Ariel

Ariel is the Queen of Athel Loren and presides over the realm together with Orion. Ariel is one of the most powerful wizards in all of the world. She is a demi-goddess and the avatar of Isha, the ancient Elven goddess of nature, and acquired the Aspects of Isha through the strange magic of the Oak of Ages at the same time as Orion gained the Aspects of Kurnous. Thus, the magical force of nature flows through Ariel as if she were the goddess Isha herself.

Ariel wields immense natural forces and weaves them according to her will. She commands the trees of the forest to grow, and vegetation to spring forth from the ground. It is Ariel who weaves enchantments around the Forest of Loren to delay and mislead intruders, or lure them onwards to their doom.

When enemies enter the Forest of Loren, Ariel shifts shape into her sylph-like War Aspect. She grows almost twice the height of an ordinary Elf and unfolds huge wings like those of a gigantic moth, covered in tiny scales of shimmering, iridescent colours. Upon her wings are strange markings known as the Eyes of Isha, and the Spirals of Isha can also be seen in the patterns of her wings. Sometimes, Ariel's wings display the markings of the death's-head moth to indicate that she is enraged and in a vengeful mood. Moth-like antennas emerge from Ariel's head, but her face remains that of a beautiful she-Elf with piercing eyes. The upper part of her body is clad in shimmering scales of incandescent green, while the lower part trails away into infinity — like an ethereal or elemental being. She appears to glow with an inner light like the moon and trails raw magic in a shower of glittering stardust. In this form, Ariel can fly around the battlefield wielding her magic. The wafting of her huge wings over the heads of the enemy fills them with both dread and awe.

Origins
Eleven hundred and twenty-five years before the coming of Sigmar, the Dwarfs came once more to Athel Loren after the retreat of the High Elves to Ulthuan at the end of the War of the Beard, marching down in the autumn months from the Grey Mountains and deep into the Pine Crags. With winter fast approaching, the spirits of the forest were rapidly becoming lethargic and could offer little resistance. Worse, the Elven kindreds of the Pine Crags were small and disorganised. Though the first Dwarven incursion was halted and repulsed, warhawk riders brought tidings that the rapacious tree slayers were assembled in even greater numbers in the high reaches of the Grey Mountains. So dire was this threat considered to be that a council of the kinbands was called - the first such gathering since the Elves had taken up residence within Athel Loren.

The great lords and ladies of the Wood Elves held council at the foot of the Oak of Ages, and even the trees of the glade crowded close, as if paying attention to what was said. Though not all the kindreds had sent representation, it remained an assemblage of great power and wisdom. In this council, it was decided that no kindred should rule over any other. This could only lead to ambition and jealousy and ultimately strife. This was no ordinary council with wise men sitting in debate. The ways of the wood had already taken hold over the Elven folk, bringing forth strange and wild aspects of the Elven psyche. Kurnous and Isha were invoked. The devotees of the trickster god, Loec, performed their ritual dances, and the seers and prophetesses read the skeins of fate in the stars and patterns of flame. The elders expressed their views in mysterious dramas and the mages revealed new wonders which they had found within the wood. Even Treemen and Dryads were present and there were already Wood Elves skilled enough to merge minds with these creatures as well as with many kinds of beasts and birds.

In the firelit glade, the Elven sorceress Ariel found herself drawn to the lord of the greatest of the hunter kindreds, Orion. He was the bravest and most handsome of his folk as Ariel was the wisest and fairest of hers, a cunning hunter in whom thought and instinct melded as one. Whilst the council debated how best to oppose the Dwarfs, Ariel and Orion were deep in a conversation of their own, seemingly oblivious to the great matters that were discussed around them.

After many hours of debate and feasting, the Elves were dismayed for, even assembled and united as they were, their numbers were not sufficient to meet the Dwarfs in battle. Worse, the seers had determined that the Dwarfs were but the lesser of two nascent threats — a great horde of Greenskins was but a few days from launching their own assault. It was then that Adanhu, greatest and eldest of the tree lords, strode into the glade, though not even the most keen-sighted of the assembled Elves had been aware of his presence until that moment. If the Elves were to strike the Dwarfs now, spoke the ancient one, before autumn faded into winter entire, the forest would fight at the side of the Elves, for this danger threatened them all. Emboldened by Adanhu's words, the Elves prepared their plans anew and, in their enthusiasm, were heedless of the ancient one's warning that a great sacrifice would be required of them.

As Adanhu addressed the council Ariel and Orion slipped away, apparently unnoticed by all as they left the glade and entered the deep wood. It was not until many hours later, when the feast was over, that their absence was noted, an absence that provoked great anger from the assembled Elves for it was unheard of that an Elf would choose one from another kinband as lover. Enraged, the lords of the Asrai demanded that the two errant lovers were found and brought before the council.

The Elves hunted Ariel and Orion in the forest about the Council Glade for many long hours, until the golden rays of dawn pierced the leaves. Skillful as they were, the hunters could find no trace of their quarry's passage and, slowly, the lords' anger faded and their thoughts became suffused with concern. As the search wore on and hope became ever bleaker, the Elves sought Adanhu's aid, yet the great being remained silent in the face of their pleas. Mages attempted to converse with the trees, yet received no answers. Dryads were sought, yet none could be found. Reluctantly, and with great sadness, the Asrai nobles accepted that the lovers were lost to them and turned their thoughts to the battle ahead.

As autumn faded from the world, the Wood Elves marched into the mountains above the Pine Crags and brought the Dwarfs to battle. As Adanhu had promised them, the Asrai did not fight alone. To the Dwarfs it must have seemed as if all of Athel Loren had emptied, for mighty Tree Kin strode amongst the Elven lines, and great hosts of Dryads swarmed about their flanks - all of them preceded by the enraged form of Durthu, who strode ahead like an unstoppable force of nature as he sought to revenge himself in full upon the Dwarven race that had scarred him. Against this attack, even the stubbornness of Dwarfs could not endure and they retreated to their Holds. They did not trouble Athel Lore again for many hundreds of years, though the Great Book of Grudges contains numerous references to the battle they call Karaz-Zan.

The Winter of Woe
As winter fell upon Athel Loren, an icy wind whistled through the boughs of the forest and a chill gripped the land like never before. The forest grew still and the spirits of tree and earth slept away the long, dark nights, but this was to be no silent winter spent in slumber while awaiting the joyous return of spring. Driven by hunger and bloodlust, hordes of Orcs and Goblins poured down from the mountains, burning the trees of Athel Loren and hunting its beasts. The Elves fought bravely but the spirit of unity that had been forged to oppose the Dwarfs was lacking and they were forced to yield ground. Many Orcs were shot with arrows by unseen hands. Nevertheless the Greenskins remained undeterred. All the magic of the mages seemed impotent to ward them off. Steadily they approached the sacred groves and the home glades of the kindreds, who either took refuge in caves or swore to die fighting for their homes. In an orgy of wanton destruction, the Orcs built great pyres and pillars of smoke stained the sky with the ashes of the living wood of the forest. Midwinter came and went, the ground turned as hard as iron. Howlind winds drove snow across the heathlands and through the trees. The forest was transformed into an endless vista of white and grey. Dark wolves hunted through the forest as the Orcs pushed deeper and deeper. Despite the efforts of the Elves, who mustered all their warriors and struggled day and night to draw them away with enchantments and false trails, the green-skinned invaders were soon drawn up before the twisted form of the Oak of Ages itself.

Orc campfires burned throughout the night as the Elves readied themselves for battle, for the Asrai feared that the fate of the Oak of Ages would rule that of the forest. They did so with heavy hearts, for they did not believe that they could stand before the horde that opposed them, but resolved to die to the last in defence of their home. As morning broke, they saw that the forest was transformed. The winter snows were in retreat and blood red blossoms had pushed through the hard ground. The animals of the forest roused from their hibernation and a restlessness could be felt on the air, as of a mighty force awakening. As mages began considering these portents, the haunting cry of a mighty horn was heard sounding out of the depths of the forest. The Orcs heard it too. They froze awestruck and rooted to the spot as they roasted squirrels and weasels over the embers of their campfires.

Then came the baying of hounds and flocks of birds rose in great dark masses from their roosts. The eerie sound of a great stag bellowing a challenge was heard and then the sound of a huge beast crashing through the dead bracken. The scouts saw him first. A mighty hunter, Kurnous, his very self! He bounded between the trees with the speed and agility of an antelope. From his head sprouted a vast span of antlers. Around his face hung masses of ivy and moss. His flesh was green like the spring leaves, his eyes glowed amber like a feral beast. He was twice the height of an Elf and carried an enormous spear in his hand. A fierce, primal energy swelled from Kurnous and all the Elves who looked upon him were filled with furious energy and power. The horn was winded a second time, and the Greenskins met their doom.

Kurnous crashed through the undergrowth into the Orc camp slaying as he went. He bellowed and charged the Warlord Grotfang, impaling him with his spear and tossing him over his head with his antlers. The rest of the Orcs shrank back in terror. The black ravens were already swooping down on the doomed Orc horde. The Orcs stumbled upon each other in their haste to get away, but they found no easy way through the forest. Treemen and Dryads barred their way, awakened by the horn of Kurnous and his bellowing challenge.

Kurnous chased after his fleeing prey wielding his mighty spear. Behind Kurnous came a wave of Elves, rallied and rushing to join the wild hunt, their eyes afire with their god's furious power. Their arrows slew Orcs in a withering hail. Wardancers leapt forward as if in the ritual dance of Kurnous, slaying the clumsy Orcs not quick enough to get out of the way.

As the sun rose above the trees, the weak amber rays lit a scene of slaughter. A glade strewn with slain Orcs and black with ravens and crows. Buzzards circled overhead and the wolves came for their share. None of the Orcs escaped the forest. Their white bones were destined to become entangled in the gnarled roots of the Glade of Woe.

The King and Queen in the Wood
When it was certain that the last of the Orcs had been slain, the scouts and the other warriors followed after Kurnous as best as they could. His distant bellowing could still be heard and his huge shadow could be glimpsed running fast between the trees. Orcs transfixed by his deadly spear marked his route. They tracked him through a wide arc back towards the Council Glade and right up the Oak of Ages itself.

Here they stopped. Kurnous had disappeared. Mages were brought up. They worked with their divining rods and invoked Kurnous, uttering incantations of praise and gratitude for their deliverance from the foe. As they called upon Kurnous the tree creaked and groaned and a deep, sonorous, and resonant voice spoke as if from within its very trunk: "Who summons Kurnous?"

Then the assembled Elves saw the yawning cleft in the gnarled oak's trunk; this was where the voice had emanated from. A few of the braver scouts and mages squeezed into the crack. Stealthily creeping along a narrow void within the living wood they heard mysterious and magical laughter and strange music. A dim glow indicated the end of the tunnel. When they reached this they peered into a great hollow space in the depths of the tree.

There they saw two figures sat as though enthroned, two of the most beautiful and awesome beings that they had ever set eyes on. They looked for all the world like the living embodiments of Kurnous and Isha, yet with a hint of the features of the lost Orion and Ariel. All around them there were Dryads and other strange woodland spirits paying homage as if to a king and queen.

Then high mage Athelor stepped forward and asked them if they were indeed Ariel and Orion. Orion replied that they were, but changed. Then Ariel spoke, revealing that they had both merged with the gods Kurnous and Isha and taken on their aspects. The gods had been called forth from the forest and wished to assume Elven form. They had been attracted by the exceptional beauty of Orion and Ariel, finest of Elves, and filled them with but a small part of their divine spirits. This was enough to endow Orion and Ariel the ability to shift shape into Kurnous and Isha for a brief time. Long enough to seal the fate of any invaders of Athel Loren.

Ariel had spoken with the deep wisdom of a goddess and the Elves were truly awestruck by what they saw. Athelor the high mage understood and proclaimed to the others, "Behold, our King and Queen in the Wood!"

Orion and Ariel emerged from the Oak of Ages and held court in the Council Glade. All the kindreds paid homage to them as king and queen. The mages recognised them as now possessing magical powers deriving directly from the gods Kurnous and Isha. Orion was able to shift shape into Kurnous the Wild Hunter, chasing invaders from his domain. Ariel could shift shape into Isha wielding magic untaught and quite naturally as an aspect of her very being. She had the power to weave enchantments around the realm of Athel Loren to protect her folk and deter their foes.

In the aftermath of the battle, Ariel used her power to heal the damage that had been wrought, her touch infusing the ruined and desolate areas of the forest with new life. Throughout the summer months Athel Loren knew relative peace, for any incursions were swiftly scattered by Orion's fury. Many Elves, the song of the hunt deep in their being, were drawn to the demigod's hunts and welcomed a portion of his power into his hearts. Thus they became the Wild Riders, the equerries of the King in the Wood whose service and rituals maintained the eternal spirit of the hunter. Summer faded into autumn, and whilst Ariel's powers remained as potent as first they had in the early days of spring, Orion's power gradually faded and his anger diminished until finally, as winter's iron grip took hold of the forest, he was all but spent.

As the snows closed on the forest, a mighty pyre was built in the centre of the King's Glade and its flames reached high into the night sky. As part of a ritual that would evermore echo down the centuries, when midnight approached and the chill of winter was at its most biting, the Wild Riders and Orion marched into the clearing, and the King of the Wild Hunt stepped naked into the fire, the flames consuming him as he raised his arms to the heavens. All night the fire blazed, until the winter sun climbed over the Grey Mountains. In the cold light of day, no trace of Orion remained save his ashes. The Wild Riders bore the ashes away in silence and brought them to the Council Glade, where Ariel took them deep into the Oak of Ages and sealed herself and the ashes of her consort away from the outside world.

Many Elves wept for their lost king, for they did not understand what had occurred. Only with next spring, when Orion was reborn, did they fully understand that the nature of Ariel and Orion, and indeed the Wood Elf race entire, was now bound forever to the Weave of Existence — the web of life and death that bound all living things.

In all the years since, as the snows retreat and the breath of spring is felt once more on the air, the forest has trembled with the waking dreams of Orion. The Wild Riders come for the Elf chosen to take up the mantle of Ariel's consort-king, though their selection is shrouded in mystery, even to the other Elves who hold it to be ill-luck to attract the attention of Orion's riders. The day before the vernal equinox, the Elf chosen to become the new King of the Wild Hunt is garlanded with new-blooming flowers and painted with mystical sigils before being led into the Oak of Ages. The following morning, on the first day of spring, Ariel awakens from her slumbers and the reborn Orion thunders from the trees, the wild hunt howling at his heels.

As the centuries passed, Ariel grew ever more skilled at harnessing the powers of the Weave, and gradually healed the forest of its wounds. Through it all, Adanhu and the other Elders looked on with satisfaction. Under the guardianship of the Elves, the forest was flourishing and its wildness was being kept in check. Then, one ill-starred night, the spirits of the forest cried out in agony, and Ariel wept a single perfect tear as she felt a great disruption amongst the Weave. Something terrible had been born into the world...

The Corruption of Morghur
It was in the decades after the Winter of Woe that Ariel first became aware of a malignant and abhorrent presence that would prove to be her nemesis. To begin with, Ariel did not truly understand the blight that had risen to wakefulness - only that it posed a great threat to Athel Loren. Determined to discover the truth, the Mage Queen took council with the Elders of the forest, and sent her canniest scouts to scour distant realms. Little by little, Ariel was able to glean the nature of the creature she sought. No Wood Elf had yet seen the beast and lived to speak of the encounter, but the works it left behind were testament to its unspeakable ways. Where the creature walked, the fabric of the world twisted in hateful transformation: trees writhed into terrible and unnatural shapes, blackened crops bled under the scythe, and flesh reformed like clay in the hands of some crazed sculptor. Where it passed, sanity became drooling madness, and measured nobility became wanton abandon. By these works did Ariel finally put a name to the foe: Cyanathair, she called it the Corruptor, incarnation of disorder and chaos. To his own vile kin he was known as Morghur, Master of Skulls.

The existence of this being was of great offence to Ariel, for its ruination of the Weave represented everything that she opposed. Desperate to learn how to combat this new foe, Ariel took a great risk. Adopting a spirit form, she went out into the lands where Morghur had known free rein. After long months of tracking the creature’s spoor into lands no mortal Elf could tread without harm, she finally discovered the beast capering madly in the company of other abominable things. So lumpen and wretched was the creature that Ariel almost laughed to see it. She had expected some power-addled Mage, or a vengeful sorcerer of the ancient times; what she beheld was a crude and ignorant beast that lacked the wit to understand its own nature. Without hesitation, Ariel called cleansing flame down upon the Corruptor and its yowling herd. Her task complete, the Mage Queen returned home. In her arrogance, she believed that Morghur’s threat was ended. In time, she was sure, the living world would heal from the Corruptor’s touch and the Weave would gradually be restored.

What Ariel did not realise was that Morghur was not so easily destroyed. Even as the Mage Queen turned to leave, the beast’s wounds had begun to heal. Worse, Morghur had taken her measure just as she had taken his. The beast had understood little of what he had seen, for his warped mind was a mad spiral in which thoughts and words were alien concepts; but Morghur was not so addled that he did not recognise Ariel for what she was. Having tasted a small measure of her power, he hungered for more. Slowly but surely, Morghur’s meandering path began to creep southwards to Athel Loren.

Around this time, human barbarians began to cross the Grey Mountains into the lands they later named as Bretonnia. The Elves had long abandoned this land, leaving in their passing only their abandoned elegant towers and settlements. Many of them had been ripped down and burnt, for Greenskins had overrun the lands with the retreat of the Elves and the Dwarfs. The superstitious and ignorant barbarians avoided these places, fearing that they were haunted. Warlike and fierce, these early Bretonni tribesmen began to cleanse the lands of the Orc and Goblin menace, as well as warring upon each other.

The Wood Elves looked with amusement upon these battles between primitive tribes, content to let one set of barbarians eradicate the other. Only when the fighting spilled close to the borders of Athel Loren did the Elves take action, driving back the interlopers with spear and bow before vanishing beneath the trees once more. Thus began the tradition of the Wild Hunt. Each summer, when the battles ‘twixt men and greenskins were at their most sprawling, Orion led the most hot-blooded of his folk across the Wild Heath and into the barbarous lands beyond, hunting their two-legged quarry as they would any other prey. Soon the glory and terror of the Wild Hunt passed into the barbarians’ legends, and they learned that to threaten the forest was to invite a swift and merciless death.

As time passed, the Elves came to delight ever more in making sport with the lives of Men and Orcs. They even began to manipulate the two sides into ever-escalating confrontation — though in truth the Greenskins needed little encouragement. The Elves told themselves that they did this to control their enemies’ numbers as they would with any dangerous beasts. The further afield the folk of Athel Loren plied their sport, the less credence this idea held, but they cared little and continued to foment war in all the lands north of the mountain range known as the Vaults.

Yet whilst the Wood Elves cowed the threat from without, they failed to notice the danger growing within. There had been Beastmen in the forest as long as any of the Elves could remember, great warherds that roamed beneath the boughs, hacking and despoiling as they travelled. Each year, the Elves hunted these interlopers without mercy, but each year there were always more. Some lords and ladies of the wood believed that the creatures had some instinctive understanding o f Athel Loren’s timeless paths, and so used them to avoid extermination. Indeed, they said, given the curious passage of time beneath the boughs, it was entirely possible that they fought only the same warherd time and again, its warriors trapped forever in a cycle of defeat. Such theories appealed to the Elves’ arrogance, and so few of them noticed when the numbers of Beastmen began to increase. It happened slowly at first, so slowly that no-one noticed. By the time the Wood Elves awoke to the danger, it was too late — Morghur was upon them.

It was now more than two centuries since Morghur had grown aware of Ariel, and he had spent that time gathering to him warherds of incredible proportions. Responding to his silent call came thousands of Beastmen and other horribly mutated creatures, many of which travelled hundreds of miles to fight at his side. These creatures flocked to him, drawn by the will of the Chaos Gods. They swarmed from the vast tracts of uncontrolled forests over the Grey Mountains, crawled forth from their stinking caves in the Vaults and the Massif Orcal, and stalked out of the forests of Arden and Châlons to the west and north-west of Athel Loren.

For the passing of many seasons Athel Loren was riven with warfare as Morghur strove to break Ariel's power, leaving the forest scarred and wounded. Part of Morghur's primal nature spoke to the forest's heart, and parts of Athel Loren rebelled. For a long and terrible year, the natural order of Athel Loren was disrupted, for Morghur could seemingly not be slain by the weapons of the Elves and recovered from even the most heinous of wounds, be they inflicted by an archer's arrow, or Orion's mighty spear. Worse yet for the Elves, the trees and spirits of Athel Loren did not succumb to Cyanathair's taint all at once. Countless times in battle with the beasts, the Elves would be on the brink of victory, only to have it snatched from their grasp as the madness of Morghur seized spirits that moments before had been their allies. This madness was not always lasting, but seemed to have a deep and enduring effect upon the Dryads, whose capricious and malevolent nature had only ever been held in check by the mighty Treemen.

This terrible conflict was only ended when Cyanathair was slain at the Battle of Anguish. The site of this battle, the Glade of Woe, still bears the mark of Cyanathair's death, where Coeddil, one of the most ancient tree lords, scattered the Corruptor’s forces and seized the beast himself. As Morghur attempted to free himself, Ariel smote the creature. This time, the Mage Queen was determined that the creature be destroyed, so she drew not only on her own power, but that of the forest as well. Before such an onslaught, not even Morghur could endure; Ariel battered through the creature’s defences and shattered his mutated form, whilst leaving Coeddil seemingly unmarked. The battle had been won, but the forest would ever bear the taint of Morghur’s passing. No living being touched by the Corruptor’s blood would ever truly recover. A giant, blackened, and twisted oak tree, with branches like claws raised in anguish and outrage, marks the place where Cyanathair was slain, the place where his tainted life-blood was spilt. The site of Morghur’s death was known ever after as the Glade of Woe, for it was home only to twisted and withered life thereafter.

Alas, Ariel soon learnt that Morghur was as immortal as she — whenever the beast was slain, it was reborn elsewhere. Thus did the Battle of Anguish mark the beginning of a secret war between the Wood Elves and Beastmen, one that would rage down all the ages that followed.

Twice more in the history of the Wood Elves the vile creature Morghur has been slain, once by the legendary Scarloc and his scouts, and once by the ancient and volatile Treeman Durthu, yet always it is reborn elsewhere, hungering to despoil Athel Loren. If he were to succeed, Athel Loren would be transformed into a nightmare place of horror and despair that would spread like a vicious plague across the Old World.

The Betrayal of Coeddil
Five hundred years after the Battle of Anguish, Athel Loren once more knew internal strife. The tree lord, Coeddil, driven perhaps by a last taint of Cyanathair's madness, and who had begun to harbour a deep resentment of the Elves, sought to disrupt the rebirth of Orion. That winter Coeddil and his Dryad handmaidens did not sleep, but bided until Ariel began her long sleep within the Oak of Ages. With much of the forest slumbering, and the Elves unaware of his intent, the ancient strode to King's Glade and slaughtered all he could find, for if no Wild Riders lived to lead the ritual of rebirth, Orion would be severely weakened, if indeed he could be summoned at all. Though the Wild Riders fought back, they were dulled by winter's grasp and their blades could not pierce Coeddil's thick hide.

As Elven blood was spilt upon the ground in King's Glade, Ariel was abruptly awakened from her slumber. In a great rage she sped to where the Wild Riders fought for their lives. Against Ariel's cold fury Coeddil and his followers could not endure, and she scattered the ancient's handmaidens before her and cast down the tree lord. Though she dearly wished to slay the spirits for the damage they had caused and the blood they had shed, Ariel could no more end their existence than sever a portion of her own soul, for Coeddil was still bound to Athel Loren, and Ariel was bound to the forest. Instead she banished the tree lord, and the Dryads who had followed him, to the dark and wild corner of Athel Loren, far in the south-east where no Elves dwelt. The Wildwood was then encircled with a fence of waystone, and Coeddil was imprisoned forever amongst the shadow-glades to brood upon his betrayal. Since that day, no Elf has set foot under the eaves of Coeddil's prison, for to do so is to walk with death as their only companion. Coeddil may silently contemplate his fate, but his handmaidens have been driven mad by their exile, and restlessly stalk the glades with cruel desires in their hearts.

The Season of Revelation
Athel Loren now enjoyed a golden age. Under Ariel’s careful guidance, Elves and forest grew closer than ever before, and the wounds of the previous season were healed. For centuries as the outside world reckoned time, the Wood Elves ventured seldom beyond the waystones that bounded their home. Only the Wild Hunt openly rode forth, ever reminding the surrounding lands that Athel Loren was still a place of power.

Of course, there were those who took the warnings about Athel Loren as craven superstition. There always are such folk, whatever the land or the age of the world. Most such creatures were wandering seekers of treasure and glory whose dreams and bodies ended as mulch for Dryads. Every few years an Orc Warboss or Dwarf Thane would gather enough of his followers to make a concerted foray, and in those years the trees fed well on the blood of outsiders. The Wood Elves remember this as an era of great peace, though this was not strictly accurate. More correctly, this was a time in which Athel Loren suffered few ills from the forces of the outside world, and whatever battles were fought ended in victories so glorious that the lives lost were deemed well worth the price. Fed by the spoils of war, the forest grew ever more majestic, and its dwellers multiplied as never before.

Yet such bountiful peace could not last. Morghur was reborn again, and a great warherd of Beastmen soon gathered to him. This time the wild horde did not descend upon Athel Loren, but rampaged through the human tribal lands west of the forest. According to the scouts who shadowed Morghur’s trail, his destination was quite clear. If the path of destruction held true, his herd was making for a mountain known to the Elves as the Silverspire — a shining peak from which the lifeblood of the western lands flowed. Ariel knew this as a site of ancient power, and knew also that Morghur could not be permitted to befoul its waters. Though not so mighty as they once were, the roots of Athel Loren dug deep, and drew sustenance from many of the lands fed by the waters of the Silverspire. Ariel did not dare face Morghur herself, for the beast’s touch had weakened her terribly when last she had confronted him. Orion had no such misgivings. Indeed, he longed for the opportunity to slaughter the beast who had dared to harm his beloved queen.

The Elves that travelled with Orion were swept up in his great fury, and they unleashed great ruin on the human lands that lay in their path. But the Elves cared not, for the slain were only humans, and therefore of little account. Only when the Wild Hunt reached the slopes of the Silverspire was its wrath finally slaked. With spear and with arrow the Wood Elves drove the Beastmen from the sacred confluence and into the waiting claws of Dryads. Orion himself tore Morghur limb from limb, and tossed the corrupt remains into a cleansing starwood pyre. No other living being did the Elves encounter on the Silverspire, yet still Orion sensed another presence there, one not unlike to his queen, and whose unspoken whispers echoed through his mind.

When Orion brought word of this back to Athel Loren, none were more intrigued than Ariel. The Mage Queen had long believed that Morghur was scarcely aware of his own actions, and that the Chaos Gods guided his steps. It was they who drove the Corruptor to devour her and Orion, to consume the godly essence of Isha and Kurnous as his dark masters had all but consumed the Elven gods. Thus were the wars of the heavens echoed in the mortal realm. Seldom had Ariel given thought to the idea that there might be others like her and Orion; certainly she had not encountered them. But if there were, it was likely that Morghur would be driven to devour these also.

Many turnings of the world later, this theory seemed to be all but proven. Morghur was again reborn in the lands west of Athel Loren, and was drawn to the Silverspire once more. Again, the Wood Elves marched to thwart Morghur’s advance. This time, however, they had allies in the struggle against the Corruptor. Since last the Elves had striven with Morghur, the rough humans of the western lands had united under the banner of a mighty champion - Gilles le Breton. The Silverspire was sacred ground to these primitives, and they too now mustered to its defence. It would have gone ill for the humans had Orion led this second Wood Elf host, for the King in the Woods had little fondness for such humans. As it was, the midwinter snows laid heavy on Athel Loren; Orion was naught but a memory and a hope, so cooler heads than his prevailed and an alliance was struck. Together, Men and Elves cleansed the land of Morghur’s taint.

When the Beastmen were defeated, the Wood Elves shrouded themselves in mist and slipped away, despite the humans’ attempts to treat with them. The Elves thought nothing more of their brief alliance — such things had happened before, and would doubtless happen again. The humans did not so swifdy forget, and began to tell stories of the fair folk who had ridden to their champion’s aid.

Many years later, in 1005 IC, Louis the Rash, Gilles' son, braved the perils of Athel Loren in the hope of forging a lasting accord between the Elves and Bretonnia, the kingdom his father had founded. Orion, reborn as hot-tempered as usual, had not looked favourably on the supplication, but Ariel overruled her consort in the matter. The Mage Queen knew that whilst the spirit of the Silverspire endured, it would distract Morghur from feasting upon Athel Loren, and how better to ensure the spirit endured than to ensure that its human protectors thrived? Thus began a tumultuous friendship between the ancient realm of Athel Loren and the nascent kingdom of Bretonnia. Orion was displeased, and vocally so. He would not, he said, hold back the fury of the Wild Hunt in service to his queen’s whim. Ariel had simply smiled and bade her husband ride wheresoever he wished; if the lands he chose were those claimed by the Bretonnians, so much the better. Common cause had brought friendship, but it was only good sense that the humans should fear their superiors.

The spirit of Silverspire had, by this time, spread its influence far and wide across Bretonnia. The humans now worshipped it as their saviour, but Ariel believed she shared more kinship with it than they. The humans called the spirit the Lady of the Lake, but the Mage Queen ever after knew her as Corrigyn, Daughter of Mists. There would never be lasting friendship between the two, but neither would there be enmity; each was too wary of the other’s power for that.

With a whole kingdom now slyly enlisted to serve as a shield against Morghur, it seemed that Athel Loren’s future could only grow brighter. Unfortunately, the Wood Elves soon found it was harder to fade from the world for a second time. Bretonnian bards soon carried tales concerning the ‘fair folk of the woods’ to many lands. Such stories could not help but find the ears of warlords seeking new territory, and the Wood Elves soon found their realm assailed by a succession of armies, each greater and more determined than the last.

Allisara's bane
As stories of Athel Loren began to spread in the outside world, so too did word concerning events in other lands trickle into the forest. Many of the tidings were ignored, for the Elves concerned themselves little with the affairs of their inferiors. Reports concerning the ongoing vendetta between Ulthuan and Naggaroth were not so readily dismissed. Most Wood Elves were filled with disdain that such a pointless war still dragged on, but to others the news brought only sorrow. Foremost amongst these was Allisara, sister to Ariel and once, long ago, wife to Malekith of Naggaroth. She had come to Athel Loren shortly before Malekith began his rebellion, and had ever since dwelt in solitude, seeking to still her troubled heart. In time she came to learn much of Malekith’s deeds, and came to feel guilt for the path her husband had taken. So it was that Allisara pleaded with Ariel for leave to depart Athel Loren and return to Malekith’s side, in order that she might soothe the rage in his soul. Ariel was loath to grant this request but, seeing her sister’s determination, relented. Arrangements were made, and Allisara soon travelled west with an escort befitting her rank.

Malekith strove to keep Allisara’s imminent return hidden from all in Naggaroth, but his mother Morathi flouted these precautions with laughable ease. She did not want Allisara to return, but nor did she dare act directly. Instead, she disguised herself and charmed Valedor, a disgraced prince of Ulthuan, and led him to believe that Allisara’s escort was, in fact, an army of Elves who had pledged aid to Naggaroth. Blinded by Morathi’s spells and his own desire to regain high station, Valedor gathered what forces he could and brought the Wood Elves to battle on the shores of Bretonnia.

Mighty was the battle that day, though it is ill-remembered by any save the Bretonnians, for whom it passed into legend as a battle between glorious and terrible gods. Though the Wood Elves fought without fear, it was a battle that they could not win. As it became clear that they could find no victory, the leader of Allisara’s escort bade her flee. Alas, an ill-fated arrow felled the eagle that carried her away from harm, and she was left weaponless and alone before Valedor.

As the prince moved in for the killing blow, Allisara saw plain the madness that Morathi had placed upon him. Desperately, she sought the proper counter-charm that would set the prince free, but the Hag Sorceress was not so easily thwarted. Allisara was still trying to break the spell when Valedor’s spear pierced her heart. As Allisara collapsed, her dying breath formed the final syllable of the counter-charm. All at once, the madness fell from Valedor’s eyes, and he wept for his deeds that day. Overtaken by despair, the prince cast himself from the bluff and into the churning waters below. Allisara saw none of this, for her soul had already fled.

With their com mander’s death, the High Elves withdrew. Some thought that they had prevented a great evil; others suspected that same evil had been wrought by their own hands. Few of either group spoke of it ever again. Only a handful of Wood Elves survived to bring word to Athel Loren and, when Ariel learned of her sister’s death, a great quiet fell over King’s Glade, one that remained unbroken for many risings and settings of the sun. Winter came early to Athel Loren that year. As the frost hung ever heavier on the bow, Ariel’s grief became bitterness, and bitterness became wrath. The Season of Retribution was about to begin.

The Season of Retribution
Ariel was determined to discover the identity of those responsible for her sister’s death, and bent all the energies of Athel Loren’s seers to the task. She knew the murderers had been warriors of Ulthuan, but she sought the name of the enemy who had contrived the attack. Alas, Morathi had foreseen that such an attempt might be made, and had covered her tracks with charms of concealment. Ariel soon discovered that the even magics of the Weave, from which she drew her power, could not break these enchantments. In vengeful desperation, Ariel delved ever deeper into forbidden knowledge and mastered the very darkest of sorceries.

Using her new power, the Mage Queen restored a portion of Athel Loren’s worldroots, and Orion used these pathways to loose a great host of war upon Ellyrion, the land of Prince Valedor’s birth. The folk of Ellyrion were slow to respond. Kurnous had ever been the chief deity of their land, and they were slow to raise weapons against he who wore his aspect. Their hesitation was to cost them dearly. That summer, the plains of Ellyrion ran red with the blood of its people. Finally, even Orion could find no joy in this work; it was no hunt, but a slaughter. This would surely have brought Orion to quarrel with his queen, had not Ariel finally shattered Morathi’s enchantments, revealing at last the Hag Sorceress and her wicked schemes.

Now, the Wood Elves carried their vengeance northwest and into the bleak pine forests of Naggaroth. They had no desire to tarry in that land, for its woods were bitter and lifeless things, and the chill air sapped the heart of even the cruellest of Dryads. They soon brought Morathi’s fortress of Ghrond under siege. The Tower of Prophecy’s defences had been wrought to guard against attack from the frozen north, not one that had emerged from the forests of its own heartlands, and its outer walls soon shattered under the fists of Treemen. Desperate, Morathi sent messengers south to request aid from her son, the Witch King. Alas for the Hag Sorceress, Malekith had long since learned of his mother’s role in Allisara’s death. Though the Witch King had publicly forgiven Morathi her transgression, he now saw an opportunity to bring her to heel, and it was with grim amusement that he forbade any aid be sent north.

Finally, and at the cost of many thousands of lives, the Wood Elves breached Ghrond’s inner citadel. Cornered and desperate, Morathi fell back upon deceit. Abasing herself before Ariel and Orion, she made great show of repentance. Orion wanted the business done with, and would have taken Morathi’s heart had Ariel given leave. Yet the Hag Sorceress had tasted the sorceries which Ariel had woven about herself, and now Morathi’s serpentine tongue offered deeper insight into dark lore, if only Ariel would spare her life.

At the last, Ariel relented and accepted Morathi’s bargain; after all, without the power of sorcery, she would never have been able to restore the long-sundered worldroots, nor overthrow Morathi’s dark citadel. Ariel should not have accepted that bargain. Indeed, the Mage Queen would not have accepted it had her soul not been shadowed by the sorceries she had already employed, but the lure of power was upon her. Morathi smiled inwardly as the deal was struck; she had no intention of giving up her greatest secrets, but if a portion of her knowledge must be shared to ensure survival, it was a price worth paying. So was Morathi allowed to live, and begin the slow process of remaking her ravaged fortress.

Upon their return to Athel Loren, Ariel and Orion quarrelled greatly about the deal that had been struck. Legends tell how their arguments raged for days without meeting resolution, and of how that year the normally glorious autumn months were marred by icy cold. Next spring, the unthinkable happened — Orion was not reborn. The Wild Riders brought their supplicant to the Oak of Ages, but Ariel sent them away without explanation.

The Mage Queen now became ever more reckless. Indeed, many lords and ladies of the queen’s court believed that she had gone mad. Soon Ariel’s bitter nature spread to the spirits of the forest, and without the outlet of Orion’s Wild Hunt to vent their spite, they began to prey on the Elves in a way that hadn’t been seen for centuries. Within a decade, life in Athel Loren had shifted from symbiotic harmony to a daily battle for survival. The Elves and spirits neither noticed nor cared, for their perceptions had insidiously shifted as the forest had changed. Indeed, none could recall living another way. Only a few had a sense that the balance had shifted, and to these life now became a waking nightmare. Durthu and Adanhu were amongst those that kept their sanity, but they could do nothing in the face of the burgeoning madness.

The Wood Elves now became ever more aggressive, and at Ariel’s will journeyed far and wide, avenging the hurts of previous seasons. Bretonnian lords who expanded their domains too close to the forest’s bounds were driven back. Dwarf holds that had sent warriors against Athel Loren found their trade caravans slaughtered and their armies ambushed on the march. Greenskin tribes were exterminated, or driven from their lairs in the mountains. Ariel used her sorceries to reinforce many of these attacks. N ever again, she swore, would Athel Loren suffer from the greed or cruelty of primitives. What she did not realise was that the more she drew on the forbidden magics, the more damage was done to the Weave and, as a consequence, the weaker Athel Loren — and all who dwelt within it — became.

Before long, Morghur arose again, this time in the Forest of Shadows. On this occasion, Ariel resolved that the creature’s corruption would be stilled once and for all — she would consume his power as he had ever tried to devour hers. The Mage Queen sent a host north through the worldroots, and they soon brought Morghur’s warherd to battle. As they had before, the Wood Elves found the Corruptor all but immune to their weapons, but Ariel had planned against this circumstance. Indeed, she relied upon it. At the battle’s height, Ariel directed a great convocation of Spellsingers to snare Morghur and transport him through the worldroots to the Oak of Ages. There she bound the foul creature with all the dark magics at her command, and began the ritual that would make his power her own.

She would have succeeded in this disastrous plan had it not been for Durthu. The Elder had felt the disturbance as the Corruptor had been brought along the worldroots, and was outraged that their sanctity could be so violated. Hastening to the Oak of Ages, he slew Morghur before the ritual could be completed. Ariel screamed and railed at Durthu, but dared do no more. Even deluded as she was, the Mage Queen knew better than to harm one of the Elders, so she let him depart, claiming ever after that it was mercy, rather than weakness, that stayed her hand.

Decades passed. Still Ariel refused to allow Orion to be reborn, and still the Wood Elves cruelly pursued every slight inflicted on them. Dwarf traders entered the Pine Crags, and were slaughtered without mercy. When the mountain dwellers took revenge, the Wood Elves destroyed several holds in the Grey Mountains, though even they could not breach the mighty fortifications of Karak Norn. Later, when a hopelessly lost Empire army blundered into the Meadow Glades, not only was it crushed without mercy, but Ariel loosed Dryads to raze the town from whence it had marched. The Bretonnian cities of Parravon and Quenelles suffered most of all, and teetered towards abandonment as peasants and nobles alike fled west to escape the cruelty of the Elves. But the Wood Elves were now dwindling. Some perished whilst warring in other lands, but most sickened and died as the imbalance Ariel had caused in the Weave took hold. Many of the newly-created worldroots withered and could not be healed, no matter what the Mage Queen tried. Yet even this disaster would not turn Ariel from her path, so utterly had the Dark Magic tainted her soul.

In 1601 IC, the Phoenix King of Ulthuan attempted a rapprochement with their estranged kin in Athel Loren in an attempt to heal the wounds of the past. The emissaries met with Ariel, who scornfully rejected the offer of closer ties with the High Elf court, and trapped them within the unseen paths of the forest. Unable to navigate Athel Loren so instinctively as the Wood Elves, the ambassadorial party remained trapped for long decades. Seventy-one years later, they finally emerged from Athel Loren near Quenelles, only to blunder into an army of Bretonnians seeking recompense for the Wood Elves’ predations, and were soon after burnt at the stake by vengeful humans.

At the last, the Elders of the forest could stand by no more. Spring came upon them, but there was no sign of renewal. Indeed, they could feel the forest withering and dying around them, and knew that disaster could only be averted if the taint in Ariel’s soul could be cleansed. With the aid of a young seeress named Naieth, who had herself resisted the madness of those times, they gathered what forces they could and marched on the King’s Glade. There Adanhu tried to reason with Ariel. He sought to turn the Mage Queen aside from the path she had taken, but she denied him, and saw only an army come to dethrone her. Issuing a great shriek, Ariel summoned the maddened Elves and spirits to her side, and ordered her challengers begone.

Battle then broke out in the heart of Athel Loren, though afterward none could say which side struck the first blow. The tide soon turned against Adanhu and his followers, for they were badly outnumbered. Thus did the Elder resort to a desperate deed. Reaching out to Ariel through their shared connection with the Weave, Adanhu drew the taint from her heart and into his own. Alas, that selfless act was Adanhu’s last — the burden which Ariel had borne those long years was too great for the mighty Elder, and he perished instantly.

All at once, the madness passed from the forest. Elves and spirits awoke as from a nightmare, the cloak of vengeance and spite that had clouded their vision for so long at least melting away like snow in the first days of spring. Ariel saw none of this. Adanhu’s final gift had brought awareness of all the harm she had wrought, of the natural cycles she had put out of balance by selfishness. Weeping, the Mage Queen fled and hid within the Oak of Ages, there to atone for her sins and focus on restoring the harm that she had done.

The Season of Retribution was finally ended, and a time of healing could now begin.

The Season of Redemption
Ariel’s final act before sealing herself away was to return Orion to the world. Never had his return carried such sorrow, for though queen and consort exchanged many words, few of them were joyful. Many years would pass before Ariel was seen again amongst the glades of Athel Loren. At the close of each year, the Wild Riders brought Orion’s ashes to the Oak of Ages, and each spring the King in the Woods was reborn. Yet for many long years he ruled alone. Ariel, in her sorrow and guilt, could not face her people, and instead dwelt silent and alone in the Oak of Ages. The Wood Elves were distraught that they should be so abandoned by she who was at once both mother and queen to them, but no amount of prayer or pleading would bring Ariel forth. So it was that the Mage Queen’s throne of silver and starwood sat empty for many turnings of the leaves.

Despite Ariel’s absence, the cycle of fife continued. The boundaries of the forest were guarded against intruders, the ancient glades were maintained and roving Beastmen warherds were slaughtered. Naieth argued for the folk of Athel Loren to put aside their isolationism. Such a radical departure from tradition was little to the taste of the lords and ladies, but a compromise was struck. Were it within the Wood Elves’ power to redress wrongs committed against the humans or Dwarfs of nearby lands — in essence, the creatures whose past transgressions had been born of crude ignorance, rather than wilful malice — then they would do so. Such acts could only hasten the restoration of the Weave, and strengthen Bretonnia to a point where it could again serve as Athel Loren’s shield.

For several decades, all seemed well. The Wood Elves held true to their council’s decision, and many an incredulous Dwarf king or Bretonnian duke found a losing battle reborn as victory through the aid of Athel Loren’s keen-eyed archers. Many were the battles won, but the greatest without doubt were when the Skaven emerged from their Under-Empire and besieged the cities of Brionne and Quenelles. For three nights and days, the fey warriors of Athel Loren fought alongside the flower of Bretonnian chivalry, and finally drove the foul ratmen back into their tunnels. In honour of the victory, Lord Arda, Warden of Ygrysyll and commander of the Wood Elf host, was accorded an honorary Knight of the Realm by Duke Merovech of Mousillon. Arda remained carefully polite whilst in the company of the humans, but removed the gaudy decoration Merovech had pinned upon him as soon as he was out of sight.

It is doubtful that any guessed the Wood Elves’ motivation at this time, and no explanation was given. After all, outsiders would never have understood the importance of maintaining the Weave. Even if they had been capable of grasping the concept, the Wood Elves were certainly not prepared to share their secret guilt. Little by little, the Bretonnians came to look upon the Wood Elves as allies once more. As for the Dwarfs, they took what aid was offered, but never once considered striking an entry from the Book of Grudges in thanks.

No one fought harder than Orion. He knew full well the depth of his queen’s hurt, and sought to soothe it. If that meant fighting alongside filthy Dwarfs, then his soul would bear that burden. He was a god, after all, and therefore capable of feats beyond the reach of mortals. However, with each passing year Orion’s campaigns became longer and bloodier. Deep within the Oak of Ages, Ariel learned of this and grew troubled. It would serve the Wood Elves poorly if Orion’s unchecked fury repeated the previous season’s mistakes. The Mage Queen saw now that the balance between her and her consort was crucial to Athel Loren’s survival. Unfortunately, the Mage Queen was not yet ready to leave the Oak of Ages and rejoin the council — nor would she be so for many seasons. Thus she sent emissaries in her stead, two heralds who shared her power and spoke with her voice. These were strangers to all but a few, who claimed to have fought alongside them in battles long past, even though the emissaries’ age belied such a claim.

Ariel’s emissaries were twin maidens named Naestra and Arahan; only by the shade of their hair and their manner could they be told apart. Dark-maned Naestra’s spirit was noble and chaste. Her touch could heal the rawest wound, and it was with heavy heart that she brought harm to even the foulest creature. By contrast, Arahan’s hair was as white and newly fallen snow, and belied a wild soul that rejoiced in the viscera of battle. She revelled in the thrill of life, and her conduct ever teetered on the brink of the acceptable - even in a realm as permissive as Athel Loren. In years to come, rumours would abound that Naestra and Arahan were but one being split in twain, the better to speak for the dark and light natures of Ariel’s soul. And perhaps this was true. Certainly the twins were never seen apart. Moreover, they often finished one another’s sentences - though whether the original intent was maintained when this happened, or was twisted to match the speaker’s will, it was impossible to say.

Initially, the council did not accept Naestra and Arahan at their word, for they were strangers to all living Elves, and the spirits of the forest remained silent on the matter. The twins were treated with cautious respect, but barred from the King’s Glade. Naestra took this distrust in her stride, never once raising her voice in ire; Arahan responded with anger and impetuous threats. Only when summer cooled to autumn, and Orion returned to the forest, was the matter settled. The King in the Woods instantly recognised the essence of his queen in the twins and, though he disliked the rebuke that their presence implied, grudgingly confirmed their authority. Thereafter, Naestra and Arahan took Ariel’s place upon the council. Neither took her throne, but stood in attendance on either side of it whilst the council debated. Seldom did the twins speak, except to counteract the prevailing mood. Naestra addressed the council most often in the summer months, and sought only to temper wildness, whilst Arahan made outburst only in winter’s dull months, when needless caution and lethargy were rife.

In all, Ariel spent more than three centuries hidden from the world. It is likely she would have tarried longer, had she not discovered that Morghur had been reborn. Ariel sensed that this incarnation was more powerful than any that had preceded it, and that all of Athel Loren would need to unite to defeat him. In truth, the Mage Queen’s soul was still not fully cleansed, and she worried on the wisdom of going forth unhealed. But she knew that dire times have ever required dire sacrifice, and emerged at last from the Oak of Ages.

Great was the rejoicing that day. The Wood Elves had all but given up their queen for lost, and now welcomed her without reservation. Even the spirits of the forest, who had longer memories than the Elves and who had borne the brunt of Ariel’s madness, felt joy at her return — though few would admit it. Most joyous was the reunion between Ariel and Orion, for they had spent long centuries of sadness and anger apart. The celebrations were tempered not one whit by the knowledge that Ariel’s return coincided with the eve of another great battle. If the Corruptor had returned their queen to them, said the Elves, then at least the misbegotten creature had done something wholesome in his vile existence. None of them saw the dark spark of malice that still lurked in Ariel’s spirit. A taint of darkness can never be fully driven once it has taken root, a burden the Mage Queen would have to bear ever after. Often its darkness would call to her in the still watches of the night, when hope seemed lost. In the ages after, Ariel would never truly know which of her decisions were made out of malice, rather than reason.

A month later, as the outside world reckons time, Morghur’s warherd was brought to battle in the Forest of Arden. The beast had already annihilated an army of knights riding from nearby Gisoreux, and doubtless believed that the host of Elves arrayed before him would fall just as easily. He was wrong. Having been forced to confront the darkness within her own soul, Ariel had lost her fear of Morghur and had accompanied her folk to war. Though she was content to let Orion command the battle, Ariel matched and overcame the dark sorceries of the Bray-Shamans with her own magics. Worse for the Beastmen was the fact that Naestra and Arahan too had accompanied the Elves to war. They fought not at their mistress’ side, as perhaps might have been expected, but roamed far and free upon the back of a mighty Dragon. Naestra’s purity was anathema to the Beastmen, and her very presence burned them like fire. Yet the Children of Chaos did not flee her coming, for Arahan fought ever at her sister’s side. The shadowed twin’s dark nature was an irresistible lure to the Beastmen, and they pursued her with mad hunger. Few survived long enough to reach their quarry, and those that did had their vile throats slit by Arahan’s wicked knives.

At the last, their ranks scythed down by arrows, or scattered by the hooves of the Wild Hint, the Beastmen could take no more. As one, the warherd turned and melted away into the woods. Only Morghur stood his ground, gibbering his wild madness at those who came to claim his life. The Corruptor was gravely wounded, his hide pierced by many arrows, but still the will of the Dark Gods drove him to defiance. Then a final bowstring sang, and at last Morghur fell dead, a black arrow protruding from his eye socket.

Great was the feasting in Athel Loren when the host returned. Many heroes had made their names that day. Most lauded of these was Scarloc, the archer whose arrow had finally felled the Master of Skulls; but there was glory aplenty in which all the Elves could share. Thus passed the Season of Redemption. Ariel and Orion were at last reunited, and the Wood Elves’ sundered spirits were again made whole.

The Season of Doom
In 2007, as the season turned, the fate of the Wood Elves was changed forever. Naieth the Prophetess, High Seer of Athel Loren, had a vision in which the forest was drowned in fire and Chaos. The details of the premonition were hazy, as such things often are, but Naieth was able to determine that this fate awaited not only Athel Loren, but the entire world.

Naieth soon brought this news to the great council. Few of the lords and ladies believed her, but it mattered not. Of late, Ariel had experienced an unprecedented shifting of the Weave, and divined that this tremor pertained to the disaster Naieth had foreseen. Gathering together five hundred of the realm’s most accomplished Spellweavers, Ariel and Naieth ventured forth into the Dreaming Wood — a perilous reach of Athel Loren whose glades opened onto many times and places. There, after many dangerous months amongst the Daemon-haunted groves, they finally gleaned some of the answers they sought.

So far as Ariel could determine, the fate of the world — and therefore Athel Loren — hinged upon the survival of beings such as herself, Orion and the Lady of the Lake. During her sojourn in the Dreaming Wood, Ariel had discovered with dismay that some of these godly aspects had already been slain — this had been the cause of the disturbance within the Weave. Some had fallen in battle — despite their power, they were not immortal. Others had been devoured by Morghur, and these losses Ariel felt most keenly, for these were deaths she could have prevented. For centuries, the Mage Queen had used the Lady of the Lake to cheat Morghur’s hunger rather than deal with the creature directly, for if the Corruptor did not threaten Athel Loren, then what concern was he to the Wood Elves? The Mage Queen found the answer little to her liking.

When Ariel and Naieth left the Dreaming Wood, they did so in the company of less than half of the Spellweavers that had set out. The others had been consumed by the horrors that dwelt amidst the glades, or driven mad by the glimpses of destiny. At the next great council, Ariel conveyed what she had seen to the lords and ladies of her court. Still they argued, for none wanted to believe the onset of such dire times. The Mage Queen overruled the dissenters and decreed that the realm of Athel Loren would not stand idle whilst the remaining aspects were slain and the world came to ruin. The Wood Elves would fight.

In 2032, deeming that the Wood Elves would prove valuable allies in their ongoing wars, both the Witch King of Naggaroth and Phoenix King Bel-Hathor elected to send emissaries to Athel Loren. Finubar, the ambassador from Ulthuan, was particularly nervous of this assignment, as the last of his kind to enter the forest had vanished under mysterious circumstances. As matters transpired, both delegations were welcomed with great civility. The Wood Elves went to great pains to keep the parties separated. Indeed, it is doubtful that either set of petitioners ever knew that the other was there. However, both ambassadors were affronted to discover that Ariel would not meet with them, and instead chose to conduct negotiations through the lords and ladies of the great council. Both ambassadors reacted with outrage, and this did little to encourage the Mage Queen to reconsider her position. Ultimately, the Wood Elves listened, and refused, both nations. The High Elves had treated with Athel Loren as if it were still some wayward colony to be graciously drawn back into the fold, and not as the sovereign nation it was. By contrast, the Dark Elves had made many promises of shared glory, but the Wood Elves deemed that their words and hearts were hollow. Both ambassadors were bidden to leave Athel Loren, and to never return. The Wood Elves would seek their own path in the years to come, just as they had for centuries.

In 2231, there was a great wailing amongst the trees of the Glade of Woe, and Ariel knew that Morghur had been reborn once more after having been killed 224 years earlier by Scarloc and his scouts' arrows. Scouts soon located the vile creature in the Forest of Arden and, no longer content to let others keep the Corruptor in check, the Mage Queen dispatched an army to kill the beast whilst still young. So it was that Araloth, Lord of Talsyn, and Naieth the Prophetess led many warrior kinbands on the hunt. They tracked Morghur and his warherd through the darkness of the forest, felling stragglers with bow and blade. At last, they routed Morghur’s followers and cornered the beast. Alas, as Araloth readied his blade for the killing strike, the air rang to the blare of crude horns and the bleating of unclean beasts. So intent had the Wood Elves been on reaching their quarry, that they had not noticed the Ungor scouts shadowing their every step. Now, those trackers had led other Beastmen to Morghur’s rescue and, badly outnumbered, the Wood Elves were forced to retreat. Up until now, the Wood Elves’ casualties had been light, for they had chosen the ground upon which each of their battles had been fought. Now the Beastmen took their bloody revenge. Glade Guard fired until their quivers were empty, but there were always more foes to replace those that had been slain. With a heart twisted by anger and sorrow, Araloth left a rearguard of volunteers to hold back the raging Gors, and led the rest of his force on a desperate retreat out of the Forest of Arden. At the last, only Naieth, Araloth and a handful of others escaped the Forest of Arden. They survived only because Naieth roused the slumbering trees to form walls of branch and briar that barred the Beastmen's passage. Shamed by his failure, Araloth soon returned to the Forest of Arden as part of a far larger host, but Morghur was gone — the Beastmen had used their primitive magic to spirit the creature away.

It would be fifteen years before Araloth would have his chance at revenge. Morghur was once more revealed within the Forest of Arden, and Araloth of the Hooked Blade begged leave to lead the hunt. At first, Ariel refused the plea, for she knew full well how revenge could wound the seeker. In this she was opposed by Orion, who argued Araloth’s case and, at the last, convinced his queen to agree. When Araloth set out to hunt Morghur for the second time, he did so at the head of a mighty host. They passed overland through Bretonnia, concealing themselves from the curious eyes of peasants and knights alike by means of a sorcerous mist. They arrived at the Forest of Arden to find it heavy with corruption, and the scent of debased magic on the air — truly had this now become the lair of the Corruptor. The Wood Elves advanced through groves of blood-red grass and trees that wept black tears. Waywatchers advanced before and behind the main host — Araloth had learnt the lessons of his previous hunt. For days, there was no sign of the beasts they sought, but other challenges there were aplenty. Many Dryads and Tree Kin had accompanied Araloth’s host, and they seethed with rage at the fate of what had once been a verdant paradise. The forest was hungry for flesh, and many Elves were devoured by gaping holes or torn limb from limb by vines. Here and there, they found the skeletal bodies of Bretonnian knights who had ended their Grail quests as mulch for the corruption. Mutated forest creatures scuttled through the undergrowth, mad eyes shining horribly in the darkness and their razorsharp teeth glistening with poison. At last, the host of Athel Loren came upon a blasted glade, in which Morghur and his warherd were gathered. A colossal herdstone had been raised in the very centre of the clearing, the rubble of its core the remains of a once-proud Grail chapel, and it was upon this summit that the Corruptor capered and yowled. Catching sight of his prey at last, Araloth nocked an arrow to his mighty longbow and let fly. The shot sped true; it struck Morghur from the herdstone, wounded, but alive. The signal for battle given, the Elves let out their war cries, and charged into the glade.

Desperate was the battle in that glade, for the Wood Elves and forest spirits did battle not only with the Beastmen, but also the twisted creatures of Arden that came at Morghur’s call. Yet the warriors of Athel Loren pressed on, ignoring the gobbets of flesh torn from their limbs by frenzied mouths and the poison loosed in their veins by envenomed claws. Dryads formed the vanguard of the attack, their blows lent greater strength by kindled rage. With a mighty roar, a colossal Ghorgon rose up out of the warherd and scattered the Dryads, but was soon overwhelmed and torn apart by the relentless Tree Kin who surged forward in the Dryads’ wake. Waywatchers hung back under the shadow of the trees, their shots always seeking those whose bellowed commands directed the warherds. Doombulls and Beastlords fell dead upon the scorched glade, arrows protruding from eyes and open mouths. In the centre of the glade, Bestigors clashed with Araloth’s Eternal Guard, and fared the poorer for the exchange. Spears flashed like sunlight in the dark, and slew many of the foul creatures before their crude axes could be hefted. The Bestigors fought to the last brutish warrior, and many an Elf was hewed before the last Beastman fled. Araloth hardly noticed — he had eyes only for Morghur, and with the Bestigors eliminated, the Lord of Talsyn now had the chance to strike directly at his foe.

Before Araloth had left Athel Loren, Ariel had gifted him a gourd of sap harvested from the Oak of Ages, and he now unstoppered that container and flung the enchanted contents into Morghur’s face. No purer liquid existed in all the world, and where it touched Morghur’s flesh, white flames rose up. Soon the Corruptor was all ablaze, his strange mewling cries provoking both pity and joy. Soon the creature was naught but ash, his threat ended for as long as it took him to be reborn. With Morghur’s death, the rest of the Beastmen were soon scattered. Araloth bade the herdstone be toppled, and a great pyre be lit in the centre of the glade, so that the corrupted bodies of the foe could be cleansed. This work done, the Wood Elves left the forest, but they did so slowly. Not all the sap had been used to destroy Morghur, and Araloth now placed a drop of what remained at the base of each corrupted tree that he passed. Each time, the enchanted sap wrought its magic, and a purifying fire sprang up. Yet the flames did not consume the trees as they had Morghur, but merely burnt away his corruption. Thus did the Lord of Talsyn bring new life to the Forest of Arden. Ever after, it was accounted amongst the hallowed places in Bretonnia, though there was never a damsel or knight of that upstart realm who ever truly learned the reason why.

When a great warherd of Minotaurs threatened to cross the Grey Mountains into Athel Loren, Ariel bade her Spellweavers divert the swollen waters of the River Weiss and force the beasts back into the Empire. It was then that the Emperor Karl Franz did that which none of his forebears had ever done — he walked beneath the eaves of Athel Loren to seek aid. The great council were little inclined to accede to the Emperor’s demands, for they perceived that his greatness was worn as a mantle, rather than flowed from a source within. Yet none could they deny the logic of his plea. So it was that Orion led the Wild Hunt over the mountains and to the Empire’s aid. Whilst Karl Franz rallied the embattled army of Wissenland, Orion and Naieth the Prophetess led the swiftest riders of Athel Loren far afield and struck at the warherd’s flanks. Following the path of carnage left by their king Glade Riders and celebrants of Kurnous carried their spears deep into the heart of the Minotaurs’ formation. Soon after, the King in the Woods slew the Doombull whose bloodrage had begun the rampage. Decimated by disciplined handgun volleys, torn bloody by cannon fire and their most ferocious warriors felled by the fury ofthe Elves, the Minotaurs shrank back. Seeing their foes quaver, the men of the Empire gave out a great cheer; but they did so too soon. The wind shifted, and the scent of blood it carried drove the Minotaurs into a fresh frenzy. Suddenly beset by an enemy they had thought beaten, the brave men of Wissenland suffered greatly. Regiments of Halberdiers and Greatswords were hacked apart, filling the air with yet more blood-spoor and driving the Minotaurs ever more berserk. Karl Franz moved to reinforce the line, but was swept from the back of his horse by a Cygor’s boulder.

Even from the other side ofthe battlefield, Orion’s keen eyes saw the Emperor fall. The King in the Woods was torn. He was weary, having been sorely wounded in battle with a colossal Ghorgon, and cared little for Karl Franz’s survival. As far as Orion was concerned, the human’s puny life mattered nought in the wider context of the Weave. Even if the Wissenlanders were routed from the field, the Wood Elves could simply withdraw behind the floodwaters of the Weiss once more. Sensing Orion’s indecision, Naieth quietly reminded her liege that the fate of the world rested on more than just those born to godly mien. It did not matter, she said, if the Emperor’s reach exceeded his grasp; what mattered was the nobility of his cause. Orion rounded upon Naieth with an expression so full of fury that the seeress feared for her life. Then Orion laughed and sounded his great horn so loud that its winding was heard as far away as Athel Loren. As one, the Wood Elves charged forward once more, this time towards the human lines and the fallen Emperor. Lost in a haze of bloodletting the Minotaurs did not realise their danger until it was too late. Bows sang, spears thrust forward, and the Minotaurs soon found the tide of battle turned against them. The King in the Woods fought his way to the downed Emperor, planted his hooves either side of the wounded man, and bellowed a challenge that the blood-maddened warherd could not deny. By the time the Minotaurs finally realised their plight and fled, near threescore of their greatest champions had fallen to Orion’s spear. The King in the Woods had been sorely wounded in exchange — his godly ichor flowed freely from a dozen ragged wounds — but Karl Franz had not suffered so much as a single blow during the hours in which Orion had stood guard over his unconscious form. Not that the Emperor had any opportunity to thank his rescuer, for as soon as it was clear the Minotaurs had no stomach for further battle, the Elves retrieved their dead and left the field. A month later, an emissary from Athel Loren was admitted to the palace of Altdorf. He gave no name, but delivered both a gift and a message. The gift was a single Griffon egg retrieved, said the emissary, from the highest peak in the Grey Mountains. The message was simple, brought in friendship, but ominous nonetheless: ‘We will be watching.’

In 2512, Naieth the Prophetess had a vision showing the Death of Athel Loren. Ariel then directed the nobles of the forest to begin hunting the Beastmen in the wider world. Ten years later, Ariel was convinced that Morghur was rallying for yet another assault upon Athel Loren.

In 2521, on Twilight’s Tide, royal bastard Mallobaude of Mousillon rode out to wrest the crown of Bretonnia from his father. No honourable knight would fight in Mallobaude’s cause, but the serpent of Mousillon did not want for followers. Long had he planned this day, and had gathered to him a vast army of wicked and soulless men. Ignoring Louen Leoncoeur’s decree that the armies of Bretonnia should combine to fight this threat, the army of Armand, Duke of Aquitaine, met Mallobaude in battle. Even though he acted with the favour of the Fay Enchantress, Morgiana, Armand would have been swiftly defeated had not Drycha led a host of forest spirits from the Forest of Châlons to fight at his side. Yet the Wood Elves’ interest lay not in Armand's victory, and they soon stole away once more, leaving the duke to a fate delayed, rather than unchanged. Worse, when the forest spirits had vanished, so too had the Fay Enchantress. What her fate was, no one in Bretonnia knew - meanwhile, the Dukes of Carcassonne, Artois and Lyonesse declared themselves for Mallobaude. During the Feast of All-Summer, a naiad spirit appeared in Athel Loren. She carried word from the Lady of the Lake, and demanded Ariel travel to the Silverspire. To the surprise of all, the Mage Queen acceded to the peremptory summons and journeyed north. For three days and nights after, the northern skies were lit with wild magic. When Ariel returned, she told the council that there had been a quarrel, as amongst siblings, but that the matter was now settled.

For nearly two years, the Elves of Athel Loren watched as the armies of Louen Leoncoeur and Mallobaude the Serpent tore Bretonnia apart; watched, and had done nothing to prevent it. The madness that Naieth had foreseen was overtaking the world, and the supremacist struggles of two human warlords seemed insignificant by comparison. Now Mallobaude finally gave the Elves cause to pay attention to their borders. Desperate for victory, he had struck pacts with the Liche Arkhan the Black, and there were soon more Ghouls and Wights in Mallobaude’s ranks than there were living men, and rumours abounded that the traitor had even received the Blood Kiss and thus become a Vampire himself. Where the armies of Mousillon trod, the world withered and the Weave cried out in pain. Adready, much of the land west of Quenelles was dead or dying. Unless Mallobaude was stopped, Bretonnia would be reborn as a realm of the Undead on Athel Loren’s borders. Thus did the Elves of Athel Loren prepare for their gravest battle. Glade Guard and Wild Riders assembled in their thousands. Spellsingers went amongst the glades, rousing Dryads and Treemen to wakefulness. Dragons were stirred from their timeless chasms. Naestra, Arahan, Scarloc, Araloth, Sceolan, Skaw the Falconer; all the greatest heroes of the forest armed themselves for war. Yet Ariel knew that this would not be enough. Only if the realms of Bretonnia and Athel Loren united was there a hope of victory. So did the Mage Queen travel north to the Silverspire once more. There she sought the Lady of the Lake’s forgiveness for the deed that had driven them apart. The spirit of the Silverspire too felt the urgency of the times, and so accepted Ariel’s apology with reluctant grace. With the Fay Enchantress gone, the Lady of the Lake no longer had a herald, but she was the spirit of the land, and her voice now called out to those pure-hearted knights who had been scattered by Mallobaude’s onslaught. Some heard her song as whispers on the breeze, others as a voice in the roaring of waterfalls and weirs; all answered their Lady’s call. They rode to Quenelles, though few knew why. There the knights found their king’s army arrayed alongside Orion’s host, the banners of Bretonnia’s dukes hoisted proud alongside those of Athel Loren. To the west, Mallobaude’s army advanced, quickened by dark magics, its shambling ranks fed by those it had slain. At the fore rode the Serpent himself, clad in armour dark as night, the Knights of the Black Grail at his side.

As the darkness descended, Men and Elves drew their swords. Prayers were whispered to the Lady, to Isha and to the Elders of the forest. However in the end, for Bretonnia, it was all for nothing. At the height of the battle, Mallobaude fought Leoncoeur in single combat, and cast his father's broken body in single combat. With their king's fall, the Bretonnians lost all will to fight. They fled the battlefield, leaving the Wood Elves to make what escape they could.

The End Times
The Wood Elves fought their way out of the Battle of Quenelles, but at a terrible cost - Ariel was dying, and the forest was dying with her.

So far as any knew, the Mage Queen had come through the battle unscathed, but her strength had failed the moment she had set foot within the forest's bounds. A sombre procession of Eternal Guard had borne Ariel away to the Oak of Ages, hoping that she might heal within as she had many times before. A week later, the first signs of rot appeared upon the Oak of Ages' boughs, and the sickness soon spread throughout the forest. Glades that had gone unaffected by the shifting seasons since the first turnings of the world withered, madness spread like wildfire through the Dryads and Treemen, and ancient trees cracked asunder to spill their maggot-ridden innards upon a forest floor heavy with decay. To make matters worse, Beastmen were drawn to these desolate glades in their thousands. These were not merely the herds that perennially roamed beneath the forest canopy, but mutants and bray-spawn lured from hundreds of leagues in every direction. No matter how desperately the Wood Elves fought, the Children of Chaos were never repulsed for long.

All Athel Loren despaired. None amongst the Wood Elves could deem the cause of their queen's sickness, though they all believed it to be tied to the forest's plight. Some speculated she had been cursed during the dying moments of the Battle of Quenelles. A few claimed that the malaise had been visited upon her by the Lady of the Lake, an act of retribution for their recent quarrel. However, most saw their queen's sickness as a sign that the balance of the Weave was shifting, that the terrible events they had fought so long to prevent were at last upon them. Alas, just as none could identify the source of the blight, none could posit a cure.

Orion, desolate that he could heal neither his home nor his beloved queen, sought refuge in battle. Again and again, the Wild Hunt rode out across the ravaged glades and swept away all in its path; no malformed Beastman was safe from Orion's wrath. Alas, in his sorrow, the King in the Woods grew ever more reckless; soon it was rage, not reason, that came to dominate his thinking. Thus did many Wood Elves perish in needless battle, victims of their king's grief as much as the crude weapons of the Children of Chaos. Denied the guidance of both king and queen, the Council of Athel Loren could not divine the proper path.

While Ariel lay postrate in her bed of leaf and briar, she was visited by the moon goddess Lileath, who revealed that she was responsible for her state - she had buried a shard of true ice formed in the darkness before Asuryan's light deep among the roots of the Oak of Ages. This was what poisoned Ariel and the whole forest. Sensing her strength wane, Ariel transferred Isha's essence into Alarielle, Everqueen of Ulthuan, who had come to Athel Loren to seek aid for saving her daughter Aliathra, prisoner of Mannfred von Carstein, and who was brought to the Oak of Ages by Naestra and Arahan in the hopes of saving their mother. Alarielle also absorbed the energies contained within the Shieldstone of Isha, thus becoming the true avatar of the Elven Mother Goddess and re-starting the life-cycle of the forest.

Wargear

 * Wand of Wych Elm - This is a long, twisted and gnarled staff cut from the rare and magical Wych Elm tree. This tree draws magical power out of the ground as it grows and stores it in its wood. Any wand cut from such a tree may have centuries of stored magical power locked within it. The only way to tap the power locked in the wood is to cut a wand from the tree and inscribe a spell on it. The spell can then be cast using the power of the wand instead of the Winds of Magic. Only a demi-god or a wizard of exceptional skill can unlock and use such power. When Ariel takes on the divine aspect of the goddess Isha she gains the ability to use the power stored in the Wych Elm. The wand is never drained of power during the battle - indeed, it will not be drained for perhaps a thousand years!


 * Acorns of the Oak of Ages - These are shed by the tree each autumn and collected by Ariel because of their magical properties. When the acorns are scattered on the ground they instantly sprout into oak saplings which grow at a phenomenal pace to become trees in a moment.


 * Dart of Doom - This dart was carved from a twig broken from the Tree of Woe. The tip of the dart is a thorn and the shaft is engraved with magical spiral designs. When hit, its victims see their energy drained away.


 * Berry Wine - This is a magical and intoxicating brew made from the berries of magical trees. It is so potent that more than enough can be held in an acorn cup. Ariel uses it to invigorate herself or any injured allies.


 * Heartstone of Athel Loren - A physical representation of the many ties that bind Ariel to the forest of Athel Loren, this gemstone protects her from the effects of hostile magics.