Blade Weaver Lore
The first Blade Weavers learned their Art three full ages of the World ago, in the Age of Twilight, when the World was young and death was but a dream. In that age, the blades of the Elvish masters shone like white fire in the eternal twilight - this was long before the kindling of the Sun and the Dawning of Time. Those first masters wove their mighty dances, sparring with each other, and the Dance of Battle was another art, not the grim necessity it is today. The art they shaped demands a discipline unlike any we children of the wood have ever known. Focus and discipline of any kind come slowly to ones such as we, whose hearts are made of wind and water. Those who persevere, however, will join the ranks of the greatest warriors ever known, and their blades shall protect the wonders of the world and smite the corrupt like lightning.
How tiresome the ways of humans are. We have seen their "Jen'e'tai," their so-called blade masters, and we know their teachings all too well. As with everything the Sons of Men have wrought, it is but a pale shadow of the wonders our immortal fathers made of old. These "Blade Masters" whose lives play out in the span of a daydream for our kind - do they really believe they know more than the mighty Elf Lords who have been practicing with their swords since before the first Man was even wrought?
They are wise to look to the stars for wisdom, these "masters," but they forget too quickly that there were other masters of the World before them. They claim that Draethen the Trueson cut the stars in the dome of heaven with his blade, drawing the constellations that are, in the end, only a stilted mockery of our dance. An interesting fable, but patently untrue. We remember the stars that glimmered long before that, in the Endless Twilight that existed long before Time. These are our stars, and yet the meddling Humans would steal them from us, too, as if all of our arts and wonders and lands were not enough. We remember the early stars well, and how they lit our world of night and beauty. We remember how we wept to see them vanish at the dawning. The Dragon stole them from us, that terror whose rising we alone remember. The greatest Blade Weavers danced a mighty dance of death with that horrible beast, and all of them perished in flames save one: Talamar Solanthanor, the greatest sword master who will ever live. He turned from the deadly battle at Hennan Gallorach, for he knew that no victory was possible against the Dragon, and that his wisdom and mastery of his Art must not die. Though no Human will ever know his name, we will ever praise his name.
And well do we remember Draethen Truesword also. Those who call themselves the Jen'e'tai proudly recite his parentage, claiming him as the last son of the All-Father. Indeed, he was. But who then was his mother? No human tale will tell you, but we remember the truth. Long did the wounded All-Father linger at the Opal Court after he drove the Dragon away, to be nursed back to health by the fairest of our Fair Folk. Draethen was born of none other than Silesteree Allvolanar, princess of the Deathless Realm, daughter to the First Queen who ruled beneath the eternal stars. Strange that so many human artists forget that Draethen's ears were pointed. Long did Draethen Trueson stay at the Elvencourt (aye, long after his wicked father left the hospitality of the Elves) and long did he study with Talamar Solanthanor, whose blade was called Clalidhedril, the fire serpent. We've heard the tales the Blade Masters tell, their parables of pigs and tusks. Most amusing, but we remember the truth. Would you hear it?
Know then, that there once was a Human slave, one of the first of his kind given the honor of serving us, who hid in the shadows and spied upon the Yard of the Dance. He watched Draethen and Talamar sparring together, and did steal a longblade from his masters. This craven wretch, first of the Jen'e'tai, would creep into the cellars and practice when there were none to witness him. The thief was discovered, of course, and punished with the loss of his left hand. He would have died, but Draethen took pity and the wretch, gave the thing his own sword, and spirited him away, allowing the thief to escape the Queen's justice. And so we turned this "True Son" out, and have never trusted any half-breed since. This is why the so-called Blade Masters revere Draethen, and why they fight with only one blade while every true Blade Weaver uses two. This is why their so-called "Art" will never be anything but a parody of our Dance. Here is the truth behind the Human's feeble myths. Never forget it.
Once you have learned the secrets of the Dance and joined the ranks of the Blade Weavers, you will be able to show the Humans just how wrong they are.