In the year 2513 of the Imperial Calendar, in May, the ancient paradise of the Old Ones, Osuan, on the Isle of Rebirth, lies the palace of the High Elven Everqueen within the Eternal Queen's courtyard.
The Isle of Rebirth, located in the northern waters of the Great Vortex near the coast of the kingdom of Avalon (the domain of the Everqueen), is home to the ancient Mother Earth temple ruins and the sacred shrine of Isha, the Mother of All. Each Everqueen is crowned here, and the priestesses of Isha, who reside on the island, maintain the temple, shrouded in the mists of time. The underground levels of the temple hold many mysteries, and no male elf is allowed to witness the secret rites held there.
Every female elf in Osuan must make a pilgrimage to this island at least once in her life.
This isle is home to possibly the most beautiful natural scenery in the world. Blessed by the life goddess Isha, the island is eternally springlike. High cliffs give way to cascading waterfalls, and every inch of the island is covered in blooming flowers. Grasses sway in the breeze, birds sing in the air, and deep within the valleys, ancient trees stand tall, their roots weaving through the land, blanketed by mist. As dawn breaks, a thousand tendrils of mist dance through the forests and gardens, creating a magical and ever-changing landscape.
At night, beneath the clear moonlight, the island takes on a serene and dignified atmosphere. The dense forests and the beings that reside within it seem to blend into the landscape, the mosses and vines that cling to rocks and cliffs telling tales of millennia gone by.
In the heart of Avalon, the Everqueen's court is once again bustling with celebration. The grand halls are filled with High Elves enjoying endless feasts and indulging in the pleasures of the flesh. These gatherings encourage fertility, as the Asur face a declining population. Unlike their Dark Elf cousins, who often bear between eight and twelve children, the High Elves have seen a steady decline in their numbers. Thanks to the Phoenix King Finubar's establishment of trade routes with the Old World, the Asur economy is slowly recovering, but their birthrate has barely managed to stabilize, with most elven couples having only one or two children—three being a rare occurrence.
As morning dawns in Avalon, the pure sunlight streamed through the graceful halls of the Everqueen's palace, the Summer Court. A sense of urgency broke the stillness as a military dispatch arrived at the palace, waking both the Everqueen and her champion.
On the grand bed, the thin sheets did little to hide the aftermath of a passionate night. Still drowsy, the champion of the Everqueen stirred as the message reached his ears, knowing that he had no choice but to rise.
He was the protector of Osuan, the Warden of the High Elves, and the pride of the Asur.
Bathed in the gentle morning light, the man, dressed only in a robe, made his way to the wide marble bath. The polished white tiles with golden engravings reflected the dawn as he slowly submerged himself into the warm water.
Two Avalon handmaidens entered the bath, carrying scented oils and towels. A third carried a basket of flower petals, her graceful movements scattering the petals across the pool.
In Osuan, becoming a handmaiden of Avalon is the highest honor for any Asur woman. These sisters of Avalon, whose purpose is to protect the Everqueen, are the pinnacle of beauty and power among the High Elves. In peacetime, they serve the Everqueen directly, carrying out her will across the elven kingdoms. But in times of war, these handmaidens are fearsome warriors, raining magical arrows and wielding enchanted blades to defend their queen.
Each handmaiden is at least of legendary rank, with many achieving even higher levels of power. There are over a thousand of these handmaidens under the Everqueen's command.
Now, they tended to the warrior in the bath.
The pool was vast, large enough for a dozen to swim in. The warrior closed his eyes, enjoying the service of the handmaidens. Normally, these attendants would only serve the Everqueen or the Phoenix King, but this exception had become commonplace for the warrior, thanks to the countless allowances the Everqueen had made for him.
The warrior's streamlined muscles glistened with a faint glow. The two handmaidens gazed admiringly at his well-built body, his back as hard as the finest Ithilmar armor, though his chest and abdomen bore countless scars—each one a testament to his numerous battles, each scar telling the tale of the dangers he had faced head-on, never once retreating.
After applying the oils, the handmaidens gently scraped the oil from his body with small sandalwood blades. His striking golden hair and handsome, sunlit face left the handmaidens blushing.
He was like the sun itself, they often said. Bright, fiery, and full of hope, but those who ventured too close risked getting burned.
Now, with his golden hair carefully braided by the handmaidens, the warrior rose from the bath. He stretched his arms as a white elven shirt and trousers were draped over him. Then came the mithril underarmor, followed by chainmail, a plated skirt, and greaves. Finally, the legendary Eltharion Dragon Armor was placed on his body, and the golden-winged helm crowned his head. The azure Cothique Cloak settled on his shoulders, completing the ensemble.
Tyrion, Warden of Osuan, Lord of the High Elf War Council, descendant of Aenarion, champion of the Everqueen, and the greatest warrior of the current age, nodded slowly as he left the bath.
During the previous night's revelry, Tyrion had already sensed the call of his brother, Teclis, who urgently wished to speak with him. As twins, Tyrion and Teclis were complete opposites—Tyrion, the brave warrior and great leader, wore his emotions on his face, while Teclis, the Grand Mage, rarely showed his feelings, often maintaining a single expression all day.
Yet, despite their differences, the twins shared a mysterious connection. Tyrion could always sense his brother's emotions—whether anger, joy, concern, or calm. He wasn't sure if Teclis could feel the same, but Tyrion often relied on his passion and drive to fuel his sword, while his brother preferred to weave his spells and strategize carefully.
The Eltharion Dragon Armor burned with the heavenly fire of Asuryan, the strongest and most unyielding armor in existence, and a masterpiece of High Elf craftsmanship. Every time Tyrion donned the armor, he remembered the glorious yet tragic legacy of Aenarion, his ancestor.
More than once, Tyrion had overheard discussions in the court questioning Aenarion's descent into madness, but he firmly believed that without Aenarion, the world would have long since been destroyed.
No one alive today knows how to forge such an artifact again. The armor, crafted on the anvil of Vaul, the elven god of forging, stands unmatched. Not even the legendary Chaos Armor of Archaon or the god-given Dwarven plate of Grungni could compare. The Eltharion Dragon Armor was singular and irreplaceable, a shining example of both elven magic and craftsmanship, glowing with the radiance of the sun.
"Your brother calls for you, Osuan calls for your protection, my champion," came a voice, sweet as honey and imbued with divine power. Behind him stood the radiant Everqueen, whose very presence caused flowers to bloom and filled the air with their scent.
Her brilliance dispelled any darkness, and her words touched the deepest part of every elf's soul. She had existed long before the armor had been forged and would continue to guide her people into the future.
"For you, I will always fight, my lady," Tyrion knelt before the Everqueen, his heart racing as he looked upon her.
It was difficult to find words to describe Alarielle's beauty. Barefoot and clothed only in a gossamer-thin gown, she approached with each step, causing flowers to bloom in mid-air. The purest light of the world enveloped her perfect figure, and the scent of the flowers reached Tyrion's nostrils, calming him. "The curse of Khaine, or perhaps the curse of my ancestor, still lingers upon the armor."
"You can overcome it, can't you, my champion?" Alarielle's words soothed his heart like gentle rain, her beauty rivaling that of the elven goddesses. It was said that only Lileath, the moon goddess, could compare to the Everqueen's beauty. She was Osuan's most beloved daughter, and Tyrion knelt willingly before her, but he soon joked, "I've overcome many challenges, including you, my lady."
"Now's not the time for that," Alarielle giggled, unable to help but smile at her champion's playful tone. Their bond ran deep, and the two shared a unique understanding. She gestured for him to rise. "So, are you preparing to leave?"
Tyrion stood, sighing softly. "There have been some undead pirate raids on the outskirts of Tiranoc and Lothern. Teclis and the War Council are calling for me."
"I sense it too. Osuan weeps, and these undead seek to corrupt and curse our lands," Alarielle nodded, her light shining brightly. The Everqueen's power was linked to Osuan itself—when she sang, the flowers bloomed, and the world fell silent
. When she wept, the rain would fall. When she smiled, Osuan would bask in sunlight.
If Osuan was under threat, Alarielle's power would also weaken, as her fate was tied to the land. "Good times are always fleeting, my champion."
"I will never disobey your commands, my lady," Tyrion bowed. "But I must leave now. A true guardian must always be ready for battle."
"Yes," Alarielle rested her hand on his face, her warm eyes glowing. "Go find your brother, Teclis?"
"Him? Yes," Tyrion's voice took on a curious tone. "Can you feel his emotions as well?"
"No, I cannot. But I can feel yours," Alarielle's emerald eyes shone with warmth. "You can't hide from me, my champion, not ever."
"You always see through everything, my lady," Tyrion smiled, his face softening. "But I sometimes feel that in front of you, I'm an open book."
"Your emotions are written all over your face, my warrior," Alarielle teased, her laughter like music to his ears. "Are you leaving now?"
"There's no time to waste," Tyrion nodded, accepting his enchanted sword, Sunfang, from one of the handmaidens. The legendary blade, forged to slay and banish Chaos demons in ancient times, was still as powerful as ever. Tyrion could feel the transformation as he shifted from Alarielle's lover to Osuan's greatest champion.
The Heart of Avalon hung around his neck—a gift from the Everqueen and a symbol of their love. "I'm ready."
"May Asuryan's heavenly fire protect you always, my champion," Alarielle said. "My daughter and I cannot leave Avalon, but we will await your victorious return."
Tyrion nodded and made his way out of the palace.
No matter how many times he saw it, Tyrion was always struck by the beauty of Avalon. This sacred realm of the High Elves was a dreamlike land, with towering trees as green as emeralds. The sounds of magical creatures drifted down from the enchanted branches as the spirits of the forest expressed their joy.
Dryads, treants, and even the towering Treemen wandered through the forest, singing their ancient songs. The breathtaking scenery shimmered through the morning mist, and the fresh air filled Tyrion's lungs. As he walked, he could still hear the celebrations continuing in the background—the fertility festival carrying on, with young elves indulging in passion, unaware and uninterested in the troubles beyond Avalon's borders.
Tyrion felt a pang of frustration. On the one hand, he knew that the High Elves were losing their warrior spirit, growing complacent and indulgent in their luxury. Despite the decrees of the Phoenix King, fewer elves were willing to fight for their homeland. On the other hand, he was also frustrated by the need to leave Avalon behind. More than once, in his dreams, he saw the beautiful face of the Blood-Handed God Khaine, felt the inexplicable rage boiling within him, and wished to tear everything apart.
"You're troubled again, my champion," Alarielle's warm voice brought him back to reality. She approached him, her sweet fragrance calming his nerves. "I am always troubled, my lady. Khaine still desires the blood of Aenarion's heirs, and I am no Teclis. I cannot seal my mind. He has Lileath, but I only have you."
"Then I think my champion needs a little encouragement~" Alarielle whispered before kissing him softly on the lips. Her touch made all of Tyrion's anger vanish. The Everqueen's chosen champion retaliated with a passionate kiss, and the two were entwined for several minutes before finally pulling away. Tyrion reluctantly mounted his horse, casting one last look at Alarielle, his love, before departing.
The crimson banner of silk bore Tyrion's personal crest—a golden phoenix reborn in flames—decorated with a red heart and a peace dove holding an olive branch, symbols of Alarielle.
From this moment forward, the Everqueen's lover would disappear, replaced by the Warden of Osuan, bound for Lothern to fulfill his duty.
The Asur do not fear war, and under Tyrion's leadership, they will stand united, ready to defend their homeland!
"For the Phoenix King! For the Everqueen!"
"For Osuan!"
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