The War Of Burning Leaves

In the year 50MR, the elves of Sindorien and dwarves of the Thunder Peaks came to blows. All were made victims of lies, fear, and vengeance. Here you shall read of a conflict that renewed animosity long-held betwixt two ancient peoples, such that even today they curse one another, their hearts laden with mistrust.

### Prelude To Fire

For several years prior to the war of which this account concerns, dwarves of Tolm Burâz, an impoverished westerly hold, sent parties of woodcutters to collect timber from the southernmost tip of Green Fang Forest. They did so tentatively, yet with determination to maintain their forges, the uncommonly strong wood serving as fuel in place of coal and other materials the hold lacked. The elves paid heed to this intrusion, but were torn on how to respond. Some called for violent repulsion of the bearded interlopers, while others counselled pity and charity. As a consensus continued to elude them, the dwarves went about their activities undisturbed.

One day, the woodcutters chose to stray deeper than usual, curiosity overwhelming their caution. They stumbled upon a dimly lit glade, where a small gathering of elves appeared to be performing a ceremony. They started to sneak away, yet one dwarf could not avert his gaze... and thus witnessed a terrible scene. The elves drew daggers across their skin, bright blood falling to form ugly symbols on the dappled grass, their wounds then closing with unnatural haste. Impenetrable gloom spread between the symbols, and from that darkness crawled a gibbering demon. The horrified dwarf retreated to inform his kin. Revulsion and righteous wrath filled the woodcutters. Ancestral vows to smite all ruinous things drove them to charge the glade, axes raised and ready.

Elf flesh was hewn, the spell unraveling as each caster was cut down. Silence fell, broken only by the incessant chitterings of the fading demon. Among its lunatic words, the triumphant dwarves discerned a warning. "Fear my summoners, for today you cleave the first ripples of a flood! Many stand in their shadows! The hobbled grasp for new power!"

With honor upheld, the woodcutters fled for home. Unbeknownst to them, a single elf escaped the slaughter, slipping away unseen. It was not long before he came upon a party of his own people, whereupon he set to lamenting... but truth was not upon his lips. The greedy dwarves had sought to log sacred trees, he claimed, turning murderous when his band tried to dissuade them. Finding no reason to doubt one of their own, the listeners were incensed. They leapt upon their fine horses and sped for vengeance.

Meanwhile, the liar returned to the glade, removing all sign of infernal misdeeds.

The elf riders fell upon their quarry with a rain of arrows, chasing them out past the forest's edge. The woodcutters wore no battle raiment, so the barbs stung deep. Not wishing to linger outside their borders, the elves withdrew, leaving the slain dwarves where they lay. Yet, like the previous ambush, one victim lived. The dwarf who first witnessed the ritual crawled from his hiding spot, a shallow ditch beside a stream. With a heartbroken prayer to Fundun, he trudged on alone.

### War Kindled

Upon hearing the returned dwarf's tale, the leaders of Tolm Burâz wrenched their beards in grief, shouting many oaths of bloody justice. Alas, their might was small beside that of Sindorien, thus messengers went to Brokenstone, where King Nodgram Ironsoul gave audience. Long did the king and his advisors ponder the issue. Perhaps the forest folk, turned vindictive by the dwarf-wrought Vortex and its effects, now stooped to diabolism in seeking reprisal? Perhaps they sought to emulate the human wizard kings, hungry to regain their empire by sinister means? If such were true, surely it behove the dwarves to prevent a second Time Of Mage Blight?

The army of Brokenstone marched to Green Fang Forest, joined on the road by hosts from several neighbour-holds. Leaving his generals to make camp by the treeline, Nodgram and his guards strode forth. They were soon met by an elven escort, and brought safely to Fen'arloth. King Olfinwen welcomed the delegation to his court, offering condolences for the slain woodcutters, but Nodgram wasted no time on honeyed words. He chastized the elves for their ruinous dabblings, judged them fools and slaves in the making. He then roared his intent to stop them from further folly. Olfinwen and the bulk of his people, ignorant of any hexcraft, decried the accusations, deeming them false, justification for simple barbarous greed.

Of course, those elves who knew better held their sly tongues.

Tempers rose, refutations spat between the parties. Then; an urgent whisper of winds, the alarm song of birds, a tinkle of tripped wards... the elves gleaned that dwarven forces had spread throughout the forest. Intuiting a sneak attack, Olfinwen ordered Nodgram and his guards taken hostage. Having expected dishonourable treatment of their king, the dwarf generals across Sindorien barked preordained commands... and a thousand torches guttered to life.

### A Realm Ablaze

The dwarven army slogged ahead, meeting illusory defences with Fundun-gifted blessings and banishments. Where the forest closed about them, they set the trees alight, fanning enormous blazes. Dismayed by the invaders' dour tenacity, elves raced to halt their advance. Denied cover, hindered by rushing flames, horror-struck as millenia-old enchantments unravelled before their eyes, the elves resorted to heedless frontal assaults. Beneath funereal palls of smoke, and upon baked, barren ground, the foes collided; glimmering swords and spears rattled against rune-etched axes and hammers. Blood of both peoples wet the ground in rivers, until at last... there came a pause. At the heart of one corpse-strewn desolation, King Olfinwen met with General Pwindle Bentshield of Tolm Burâz, to whom overall command had fallen. Pwindle demanded the return of Nodgram and his party. The elf king swept his gaze across the scorched surrounds, then whispered; "Were you to regrow a hundred of the thousand trees and more you have marred, we would not return a hair from his filthy beard." Pwindle nodded grimly, as he growled a reply; "Then for each hair of that same royal beard, we shall hack a leafen ear from an elvish head."

Both sides regrouped, took stock of their dead, and prepared to resume. The war had plainly started.

For cycles upon cycles the struggle wore on, with skirmishes fought in many places at once. In each razed clearing they won, the dwarves dug fortifications, making it harder to uproot or push them back. Yet the elves knew their home better. They feigned flight, misleading pursuers into fickle terrain and cunning traps. Alas, pitched battles could not be avoided forever, and each eruption of slaughter fell in the dwarves' favor; their divine protection from spells, field formations, and sturdy armour, proved well-suited to a grinding push into enemy teeth. The elves by contrast, had long-relied on mystical deception, with intricate arcane weavings spread from tree-to-stone-to-brook. Now, with their realm so wounded, the lessened ability to touch and manipulate the web of power saw them unprepared and frightened. Fighting withdrawals became a mainstay of their strategems. All else but buying time to plan seemed risible.

### Unexpected Sparks

Let none forget that other folk were swept up in the war. Many gnomes and pixies were cast from their abodes by fire and tramping boots. Some took refuge with the elves, or fled the forest entirely, while others turned to works of subversion. Such diminutive saboteurs harrassed the dwarves at every turn; loosening ropes on supply carts, singing loudly to interrupt sleep, creating magical semblances of elf scouts. Chiefest among their aims was to steer the dwarves away from Fen'arloth; this earned them great esteem from their tall allies.

Likewise, the elementals of Green Fang found themselves caught between deadly pyres and an onrushing wave of counter-magic. They gathered around loci, using all of their strength to preserve the wellsprings of arcana, fighting viciously whenever mortals approached... regardless of which side they served.

A lone halfling resided with the dwarves. Binily Brindleboot had joined the army on its march from the mountains, disguised as a beardling herself, intending to indulge in some light thievery. Yet as the days wore on, she grew to like her gruff companions; they too developed a fondness for the exceptionally small and quiet "dwarf" who tended their baggage. Deciding that a heroic prank might bring her friends cheer, Binily doffed her disguise and donned a new one. Dressed as a gnome, she managed to infiltrate the camp of an elvish prince, Aralith. There she unleashed all manner of hijinx before stealing away with his glorious helm.

Garbed again in dwarf-fashion, Binily reappeared before her startled comrades, her prize held aloft. At first the dwarves heaped her with praise and goodly humor, but soon their talk turned to how they might use the helm, and their words filled Binily with guilt and forboding.

### The Flames Turn Cold

The dwarves sent Aralith's helm, cut as though by an axe, to Olfinwen. Upon realizing what he held, the elf king gave vent to a terrible fury. Blinded by anguish, he took his warband and sped to his son's last known camp. Sadly, Aralith had long-departed to avoid encroaching dwarves, and it was those same bearded lurkers who met Olfinwen's arrival.

The elves savaged their foes, yet one-by-one they were pulled down. Finally, only Olfinwen stood. The dwarves demanded that he surrender and submit to being shackled. His pride would not permit it. Olfinwen raised his spear and charged his would-be captors. Thereafter, no dwarf who had been present dared deny the elf king's courage or prowess, but he could not best so many... as Olfinwen breathed his last, all of his people felt the loss, especially his blood kin.

The children of Olfinwen were rent by sorrow, such that none could take up rulership, their hearts too poisoned, their thoughts too set on redress. The mantle of governance fell instead to Olfinwen's niece, Vilariel, whose wisdom outweighed her bereavement. The princes and princesses of elfdom bowed to their new queen, then set off with unseemly haste, eager to draw blades against their father's slayers. Elves flocked to their banners; and to Aralith, now dubbed Clovenhelm, above all... among their swelling forces hid many with hellish intent.

### Inferno Unfettered

Elves fell upon the dwarves like a storm of malice. Where before they had avoided battle, now they revelled in cathartic violence. What's more, hitherto this point, desire to conserve their home had dissuaded elf mages from recklessly hurling destructive spells. Now, such cares faded like morning mist. Lances of burning light, nets of grasping ice, all manner of harmful arcana assailed the dwarven lines and battered the already-maimed forest.

Worse, spells of malefic nature crept among the cleaner incantations. Dwarves sickened, turned on their fellows, fled as horrific visions filled their minds. Such foulness, when noticed and questioned, was excused by the practitioners as familiar conjurings twisted by wholy forgivable bitterness and spite. As they spun their lies, so too did the decievers ingratiate themselves with Olfinwen's children, persuading them to overlook the issue... afterall, why doubt that which so deftly scours a sworn nemesis?

Despite all, the dwarves persevered.

Corps of warrior-priests led from the front, letting the arcane wave crash over them. Hammer wielding mage-hunters, thrumming with divine boons, stalked the lines, rallying scattered units. Still, for all their stubbornness, the beardlings were no fools, and they knew when to take a backward step. Inch by inch, they gave ground, awaiting the perfect moment to curb the tide. Great deeds were performed by both sides in what dwarves now call "The Elffire Push," each swirl of battle an instance of majesty; General Pwindle, knocking elves from their horses with naught but his shield. Aralith Clovenhelm, loosing spell-wreathed arrows to scythe apart dwarf siege weapons. Heroism and tragedy blurred like ink in rain, and the deluge only thickened.

### A Torrid Truth

In Fen'arloth, Vilariel reflected upon King Nodgram's accusations, weighing them against news brought by her envoys. Reports of hate-warped spellcraft spoke to her of an insidious malady, a silent venom rippling through her people. Much like her gloryborn cousins, Vilariel would not, could not, face the direst possible truth... yet she could not ignore the problem. More and more, the ill tales seemed to originate with Aralith's forces; so she sent for him, hoping to glean greater insight. He refused the summons. Vilariel, disquieted but resolute, decided she would not abide his rebuff. She would go to him instead.

When she found Aralith, Vilariel hardly recognised him, his once generous mien turned detached and sour. Nor did she recognise his cadre of advisors, all of whom had but recently slithered into his service. A caginess filled the prince's pavillion, prompting Vilariel to expel the strange new faces, each speckled with ash and dwarven blood. Alone at last, she pleaded with Aralith to rein in his host, at least until their emotions steadied. Aralith met her appeal with scorn, invoking the need to avenge his father and the ruination of their home, no matter the cost. Vilariel placed a hand upon his shoulder, intending sympathy... and in that moment of contact, she knew terror. Never before had she felt such emptiness in another elf. The power of Taeyaloo, everpresent in her people, seemed to be bleeding out of him, it's influence... letting go. Aralith recoiled, breaking the contact. A heartbeat passed in heavy silence.

Without another word, Vilariel sped for Fen'arloth... and King Nodgram's prison room.

### War Extinguished

The elf queen and the captive dwarf king spoke, and whilst their conversation is not recorded, the gist is known. Vilariel told Nodgram that her people would win the war, yet in doing so, she feared they would lose Magic's guidance. Nodgram, doubtful of elven victory, still chose to question what could so strip his foes of their birthright. Rather than elaborate, Vilariel promised that should the war end immediately, the elves would turn their attentions to preventing the loss. Nodgram, keen and canny, heard the message beneath her words... at least one elf of authority, despite true initial innocence, finally discerned the lurking threat. He saw barely concealed shame in the queen, but more importantly, a desperation to conclude the current hostilities... and begin a new struggle. Outwardly prideful, confident of dwarven triumph, Nodgram agreed that continuation of the war might devastate both sides, perhaps beyond the point of recovery. Inwardly, he mused that the next phase of this particular stand against Ruin need no longer be fought by dwarves...

Thus, they came to an agreement.

At the head of her own elite forces, Vilariel rode into the camp of General Pwindle, and delivered to him King Nodgram, along with his entire unharmed entourage. She bid the dwarves leave Sindorien, lest her vengeful folk slay them and sweep onwards, into the mountains, to lay waste to their holds. Nodgram shouted down the ensuing cries of outrage, insisting to his warriors that more than enough damage had been done to secure their goals. Many beardlings thought his pronouncement oddly cryptic; still, the order was given. The armies of the dwarves began to withdraw from Green Fang Forest. For his part, Nodgram urged Vilariel to honor her plans, warning that should she fail, should elfborn malfeasance spread from Sindorien, all of dwarfdom would be roused to raze the forest and salt the blackened remains. With a curt nod, Vilariel departed, sending riders and a variety of arcane messages to inform her people of the war's end.

It was over.

### Embers In The Ashes

Following the war, the elves rebuilt and regrew, whilst Vilariel and her closest confidantes sought in secret for solid proof that ruinous sorcerers dwelt among them. Claiming outrage that Vilariel robbed them of victory, Aralith and several of his siblings, along with their loyal followers, chose to avoid Fen'arloth in favor of their own hidden enclaves... to which gathered an increasing number of hunted diabolists. Eventually, even the most slow-witted elf could feel the corruption afflicting their neighbors, and so, after seven years of clandestine scheming, Vilariel revealed all. She declared the exile of the fallen; an act which would lead to great tragedy among the trees, and the eventual founding of The Fey Ring Isles.

Upon returning to Brokenstone, Nodgram decreed that Tolm Burâz would keep watch upon Green Fang Forest, sending scouts to uncover potential elven deceipt. Centuries later, Great House Furion of Arkhos took upon themselves a similar role, prompting Tolm Burâz to extend offers of trade and support.

To this day, both elves and dwarves believe their folk would have won, given enough time. Likewise, both sides blame the other for instigating the war; the dwarves blame the elves for missing the traitors in their midst, and for taking Nodgram captive; whilst the elves blame the dwarves for spilling first-blood, and for invading the forest before diplomacy could prevail. Whoever lies at fault, dwarves and elves still mistrust each other, their dealings often prickly at best, especially given the still-looming threats of utter destruction their leaders laid down so long ago.