Riend (prime)

Riend Ar'Fiernel Riend Ar'Fiernel, as rendered by MAZEIKISJ Race Sylvankind Class Rogue Profession Master Artisan Religion Church of Voln Affiliation(s) Landing Defense Irregulars, Elanthian Elegance, Rone Academy, Moonshine Manor, In-a-Word Pardon me. Disposition excruciatingly polite Demeanor sheepishly reserved Flaw hopeless idealist Greatest Strength gentle persistence Greatest Weakness shyness Hobbies Cobbling, Painting, Drawing, Baking. Likes Shoes, luxurious fabrics, tea, her home Dislikes being touched, alcohol, public displays of affection, loud noises Fears Not being in control of herself. Loyalties Her family, her people. Best Friend Seomanthe, Greganth, Karibeth, Bristenn, Imrys, Kippe Loved One Grishom Stone (?)

Features

You see Riend Ar'Fiernel the Master Artisan.
She appears to be a Sylvankind.
She is tall in stature and has a lithesome, nimble build.  She appears to be in the bloom of youth.  She has expressive, chestnut-haloed malachite green eyes and gardenia white skin.  She has fine, textured hellebore black hair worn swept up in a blossom-like style of many petals pinned in the center with an eleven-pointed silver star barrette.  She has an oval face, a pair of rectangular fel glasses perched upon her gently sloped nose and gracefully pointed ears that complement her high cheekbones.  Though her features are predominantly sylvan, subtleties in the shape of her face and the tilt of her eyes appear faintly erithian.

Origin

Riend’s home lies deep within the southeast forests of Elanthia, nestled between the site of the once-great sylvan stronghold of Nevishrim and the winding cliffs of Barrett’s Gorge. The settlement was first established in the year 2701, though some of the older families whisper of an even earlier encampment near Ne’Yuscarl Point, the truth of which depends on which founding family’s tale you hear.

It was the wise and honorable sylvan mage, Illiweth Siergeth, who united the sylvankind of all the D'ahranal following the closing of Yuriqen. Seeking refuge from the turmoil that followed, they first made their way to the fringes of the Southron Wastes, gathering sylvans who had fled after the battle with Myrdanian. From there, they retraced the ancient paths that had once guided their people to the Silver Veil.

The First Year

With so many in their caravan, it took nearly a decade to traverse the harsh, unyielding terrain to the dense, shadowed forests cradled at the base of the Dragonspine. Along the way, relentless conditions, constant peril, and the creeping shadow of sickness took their toll. What had once been a thriving caravan of tens of thousands dwindled to barely three thousand weary survivors.

In the early spring of 2701, the sylvans established the settlement of Llythwere, a fragile yet defiant symbol of their resilience. A people long bound to a nomadic existence finally began to root themselves, carving out a home amidst the towering, ancient trees. Plans were drawn for a modest but unmistakably sylvan haven high within the forest canopy, a tribute to their deep connection with nature. But before construction could begin, foraging patrols were dispatched to gather essential materials. None returned.

Fear seeped into the fledgling settlement like a slow poison. Whispers of abandoning Llythwere and seeking refuge in Ta’Illistim gained momentum, the prospect of enduring the elves’ overbearing presence deemed preferable to facing a mysterious and lethal unknown. The newly formed sylvan council convened, their deliberations fraught with desperation. After two tense weeks, they resolved to stay, choosing to confront the encroaching darkness rather than retreat.

But as the days stretched into weeks, an invisible menace began to plague the settlement. There was no sign of an enemy, no clues left behind, only the chilling fact that sylvans were disappearing. Men, women, and children vanished without warning, taken in the dead of night. Each morning brought fresh grief as families awoke to discover empty beds and loved ones gone. No one was safe. No one understood what hunted them.

It wasn’t until the fourth month that the truth was finally revealed: a ruthless band of rogue Faendryl had targeted Llythwere. Weak from their arduous journey, the sylvans were no match for the relentless raiders. Malnourished and poorly armed, they suffered devastating losses as the Faendryl struck again and again. By the end of the brutal assaults, fewer than five hundred sylvans remained.

The situation grew increasingly dire. The Ne’Yuscarl, their stalwart protectors, were nearly wiped out, and Illiweth Siergeth, their last great mage, was gravely ill. The once-powerful Nanrithowan wards that had shielded their people were now beyond their reach, their magic fading with no one left to sustain it. Armed with only a handful of weapons and dwindling resolve, the sylvans faced annihilation.

The raids persisted through the spring, and by midsummer, Llythwere was on the brink of collapse. Fewer than a hundred sylvans remained, their supplies nearly gone. They could not farm, dared not forage in the dangerous woods, and faced the looming specter of a deadly winter. Desperate, the council turned to the goddess Imaera, convening a nine-day and nine-night commune to plead for salvation.

On the final morning, Imaera appeared before them. Her presence was both ethereal and unnerving, her voice echoing with the weight of divine power. "Sacrifice that which you hold most dear," she intoned, "and your people will endure. Llythwere shall prosper for generations to come."

Her cryptic words left the council in turmoil. They debated endlessly, searching for the meaning of her riddle, but no consensus was reached. Their indecision proved costly. Three days after the commune ended, Illiweth Siergeth passed quietly in her sleep. As the last mage of Yuriqen, her death marked the end of their hope to wield ancient magic or fortify their defenses.

The sylvans mourned her passing with a solemn ceremony in the foothills of the Dragonspine. Her death was seen as a grim fulfillment of Imaera’s prophecy, a harbinger of the sacrifice she had foretold. The council urged the people to endure and to trust in the goddess’s promise of prosperity. But as the chill of winter crept into the forest and the cries of hungry children echoed through the settlement, doubt began to fester among the survivors.

The Long Winter

By the dawn of the new year, the sylvans were teetering on the brink of ruin. Their food stores had long since been depleted, forcing them to strip bark from the surrounding trees in a desperate attempt to stave off starvation. Sickness and injury swept through the settlement like an unrelenting tide, threatening to extinguish what little remained of their once-proud community.

The few surviving members of the Ne’Yuscarl patrolled the forests daily, hunting for anything that might sustain their people. During one such mission, Gearith Tilweth was caught in the grip of a fierce blizzard. Disoriented and weak with hunger, he lost his way in the endless expanse of snow-covered woods, the howling wind drowning his calls for help.

The storm raged on for days, and Gearith’s strength began to wane. Just as hope seemed to slip beyond his grasp, he stumbled into a small encampment hidden deep within the forest. There, a group of people unlike any he had ever encountered greeted him with wary kindness.

They were striking figures, their towering stature reminiscent of the giantkin Gearith had glimpsed once in Barrett’s Gorge. Both men and women were bald at the crowns of their heads, but long, pale hair flowed down their backs like silken cascades. Their eyes, however, were what truly set them apart. Pale and slitted, gleaming with a predatory sharpness.

Too weak to feel fear, Gearith accepted their hospitality and collapsed by their fire, exhausted beyond resistance. He awoke briefly during the night, feverish and muttering incoherently about his people and their plight before succumbing once more to unconsciousness. When dawn broke, Gearith did not wake.

The strangers, who called themselves the "erithi," murmured a solemn prayer over his lifeless form. After a lengthy deliberation, they resolved to return his body to Llythwere, their curiosity piqued by the sylvans he had spoken of in his delirium.

When the erithi arrived at the settlement, the sylvans met them with suspicion and fear. Memories of the Faendryl raids were still raw, and the sight of outsiders, especially ones so otherworldly, stirred unease among the survivors. The discovery of Gearith’s lifeless body only deepened their mistrust.

Communication proved to be a daunting barrier. The erithi spoke in a lilting, lyrical language unfamiliar to the sylvans. While they seemed to understand fragments of the sylvan tongue, they responded primarily in elven, an ancient language that few sylvans of Llythwere still spoke, having distanced themselves from their elven kin over the centuries.

Through a halting blend of broken languages, gestures, and crude drawings, the two groups eventually found a fragile understanding. The erithi offered the sylvans something unimaginable: protection, supplies to last the winter, and aid in rebuilding their shattered homes. Though the offer seemed almost too generous, the sylvans had no choice. Survival outweighed suspicion, and they reluctantly accepted.

Within a week, more erithi arrived at Llythwere. They came bearing food, medicine, and sturdy materials for construction. Despite the lingering tension, a tentative bond began to form between the two peoples. The sylvans, long accustomed to isolation, found themselves reliant on the erithi’s aid, their once impenetrable walls of mistrust slowly beginning to crack.

Though the shadow of the sylvans' recent trials hung heavily over Llythwere, a faint glimmer of hope began to stir. For the first time in months, the sylvans dared to believe they might endure the winter, and perhaps even rebuild the life they had lost.

At Great Cost

By the time spring breathed new life into the forest, the sylvans had thrived. Their homes stretched high into the ancient trees, blending seamlessly with the verdant canopy. The once-fragile settlement had grown strong and self-sufficient, with abundant harvests lifting their spirits. The conditions of their bargain with the erithi, once a source of constant worry, had faded into the background, overshadowed by their newfound prosperity. The two races coexisted in a harmony that seemed, for a time, like a lasting peace.

Yet, as the seasons turned, an uneasy tension settled over Llythwere like a mist. As the anniversary of the erithi’s arrival approached, the sylvans found themselves wondering: Would their benefactors reveal the full extent of the bargain? And if so, what price would they demand for their aid?

When the erithi returned, they met with the sylvan council. A year of shared language lessons had bridged the gap between their two cultures, leaving little room for misunderstanding. The erithi revealed the true cost of their assistance: they sought to expand their dwindling population. Over centuries, their ability to produce healthy offspring had declined, threatening their survival. To preserve their lineage, they sought to mix the two races by requiring a sylvan be tithed every fifty years.

The revelation was met with shock and horror. The sylvans, who had come to view the erithi as benevolent allies, recoiled at this demand. It felt like a betrayal, a condition that defied the very principles of equality and respect. But honor-bound by their agreement and without any other options, the sylvans reluctantly accepted. The goodwill between the two races fractured under the weight of this grim bargain.

Tensions simmered as years passed. Despite the agreement, nearly a decade went by without any children being conceived. The erithi grew frustrated, accusing the sylvans of sabotage, while the sylvans insisted they were honoring the bargain. Desperate for answers, the sylvan council sought advice from their herbalists. One elder recalled a failed attempt to cross-pollinate silver veil trees with local species; the genetic differences were too great to produce viable seeds.

The sylvans brought their findings to the erithi, who listened with quiet intensity. After a cryptic acknowledgment, the erithi announced they would return with a solution. Without another word, they departed, leaving the sylvans to wonder about the future of their fragile alliance.

A Less than Welcome Return

It took nearly a year for the erithi to return to the sylvan settlement with an answer to their problem. To the dismay and general horror of the people, they were informed that a ritual spell would be performed between the pledged male and female. Their blood would be combined within the arcane circle, and through the spell’s completion, their essences would intertwine, ensuring conception. The bond formed during the ritual would remain until the child’s birth, at which point it would be severed, and the two participants would be allowed to part.

At the time, very little was understood of blood magic, but it has since been revealed as the foundation of the tithe ritual practiced in the tithing. Due to a deep mistrust of magic beyond the most common spheres, such as elemental or healing magic, anything more arcane, particularly blood magic, is viewed with suspicion among the sylvans of Llythwere. This distrust stems from the very origins of the tithing accord.

After a period of preparation, the ritual was conducted under the light of the second full moon of the year. Only the elders were permitted to witness the event, leaving much of its exact nature shrouded in mystery. What is known, however, is that the couple’s blood was symbolically combined in an intricate spell, forging a magical connection between them. Over the following days, the spell completed its purpose, and a child was conceived. As promised, once the child was born, the bond was dissolved. The erithi took the child to raise, and the sylvan mother was granted freedom to choose her own path, unbound by the rules of the tithing.

For over thirty-seven hundred years, the tithing ritual has been upheld by the sylvans without fail. In that time, they have flourished, building a true home for themselves. While they may never reclaim the golden age nurtured in Yuriqen, they have forged a society rooted in the traditions of their people.

The Almost Uprising

Riend’s mother, Saoirce Ar’Fiernel, was a celebrated mage of Llythwere and one of the last pupils of the revered Illiweth Siergeth. With the sylvans thriving under her guidance and their numbers steadily increasing, Saoirce sought to enhance the Nanrithowan, the protective wards that shielded their settlement. Her innovations even allowed the erithi to pass through the wards unscathed, a privilege she alone had the power to revoke. When her time for tithing arrived, she considered doing just that, using her magic to sever the bond and banish the erithi from their lands.

Saoirce viewed the practice of tithing as barbaric and began to rally others who shared her unease. Her resolve sparked unrest within the community, and what began as quiet dissent grew into organized opposition. Many feared her rebellion would bring an end to the tithing and, with it, the prosperity the sylvans had gained through their alliance with the erithi. Without the support of their benefactors, some believed the sylvans would fall back into hardship.

As Saoirce’s conviction deepened, it was her grandmother who stepped forward to intervene. The elder spoke to her with measured wisdom. “The tithe is not a punishment,” she said. “It is a burden we bear with pride, for in fulfilling it, we honor our people, our ancestors, and the covenant that safeguards our future. There is no greater honor than placing the needs of others above your own.”

Her grandmother’s words struck a chord, planting a seed of doubt in Saoirce’s heart. That doubt slowly grew, tempering her defiance and rekindling a sense of duty. In time, she abandoned her rebellion, dedicating herself instead to instilling that same sense of purpose in her daughter.

Present Day Llythwere

When Riend was born, her mother’s heart swelled with both joy and sorrow. As the first female born in her line in three generations, Saoirce was granted the rare privilege of keeping and raising her daughter. Yet, with this gift came an inescapable truth: Riend would be bound to the same fate Saoirce had endured... the tithe. With a heavy heart, Saoirce resigned herself to the inevitable path her daughter would follow, but vowed to give her a life of freedom she herself had never known.

Riend was raised as any sylvan child might be. She was taught to track with a light step, to hunt with a bow strung with quiet precision, and to listen to the language of wind through the trees. But where others had laughter among branches and voices echoing through the canopy, Riend had silence. The similarities to the upbringing of others ended there. She was kept apart, her world narrowed to a quiet corner of the forest and the careful watch of a few appointed elders. Lessons came in fragments, offered in measured tones, and companionship was rare enough to feel like something imagined. She learned to speak softly, not out of gentleness, but because there was no one to answer back.

Her mother had seen how solitude and the weight of the tithe pressed against her daughter, and so she gave Riend a task. She was to journey westward, carrying knowledge meant for their people. It was offered as both purpose and possibility, a chance to step beyond the familiar paths of Llythwere and into lands few from her village had walked. Riend accepted the charge with quiet resolve, not yet knowing that what she saw as freedom would slowly bend into something else. The road she followed did not just carry her away from home. It carried her deeper into a silence of another kind, one she had not been taught to navigate.

Possession

During the early years of the 5110s, Riend found herself caught in the heart of a horror. Grishom Stone, a rogue blood mage, was consumed by a twisted ambition. He sought to build an urnon golem powerful enough to bring the demon Althedeus into the world. To power it, he hunted women who resembled Madelyne, his former lover, murdering them as both punishment and sacrifice. Madelyne’s betrayal had driven him to madness, and in his obsession, he made others pay for her choices.

One night in Wehnimer’s Landing, Riend heard a voice that chilled her to the bone. Weak, frightened, and calling for help, it drew her through the streets until it surged into her. Madelyne's spirit, restless and vengeful, possessed her completely. That was the beginning of a torment unlike anything Riend had ever known.

What followed was a steady unraveling. The spirit clawed through her mind and body, driving her into fevers and visions. Her skin grew pallid and broke out in sores. Her strength failed. Worse still, her sense of self began to slip. Madelyne haunted her nights with the memories of Stone’s victims, women who had died screaming, and forced Riend to relive their final moments again and again. Through it all, Madelyne demanded that Riend destroy him.

Yet the most dangerous aspect of it all was not the pain. It was the doubt. Somewhere beneath the madness, Riend began to feel drawn to the man who had orchestrated her suffering. Grishom Stone had taken a new face. He posed as a charming Imperial noble with dreams of prosperity. To most, he appeared as nothing more than an eccentric businessman. But to Riend, he became something far more complicated. There were moments of kindness, fleeting glimpses of the man he might have been. As her mind spiraled, she could no longer tell whether what she felt for him was her own or something planted by Madelyne.

She tried again and again to redeem him. She wanted to believe there was something in him worth saving. Even as Madelyne tore at her from within and Stone manipulated her from without, she fought to hold on to her humanity and to his.

Eventually, Stone offered her freedom. He spoke of a ritual that would sever her bond with Madelyne’s spirit. Riend agreed, desperate for relief. But the ritual was a lie. Instead of freeing her, it transferred Madelyne’s spirit into the urnon golem, binding her to his monstrous creation and nearly killing Riend in the process.

Time passed. The golem was destroyed. The demon’s influence faded. Stone was captured, weakened by his own ambition. During his imprisonment, he reached out to Riend with an unexpected request. He asked her to make him a pair of shoes. Riend delivered them herself, and the conversation they shared in that prison cell was something unexpected. It was honest and quiet. There was no manipulation and no grand deception. Only two broken people trying to understand what remained between them.

She begged him to choose a different path. She urged him to find peace. But he would not. Even as he confessed that he had come to care for her, Riend was left uncertain whether that mattered. She could not tell if any of it had ever been real.

He escaped, as he always did. From time to time, letters began to arrive, bearing no return address. Each was signed the same way. “Yours, always, Grishom.”

Riend never responded. But she read every one. And in the quiet that followed, she could not say with certainty which part of her still hoped he would change and which part feared he never would.

Affiliations

Master of the Rogue Guild
Master of Voln

Member of Rone Academy

Officer of the Landing Defense Irregulars

Member of Moonshine Manor

Member of Elanthian Elegance

Artisan Skills

Master Cobbler
Master Fletcher
Master Painter