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These pages are made up of bits and pieces of a land I call Elandalor. Elandalor has been in my mind, and on paper, for many decades now. Over that time, when I got the chance, I wrote down the thoughts and ideas running around in my head. Then, alas, other thoughts took their place.
I started this website so I could begin to finally view the pieces together and to try to pull all the separate stories into one narrative. So if you happen upon this site, and take the time to read what is written within, please pardon the chaos.
I’ve never had the confidence, or comfort, in letting others read what I’ve written. In a way putting my words out onto the Internet seems to keep it a little less personal. Since odds are I do not know who you are. Thus your only feedback may be in never visiting this site again.
I hope you do. I keep adding content as I convert stories from handwritten copies to digital form. As I see the land and its history coming together I will begin adding new sections containing, what I hope, will be more fulfilling and complete stories.
Thank You.
Western realm of the long faded Kingdom of Galeran, adjacent to the Turquoise Sea. Once mankind had dominated the lands of Verimar and their center of power was the Kingdom of Galeran, named for the first king of Verimar, Galeran of Grieves..
Mankind lust for power and greed for riches brought upon themselves the Four Wars. They battled the Elves of Mier, dwarves of the MidReach Mountains, orcs from the northern wastes, and the Welkins in the southern lands. Never satisfied with what they had they took lands from those around them until the other races banded together and decimated the race of mankind.
Driven to the western most shores they finally sued for peace and were allowed to live in the lands called E’landalor. With the orcs to the north, Welkin to the south, and dwarves and elves to their east, they settled into a barely subsistent life, hunting fishing, and trying to rebuild their lives, to survive. Driven from mankind was greed or the lust for power. Their time was spent in surviving.
Ages passed, history forgotten. The written word was finally being rediscovered, or really re-invented. As larger towns grew they were visited by the elf and dwarf races who ensured mankind would never again raise to threaten them again. Yet some cities did grow, and maintain peaceful with the other races. Mostly through trade in metals, woods and hides. After centuries passed some dwarves and elves settled in with men, and they prospered. The orcs slowly reverted to their barbarous past, with the worship of their war gods. The Welkin all but seem to disappear for nothing was heard from their lands in an age. None who travelled there ever returned, until none would venture into their former lands.
“Of all things the blank page is the hardest to defeat. Those, whose soul are as empty and as blank as this parchment before words were set down upon it, those are the ones most difficult to defeat.”
Endarian Cross (before the winter age)
Talmakie looked across the plains of Wain for his foe as these words drifted into and out of his waking thoughts. “How do I fight the foe of which I know nothing”, were his thoughts. Several hundred of his men lay dead or dying upon that plain and it seemed he had learned nothing. His breath was now ragged in his throat, his arms and chest ached from exertion, blood tricked from a half dozen small nicks and wounds. Yet he felt no pain, his heart beat too fast to feel anything.
From the Chronicles of Chaydion Pain
Introductions if you please.
Maylin, is a women of younger years. By that I mean I do not know how old she truly is. She is a powerful, yet secretive, mage of illusion, and guile. Her favorite disguise is as a small child, for in her heart the child yet beats. She still sees wonder in the world, long after she has dealt with much of the pettiness, and the evil of creatures in it.
Serra, to some a small cat, to other a great panther. To yet others she is something far more! She is a cat of many surprises. I’ll let you discover more about her in our story.
Grandma Heth is, to all appearance, an elegant elderly lady of strong will and intelligence. She is much more than that, believe me. Some might caller her a witch, others a healer, she is of the earth, land, sky and water.
Barg – A small fishing village on the southern shores of Lake Argent. A peaceful place where all the problems of the wider world hold no sway. This is because Barg, unknown by the people who live there, is under the protection of three powerful creatures, Heth, Maylin, and Serra.
It was completely by chance that these three should all meet in Barg. That, I’ll tell you, is an exciting tale in itself! But that is not the story we are going to tell here. This story takes place some years after the three had arrived and settled comfortably in Barg.
A lost boy, and avenging king, and the growing presence of evil all spin and swirl together around Lake Argent. Before long the sleepy little fishing village will become the center of this conflict. Heth, Maylin and Serra try hard to protect Barg without revealing who, and what, they are. Yet such a conflict imposes its costs upon all, and most upon these three.
To what end? We shall see…………..
From the Chronicles of Chaydion Pain
“All can learn to recognize evil, few are born to recognize it, to feels its presence. Those that fail to perceive it oft fall into evils grasp, though they profess their actions are for the good of all. Watch for this evil above the others as it is not easy to perceive, but entraps the easiest” Azur the Mage.
“How many nights has it been?” he wondered to himself.
Coran knelt on his tobbed rug and lifted his eyes to the heavens. The stars shown like diamonds as they lay in a deep purple cloth. Not a cloud marred the view and the moon feared to shows its light. Only the faint breeze in the trees gave rustle to the dried leaves for nothing else stirred, not beast nor insect. It was as if all in that place were at prayer. All around the Shrine of Sacrifice there was only silence.
An Adventure Starts
Tamashere carefully peered around the corner of the hall, his back to the wall, his eyes straining in the dark for any sign of movement. His heart was beating wildly in his chest while he did his best to keep his breathing as steady as possible. He was sure that Shadinar could hear him no matter how quiet he tried to be.
“Damn Sherie, this was a fools quest”, Tam muttered under his breath. One more, quick glance behind him and Tam rounded the corner. Let what was to come, come. Long ago, at least it seemed long ago, he had lost track of his way in the dark corridors of Hales Keep. “Where is that she-elf”, he thought.
The old scribes hands shook as he slowly dipped the quill, the veins of age stood out around his gnarled fingers. Yet the tip of the quill set gentle into the ink, then back upon the paper. Slowly the letters took form, those forms became words, and the words became sentences. At each stroke of the quill the old scribe’s life ebbed a little more. Soon there would be no life left to create the letters, to write the story.
“Master Tobius” a gentle voice called. “You must rest Master for it is late. Tomorrow you can finish what you have started today. Please Master.” The old man did not listen, instead the quill slowly made its way across the parchment. A young man stepped into the light of the candles as they burned brightly upon the writers’ small desk. “Master Healer will surely be angered if he hears I did not make sure you got your rest. Please Master lie down and rest.” the young man pleaded with his teacher.
Without a word the old scribe set his quill down and turned to look to the young man, a boy in his eyes. “It is done Chaydion. It is done” His eyes closed a moment, then he raised his hands as Chaydion stepped forward. “No, there is no time to rest for me Chaydion. My story is complete, the history has been told.” The man turned to cough and again raised his hands to bring Chaydion to a halt. “My life is at its end lad, surely you must know that. The guild of Sorasmir is no more, but its history has been recorded. I have done my task. Now I can rest.” With that the old scribe tried to stand, but his legs would no longer hold him. Before he could fall Chaydion was at his side and helped the man to his bed.
Rogue Moon
From the Chronicles of Chadian Pain
“It again becomes legend, myth, stories told deep in the night to the flicker of the hearth. How soon the land forgets, heals, and hides the ravager. We must be the ones to remember, to not allow even the myths to fade.”
Torien'dnar 1018
Monmenth entered to Shade Tree Inn with a reluctance uncommon for the big, burly farmer. This day was one he had hoped would not come. Not in his, his children's, or even in his great grandchildren’s lifetime. Yet the signs were there each night. The Covent had met, discussed, debated, and finally agreed. Now Monmenth had to inform the villagers of Deepwell.
How do I tell them their life as they know it is soon to end?” he thought as he paused at the steps of the inn. “How to I tell my wife!”. The thought came like a shock, thrusting Monmenth a couple of steps back from the inn. His unborn son.......
Jalar again read the words in the tome. Repeating each carefully as he tried to determine their meaning. Somehow, as he read each word, his skin tingled. He could feel the energy and power of the words coursing through his body. He did not know for sure how or why this was happening to him. He had to learn more.
It had been several months now since he found this book lying in the ruins of a long forgotten tower. For a while it sat in his study unread, then one day, as he was returning from a visit to his friend Arques Montforts home near Roe, he came upon a stranger sitting on the side of the road.
“Hail Friend”, said the stranger as Jalar rode near. “Pray stop and give a traveler some news of this land?” he asked in a voice that seemed to put Jalar at ease. “The sun is not long off from setting and perhaps you have not had chance to eat”, the man continued. Jalar had been thinking, just moments before, of where he might stop for the night. It was still another good day’s ride before he reached his home. “Odd”, Jalar thought, “That this stranger should be here, now.”
Tal awoke with a splitting headache as the morning sun filled the room. The sounds of horses and men moving about the compound rang in his head like a drum from the open window to the east. Tal tried to raise himself up from the bed to look about, but the world began to spin so he chose wisely to lay back down.
A cool, damp cloth was laid across his forehead; the coolness taking some of the bit away from his headache. “Sire?” came a gentle voice. Tal opened his eyes and tried to focus on the source of the voice. Again the world began to spin before he could determine its origin. “Rest then”, the gentle voice said as Tal felt a small weight lift from the bed. He drifted off to sleep.
Tals sleep was filled with odd, haunting, visions of ocs, hundreds of orcs all hunting him down. >He ran with all his strength, but each footstep was an age in coming. The air seemed as thick as tree sap, not letting him pass or letting him flee. Always the ocs were upon him; their wicked curved blades and black arrows seemed as instant death had arrived. Tal awoke.
The last rays of the sunlight slowly faded as the sun settled behind the western foothills. Here and there the gentle swells of the sea caught the fading light and shimmered briefly. The storm had passed. A calm, quite sea now lapped the shores in a hypnotic rhythm. The air smelled salty fresh, the harbor docks gleamed from the storms cleansing. The only others sounds were the calls of the gulls and the wind passing through the pines on its way south
The suns light still caught the upper parts of the tallest structures, the lighthouse, the eastern watch tower, and the very end of the docks. Soon the village lights would begin to shine as each hut, shop and home lit their way candles. The bounty of the sea ensured all had way candles, lit to ward away spirits and welcome guests
The lands that make up Tamaland Isle have long been at peace. There are no wars, no battles, for there are no kingdoms, no empires or lands held by force. Though things were once that way. Ages, many ages ago, large and terrible battles had been fought across the land. North to south, east to west. So many died, so much was lost. Those who coveted power and land soon were slain and the people found that they no longer new why they fought. There was too much to do just to live, to survive. They dropped their weapons and forgot about warring, and differences. They went back to their lives. Soon the world forgot about Tamaland Isle. It became a place lost among the myths and stories of a distant past.
More.....The battle raged on as the sun began to set lower and lower in the blood red sky. Of the once great army of Lord Tarken, nearly a thousand strong, only a few now remained. Kern looked to that sky and for the briefest of moments thought upon its beauty. Of the high wisps of clouds sailing peacefully by. Uncaring, unknowing of the pitch battle below, of the waning hopes of mankind.
My name be Jasper Angus and I be a person free. No two sweeter words there be than person, and free. Aye, I know ya look at me to see an old man who's clothes look the worse for wear. Me pipe be nicked, blackened from years of use. If you could see the bottom of me boots the soles are thin fer sure.
The land of Call-Wilder is the region in the northeast reaches of a greater land named Elandalor. It is not the farthest reaches of this world, but is nearly the farthest north men have built settlements. It consists of large, flat stretches of tundra and grasslands, broken up by huge jagged mountain ranges. There are sparse areas of forests and stunted wilder trees, which resemble cedar trees. The weather is harsh and cold most of the year, with a couple of brief months of warmer weather.
I am sorry, but the original forum platform has decided to quite functioning when I upgraded my server. So I am currently looking into a new forum platform.