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This thread is meant for the creative writers among us to create a lore for the strange land Elvenar. Enjoy, read and share.
The very first chapter of the entrance of my people the Rognarin.
‘Ah Olg! Come, close the door. You don’t want me to catch a cold.’ The man closed the door.
The storyteller sat near the hearth of the busy tavern. ‘My tale is of long ago when we Rognarin entered the land Elvenar closely followed by those southern men called Arduï.’ The storyteller was a old man. He was older than anyone else in the village. He prided himself with the age of two hundred years old, yes he was still as able as if he was thirty.
‘I was already a Skald. I always looked for wonders which had ceased to exist in our homeland. We were under the banner of Skjoll Stoneshield who fought for our freedom in our homeland. We came here with women and children and horses and oxen. Everything we owned was loaded into our ships.
This land was peaceful and quiet, deer calmly walked among us.’ The storyteller grinned. ‘Ah they have learned to fear us. After our journey across the sea we didn’t have much food left, but we didn’t dare to disturb the land, Yet. We traveled land inward searching a good place to settle and found a good piece of land some days from the shore.
It was on a hill with a large hell hole protecting us from two sides and mountains protected another. Large forests covered the farside and strange statues were erected along the hellhole. They were large men clad in strange armor, an elaborate bucket adorned their faceless heads.
We build the very first version of our main hall. It was simple enough, a large hut made of logs. We cut the trees from the forest. I remember first seeing one of the Dökkálfar, the elves, when the first tree had fallen. It was a man with a long face and large pointy ears tipped with red. His body was colored light blue unlike the deep shade of blue they now have. A week after our main hall was finished they came. They shot arrowss at us.’
The storyteller pointed at Olg. ‘It was your grandfather who died that day. A sword fell down and cut him. Arrows fell among us and we retreated to our hall. Skjoll kept the door closed by himself. Strong like an ox, that was him, that's where the saying came from. We saw the Dökkálfar surrounding us.
A masked swordsman spoke in a language which resembled the Arduïn tongue. “Leave our lands now or suffer the consequences.” As beautiful as the song of a bird he spoke. Of course we ignored him, we were home now. And we could not reach Rogar's mead hall if we didn't die with a sword in our hands.'
The storyteller smiled. ‘They were the good times. Come back tomorrow Norg. And Olg, I guess you have no reason to come. Ardro, you scoundrel don’t steal from the owner. You will not live to hear the end of my tales.’ The storyteller rested and started plaiting his long grey beard.
The very first chapter of the entrance of my people the Rognarin.
‘Ah Olg! Come, close the door. You don’t want me to catch a cold.’ The man closed the door.
The storyteller sat near the hearth of the busy tavern. ‘My tale is of long ago when we Rognarin entered the land Elvenar closely followed by those southern men called Arduï.’ The storyteller was a old man. He was older than anyone else in the village. He prided himself with the age of two hundred years old, yes he was still as able as if he was thirty.
‘I was already a Skald. I always looked for wonders which had ceased to exist in our homeland. We were under the banner of Skjoll Stoneshield who fought for our freedom in our homeland. We came here with women and children and horses and oxen. Everything we owned was loaded into our ships.
This land was peaceful and quiet, deer calmly walked among us.’ The storyteller grinned. ‘Ah they have learned to fear us. After our journey across the sea we didn’t have much food left, but we didn’t dare to disturb the land, Yet. We traveled land inward searching a good place to settle and found a good piece of land some days from the shore.
It was on a hill with a large hell hole protecting us from two sides and mountains protected another. Large forests covered the farside and strange statues were erected along the hellhole. They were large men clad in strange armor, an elaborate bucket adorned their faceless heads.
We build the very first version of our main hall. It was simple enough, a large hut made of logs. We cut the trees from the forest. I remember first seeing one of the Dökkálfar, the elves, when the first tree had fallen. It was a man with a long face and large pointy ears tipped with red. His body was colored light blue unlike the deep shade of blue they now have. A week after our main hall was finished they came. They shot arrowss at us.’
The storyteller pointed at Olg. ‘It was your grandfather who died that day. A sword fell down and cut him. Arrows fell among us and we retreated to our hall. Skjoll kept the door closed by himself. Strong like an ox, that was him, that's where the saying came from. We saw the Dökkálfar surrounding us.
A masked swordsman spoke in a language which resembled the Arduïn tongue. “Leave our lands now or suffer the consequences.” As beautiful as the song of a bird he spoke. Of course we ignored him, we were home now. And we could not reach Rogar's mead hall if we didn't die with a sword in our hands.'
The storyteller smiled. ‘They were the good times. Come back tomorrow Norg. And Olg, I guess you have no reason to come. Ardro, you scoundrel don’t steal from the owner. You will not live to hear the end of my tales.’ The storyteller rested and started plaiting his long grey beard.
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