The story of an elf far from home.
Etel, Green-Souled, traveled to the land of the Wild Men. His tree had fallen ill with bone-sickness, a grim tiding. Etel’s green soul had been stained red, and in time he would be consumed. And so, he had traveled here, to the cliff above the corpse of the Walking Island, for the men here had fought against the bonesick dog-men and the plague that traveled with them since the day it had arrived.
Upon seeing him, the leader of the Wild Men, a woman by the name of Balar, approached. Her armor was a coat of scars, and even at rest, Etel could see the crimson god flare within her chest.
“It is not often the Tree folk come down here, to the wasteland of blood,” Balar said, voice hoarse from screaming. “There are no trees here. The mad ones have torn them apart. Sap is blood, and they starve.”
Etel did not respond at first, walking to the ridge. Below, the world was inflamed and tumorous, the rotting mass of the butchered dragon rising like a mountain on the coast. The scar in the earth extended, like it was sinking into the earth itself, like a thing alive while still clearly dead.
“My tree is ill. The bone-sickness spreads, even with no bones to corrupt,” Etel said. “My people have no knowledge of this. I have come to learn how to remove it.”
“It cannot be removed,” Balar responded, sparing not even a glance as she shattered Etel’s hopes. “It grows quickly, spreads to the heart. To remove it is to kill the creature.”
“This cannot be!” Etel explained, aghast at this. “This corruption can be undone. I will not-”
Balar struck him then, red flames flaring along her arms.
“Denial will not help you. Not here,” she said, marching over, standing over Etel, laying in the blood-soaked mud. “All men hold the god of blood within them. It is a jealous god. It covets blood from others, and wishes to hoard it all within. It is the heat in your heart when I struck you. The sickness cannot be removed because it is part of you. It only grows stronger.”
Etel struggled to stand, flaring with green soul-fire. In his clan, he was known as the Emerald Archer, for his soul was grand, keen of eye and strong of limb. As he moved for his bow, he could feel the blood rushing into his heart. His soul was aflame, and he knew his tree grew only more changed. A twisted thing, just like he was doomed to become.
“I cannot be…this!” Etel bellowed, anguish in his voice. “I will not!”
Balar stood before him, eyes flaring. And in that moment, he saw her soul unfurl. A tapestry of crimson flame, like wings rising up above her, bladed and terrible. But even as he saw it, Etel’s will faltered. For even in that corruption, he saw something.
An angel.
He dropped his bow, bowing, as the warrior approached, looking down at him as he wept.
“How…how are you…”
She put a hand on his shoulder. Even as the red flames erupted along her hands, he didn’t feel pain. The scars on her body glowed like a furnace as she stood.
“Leash it. The beast. Let it out when it roars, when you cannot stand by. Find the things in this world that deserve your wrath and unleash it upon them. But only when you call upon it. This is the path of blood. It is a grim path, but it is the only one before you, except for savagery.”
Etel stood, numbly looking out over the battlefield.
“…Why do you fight? Balar, of the wasteland. Angel of blood.”
Balar marched away, headed back towards her fire.
“So one day, nobody else will have to.”
Etel followed. In time, he learned the ways of the Wild Men, and their power. How to harness the raging soul within and fight the beasts that spread this corruption. He learned storm-song, the ways of the beasts, and the zealous drive that kept Balar and her companions alive.
Etel never returned to the forests of his youth. In time, he fell in battle. But that day, it is said, he rose, a mightier and more powerful tree than any in his homeland. A tree of blades and blood, that rose on the ridge, forever standing vigil over the blighted lands.
Strike The Horizon 