Sunny weather belied the mood in Charybdis as the Elflords reunited to discuss the impending split of the Mirdain people and the possibility of civil war. A young boy sat in a balcony overlooking the noisy council chamber, while his father, below, delivered an impassioned speech advocating the preservation of the republic. Although within earshot of what was to be the crucial decision of his age, all of the boy’s attention fell upon a lone caterpillar as it crawled along the stem of an orange lily overhead. An inescapable curiosity drew his senses toward all living things. The stories his grandfather told him of times past when Mirdain would hold conversation with every creature of the forest captured his imagination. Yet, there was something more – there was within him an unquenchable desire to understand the very substance of life itself: to make things grow, to shape and form living things around him and to realize their magnificent potential.

As the boy grew older, this yearning grew stronger. He would spend hours of each day tracking and following all manner of creatures, whether from the shadows amidst the undergrowth below or from the boughs of oaks above. This was much to the frustration of his parents, who had planned for their son a seat in the embattled parliament. The boy took little interest in such affairs of state; he held his own court beneath the leafy canopy of Mirendil, attended by squirrel and nuthatch, enthroned upon the waving branches of a sycamore.

When the boy came of age, family tradition dictated that he be given his orthorgweth – a trial of his resourcefulness, and the gateway to Mirdain manhood. So it was that his parents presented him a single dagger and sent him off into the woods alone. Having spent so much of his childhood alone in the forest, he first turned his attention to finding food and water. Before long, his sharp ears caught the sound of rippling water in the distance, which he followed to find a small brook. As he bent down to drink, he noticed none of the animals were drinking from the stream. Thinking this was odd, he began searching upstream to find some clue as to why the water was spoiled. He soon discovered a deer that had drowned and was stuck on the rocks, rotting in the water.

Continuing upstream, he found an appropriate space and made his camp before setting out in search of food. After beginning his search anew, he became disoriented. Night drew on, and a thick fog engulfed him. Though he had spent so much of his childhood beneath these very trees, their sight became less and less familiar. Before long, he could not see even beyond his hands and feet. Then, suddenly, his nose detected a foul, rancid smell, carried on a breeze from the north. He knew this smell, he had encountered it once before – Orks were near, and he was vulnerable. Following his instinct, he groped about until he found a large oak tree and quickly climbed onto a branch, high above. There he lay, quietly waiting for the danger to pass him by. He waited for hours as the darkness wore on; he was hungry and thirsty, but also very tired. Silently fashioning a rope from green branches, he tied himself to the tree and he slept into the next morning.

He awoke to the smell of smoke, wafting through the forest. The fog had lifted, and his keen eyes soon traced the wisps of smoke to their source, far in the distance – a small band of Orks were gathered around a fire, apparently eating. Armed only with a dagger he was little match for them. Considering his chances, he alighted from his perch, landing with a nearly imperceptible thud. The fog having passed, he gained his bearings without difficulty, and quickly made his way back downstream toward the deer carcass he had left the day before.

When he arrived at the site, he was curious to find that the deer was no longer in the stream but grazing on the long grass that grew by its banks. Puzzled, he mused to himself that his hunger might finally be getting the best of him. He followed the stream until he came to a small waterfall. Ascertaining that the water was safe enough, he drank his fill. Later that day he fashioned a trap for small game and tried to catch a fish which were swimming in the rushing waters but he was unable to catch anything to eat. Not knowing where to turn he asked the gods for their help, he prayed to Myrthai and Lorathai and when he was satisfied they had heard his call he gathered some leaves and lay upon them to rest.

Shortly after he was awoken by a bellowing call nearby and he pulled out his dagger and crept towards the sound. It was not unusual for male deer to call for their mates in the evening but this sound was much more ominous. He crept into a small clearing where he found one of the most magnificent sights he had ever seen. A huge white stage with magnificently ornamented antlers and about thrice his own size stood before him, its massive frame completely engulfing the young elf in its shadow.

“Welcome to my home, Oromë,” said the stag in a deep, soothing voice.

“Your call has been answered, and I am your prize. First, however, there is one thing I must teach you, and which you must pass on to all. There is an eternal balance among all creatures that dwell in the forest, and that balance must be kept. I offer you my flesh but you in turn must offer something to me.”

“But what can I offer you? I am grateful for your sacrifice but I do not have anything of value to you.”

“Oromë, the woods have no need for possessions; we are not like the other races that roam this world. We take life only to give it back. By giving you my flesh you are able to eat, this is my gift to you, but you too must give something of yourself in return.”

Very puzzled Oromë looked at the stag and did not know how to answer. Hating the thought of killing such a magnificent animal, he said, “I have nothing to give in return, I cannot accept your gift.”

To this the stag replied, “Yes, you do. Offer your own life in service to the protection this forest, and my sacrifice shall not be in vain. Your answer proves you are a true member of the wood. We do not kill for greed, only hunger and protection. Now I shall take you to a place where none of your kind has ever been, there you shall become a true member of the wood and you will learn to create life itself.”

The stag then led Oromë to a circle of trees deep within the woods, inside the circle the sun streamed through, and the grass was green and there were many flowers and small creatures scurrying about. In the center was a large rock with an inscription that was unlike any language he had ever seen. Around the base of the rock was an aromatic and most extraordinary purple flower which filled the clearing with a sweet and soothing perfume.

“Upon this rock is inscribed the law of the land; Life is taken and life will be returned. For every tree or flower that dies a new one takes its place keeping the balance and ensuring the survival of the wood. The gods have asked me to bestow upon you the ability to create and understand life so that you may maintain the balance as your people grow further into our lands. But you must also look outside your people for Mirendil is only a part of a world where progress is trampling life.”

When the stag finished speaking it raised its head and let out a loud bellow and the air and the animals inside the circle seemed to freeze. The sky turned dark and a blue light spilled out of the stag. Like the fingers of a lover the light caressed Oromë and wrapped around him until he was covered in a veil of light. Now the stag blew softly upon him and the blue light turned ever brighter and it swirled and danced around him as if he were caught in a whirlwind. The ritual was complete when the stag leapt upon the rock in the center of the clearing and let out a low and trembling bellow which shook the earth. A blinding white light erupted from the rock and then vanished taking the stag with it, soon after the light vanished from Oromë as well and he fell to the ground where he lay for two days. When he awoke the sun was on his face and the birds were singing but there was no sign of the stag and the inscription on the rock had faded. “A dream,” he said aloud, “nothing but a dream.” But when he stood he saw the purple flower that was near the rock and it was wilted. He bent down to touch it and could feel it was dying. Somehow he could feel what it needed so he poured some water near its roots and straightened the flower and as he was straightening the stem it grew and returned to the way it was before.

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20 May 2006 by Vadriel in Lore

That was the first time Oromë used his gift but it was certainly not the last. Soon after he returned to Charybdis and told the folk of his gift but they called him mad and he was forced to leave. Not much is known of him after this but there are stories and legends from travelers who have seen a man in the wood who could talk to the trees. Popular tavern stories between drunken friends and nothing more; or were they? Little did most people know was that these stories were based on actual accounts, true they have been morphed over time, minstrels had added verses and drunken men fantastic creatures. But as Dorundain heard the story again he began to wonder why they were so familiar. Perhaps because he had heard them since he was a boy; but today on his return from the trials of manhood there was something different about him; something that yearned to escape from deep within.

As he walked into his home his mother he realized he would now take his place as a man in his family and this thought scared him. Was he even ready to take his father’s place? Would he fail and tarnish his name, or would he be triumphant? Upon seeing the troubled look on his face when he entered his home Dorundain’s mother took him aside, away from the keen eras of the servants. She explained to him that today he would receive his inheritance but he should not expect much from it. “It’s just a chest full of papers and trinkets,” she told him. So Dorundain took the chest to his room; unpacked his things and then opened the chest half expecting his mother had been wrong and that it was full of gold. Much to his dismay his mother was right again; inside was a book, a few letters, a gold ring with his family’s crest and a diary. The book was a gift from his father who had passed during the civil war with the Ciel Fey and whom he was too young to remember. The letters were also from him and they outlined his right to his family’s wealth and a few essential things he should know to be a man. The ring was too small for his fingers, which were callused from his daily archery and fencing practice, so he put it on a chain around his neck. The diary was very old and many of the lines had faded away leaving only bits and pieces of writing which seemed to be accounts of daily events. There was no name on it nor was there any reference inside. On the cover was an embossed crest of a tree and an old form of Mirdain script he could not read.

Inside the diary were many diagrams of plants, flowers, trees and what appeared to be recipes for poultices and healing potions judging from the pictures that accompanied each inscription. There were also many pictures of animals of all shapes and sizes and what appeared to be detailed inscriptions and anatomic details of each, including some creatures which Dorundain had never seen or heard of before. However Dordundain’s inability to understand the ancient script did not deter him from memorizing the diagrams and he was able to decipher a few of the words and phrases thanks to the library in his home.

The more he could decipher and learn the more he wanted to learn, and after many months he was able to piece together the diary using clues from the letters. What he discovered astonished him; he was so excited to tell his mother that he began to run down the hallway to his mother’s chambers, when he found her he told his mother about the pictures and the writings of his forefather. His mother seemed all too calm when she heard the news. Then she smiled and said, “You’ve finally found your true inheritance. I have tried for many years to understand what was in that diary, then I gave up when I married your father but I kept asking myself what was so important about that diary that is was a family treasure. When I found out about who had written the diary it was too late for me to do anything about finding the lost city; I wasn’t so lucky as to find out for myself, your grandmother told me about Oromë but you were very young and your father was still alive so I could only hope that someday you would be able to finish what I had begun. Now I see that day has come and I wish you well on your journey. I only ask that you use the diary generously, for what is written there is very valuable to you but even more so to the world. Do not be selfish and keep the gift to yourself.” Dorundain promised he would not use it solely for his own benefit and then he vowed to his mother that he shall take her to the lost city when he finds it and that she shall be given the largest home with the most beautiful garden, on the highest point so that she may gaze at the whole city in one glance.

Not content with keeping this knowledge to himself and wanting to see the reaction of other mirdain, Dorundain began to share his discovery with friends and to strangers who overheard his conversations and were intrigued. Some however thought him a fool and paid no heed to his useless banter, while others were less skeptical and gave him support for his cause. At the time Dorundain had only the rediscovery of the ancient city in mind; plans for Oromëa and his own kingdom were not in his mind.

As Dorundain gained more and more influence, he began to have strange dreams of past, present, and perhaps the future. Many nights would he awaken in a cold sweat, the vision of a beautiful mirdain queen gazing into his eyes and smiling, still fresh in his mind. In his dreams he saw a sprawling city, vast woodlands and an overwhelming beauty the likes of which he had never thought possible. However, one night the dream was different. He saw not the incredible beauty of the mirdain queen, or the lush green woodlands. In its place he saw fire and doom. A black cloud hung in the air; he could hear screams from the city streets. He witnessed the final hours of the city he once longed to see. Then he felt as if someone was watching him, turning he saw the Hall of Kings, whose once pristine marble floors were now covered in crimson blood, the majestic statues of old kings lay broken on the ground and a dark figure whose gaze pierced his very soul. He awoke screaming, and while he reacquainted himself with his surroundings he could still see the vivid pictures of death as if he were still on the balcony on the Hall of Kings. As the sun rose, a dark red stained the sky, a sign of bloodshed. As he gathered his followers he spoke to them in a very determined voice that he was going to look for the city in his dreams. Many of his followers laughed and walked away. But a few, not as many as he had hoped, believed him and pledged their loyalty to him and their willingness to follow him on his quest.

So it began. For many years they roamed the lands searching through forest and plain, mountain and cave when finally they had exhausted their will to continue forth. They stopped in a small town and contemplated what they would do next. Some wanted to return to their homes, others to continue, all hope of finding the city seemingly lost. That night his dreams returned to him, and the beautiful queen whispered into his ear, “You, who are the last true king, come take back your throne. Let your once great people rise to glory once again.” The she kissed him on the cheek and vanished. When he awoke the next morning he had renewed strength and determination. He saddled his mount and told his remaining followers they could either stay or continue on with him. Having come so far they could not abandon him so easily and they too saddled their mounts and rode along side him.

Not long after they left the small town they came upon a great valley. The woods were eerily quiet and barren, the mounts refused to go forth and so the company continued on foot. After many hours of walking through the desolate woodland they came upon the ruins of a wall. The ruins were at the base of a mountain with steep cliffs forming walls on its sides. They looked upwards and the ruins stretched for a few miles. They looked at each other in wonder and slowly made their way forward. Everywhere they looked they saw death. Bones of children and adults lay on the ground, weapons strewn about the streets and the stench of rotting wood was heavy in the air. As they continued up the mountain they came across a large square surrounded by the ruins of what appeared to be shops and market vendors. The carts of visiting merchants still lay in the square rotting.

On the right was a long road that led to another square. About half the size of the market square this one had three very large buildings surrounding it. Unlike the other buildings in the city these seemed to still have a roof. As they walked into the first building they found long corridors of books, some of which had rotted from moisture, others which were written in ancient languages that died many centuries ago. In the center of the library was a statue of a mirdain with his arms raised towards the sky, a bow and quiver on his back, a hunting horn around his neck, and a small tree in his hands. The inscription was worn off and only a few letters were still legible of the last word O-M-E. The company began searching the library for anything which would help them decipher the inscription. They found nothing.

As they returned to the statue one of them found an inscription on one of the floor tiles. It read “True Knowledge Resides in the Heart of the King.” Looking at the statue they found a small depression on the chest of the man and when they pressed it the statue began to slide backward revealing a long staircase beneath it. As they walked down the stairs the smell of earth and wood filled their lungs and they reached a small room with tapestries depicting mirdain speaking to the trees and of lush woodlands. There was a bookcase along one of the walls. Many of those books were written in an ancient dialect. Their leader began to pick up and read the volumes hoping he could find some clue as to who these people were. After several hours of searching through the books he came across several pictures which interested him the most. One was of a plant with a complex set of instruction beside it, apparently growing instructions. Another he found more interesting. It was of a young mirdain much like the statue on the floor above. Below his picture was a name; OROMË. There was a caption beneath the name that read, “Oromë, devoted disciple of Myrthai and friend of the woods. Founder of the city Oromëa whose people are entrusted with his wisdom. All those who follow in his footsteps shall learn the secrets of life.” He was so excited to have discovered something about these people that he dropped the book and as it hit the floor the cover fell off. As he looked around to make sure nobody was looking he grabbed the cover and was about to put it back onto the pages when he saw some writing on the back of the last page. Unable to make out what it said he turned the cover over and found a detailed family tree of sorts. He did not recognize many of the names but the last line had two names which he found very familiar. He put the book and its cover in his pack then the company returned to the first floor and moved on to the next building.

A very large building overlooking the market square, it had two stone warriors guarding over its entrance. As they entered their leader felt an air of familiarity, as if he had been there before. Moving down the hall they came across two very large stone doors, and as they pushed them open they revealed the Hall of Kings. Their leader immediately drew his sword and looked for the dark figure. The other members of the company stared at him and finally entered the room after a few brief moments of awkwardness. Their leader sheathed his sword and walked towards the balcony. So changed was the land he recognized this place only by the mountains who withstood the test of time. He began to cry, his dreams had been true and he felt helpless. All that remained of his majestic city was a pile of rocks and bones.

That night they made camp in the library and they continued to look through the volumes in the room underneath the statue. As their leader was looking over the cover he finally remembered where he had seen the names on the last row of the family tree. He pulled out a piece of parchment which had his family tree on it. Parts of it were missing but one name was the same. He was skeptical at first and did not believe he could be a descendant of such a royal lineage. Then he remembered the dream he had the night before and the words the queen had spoken to him, yet he could still not convince himself. He spoke to the rest of his company and told them his dilemma. They cheered and made jokes about ‘undiscovered royalty’ but they all believed in him regardless. The only person he still had to convince was himself. He did not want such a responsibility, yet he realized if he did accept the fact he was a king he still had no kingdom to rule and thus it would be pointless to call himself a king.

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19 May 2006 by Vadriel in Lore

The next morning his company tried to convince him he was a true king but he still refused. As they made their way back to the valley the mist in the woods grew thicker and thicker until the company became separated. The leader began calling for his companions but no one answered. Walking back to the mountain in hopes of leaving the fog he saw a dark figure materialize in the fog and he drew his sword. The figure began to walk towards him and then it stopped. The deep resounding sound of a hunting horn reverberated in the valley and the company began to walk towards the sound. As they were reunited the figure stepped out from behind the cover of the mist and revealed himself. The company was in awe as the spirit Oromë walked towards them and looked at their faces. He looked from face to face until he stopped on their leader then he smiled and knelt down on his knee. In his hands he held a crown of wood and gold so beautiful no living man could have even fathomed its existence. He looked up and said, “Come, claim your crown and take your place as king.” When he did not move forward Oromë stood up and spoke again, “Come Dorundain, claim your crown.” Dorundain looked around at his company shocked and then took a few steps forward. Oromë then placed the crown on his head and left gifts at his feet. He gave Dorundain his hunting horn, his sword, a book, and a sapling. To the sapling he pointed and said, “No gift is as precious as the gift of life. Always return in proportion to what you take and you will be a successful king.” Next he pointed to the book, “Knowledge is a great gift, but those who keep it selfishly never learn the true rewards of what they have learned.” Then he pointed to the sword, “A man cannot call himself pure if he uses his sword to save himself instead of saving others. To die in battle is a great honor, but to give your life in place of that of another is an even greater honor.” Finally he pointed to the horn, “Its call shall strike fear in the hearts of your prey, whether man or beast, and sound true in all places. A wise king will always speak clear and true and for this he shall be loved. These are my gifts, Dorundain, may you re-forge this once great city and bring life where life has been taken.”

Then he turned and vanished as quickly as he had appeared. The words still hung in the air and the members of the company were speechless. Then they knelt on their knees and pledged loyalty to their new king.

As they returned to the mountain city, their city, a dark presence was lurking in the shadows. It followed them to the outer wall of the city and then stopped dead in its tracks. Unable to move forward it shrieked in anger and the company turned to find a black figure struggling against an invisible force in the air. Perhaps the return of the king had awoken an ancient spirit or perhaps it was merely an illusion. This mattered not to the company who had a new purpose. They were to rebuild and restore the city and the teachings of Oromë to their once great power.

Overwhelmed with the gargantuan task ahead they decide to split up and look for others to join their cause while Dorundain remained in the city to piece together the history and knowledge of his people. A daunting task for one man but one whose rewards vastly outweighs the effort. Sadly, many of the books were incomprehensible or had decayed through the many years of neglect; however, the books in the Hall of Oromë, the room beneath the statue, were still in excellent condition due to their location. They contained information on many varieties of plants, their uses and growing instructions as well as their magical properties. While this was most interesting, Dorundain was seeking another form of wisdom, in fact the very words of Oromë which had been transcribed into a doctrine which his followers obeyed to the letter. There were many references to such a doctrine in many of the books he read but he was unable to find a complete source. He wondered if perhaps they were verbal rules passed from generation to generation or whether they were kept in another location in the city. Dorundain then went back to the library and examined the gifts of Oromë. At the time he did not know what to do with so many gifts so he kept them hidden and continued with his work.

The days end was drawing near, the long day of reading and searching had made him very weary and he was more than happy to rest. As he drifted into deep sleep a vision of vast green woodlands and clear skies welcomed him. The vision of a new republic cam to him in his dream, one that would transcend Charybdis and the Ciel Fey; a republic forge upon the principles of old to protect Mirendil and all living inhabitants of its cities and woodlands. As the dream vanished and the night sky faded before the golden rays of the sun Dorundain awoke well rested and serene. He walked through the ruins of the city and down into the valley. It had only been a day or so since his company left to recruit people to their cause, hoping there would be a few who would come.

Turning back towards the city Dorundain saw the rays of sunlight bath the library and Great Hall in orange light, a vision which seemed to restore his hope in finding the words of Oromë. He searched again in the library for many hours, and then he strolled through the Great Hall to clear his mind when he realized what he was searching for would be in the most obvious place of all, a place where all citizens could read the wisdom. Running down the road to the Market Square he searched for a large statue or monument of sorts where he assumed the people of the city would have inscribed their laws. He found no such statue and as he crossed the square towards the road to the library he found himself staring at what he was looking for. The wall of the mountain, which served as a base for the Great Hall and upper level, was carved with massive stone pillars, which neither he nor his company had thought to examine. As he walked closer he could see inscriptions which had faded heavily over the years and he began to piece together what he could.

It was very difficult for Dorundain to decipher the words carved into the pillars but he finally managed to do so after a month of scrutinizing every inch of the pillars. Overjoyed by his accomplishment he celebrated with what little wine he had left in his supplies and walked down into the valley towards the river to swim. As he did so he heard the sound of hoof beats towards the east. He quickly dressed and hid in the woods to catch a glimpse of the strangers. But as they drew closer he recognized one of the mirdain as one of his company and he quickly ran forward to greet them. A good number of mirdain followed him from the towns in the east and the valleys in the south. The republic was beginning to take shape with the first wave of people joining their cause.

The arrival of the last member of the company in the following weeks gave cause for a celebration. The original company was reunited and they had brought with them many men and women who had already begun rebuilding the outer wall and some of the homes in the lower levels of the city. Dorundain then revealed his discovery of the words of Oromë to the people, and they cheered as they had the last piece of their republic fell into place.

Over the next few years Dorundain contemplated his position as sole ruler of his people. The city was nearly completed but there was still much to do. Alone he could not accomplish the many awaiting tasks, so he created a high council to help in governing the affairs of Oromëa. They came to be known as the Lathruin, and each willing member of the original company was given a seat on the council for their hard work and dedication. Dorundain also distributed the gifts of Oromë to the council leader of the appropriate section. The small tree Oromë had given him he planted in the Market Square for all to see. As the tree grew taller and taller so did the Oromëa and the once great city which had been silent for many years came alive, the woodlands in the valley below, aided by the skilled druids of Oromë, began to grow and the green leaves and young

Trees erased the memories of death. As the evening sun shone its last rays across the valley a light wind began to blow through the valley towards the darkness. It carried with it the sweet scent of freedom and unity into lands far beyond the horizon. To some it was just an evening breeze, but to those who could smell the fragrant perfume it carried it was a calling to their one true home, the city in the rock of a majestic mountain surrounded by nature and the knowledge of life.

18 May 2006 by Vadriel in Lore