Introduction
Your humble Homesick Halfling, dear readers, has never been much for gods. There are simply too many of the bastards to commit one's prayers to any single one—too many cooks in the eternal kitchen, so to speak, muddying up their immortal soup. And besides: of all the wonders I've seen in my travails, though some have been the work of gods, has mortal man not made more than his fair share?
Nevertheless, my editors sent me on a quest to a city of the gods, a holy site where one humble halfling might contemplate the nature of the universe and, well, things of that nature. And so it is that I arrived to the ornate gates and celadon spires of the Citadel of the Wild, the holiest city of elvenkind. Join me on a journey through manmade wonders and natural tranquility, sanctified spaces and perhaps less-than-sanctioned methods to reach them, and once-in-a-lifetime sights seen in the land of the long-lived elves.
(Editor's note: in the course of the following guide, Merriweather Jaunt admits to a number of faux pas he committed at the Citadel that may or may not be considered mild-to-moderately heretical by worshippers and clergy of the Wild Dynasty religion. While we here at Birchbark Books strive to bring readers a variety of viewpoints, we do not wish to offend any religious community and do not condone blasphemy of any kind. Mr. Jaunt has been thoroughly reprimanded for his actions.)
Area Overview
The Citadel of the Wild sits at the base of the
Blue Mountains, near the headwaters of the
Ilduinë River, nestled quite comfortably in Middle
Scalados at the western edge of the
Eldar Wood. It seems it should be isolated, but well-worn and well-tended paths wend their way north to
Ramdailos and south to
Kyolondë via
Muilóna-in-Brigida, making for quite a simple jaunt from either direction. This is in contrast to your dear Mr. Jaunt, of course, as I pride myself on not being simple in any capacity.
(Editor's note: we know, Merriweather. We know.)
Landmarks
The entrance to this holy place is, of course, grand as can be. Smooth travertine walls stretch as far as the eye can see on either side, slowly sprouting etchings within the clematis that climb them. The etchings spiral in on themselves, fractals within fractals, culminating in a great spiraling arch—at once meticulously crafted, and gnarled as an old tree. The great paneled doors that swing inwards towards the city are carved with portraits of the great Valòmarë, the leaders of the religion, from their founder Queen
Scala I to the present day. Legend has it that the panels change as the gods evaluate the leaders' legacies. I can only suppose that this happens on the timetables of either the gods or the elves—and so far longer than I would be able to observe with my humble halfing eyes.
The Citadel beats around twin hearts, not unlike a pair of soulmates (or perhaps a
Bulette). The first is the Taras Aïlem, a multi-tiered and magnificently frescoed grand hall wherein great feasts and celebrations are held. Though solemn occasions like kaiwels' meetings and private banquets are closed to the public (not for want of trying on my part), on most other occasions the Taras Aïlem is open to all.
The second heart is the Fount of Many Blessings, within the stunning mosaic courtyard at the center of the meticulously planned city. Miracles have been fished from its waters, legendary love stories begun and ended at its edge. Like the Taras Aïlem, it is a place of communion above all else. The Valòmar calls the public square to prayers from his spire each evening; the
Lebemnë, his gods-ordained advisors, lead the city's denizens in slow, meditative calisthenics the next morn. These exercises commence far too early, in my frank opinion, and would be a far more fulfilling physical and metaphysical experience after a good brunch.
The library of the Citadel has an eerie, unexpected charm to it. Every holy building here is a display of the skill and craftsmanship of the elves, but the masks that adorn the entrance and walls of this building are a particular favorite of mine. They almost seem as if one could hold a conversation with them, although they did not deign to speak to me. In the highest chamber, the Prospeta Irima, there are visions of angels—all wings and hands, speaking with a chorus of a hundred voices—perhaps a fearful thing to those made of more delicate stuff. I offered the angel a smuggled-in cask of the finest ale of
Modére, and naturally asked them to ensure the success of this guidebook in return. The angel's response remains a mystery as I write this; I feel it is likely up to my benevolent readers, rather than any celestial, as to whether my entreaty is granted.
Perhaps a subtler supernatural experience can be felt in solemn contemplation at the Shrines of the Spirits. There are three of them, situated at various points around the citadel, each one representing an
Elvish element. Do not inquire further about this aspect of them, dear readers, at least not from me. I like to think myself quite bright and quick-witted
(editor's note: we know, Merriweather), but I can neither pronounce these elements nor understand quite what each is meant to accomplish. What I do keenly understand—what any fool with one or more eyes and a beating heart could, I should say—is that my favorite of these, the
Abidae Gardens, is a wood elven garden
par excellénce. The great wall of the Citadel splits in twain to carve out a corner courtyard, in whose center one would scarecly know one was in a city at all. Foliage paints the paths' edges in a soothing wash of green, tall trees dapple the grass with sun and shade, and mossy boulders and weather-worn statues crop up every so often throughout the peaceful landscape. At the center is a mirror-still pond; neither stones nor coins nor even, say, shoes thrown into it disturb the surface with more than the slightest splash.
(Editor's note: I can only hope this isn't related, but Merriweather, your expense report for new walking boots has been denied.)
The other two wondrous shrines each have quite a different feel, and may appeal more strongly to those with different preferences or perhaps very specific gods. For fans of fresh air and dizzying heights, the
Windham Parapets cleverly wind along the walls and roofs of the northern portion of the city. Small niches jut out here and there with sitting areas, where one can enjoy the breathtaking vistas or the ferocious wind. (Guard rails are less high and less frequent than some of us might perhaps like.) And the
Evesta Caverns, nestled into the natural mountainside, is full of rows upon rows of candles lit in prayer. The nunneries around it sit low, so that from its entrance one may look up and see the full majesty of the night sky. I am, as I have always been, deeply fond of stars and shimmering lights. I am less fond of suddenly being seized by the urge to chant along, in a language I have never spoken, with a hymn I have never heard. Compulsions do not suit me; I speak quite well enough, and quite often enough, on my own.
(Editor's note: We. Know.)
But of course, the unmistakable landmark of the Citadel is its central spire: the unthinkably massive
Taras Telumë. It stretches nearly seven hundred feet into the sky, I'm told—taller than anything else yet built by mortal hands. The sanctuary at its base is cavernous, with each footfall and whisper echoing endlessly, and yet the celadon marble and dreamily-colored glass fill the capacious space with far more peace than dread. Climb higher, and you will find the Pool of Discernment, where the council of the
Lebemnë adjourns upon a floating lotus-shaped platform in the middle. And at the unimaginably highest heights—the very pinnacle of the Taras Telumë—is the Kaíwalumë, the most sacred of chambers where only the Valòmar themself is allowed to enter. The gods speak directly to Their Grace, and mayhaps even occupy this very chamber.
That is—for all I've been told, anyway. For all I know, that lofty celestial chamber could be a
Unicorn stable. Yes, dear readers, my vivid descriptions of all beyond the base chapel are naught but hearsay and perhaps invention—though not on my part, but on that of the authors of the books I had to consult in the aforementioned library. The Taras Telumë is heartbreakingly off-limits to all who are not ordained in the service of one of the Wild Gods. I may or may not have been able to peek into a sunrise service while veiled as a Lugosian nun, but I was promptly and quite unceremoniously turned away from the higher levels by one of the sterner-seeming
Lebemnë.
"But this is for science!" I protested, as several strong monks led me away. "It's for the furthering of knowledge, the pursuit of excellence! It is for the very democratization of truth itself!"
And to think—for a place of such sages—that they still denied me entrance. Harrumph.
(Editor's note: we here at Birchbark Books would like to issue a public apology to the elders of the Citadel of the Wild for Mr. Jaunt's apparently repeated attempts to enter sacred spaces without permission. We are all too aware of his excessive persistence, and we are deeply sorry that you were repeatedly subjected to it. Mr. Jaunt has been reprimanded for his actions.)
Special Events
The most significant event that can happen in the Citadel of the Wild—what one might call its very
raison d'etre—is the
Coronation of the Valòmar. The holiest of the holy in the religion of the Wild Gods—the voice that purports to hold them as trusted personal advisors—is elected in a grand ceremony Alas, unlike most events I cover in the scope of these guides, I was unable to witness such a spectacle for myself. The current
Valòmar, Ricosa-te-Brigida, seems a lovely chap, and though I hate to miss an event, I am glad for his sake that he did not die in the course of my visit. He has ruled since well before your dashing young guide was a twinkle in his great-grandmother's eye; I may well be senescent by the time he passes on to
Arborea, or whatever else awaits a servant of the gods. I hope that what remains of his rule is prosperous.
But of course, each year holds holiness within itself—and of course, holds holidays. As one might expect, the high holy days of the Wild Gods bustle with festivity and solemnity alike, with each god's clergy taking over the primary hosting duties at the expected points throughout the year.
Lugostide warms the spirits (even in the brisk early spring) with displays of acrobatics and dramatic readings of epic poetry. The
Brigidans and
Danuvians share
Brealairë alike, no small feat even for the groups combined. The traditional pilgrims' yurts spill out across the gardens and boulevards and well into the hills beyond the gates, and the diamond-dusted blanket of the night sky seems as luxurious as any quilt to sleep beneath. There is no feast finer within these walls than that thrown at
Daghnasadh in the high halls of the Taras Aïlem, where riches from the fields and forests of all Scalados are piled so high on the communal tables that they groan under the weight (though perhaps that was me groaning, at the notable absence of whiskey and wine). The
Arawnians nimbly take the reins at
Fárransadh for an ample hunter's feast of their own, though the ritual eating of raw hearts mars the jovial atmosphere just a tad. And the songs of the
Moriganians during the
Súleisadhë of mid-January are so haunting as to chill even a gelatinous cube to the very bone.
I did not stay for February. Nothing at all seems to happen in February.
Food, Drink, and Lodging
Secular travelers are, without exception, housed within the
Old Hundred. It is... fine. It's a perfectly adequate facsimile of what one might call a "real town," if one were feeling less-than-charitable towards one's holy hosts. The young nuns at the little almost-cafés work quite hard, to be sure, and charge quite reasonable prices, giving all but the necessary cost of materials as alms for the greater Scaladosian poor. Quite fastidious with this, they are! As an experiment, I slid a few
Kingdom crowns into the palms of several young busboys and hostesses. Without fail, I saw them deposit the gold in the alms box rather than pocket it for themselves. They looked as though they could have used a bit of fun with the money, to be frank—but that's neither here nor there.
(Editor's note: Mr. Jaunt was repeatedly advised against "experimenting" with his stipend from Birchbark Books, and was therefore not reimbursed for this practice. Merriweather, please see Sheryl in accounting.)
Should you find yourself missing red meat, strong liquor, or perhaps the company of a courtesan or two, you'll need to abscond to outside the walls and settle into Shadowspire. The little village has seen better days—I do wonder how many of those alms from the Old Hundred land just outside these gates—but its lone pub, The Bishop's Secret, is the very definition of serviceable. The barkeep is short-tempered and the locals are taciturn, but the roast beef is medium-rare and the Elvish whiskey is stupendously—blessedly—just as effective here as anywhere. If a bottle or three followed me back behind the walls, well... that matter is between me and the Wild Gods, isn't it?
(Editor's note: once again, we sincerely apologize for the actions of Mr. Jaunt, sober or otherwise.)
Safety
Every city has its dangers, of course, as I've noted time after time in guide after guide. It's never recommended, for instance, to go traipzing through the sewers in search of a municipally recruited gelatinous cube. But uniquely, the Citadel is not so much a city as it is an enormous monastery, with some vaguely city-like accoutrements attached. There is no thieves' guild of the Citadel, any more than there are guilds for courtesans, comedians, or butchers. The grounds are sanctified, the walls are warded—and should the capable
clerics' work not be enough, there is always the
Phalanx of the Wild. These are units of half a dozen holy warriors (two
paladins and four
monks, for the curious) who patrol the streets together, keeping a weather eye out for ne'er-do-wells. They must not have many true criminals to apprehend with their extraordinary battle skills, so they are also quite strict with regards to pranksters, layabouts, busybodies, smart alecks, japesters, and really any participant in any brand of not-entirely-sanctioned fun. There is a small prison beneath the streets—secure and quite empty—where anybody who displeases them or the other officials enough is sent to meditate on the nature of their misdeeds. Overlooking the indignity of unjust imprisonment, it's altogether not the most unpleasant place I've spent a night.
(Editor's note: ...I give up.)
Final Thoughts
For the devout among the Wild Gods' religion, there is simply no question: a pilgrimage to the Citadel of the Wild at least once in one's (likely elvishly long) life is an absolute must. For those of differing faiths, the long communal meditations and stunning shrines of quiet reflection would surely provide a beautiful place to connect with your own personal divine. But for the non-worshippers? Objectively, it's beautiful, with architectural feats surpassed by none. Subjectively, though? Bring a flask.
(Editors' note: once again, the publication of this guide does not express approval from Birchbark Books. We do not condone the words or actions of Merriweather Jaunt.)
About the Author
Merriweather Jaunt, aka "The Homesick Halfling," is the staff travel writer for Birchbark Books. He is the author of the best-selling travel guide "(The Homesick Halfling's Guide to) Cantonova." Jaunt bravely continues to travel the continent despite constantly being kidnapped by ogres.
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