The Church of Ash

From a scroll in Ashfallen's library. The note attached to it reads: 
"Handwritten, ink on parchment. Original, circa 47E. Hurstwall The Scribe. Obtained directly. Item #10176182"
The parchment shows it's age, but it has been treated well, and the paper has an oily feel to it, suggesting it was made to survive a little rough and tumble. Magic of course could repair the parchment, but the deep lines in the paper tell as much of a story as the words written upon it. The script is in a particularly informal and archiac Common, neat, and canted forward, more in the habit of gnomish writing. The text below represents a good translation, although much of the subtlety has been lost.
"Where do we find the church of the forest? Among the trees you say, but that answer could hardly be found satisfying. There are shrines to the Elf-Father wherever one may look, in any chapel in any town. But there are no churches to the Elf-Father anywhere in the Valley. There once was, indeed, they must, for one could walk into the Skorrian gallery and observe "Grassgleam" and tear one's eyes away from Slavish's terrible brushwork, the church so ineptly painted in the background prominently displays the symbol of the Elf-Father above it's doors. Yet that church is nowhere to be found, nor any others that praise the sword and bow.
What became of them was not too difficult to uncover, although there is a reason the Valley has tried so hard to forget. The churches to the Elf-Father were burned, around 8500D. Each and every one, burned to the ground. Who would do such a thing? Whenever I asked the question, Grotaag's followers were the first to be blamed. Many of the churches to the Elf-Father were built upon old Orcish lands, and it was the orc's forests that were hunted with elven bow. More thoughtful men suggest the sons of Snuurge; the churches were burned, and the greenfolk's fascination with the flame is well known. Here however the motive is lacking, the greenfolk toil away deep beneath the earth, bothering the stout dwarves and leaving the forest dwelling elves alone.
I toured the land, finding the sites that were once home to the church of the Elf-Father, and spoke to those who'd kept local histories. The historian's guild is awash with every pugnacious wretch too unfit to be a scribe, but they will divulge any secret if presented with even a modest amount of coin. The story of the burned churches so surprised me the first time I heard it that I left the mewing historian mid-sentence, not wishing to hear more of what I assumed were mercury-induced ravings. The next historian told the same tale, as did the one after that. So consistent was the tale that I find myself unable to doubt its authenticity any more.
The churches were burned, that much is true. However they were not burned by the orcs, or goblins, cultists or dragons. They were burned by humans, the daughters of the Sword Sister.
Blasphemous as this may sound, history is never blasphemy, and recording the truth is my holy duty as a servant of Abadar. Allow me to provide some context.
Late in the fourth age, the Valley was in an era of prosperity that it had not seen in centuries (and indeed, has not seen since). Great golden spires rose across the land, and all good and right creatures gave thanks to the Sword Sister for their good fortune. I will not bore you of the tales you've no doubt heard, of the gleaming city or the millions that lived within them. Such wondrous tales can be purchased from a tavern bard for less money than the ink required to describe them.
Suffice it then, to say that the people were grateful to the Sword Sister, and would follow her church to the ends of the earth out of gratitude. Here we begin to come undone, and to truly appreciate the phrase "to have too much of a Good thing". If a ranger told you she had pitched her tent in a beautiful forest next to a crystal river, you'd congratulate her. If she then went on to tell you that she was going to build a house there and start a farm and live there forever, you'd be forgiven to find yourself wondering if this wasn't missing the point: The forest is beautiful precisely because there are no houses built there.
As it is with forests and houses, so it is with the Valley and religions. The "house" the sisters were building was within the Citidel of the Sword. Her Holyness, Lady Sword-Saint Macry, Chosen of Muir was decked out in the most beautiful golden truths the sisters could find. She was to become the Vessel, so that the Bloody Hand, the avatar of Muir, could 3walk the land and bring the Valley into a new era of Good, Law and Prosperity. The Death's Head were too busy fighting the Frogspawn, and so Muir's old nemesis were in no position to stop her. The Lady Assassin (who would later slay the Sword Sister) had her gaze elsewhere. It looked like there would be no one both willing and able to stop the arrival of the Hand.
It fell to the Elf children, then. They marched from the forests in the west. They marched from the Dales in the south, from the mighty Tsuen, and they marched from over the hills of the north. It is always easier to kill a single person than to defend them, especially if one is attempting to defend them against elven dagger and fletch. The elves scored an early victory - an arrow sliced open Macry's cheek, and godblood was spilled upon the ground. So close was Macry to the Sword Sister, that her cheek was torn open as well. Gods wound differently to mortals, and even a simple injury, sustained across a plane is enough to distance themselves from it. Without the Sword Sister able to help her followers, the Citadel burned. 
The elves left the Citadel, and in most cases they left the Valley. There were a few skirmishes, sisters with wounded ego and overzealous elves, but little came of it. The sisters, once they had recovered put every church of the Elf-Father to the torch. The Elf-Father said nothing, letting the sisters make their faith a poultice from ash and rage. 
Muir's time was over, at least for the moment. The woodsfolk are stoic, and have long memories, and they had no want to rebuild their churches. Their absence sends a clear message, to any who'd dare something so audacious: We will not forget what we did, and we would do it again."