"not fucxking agains"
-Mark
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| Prelude/Chapter 1 | | | Author: | | | IP: | ip68-230XXXX | | Date: | 10/10/04 09:10 | | Game Type: | Other | | Labels: | none | | Report Rating: , # of Ratings: 0, Max: , Min:
Lifetime Rating for Keanu_Reaver: 7.9200 | |
Hello! Welcome back to the story I had begun about a year ago and just now decided to start up again. It's been a fun year, unfortunately that year hasn't included me actually sitting down and working on my story, but with a few lifestyle changes I've found myself with far more time to do other things. I contemplated whether I should post new chapters or simply repost the whole thing, but since it's been so long, I'm going to repost the whole thing and simply not get any ratings. I'll post chapters in blocks of 2 once every 2 weeks or so (with the next two chapters probably coming in the next few days, as they've already been posted), so sit back and enjoy! Oh yes, and this isn't a fanfic!
Prelude
History of the World
Ahhh yes...has it truly been so long? Three thousand one hundred and twenty three years since that time. And what a time indeed, a time of chaos materialized, of hedonism manifested in evil.
An evil of their own making, an evil which feeds not on flesh and bone, but on apathy and worry, upon bravery and fear, upon misanthropy and philanthropy alike. The very core qualities of mankind manifested before them as nightmarish demons, and bore themselves into the hearts of the hedonistic peoples, leaving chaos and destruction in their wake.
For half a century did the Humans try to quell this threat, but it was not to be. So long as humans lived and breathed, these demons would roam the earth without pity or remorse. The more the distraught Humans attempted to fight back, the more vicious each blow from the demons was. Cities lie in ruins, dead stacked upon dead, and bloodied spears and swords lifeless on the ground were the only witness to the devastating battles; battles in which the ground drank of human blood, not of demons, for the demons were indestructable.
But the resolution of Humankind was not to be denied. In a desperate attempt at survival, the Humans, like cockroaches, burrowed into the deep places of the world, leaving the demons free to roam the earth. But the demons could not roam, for they were hungry, and there was nothing to feast upon, and soon they began to dwindle.
Aeons passed and the world witnessed the demons no longer thirst for Human idiosyncrasy but rather for meat off the bone, and fruit from the vine. With the loss of the demons hunger, so too did they lose their power and fear, and they soon became the various races spread upon this world. The Humans arose from their slumber to see many new sentient beings inhabiting their world, some not much unlike themselves and others resembling a monstrous hybrid of many different animals, all sharing the same space, and all with their own names: the knowledge seeking Elves, the stout Dwarves, the war-mongering Orcs, the sly Goblins, the fearsome Gramn, and the four-armed Draegan. They began interacting with eachother, and a false calm spread throughout the world as whispers of progress gained momentum.
But this was not to be, the demons bodies may have taken new shapes but their malevolence remained. The Elves and Dwarves cast away their former misanthropy in pursuit of other stimulants, but the others did not. Once again the world was cast into war, and from there it lasted many a century.
Only from the blood of a martyr did this world once again see peace. A young, but wise, Human sought to end the strife, he banded together with creatures of all races who sought peace as well. His journey was rough but his message clear: he realized in his small life what countless people in an innumerable amount of years had yet to see. He called those at war to throw down their prejudism and pick up their pitchforks instead, to understand that peace would not be discovered at the tip of a sword or the blade of an axe, but at the trusting of those unlike themselves.
His message became religion, and his religion soon gained an unstoppable momentum. Humans began to combat warry Orc warriors with bushels of grain and a cozy bed to sleep, instead of with swords of their own. Once again, peace was within this worlds grasp, but once again, wickedness would endure. In a moment of naive trust, he knelt down to assist an injured goblin archer, only to taste cold and bitter steel for the first, and the last, time.
He spat up blood, feeling the cold steel head of the arrow lodged deep in his throat, and wearily looked over to his oncoming followers. His eyes slowly welled up with blood and tears alike over his followers show of aggression. In one last act of benevolence, he rolled over upon the injured Goblin archer, enduring his own followers spears and swords to protect the Goblin. His journey was now over.
Little did he know, though, that he would accomplish in death what he had so desperately tried in life. Rumor of his deeds grew into legend, and these legends made him a hero in the eyes of the masses. People of all races traveled far and wide to revel in the glory of his actions in one of his temples, or to pay homage for the sacrifices he made for the love of all. He became much more than a human revolutionary, he became a symbol of peace for the people, and he was cherished for it.
Even many of the pompous Elves had an ingrown love for his deeds, which led to a revolution in the great city Mystenwillow, tearing the noble race asunder. But those would be the last swords drawn as the world once again felt true peace between the many races.
But once again, this would prove a false peace. One day great crags began opening up, ripping lands apart, and the world began to quiver violently as a new shadow loomed ahead, a shadow that would tear the very fabric of the world itself apart. Swords were once again drawn and bows strung. A shadow of fear and doubt began clouding the minds of the peoples of this world as battles began to break out once again. Some say the world missed the taste of blood; others say contentment is the enemy of wickedness, and wickedness saw to it to strike back; and still others say the demons of old had awaken and once again seek to feast upon the emotions of humans.
But they were all wrong, for there was to be a new race amongst the people. A race that not only feasted upon, but required the flesh of the others for their progress, for this race was of beings neither living nor dead. Soon, rumors of the dead walking began to circulate amongst the people, the terror of these rumors only led to more bloodshed, and this bloodshed led to more ghastly and horrific rumors.
After many years of bloodshed, the sentient races finally realized the error of their ways, but it was too late. The vultures will go hungry for the time being, for the races of the world found themselves in strife, and being invaded by an army of its own.
Birth of the Night-Elves
Their perception was unclear, however, as the nations did not view this shadow looming overhead to be a formidable adversary. No, they saw it as much less; a token matter, a few malevolent wizards playing pranks on the masses. But this belief would, infact, prove to be a dim ray of light, as a new breed of sorcerer emerged.
Necromancers, the name itself invokes fear into even the most stalwart knight. Evil sorcerers who invoke the power of the shadows to cast their dire spells upon both the living and the dead. These wizards will stop at nothing to create the dark and dismal world they have given their lives too.
The emergance of these wizards first came into being in various small villages, usually of human populace. The reasoning was as clear as their ghastly motives; what better way to invoke demons and shadows then against their most tasty treat, the souls of humans. The villagers in these doomed towns soon were introduced to the most vile and gruesome of circumstances; the lucky ones died, for the ones who lived would meet a fate far worse than death.
Still, hatred burned as a bright amber flame in the hearts of the people, and despite the knowledge of the oncoming shadow, they could not find pity for the other peoples unlike themselves. Each nation blamed the other for the onset of the walking death, and each nation saw themselves as the beacon of hope for the world to quell the threat of this new shadow. Thus, war continued on, fueled by hatred and ignorance, its ferocity boiled to the very core of each nations society.
An exception did occur, though, in the most unlikely of places. The Elves have always thought themselves to be smarter--and thusly greater--than all other races, but after the martyr of the christ, a group of Elves cast away their pride in search of unbiased wisdom. But in Elf culture, diffiring from the council would be met with severe retribution, so in return for their new ideals, they were exiled in a great revolution. This group soon became known as the Night Elves to most, Shadowmen to others, and many other countless names still, and into the deepest and darkest parts of the forest they took up residence.
These Night Elves maintained the belief that war would only cause the atrophy of the world, and that the true enemy of the free world was this new shadow. They painstakingly took steps to attempt to find any possible means of injuring this new foe, but these steps were taken at a great price. The Goblins began to take heed of the Night Elf temples erected in what was to be their parts of the forest, this angered the green-skinned creatures.
The Goblins have always been a conniving and under-handed race, so they decided upon subterfuge over raw battle for the time being. For a great many a year did the Goblins poison the minds of the other races against the Night Elves, and soon, the Night Elves found themselves with not one, but many adversaries thirsting for their blood.
But the Night Elves proved to be a very difficult adversary to defeat, for in their extensive training, they had mastered the ability to blend with the shadows. Thus, even though the combined races had merged into an immense army directed into the very heart of the Night Elves in the Shadow Forest, they could not navigate through the dank and dismal terrain and were soon thrust into confusion and disarray. This disarray led to fear, and this fear caused the very fabric of reality to distort amongst the ranks of the powerful army. Before this army finally escaped the horrors of the Shadow Forest, they had lost countless brave warriors to their own spears and swords.
But sadly, this victory proved to be bitter-sweet for the Night Elves, as the inevitable occured. Tales of the horrors of the Shadow Forest stretched far and wide, and each time spoken, the Night Elves grew more ghastly. Soon, Night Elves and the living dead became one in the same in the eyes of the people, and this, of course, became an unmovable bulwark against the Night Elves in their hopes of stopping the true shadow. They could not even show themselves to any other race in any other town for fear of their own life being taken in blind rage.
Thus, the Night Elves began losing all hope, but in all their unorthodox wisdom they could have never foresaw what would become of the shadow. For the hope of this world shall not be in the power of a giant army, but in the hands of a single righteous warrior.
Chapter 1: Dark Omen
Boom! The deafening sounds of the Goblin war machines were unmistakable. And incredibly powerful.
Zacharim Meridial awoke to the sounds of those war machines blasting holes in his beautiful city of Padorim. The Night Elves were far from unprepared though, as the shadows told them of the Goblin force moving against them. The bustle of Night Elf warriors re-enforcing the various sections of the town easily reached the ears of Zacharim, lying listlessly on his bed.
Zacharim got up slowly and stretched his tall frame--still trying to recuperate from an uneasy nights sleep--then quickly slipped his favorite dark green robe on, complete with a large hood to keep his long flowing hair down. Being only seven, he was not told of the oncoming battle as he still had a year to go before he had reached maturity, a fact he cursed every moment those abominable war machines blasted a little bit more of his beautiful city to ash.
He would not roll over this time, though, as he knew his brother Jarius was out there fighting and could use another sword on the battle field. He swiftly leaped down from the top of the tree-house, lying precariously at the top of an average sized pine, which was the extent of his and his brother’s house, and crept along the other various tree houses, making sure not to be noticed.
BOOM! The blast was deafening, and close enough to feel. Zacharim tilted his head up and caught sight of a beautiful tree house ablaze. He gasped and felt his knees weaken at the joint as the once magnificent tree house collapsed under its foundation and crashed, like a great fireball, only inches from the terror-stricken Night Elf boy.
His heart raced deep inside his panicked chest, as ash from the mangled tree house spewed out in a black cloud and covered his still distorted face. Though the black cloud rendered it almost impossible to see, the sharp crackle of the embers and the terribly asphyxiating odor of the burnt wood was more than enough to create a vivid image of destruction in Zacharim's mind.
Wiping the ash from his face, he looked over to where the blast originated, only to see a mass of green and pale-white skin; the two forces had finally clashed. The sea of warriors were almost impossible to distinguish as both pale white and green blended together in conflict, with only dark red being the common ground. The archers, on the other hand, were easily distinguished, a barrage of deadly wooden arrows from the invading Goblin's poured in from behind the mass of death; whereas, the Night Elf archers hid under the concealment of the many trees of the forest to fire their equally fatal arrows. But the Goblin war machines were the trump card, the catapults already having displayed their strength in the form of bloody and mangled Night Elf--and Goblin--carcases scattered about the forest floor, and the great ballista's firing giant bolts that split tree's in half.
Feeling strength returning to him, Zacharim rushed by the blaze and darted over to a giant, hollowed-out old willow just out of range of the hail of arrows. He jumped up the sturdy base of the trunk and climbed his way to the top, before allowing himself to fall through the cracks and into the willow itself.
There laid a plethora of iron weaponry of Night Elf design; swords, bows, spears, quivers full of arrows, and even a few throwing hatchets were on display. Because of the other races hostility towards the race of Night Elves and the lack of iron in their forest, most of their iron came at a steep price from black-market traders; thus all weaponry was considered extremely valuable and off-limits to anyone. Zacharim did not care, though, all he cared about was his brother and the horrors he was enduring.
Although Zacharim trained mainly in political affairs, he was also fairly adept with spears and bows. Realizing his effectiveness would be maximized at range against those devastating war machines, he hastily picked up five throwing spears that stood one and a half times his height, and a single oak bow with two quivers full of arrows, and began a strenuous climb to the very top of the giant willow.
The willows branches were very sturdy and made for a relatively easy climb, but navigating those branches was like navigating a maze; thousands of branches criss-crossing together going in all directions. Zacharim kept himself relaxed as he slowly made his way through the twisted inner body of the willow, taking notice of the archers already mounted on the various archers posts (five planks of wood tied to a branch was the extent of these posts). He intently studied the faces of these archers as he ascended the tree, easily detecting their stern look as they whole-heartedly concentrated on their next target. Smiling slightly to himself at their zeal, he stretched his hand up to grab ahold of another branch when it fell upon an empty archers post. This was the upper most post of this great willow, and Zacharim hopped up on it without delay.
Looking down upon the battle, he saw what he had feared most. The powerful war machines had taken a large toll on the Night Elf defenders as great craters were blown into the landscape around their feet, killing many, and giving the Goblin invaders the momentum they needed to push the defenders into their own city. Zacharim solemnly laid down the bow, the quivers, and all five spears; then picked up a single spear and anxiously searched for a suitable target.
His eyes darted all around the landscape, growing increasingly frantic with each unacceptable target, until finally his eyes rested upon a catapult. This wooden catapult had been blowing holes in the defense of the Night Elves for some time now, and the Goblin caretakers were already reloading it for another devastating blast on the weakening army. Zacharim held the spear in one hand, and stuck his other hand out in front of him to balance his throw. He inhaled calmly and then solemnly exhaled all his nervousness, and in one whip of his body, the spear arched from his hand and was sent soaring towards the wooden behemoth.
Zacharim stumbled forward slightly, due to the momentum of the spear, but soon gained his balance and looked on with hope. The spear whistled as it cut through the air towards its target, but the Goblin caretakers had yet to take notice as they tiredly loaded the obviously heavy explosive charge into the mouth of the catapult. After loading, one of the Goblin caretakers caught sight of the spear and let out a shrill cry. But it was for naught, as the spear plummeted through the Goblin's cry and crashed into the explosive charge.
Zacharim triumphantly threw his fists into the air as the catapult exploded in a fiery blaze. The Goblin care-takers who hadn't died in the explosion looked on with terror and soon fled the battlefield, but the explosion did not seem to affect the other Goblin invaders as they fought with the same unorthodox tenacity that has never been a characteristic of Goblins. Realizing his victory celebration was costing him valuable seconds; Zacharim knelt down to pick up another spear, but stopped, on one knee, as something very interesting caught his keen eye.
The forest appeared to be moving behind the mass, and was approaching it rather quickly. Zacharim's questioning look soon turned into a look of joy as a horde of Night Elves unveiled themselves from beneath the shadows on the Goblins flank, with his older brother leading the charge. He jumped up tall and again threw his fist into the air as his brother, and the warriors with him, crashed into the Goblin flank, sending the vile warriors sprawling.
The battle went quickly, as the Goblins were left devastated by the superior tactical expertise of the Night Elves. Nevertheless, the Goblin warriors went against the grain and showed absolutely no signs of retreat; not until the very last of their kind was slain did the Goblins attack end. Zacharim spent much of the battle watching in wonderment at their unorthodox voraciousness, he never thought of Goblins as dim-witted and stubborn but this was questioning his belief.
After the battle had ended, and the injured taken to the various female healers to be healed, Zacharim retired to his one-room home. His tree house wasn’t well kept at all as both him and his brother were orphaned at a much younger age (though this comes as no dire consequence, as many Night Elf children are orphaned from the frequent sieges on their city). He knew where the essentials were, and that’s all that mattered; a medical brew resting inside a cutout of one of the various sturdy limbs of the tree, lest he should be injured in the next siege; a few scattered garments strewn all about the house, making even going to bed a daunting task; and of course, his bed, made up of ever-green leaves and pine needles wrapped in a worn white cloth and placed opposite the entrance to the house, alongside his brothers bed.
He waded through the clothing and collapsed on his bed in exhaustion, hardly noticing the annoying prick of the pine needles, with the sounds of the hideous war machines still echoing through his mind. Sifting through the millions of thoughts racing through his weary head, he couldn't help but think about the Goblin's odd style of battle. They had no fear--or perhaps their fear had already been spent--making them seem almost suicidal; and as confusing as it might seem, not a single tactic or strategy was employed, not even a Goblin commander graced the battlefield.
His thoughts were soon interrupted as his brother clumsily trotted in. Though his brother was five years his senior, he was only half a head taller than him and shared the same lanky figure, though his hair was much shorter. Both had light green hair and pale blue eyes, along with the pale skin that was accustomed to all Night Elves.
"Jarius..." Zacharim started, still attempting to recover from his myriad of cryptic thoughts, while also soaking in his brother’s battle worn look.
"Don't let my looks deceive you, little brother, this battle was rather easy," Jarius responded, noticing his own blood soaked clothes and his heaving chest. "I saw you throw that spear, and I am sure Chief Byrtum knows of it as well, expect harsh consequence."
"I felt I had to do something..."
"You are young Zach! Save your innocence while you still can!" Jarius cried out, holding out his arms as if to act as a barrier against Zacharim's loss of innocence.
"You have talked to the chief, haven't you!" Zacharim retorted, with a calm, wry smile. Jarius' couldn't help but grin and let his arms fall to his sides, realizing his little brother had caught him. "I knew it! That's exactly what the chief would say, you need to be more original Jarius."
"Well the chief still wants to see you, you should not keep him waiting."
Jarius chuckled slightly then collapsed onto his bed, while Zacharim hastily got up and made his way out of the tree house without another word said. Upon exiting, the sight of the city amazed him; had he not been an eyewitness to the morning battle, he would not have known there was one at all! The city had been nearly completely cleaned up, save for the occasional scrap of wood and wisp of ash.
Zacharim allowed his mind to travel as he took his first few steps into the dark landscape of the city, still having yet to completely absorb all of the days happenings. Each step took him on another journey, a journey through his imagination, where everything and nothing made sense all at once. He had a lot to imagine, too, as his ingrown intuition told him of a deeper, more cryptic meaning behind the mornings dealings.
The loathsome glares of the town’s folk soon imprisoned him back in reality, making him realize he was running late. Although Padorim is a fairly decent sized town, word travels quickly amongst its people, and surely, they gained heed of the insubordinate actions Zacharim took that morning. This worried Zacharim, wondering if the chief would put into words the angry faces of these people. This began weighing heavily on his mind, as the chief has never been known to be an exceptionally kind man.
Brushing that thought out of his mind (or putting it in a more suitable place), he let his chin sink down to his chest while speeding up his walk, hoping to cut through the stares as quick as he could. This was not made too difficult for the chief’s house was rather close, lying in the middle of the town (so as to be difficult to target to destroy, even by the deadly Goblin war machines).
Zacharim arrived amazingly quick, in a nervous jog. A small drop of sweat had formed on his forehead but he was quick to wipe it away as he turned his head up towards the massive tree house. The chiefs house served as both a meeting place and shelter, along with being his home. The tree that acted as its foundation was huge, its branches were very lush and full of life (even though the tree is well over five centuries old) and stretched out far from its trunk. The house itself took up much of the space, and was very well built (though the greater extent of the house was taken up by the massive meeting room). This again roused Zacharim's fear as he looked at the menacing trunk ladder leading to the meeting room. The chief was sure to scold him, he knew this much, but he could not help but wonder how harshly, he wondered if the chief would even show any signs of empathy at all!
He slowly gulped down as much anxiety as he could as he felt more tiny droplets of perspiration building up on his forehead. He took his first step very slowly, half contemplating just running away and never seeing the chief; but this thought would not gain providence as the chief was somehow aware of Zacharim's presence. "Come, lad, throw your anxiety away and be brave," Chief Byrtum’s words were easily heard in Zacharim's mind, as if he had a psychic link.
Fear again lodged itself in Zacharim's throat as he jumped up the trunk and into the meeting room, where the chief was standing. The meeting room itself was very large and wide-open, with only the Chief's great chair and desk near the back of the room, along with the one seat made for Zacharim to sit on near the front of the room, adorning it. The Chief had his back turned to the Night Elf boy and was looking intently through one of his many bookshelves. "Sit young one, you and I must have a talk," Byrtum said, again showing that uncanny third eye to detect Zacharim's presence.
Zacharim spoke not a word as he took his seat on a solid oak chair near the entrance to the meeting room. Chief Byrtum calmly pulled a very old book out of the bookshelf and sat in his large, throne-like, oak chair, calmly placing the ancient tome down on his solid oak desk and opening it up; still not once making eye contact with the Night Elf boy.
Despite being very old and frail, Chief Byrtum's mind is as sharp as the finest saber, and because of this, he is the most respected and reveared Night Elf in Padorim. His body is covered in scars from the countless battles he's been in, and even the tips of his fingers have scorch marks from failed spells. Because of this, and the pain he has to endure simply by walking, he has become some-what of a recluse. But this has not stopped the towns folk, as he recieves visits from many people each day.
"I do believe you know what I would say, as I am sure your brother has already told you," Byrtum said in a very slow yet booming voice, while flipping through the tattered pages of the visibly old book.
"Yes...I know I must hold on to my innocence but..." Zacharim started, crossing his hands in his lap, but was soon interrupted by the aged chief.
"This needs not be beaten into the ground any more then it already has, for far more pressing matters are at hand," Byrtum said, finally locking his old but very wise eyes with the eyes of Zacharim.
Zacharim sat speechless, this was the last thing he expected to hear from the chief. He studied the chief’s eyes intently, but despite his best struggles, he had not a single guess as to his motives.
"You are a very intelligent boy, I have seen this many times; think, for a moment, think of the days happenings, of the mysterious motives of the Goblins, tell me what you see in your mind!" Byrtum cried out, almost slamming the book down on the desk.
"I...I don't know..." Zacharim said, gripping the arms of the chair, completely stunned by the words of the chief.
Byrtum's face calmed once again as he resumed flipping through his book, "you are young, and it is showing, but you mustn't be afraid...save your fear for what lies ahead." Byrtum's cryptic words now gained much precedence in Zacharim's mind, shown visibly as Zacharim tilted his head down contemplating the chief's words.
"The Goblins...they were not normal...they seemed so much more tenacious then usual, as if possessed.".
"Tenacity? Perhaps...or perhaps it was terror..." Byrtum said, hoping -- and succeeding -- to spark more thought out of Zacharim.
"What do you mean?" Zacharim shot his head back up and locked eyes with the chief once more.
A slight smile crossed the chief’s face, but soon retreated into Zacharim's memory, "I hear many things...the soft melody of a lark, gliding on a wisp of wind...but today is different, today the forest has gone silent. My age tells me of how the Goblin force had a drastically un-proportionate war machine to warrior ratio…and how they fought with an unorthodox tenacity that can only be explained by terror to the point of dementia...But my wisdom tells me of something far graver..."
"Yes?" Zacharim replied, leaning forward slightly to soak up the chief’s words.
Byrtum held the book up, as if to bring extra attention to it, but still continued flipping through its wrinkled and tattered pages, "Zacharim, this book was written over five centuries ago, before this great tree grew roots, at the time of the Great War, when the Goblins sought to destroy our entire race. This book does not tell of the Great War, though, it tells of the great shadow that our forefathers had the insight to see," Byrtum paused for a very brief moment, before arriving at his desired page in the book. "Ah yes...the great shadow, those who escaped had an unmistakable look in their eyes...I had never seen this look in all of my three-hundred and forty one years, but today I saw it...and this worries me far more then any size Goblin force."
"They did seem un-natural...I do not know, though, what of this shadow?"
"The knowledge and wisdom this book contains is vital. I have read it countless times, but one theme has found home in my mind. You see, the evil necromancers, who control this great shadow, have never had the power to control a large enough army of their undead flesh eaters to do any serious damage to the world..." Zacharim could faintly see fear sparking in Byrtum's eyes.
Zacharim's pupil’s dilated as he spaced out, his minds eye taking him back to the mornings happenings, image through each vivid image. "I think I understand...the Goblins were crushed by a force much more powerful than their own, before they hit our village..."
Byrtum's eyes radiated; almost, for a second, losing his fear to pride for this young Night Elf, "you are indeed intelligent, young lad! However, this bears global consequence. You see, this page explains of how these necromancers knew of their own weakness, and of a way to remedy it...a way to create the perfect army!" Byrtum paused and let out a loud sigh before continuing, "by harnessing the power of the ancient demons, they would have limitless power to control as many undead creatures as their black hearts desired."
A cold, ominous silence filled the room. Zacharim could only stare at Byrtum, unable to control the whirlwind of thoughts ravaging his young mind.
"Perhaps the destruction of the Goblin force could be explained by a group of necromancers banded together, but I am afraid this is only wishful thinking, for necromancers are few and far between."
Zacharim's eyebrows curled down and a cold hard look made itself visible, directed at the elderly chief. His palms dripped of sweat, still gripping the arms of the chair tightly, as his body transfixed itself to his chair. "What does this have to do with me?!"
Byrtum frowned at this display of anger, but he expected nothing less out of such a passionate young Night Elf. He slowly leaned forward, as if to whisper across the room to Zacharim, before finally speaking. "This has everything to do with you, and everyone else who breathes the air of this world and wishes to continue living! We must prepare! For the Undead hordes will not rest, so long as there is living meat to feast upon they shall never rest!"
Zacharim's body relaxed slightly, though his mind did not. He stared deep into the soul of the aged chief, wondering if this would thrust him into adulthood or if...perhaps...Byrtum had a deeper and much darker secret he was hiding from the young Night Elf.
Byrtum sat back in his chair, relaxing his body and face to its usual cold exterior, "You are small, and haven't trained in the arts of war, so you are of little use to us in defense." Byrtum continued, displaying words just as harsh as the expression on his face, "But you can still assist Padorim, for your size, intelligence, and intuition are perfect for reconnaissance. These forests have already been over-run by the undead hordes, the silence has told me of this, but they could very well be masking Goblin survivors, and these survivors may be able to give us priceless information." Byrtum again paused, his cold expression turning to one of compassion before continuing, "You have made an early jump into adulthood Zacharim, take care."
With a quick wave of his hand, Byrtum motioned Zacharim out; an order in which Zacharim was more then happy to oblige. He quickly leapt out of the tree-house and landed gracefully on the verdant forest floor; while Byrtum retired to his personal room to study more deeply into the ancient tome.
Zacharim slowly stood up and tilted his head up, allowing his gaze to ascend over the city and into the forest. In his morbid astonishment, he saw just as Byrtum told, the forest was living...yet dead, as if the very spirit of life had been ruthlessly sucked from the trees, leaving only a graveyard of hollow shells.
The ominous aura over-powered the young night elf, causing his perception to blast back into the confines of his town, Padorim. But the sight he beheld as his eyes traveled the town bode far graver than the forest, for he unwittingly saw the expressions of the townsfolk, expressions he could never have prepared for. The faces of the townsfolk had the same unholy glow as the trees; not a single glimmer of life could be detected in their ghoulish eyes!
Zacharim gasped at the sight, his stare slowly outlined each person’s face, unsuccessfully trying to find any hint of activity inside their blank visage. However, as Zacharim began losing his focus on individual faces and more on the town itself, he saw they were tending to their daily affairs. However, his astute perception detected something more, for he could hazily see a lifeless monotony to their actions, as if they were puppets moving to the whims of their puppet master.
He shut his eyes tight, wishing all these horrors would go away, as if just a dream. But he knew this was not the case, and upon opening his eyes, he saw it indeed wasn't. He nervously took a step forward and began the short, but very anxious, trip back to his tree house, trying in all his power to ignore the lifeless townsfolk.
As much as he tried to abrogate them from his mind, he was unable. His walk soon turned to a jog, and this jog became a run; he feared that at any moment, the town would surround him and kill him, or perhaps assimilate him. He ran as fast as his long Night Elf legs could carry him, until finally another suspicious sight caught his eye.
He stopped dead in his tracks--not noticing that every citizen of Padorim had stopped their activities and stood glaring his way--and looked intently ahead of him. No more than the height of a tree in front of him was his brother, slowly walking towards him with sword drawn.
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