High Lord Emyrion Morinen
Gold or souls, we prosper only when the balance is in our favour.
Description: An individual of presence and stature, Emyrion is the very essence of elf-like demeanor. His features seem to stay in a calm, contemplative shape most of the time. Icy blue eyes gaze out with piercing precision. His build is slender but not with out substance. Broad shoulders hold steady across a solid torso. His calm expression is only broken when his ire is stoked.
Personality: Aloofness combined with genuine care for his people, his mercurial temper is awakened when the safety and prosperity of Faenor are endangered. Quick of wit, sharp of tongue, he shows no qualms in stripping away delusions to bare uncomfortable truths. He weighs every decision, preferring to give the wealth of Faenor firmer foundations than simple ego and whimsy.
Background: Perfection lies within the realm of Garwen and the imagination of dreamers, artists and idealists. A ruler must temper perfection with cold reality. A ruler must make the choices that drag one away from clear purity for the sake of his people. This, Emryion was taught from the beginning of his life, as the High Lord of Morinen's heir.
Politics, diplomacy, economics. To master them, one has to compromise. Emyrion received numerous tutors that sought to instill this understanding within the heir, along with the other qualities one expects from a High Lord. Strength of will, the ability to command, to lead. To look upon choices and hear advice, but to be ruled by none else but one's own mind. And to choose, in the end. Always choose, even when faced with bad options.
Yet, not all was grim practicality. The time he possessed outside of his lessons, he spent learning to forge iron and steel into weapons and armour. To weave silver and gold into rings and other jewelry. There too, perfection could not be reached. Yet its pursuit was encouraged. And it made him aware, that even as he could never hope for purity, for perfection, for himself nor his own people, it could nonetheless be sought.
Thus, Emyrion was allowed to grow and by the time he became an adult, he had already proved himself to be intelligent and insightful, grateful for the perspectives of others yet making his own mind. Enjoying debate and the testing of ideas, as one tests the temper of a new sword. Cooly calm most times, with a good sense of humour, there was still something to him, a fire that ran within hidden depths, that went on unnoticed save when pushed too far, and when that which he held dearest to his heart were threatened.
How fierce the flames would be revealed when mortality befell the elves, and the Eradication War upon them.
Something changed in Emyrion as he watched his people begin to wither and die. A restlessness born from his impotence at protecting his kin from the ravages of time. An anger that built, and built, till the day the Host came, and the very survival of his people, of the elves, was at stake. Yet even then, even against these celestial beings intent upon their destruction, there was a silver lining.
Emyrion finally had a target for his rage.
Passion lent his words greater effect, and impressed with his son's will and dedication, it was upon the onset of the Eradication War that his father relinquished the title of High Lord, and gave it to his son Emyrion. At once, he focused the great wealth of Morinen to the war effort, even going so far as to involve himself directly in battle. There, his fury was fully unleashed, and though it would be at great risk to himself, often coming dangerously close to his final limits, he fought fire with fire, and gave the Host a taste of their own medicine. The same genocidal will that animated them was applied by Emyrion in the defense of his people, of Faenor, and elves. He struck relentlessly, yet not pointlessly. For while their foe was mighty indeed, each day bought with the clash of arms and magic meant one more day spent finding a solution, a way out.
And eventually, the solution came.
All the fury in the world would not be enough to drive back the Host. And once the Ithiriel sent word of her plan, Emyrion agreed, and convince those among the Faenor who doubted that it was, in the end, their only hope. It wasn't the perfect solution. It wasn't even a good one. But faced with the choice of facing the unknown or see their people eradicated? The choice was clear. And Emyrion made it.
Did he have doubts, as days stretched on with no sight of land? Did he have doubts, as so many of his people died taken by the waves? Of course. Only a fool wouldn't. Yet he had made the choice. And in the end, it proved to be the right one.
New land, yet not the home of the Faenor yet. Though the Host had brought them all together, now the loss of Ithiriel and the memory of old wounds split the people apart anew. Faenor went its own way, to the mountains they would call home. Emyrion led Morinen to the peaks that promised the greatest wealth, and there established their new home. Soon, wonders wrought from metal and gem flowed from the halls of the Morinen as they once did in the Dying Lands.
It was during such a time that he watched his brother Rigoth grow, born from a mother who died not long after. More than a century his elder, a certain divide separated the two brothers. One had waged war, feeling and dealing death countless times, while another had been spared the horrors of the Host, history rather than memory. Yet, though time kept them apart, it did not prevent fraternal love to tie them strong. If there ever was to be an embodiment of what Emyrion had fought for, what he would be fighting for in the centuries to come, he needed only look at his younger brother, and the new generation of elves born to the New World.
For their fates are now tied to his choices, their hopes and dreams tied to the impossible perfection mirrored in Garwen's realm. And though he knows it may never be achieved, can he do anything less than reach for it, for them all?