There was, in the eastern part of the world, a great mountain range. Eryn Mithuil, it was called, also known as Mistmount in the Common Tongue. It was given its name for the impenetrable mist that seemed forever to linger around its sharp peaks. On its Western side, travelling almost halfway up the mountain, it was lined with a large forest. Filled with Oaks and Ashes, Birches and Beeches it travelled all the way to the end of the range to the North and wrapped around it some miles to the East. The great boughs of these trees created a nearly fully covering canopy which, even while the Sun was radiant in the sky, covered the floor in darkness. Despite this the floor was not as one would expect, barren and filled with dead twigs and leaves and acorns, but rather filled with luscious grass and flowers and bushes of all kinds holding sweet fruits and treacherous berries.
Those who dared enter this place, would find soon that the branches twisted and turned and trees croaked and moaned ominously all round them. Almost as if to dismay those travelling through from going any further.
It was in this ominous and brooding forest, hidden away from all sight, a single place of peace and harmony resided. Thelfalas, it was called by those who dwelt there or Moongrove as it was called in stories long forgotten. And it was forever shaded from the Sun by the great ceiling of mist that surrounded Eryn Mithuil.
Those who dwelled in this place had long and pointy ears, nearly a foot long they went up and curved down again. Pale was the colour of their skin, faint pink and purple like a brilliant opal or a weak blue like the sea reflecting a clouded sky. Their eyes however, were dark, filled with tiny specks of light like stars forming intricate shapes. Tall and slender was their build, growing often to seven or eight feet tall.
Their homes they grew from nut and acorn, gently bent and nudged into the shapes of homes. The boughs too they made grow in solid and sturdy walkways and platforms around the trees. A craft it was for them, Thelnythil, Grovetending, they called it. For they would not willingly harm the forest without reason. The trees they respected too much, and in turn so did the trees them, acting as great wardens protecting Thelfalas from outsiders. Yet they were not altogether opposed to using the resources found in the forest. They had little farms hidden away in small glades and tiny gardens grown into the pathways they tended. From these they were able to create useful things such as tools, dyes and fabrics, and food and drink. Their clothing mainly consisted of simple robes with colours of deep blues and dark purples, creating a beautiful contrast with their pale skin.
Not all their dwellings were moulded from trunk and bough; though few and far between some were made from rock, and were as such, built on the ground instead. These buildings were often reserved for the more laborious crafts. Smithing in particular was one of their more notable labours. Though it indeed might seem odd after hearing about their fondness of nature, to learn that they are great workers of metal; a harsh and industrious material. Even though most of their skill in this craft has been lost to time, they were renowned for their metalworking skills, for they alone knew how to create a special kind of metal.
The grove itself was lined by the Imýnthyl Alor, the Sparkling River. Always it could be heard from the grove and always it reflected the light of the stars, even when the stars themselves were not visible through the misty ceiling. And such an apt name it was given, for the river truly did sparkle like a diamond reflecting a bright light in a dark room. Before the river made its way to Thelfalas however, it plunged off great cliffs in the shape of a great waterfall. Where the foam effervesced it turned into a small lake before continuing on to line the grove. There, in the centre of the lake a single flat-topped boulder stood up above the water, like an eye’s pupil. On the rock stood a shining silver anvil. Only above this platform, the true light of the gleaming Moon pierced the misty ceiling and made a brilliant play upon the playful shores of the lake. Ithýl Fýrèn, it was called. Often it was translated as Mirrormere, as the lake always presented a perfect reflection of the luminous night sky. Yet linguists often argued that as ‘Fýrèn’ also meant ‘the present’ in the tongue of this people, the name of the lake could have had a more poetic meaning; for a reflection will show neither past nor future.
It was here, hammered and wrought upon the silver anvil in the pure light of the Moon, then doused in the Imýnthyl Alor, they created Gilfalas; Moonsteel. A special metal it truly was: sturdier than regular steel, lighter than even the lightest metal, and when sharpened, sharper than expertly cut obsidian.
Always it was dark there, in the shade of the mist, yet bright enough still to see, even for those who were less accustomed to the dark, for the great ceiling almost seemed to let pass the light of the white Moon while shielding against the burning light of the yellow Sun.
In the centre of the grove, there was a single great Oak, the largest of the trees that were tended in Thelfalas. It too was shaped into a large open space, with growing in the middle, a pedestal in the shape of a large bowl which was filled with water as dark as the night sky.