MAJOR thanks to anyone who can give a review/critique - this is long! I have Chapter One finished, and am well into Chapter Two, but I will give some time to read this before I post Chapter One. Also, sometime I'll draw up a lil' map of Esrydil... but not now. 
Anyways, I always have a hard time getting rid of the really overly descriptive words. So that's one of my main areas that I need help on. Also, does this sound too Lord of the Rings-ish to anyone? Please let me know. Sometimes I get paranoid about accidentally having similarities.
- Dreami
Esrydil:
Prologue
Sweat dripped down Candun’s face as he wielded a silver blade. He staggered, footsore after the long march from Ithaldun Forest to fight against Galdad, the Dark One who had plunged the earth into an omnipresent darkness. Candun continued to swing mercilessly as the demonic creatures of Galdad attacked him. Their corpses were strewn upon the ground, their blood mingling with dwarves, elves and men’s cadavers. Many of Galdad’s followers were slaughtered, but thousands of desert men and foul entities of the dark still fought for the Sorcerer. The thieves of the vast Hithadrin Desert were scum – betrayers of their own kin, traitors of the East, mortals twisted and blinded by the dark. These barbaric men were animals, undeserving of the honor of being called human. This battle was the climax of the Great War, where thousands of Elves and mortals strained against the Necromancer.
The armies of the Light were weary and their instinctive blocks were sluggish due to sheer exhaustion. They became susceptible to the Servants of the Darkness. Elves had ventured far across the land, from the north while Men had wearily journey from the lands of Sómer and Konan. Dwarves had assaulted Galdad’s armies by following the Gimdun Mountains. Along their journey, the mountains they lived in and mined heightened into the ranges of the Dark Mountains, cliffs of vertical stone in foreboding shades of gray and black. Through these mountains there weaved a secret path that was the treacherous entrance to Ghannor, Galdad’s hoard of land.
The chance of success was laughable, the smallest fraction of a percent, but action needed to be taken. Galdad had finally been lured out of Ghannor, his full strength drawn to the Plains of Hiradu. Never before had the Necromancer been enticed out of his barren wasteland of ashes and dust, he instead stayed hidden. He acted like a thief protecting his treasures. An obsessive trepidation filled him, hidden in the dark depths and fragments of his soul: fear of failure. He must eliminate the Three Races forever so he would never again fear loosing his precious winnings. Now was the time when he would claim his prize for eternity, and crush any dying hopes of rebellion. After this war, never again would there be a chance of destroying him. This final battle would make him all powerful and seal the fate of Esrydil forever.
Normally, the Dark One sent out thousands of spirits and traitors to destroy towns and cities. Villages went up in smoke and people would flee before his devilish legions. But in the madness of their war path, none would live.
The arrogance of Galdad was growing as he surveyed the battle from the First Mountain of the Dark Range. He was clad in dark mail, forged and fashioned in the deep recesses of the earth as protection from any blade. It was a creation of the dwarves, a princely gift from Kinyan, the King of the Mountains, before the true motives of Galdad were revealed.
By some Dark intuition, a sinister dragon beat its wings and slowly descended until it was beside Galdad. The dragon’s scales were a dark crimson, deeper than blood; the color itself exerted a powerful feeling of despair. The hue seemed to have a depth that mirrored all eternity and darkness. Galdad mounted the dragon and collected the ebony reins, bejeweled with silver runes and ancient symbols. The saddle matched the headpiece, adorned with silver against the black leather. The dragon gave a fell scream and fire raged forth from his nostrils. With a lurch, the pair sprang forward, and steered toward the men of Sómer and the reinforcements of Elves. When they landed, Galdad stepped off the dragon and his steel mail jangled as he advanced on them, his mace gleaming ominously in the rising sun.
With a swing of his arm, men were dealt heavy blows, causing the remaining to cower in fear, cursing Galdad’s name. The end was looking bleak for them. With newfound bravery and courage, yet no hope, spears and arrows sprang forth. In tandem, the weapons all zoomed perilously toward Galdad’s head. The Necromancer outstretched his arm, causing the weapons to fall uselessly to the sandy earth, where they clattered and left a despondent silence. As the Dark One exerted a few more strikes, many of the men ran away in fear. What could be expected of them? Despite the burgundy tunic embroidered with the four stars of Sómer on their chests, these men were not fighter. Farmers, weavers, artisans – peaceful men with no place in war, and never trained with the art of a blade.
Yet – multitudes of them remained, standing and fighting for all they had with a burning passion and rage flaming in their hearts. Many would consider such an act foolhardy, but those that stayed were wiser and braver than some of the heroes of the ages. They upheld their honor by fighting, and knew that even if they ran, the oncoming storm of darkness could not be stopped. They would be hunted, and eventually Galdad and his followers would find them and destroy them, leaving the cities burning and in desolate ruin. The acts of valor and bravery committed today deserved remembrance through all the ages of men.
Many elves raged at the new devilry of Galdad. Gathering their courage, they charged at the sorcerer. With a flick of his hand, the Elves were stopped and all tumbled to the ground foolishly, lying prostrate as dust rose and clouded the air. All but one. A lone Elf maiden stood, her golden hair cascading to her hips. Cloaked in white, she bore no mail or protection from a blade. She carried no weapon, only desperation in her eyes and a small silver ring adorning her right hand.
The woman’s face contorted, emotionlessly forming words of the Ancient Tongue that had lain dormant in the memories of the Elders for centuries. Candun watched her with a mild curiosity, and a increasing feeling of hope inside his heart. Upon her pale lips no familiar words known by any of the scholars or magicians of the Elvenking were sounded.
With a sudden crescendo in her voice, the maidens clear blue eyes burst open. They were steady and unforgiving; the light hue of a day after a bitter frost had passed. Her voice never quavered as she called out to Galdad in the Tongue of Lore “Namalie, Alnar. Briya, Briya.” In the common tongue of men and Elves, her words were “Back, Back, to the dark abyss.” Stretching out her hands, a diminutive light seemed to gather, centralized into an orb before her. A heavenly glow was cast out upon her, and an unseen wind gathered around her, causing the Elf’s hair to whip around. A prickle jumped to Candun’s skin as the air flowed past them. The breeze had a foreign and unearthly feel to it. The power grew, until with a great force the orb hurled toward Galdad. As the blissful light grew on Galdad’s dark mask, he gave a loud curse in the Ancient Tongue. No scholar or lore master could decipher what he said or meant, in the memories of all the people the curse was blurred and none could remember it clearly, they just knew that it had occurred. And so, it was concluded that the cry was only a trivial shout in the darkest dialects of the Language.
Whatever had been uttered was understood by the woman, whose eyes blazed with a fierce power. She began chanting, her words blurring together in haste. But it was too late. The Elven girl crumpled and fell to the ground and around her the earth slowly gave way to a dark crater that ensnared her and Galdad. As her body slipped into the darkness, Candun inched forward, mesmerized, attempting to grasp her. Sindune, an attendant of the King clutched Candun’s forearm, beckoning him to step away, and finally Candun consented. They watched, servant and master, as a silver wisp left her mouth and she descended through the crevice. Her last breath was a mark of her sorcery; she was a powerful witch greater than any of the King’s. And yet, despite these rare gifts, her identity was unknown, the nameless savior of her people.
The spirit of the Elf maiden materialized, her shadowy eyes searching for the Elvenking. Some powerful sages that were well learned in lore and enchantments could hold their spirit form for up to a minute on earth, but the strain of will and mind was difficult for even the most accomplished sorcerers. The soul rushed toward Candun upon sighting him. She had precious little time to convey her message. Already, the seductive pull of the Beyond was tightening its hold on her. She pushed the aching aside fervently – she must reach the king. No other scholar would or could ever understand the dark utterances of Galdad. For in her life, the Elf maiden’s learning had letter to the darkest scrolls of magic. At first, she had been innocent, with a strong lust for the secrets of the Dark, and a thrill had echoed through her soul as she gained knowledge and accessed the secrets of the ancient devilry. But many things had woken during her time that shouldn’t have come to existence, and malevolent things were stirring. So she delved deeper into the Dark to discover how to stop them. In doing so, she had evolved into the only one who could stop Galdad.
“Candun” she cried “This is not The End!” The Elvenking spotted her, and stared at the silver figure with dumbstruck astonishment. The spirit opened her mouth to say more, but the Other World gave another strong tug, and she finally consented. The translucent wisp floated toward the heavens, and her mind was cleared of all earthly frivolities.
Sindune stood next to the King, clearly unaware of the events that had taken place. “Victory!” he cried. He waved the dark green banner of the Ithaldun Elves joyously. With their master descending down the dark crevice of the earth, the demons and Hithradin men were leaderless. The spirits and demons faded from sight, while the thieves and bandits ran from the battle like the cowards they were, towards the faraway sheltered mountains to the south.
“May they be cursed for their treachery” Sindune spat out heatedly.
Candun gave a small smile, but secretly he was worried and questions swirled through his head like a vortex, clouding all other thoughts of joy and triumph, for he had seen the Necromancer fall into the pit with his own eyes. How could he have lived? Where was that maiden from? What was her name? How had she accumulated such powers? Her golden hair also added to her mystique, a feature that was a rarity among the Elves, whose normal shades of locks ranged from russet to ebony. Such a trait was linked to dark sorcery, which this maiden seemed to have possessed.
As the Elves marched across the bleak landscape, Candun sent servants on horseback ahead of them to alert the Elven cities of their victory, and to probe for clues about the identity of the Nameless Elf. When they reached his Kingly halls in Camadune, there were no scribes waiting to bear the news of their discoveries. As time passed, Candun’s dreams darkened and he grew steadily weaker. Finally, after many months of searching, some news sprang forth. Sindune presented a riddle to the king, and proclaimed “My lord, few know of this woman that you have been searching for. After many moons, we have discovered a faint clue about her: A maiden, like the one that battled Galdad, lived in Anstayl, the old city rich in wisdom and lore. We have discovered part of a prophecy in an old Elven legend:
‘Out of the darkness shall come anew,
One who can the sorcerer slay.
Dark is the hour, late is the day,
The many shall fall to the few.’
Other prophecies call this person the Redeemer of Esrydil, ‘The Lone Star’. Whatever their name, all prophecies speak of a darkness that will cover the lands before the appearance of ‘The Chosen One.’”
Candun studied Sindune’s grave face and slowly spoke “The Lone Star. The Redeemer of Esrydil. The Chosen One. Yes, they could refer to the Nameless Elf, but I think the prophecies speak of another, and the Nameless is just a foreshadowing. For the last few months, I have been filled with fore dreams, ominous signs.” The ruler gave a last sigh, the battle had taken its toll on him. The Elvenking gave a feeble grasp for Sindune, his most faithful servant’s hand. “Sindune… I am weak. The battle has cursed me. I cannot go on. I fear that there is a darkness working inside all the warriors that shall destroy me worse than any blade. Although Elves are immortal, there are some things that are beyond healing. The darkness is closing in.” His face went pale, and Sindune kneeled before him, caressing the hand of his master.
The Elvenking muttered, furiously trying to tell what he had seen and heard at the end of the Great Battle, what had been weighing so heavily on his mind, what was crushing his spirit. Candun was no sage or scholar, and had no other way of communicating with Sindun like the girl had.
The advisor bowed his head. “My King,” he whispered, but he received no answer. The long reign of Candun, wisest and strongest of all the Kings of Ithaldun, was over.
