Medium-sized and rather delicately boned, Sidhe, like snowflakes, are each different from the next.

While human-like in form, Sidhe's colouring may vary drastically. All colours of hair, from flamboyant blue to rich golden blonde, are represented in this race. Like their hair, their eye colour can also be dramatic. The eyes of the Sidhe are remarkable in that the pupils are comparatively large, due to their ability to see into the infrared spectrum. Individual Sidhes have various features, but the way in which the features combine creates the attractiveness for which Sidhes are famous. Perfect proportion, and exact lateral symmetry combine to give the Sidhe their surrealistic beauty.

Passionate and highly charismatic, Sidhes are natural leaders. Their noble bearing and high intelligence make them favourites in the courts of the high-born. Many Sidhes have found employment as bards and teachers to the noble houses of Lensmoor, some are sucessfull business people and crafters, while still others are skilled warriors and healers.

Born with the ability to read Runes and Write scrolls, Sidhes are traditionally a spellcasting race. They depend significantly upon their mana resources for both defense and attack. Sidhes are among Lensmoor's consititutionally weakest races, and they are especially vulnerable to the effects of iron and cold.

Rumours abound about the genetic and hometown origin of the Sidhe. Some say that they are descended from the union of Humans and Faeries. Some say that repeated raids by Antrippan slavers forced the Sidhe to flee their ruined hometown. Some say that is the reason that bands of Sidhes are scattered over the continent, and their diversity has come from this seperation. The Sidhe bards and Sidhe people themselves have many stories to tell, each, as the Sidhe, as individual as flakes of snow, yet all somehow alike, diverse songs and legends, told by a diverse people.

“Come sit by me, and listen well, for I've a tale of old to tell.
To see where you're going, you must know where you've been.
Abide, and let me set the scene.”

As is so often the case, this story of a beginning is also the story of an ending.Sidhe history begins as the lineage of the ancient Faerie King, Cernaigel, loses its hold on the Faerie Throne.

During that time, many ages ago, in the land of the ancient Faeries, the King's subjects slept with one eye open, and their hands on their sword hilts. They were growing accustomed to being awakened at any hour to run to the defense of one or another of the city walls. The Orcs were a tough race, and had ruthlessly overtaken many outlaying farms and forests. It was the leadership of King Cernaigel that made the difference, and allowed the Faeries to begin to regain the ground lost outside the perimeter of their city.

His very presence was heartening to the Faerie soldiers, and Cernaigel was not a stranger to battle. He was a fierce opponent, an execellent strategist, and a charismatic leader. More than once, he had led his armies to battle the Orcish invaders, and had triumphed.

While touring the defense posts one day, the King was involved in a minor skirmish with two stray Orcish guards. They were quickly dispatched by the King, and his youngest son, Cairthennor, a bastard child of the King's concubine. The King was the only one of his party to suffer any kind of wound, a minor scratch.He thought nothing of it.His party finished their tour of sentry posts, and returned with Cernaigel and the youngest of his two sons to the city.

King Cernaigel dined that eve in the great hall, sitting at the head of the huge oaken table, which was once more laden with the fruits of the land. The diners had eaten and drank their fill for the first time in many months. The mood was happy contentment, the fire was blazing in the hearth,and as was his custom, the heir to King Cernaigel's throne took up his lute.

Prince Cerbailliel provided entertainment that evening in the form of an ode. His composition honoured his father and the faerie soldiers who so bravely fought the Orcish horde. The King and Queen, the ministers and the guests, listened with pleasure to his soft voice and flowing words, and they remembered friends lost, and battles won. As the young heir's words trailed off , his fingers drew the images from his lute, until at last, that, too was quiet.

With a serenity he had not known since before the invasion, the King went to his chambers to sleep.

King Cernaigel awoke groggily the next morning, apparently feeling the worse for his previous night's indulgences. He sent word to his ministers that the day would continue as planned, and that he would catch up in due course.

The ministers, with Cairthennor, rode out to tour the posts and kept their eyes open for sign of the monarch. By noon he had not caught up with them and they became concerned. Cairthennor left the ministers to finish thier rounds and he returned to the castle to find the Royal Physician in a state of some distress.

In a hushed voice, the physician told young Cairthennor that the king was gravely ill. Poison was coursing through his veins and he would not live through the night unless the Lord Arawn could be persuaded to turn back the hourglass.

Cairthenorr rushed to his father's chamber, and there was Cerbailliel, collapsed by the King's side, weeping openly. Cairthennor strode to his father, and saw the grey pallor of the old King's skin, and the clammy sweat standing out on his proud brow. He drew his half brother away, supporting him fully, and sat him on a chair at the foot of the bed.He whispered hoarsely in the Prince's ear, “Brother.Do you think this behaviour appropriate? The man is not dead, yet you mourn him as a girl mourns the loss of her mother. There are things to be done, sacrifices to be made.It may not be too late. Pull yourself together.You will sit in his place sooner if you do nothing to help him now.”

Nodding slowly, and drawing his silken sleeve across his eyes, the prince stood shakily and said, “Aye, You are right. I must go and think. I feel the need to write of this terrible turn. I must do something-an ode, perhaps. Yes, he always liked my odes, perhaps that will cheer him and bring him around.”

Muttering about sending for inks and parchments, Cerbailliel walked slowly, head low, out the door, and to his own chambers.

Enraged at his brother's behaviour, Cairthennor turned on his heel, and flew out in a fury to find the ministers.

Seeing the red anger on Cairthennor's face, the ministers found a quiet area apart from the soldiers whom they had been inspecting. They urged young Caithennor to tell what his mind said, and were shocked by the news of the king, and the subsequent inaction of the Prince. Many thoughts ran through their minds, as Cairthennor began to tell each man what he was to do. One, he sent to make ready the appropriate sacrifices to attempt the appease the Lord of Death, two were sent to discretely make arrangements for a funeral. Nothing would be left to chance, all eventualities were to be prepared for. The remaining ministers were told to continue along with Cairthennor, as he would complete the rounds of inspection to ensure that the sentries had what they needed to hold their positions.

His command was followed as naturally as if his father had ordered these things done. The ministers set off in all directions, glad for the busy work, and the feeling of having something to contribute.

Afternoon drew to a close and the ministers met at the castle to discuss their progress. They spoke in hushed tones of Cairthennor's commanding presence, and his quick and thorough appraisal of the entire situation. While they thought of his fast action, they could not help but comment on Prince Cerbailliel's lack thereof. They began to discuss the hard fought battles, and tried in vain to imagine Prince Cerbailliel instilling hope and courage in the Faerie army.

“…will be off writing odes while the Orcs retake the farmland…” “…soldiers will never fight for a weeping fop…” “…doomed if the king dies…” “…doing all to ensure his recovery…” “…a shame that the younger son is not Heir…”

The minsters stopped short and looked each at the other.They shook thier heads vehemently and swore an oath that they would forget that last comment.

In the depths of a shadowy doorway, Cairthenorr smiled to himself.

The torches were just being lit in the sconces as Cairthennor climbed the stone stair to Cerbailliel's chamber. He rapped once, and the door swung open, revealing the Prince, tears and ink staining his cheeks, writing furiously on a parchment.

“Brother,” Cairthennor said softly, “we must go to the forest, and make a sacrifice. It must be something fitting. What will you offer up?” Cerbailliel peered tearfully at his brother, at first not comprehending Cairthennor's words.

“Oh… yes,” he nodded at Cairthennor slowly, dabbing at his eyes with a lace handkerchief, “I suppose I will sacrifice my writing, this latest ode. It has my heart in it.”

Cerbailliel arose slowly and gently rolled the parchment, tucking it into his shirt. “It is incomplete, but that is somehow fitting, for to complete the tale of a man's life, one must write of his death,” the heir's voice was soft and low, and grew softer still, “and if our sacrifices are acceptable, there will be no need for this. Lead the way, brother.”

With those words, the Prince took up his cloak and followed Cairthennor out of the castle and past the gates.

The two glided silently into the lengthening shadows, and snuck past the Orc encampment. They travelled steadily through the dusk and by evening they were well into a birch forest.The full moon was just peeking over the treetops.She cast her shimmering light upon their bark, and the forest seemed lit from within.

There are places of high magic in the lands.Some special sites are the homes of giant and powerful trees, others are magical springs, and a few are enchanted stones.For those who know the lore, and understand where to look, many charmed areas exist.The brothers flew quietly and quickly to the edge of a small mossy glade deep within the forest of pale-skinned trees. A pinkish ring of toadstools gleamed in its centre.The silvery moonlight and pinkish glow cast an etherial luminescence over the soft green of the moss.The brothers paused at the edge of the trees, hesitant to disrupt the peaceful beauty of the glade.

After a moment, the two stepped in unison to the velvet moss. Cairthennor stood by as Cerbailliel entered the Faerie Ring. Kneeling, the Prince withdrew the parchment from the safety of his shirt, and placed it on the ground before him. Closing his eyes, holding his hands above his treasured work, Cerbailliel began a prayer to Matthias to heal his father. The Prince's hands moved fluidly over the scrolled parchment, and slowly its edges began to darken.

As the slow curls of blue smoke arose from within the circle, Cairthennor fingered the Orcish dagger at his side. Hadn't he been the one to ride out daily with his father to review the troops? Hadn't he been the one to spring to action when needed? Hadn't he proved that the ministers would follow his command? He thought of the Prince, reciting his odes as Cairthennor had nursed wounds and bruises and struggled to stay awake out of politeness. He thought of the look of distaste he had seen on Cerbailliel's face when he had encountered the bloody reality of the aftermath of battle. Cairthennor kindled his ire with thoughts of the Prince's tear streaked face, and his utter lack of fortitude.He grasped the dagger firmly and stepped into the ring.

The shock and fear on the Prince's face set Cairthennor's temper flaring. He struck hard to Cerbailliel's chest, and watched the blood run from his mouth. The Prince's body shook violently as he slumped forward. Cairthennor had to move quickly. He struggled to turn the fast dying Prince. As he began the incantation to proffer his brother to Arawn, Cairthennor's actions were disturbed by the sound of a hunting party stopping close by. He let Cerbailliel's inert form slip to the grass and he disappeared into the trees.

By now, the full moon had risen to almost her full height in the night sky, and Cairthennor was thinking fast. The sounds of the huntsmen under the full moon were still clear and close. Cairthennor could not risk being caught, and if he waited for one minute longer, he would only have a corpse left to offer the God of Death. His attempt to buy back the life of his father with the soul of his brother had failed.

Leaving the Prince's body in the middle of the faerie ring, Caithennor started back to the castle. On the outskirts of the line of fearie sentries, he used the knife on himself, inflicting a gash to his own forearm, and a stab to his left thigh. Limping to the nearest post, he called for the sentries to scout the area for the Orcish patrol who had attacked him and killed Prince Cerbailliel.

Cairthennor's eyes filled with tears when he told the Queen and the ministers about how the two brothers had stumbled upon the Orcs as they were on their way to pray at the ancient oak. The ministers listened intently, heads bowed, and offered their condolences to the Queen.

The magic of moonlight should never be underestimated. The moon, at the height of her travels, looked in upon the fevered form of King Cernaigel, and bathed his body in her silvery aura. His small movements cast shadows on the pale bedclothes, as he mouthed, “Lady, grant me one last bit of magick between earth and the afterworld, and I will give you my spirit to do your bidding”. She seemed to glow brighter, then. Cernaigel could not keep his eyes open for her intensity.

At the instant that he was finally free of his body, the King's spirit raced to enfuse his skills and leadership into his beloved son, Cerabailliel. He flew at lightening speed. He found his firstborn, laying bloodied within the Faerie Circle.In an instant, the King understood what had come to pass in this spot. Enraged at the sight of Cerbailliel's ghost half risen out of a dying body, Cernaigel's anguished spirit cursed his younger son with a curse that would last forever. The immortal world rang resoundingly with these words, “Let the children of Cairthennor and all of his line forever be set apart, and be Faerie no more.”

Summoning her acolyte, the Silvery Lady resumed her journey to the far horizon.

“The scene is set, a curse is cast,
t'is but a portion of our past.
A second tale must needs be told.
The Sidhe lineage to unfold.”

This information rescued from the Wayback Machine's archive of lensmoor.org/races/sidhe.html by Electra. Original author unknown.