed from the oaths of two hundred years, the sorcerers of the High Houses have again gathered... this time to complete their vengeance.

High Queen Tepheroth
''The summer had come and gone, and blessed winter at last touched the forest, turning the greenery to frost and whitening the ground with snow. Tepheroth sat calmly upon the high ivory throne, her fingers caressing the smooth texture of bone. She had called them; they would arrive.''

One by one, the Kings and Queens of the High Houses began to gather in the glade. One walked slowly, his steps sliding faintly, leg injured from an ancient wound. Another seemed to appear in a whisper from the thin air, echoing the faint sound of mocking laughter and the smell of bitter herbs. His sorcery complete, the magus lowered his hands and let the last of his spell turn to ash, scattering upon the winter wind. A third slid down from the trees, letting go of the Upper Road's vine rope as his feet landed almost silently upon the icy earth.

As the rest of the Minor Houses arrived, bowing their obeisance to the High Queen, Tepheroth's brow furrowed slightly. Calix, Syneri, Glyn... but of Rowan, there was no sign. This discourtesy would be remembered...

"The oath has been broken," Artheon of House Syneri, the sorcerer. He smiled, raising the staff of bone. "We are free."

"Free, yes, and we must use our freedom well." House Glyn, ever tasking the Syneri. "We must turn our studies to our own cause ­- we are dying, Artheon, and only sorcery can save us."

"Sorcery, yes, but not vengeance." The voice came from outside the glade. All eyes turned to the young noblewoman who stood outside the circle of snow. Her chestnut hair flowed loosely down her back, and her hand rested upon the Rowan staff that marked her as a Queen. "We must not finish this war. We have had our vengeance ­ Corinth is destroyed, Llyr burned. It is enough." "It is never enough, Alia!" Artheon hissed. "The Humans tried to destroy us ­ and nearly succeeded. The cost of our magic, the price we have paid for its return..."

Tepheroth's hand raised, and Artheon fell instantly silent.

"Rowan has spoken against Us, and We will not be questioned." Tepheroth's voice held the sound of shattering ice, and she turned cold eyes upon Alia. "You and all your house are henceforth banished. Let it be known that House Rowan is forever exiled. If you speak so highly of these humans, cousin, then live among them, and see how long you survive in their warm friendship." Her voice was cold, bitter. Remorseless.

"There shall be no more talk of peace." }}