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There was a contest recently to encourage rpers among the Mal'anar to create personal accounts of the destruction of their lands. Attached are the winners. 
Please take a moment to read the RP stories of our contest winners to learn more about the total destruction of Mal'anar and Silver Hollow.
A word of advice from the King of the Elves of Mal'anar - Don't underestimate the Nightmares' Tears!
Yours,
Xavi Villiers
1st Place - Arixian Diesel
"Where there is void," the oracle's voice said. "There is a chance to rebuild and grow," with those last words, the eerily coupled voices of the three Fates sank into darkness as did their forms.
A Valkyrie knew better than to question fate itself, but as her pale eyes slid over the waning basin of Sight, she caught one last glimpse of a peaceful forest she knew as a second home. That vision would burn into her brain the only way pain and loss could brand so. The mists would be remembered for eternity by her, even after everything else had turned to dust and man was a mere legend, spoken of quietly in bedtime stories.
Arix swallowed down her pain, her fear, the regrets that a normal Valkyrie should not have, and summoned her armor as she passed through the door. Coursing slowly through the darkened halls of Valhalla, she traveled by sleeping man and sister alike. Their bodies recovering for yet another day of song and battle in the name of Odin and Freya. The fires were low as her well-booted feet trod over the stone floor slowly, her hand cresting the round knee of an all-too-familiar statue. She winced in her loneliness, the dark quiet adding to her emptiness as she paused for a mere second at the marble statue. She turned up to look into its face, her heart threatening to break her ribs from the inside as her knowledge and memories empowered her to continue.
The unthinkable was coming, she reminded herself, and she could not stop it. Her armor shifted on her thick body, strong and muscular and sculpted by the gods, as she continued out of the doors and took to the sky on a pair of unfamiliar, golden wings. She felt so heavy as she flew through the cold, emotionless canvas of night, as if her body was made of lead and wings were actually golden ore plumbed from the bowels of Hel's caverns.
As she neared the once-peaceful forested city of Mal'anar, her senses were greeted with the thick smell of fire and blood. The sting of weighted strife was felt through her warriors bones as she touched ground with a heavy thud. The battle around her spun and ebbed like so many torrents of the sea at storm. She stepped between skirmishes on slow, purposeful feet, as if weaving the threads of destiny between them. Time passed differently through the eyes of a Valkyrie, sometimes moving more quickly and sometimes slower. In these moments, she saw the war of men pass in slow motion before her. They spray of blood arching over another like a graceful wave on an empty shore, striking the foe in the face, slapping him as man might greet the unfeeling world. She shone brightly in the blackness of war, a beacon to the fallen and dying. "Help me," they would cry to her, begging all at once for release and healing. Clanging of swords and spears rang through the air and deafened the heart-felt screams of rage from even the most noble of men. She would reach for them, then, as their bodies stopped and fell limply, her arms as strong as steel to carry the weight of their souls.
Some fought against her and shook in her grasp, not willing to go. She admired their willing spirit, wishing she could let them continue. But no matter what her desires were, the fate was set and she knew the outcome. A bittersweet smile lifted the corners of her full lips as she spoke with an ethereal calmness. "Stay yourself, warrior. Save your fight for the battles in Asgard." Many times she would do this, leave with souls and return with none. As they filled the space against her bosom, the emptiness within her grew another inch.
As the morning hours came and washed their gray-tainted peach light over the scorched earth, so blackened with the blood and fire that had swept over it like the broom of a vengeful god, the battle had ceased and the damage was done. The entirety of the city as well as the outlying lands were decimated and nothing was recognizable as the green forest of the Mists any longer. As she floated above the steam and smoke rising from the ink-colored soil, her pale, sorrowful eyes would cast toward the Wayward Spirits. A mere husk of what it used to hold; once bursting at the seams with jovial talk and welcoming warmth, its walls were now burnt entirely to the ground and only a few planks stand remaining in defiance to the destructive power of war.
The valkyrie pulls her crested crown from her ebony head, still perfectly white and unsullied by the ash that floated freely around her, and sits perched on some nearby stone that had been uprooted by the attackers. She pulls a long-fingered and shaking hand through her tresses as she once more scans the scene for survivors regardless of her prior knowledge that there would be none. Her head falls, knowing the god's will complete and the deserted land unlivable. Hope would sink this day, through the bleary night and into the morning as barren anger and resentment took its place.
She sat on that rock for what seemed like a hundred lifetimes, ash and dust pelting her alabaster skin angrily as she defied their waning appetite for abolishment. Her golden feathers were rifled by the fall winds, harsh and crying at her to return the color-changed leaves and their trees so that it may sing through them once more. "Had I the power, wind," she spoke quietly, her words barely hushed out by the stiff breeze. "I still would not." Craters dappled the ground around her and seemed to stretch on, their numbers countless. Each one, Arix contemplated, was still not as deep as the hearts of those lost and displaced from their homes. Their emptiness was overshadowed easily by the loss felt within the denizens that once lived within the sacred boughs of the mists.
Weapon, shields, bodies of men and beast alike lay broken on the ground below her like so many scattered and forgotten toys. Woe filled her as cold water fills an empty, dusty well. Part of her was revitalized and motivated, helpless anger churning from within the depths of her silvery core. The other part of her was weighted heavily, as if challenging her to continue on in spite of everything. "Come on, body," she beckoned it upward. "We have work to do." With that, slipped off of the rock, her godly garb fading from her form and returning her to a sooty, leather-clad appearance.
She chose to walk instead of fly, to relive the moments of destitution and carry their weight, letting them play out over and over in her trained heart. A bone snaps beneath her heavy foot, its sickening crunch not much more than the sound of dry, splintering tinder beneath the woodsman's axe. She pauses and looks down at its surfaces, bleached from the inside by whatever killed the person it once supported. Her lily, white hand reaches to pluck a shard from the dark earth, to hold it against the slowly rising light of the sun and contemplate the traces of soul still within its web-like marrow. So fine was its structure, so delicate and thin. She choked back a wave of emotion as the memories of its owner struck her. “These are but children at my feet,” she says to herself, dropping the fae bone as if it were a hot coal, searing against her flesh with the unspent life that once reverberated within the flighty creature.
Arix looked up to the sky, an angry pair of sea foam-colored eyes daring the gods to strike her down for her rebellious thoughts. Why, she continued to ask. The gods had plenty of the world with which to play, why choose Silver Hollow and Mal'anar? Why allow the slaying of innocent and heathen alike? All at once, the words of the Fates rang through her ears like so many bells in a chapel hall. “The void,” she mutters quietly, her anger banished from within her breast for now. Dropping her gaze once more and looking forward, she took herself across the barren desolation and toward Westenguard where, on the way, she would meet refugee and injured alike. She would fix their broken bodies, even their tattered and nigh-ruined belongings. She would tell tales to the young and old alike, distracting them from the thoughts of their lost home; cook them food and put them to bed. She would do all she could to help them rebuild, to help them fill the void with new things and new life.
2nd Place - Kazuma Snowfall
The sound of swords woke him.
Kahz sat up, sleep still clinging to his thoughts as he registered the sounds outside his door—and the vibrations that moved his bed and shook the walls. Beside him Oralia stirred and reached out to touch him.
When she opened her mouth to speak, he quickly pressed a finger to her lips and shook his head. "Get dressed quickly," he whispered before he slipped out of the bed himsef. He pulled on pants and jerkin as Oralia dressed behind him near the fire.
"Kahz..." she whispered as shadows moved outside the stained glass of his windows. "What's happening?"
He didn't want to say. Becuase if it were true—that the city was being invaded—they were doomed. Not just he and Oralia—but all of Mal'anar. They weren't prepared. They weren't...ready...
And they were under attack.
A stone crashed through the window to Khaz's right. To her credit, his lover didn't yell out but instead pulled a dagger from her robes. He grabbed his short swords as something even larger came smashing through the broken window.
He turned his back to the hail of glass and spun his weapon's handles to better his grip as he pivoted to face what ever it might be. He hadn't expected to see—a devil? It was waist high and covered in a foul, greasy tar-like substance. The smell reminded him of those damned flowers near the entrance.
But there was no time to speculate as he brought his left sword up to deflect the creature's attack. The crack of his blade's steel against the creature's weapon vibrated down his arm. His teeth rattled at the impact and he stumbled back until he was against the armoire. He got a quick glimpse at his attacker's axe and realized with a sinking heart it was made of iron.
No...
Another creature came through the broken window. Oralia dove to meet it, easily ducking beneath its swing and then with a movement that was pure art, jabbed her knife into its neck from behind. The creature cried out and fell.
The one before him brought his axe up again—Kahz had been too busy watching Oralia—and swung. He moved out of the way and attempted to sweep the creature with a blast of wind.
But it was as he feared—the force he intended to summon became little more than a breeze—the iron from the axe weakened anything he'd hoped to conjure. He parried with both swords crossed over his head, again feeling the jar as the iron struck his swords. Sparks flew and he heard shouts from outside. The banging on the door increased in volume and he yelled out as he shoved forward, eventually pushing the creature over on its back where Oralia quickly killed it.
She looked up at him with tragic eyes, though filled with determination. "The plants!" she yelled. "It has to be the plants! They smell like the plants—"
More of them came through the door at that moment, as well as the open window. More shouts outside. The clash of steel, the cries of dying. And the alarm... sounding too late.
They were surrounded in seconds, cut off from the exits. He motioned Ora to get close, tucked his left sword under his right arm, and reached up to the ceiling. "Me-yera 'tel an shul tir!"
His voice had amplified with the spell. He'd called on the deep magic, that born of desparation, that which demanded its own price. The ground shook beneath them as the wind inside picked up, pulled in through the shattered windows, the chimney flu and swirled around them. Though there was iron, there wasn't enough to prevent the funnel that built in speed and strength until it finally rose and pushed the roof from the cottage itself. The creatures were swept up in the swiftly moving wind, but he didn't have the strength to lift he and Ora, out of the cottage walls.
He felt a cool hand on his cheek and heard her voice in his heart. "Let me..."
And that's when water—cool, sparkling, and embured with her power—came crashing into the cottage from all side. The creatures were drowned in it as he and Oralia were lifted above the cottage walls which fell from the weight and current—and then deposited them along the bank.
There was no time for relief. More of the foul creatures came at them. He swung his swords and joined in the fray with his cousins—as Oralia gave out her own cry and took down two within seconds.
"Find the Tari!" came a voice to his right. The Tari! The Princess! He glanced around and saw Oralia engaged with another of the creatures. One of the long lived trees near the shore, only yards from where his house had stood, went up in a blaze. He ducked back from the instant heat against his skin and felt the bite of a blade along his front.
He twisted in the direction of the attack, taking off the head of one of the damned demons. The cut was deep and he wiped at the blood as the leaves of the tree crackled and blew in the wind and turned to ash.
"The keep is on fire!" came the cries from around him.
Kahz had no idea how long he'd fought when he heard the word to evacuate Mal'anar. Evacuate? But the others were running past him as he heard the crack of the great trees as their trunks gave and their roots, damaged by fire, gave. He and a few others barely made it away from the trunk, but were caught in the descending foliage. He stumbled forward and landed on his front as his felt wood cut sharply into his back, scraping skin, stinging.
Once it was done and the sounds of the keep crumbling reached them, narry a sound came from those outside of the gates. He thought he caught sight of Arix... among the dead inside the gates...but he wasn't sure. He was tired and wanted only to return to the pleasant dreams he'd been having, resting beside Oralia, feeling her body beside him.
A hand touched his bare arm and he knew it was her. Kahz turned and looked into the beautiful, if not soot smudged face of his love. Her hair was caught with ash, leaves and straw, and her face was slightly wiped with blood. But she was whole and he dropped both swoards as he leaned down and swept her into his arms. Her tiny feet dangled above the grass as he buried his face into her neck, nestled in her hair. He wanted to weep, to cry out with the death keel for those who had fallen.
But he heard Xavi's voice, felt Ora stir in his arms. He set her down and she led him to the gate where the Aran, the Princess and Tari stood. He and Ora stood nearby, his eyes catching Morrigan's for a brief second...and he could see the utter devastation in her eyes. What he felt in his heart.
Her gaze traveled from his eyes to where he and Oralia held each other tightly. The Tari gave a slight nod, as if she expected Ora and he to be together.
The Aran spoke. The power of Mal'anar was returned to her people.
Kahz lowered his head when it was over, exhausted. Mal'anar...was gone. The word to vanish was unspoken, as was the understanding that Mal'anar would return. Ora pulled at him to follow her and as they moved into the forest he felt the approach of a familiar hoof. Felt the bonded joy of his horse, Ariendiel. She broke through the trees and made her way to him. He was glad he'd always let her run free at night, to do as she pleased.
Ariendiel pushed her muzzle into face and he let Ora go long enough to reach out and hug his horse close. He said in elvish, "We need to go home, Ariendiel. To Tol Narwa Vire... we both need..."
She whinnied happily and stomped. Kahz turned and put his hands on Oralia's shoulders. Tears rimmed her eyes and he spoke softly. "Come home with me, and we'll return when the call is heard."
She nodded quickly and he lifted her up to place her on the horse's back. He grabbed the rein and started to jump on—
"Kahz..."
It was the Tari's voice. He stopped and turned to see her behind him. She was alone and he moved to her as she opened her arms. They embraced and he forced himself to keep his expression passive. Not to let his despair show.
"We will rebuild," she said. "Go home. Be with the Minya... and come when I call."
"Yes, my Tari," he said softly. She stood back and reached up to brush his cheek. Her own dark skin was smudged with soot and ash, and her resolve, though strong, was breaking.
He watched her go to Ora and the two spoke softly to one another. He watched as cousins moved past him, heads held high, many carrying lights as they vanished into the mists. Finally the Tari touched his shoulder again and then moved away from them.
He leapt on Ariendiel's back and situated Ora in front of him so she could rest. He would remain awake as they made their way to the house of his father... and there... they could rest together...and weep for the golden turrets of Mal'anar.
3rd Place - Zephyr Speizer
Heat had not penetrated the chamber below Silver Hollow for hundreds of years. But one rash night, the cold thing that lay dormant in the mossy earth finally quivered back to life. She, very slowly, recalled the details of her imprisonment. Her beloved ice had curled around her, protecting her from the spell of pain and agony that her enemies had used upon her. Trapping her. Imprisoning her in her own safety shell. But now the Old One roused from her long slumber. How long had she been here, in this block of ice? And how long until that familiar overwhelming pain came crashing down on every inch of her skin. That spell...that horrible spell... A wizardry her ice could barely protect her from, except by freezing her solid.
But, the pain never came. Perhaps the ones who had imprisoned her no longer stood. Perhaps they had released her of their own volition. The former was far more likely than the latter. And as thoughts slowly trickled into Zephyr's mind, she thought she heard screams beyond her slowly-liquifying prison. There must be heat if her ice was melting. A fire? A fire in the wilds above?
She clawed through the earth itself to reach the surface. Somewhere in Silver Hollow, a pale, almost translucent hand, caked in mud, finally thrust up into the air. Not that anyone witnessed this event. Not that any of the running, screaming, fear-stricken natives even took the slightest note of the woman who pulled herself out of the ground, ice and dirt sluicing off of her naked body. Not that anyone stopped to really listen to the high-pitched scream of triumph that shook from Zephyr's mouth, signalling her freedom.
And as her mind thawed, she staggered through the burning woods, untouched by the fire. It recoiled from her, feared her, shivered and died in her presence. She brushed her fingertips over tall mushrooms and blossoming plants, giving them a protection of frost as she progressed. She caused trails of rough ice through the burning forest for the fleeing animals. And for the burned fae and fauns that she passed, she created and packed snow against their sizzling wounds, soothing them with her raspy murmur.
Would would dare to burn the forest, her home? And did she owe them thanks for waking her, or retribution for their folly against Silver Hollow? Perhaps both. For waking her, she'd give them the pleasure of knowing her. That was more than any creature could wish, in her opinion. And for destroying the home she had waited for, yearned to see again for so very long... Vengeance. They would take her place below Silver Hollow, frozen for all time, alive and immobile.
Soon. Very soon.