Valshea knit her fingers together and looked to the roof. She whispered in Sylvan.
“Corellon. Our creator. Your people have dwindled. They light the forests still, but so many fewer glades and groves than in ages past. You know that my mother died in the Hateful wars and my father has sailed east to join you and his other kinsfolk. Most of us, your children, cut themselves off in the deepest forests of Celene. But I have not. I sought to spread your light, your music, your art among all and craft newer and better understandings of the universe so that it would please you.
But I have fallen into hard times. I chose it, too, Creator. I was captured by slavers and ransomed back for all my lands. I had nothing. I swore to destroy them so that they could not enslave anyone else. I have other with me. Na’Pungu. Gerbo. Even Ander. He doubts, Creator, but he has the best heart of us all.
We need your help, Creator. You taught us to sing, dance and create Art. But you also taught us warfare the likes of which no other race on Oerth has seen. I serve you unto death, Creator. if you would see us succeed we could use at touch of grace, O Lord of Forests. Runner. Archer. Trickster. Always Changing. Laughing. If ever we need you, we need you now."