Gather around, all you who wish to hear of their beloved steed's story. One overlooked by the common men of Roscrea, and uncared for by the barbaric orks and arks of Malatata. I tell you the tale of Father Eagle, and his legend.
It was in Fellowind, high above the clouds and in the land of the sister continent of Wold, the mysterious land of Kalasier. There, upon mountain peaks did the Griffyels stretch their wings to their fullest, and their song was the wind of the air.
That is when the Horrible came. He had no name, no other quality, no other identity. He was simply named and known as Horrible. He came from the north with hated and malice in his wings. His deceptive words were so many that he had three heads in order to speak them all.
It took only six months for his reign to be cemented, and many of our brothers and sisters to be taken under his black wings. One Gryffel however, would not take such tyranny. The mighest of them all looked to see the Horrible fly among the peaks, exclaiming his brillance and majesty to all the low-lying gryffels. "Look and fear at my wings!" One head would say. "Watch as I bear my teeth, sharper that swords!" another would scream. "My hide is tougher than any there is!" The last would belch.
Father Eagle would take no more. He flew into the air, his wings at their maximum, and met the Horrible in the sky. Many say it was his simple words that angered the Horrible more than his defiance; "Slay you." The battle in the heavens raged on, fire and flood filling the sky. The three heads of the Horrible all acting different from one another. One would bite, one would cast, and the center would simply laugh. The feathers from Father Eagle would gently fall on the gryffels below, those that had the great feathers land on them being blessed, and their offspring the Grydi.
The Gryffels watched below the clouds, watching their magic and screams fill the sky. Who knows how long such a battle took? To some, it felt as if seconds, to others, a day. Suddenly through the grey clouds the Horrible fell, not dead, but wounded. Only moments after did Father Eagle drop down at an unbelievable speed, and swoop a great many gryffels in his clutch, as many as he could carry. The Horrible then began to ascend again with newfound rage and fury. It was then when Father Eagle took flight and flew north, his clutch full and his body wounded.
Months after months passed, yet no respite came for Father Eagle. He slew great monsters of the sea to feed his clutch, their bones rattling between his claws. Land would soon appear on the horizon, but the wounds of Father Eagle were too much to bear. He would begin to descend in flight and it came to be after he had cleared Hel-Krah that he would begin to loose his claws, and the bones, gryffels and grydi, and they would spread across Evermist. This, my fellow elven brothers and sisters, is where we fall into our steed's story.
Finding these lost and scared animals in our fields and countryside's, we initially greeted each other as hostile, but the wise among us began to tame the great creatures and even ride them. Master riders were created through training, including myself, and their new home was established in Evermist's skies, although their hurt pride and their intention not to harm us has kept them from opening their wings to their maximum.
As for Father Eagle, some say they saw the great bird soar through the sky one last time, letting loose his wings and screeching one last time before landing at the island of Eagle's Rest in the Realm of Goras, where he grasps at death's door to this year.
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