[center][h1] Shadowwald [/h1][/center]

No one knew why Goren Joquinal has abandoned the surface elves, those he had sworn to protect and serve. He had clawed his way from the status of Low-Born, birthed in the muck and mire of the forest, amongst the dead trees and scattered bones. He had risen from his status to become a warmaster among the Elves, answering only to the Queen, herself. Some said she had taken him as a lover, frolicking like an adolescent human who was only now discovering her sexuality. She had kept him close, oh so very close to her person. Without fail, day by day, he stood to her left - an advisor, a bodyguard. 

This status was unusual for one born as him, to an exiled father and a commoner mother. Neither of them, despite his rise, had been given leave of past transgressions, and were not afforded permission to hold ceremony for his birth. The Low Born were not expected to rise above their station, paltry soldiers and field workers, meant to live and die in the dregs of service. 

But Goren was a dreamer, he toiled the earth as a child to provide for the Queen and those born above him, but never lost sight of what they had. 

From his first skirmish, to his last day, he had seemingly served with unwavering loyalty, the same as his mother, and the same as his father. By the time the new Queen had taken control over the vast Elven people, Goren had risen as high as a Low Born could have, but yet he did not lose his hope. 

Those among the Elves that could sense such things, would tell tales to future generations that his heart was as cold as the harsh winter's of the northern lands, an almost palpable aura. He displayed no otherwise affinity to manipulate the element of frost, but those around him often weaved tales that the wind seemed to possess a chill in his presence. 

The old and the mystic thought that the God's were foreshadowing something with him, yet would never reveal their hand. 

[Right]--- Shadowwald
Gundwain Sahfal[/right]

[H1][center]The Moving [/center][/H1]

The Moving, a roving sector of the Resistance, formerly stationed in the middle of Allaria, had repositioned itself to the outskirts of the northern region. The winds here bit with cold, as the wind drove the freezing temperatures of the mountains down range. To make matters worse,  a light rain had captured the region, and for the last two days had not left them without it's embrace. Still, morale was high - a nearly disastrous mission had turned into an unbridled success, as a group of four turned five had infiltrated a very secure prison and extracted a Warlord who had been held there for years. 

Szazah, a man who manipulated string to construct runes, was a prized capture by the Apotheoses, his knowledge of the Resistance would have proven invaluable had they been able to break him. What he would never reveal, is that they have very well come close. He had seen them kill his father. 

And by the terrible magic of the one named Ivan, he had seen it over and over again, as though trapped in a infernal illusion that refused to end. 

The smile on his face as a fraud, his mind was wrecked from the constant torture, yet one light of hope illuminated the darkness that had become his thoughts. 

The Shadowwald.

They were the subject of this meeting now, a race of Elf that had been seen so rarely since their inception that many considered the lore, and their very existence, to be fabrication at the least, and a hoax at the worst. But Szazah had held on to the stories that had been told to him between rounds of torture, as though they were the only things that kept him tethered to the chance of a better future. 

[color=00aeef][B]Szazah, long have you been a pillar of the Moving, and moreso, the Resistance itself,[/b][/color] started a rough looking beastkin that resembled a anthromorphic fish-man. His name was Drapood Rripp. Known throughout the lands of a zealot who feverishly believed in the Beastkin God. 

Szazah shook his head, this was the third time since he had been reached that Drapood had fought to reject his idea, but it would not be the third time that it succeeded. 

[color=39b54a] [B]We have consistently been on the ropes since our campaign has started. Groups have won skirmishes, waged minor wars, and have seen successes in small doses. But our legions are spread too thin, our forces too undisciplined, even with all our warlord knowledge. 

We need all the help we can muster! Friends of this deciding body, I am not asking for a large group. I am not asking that we risk more than absolutely necessary. But this is a chance we cannot pass up, and we cannot, and must not, allow the Apotheoses to gain their favor before us. Whether they do so through diplomatic means, or by force, the Apotheoses strengthened by a group that has managed to go hidden this long, is an Apotheoses we cannot combat.[/b][/color]

A small murmur raised in the group before him. His sad eyes, haunted by his former memories of imprisonment, gazed upon each of them. Drapood began to speak, but Szazah was ready for this. The zealot could not be allowed to stop him. 

[color=39b54a][B]Already, they are too strong for us to defeat in minor battles. No, what will be their downfall, is a war waged on the grand scale. What we do from here on out must be aimed at crippling their impressive might. A leader here, a leader there. Ivan and Falden will be the toughest; a great healer and his leader. One who can cast illusions and one whose very existence is told only in a few tales of bards. 

The Shadowwald, a myth or not, must be found. Or at the very least, we must confirm they do not exist. Either is to our advantage. Already, I have secured a team, members of the Moving that have shown promise. Please, allow my team to undertake this campaign. It'll offer minimal risk to the Moving.[/b][/color]

Behind the table, the almost sickening sound of slapping fish skin greeted him in response. Drapood had a need to heal himself due to his persistence to stay out of water. 

Szazah waited not for a response, even if he needed to send them out without permission, he would. Rripp would not be the downfall of the Moving. No sooner than he was fifteen feet away from the council tent, a friendly hand placed itself on his shoulder. It was a man known only as the Old Codger. Always around with a friendly smile on and off the battlefield, that hid the almost god-like military might that danced in his mind. 

[color=f7941d][B]You can't keep letting that fish get to you. We agreed, one short of unanimous, that you will be allowed to dispatch this team. However, we can offer little help.[/b][/color]

Happiness threatened to pierce the darkness that only hope had done in weeks past. Szazah nodded, and headed off to his tent, where his group would be meeting within the hour. 

The hustle and bustle of the Moving sang out, despite the dreary rain. Weapons were being forced under the cover of canvas, vendors were hawking their merchandise hoping to make enough gold to leave the Moving. Szazah passed them all and reached his tent, pushing back the flap, to reveal that nothing was in there except a solitary candle, a small table, and blankets off in a corner. That was the life he had become accustomed too. The hard life, perhaps soon this would break. 

He reached beneath the blankets and revealed a bundle of maps and documents, as well as a bottle of cheap spirits, that promised to both burn the throat and provide a deep drunkeness by the end of the bottle.

He poured himself a cup, and winced at the harsh taste. It was now a waiting game, would they arrive? If so, could they be entrusted with this deeply important mission?

[b]Summary: [/b] Szazah fights for permission to begin this Shadowwald Campaign. While there is some resistance, he is ultimately given leave.