In a time when faith is fragile and devotions shift like the wind coin is a reliable god. It can buy life and loyalty, but it can just as easily pay for treason and death. And for those who can play both the hero and the villain, the valorous and the spiteful, coin is a prosperous god. The question is, what are you willing to pay for?
Legends say our ancestors worshipped a god of hunt named Ullr. He was steady with a bow and careful in his aim and no arrow he ever fired missed. We no longer adore him, nor do we hunt game. Our hunt became war and our target became armies and strongholds. And yet, we still follow his tradition. We are steady and careful. We are also merciless and powerfull - and we never miss.
You need not to believe our craft. You just need to witness. When paper becomes fire, ink becomes hailstorm and verse becomes a thundering burst of energy... When you enter a room and realise you walked into a torrent of chaos and precision set for you by the humble craftsman, the descendant of wisemen blinded by divine secrets. Then you will believe...
We never mastered the magic, we just awoke it. it was here waiting, dormant like a silken thread surrounding all that exists here. We just gave it purpose, a direction to flow and it started to do our bidding. And we wondered, as it created anything from fire to life, as it exploded in raw fury or precise, cold sharpness. magic is flowing here, and we direct it to anything we please.
Life is a value, and as such, it has it's thieves. Not corporeal and uncachable by mundane methods, but as every evil, they have their specialists. Grotesque, hated creatures behind the guise of a raven, bathed in the heavy fumes that purge infection and blessing alike... Yet in your darkest hour, crippled by torment and eaten alive by the oldest diseases, you still call for them.
When you hear the silent creek of a bow taking aim in the shaded glade, you know it's not arrow that is coming for you, but lightning. It is not the elf moving but the wind in a fae shape, whistling through the leaves, raining down a wild storm of tempest, flame or piering ice just like the fairie goddes Flidais, shaping natures bloodlust into the bolts which tear apart the fools who became their prey.
They claim to serve the elven wueen, but which they really serve is the woods. The mightiest oak that grants them sturdiness. The youngest birch teaching them agility and finesse. The oldest ashtree warning them with wisdom and the very earth of the forest giving them power to crush and repell every and all enemy of the woods.
At first this land was harsh to us until it realised that we are but her children. Until she sensed that in our veins flows her life energy, in our hearth roars her ferocity and in our will lies her will. Now she embraces us and so do we embrace her, fighting her wars and celebrating her victories. And when we are done, we all shall return to her...
Creation rests on balance. Earth, steady, resolute and unyielding. Water, patient, wise and purifying. Fire, ferocious, unresting and decisive. Wind, restless, shifting and free. We see this balance, so we can preserve it. We unite with the balance, letting earth, water, fire and wind to act in our stead, the roaring thunder or sharp ice speak through our voice - and punish those threatening the balance.
True dark elves are never alone. Mother Moon always protects them, averting harm, dispersing witchcraft and dampening pain. Father Moon gives them strenght to battle their enemies, unleash cold rage in arcs of shining power. They can evoke, direct, even become lunar light, and fighting their moonguards is like fighting the moon itself. And the lunar deities are not merciful to those harming their children.
There are no temples for the new moon, for it means death. But still, there are disciples dedicated to the lunar god of death, only known by few. Silent, efficient kilelrs, unseen and unwitnessed, for they do not seek glory or fame. They only seek their task done, in a blink of an eye, shrouded in the darkness of the moon's shadow. Without hesitation, withour regret, without a name. That is the calling of the disciples of death.