Hwæt! This tale begins in those earliest days when the Elves first awoke, when the world was not, and all things were beautiful. And the elves, whose fascinations were infinite, came to gather around those things most worthy of their admiration - the glimmer of the newborn stars, the newly shifting arms of clear, unfurling nebulae, the song of the cosmic breath as it passed over the flowering expanse, the glittering gemstones that scattered the twilight meadows and the mysteries of those magical processes by which creation unfolded before them. And through these gatherings, the first communities came to be and all was fair, equal and just, for all were lords and ladies of their own commonwealths of universal wonderment and splendour.
That is, save for One, HE, who was above others and whose name, now unspoken, once meant 'Most Beauteous of Creation'. HE became as a great king, HE who was the fairest of these beings, without blemish, without trace of weakness of limb or mind, vitality or song and whose grace and glory were unmatched. HE, who had come to master all of these elven fascinations, came to gather around HIM many fellow elves who basked in HIS perfection and supplicated themselves to HIS will. In turn, HE was their champion. For it was HE who slew those unknown horrors that slobbered and clawed their way from the world before. And as HE stood, victorious in battle, over their manyfold dead, HE was among the first created to feel disgust - dread. Yet further pained, HE pondered; do putrid beings foretell of what was to become of MY new world?
From then on, HE sought ways to preserve the purity and perfection of the starry, flowering realm. For it was HE who was the first to entreat the gods and HE sang of an end to the unfolding creation - that peaceful perfection abounded, and that beauty could be preserved, should but Creation cease. These songs went into the starry void without answer, nor echo. And so, HE looked with disdain at the first dawn of the neonate sun, and to HIM, the arrival of the unpocked moon was a blot on the glimmering meadows of the sky. And soon fear and malice formed in his ageless heart. So, with the wilting of the first flower and as fresh maladies first sapped the limbs of elves - with the appearance of beasts, bristling and chitinous, teeming in the roiling mud and the apes that gibbered in swelling trees - HE knew what fate HE must pursue. Such creations, both tangible and intangible, would serve only to corrupt HIS beauteous visage and pockmark HIS perfect earthly realm. And so, claiming HIS beauty as HIS right to command Elvenkind, HE proclaimed this curse to freshly afeared elves;
“Woe unto the Creator’s creation! Woe unto the scabrous beasts that mar its face! Once pure, now befouled with crawling, hideous life - scarred and made unclean by prankish entropy! My realm shall be untainted and unmarred! Therefore, I, who am more splendid than the Sun, nobler than the Moon, fairer than the fairest star, shall be the hand to hold back the loom of Creation and by my will shall the march of time be stayed, and beauty live eternal!”
And upon swearing this terrible oath, HIS followers leapt straightway to HIS side and took the selfsame vow together, striking down any who refused. And red with spilt elven blood shone their drawn swords in the glare of the weeping, child sun. Quickly, then, they did away, down into the heart of the world. Down HE led HIS followers, deep within, and under the earth where reality remains strange, and where time itself might be kept at bay. There, in the abyss, HE wove HIS own realm, one preserved from Creation, touched only by the decay of his own heart and shaped by HIS deranged will and unspooled mind. So it was, and as strange aeons ebbed and flowed, HE and HIS followers basked in their endless spiralling beautification. There, in the deepest of all places, they preened and warped themselves beyond elvenkind, seeking to surpass the beauty that, in elder days, they had once found sacred. For they are now the Selv, starry and strange - scintillating, stelliferous entities of an eerie, alien fairness - cold, cruel and desirous.
So, it would remain, but unfurling creation could not be hidden from forever. Save for the Creator, the weird ways of the deep earth know few masters, and so, after untold Ages, the underworld's groping tendrils - its dungeons and dark places - have begun to pierce the Selv's uncanny garden-realm. Now, up through the earth; by secret fae-paths, forgotten ways and hidden elven-doors, do the Selv slink furtively to the subterranean fringes of our mortal world. Ancient folk emerging into an Age of dearth and misrule - knowing only deep magic, and the lore of the earliest dawns, the Selv know little of our myth-removed Age. Truly, their imperious sneers survey all Creation with disgust and curiosity - for you should consider yourself accursed the Selv know you not. For the keen fascination of their elven forebears beats still in the Selv’s wicked hearts, yet their study is born of self-superiority and is filled with malice and revulsion.
And those first men to behold the Selv, to be held tranfixt upon their cruel and sickly-beauteous, shimmering forms and meet with terror their gaze, glowing with the light of underworld stars. With piercing eyes that burn darkly with contempt that wrinkles not their statue faces.
For the Selv, mortal men are as insects before a collector’s pin, as boils before a studying surgeon or yet, with greater terror - impure clay before a master sculptor. For many warped men, uncanny and statue-faced, with the light of the heavens springing from their mindless eyes, do lope and lunge and tear and toil at a world they now reckon as odious and unworthy. No creature, high or low, shall escape their desire - for even bats of strange angles that carry the glimmer of stars, do flutter on gossamer wings from the constellation-lit caves of the Selv.
HE lives still! Brooding against an ugly reality, in the impossible depths of the living earth within his shrinking realm, scheming. HIS goals are many; to learn of the created world and the lengths of its completion, its nature, and the nature of its inhabitants and how they may be best made beautiful or excised as a gardener might snails. Whispered voices, in deep tombs, hiss in slender tones of a great ‘War of Disgust’ against reality, when the Selv have found some means to bleach back Creation and start afresh. And yet, a needling thought, spry against the vastness of his ancient memory does pain HIM, quietly - are the Selv, his children, those ancient abominations that he did HE slay at the dawn of all things?
The Selv
Stats as Elves, (though something more special may be in order) adjust HD depending on the age of the particular Selv (HE would have the stats of something from Deities and Demigods). Selv differ from Elves in the following regards:
• In combat, they always target the ugliest thing first, who they will usually attempt to slay.
• They speak to Elven PC’s before all others.
• They will attempt to capture and study those they do not exterminate.
• They glow a cold white light and their weird and stunning beauty means the Selv always surprise their opponents. They are as swift and light footed and can almost always cover a great distance before being spotted.
• They inhale and exhale but once a day, they do not blink, nor sleep. They are sustained by very little, often eating a single petal per day.
The Beautified:
The uncanny and ethereal workhorses of the Selv. The Beautified can use the stats of any creature, save that they gain +1 to ALL rolls and are unable to use any mental, spell-casting or force of personality unless instructed by a Selv to do so.
Any creature can be beautified by the Selv using a ritualised version of a modified Polymorph Other spell. This usually takes place after an intense and unpleasant period of examination. The Beautified are always under the thrall of the Selv as a race.
Some notes on the Selv as a faction:
• The Selv are a faction designed to be able to be placed into any deep corner of any underground dungeon or adventure site. Their Selv-ways may even connect several distant dungeons across your campaign map.
• Lacking the numbers to wage direct war on reality the Selv do begrudgingly seek non-Selv allies, promising beauty, exquisite gems and deep lore in exchange for favours or artefacts of great power that may aid them in the destruction of reality.
• Their hierarchy is organised by most to least fair though these miniscule differences are not noticeable to non-Selv. The Beautified are essentially lobotomised works of uncanny valley art and are the lowest rung of Selv society.
• The Selv hate disease and are easily disgusted to the point of violence.
• For naming conventions take typical Tolkienesque elven names and ‘extend’ them by duplicating vowels and or consonants in weird ways.
Myself and an elite cadre of skellington appreciators and OSR bloggers coalesced in the spirit of this spooky season to gift each other content. This was organised by Empedocles of Elemental Reductions. And glad I was to accept the call to write archaic, ape-tolkienesque nonsense in very long and unwieldy sentences! OK, my actual prompts were:
• The Fall of a Great King
• Beauty Rotten from the Inside
• The Curse of Being Forgotten
And the format was: Faction. So, I attempted to do all three. I hope you are pleased, anonymous friend!
I am also submitting this to the RPG Blog Carnival, hosted by the great Tim Brannon of The Other Side blog - the theme HORROR AND FANTASY.