​Translated from "Tales of the Ættgardtfólk," Various Authors, c. 750, Gularth Library.

ON HIS BIRTH

And so it came to pass in the lands of the Jónfuglfólk that a fisherman's wife found herself unable to bear a child. And her husband beat her mercilessly for her inability to produce an heir, and she wept and prayed to all the spirits that she might conceive a child. Alas, no spirit would hear her entreaties, and as she entered her thirtieth year, she sought the aid of the village shaman. And the shaman spoke with the spirits, and anon told her that she would ne'er bear a child from her womb, and that she would never know the joy of holding her own flesh in her arms.

The woman fled at these words, dashing aimlessly through the forest, half-blinded by her tears. And she found herself at the bank of a mighty, ice-filled river, and when she saw she could run no further, she threw herself upon its icy shores and wept bitterly. And ere she wept, a fish as large as a man broke the surface of the icy water. The fish had scales as white as the purest snow, with eyes like twin sapphires. As the woman watched, the fish beached itself upon the shore, flopping pathetically. The woman took pity on the fish and pushed it back into the water, but lo! the fish once more pushed itself upon the shore. Again the woman tried to save the poor creature, but the fish, for the third time, jumped upon the shore, flopping thrice more before laying still. And the woman, bemused, watched as the fish did split itself asunder, each half peeling back like a bear's pelt under a sharp knife. The woman watched as the fish's carcass parted completely, then lay still upon the rocky shore. In its center, curled against the cold, was an infant child.

The woman hurried forth and gathered the child in her arms, and as she watched the child opened its eyes and gazed upon her. His eyes were as blue as the sea in midwinter, and upon his brow was a single tuft of snow-white hair. The woman could feel uncommonly powerful muscles rippling beneath his pale skin, and as the boy gazed up at her, he made no cry, simply gazing at her as if appraising her.

The woman seemed to realize immediately what he wished, and put the child to her breast, though she knew she had no milk to give. But as she did so, lo! the child began to suckle, and was nourished by milk flowing forth as though she had sired three children before him. And as the child fed, she gazed upon him, and declared, "Aye, child, you are a gift from the spirits. I shall raise you as my own son, and you shall grow strong as one of the Jónfuglfólk." And when she returned home with the child, her husband was at first furious until the boy turned his eyes on the man, fixing him with that same piercing gaze. And the fisherman immediately declared the boy his son, bestowing upon him the name Medwig, and declaring that he would go forth in the world and perform great deeds.

ON HIS CHILDHOOD

Medwig grew swiftly into a most remarkable young lad. He was strong enough to wrestle boys twice his age, swift enough to outrun the village dogs, and he e'er had a solemn demeanor, caring little for the amusements and diversions of other children. While others were delighted by a jangling chime or a simple song, Medwig wished to study war at the chieftain's table. When the children would go climbing trees, Medwig ventured alone into the mountains, oft seeking adventure on his own.

Yet there was one game that held Medwig's interest, when the other lads would engage in mock battles. 'Twas often that one founds the boys on opposite sides of a snowy field, armed with sticks and simple wooden shields in twin lines, sparring with one another until all were breathless and bruised. Medwig was scarce allowed to participate, as the other children mocked him, and called him Fishchild, for his birth and his parentage. Medwig scarce reacted to these insults, until one eve near dusk.

Medwig set foot upon the field of battle and took up a wooden stick. Ignoring the cries and jeers of his fellow children, he issued forth a challenge, that he would stand solitary against all who wished to take up arms against him. At this, the other children laughed, but the solemn look upon Medwig's face convinced them that he spoke truly. Thus, the other children arrayed themselves against Medwig, save one. A scrawny, black-haired youth took up a wooden shield and declared they would stand at Medwig's back. Medwig protested, but the youth simply said, "One cannot cover all angles at once, and I shall not deny you your glory. I merely stand here to protect you from a dishonorable assassin's blade while you challenge the true warriors before you."

Medwig reluctantly relented, and with a cry, dared his opponents to challenge him. The boys dashed across the snowy field, and their bloodthirsty shouts startled the crows and foxes watching, for they knew not to stray too close to stray warriors. At first the boys attacked Medwig one at a time, but he deftly parried their blows and sent them away with strikes to the head, chest, or backside. Then they assaulted him in pairs, to no avail. Packs of three, four, five advanced on him, but each time Medwig held his ground and knocked them back. Those that assaulted the sides and back were halted by the sure shield of the black-haired youth, who defended Medwig's back ere he could turn his weapon on them as well. Dusk faded into night, and yet Medwig and his companion had no marks upon them, while the other boys grew more bruised and more tired. Anon, they collapsed upon the snowy ground, beaten and exhausted, and Medwig called the battle to a halt.

"You have been defeated by me, and as victor, it is my right to set the terms of your surrender," Medwig announced. "Therefore, I hereby declare you members of my warband. You who stand before me are true warriors, and you shall be my companions, members of my shield wall and my vanguard against my foes." Turning to look behind him, he added, "You who attack with cunning and trickery, you shall be my scouts, and you shall serve as ravens to catch poisoned arrows midflight ere they strike us."

Medwig then turned to the black-haired youth behind him, who had protected his back from every blow. "And you, you provided me counsel, and I would have fallen were it not for your aid. Tell me your name, brother."

The youth, however, shook their head. "Tis not brother, but sister, warleader. My name be Osta."

"Brother or sister, it matters not to me. I would fain to have you as my shield-sister, and thus do I name you, Osta. Hereafter you shall stand at my back, as you have this day, to protect me from all I cannot see."

"And so we shall follow your commands," Osta replied, bowing before Medwig, as did the other children. Thus did Medwig gain command of his own warband ere he had passed eight years of age. And these companions did serve as his vanguard in his future battles, and as his most loyal followers for the rest of his days.

ON HIS EARLIEST QUEST

And so passed Medwig into his sixteenth year, whereupon the men of the Jónfuglfólk were considered full men, and thus expected to take a wife and sire strong warriors for the tribe, for life was short, and the tribe demanded all the warriors it could field. And for Medwig, none held his interest, save perhaps for his shield-sister, Osta, whom had grown with him since they were children. And though Medwig had little interest, he was pressed by his father to approach her and propose they be fasted together, and so reluctantly Medwig did as his father bade and delivered his proposal to Osta.

Osta looked upon her shield-brother, and replied, "You are my shield-brother, and I would object not. But my father is the chieftain of our tribe, and know that he would not accept our fasting without proper recompense."

And so Medwig approached the chieftain of the Jónfuglfólk with his intention to wed his daughter, and at this, the chieftain laughed and looked upon Medwig in disdain. "Tis true that you are strong of arm and sound of mind, boy," the chieftain said. "But you have naught to offer my daughter, as you are the son of a poor fisherman. And so, you shall ne'er have my blessing so long as you have no geld to give  me for the hand of my kin."

Medwig could ne'er have offered the chieftain enough fish to sate the man's desire, and he had no other means. Though there was no warrior in the village which could best him, one could not procure wealth as a warrior, as it was the duty of the Jónfuglfólk. Yet, there was one course open to Medwig. Legend told of a deep mine, carved ere the Dragonswar ended, said to have riches enough to fill an entire camp. Thus, Medwig approached his father, demanding his finest spear and a sack of salt fish. His father was loath to surrender what his son requested, but at last relented when Medwig made the demand as a man, and swore an oath to return unharmed. Thus armed, Medwig departed the village.

Yet, Medwig had scarce traversed half a league when he felt a blow to the back of his head, an impact that was at once wet and cold. Turning about, he beheld Osta standing before him, her face as red as the morning sun. "Fool!" she spat at him. "Do you think me a mere maiden, content to sit and pine while you venture alone? Did you not swear an oath that we be shield-siblings? Am I not to protect your back from all dangers? And you dare leave without my aid?"

At her words, Medwig was much chastised, and agreed to let her accompany her. So the two set off across the frozen land, traveling along the banks of the winding rivers, which held little ice, as now the sun was warmer and the days were longer. They traveled for many leagues and many moons as the ice and snow gave way to stony peaks and steep cliffs. Ere long, they entered the realm of the Stout Folk, who did not hate men as the elves, but scarce called them friend either, and so the two proceeded with caution.

Medwig led them betwixt twin peaks, where lay a deep cavern. With Osta he descended into the ebon depths, their path lit only by a pale torch. Ere long, they were greeted with the stomping of heavy footfalls, and the two stood to guard each other's backs. Anon were they surrounded by the foul Black Elves, whose hatred of all things surpassed even their cruel sun-kissed kin, and they taunted and mocked the pair before attacking. The fighting was fierce, as both contended with the dim light of the Underdark, but they felt their backs pressed as one, and fought as one, repelling the assailants with sharp blows ere they retreated into the darkness. And though Medwig was unharmed, Osta suffered a deep cut upon her arm, infected with the foul toxins of the Underdark. Upon beholding this, Medwig flew into a rage, and charged deeper into the caverns to pursue the cowardly Black Elves, though Osta counseled caution. Medwig staggered blindly through the tunnels until his rage cooled and he knew they were hopelessly without direction.

Medwig grew sullen, and begged Osta's forgiveness as she grew weaker, and Osta swore that she forgave him as her breathing grew labored and her skin as hot as flame. But ere she perished, Medwig heard the dripping of water upon stone, and rushed to see a spring of cool water, o'erseen by the feyfolk, who bade Medwig and Osta bathe in the cool waters, as thanks for driving off the cruel Black Elves. And so they did, and Osta found her wound was pure and healed by the waters. And Medwig and Osta thanked the spirits, who bade them continue deeper to find the riches they sought.

The pair continued on for what seemed like many leagues, and though their eyes grew used to the deep darkness, they were still half-blind. Much time was spent wandering along the path the feyfolk had guided them down, until a chittering sound assaulted their ears. Before them loomed a massive, foul beast of eight arms, and eight eyes, and as black as the darkest night. And it lunged at Osta and Medwig, who each assaulted a side. And the beast was well-armored, and its hide deflected their stone spear points, and ere long, Medwig was flung against a wall and disarmed. And the beast loomed o'er him, but ere he could be felled, he grasped for a weapon, and his hand closed about a hilt. Thrusting with the weapon, he felt the beast's armor give and a shriek filled the caverns as it twitched violently before laying still.

In the dim lights of the glowing plants of the Underdark, Medwig gazed upon the weapon in his hand and beheld a blade, a weapon little known to the Jónfuglfólk. Its hilt held polished stones of brilliant blue, and its blade was etched with strange runes. The blade was of the Stout Folk, whose arms surpass those of Men, though their hearts are no more superior than those of the warriors of Men. And thus did Medwig claim the blade as his own.

About them lay other riches and spoils, and Medwig and Osta gathered their prize in their skins, tying them off before departing down the path again. And their return journey was far easier, as in gratitude for felling the foul beast, the feyfolk guided them out of the tunnels and once more into the light of the blessed Sun, who smiles most kindly upon Men. And Osta and Medwig were much gladdened and their steps far lighter as they returned from the lands of the Stout Folk to the familiar white lands of the Jónfuglfólk.

Upon their arrival, they were greeted as long-lost kin, and to their surprise so many moons had passed that the ice was once more creeping upon the shores of the rivers. And the pair returned to the chieftain and presented their booty, who accepted it as a dower, and surrendered the hand of Osta to Medwig. And the two were fasted together, and much joy and merriment was had. And not a full cycle of seasons had passed ere Osta had borne a son, who was named Nuumric.

ON HIS WARS WITH THE ÆTTGARDTFOLK

And so it was that the seasons changed and the Jónfuglfólk prospered. For with the riches that Medwig had obtained, the tribe was wealthy, and the people prospered. The chieftain saw the value of trading with the Dwarves, and made pacts with them, and traded fur and meat for steel and arms, and the so the seasons passed in merriment and joy.

But the prosperity of a people draws the ire and greed of another, and so it came to pass that the raiders known as the Svartkrummfólk did begin to covet the riches of the Jónfuglfólk, and sought to obtain them for themselves. And so it came to pass one afternoon that the riders of crows did alight upon the Jónfuglfólk, and attacked them with the fury of beating wings and stinging arrows. And though the warriors of the Jónfuglfólk were mighty, they could not strike their flying quarries, who laughed and jeered as the proud Jónfuglfólk demanded they fight like men and not cowards. But the Svartkrummfólk were cunning, and stayed far from their foes' arrows, and so scarce a dozen were felled while the Jónfuglfólk counted seven score dead ere the crow-riders departed with their spoils.

And when the Jónfuglfólk counted their dead, they saw their chieftain lay among the dying, his entrails spilled upon the snow, but still he drew breath. And Osta drew close to her father, and swore vengeance, and the chieftain named Medwig the new chieftain, for he was the strongest of them and his fast-son. And Medwig did solemnly take up this responsibility, and so the chieftain passed on to join his ancestors.

Three days of mourning passed for the slain, and as it did, Medwig began to plot. Upon the sunrise of the fourth day, he did set out with his warband of one hundred to trek across the frozen snows, to seek allies to take revenge upon the Svartkrummfólk. First did Medwig venture east for a fortnight, until he came upon the camp of the Grárúlfurfólk, who possess the blood of wolves, and as Medwig approached, they watched him warily, but he moved with the demeanor of a warrior and not prey, and so they did not attack. And Medwig spoke with the tribe leader of the Grárúlfurfólk and requested aid against the Svartkrummfólk, and asked what the wolf-men desired. And the chieftain did reply that they wished only to be allowed to hunt freely, and that Medwig did not leash them, so they might fight as their savage nature demanded, and Medwig did agree to these terms, and with twenty score new allies, departed once more.

And Medwig traveled further east and south until he came to the valley where the Draugurtréfólk did reside, those who worshiped trees instead of beasts. And Medwig implored them to join his cause, and was much disheartened when they declined, for they were a peaceful people and did not wish to war without provocation. Nevertheless, they welcomed Medwig's warband as guests, and bade him to rest and feast, and once two days had passed, the shaman of the Draugurtréfólk gave Medwig special herbs so that he might heal the wounded and the sick once the battle was ended.

Then Medwig traveled west and north once more to seek one last tribe for an alliance, and he approached the Blárbjörnfólk, who were peaceful but mighty warriors who worshiped the spirit of a bear. Yet as Medwig approached, the warriors of the Blárbjörnfólk treated him with hostility, and moved to attack ere Medwig threw down his arms and demanded parley. And the Blárbjörnfólk were wary but still had honor in those days, and so they took him to their chieftain, who demanded they state their business. And Medwig explained about the Svartkrummfólk's raid, and upon hearing this, the chieftain of the Blárbjörnfólk grinned wildly. He explained that long had the crow-people assaulted their lands, and even now they held five score women in bondage, and so the Blárbjörnfólk would happily join Medwig in his quest for vengeance. But the shaman of the Blárbjörnfólk made Medwig swear a geas upon pain of death that the women would be returned to the Blárbjörnfólk unharmed, and this Medwig did solemnly. And so with a warband of fifty-score warriors, he trekked the frozen plains to do battle with the Svartkrummfólk.

When the camp of the Svartkrummfólk came into view half a fortnight later, Medwig began to scheme. He declared that the Grárúlfurfólk would be loosed on the unsuspecting camp ere the crow-riders could take to the skies. The Jónfuglfólk would then follow and attack the camp like a storm, while the Blárbjörnfólk would serve as the second, mightier wave of the tide to destroy the stragglers. And the other tribal chieftains agreed, and so the wolf-men took up positions and charged the camp. Ere the Svartkrummfólk could react, the wolves were upon them, tearing the crow-riders with spear and nail and tooth, set upon them as beasts. And then Medwig did order the Jónfuglfólk to join the fray ere the Svartkrummfólk could recover, and under Medwig's guidance, they kept the crow-riders from their mounts and slaughtered them, for without their beasts the Svartkrummfólk were the weakest fighters of the Ættgardtfólk. And they were swiftly followed by the Blárbjörnfólk, whose fury was unmatched that day, tempered only by the knowledge that their women did yet live, and anon they freed them, and the abused women joined the fight and assaulted their attackers with the fury of harpies.

It came to pass that ere the sun was high in the sky, the remaining Svartkrummfólk lay down their arms and surrendered to the Jónfuglfólk. And the Blárbjörnfólk counseled destruction while the Grárúlfurfólk suggested a hunt with the survivors. But Medwig's rage had cooled, and as he took the spoils, he gave them to his allies in gratitude for their aid, though they had asked for none. And Medwig did earn their friendship that day for his generosity. And then Medwig made the defeated Svartkrummfólk swear fealty to him, to serve as his warriors when he called, and the vanquished had no choice but to accept and join Medwig. And thus were several tribes of the Ættgardtfólk united under one High Chieftain for one of the few times in history, and with this act, Medwig assured his name would become legend ere his true deeds had even begun.



Translated from "The Biography of Aenaron," Cenniel the Lesser, 414, Gularth Library

After his meeting with the Stout Folk, Aenaron called for his next appointment, and the doors of his throne room were opened again. In strode three figures, whose appearances struck the elven courtiers with horror. The first was a woman dressed in the furs of a wolf. Her wild, unkempt hair was as black as her soul, and her hellish green eyes darted to and fro in the throne room, making her seem like a beast that was warily walking into a cage. At her side strode a child who had not yet reached ten years of age, dressed in similar fashion, who carried himself with a sense of pride unbecoming of a barbarian. But both these figures were o'ershadowed by the man in the center, who towered over the elves and seemed more akin to orc than elf or man. He wore the pelt of a white wolf, though his gargantuan arms were bare. At his hip swung a dwarven sword, and none knew how he had obtained such a fine weapon, though some suspected it was stolen from a fortress' vault. The man had pale hair that fell to his shoulders and framed his face in a thick beard, and his ice-blue eyes fixated themselves on Aenaron, who met his fierce gaze with a calm smile, and welcomed his guests as Oska, Nuumric, and Merwig, respectively.

Aenaron bade his guests dine with him, and fine dishes were brought forth - roast quail, fresh salads, warm bread with white cheese, and ruby-red wine. The courtiers looked on in disgust as the barbarians dug into the meal like savages. They spurned utensils, digging into the food with their fingers like beasts, and the elves were aghast at this savage behavior. But Aenaron, in his grace and patience, seemed not to notice this, and instead dined as calmly as if he was at the table of the Emperor. Once the dishes were cleared, he invited the savage warlord Merwig to tell his story and explain how he had attained so much power of late.

Merwig first accused the Kingdom of Muinand of encroaching upon his lands (a ridiculous accusation, as Muniand's border already extended as far as the barbarian contended), and that the armies of the elves had struck the first blow against his people, a tribe whose name I cannot pronounce. So, Merwig had challenged the elves in the open plains, though the general he had faced, one Rhion, had declined to face him in pitched combat. Merwig then insulted his honor, and Rhion (foolishly) was baited by the challenge and marched his army to meet the barbarian horde. The barbarians had surprised Rhion when they joined the battle with strange tactics, using savages on the backs of giant birds to pelt the elven archers from above, distracting them, as swift scouts assaulted them from the flanks. As discipline crumbled, a joint army of what Merwig termed bear-men and his own native people had assaulted the infantry. No cavalry could join the fight, as the snows were too deep to allow maneuverability, and the elven army was soon demolished.

Emboldened, Merwig marched upon the fortress of Baradhel. Here, the men used cunning but dishonorable tactics, as the crow-riders assaulted the walls from the air ere they snuck to the gatehouse and forced the front gate open. With naught to hinder them, the barbarians stormed into the castle, brutally slaughtering all within, including the innocent elven citizens. The fortress thus occupied, Merwig spent a season recovering and building his strength, staving off a counter-attack by another elven army in the meanwhile. Upon the arrival of the next winter, he left his most powerful allies, the bear warriors, to keep the fortress occupied as the remaining warband made its way south to lay siege to the city of (Allsband). They had held the siege for a month and a half when Aenaron summoned Merwig to discuss terms.

Having heard this story, Aenaron was silent for some time, contemplating. At last, he asked what Merwig desired, to which Merwig replied that he wished for the elves to cease encroaching upon his land else the raids would continue. Aenaron knew he could scarce afford another war. Therefore, to the shock of all assembled, he offered Merwig a trade. The elves would ne'er contest the capture of Baradhel, as it was rightfully won by combat, but he insisted that Merwig lift the siege of Allsband. In exchange, he was willing to grant Merwig some of the most northern lands of Muinand as a peace offering. Merwig considered this, seeming cautious of trickery, but even the savage seemed to sense that Aenaron was sincere. He also seemed intrigued when Aenaron assured him that the land being granted was far more hospitable than his icy homeland, that his people could settle and grow crops rather than struggling to survive each day as beasts. Merwig admitted to a cautious interest, and demanded that he be allowed to inspect the prospective lands, to which Aenaron agreed....

...And after many suns of riding, Aenaron led the barbarians o'er the last crest of the Crag, and stretched before them was the land anon known as the Mhird. "This do I give freely to you and your people to settle. Consider it a token of my goodwill, and a seal on our pact of non-aggression." Though as he said these words, Aenaron admitted that he felt a twinge of guilt, for he was granting the barbarians the roughest, most hostile portion of his kingdom. Yet as he looked, he saw the barbarians gaze upon the land with wide-eyed wonder. "Ne'er have I seen such beauty," Merwig exclaimed softly, and beside him, his wife nodded in agreement. "Elf though you are, you are generous, and you have my everlasting gratitude for this gift. I can see already that winter's breath is softer in this valley. Perhaps here we can begin our lives anew." And Aenaron smiled, and his guilt was abated somewhat. Truly, what some saw as a stone, others saw as a gem....

...And so it came to pass that Aenaron wished to see how the barbarians were getting along, so he had his retinue saddle his horses and ride to the north. Upon his arrival a fortnight later, he was greeted with a most astonishing sight. The rude barbarians were still as savage as ever, but Aenaron was admittedly shocked by the speed of their industry. The harsh, rocky fields were plowed and tilled, sown with barley, oats, beans, and roots. Nets had been set in the rivers, bringing in salmon, trout, and herring. The barbarians did spurn proper dwellings in favor of tents made of pelt and skin, but they were a pleasing shade of tan, not the tattered furs of the northern savages. In all, the men lacked the ordered discipline of their slave brethren, but Aenaron was nevertheless impressed by the speed at which the savages had adapted, noting that it might be a trait to be wary of in the future.

Anon, word of Aenaron's arrival reached the ear of the chieftain of the barbarians, and Merwig approached, accompanied by a young, white-haired boy that Aenaron recognized as the chieftain's son, Nuumric. Merwig greeted Aenaron in the barbaric fashion, clasping the elf's forearm in greeting (though the elves were most appalled that he did not properly bow to his liege, as it was by Aenaron's grace that he could walk free at all), and Aenaron asked how his farms were getting along. "Ah, it's as though the spirits themselves have come to frolic in this land," Merwig laughed. "The animals seem to throw themselves upon our plates, and the plants grow so fast that we scarce know what to do with the leftover grain ere it spoils. Truly, this is a blessed life." And Aenaron smiled at these words, gladdened that he had at least partially tamed the wild beasts of the north....

...And during his visits to the Mhird, Aenaron doted upon the small child of Merwig, the white-haired boy Nuumric. Though Merwig was wary of the elf-king, Nuumric seemed drawn to him, and despite his rough upbringing, Aenaron was equally fond of the boy, who seemed far brighter than the average barbarian. Privately, Aenaron admitted that had he been born a proper slave, Nuumric would have been one of his favorites. As he was a guest, however, Aenaron began to teach Nuumric as he would an elf child. O'er the years, the boy learned to speak Elvish, to read and write, to calculate numbers. Always did he hunger for more information about elven history, as his father said he hungered for his own, and Aenaron was happy to oblige, for elven history is far richer and more storied than the myths of the barbarians. Ever was the boy entranced by these tales, always seeking to know more.

But Aenaron also saw that the boy was growing strong of arm, and that he also followed the barbarian ways of his father. Even as a boy, he was swift and powerful, and had a love for fighting that was most inelven. It was at times like these, when the boy was at his most boisterous, that Aenaron was reminded of the savage nature of man. But he also recognized that perhaps this was what the region needed, a ruler who was both strong of arm and strong of mind, who could serve as a bridge between the savage north and the civilized south. And so Aenaron took it upon himself to continue teaching the young Nuumric, and to forgive his human flaws for the promise of a cultivated flower that grew better under the delicate touch of elven hands....

...And thus it came to pass one year that news reached King Aenaron of the savage Drutaur tribes of the east raiding outlying elven settlements, pillaging as they went and terrorizing the King's subjects. Thus, Aenaron mustered an army of one thousand elven warriors, two thousand archers, and two dozen wizards and clerics to meet the threat posed by the barbarians. To the king's great surprise, he was greeted by the barbarian chieftain Merwig half a fortnight later, accompanied by his fierce wife Oska and his child, Nuumric, now old enough to be squired to his sire. And Merwig said unto Aenaron, "Allow us to travel with your retinue. For the (unpronounceable name of his tribe) have long fought with the Drutaur, and we fear that if they are not stopped, they will once more set their sights upon our northern lands."

Aenaron briefly considered denying the request, but soon realized that Merwig was sincere, and he smiled at having fully tamed a fierce wolf to keep on his leash. And so Aenaron agreed, and thus his army was joined by eight hundred fierce Kalimhel warriors. Though horrific in appearance and manner, and carrying crude weapons, Aenaron realized their value as auxiliary warriors, and decided to use them as scouts and skirmishers ahead of his main forces. If they sought battle so desperately, Aenaron saw no reason to deny their request, especially if it spared his troops.

Thus did Aenaron's army travel to the east, making excellent time, as it was midyear and the sun was still warm, so the trip across the northern realm was pleasant. Ere long the army spotted the first scouts of the Drutaur, yet were chased off at the massed sight of Aenaron's army. It was regrettable, in Aenaron's eyes, as he knew that now the Drutaur would scatter and fight as wolves surrounding prey, ne'er fighting as one army but seeking to wear down his men with stones and arrows from behind trees, a coward's way of fighting.

Thus did they march deeper into Drutaur territory, harassed all the while by the savage men. After three days, Aenaron was approached by Merwig in his tent, and the human chieftain announced, "You do not fight this battle properly. Give me leave to travel ahead with my men, and we shall return with the heads of our slain enemies." This was not his first request, as Merwig had made similar entreaties throughout the prior nights. Now, however, Aenaron granted him leave to do as he wished. As Aenaron watched, the savages ran ahead of the camp, howling in the dark as though they had transformed into beasts themselves. They were not seen again for two days, but the attacks stopped. When next Merwig appeared, it was at a river crossing, when he approached Aenaron with his wife and child, all covered in blood and each carrying heads. Merwig dropped a half score at the feet of Aenaron and announced, "One hundred were slain like dogs. Now we will proceed unmolested." And Aenaron smiled, for his wolf had done well.

O'er the next few weeks, the elven king allowed his barbarian allies to fight as they pleased, and two hundred more deaths were recorded, at the expense of a mere three score of Merwig's tribe. But anon did they come to a large Drutaur camp, with many tents surrounded by a high wooden palisade, with numerous Drutaur upon the walls. And as he looked upon the fort, Aenaron called off his wolf, and bade Merwig watch. An envoy was sent to the Drutaur, and soon he returned with a brash young savage sporting red hair and a look more fierce than Merwig's. Ere long the Drutaur said, "You will know me as High Chieftain Ferwic, for I have united the Drutaur tribes. And I know you elf-king, and of your sorcerous ways, how you hide behind magic and arrow rather than fighting with honor. And I know your dog," he added, spitting at the feet of Merwig. "Once you were respected as the High Chieftain of the Khalimel, and I sought to emulate you. Now you grow fat on elven treats and no longer remember the ways of ice and snow. I will slaughter you as I slaughter a pig."

And at these words, Merwig reached for his sword and growled, "Only whelps bark so loudly ere they have grown their teeth!" But Aenaron cooled Merwig's rage and simply told Ferwic to surrender, as he was boxed in and outnumbered. But Farwil laughed and said, "Our walls can withstand your magic, and when they fall, we will be upon you as hornets. Come, elf-king, loose your sorcerer's magic upon us." And thus did Farwil retreat to his camp, and an envoy announced that he had counted six thousand Drutaur barbarians among the enemy's number. But Aenaron smiled and bade his men begin the siege.

For half a fortnight did the elven army surround the walls of the fort, raining arrows throughout the day and patrolling the area at night to prevent escape. The long bows of the elves far outstripped the range of the crude bows of the men, and slowly their numbers whittled. But all the while, Merwig paced like a dog in a cage, and upon the sixth night the barbarian stormed into Aenaron's tent. "You fight as a coward, not meeting this whelp on the field of battle!" Merwig growled. "He has insulted my honor, and I shall not let it stand!" But Aenaron held up his hand and explained, "You are a clever king, Merwig; do not let this boy anger you into foolishness. They are inferior to us, but they have greater numbers. We will give you the fight you desire when they see that they cannot outlast us, and sally forth ere they lose their advantage. I counsel patience, my friend." And thus was Merwig somewhat appeased, though his anger still simmered beneath the surface.

And as Aenaron said, upon the eighth day did the Drutaur of the fort sally forth, looking tired, starved, and bloodied, as they had lost near a sixth of their men. And upon seeing this, Aenaron smiled and bade his men ready for battle, and Merwig demanded he be allowed to fight Farwil personally, which Aenaron allowed if the tide of battle permitted it. Thus did the two sides array themselves, and Aenaron struck first, raining arrows upon the bloodied remnants of Farwil's tribe. Many more fell as they charged the elven lines, but still Aenaron held, ordering his infantry forward. The elven warriors strode forth, clad in gleaming mail, and soon the battle was joined, the disorganized mob falling swiftly before the massed, disciplined ranks of the superior elven forces. Then Aenaron bade Merwig's lighter forces make haste to the rear of the Drutaur, and Merwig obeyed, ordering his men sprint as if possessed by demons. And thus did the barbarians outpace the Drutaur, and enclosed the from behind, trapping Ferwic's forces. Thus the battle became a rout, and Aenaron claims he saw Merwig fighting Farwil in single combat amidst the chaos. Aenaron was amazed to see Merwig effortlessly beating back the brash young chieftain with powerful swipes of his dwarven sword, until the boy's spear broke under his forceful blows and Merwig slashed him across his face, blinding the boy in his left eye. And the child howled in pain and fear, scrambling back as Merwig laughed and taunted him ere the fleeing Drutaur pulled him from the battlefield, Farwil screaming vengeance upon Merwig.

Utterly defeated, the Drutaur fled like rats across the Eol River, ne'er to pose a threat to Elvenkind again (one can hope). And Aenaron rewarded Merwig for his service with a suit of the finest Elven chainmail, and he bestowed upon Merwig the title of High Lord of the North, though these rewards mattered little to one as savage as the human chieftain, who was simply sated with his victory o'er his foe. A lasting peace was established in the kingdom, with the future looking brighter than ever under the benevolent rule of King Aenaron, with no threat from without to bring about conflict any longer.....

From "Great Battles and Wars through the Ages," Cedric Wainwright, 892, Gularth Library.

Anon, after the Empire fragmented with the deposition of the Emperor Tarlang, tragedy directly struck the Kingdom of Muinand. The long-ruling King Aenaron was slain under mysterious circumstances, and anon was succeeded by his son, Siragon. Few know the true details of Aenaron's death, but one may speculate that, given the swift rise of his son to the throne of Muinand, foul play was involved. Nevertheless, Siragon ascended to the throne and promised to maintain the power of the kingdom even as the Empire continued to fracture.

This statement was swiftly proven false. Unlike his father, who had treated the men of the Mhird with relative respect and dignity, Siragon was under the impression that the men were, at best, his subjects, and at worst escaped slaves who needed to be fettered in chains. He began pushing heavy taxes upon the men, who at first ignored his entreaties for payment, which he claimed were his due as rightful king of the realm. When these demands were not met, Siragon sent armed patrols of men to force the villagers into submission, and they finally begrudgingly surrendered a portion of their wealth. These taxes grew harsher the next season, and the High Chieftain Merwig began to chafe under Siragon's rule. He sent a messenger to implore the new elf-king to stop pressing his claims, but the man returned bound in chains, bearing the mark of ten lashes, along with a note warning Merwig that the same fate would befall him if he continued to resist.

At this, Merwig grew enraged, and was only calmed by his wife, Oska, who counseled patience. Nuumric saw his father's anger, and offered to approach Siragon diplomatically, hoping to sooth the bruised relations between the two. Merwig considered this, but eventually declined, deciding to simply see if the elf-king would continue to press his luck.

It soon became evident that he intended to. At the end of one month, Merwig was approached by a weeping woman clutching a babe to her breast, who claimed that elves had snuck into the village and enslaved her husband, dragging him off in chains. Merwig was furious and pursued the patrols, but found no trace of them. This happened once more before Merwig realized a pattern would soon develop, and thus decided to take matters into his own hands.

Merwig called an all-thing, which had not been done since the first war against the elves some years ago. He was disheartened to see that some of his allies no longer heeded his summons, but the attendees of the gathering counted amongst their number the Jónfuglfólk of Merwig's original encampment, his longtime allies the Blárbjörnfólk, and the neighboring Hvíturkötturfólk and Svartjjónfólk clans, who were also chafing under Elven rule. Merwig wasted no time, asking his fellow warriors what they felt the best course of action was against the Elves. Though the Blárbjörnfólk were ready for war, the other tribes seemed more reluctant. However, it was at this moment that the thing was interrupted by the beating of hooves, and soon the tribesmen found themselves surrounded by an Elven patrol. The brash captain ordered the men to disperse, as they were trespassing on royal grounds, and when Merwig protested his rights as lord, the elf slashed at him with a saber. This was a mistake, as the tribesmen fell upon the elven patrol, slaughtering it to the last man. Having been struck at, Merwig's rage could no longer be contained, and he declared war against Siragon on the spot.

It was here that Merwig's experience proved useful. Some of the tribes had taken to calling his men soft, as they had spent some time in Elven lands, and seemed to no longer possess the strength forged in the northern wilds. There were whispers that his men had grown fat on Elven bread and honey, and that their hearts had cooled. In this coming war, however, it quickly became apparent that Merwig's warriors were still as strong as ever, and were far better served by the High Chieftain's experience serving with Aenaron's army, for he knew the tactics in which his son had been schooled, and how to counter them. Merwig was no longer a brash, reckless chieftain but a cunning warrior who could outthink his enemy like a wolf stalking a deer.

Merwig knew that the elves liked to march in large, massed formations, and thus he borrowed the tactics of the Drutaur he had fought with in the previous war, harassing the elves wherever he could. Rather than attacking the army directly, he instead assaulted the farms of the Elves, burning and pillaging where he went, allowing his men to rape what they wished, steal what they could carry, and burn what they could not, depriving the elves of supplies. When they were to be met by an enemy, they fled. Merwig did not dare fight the elves in the forests, where they had the advantage, but instead stuck to the rivers, where the men could outpace them and retreat if necessary. Here did his allies, the Hvíturkötturfólk, prove invaluable, as they were excellent fishermen who provided longboats that were ideal for raiding in the narrow rivers of the elven kingdom.

Merwig was occasionally caught by the elven army, and in these cases, he beat as hasty a retreat as he could. He reluctantly admitted that his men were no match for the elves in open combat, and therefore he was forced to sacrifice his warriors to cover their escape. Rather than treat this as running away, he instead challenged his fastest and bravest warriors to make a game of it, to sacrifice themselves valiantly in the name of the struggle against the elves. This the men did gladly, even competing to see who could distract the elves most effectively. Those that did return were labeled as true heroes, and their names were immortalized by their tribes - Glenna the White, Volkar, Sventin of the River.

But ere long the elves grew used to Merwig's tactics,and marched upon his home in Mhidrun. There, the elves laid siege to his capital, though at heavy cost to themselves. The Jónfuglfólk still inside Mhidrun fiercely resisted the elven attack, whittling down the elven army with night raids and sallies while continuing to receive supplies from the rivers, so they were able to survive the elven siege. It was brutal, however, as the elven archers were still second to none in the world, and during the day could rain fire down on the town, until finally, six months later, the city was broken and sacked. Merwig was furious at this loss, but resolved to gather his forces once more and continue to press the attack.

Things continued in this way for the next three years, and unfortunately for the elves, Siragon had underestimated Merwig. Unlike the elves, who assumed that burning a capital meant the end of a war, the northern tribesmen had no such belief, as they could live fairly comfortably off the land, and never truly had any need to form an army. Thus, the elves were slowly driven back as their more expensive army suffered attrition and casualties, and with no unified empire to punish them, men began to desert.

Tragedy would soon strike Merwig's warband, however. In a major raid against an elven town, his wife, Oska, was struck with an arrow from the side as she tried to protect her husband from it. She was killed instantly as it pierced her skull, and Merwig was left in a state of shock before fury overtook him. Wroth, he razed the city to the ground before sending a missive to Siragon, challenging the elf king to the battle he so desperately desired, to bring an end to the war once and for all. Siragon happily agreed, since he believed Merwig had finally lost his mind, and was throwing his life away.

The two armies met at last along the coast of Siragon's kingdom, near the ruins of Mhidrun. Assembled against Siragon's army of five thousand elves were a mere three thousand tribesmen, arrayed with their backs to the sea. Seeing this, Siragon believed Merwig had trapped himself in a cage, and ere long, the elves began to advance. What Siragon failed to realize, however, was that Merwig had become less a man and more a force of vengeance. He told his men that the elves before them would kill them all, and that there was no retreat with the sea behind them. Therefore, they had one direction to go if they wished to live, and that was through the elven army itself. The tribesmen were fully aware of Merwig's state of near-madness, and did not dare question him. Thus, the battle was joined as the men charged the elven ranks.

Siragon, in his overconfidence, committed two fatal blunders. The first was positioning his archers closer to Merwig's lines in the hope that they would have easier targets when they attacked. However, this negated the advantage of their superior bows, and as the men slammed into the elven lines, the archers found that they could not fire into the melee without risking their own lives. The second miscalculation Siragon made was assuming that his forces, being more heavily armored, were nearly impervious to Merwig's forces. This might have been true at the beginning of the war, but now the tribesmen were armed with high-quality elven weaponry, plundered from their raids, and thus they were a far more effective fighting force than when they had used the crude weapons of the north.

Merwig's forces swept over the elves like a tide, and though they were outnumbered, their infantry was actually superior to the elves, who numbered only two thousand swordsmen and spearmen. Furthermore, as they had nothing to lose, the men fought as though possessed by demons, by some accounts slaughtering five elves each before they were slain. As stated before, the elven archers were positioned too close to the field, and thus once the elven infantry was broken, the archers had little time before the tribesmen were upon them.

As the battle became a rout, Siragon turned to flee, but was knocked form his horse by a Mhirdrun warrior named Halath. He bashed Siragon's head against the ground, stunning him, before dragging the elven king to where Merwig stood, covered in gore, his legendary dwarven blade Bhadun a deep shade of crimson. Siragon began pleading for mercy, but mid-sentence Merwig stabbed him through the skull, in the same way his wife had been slain. His remaining forces pursued the elves for three leagues before giving up the chase.

The death of Siragon without an heir signaled the end of Elven rule in the future lands of Nuumalon. While settlements remained throughout the north for decades afterwards, the balance of power in the region had shifted to men for the first time. Merwig, for his part, experienced little joy in this knowledge, as he still grieved for his wife. But his impact could not be understated, as it was his action that paved the way for human dominance in western Orben.



From "The Life of Nuumric the Great," Dagnar Wolfsblood, c. 480, Gularth Library.

And Nuumric watched as his mother, Oska, was placed upon the pyre, and without a word, his father drew his bow and lit and arrow, setting it ablaze with his wife's body. And anon did the flames consume her corpse, and her ashes were scattered to the north, in the direction of her homeland. And thus did Oska pass into he annals of legend as one of the great shieldmaidens.

But alas, with her death, Merwig had little interest in life and rule, and anon did Mhirdrun fall into disrepair. Though the town required rebuilding in the wake of the elven war, and the granaries remained low on grain, and the houses were still in tatters, and the walls were crumbling. Yet Merwig had little interest in any of this, secluding himself in his longhouse and practicing with his sword from dawn until dusk, as though swearing to himself that he must be stronger so that none could harm his family again.

With his father in a poor state of mind, it was Nuumric who assumed many of the duties of his father, administering the village and its needs though he was still young. His training with Aenaron proved useful in this regard, as he was able to swiftly organize repair work on the village, and soon it was humming with life again. Some of the old folk saw Nuumric as softer than his father, for he cared more about sustaining the village as a whole than about strengthening his arms, but the villagers who had grown used to the comforts of Mhirdrun were more than happy to follow his instructions and enjoy the bountiful harvest that followed that year.

Sadly, Nuumric's attentions did not stop the degeneration of his father's northern allies, and in time the Ættgardtfólk became more independent, forsaking their oaths of allegiance to Merwig as Mhirdrun became increasingly insular. They felt his mind was broken even as his sword was strong, and thus they no longer felt beholden to the High Chieftain. Merwig swore vengeance on them, but Nuumric counseled patience to his father, saying that they needed to rebuild before they had any hope of restoring their power.

Alas, stormclouds were growing, and soon word came that the Drutaur, an old enemy of Merwig's, were once more swarming in the east. They were pushing their way across the conquered elven lands in the wake of the fall of Sindaron's rule, and with no elven army to stop them, they were speeding like locusts across the land. At first, Merwig saw little reason to engage them, as they were far from where the Drutaur were attacking. However, a name soon reached his ears that stoked the fire of his wrath once more. Their leader was the High Chieftain he had once bested, Farwil One-Eye, who now sought revenge against Merwig and Mhidrun.

Though in a poor state of mind, Merwig had enough presence of mind to remember that if he slew Farwil, the Drutaur would once more be leaderless and would scatter. What he was unaware of was that the Drutaur had learned from their past follies, and now their chieftains held more power than the previous horde. They were better organized and coordinated, and what's more, Merwig lacked his northern allies. Nuumric tried to encourage him to seek aid, but Merwig would have none of it. Thus, he gathered one thousand, five hundred men of Mhirdrun, nearly everyone who could hold a spear, and marched to meet the Drutaur on the field of battle.

It was but three days when the men of Mhirdrun came upon the five thousand Drutaur, led by a man clad in black furs, with red hair and beard, and a strip of leather over one eye. Farwil screamed at Merwig and taunted him, swearing vengeance on the man who had claimed his eye, before shaming him for outliving his wife. Merwig was enraged and screamed at Farwil to duel him, but Farwil ignored his demands. Nuumric, his father's squire still, urged them to retreat, as the Drutaur outnumbered them more than three to one. Merwig, in reply, smacked his son across the face and ordered him to remain silent. His archers began striking the Drutaur flanks, but this only drew the Drutaur closer to him in a tighter pack. Thus, when the two lines struck, the Drutaur were arrayed in rows of eight to the Mhirdrun three, and though there was a slight advantage to attacking the flanks, the Mhirdrun forces lacked the power to overwhelm them.

Soon, the lines of the Mhirdrun forces began to retreat, save for the companions of Merwig, who slashed through the enemy lines as though possessed. Once nearly one quarter of the Mhirdrun forces had fallen, Merwig ordered a retreat, seeing he could not match the Drutaur blow for blow as he had been. Even with seven hundred Drutaur dead by early afternoon, they were making no progress. It was then, however, as the Mhridrun men began falling back, that Farwil once more began taunting Merwig. Enraged, he roared a challenge to Farwil, who simply ordered his men to charge once more. Merwig, no longer in his right mind, began slashing through the Drutaur forces, accompanied by only a few dozen men of his own. They bored into them like an arrow into wood, piercing the enemy lines before Merwig found himself beside Farwil once more. By now, however, he had suffered many wounds and was barely standing, while Farwil was still fresh. Now did Farwil accept his challenge for a duel, drawing his blade before engaging Merwig in single combat as the Drutaur surrounded them.

Nuumric could not reach them as the ringing of steel filled the air, so he climbed a tree to see the duel. Farwil was dancing about his father, jabbing, taunting, and laughing as Merwig struggled to hold his sword. Anon was he on one knee, while Farwil stood o'er the exhausted warrior, his blade drawn backwards to strike. Here, Farwil made a fatal mistake, once more taunting Merwig for his failure to protect his family, and here did Merwig summon the last reserves of his strength. Knocking Farwil's blow aside, he decapitated the warlord with one smooth stroke, before turning and sprinting towards the shocked Drutaur ere they could recover. Seeing this, Nuumric ordered his men attack the southern part of the formation, giving his father time to retreat through it as the men fought desperately to save their chieftain.

The Drutaur recovered their wits quickly, but it was too late for them to stop Merwig's escape, and anon did the Mhirdrun forces retreat. By then, Merwig was pale and cold, barely clinging to life, and as he lay in his longhouse, he ordered Nuumric enter. Nuumric heeded his father's request, kneeling by his side as his father took his hand, and Nuumric was shocked to feel how weak his father's once-mighty grip had become. Merwig ordered Nuumric to take his sword and lead Mhirdrun in his place, to always heed the counsel of his family, and to ensure his people had a future. Nuumric swore this, but implored his father to live and lead on. Merwig, however, laughed at this sadly and replied that Oska was waiting for him, and it had been the longest he had lived without her at his back; he was glad to be reunited with her. He then breathed his last and lay still as Nuumric knelt, weeping at his father's side for the rest of the night.

In the morning, Merwig was laid upon a funeral pyre in the center of Mhirdrun, dressed his his finest furs, though lacking a blade, as his dwarven sword was now resting at Nuumric's hip. Nuumric himself drew the bow that lit his father's pyre, and it seemed to those watching that it took far longer to consume his body than any pyre has before. As his ashes rose into the sky, the sun seemed to shine brighter upon him, as though Lathander himself was mourning the loss of one of the great heroes of humanity, who had helped bring about the end of elven rule. Thus did Merwig I pass from this world and into legend, with his son poised to take up the next chapter of human history and write a tale more glorious than any told before or since.