I see you understand the History, the rousing History which many times you have doubtless heard. Which every child begs to hear around the fireplace, of monsters and brave heroes, and how into the works of goodness we, the lowly people in the middle, might someday find a place. How noble HIGH ELVES, graceful, wise and beauteous, did ere the Ancient Days do honor upon Lord Emolelei, God of gods, King of Divinity and Daylight. And how, after twisted and sundered from Grace by their own fell gods, the cruel DARK ELVES did, with jealousy and barbarous bloodlust, set upon their blessed counterparts, seeking only to corrupt the world to in its entirety resemble the darkness and ruin they serve.
And how, in seeing the struggles of His beloved children, God Emolelei did take pity on the High Elves, and in their souls inspire works to bring glory unto His name. These works took the form of SUNGOLD WEAPONS, holiest and highest, whose names were Immostraecus, the Piercing Dawn-Bow, and Sardolias, the Staff of the Righteous, and Ket-Blaskar, the Searing Ax, and Scutigneshen, the Ward of Daybreak, and many others of lesser make; weapons that, when wielded on the field of Righteous War by purest Champions of High Elves, would emit a Holy Fire, and burn like their epitome the Sun. But even these blessèd artifacts seemed dim compared to RA-JESVEI, the Blade of Sun's Dominion, which was bestowed upon the first King of the Elves, and passed on to his descendants ever after. This most masterful of swords granted the Western Kings such glory and such surety of leadership that The War turned for the first time in Elvish favor. The Darkness was stayed, and driven back, and there was some short measure of peace.
But no perfection lasts forever, for the envy of the Dark Ones only grew at the sight of Elven Glory and its nobly-brandished Gold. In their sunless woods and warrens, the Darklings used this jealousy, and their own cruel magicks to wright evil weapons of their own, of cursèd silver, sickle-like and savage. And though it may surprise, these weapons gave light also, but it was only a green and pallid glow; lichenous, or sickly; befitting such hate-wrought pale imitations made for evil ends. And the Dark works succeeded; by the power of these fell weapons and the vast numbering of their ever-spawning hordes, the Dark Elves turned the tides back over, and may have had victory in the War, and brought all of Selegrae to ruin.
Instead, another blessing came, one plainer on first glance: fleeing strife from what far-off lands that birthed them arrived the HUMANS, foreign creatures, whose fates were far more difficult to foresee. To the High Elves that welcomed them, these odd brown and pinking peoples were a mystery, and no wonder: they were similar, in some ways, to High Elves, and in others (chiefly furry faces and round ear-ends) most peculiar indeed. The Elves first found that these newcomers learned quickly; in agriculture and writing, governance and godliness, and even matters of trade, a Human could be taught. In the truer test they fared well also, for while their short-lasting souls hold no great wisdom nor slightest spark of magic (if they can be said to have any souls at all), they were observed to be hardy, strong of limb, and of such selfless bravery as to adjust easily to the battlefield. And so they did; for, unavoidably, the Dark Ones set upon them, and the Humans proved their mettle, though again, they were but low. And when human farmers fought back, or their burgeoning militias, Elvish Heroes, gold-clad, backed them, and human valiance, too, did grow.
One such Human was I, DENBAS SORMAN. I was born in the city of Tarlast, in the South of the human lands, far from the dangers of the East. As a young boy, I would watch the parades of the Elven leaders in wonderment, for after each victory the great Elven General MOLIESVAR, Duke of Orevictorum in the West, would bring a vast army of Elves and Men, their mounts and arms and war-trophies, to bless our humble streets. In each he'd be at the front of the lines, sitting tall and proud with his long locks of Elven white, and in his hand the heirloom of his ancient House: Ket-Blaskar, the Great-Ax true, a Sungold justice-bringer with which such storied warriors kept all of us from fear. At our cheering and our goading, the Duke would smiling raise his Ax to the sky, and from its golden edge would flow a trailing burst of flame, at which our cheering but came forth all the louder.
Years later, when I was an older lad who'd seen worse things but had not lost a sense of wonder, Duke Moliesvar lost his golden Ax. Or, it would be closer still to say he gave it up: to his son, the Prince PHEMELIUS, who at that time came of age. The lad was fifty, nearly sixty years past his birth, but that was just off the crest of youth for one of his kinsfolk, and so it was that he seemed barely older than I. This rising Hero wore his Ax with pride; and in our town as many others was the subject of much fuss and popularity. One might doubt to find a single young lady who didn't swoon at the speaking of the Prince's name, nor wish to share but one glance with him; it's said that he was friendly, wise and humble, even shy. To lads like me, all that was hogwash, and we cursed the name 'Phemelius'… but, in a different way, perhaps, we too admired him at least as strongly. For what boy didn't want to wield a golden Ax, or fight along the one who held it, and raised by his Elven presence to heroism, fight the Dark, and live forever in the blessed histories?
There was one wrinkle, though. Truly, Phemelius was skilled with his new weapon. Few could count the number of Dark Elves that fell upon it, and fewer still would doubt his prowess in war-strategy and the leading of men. But as for the magic of Ket-Blaskar, the Prince was apparently incapable; not once did he bring flames forth from the weapon, and so achieve its full power. None could fault him: he was yet young, still won victory after victory, and anyway: an Ax is still an Ax. At the time it was seen as a common source of excitement—when would the Prince prove worthy for the fires of Emolelei?—but in the days to come, it was to be regarded as a fell omen.
By this time I was older still; a young man, grown enough to make his own choices, and with none to make them for me. Soon as I could manage, I threw in with the army, and was sent to Gorlitenza, far in the North, the Front where Prince Phemelius led his own company, the Ravens, as Commander. I, unproven and without noble lineage, was recruited as a simple fort-guard, one of the Stag Company, stationed at the walls. And, in this time, aging General Moliesvar still commanded us all, from this fortress; clever strategies did he devise, for his son and all his men to carry out. There came a bright autumn day, with fire in the leaves and the scent of sweet and nutty Plenty in the air, when word of one such strategy reached my ears. Us low wall-guards were not privy to the intimate details, but my Captain, a graying human man named Petroguire, told us of his hunch: a hefty crate, one large enough to hold a crouching horse, had been brought secretly by Elven bearers into Gorlitenza's fortress in the dead hours of night. We guessed it was some yet-untested Elven weapon, but if it were, such a weapon was never used.
For shortly after, in a skirmish out by the trees of the Dark Lands, Prince Phemelius was drawn out and taken by some trap of Dark design. His father grieved, and we all tried to stay hopeful. With good cause: the very next day, Phemelius and his men returned to Gorlitenza, quite entirely unharmed. There was relieved exhalation and good cheer that night, and, though invited to drink, I was too preoccupied to celebrate. How had the Prince returned to us? Was it a daring escape? Was he set free by his captors? Whatever the case may be, that night our fortress was lively and warm. And then the parties quieted, and some men took to bed. And then They came.
I'd been watching the distant darkness from the parapets when from behind I heard cruel voices. And the sound of steel on steel, and stone and flesh, and screams of mortal fear. When I came to my senses and the aid of my fellow soldiers, the Dark Ones had already left. But this was no defeat of theirs, for Duke Moliesvar was injured; not dead, but wounded mortally, such that he never was to stand, nor swing a sword, nor even speak for the rest of his days. The soul of a High Elf is strong, such that they might weather many years or woundings, but their bodies still are fleshly, so short their lives may still be cut. Worse yet, the Prince had simply vanished; we who remained could find no body. Some said he fled for shame or vengeance, else he had been slain himself. For none would dare to guess the worser: that he'd betrayed—by Darks, been made to. For years, just 'gone,' was all said of him, by we human or High Elf.
We men of Gorlitenza were released dishonorably from our service, for our failure to protect the fortress or our royal Elven hosts. I found the charge more than fitting; even though I had remained alert, still Denbas Sorman had been powerless to do much more than watch the others fall, and mourn the loss. From there I drifted to Inemestrel, close-by to the West. The whole state of Newandrale had come under the authority of a human noble, the Lord NESYAVOSH BENAIL of Joriantum. And whether because he was less mighty or more wicked, Lord Benail was not as beloved as the old Duke, while Newandrale fell on hard times. Indeed it seemed as though the Dark Elves had won some greater victory, for now all the world seemed gray, and drudging; bereft of grace and decency. Our Elven protectors had abandoned us for our failures, and now we humans could do little more than scrape for mere survival, or squabble in pettiness with one another. The meager coin that I myself could earn, as bodyguard or merchant's mercenary, were all that kept me from starvation. For four years I sunk lower into isolation, drinking and despair.
Then my fate was swept in another direction. It was a night like any other: young old-feeling Denbas Sorman, failing to drink the stink of failure away. And as irony would have it, 'twas two Elves who took me with them: one a Sire and one a Maiden, and though they'd likely disagree, still I would say these Elves were heroes, of a manner rarely seen. So hear instead this younger story—which I tell, for I played some small part—of The Elf-Bard and The Traitor; how they changed a world, an Elf-King, and a heart.