Three haunting moons stand vigil over all of Kalwin as if the night sky itself has eyes. The bloody hue they adorn only comes once every millennium, and is the most sacred day to all who call this realm their home. On Lunus Ultimus Kalwins moons align perfectly with the stars and sun to glow red giving the sky a purple tint. It is said to be the most mystic of days, and in spirit that is true. Wars give way to peace, crimes give way to prayer, hate gives way to love, and bitter rivalries give way to friendships; all if only for a night.
In the northern mountains of Nere, the barrel chested men dance and drink ale. In the cities of Desmond the elegant elves take a break from their studies to enjoy each others company. The deserts to the west fill with the howls of the Dagonii Hound-men as they sing the night away. The short elves of the eastern forest ride their hogs and play games, as the neighboring tribesmen of the plains arrive to trade and celebrate.
Even in the dangerous and war-torn southland of shadowmoor, all is well. The young Jaguaren cat-men are eager to explore the cities of the black-eyed blue dark elves that share the land with them, as though two species seldom seen together have always been the closest of allies. The wild-men of the jungles are at rest from their usual plundering, the giant spiders and other horrific beasts are in hiding, and the men of the sea have discontinued their seemingly endless raids and sieges. For one day, the nightmare that is Shadowmoor seems to be a dimly lit pleasant dream.
A short and stocky black dog, with a short snout, blue eyes, and wearing the scars from a lifetime of fighting traverses through the calm dark forest carrying a large bundle of cloth clutched within his oversized fangs. After some travel he approaches his master in the out-skirts of Greyborn, an aging warrior who had likely slipped away from the festivities for a drink.
What have you now you... burden, you beast! the man slurs with a laugh. Though his words are harsh he is a good spirited man, and his fond pat causes excitement in his loyal war-hound and loving companion.
What have you Arburus, lets see here he mutters again, Some cloth? Need I make you dress? The man laughs at his on joke until he coughs. These jokes are what earned him the title Angus the Madman, along with his tendency to rush into a crowd of armed marauders swinging his blade wildly and still laughing at a joke he had told beforehand.
Angus inspects the little ball of cloth that lay on the floor before his feet, all too unenthused. Upon touching the mass, and feeling its warmth, his curiosity shifts and he begins to unravel the cloth and reveal its contents.
Oh my Angus says aloud sadly as holds a newborn baby, still uncleansed from its birth. You cant be a day old! He says with a smile, as if the baby understands. Angus decides that in the morning a missing child would be the talk of the town, the parents would be easy enough to track down, and he could apologize for Arburus kidnapping, hoping that the spirits of Lunus Ultimus would keep them from taking an attempt at his life on the spot.
Angus feeds the babe goat milk, bathes it, and lies down with it in his arms to keep it warm.
Shes strong Arburus! He says with a chuckle Not a day old and shes got her eyes open, lookin around. Before slipping into slumber himself
Just after the sun rises on the distant hills, Angus begins his search with the happy baby under his arm, and Arburus by his side. He asks the inn keeper, millworkers, wood cutters and even some of the incompetent hung-over, town watch whom he despises with all of his old heart. His efforts being futile within the walls of his own town, Angus asks the traveling merchants to spread word to Serakh, the only other city along the southern coast.
Angus waits days with no relief. Days turn to weeks, weeks turn to months and Angus accepts that no end to his new responsibility in sight. The girl begins to grow short dark hair with a purple tinge and so Angus takes to calling her Varcii-eem Ehk, ancient elven roughly translating to Wonderful Star-child, something he had learned from his father, and though it is illegal to speak the dead language, few people know enough to notice or care. He shortens the name to Varci for simplicity and gives her his own last name, Naveem.
Varci grows fast, for a dark elf; because they live for much longer than other races, they typically take longer to mature. Parents usually allow the extra time to mature in Shadowmoor, because it means more years that their children have a safe life without having to face the harsh reality of their perilous future.
In only a few short years Varci grows from the happy little baby under Angus arm, to a cunning little girl always by his side. Angus teaches her what he can, how to speak, and act in public, how to read and speak elven, ride horses, hunt, and farm. Being that Varci is so smart and maturing so fast, Angus begins telling her and everyone that she was his niece from his a brother who lives far away, and passes her off as much older than she actually was.
As Varci approaches seven years, she looks and acts much like the older elves, and is stronger than even some of the soldiers Angus used to serve with, so he trains her in the art of the blade. The Swayv is the chosen weapon of the dark elf, a curved blade molded from the flowing metallic liquid that spews from the mouth of Kurksha, the fire-breathing mountain, in a thousand year old forge. She takes to the swordplay faster than anyone he has seen, but does not like using the heavy shield, or the long Swayv, instead favoring two short ones, much like the ancient elven warriors of Angus favorite legends.
Angus knows she will grow into something great, and his wonderful little Star-child will be as much of a blessing to Shadowmoor as she is to him.
