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 Arathorian Folklore

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Lathiria
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PostSubject: Arathorian Folklore   Thu Jul 12, 2012 4:21 am

ARATHORIAN WRITINGS

As follows is the Arathorian folklore stories - whether they are true or false is unknown.


The Tale of the Two Brothers


The known story about the Halls begins with Suxen. He was one of the children of vrykul that was said to have a curse bestowed upon them. Suxen was brought to the Eastern Kingdoms as infant, along with his brother Phelgas. They were those kind of twins that had no real resemblance, neither in looks or persona. Suxen was your average vrykul, only with the curse of being smaller (still vastly larger then todays human male). He was proud, honorable and fair. Phelgas was smaller then his brother, thin in an almost sick way. He did not seem to attract muscles as easy as your average vrykul. Ever since born he had seem different, silent, and at times his eyes shined of what looked like pure malice. He seemed to lack sympathy to all living beings, and only really cared of his own well-being. Suxen and Phelgas was together with many other vrykul that seemed to carry the curse, moving through the Eastern Kingdom, until they found a place which seemed the most similar to the world they came from. Here they settled and created tribes, living on and creating their own families eventually. Even at this time they believed in a higher being then themselves, yet they could never express their beliefs proper. They believed that the souls of the passed lived on at some sort of plane, where they were beyond the sorrows and suffering of mortal flesh.

There was untold honors, that no one ever broke. Even if the tribes eventually split and found their own homes all across the lands, they all saw each others as brothers and sisters, always. For they had all come from vrykul father and mother, with a curse they yet knew not the meaning of. They respected the wildlife, and only took what was needed for their own survival, and they made sure to not disturb the balance anything more then necessary. It was years after their first arrival, when Suxen and Phelgas were young men, that Phelgas was seeming to take on a stand where as he cared not of these things. He took from the wild more then he needed, and he spoiled the earth and grass without giving it as much as a thought. Their tribe quickly grew sick of his malicious behavior, and cast him out, to go live on his own or find a new tribe. Even though Suxen knew his brother was who he was, he missed him dearly. In years to pass Suxen became some form of an overhead for their tribe. His family was large and he had far over twenty children, and throughout all the tribes in the lands, he became more and more known as a leader of their kin, a fair, kind and generous leader who did not want anything else then the best for his kindred.

It was told he did wonderful things to organize and aid his people. However, what became of Phelgas was always in his mind. He knew his brother was alive somewhere.. And he was right indeed. Phelgas, the uncaring he became known as. He heard of his brothers success, he heard how liked his brother was. Jealousy eventually made him explore his true capabilities. He recruited people out of the tribes, bribing them with treasures, and trained what seemed an army almost. The purpose was to take over, nothing more or less. He wanted to be seen as an overhead, like his brother. He wanted the power.. But knew not that the power, come from good souls that does not really want power at all, but only want the best for their kin. Around the brothers fiftieth birthdays, Phelgas would march out with his army, slay and torture tribe after tribe, until they obeyed him. And he kept doing this until he reached the tribe which was led by Suxen, his brother. Suxen refused to give in to Phelgas madness, begged him to reconsider his actions and stop. But Phelgas would see no reasoning. They fought, the brothers, until they had both killed each others. The tribes lived on, and praised Suxen as a hero of their people, however, Phelgas legacy lived on also. He had ruined, corrupted the minds of the people..

Suxen and Phelgas were accompanied by each others at their death. They were both sat on a small boat that seemed to lead up to a castle, indescribably beautiful. By default, they entered the castle as the boat reached the plateau, up the stairs into a massive hall. Around a what seemed endlessly long table, massive vrykul men and women were sat, and all their attentions were turned to the entrance of the brothers. A man, that was sat close to the entrance, stood up. He seemed older then anything ever seen, yet it was incredible hard to see him, for he was almost completely consumed with light.
"Suxen, son of vrykul man and woman, your people will arise and create Kingdoms, heros and good in this world. You have shown us that you carry no curse, but a blessing. As such, you will be the beginning of our end. We are all old, Suxen. Our time as protectors are over, we are soon to become one with these halls, an eternal rest. You shall take our place, make sure your descendants keep on to your legacy of good and honor." The man put his massive hand on Suxens shoulder and smiled. Then he turned to Phelgas. "Phelgas, the uncaring. You are corrupt, your malice is the true curse. You have shown your people that evil can prevail, you have given them ideas that should not have been given. You are damned, and you will be for all eternities to come, until this world and all other worlds crumble into nothingness." The man pointed one finger at Phelgas, and while doing this it seemed as Phelgas was gradually disappearing in front of all their eyes, until he was gone. Suxen turned his gaze to the man that had done this, his sad look questioning without words. "He is to remain in what will be known as the Void. He belong not with us. His legacy will live on, evil and malice has corrupted your people now. And they will follow him, just as they followed his example. The Void will be their punishment."

Suxen then became the head ancestor, as his fathers and mothers as said disappeared, leaving the future descendants destiny of protection into his hands. His brother Phelgas, was the first to be cast into the Void. His hate and anger grew into unexplainable masses, to a point where he himself changed into creature more then humanoid. His malice and will to destroy grew, and with this he found ways to bend and control the Void to certain points. He became restless and wanted out, and as such he started to feed on the lost souls which were sent to the Void. Feeding on them in the belief that it would give him power, power that would grow until he would be able to get out of the Void and take over the worlds. The story of the Void creature, as they now called him was somehow found out by tribe-shamans and magicians whom had a certain, yet minimal access to the spirit-worlds. And the prophecy of the Void creature, that he would one day get out of his state, was told by mothers to their children to scare them into obedience. If it was actually a possibility, none really knew.. Not even Suxen himself.

(The tale of the two brothers is told with a few teachings in mind. Not only does it teach the Arathorian of the truth behind the Light and the Shadow, as supreme forces, but it tells them of the Ancestors. The Ancestors that govern everything they stand for. More deeply, this tale shows the Arathorian the source of evil in the world, and the source of good. It teaches of the afterlife, and what is expected of them in life by example of Suxen and entirely acts as one of the single most important tales of the ancient times.)

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PostSubject: Re: Arathorian Folklore   Thu Jul 12, 2012 4:21 am

The Parable of Hannil the Fisherman

Soon after the death of the brothers, Suxen and Phelgas, the remaining tribes of Humani continued to live. At first in utter turmoil. Without their leader, Suxen, the tribes fought for power between them. Great wars were waged. Dark magic was wielded and from the deep Void, Phelgas was cackling, his spread of evil, malice and sin appeared to succeed in ruining what his brother had raised, which was the noble and proud Arathorian.

Phelgas was winning, as soul after soul was sent to the Void after dying after leading a highly dishonourable life. All the while, the Ancestral Halls echoed the sounds of Suxen's rage. Even from the Void, where the Light itself had banished Phelgas, the Uncaring won the war he had waged in life. This couldn't stand.

Hannil, a mere fisherman, had suffered the wrath of Phelgas' hand. This fisherman was the epitome of honour. Never selfish, the man had single handedly fed an entire village for years for no profit. Jealous of his generosity the tribes that followed the Uncaring had seized his home, slew his wife and children and had him living on a boat just off the shore. Banished from his home and armed with a simple pole, the man spent months faring just for himself.

Until one day, a small boy swam out to his boat. His face covered in tears and his clothes torn. Asking for a single fish, just to feed himself and his starving sister on the shore. It was clear to Hannil that these children had suffered from the same treachery that he had, but his months at sea bittered the fisherman. He sent the boy back with a smack on the wrist and an empty stomach, for once, thinking of himself wholly.

That night, Hannil and his boat disappeared from the face of the earth. For a great sea beast had swallowed it and him whole.

This was because, in the Ancestral Halls, Suxen saw this man's selfish acts and pitied his soul. Once a great figure of his work, Hannil had been forced to turn to Phelgas' ways. It was his time to repent.
Thus for three days, and three nights, Hannil was imprisoned in the stomach of this beast. No food. No nothing. Fearing his life all the while, pondering his actions.

On the third night, Hannil began to pray to Suxen. He sought forgiveness for his sin and presented himself up as a sacrifice by impaling himself a bone found in the stomach of the beast. He felt that if he did indeed survive the experience, he wouldn't be worthy of the gift and wanted to ensure his demise.

Because of his sacrifice, Hannil entered the Halls. His mind and soul wholly purified by the Light there. Stunned he saw his children, his wife and his Lord. Suxen.

Suxen forgived the fisherman for his atrocious act, presenting him with a chance of true redemption. This too would be a sacrifice of sorts. He was ordered to return to the world of the living, spread the word of Suxen and suppress the evil that Phelgas had plagued Azeroth with. This meant leaving, once again, his wife and children. Saddened by the idea, but honoured equally Hannil begrudgingly agreed.

When he awoke once more washed up on the Shore of which he previously lived, his eyes aflame with the Light. Shocked and stunned, Hannil was aflame. Completely engulfed in the Holy Light he screamed to Suxen, prayed and cried with joy, as he became more than himself. Infused with the power of the Ancestors, Hannil was possessed by something beyond him. It was this possessing force that drove him and his tribe to glory over the power of Phelgas.

So again armed with just a fishing pole, Hannil the Fisherman, did as he was ordered. Fed and clothed the poor. Fought off the oppressing evil that plagued his land, and rose to Leadership. No warmonger, Hannil fought with the ability to forgive those that sinned as he, and found himself with a loyal flock.

(Despite the Arathorian nation being so war driven by circumstance, this tale was first told to soothe the roars of the berserker, the sinner and the fiend. Suxen, the first to force atonement, is a forgiving deity. It teaches obedience and more about the nature of Suxen, in comparison to his brother. This tale also implies, rather directly, the concept of Ancestral possession. This is a concept that teaches that; in time of great trouble, war and such. Suxen will infuse an Arathorian with the spirit of his Ancestors to drive him, inspire him and teach him.)
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PostSubject: Re: Arathorian Folklore   Thu Jul 12, 2012 4:21 am

Ogardin the Warmonger

In the time of the rule of the Great-Ancestor Suxen, brother of Phelgas the Uncaring, many a great war were waged between the forces of the Light and the Shadow whilst Phelgas strived to take over the Tribes that Suxen ruled with a honourable thumb. Disgusted by the way he dealt with the world, through his twisted view, Phelgas sought to destroy for the sake of destruction. It was this behaviour that earnt him his name, Uncaring, and his eternal damnation in the Void.

But that tale is for another time.

Today I preach about Ogardin. Ogardin served under Suxen during these ancient times as his Kardonir, the first named such. As the Kardonir, much like today, Ogardin was at ease on the field of bloody battle. In tune with his morality, the ancient fought and upheld many of the tenets we do to this day; no beast or enemy felt anything but death in his presence, his allies never felt endangered, his injuries never kept him from smiting his foes and needless to say, this great pinnacle of honour felt no taint of cowardice.

Known soon to be the Warmonger of his Tribe, the Kardonir traversed the plains of Arathi with his kin to keep the presence of Phelgas at bay from the smaller tribes. He preached the archaic tenets that they upheld to refrain from ultimate chaos, he preached the terms of rule that Suxen acted with and was highly regarded for his honest tongue throughout the land.

This was until the dark ages gripped the land. Suxen died, alongside his malevolent brother and in a plea for survival the conjurers and necromancers continued the work of their maker in order to stay alive and not hunted after. As you may know, Hannil the Fisherman worked to retain the humanity in these monstrous felons. Ogardin wasn't so forgiving.

In the light of Suxen's untimely death, Ogardin was stripped of his rank and presented a new one. Dank'thar. A Warlord like no other, nicknamed Ogardin the Warmonger he spent his days crushing the forces of the Void that lashed out at the humane, at the Light.

In time old age grasped the Warmonger, and the role of Dank'thar was granted to a younger as the Elder withered, barely able to grasp his own axe. Past his days of war, Ogardin was granted the honourable rank of Dekaru in light of his life's achievements. Pleased by this, Ogardin strived to physical peak once more, to don his armour, to grip his axe and to charge into the enemy head first in the name of Suxen's Light.

And it was with a great thud, and surrounded by the corpses of the fallen enemy, did Ogardin die with a smile on his face for he knew the afterlife would be kind to the epitome of Arathorian Warmongering.

(This story clearly depicts the correct method of warmongering in the times of the Ancestors. It gives a deeper insight into the culture of the past- For example the use of the ranks.
Ogardin would be a great deity of worship for the current Kardonir/Dank'thar/Dekaru, not excluding the basic footman however, and those in tune with the Ancestors and particularly pious, would follow in his footsteps entirely.
It is important to note that the life and times of this Ancestor is purposely left in gaps. No one is perfectly honourable 24/7 and the illusion that Ogardin was is made to be as a perfect, unreachable example on how to act.)
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PostSubject: Re: Arathorian Folklore   Thu Jul 12, 2012 4:22 am

The Fable of the Wild Twins

Jorgan and Jordan, born of nobles; twins which was ever so odd in the Ancient Era. The pair were inseparable throughout childhood, playing as all children do, in the Wild surrounding the Village in which they lived. Only they didn't play with other children, as the other children did, they played only with each other and the animals that fell folly to their games. It is said that Jorgan could ride a horse before he could walk and that Jordan walked with flowers falling at her feet and critters following her every move as though she were a goddess herself.

As you can imagine it didn't take long for the pair to gain a reputation for themselves; not a pleasant one however as they were outcasts from society; loners and freaks. As feminine as Jordan could be, she never acted as other girls did; she refused to cook or eat meat and Jorgan never learned how to wield a sword due to his other interests. They were inherently weird, right from being born Twins, to their childhood upbringing and this caused them to flee into the Wilds.

This betrayal caused their parents to uproar! Shocked and appalled by the actions of their children, they denounced them and acted as if they never gave birth to such oddities.

It was ten or so years later however, post the death of the Brothers and when the first generation of “Voidsworn”; minions of Phelgas, razed the world in fire and brimstone did the Twins earn respect.

A hawk, it is said, flew to Jordan's shoulder and sat making an awful racket of chirps, bites and pecks that she understood as a warning; her people were in great danger thus she and Jordan on mounted companions, charged in the direction of home to find their parents dead and the village still in deep war.

Upon their arrival the tide of war immediately changed; the Horses, once lame without their riders, started to revolt and fight back as one with the forces; as much of a Warrior as the Warriors themselves almost doubling the numbers. The Wild; entailing birds, insects, beasts of all sorts and even the plant life stood strong in honour of the tears Jordan shed in mourning.

Needless to say, the Village was protected this time- Not just this time, but for evermore, in honour of the Wild Twins. Furthermore they themselves were no longer treated as outcasts and freaks; but renowned for their prowress and teachings. Their philosophy of nature taught the Villages, and surrounding Villages, to respect and honour the Wild not abuse it.

To this day we still live in the light of Jorgan the Horse Whisperer and Beastmistress Jordan; our Warhorses are the best in the Land and in the glory days, animals were trained to fight alongside us; not as our inferiors but equal, as one.

(This tale teaches the Arathorian how to treat the Wild; be it animals or fauna. With respect.)
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PostSubject: Re: Arathorian Folklore   Thu Jul 12, 2012 4:22 am

Nirnrath the Two-Faced

In the time of the Ancient Ancestors, merely months after the death of the Great Ancestor Suxen, a terrible evil held the Highlands in it's morbid grip. The shadow worshipping Voidsworn revered the Uncaring Phelgas as a deity of as worthy note as Suxen himself, seeking the power that He had mastered in his short time ruling the Void. The self named Voidsworn seeked to rule the Highlands that Suxen had ruled, fuelled by the jealousy that Phelgas had himself for his brother, using Sin as their Swords and Treachery as their Shields.

Spreading chaos across the realm via acts of terrorism, they pillaged villages left, right and centre. Committing gross acts of arson, rape and forcing slavery on Suxen's free men and women. This darkest sect of the Voidsworn were lead by the corrupt Nirnrath; once a Scout, a freelance Highlander that knew the Highlands like the back of his own hand. Nirnrath was tempted by the sheer power that Phelgas offered, the ability to hide in the shadows as if he was cloaking himself in a shroud, striking at his foes from literal nothingness allowed the Arathorian immunity from the law, and from the lawless, giving him a reputation like no other.

Thus his evil reign wasn't to last forever, one day, as Nirnrath stalked the nights, he slept under the sunlit plains resting against the calm sea of green fresh from a pillage that left him with an unwilling bed partner for the night and a sack full of fresh food, ale and gold. Yet his dreams weren't as sound as his life was, Nirn was suffering from a nightmare. Filled with never ending days and shadow smiting Light, and tonight was no exception. “Nirnrath!” echoed all day long, “Nirnrath!”, drove him insane. It was the voice of Suxen himself whom slew the Shadow in Nirnrath's heart and enlightened him to the power of the Light.

He was directed by the voice to seek out the Warmongering Ogardin and present himself wholly as a thief, a rapist and a Voidsworn and offer himself as a sacrifice towards redemption. This selfless act shocked the Warmonger whom saw some of himself in the young, black toothed man, and even some of Suxen. No other member of Phelgas' Army had the power within themselves to admit their wrongdoings and seek to redeem themselves so Ogardin, being the better man and guided by the Great Ancestor Himself, put Nirnrath to work. Under the Warmonger's orders, He kept his guise as a Voidsworn and returned to the Army to spy on them, leaking information about their whereabouts and planned attacks and slowly but surely a surprising amount of so called pillages were met with the full wrath of Ogardin's Army, chanting the name of Suxen as the Voidsworn fell in shock, stunned by the almighty warcry, “Ah-Hoom!”.

Even under the orders of the Warmonger, Nirnrath never stopped abusing the Shadow that Phelgas had bestowed upon him, hiding in it ever more but for different ends. Since Suxen touched his life, the Spy had halted all his evil acts; returning money stolen, offering compensation to victims of his other crimes. The Shadow had become a means to an end for Nirnrath, proving that sometimes, you can use Evil for the greater Good. I will add however, that as time went on for the redeemed man, he stopped hiding in the Shadows and evoked natural means of hiding himself becoming the true Master Spy; a Master of Suprises, Disguises and a Master of Cloak and Dagger never known by too many people as simply Nirnrath, the Voidsworn who was.

(The moral of this story is that even with a life of sin, you can redeem yourself for past acts. It emphasises Suxen's great forgiveness and proves why even then, Wars were won with not just brawn, but intelligence also. The story also teaches how that such paths are equally as honourable as any soldier, and finally, teaches that too a degree it is moral to abuse evil forces as a means to an end for a greater good.)
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PostSubject: Re: Arathorian Folklore   Thu Jul 12, 2012 4:23 am

Thorvar the Gladiator

Brothered to the mighty Warmonger, Ogardin. Thorvar was forever in his brother's shadow, attempting to grow to match the Warmonger's battle prowess and discipline. He never managed it. Where Ogardin would train with the Great Ancestor Suxen himself, Thorvar stood at the side line cheering his brother on as he wielded mighty steel, with only a wooden replica in his own hand. A feeble attempt at being what the mighty Ogardin was, a true Arathorian, Warrior. This was so for many years throughout their youth as they grew into their middle ages surrounded by the wartorn world that Azeroth was, and more importantly, the wartorn lands that Arathi was.

During this time, Thorvar grew into his own. He resorted not to manage to match Ogardin's mighty strength or battle cries, but to match him in other ways of life. He honed his own type of strength, agility, and took his lesser muscular body as a blessing. Where Ogardin would slow, Thorvar would speed up. Where Ogardin would rain one mighty blow, Thorvar would land multiple. Where Ogardin would wear heavy plate asthough it was cloth, Thorvar would wear leathers, mixed with plate, a more sensible route.

When Ogardin was honoured with the title of Kardonir, Thorvar followed his Brother into War without second thoughts, mourning the mighty Suxen when he finally died, equalling to his own Brother, Phelgas and undertook many a rite to attempt to equalise himself with Ogardin's reputation but alas, Ogardin rose to the Dank'thar and Thorvar was ignored. This rejection forced him to leave the Army and find his own way in life, with Ogardin's initial approval, so as Ogardin rose and struck many blows against the Armies of Phelgas. Thorvar fled into darker society, an Underground Sect, Gladiators.

The Gladiator Thorvar sold himself to a Master, proved himself in many a battle, and brought much honour to himself as his Brotherhood. Without the Shadow of Ogardin hiding the man, he finally shone as bright as his Brother did. He finally had his own followers, and his own reputation. He finally stood strong on his own for many a year, rejoicing in the lifestyle that he had grew accustomed too.

Eventually, the Gladiator's reptuation preceeded him and Ogardin heard ear of his own Brother participating the mighty Arena that took many of his own men into it's tempting grasp. This was around the same time that the Voidsworn's Armies grew stronger with every passing day and Ogardin, Dank'thar of the great Ancient Arathorians, wished for every able man he could have. Especially his own Brother. But Thorvar wouldn't budge, he refused to join the Army and once again be drowned in the ego that Ogardin was, be hidden behind His Brother's Might. So he issued a challenge to Ogardin. “FIGHT ME! OH MIGHTY DUREI! IN MY ARENA! WHERE I REIGN AS GOD! WIN AND I WILL JOIN YOU!”- to which Ogardin could only agree in silence.

So finally the day came in which the biggest derby could ever occur. Brother vs. Brother. Ogardin the Warmonger vs. Thorvar the Gladiator. Wielding their own traditional garb of plate, leather and armed with their trademark warhammers or scimitars, the Brothers fought. Strike after strike lit the Arena up, as finally the Brother's stood equal. Observed by the masses of Arathorian's gathered. For hours the fight upheld, none of which could draw any Blood or make any lasting impact on each other, until finally, Ogardin's blade was blessed enough to make a deep slice down Thorvar's chest. Recoiling away, Thorvar gasped in anguish and felt that once again, his youth was his biggest downfall, that he'd never surpass his Brother's Might. Yet as they charged once again, a clever parry left Ogardin's swordhand avast and Thorvar took no chances, lunging in with his duel swords, making a scathing wound in the Ancestor's arm that weakened him to the point of being unable to wield his Greatsword. Practically disarmed, Thorvar took advantage and beat his Brother to floor, taking him in a great embrace in a wrestle. Punch after punch, after punch, after punch, rained down from both men's fists until at last, Ogardin gave up. Admitting defeat. Thorvar rose to victory.

It took great courage, but the biggest attribute that shone throughout the Arena Battle was wisdom. Even in the face of defeat, as Ogardin drew first Blood, Thorvar stood his ground and managed to disarm his opponent, crippling him. Besting him, finally. Bringing the Mighty Ogardin the Warmonger down to Thorvar's dark, depressed earth. Yet this wasn't Thorvar's plan, he didn't want to embarrass or crush his Durei's spirits. He just seeked equality. So post to the battle's completion, Thorvar sought his brother's tent, where his wounds were being tended too.

“Durei, I seek to join your Army.” he uttered, head facing the ground and rippling arms in a salute. “But you won, Thorvar, you bested me. Why join my Army, when in truth, you should be leading me?” whispered the defeated Ogardin, a tear rolling down his cheek. “Why because, my Brother, I cannot match your wild rage on the Battlefield. I can match your skill, but by Suxen's cock, I bet next time you'll match mine. I'm no Leader, but you are. I'm no Dank'thar, but you are. I'm but a Gladiator, able to read the tide of battle and turn it in an instant. Durei, I'm not better than you, I'm just different.”- With these words, Ogardin's tears turnt to a smile, as he uttered his own respects back, “Durei, you are younger than I, but you are no fool. You did match my skill today and read my weaknesses, you didn't charge in and ruin your own chances in a toe to toe battle. You are different, and by Suxen, you are gloriously different. I would be honoured if you joined me.”

And so legend tells us, that Ogardin rose to great esteem. He eventually shed his title of Dank'thar, taking the reign of Dekaru, so he could die with the honour of his rank in battle. But it is never said who took up his role when he died.

I tell you now, it was his Brother. Thorvar the Gladiator, his equal. The man that saw a thousand battles won by his brain as His Sword.

This tale tells us of the unsung heroes, the tacticians of War that fight just as hard as the Warlords. However beyond that, it tells us of the equality of Brothers. Teaching us that sibling rivilary is not only fair, but is normal, mimicing Suxen and Phelgas' own relationship somewhat. Less importantly, it teaches us of Ogardin's own weaknesses and tells us of the Ancient Society; the Arena. As during times of lesser War, Gladiatorial Combat wasn't uncommon for our Ancestors, as it isn't uncommon now.
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PostSubject: Re: Arathorian Folklore   Thu Jul 12, 2012 4:23 am

Asvoren the Mystical

Under the Fisherman's rule, Asvoren was a mere Priest travelling the plains of Arathi with the nomadic Tribe of Hannil seeking to repair where Phelgas' minions had caused untold damage to people's health and livelihoods.

You see, as the Fisherman, infused with the power of Suxen, wielded the Holy Light like a deity himself, he caused the more traditional methods of medicine to feel unworthy and weak. Elders that previously had weaved meaningless spells and pious prayers, binding wounds with cloth and feeding patients herbs halted and this made Hannil's task even greater than spreading the word of Suxen, he had to spread his healing touch. Eventually the task grew too much for him to bare alone, so he started to gather followers, naming a chosen few his Disciples.

Asvoren was such a disciple, albeit none but Hannil himself could actually wield the Light, Asvoren still had a healing touch about him that wasn't entirely natural. He could stem flowing blood with one piece of cloth, rather than many and his patient's wounds scabbed over swiftly and mended easier than most. Quickly word spread and if Hannil himself could not be reached, Asvoren was considered a close second and soon came His true test, a Berserker whom had returned from War with his stomach gashed open, he was loosing Blood quickly and was close to death.

Acting swiftly, the Priest stifled the wound's blood loss and found the Blood's touch on his bare hands to be exhilarating. As he always had. Yet his efforts weren't enough, as much as Asvoren tried to patch the man together with the traditional methods, the wound wouldn't seal and the blood kept continuing to break through his attempts at quelling it. It felt to Asvoren that only Hannil and the Magic he wielded could save this honourable Warrior, and as the man slowly drifted into the Halls, Asvoran became a changed man. With adrenaline rushing through his body, Asvoren prayed like never before in attempt to harness the same power that Hannil did, pleading with the Great Ancestor Suxen to save the Berserker from his untimely death and with eyes clenched shut, he eventually slowly opened them, as the Blood from the wound bubbled fiercely replenishing the amount lost, healing the tarnished tissue and sealing the wound shut with a firm, strong, scab that eventually turnt into a scar. Eventually the Berserker awoke and all around praised Asvoren as Hannil's equal, another blessed with the magic of the Ancestors.

Yet Asvoren refused this to be so, and continued on without Hannil, attempting and succeeding to hone the Ancient Magic in many more medical marvels. Yet he refused to acknowledge that he was special, and thus formed techniques and crafted spells and rituals that he taught freely. Slowly but surely, a rare few mastered the same Blood Magic that had unlocked in Asvoren and it turnt from being medical, to being used in warfare. The first Magan's of Arathor, intellectuals, devised between themselves how to bend Blood, transfigure Blood, control Blood. This became a big weapon, and a great shield for Arathor during the Great Wars to follow. Only forgotten when easier Magiks became available, the Elvish Arcane.

This tale teaches us that the Light that is so common nowadays, wasn't so easy to wield in the days of our Ancestors. Life wasn't so superfical back then, so the divine power of the Ancestors was better grasped via physical means. Not everyone was as lucky as Hannil to have such a metaphysical connection to Suxen, thus be as able as him in the Light. It also teaches that Blood Magic is unlocked in a person, and Blood Magic isn't castable by just any Mage. Furthermore secrets and rituals should be shared amongst the learned, Mages should be a team not lonewolves. Finally, it implies heavily that everyone deserves the chance to prove themselves when acts look too difficult for them to accomplish.
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PostSubject: Re: Arathorian Folklore   Thu Jul 12, 2012 4:24 am

Robain the Hunter

As a young child, Robain belonged to the same Village that the Wild Twins, Jorgan and Jordan hailed from. During the era that the Twins embraced nature, Robain was a young child, who followed them into the Wild in hiding and watched their bond with it grow in utter awe. As legend says, when the Voidsworn attacked the Village they belonged too and the Twins lashed out with the wrath of Fawn and Fauna, little Robain was ushered away into the safety of the Wild by a Wild Deer.

It was in the wild, driven from the domesticated lifestyle of home, did Robain find himself not safe at all but in utter peril. As a young child, the boy had no idea how to look after himself, so the Mother Deer did it for him. Eventually this led to the Deer sensing his hunger and sacrificing herself on a jagged rock infront of Robain's eyes. As He fed tenaciously, he grew a bond with the Deer, much like the Rites that we mimic today, and learnt the importance of balance in Nature. Hence in a rather Druidic fashion, Robain understood only to take what he needed and not a morsel more from Nature and grew up into a very independent Arathorian, living sensibly off of the Wild.

Whilst growing up, he learnt many Arts due to circumstance. For example, Archery and Tracking. Different types of scents amongst other things. Alas in time, it wasn't Animals the Hunter would Hunt, it'd be the Voidsworn. The same Minions of Phelgas that struck at his home Village all those years ago. Thus Robain took the skills learnt from his harsh childhood, only due to the malice shown by the Voidsworn, to contribute significantly to their ultimate demise.

This tale teaches us most importantly the concept of balance in nature, during the art of the Hunt. It's not about taking as much as you can greedily, boasting your skill, it's about taking as much as you really need and helping the rest cultivate and improve. Doing thus creates a Wild that will sustain you for a lifetime. Furthermore, it implies the origins of the Arathorian Rite of Age, as we too mimic Robain in the act of animalistic bonding leading ultimately to a sacrifice, taking the physical bond into the spiritual realm beyond death. Finally it teaches us that our bad childhoods and depressive histories can make us stronger in the face of Evil, rather than crush us.
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PostSubject: Re: Arathorian Folklore   Thu Aug 16, 2012 1:03 am

All in GHI
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Arathorian Folklore
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