The Queen's Wish

A Kingdom's Faith

13 years ago, in the midst of a frosty, elven winter, when shutters were closed and rattling as the wind blew through the empty streets, and children were warming themselves by the fire whilst parents read them fairytales or cared for bearish orphans, King Weald's army steadily marched through the frozen highlands. Weald, absorbed by his greed for wealth and power, dreamt of a world ruled by himself only, the elven King. Tellurian land would be fertile and rich of provisions, he could see its inhabitants to be slaves of the great elven Kingdom. Alu, kept breathing by lullabying Nymphees, would provide him with endless water reservoirs. It glistened beside the cobalt blue ocean, with emerald and sapphire covering the cave walls, enough to fill his ever expanding treasure room in his castle. Arcorar, the land of callous bears, would become his own private land, surrounded by forests, once it had been stripped of its vile inhabitants.

They marched from the frozen Kingdom of Aleanrae to Myth Nantar, crossing Meglivorn and many more bearish settings, murdering those who were innocent, until they reached the destination. Unmoved by the cold and the cruelty of their proceedings, the soldiers set foot in the elven city where bears had not been feared, until his passing through. The men stampeded through the quiet city, rattling old doors, waking those who sought peace in their sleep, evoking cries from young, carefree children. Their thirst for damage and the craving for respect from the elven King rushed through their dark blue veins, suffocating the will to do what was right. The iron, silver-beaded swords by their sides were pulled and shoved mercilessly through those who veined friendship with the unwanted population. Their rights were taken, lives too many to count were stolen and souls became deeply blackened. Inside the houses, the screams of those who were innocent extinguished hearths. Outside, on the cobbled squares with market stalls, fires were lit. Mercilessly, they continued the killings until every last unfaithful breath was stolen.

Across the elven borders, in Tellurian lands, lives of those unwilling to compromise were taken. The palace of the peaceful King Dakhtor was stormed, frightening servant loyal to his oath. Yet Weald would not accept outcomes other than those in favor of his darkest wish. And so, the Tellurian King, older than a century, surrendered and promised him the land.

Further they fought, until they reached Alu, home of the free Nymphees, killing those who would not grant him access to the desired gems. The King's name were to be engraved in every emerald, in every existing sapphire. It would all be his.

Many years later following the march of deaths,when the Kings' soul had been blackened too deeply by the crimes he had thusfar committed, after killing his own wife to secure his place on the elventhrone until his last breath, he was killed by his own greediness. It remaineda secret to the wind how the life of King Weald, master to everything but hisown fate, was ended.