Lorwyn Cycle

A small party of elves reached the road marker at the edge of the Gilt Leaf Wood an hour after sundown. As a signpost, the carved and sculpted trunk of the ancient, rust-colored oak stood in stark contrast to the lush and varied trees that made up the rest of the forest. The marker’s carefully preserved bark was cut with the elegant, overlapping seals and symbols of every noble elf who had passed this way. Many of the seals still glowed with residual magic, for there had been much traffic through here recently, due in large part to the guests traveling to the upcoming wedding festivities. Maralen eyed the glowing markers and fought back a sense of urgency that was not hers to voice. The wedding train should have arrived much sooner. It would have if only the bride had not lingered so long over her appearance. Peradala moved among the highest echelons of elf society. However, Maralen did not, so there was no argument to be made. Impatience from a subordinate like Maralen, no matter how justified, would earn only a rebuke— assuming the misdeed was even acknowledged. Besides, a bride running late was a far cry from a catastrophe. Since Peradala had not yet met her intended husband in person, it was understandable that she took such drastic measures with her appearance to ensure a perfect first impression. By definition, Peradala was Perfect, an acknowledged member of one the most revered elf castes; elite and exalted even among the nobility. She was remarkably beautiful, her face and body, exquisite examples of delicate symmetry. Her eyes were wide and dark, her elegant features, sharp. Her hair was long and lush, and the top of her forehead was crowned with two short, gracefully curving horns. Yet as strikingly beautiful as she was without effort, it still took time and skillful effort to make her perfectly beautiful, to have her outward form match the sound of her flawless voice. Elf castes were ancient, immutable things that superseded tribal boundaries, a universal hierarchy of merit that separated the elves according to their inner worth and their outer value. Perfect elves occupied the pinnacle of influence. Maralen was of the next highest caste, the Exquisites, who stood over the Immaculates, who in turn commanded the mere Faultless. Faultless was the lowest status an elf could have and still be an elf. To sink any lower was to lose Nature’s Blessing entirely; such wretches had no status and deserved no name. Tribes, on the other hand, were broken up along geographical and familial lines. No two tribes were equal in strength or number, but the elves of Lorwyn maintained relative peace through arranged marriages and rough diplomacy. The greatest of the tribes was the Gilt Leaf; guardians of the great forest whose name they shared and the masters of the lower species that infested so much of the world. There were none more perfect than the Perfects of Lys Alana, the Gilt Leaf tribe’s shining capital, and soon Peradala of the Mornsong would join their number. Peradala’s voice was acknowledged as the most beautiful in all of Lorwyn, most of all by her intended, the elf named Eidren. As Peradala’s sweet singing had earned her a place among the most exalted of elves, so had Eidren’s astounding ability to manipulate and sculpt the living trees of the Gilt Leaf earned him his place. They were an excellent pair, Perfect apart but so complementary to one another that they were even more glorious together. etc

 
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