|Location||Dalentarth, Plains of Erathell, Detyre|
Spring is a Lorestone set in Kingdoms of Amalur: Re-reckoning.
The War Ends
I was told of ancient days when wise priestess Bayala Tirin to Goddess Lyria spoke.
The people, remembering all after war, called for Dureks' fate
'Slay them, the foul and wretched tribe,' said Dokkalfar.
'Spare them, the poor and miserable beasts,' cried Ljosalfar.
Their minds, depraved and hatred-poisoned, twisted.
Alfar struck Alfar over drink, at feast, when all else is merry, when peace reigns in havens.
Hateful, I am told, were cousins towards each other.
From the cold-blessed Fieriol, Bayala Tirin, with a head to seek Lyria's guidance, set forth on a pilgrimage.
On the third year of passage Tirin entered Dalentarth.
In dark wood and Faenee field she strode,
until from wandering she was taken to the roots of mighty Vilaghru's child.
So laden with Lyria's song, a greater magic known to none,
she communed with Nature's spirit, but the lyric she sought was not found.
So to the Plains of Erathell travelled the Lyria-guided Tirin.
Wind chased her swarthy cloak and tresses, masked her against the moonlit plains.
That ebon evening-tide, that colored shade that so long ago marked us,
Tirin marched against the celestial expanse.
Beneath the diamonded sky she found her rest.
- Lyria's Vision
Among echoes of golden coasts and silver seas Lyria drew near.
She saw the priestess asleep, reclined on dark earth amidst the Cyprus trees.
Under the gleam of heaven's dusk reflected,
the mirror that tantalized the stars, Lyria whispered to Tirin:
'On rocky spur of sable stone shall heaven's mount prove, is a seat of elegance near kin,
a shard of night to glisten in the foam, a spire from the sea bed to drip from the sky's veil.
There will your people be closest to my voice.'
And so awoke Bayala Tirin, the calm and majestic, to see the cliffs against the coast and Lyria's throne before her.
- Prophetess of the Dokkalfar
Then returned the Prophetess to her people who, content with largesse, would stay in their wintry country.
Tirin spoke, as I know, her silken robes the fabric of Lyria's hand:
'Hail! The words of the Goddess I herald unto her people, and have I hear from starlit lands in her woven grasp.
Her way is east , that way which we must travel, for these frosty vales are not beautiful.
Our cousins, we say unto you, be no more troubled by our plight.
We will go to the opposite ends of Alfaria, and be Dokkalfar, content.'
- The Long Journey
Taxing, through swamp and ice, desert and wood, was the exodus from frozen lands.
Upon each hill the Priestess sang, and closer to Erathell they came.
The people walked in groups, the future Houses of Rathir,
planning the lives of gold and silver, music and laughter.
Lush fields and streams Tirin described to farmers, the first makers of the bread and food we eat today.
The mages that awaited Lyria's touch now reap her power.
Home of the Dokkalfar
The jagged cliffs, angles meeting the swollen sea, treacherous to the ungainly Alfar, was the homeland our people took.
I have seen the places upon the hillside our ancestors forged from sea-sculpted stone.
Gleir Rathwen, the bluffs of Tywili were settled near the light of the heavens that glittered brightest,
gazing towards Lyria's teardrop, the earth's steeple rising to meet her magnificence.
- A Time of Youth
I will now tell you of those times, as it was written of our forebears. They lived off the bounty of the sea and the grasses and fields, the newly met peoples, beasts, and flowers.
If I am a liar, there is no truth under Lyria.
The temper of our tired family calmed before waves, and, hidden among the rocks,
the shadowed nooks of beach and shore, a secret to all but our ancestors, the arcane wielded by Lyria's chosen --
a sanctified buttress, the grounds on which they practiced Her magic arts.
- A Lost Peace
A foulness unknown to Tirin's tired pilgrims lumbered in the plains.
Labored grunts trumpeted the call of brutish Jottun,
the giant-kin of old, the hammer wielders, in grievous march they trampled wood and tumbled stone.
The fleshy weight of steps crushed the bones of warriors past.
Keloren's Legion spread too thin, Bayala's prayers went unanswered,
and the fear of death came too easily with the heavy step of the hill dwellers.
- The Founding of Rathir
The walls of Gleir Rathwen came crashing to the ocean's turmoil.
Our people, despaired and battle-weary, hiding from the ogres' fists, saw Bayala Tirin atop the revered spire,
dressed in priestly garb, and circled by a camp of mages.
Wise Tirin called forth the grace of Lyria, her beauteous song, paragon of the ethereal.
The people climbed to her side, a summit cloister of spellwoven forces.
She smote the Jottun from the hallowed pinnacle, and never again did they return.
Rathir, she named the place where sharp rocks break the water's surface.
This home for all Dokkalfar, the lunar crag of Lyria, founded in the 14th year after The Parting.
- Her Legacy
These words are not mine, but ours, and shared to all who would hear, but known to only the true hearted Alfar.
Opposition seeks not the meek, but those who suffer happenstance,
and rewards the greater mysteries laid bare beneath Her hidden vision.
We learn this from Bayala Tirin, the wisest, the prophetess of Lyria,
the invoker of Her magic and favorite among Her children,
the mother of the Dokkalfar and the founder of Rathir.
Notes & Tips
- Lorestones can be found at Dalentarth, Plains of Erathell, and Detyre.