They spoke in halting phrases, the elves whispering in the trees, like leaves rustling in the wind.
All hung on branches, or lay on boughs, or leant slumped on boles, dispirited.
Elygaean-lo-soume had fallen.
The orcs had overrun their borders and laid waste to the Grand Citadel of Litiraelissme, smashing its worshipful trees, and burning its walls.
The scouts that had come back had reported a terrible battle.
But much worse, much much worse than all that, was the rumour that High Elf Meren Kasterfall had swung open the gates in a moment of madness, and been murdered by the orcken army.
The cries, the swish of axes, the decimation of a city, as the natives fled, into the woods, to seek the legions that had been posted far on their borders to secure them…
An Elegy for Elygaean
Past the rising trees, and round the running rivers
How vast your plains and prairies
Guarded by quick ears and minds
How long the snowy mountain tops
Rained hail and wind upon your roofs
and dropped winter on your tongue
is Lo-Soume, Elygaean!
Your time is past and gone.
Your ramparts bereft
of noble hearts
Your houses filled with fear
While elven prowess prowling wide
once guarded hearts from fear.
How light has dulled upon the Citadel
As flames shoot up
But minds darkened first
And saw not the coming storm clouds.
The river proved no boundary
The forests were no haven
We were swept away as by a torrent
And we had forgotten how to swim.
How far your hearts have fallen.