Negthareas
04-15-2010, 05:16 PM
CHAPTER 1
"So, in the 13th year of King Thernad’s reign," said the hermit "that the Lords of Menthorn rose up in rebellion. They stormed the city of Daghbor, killing hundreds of innocents, and many of the nobles. But King Thernad stood firm. Though pressed hard and in dire need of arms and food, he and his servants defended the royal palace against the besiegers. Many of the attackers were killed, so many that mounds of them piled up at the base of the palace walls. After holding them off for three days, Thernad was rescued. Leading a force of fifteen thousand men from western Southmount, came general Itherad. He drove the Menthorns from the ruins of Daghbor, and sending them fleeing back to the Wold." The hermit thought to himself for a while, and then said "Yes, that is how it happened."
"Then you were there?" asked the boy in front of him, surprised and eager at the same time.
"No, of course not," the old man responded. "Do I look like I am 200 years old?" the man, bent double with age, chuckled to himself. "No, I am nowhere near that old. Even so, I imagine that when you reach my current age, Dithno, you will look much older than I presently do." the man stopped and thought for a moment, then glanced at the hourglass. "Bless the king! Why didn't you tell me it was already this far into the night? You know I promised your parents to send you back before nightfall. Now go, get out of here." The man muttered a little to himself, as Dithno, sighing, collected a few books, a quill, and a couple tablets.
After peeking out at the frost-covered ground, Dithno returned to his tutor, saying "My, it seems quite chilly and windy tonight. I will most probably freeze on the way back to the villige. No one will ever know what happened to poor Dithno. Young Dithno. Innocent Dithno. Handsome Dithno..."
Here the old man cut him off "Innocent, eh? I wouldn’t bet a tin cup on it. Fine, fine, you can take a horn of my wine with you - mind you, don't drink it all at once, and don't let your parents know I gave it to you - it is strictly for keeping you warm inside, understand?" the Old Hermit, as the people of Letheram called him, gazed sternly at his fourteen year old pupil. "That is not ale, it is much stronger - the last time I gave it to you, you ended up stumbling into your neighbor’s home singing love songs to his daughter! I expect you to be more responsible this time. Do you hear me?" the man raised a finger menacingly, but Dithno only laughed.
"Ha - you know as well as I that you would never harm a fly, and that I only used your wine as an excuse to sing to Loritha - ah, she is sooo beautiful - the chance was worth the whipping father gave me afterward."
"Well, whatever," the hermit replied "Now get out or else, I'll...I'll...I'll never tell you any more concerning the battles of the War of Kings." The hermit had barely finished his sentence before the door slammed shut. He chuckled. Anyone would call his bluff when he threatened physical harm, but at least Dithno knew that he kept his academic word to smallest syllable. The door creaked open, and Dithno's head appeared around its edge.
"Master, sir," he said "do you think my father will be alright?" Dithno looked very worried, and the hermit knew he should answer the question carefully. Dithno had climbed to the hermit's home the previous night, crying. His parents had argued horribly with each other over the war. Lord Verthas of Halternon and Felsing, a vassal to Menthorn, seeking further expansion had invaded the dominion of Lord Derglas of Galehock the year before. Lord Derglas had been wiped out, leaving the southern expanse of Rollingplains open to conquest. Now they had invaded the nearby city of Warphel. General Yamorth Tavir had summoned militia from all the surrounding villages and towns, including Dithno's father. Dithno's mother had tried to convince him not to go, and their conversation had quickly escalated into an arguement. Dithno's father, with spear, sword, shield, and helm, had left. Dithno, unable to find comfort in his weeping mother, had come to him, his teacher, for solace.
"Dithno, I cannot say how the battle will go. General Tavir and his son, Lumer, seem very confident in their chances of success. Try not to worry about your father. Think of how he may come home as a hero, having slain at least twenty men single-handedly. But, if things go worst, be strong - for your mother. You may have to be the man of the home."
Dithno shook a little, then said "Thank you sir, have a good night." Dithno shut the door, and the hermit pictured him in his mind's eye begin the long, but relatively safe trek down the side of the stream to the village of Letheram.
"Dorat-Bingal, may he be protected," he said "and given the strength he will need, he will be tried so."
CHAPTER 2
Besides slipping on some ice and nearly tumbling headlong, Dithno made the journey down unharmed, and soon found himself safe and sound back at his cottage. He would have stopped at his neighbor's house, and spoken to Loritha at her window, but he was tired, and too worried about his father to consider anything else. He pounded a few times at his door, before his mother opened it for him. Dithno walked in, shutting the door and replacing the heavy piece of timber that locked it. His mother was red-eyed, and he could tell that she had been crying when he was away. He decided it would be best not to bring up the issue. They ate dinner in silence. It was a good soup, with beef, carrots, and potatoes, but the lack of conversation seemed to cool the soup's warmth and flavor. Dithno finished and went to his bed, a pile of hay with a few blankets laid on top. Thinking of his father, and what would happen to them if he died, Dithno cried himself to sleep.
Dithno sat up with a start as horrifying screams echoed in the valley. Then he heard the cries "Lord Verthas’ men are coming!" People were running past his window, carts were being overturned, children were crying aloud for their mothers. Dithno got off his bed, throwing on his shirt, and grabbing his knife. He ran into the main room. Dithno realized that the door was unbolted, and looked around for the locking beam. Then his mother opened the door, slamming it quickly shut behind her. She winded, and part of her shawl had been ripped off.
"Hurry, Dithno," She gasped, "the door...lock the door." Dithno found the beam and hefted it into place. Moments later the door shook.
"Open up in the name of Lords Verthas and Menthorn" the soldier outside yelled. Hearing no answer, he hefted an ax, smashing away at the door. Piece by piece, it fell apart. Dithno stood in front of his mother, knife in hand. Then she fell to the floor. "Mother!" Dithno yelled. He kneeled at her side. Her skin was bluish and cold, but wet with sweat. She had no pulse. "No! Not now, not her heart!" Dithno bent over her and started pumping her upper chest with his hands crossed, crying and swearing at the same time. Then the beam, finally weakened, broke, and the soldier knocked the door down and stepped in.
"Look you, tell me where the valuables are hidden and I will only cut out your tongue!" he said, gestering angrily at Dithno. Dithno froze, not knowing what to do. Then the soldier swung the ax down at his head. Dithno darted forward, landing between the man's legs, and stabbed his dagger up into the man's groin. The man screamed, falling down and clutching between his legs. Dithno cut his throat, and the soldier's shrieks silenced with a gurgle.
Dithno was shaking all over, and dropped his knife. He curled up under the table, not crying, but just staring out the door into the night. Then more soldiers arrived.
"It’s Captain Jassuk, he’s dead!" one of them shouted on seeing the dead soldier, and the pool of blood. Then he saw Dithno. "That little rat must have done it!" He drew his sword and kicked over the table. Dithno, unprotected, just sat there gazing limply up at him. There were a total of three soldiers inside the room now, two on either side of the door, and the other standing in front of Dithno. Then a long staff was held through the door way, leveled out horizontally, and then wrenched back against the necks of the two guards with such force that it cracked their vertabrae. The two soldiers collapsed to the ground, and the remaining one turned towards the doorway. He fell dead to the ground with a throwing blade through his left eye. Dithno flinched at the piercing yet short scream and then looked up. There by the door stood the old hermit. But he had no beard now, and he was not bent low. Beneath his cloak sheened polished armor, and he wore a quiver, bow, and shield. The hermit came in, and gathered Dithno in his arms. Taking him outside, he placed him on his horse, tying his legs down. Then he mounted and urged the horse into a gallop.
Dithno looked back at his house, and managed to weakly say "But, what about mother? What if father returns? No one will be there to greet him."
The hermit was silent for a while, and then said "Dithno, your mother is dead. I do not know about your father, but I know he will not return here. Do not worry, I will keep you safe." The two of them galloped out of the town. Just as they reached the crest of a small rise, Dithno looked back at Letheram. It was burning. Then it was hidden from sight as a steady drizzle began to fall.
CHAPTER 3
They rode long and hard for the entire night, stopping only for a quick rest by a stream. Once the first rays of light appeared in the morning sky, they stopped for the night. The hermit setup a tent, and laid out blankets.
“Aren’t you going to build a fire?” Dithno asked.
“No,” he replied. “I don’t want to do anything that would attract unnecessary attention. With the wood as wet as it is, a fire would reveal us to the eyes of anyone within 15 leagues.”
“Oh,” Dithno said, tired from the incessant rise and fall of the horse. He perked up when the man offered him food, however.
“It is not warm, but it will keep your stomach full,” he said, handing Dithno a large piece of dried venison and a hunk of bread. Dithno took the food, and sat on the ground, his back to a stump. The hermit sat next to him, and looked up at the stars.
“Who are you?” asked Dithno while chewing.
“Who am I?” the man said. “Well, I have been many things – teacher, warrior, ruler, and, yes, even a hermit.” Dithno stared at the man hard, as if not believing him.
“Then, how old are you?”
“Old? No, I am not an old man, but I am not young either.” The man thought to himself for a moment. “In fact, I am no age at all. But I am very very old.” Dithno looked puzzled. The man laughed.
“Dithno,” he said. “I am an elf.” Dithno was silent for a long time.
“But your ears are normal? How could you be an elf?”
“Long ago, I fought a dwarf in battle. He won, but rather than kill me, he carved off the tips of my ears with a knife. So, even though I am alive, I am an outcast even among my own race.”
So you have been on Mythador from the beginning?” Dithno asked.
“No, not from the beginning,” replied the man. “Do you remember what I taught you about how elves came to be?”
“Yes – I do,” said Dithno. “When Mythador had been formed, and after the uncountable plants and animals had been scattered across its surface, the spirit Dorat-Bingal planned to create the Man. But his servant, Bodethil-temin, was jealous of Dorat-Bingal’s power. Bodethil-temin was the greatest among Dorat-Bingal’s servants, subject only to him. Bodethil-temin felt that he had been patient and waited long enough, for he had seen most of his lesser brothers create Mythador together, while he, the greatest of Dorat-Bingal’s servants did nothing. In time, Fetjethdbladulr, one of Bodethil-temin’s more powerful brothers, was tasked with creating the Elves. He created them as advisors and counselors for the future man. But Bodethil-temin strove against Fetjethdbladulr, causing the creation to go awry. These creations were stunted and unsightly to gaze upon. They became known as the dwarves. Bodethil-temin sent the dwarves to destroy the lands of Mythador where man would be created, so that Dorat-Bingal’s plan might be thwarted.”
“But Dorat-Bingal tasked Fetjethdbladulr to create elves as protectors of Mythador, and they fought the dwarves for centuries upon Mythador, protecting it for the future man.”
“Yes,” said the elf “that is how we came to be, for the most part. I was born many years ago, hundreds of years ago. I have fought and killed many dwarves. But our wars with them only escalated higher. Finally, when mankind was being made, Ethorowfraw, a servant of Bodethil-temin, took men and elves and dwarves, mixing them all together. Then he struck them with a lightning bolt, and they came alive. These are the orcs and the goblins. The spell he used was a powerful one, impossible to break. For every time lighting strikes Mythador, a child born in the womb of an elf, women, or dwarf, becomes dead, to be stillborn. Its life is transferred to a new spawning of an orc. Many haved tried to stop or destroy the spell, but to no avail. Orcs are just as unpredictable as lightning. They rarely fight together. This is fortunate, for as a few, they are weak, like static energy. All together, they form a great tide of death, and they are nearly unstoppable as long as they abide each other’s company. Ethorowfraw now felt he was as powerful as Bodethil-temin, and he fought with him. Thus, here on Mythador, there are dwarves, elves, men, orcs, and goblins all fighting one another.”
“However, the worst enemies of all are the dragons. Bodethil-temin himself created them, and with their fire and smoke they have ravaged Mythador again and again. Bodethil-temin himself was their king, ruling them in the form of a great Heraldic Dragon. He came close to bringing all of Mythador under his rule. However, the dwarves perceived that he might turn against them, so they too fought against him. The dwarves were decimated, and driven into the north. The orcs cowered before the dragons, and fled to the east. Left to themselves, we elves were almost wiped out against the onslaught. However, the greatest of the elvish spellcasters gathered and, calling upon the power of Dorat-Bingal and Fetjethdbladulr, cast spell after spell to the detriment of Bodethil-temin. All of the spell-casters died by their efforts, and Bodethil-temin was driven far from Mythador into distant worlds. There he stayed, for he is fearful of the wrath of Dorat-Bingal, his master. However, we elves suffered horribly by such use of magic, and magic passed from us into Mythador. That is why other races besides elves have mages. With Bodethil-temin gone, the elves able to drive the dragons back into Sssilistra. There, we killed enough of them that they were decimated, and have never since recovered.”
“However, the dragons we killed were not gone forever. Divested of their bodies, their spirits wander Mythador, until they find men that are evil. Then they corrupt the will of those men until they control them completely. These are the flomanros, the untiring servants of the dragons. They are no longer men, merely dragons with bodies of men. I have killed many of these. However, the enemies of the elves, though powerful, are not as powerful as we, for we are closer to the perfection of our creation, while they have wandered far from it.”
“Dorat-Bingal and Fetjethdbladulr guide and strengthen us. It is their bidding that we defeat our enemies, and bring peace to mankind, and to Mythador. Of course, those men that stand against us are our enemies as well.”
“I have never told you my name, Dithno. Indeed, you have never asked it. And why should you – I was just the hermit on the mountain. I will tell you it now – I am Ragertholimenshathropan, but you may call me Shathro.” Dithno looked at the elf with confused, tired eyes.
“I see you are sleepy,” said Sathro “and you have every right to be. Go on and get some rest, I will wake you in the morning.” Dithno watched Shathro for a while as he looked at the stars, before he fell into a deep peaceful slumber. His dreams were peaceful, and during their whole course, Dithno felt a great power shining from behind him, guiding the way he should take.
"So, in the 13th year of King Thernad’s reign," said the hermit "that the Lords of Menthorn rose up in rebellion. They stormed the city of Daghbor, killing hundreds of innocents, and many of the nobles. But King Thernad stood firm. Though pressed hard and in dire need of arms and food, he and his servants defended the royal palace against the besiegers. Many of the attackers were killed, so many that mounds of them piled up at the base of the palace walls. After holding them off for three days, Thernad was rescued. Leading a force of fifteen thousand men from western Southmount, came general Itherad. He drove the Menthorns from the ruins of Daghbor, and sending them fleeing back to the Wold." The hermit thought to himself for a while, and then said "Yes, that is how it happened."
"Then you were there?" asked the boy in front of him, surprised and eager at the same time.
"No, of course not," the old man responded. "Do I look like I am 200 years old?" the man, bent double with age, chuckled to himself. "No, I am nowhere near that old. Even so, I imagine that when you reach my current age, Dithno, you will look much older than I presently do." the man stopped and thought for a moment, then glanced at the hourglass. "Bless the king! Why didn't you tell me it was already this far into the night? You know I promised your parents to send you back before nightfall. Now go, get out of here." The man muttered a little to himself, as Dithno, sighing, collected a few books, a quill, and a couple tablets.
After peeking out at the frost-covered ground, Dithno returned to his tutor, saying "My, it seems quite chilly and windy tonight. I will most probably freeze on the way back to the villige. No one will ever know what happened to poor Dithno. Young Dithno. Innocent Dithno. Handsome Dithno..."
Here the old man cut him off "Innocent, eh? I wouldn’t bet a tin cup on it. Fine, fine, you can take a horn of my wine with you - mind you, don't drink it all at once, and don't let your parents know I gave it to you - it is strictly for keeping you warm inside, understand?" the Old Hermit, as the people of Letheram called him, gazed sternly at his fourteen year old pupil. "That is not ale, it is much stronger - the last time I gave it to you, you ended up stumbling into your neighbor’s home singing love songs to his daughter! I expect you to be more responsible this time. Do you hear me?" the man raised a finger menacingly, but Dithno only laughed.
"Ha - you know as well as I that you would never harm a fly, and that I only used your wine as an excuse to sing to Loritha - ah, she is sooo beautiful - the chance was worth the whipping father gave me afterward."
"Well, whatever," the hermit replied "Now get out or else, I'll...I'll...I'll never tell you any more concerning the battles of the War of Kings." The hermit had barely finished his sentence before the door slammed shut. He chuckled. Anyone would call his bluff when he threatened physical harm, but at least Dithno knew that he kept his academic word to smallest syllable. The door creaked open, and Dithno's head appeared around its edge.
"Master, sir," he said "do you think my father will be alright?" Dithno looked very worried, and the hermit knew he should answer the question carefully. Dithno had climbed to the hermit's home the previous night, crying. His parents had argued horribly with each other over the war. Lord Verthas of Halternon and Felsing, a vassal to Menthorn, seeking further expansion had invaded the dominion of Lord Derglas of Galehock the year before. Lord Derglas had been wiped out, leaving the southern expanse of Rollingplains open to conquest. Now they had invaded the nearby city of Warphel. General Yamorth Tavir had summoned militia from all the surrounding villages and towns, including Dithno's father. Dithno's mother had tried to convince him not to go, and their conversation had quickly escalated into an arguement. Dithno's father, with spear, sword, shield, and helm, had left. Dithno, unable to find comfort in his weeping mother, had come to him, his teacher, for solace.
"Dithno, I cannot say how the battle will go. General Tavir and his son, Lumer, seem very confident in their chances of success. Try not to worry about your father. Think of how he may come home as a hero, having slain at least twenty men single-handedly. But, if things go worst, be strong - for your mother. You may have to be the man of the home."
Dithno shook a little, then said "Thank you sir, have a good night." Dithno shut the door, and the hermit pictured him in his mind's eye begin the long, but relatively safe trek down the side of the stream to the village of Letheram.
"Dorat-Bingal, may he be protected," he said "and given the strength he will need, he will be tried so."
CHAPTER 2
Besides slipping on some ice and nearly tumbling headlong, Dithno made the journey down unharmed, and soon found himself safe and sound back at his cottage. He would have stopped at his neighbor's house, and spoken to Loritha at her window, but he was tired, and too worried about his father to consider anything else. He pounded a few times at his door, before his mother opened it for him. Dithno walked in, shutting the door and replacing the heavy piece of timber that locked it. His mother was red-eyed, and he could tell that she had been crying when he was away. He decided it would be best not to bring up the issue. They ate dinner in silence. It was a good soup, with beef, carrots, and potatoes, but the lack of conversation seemed to cool the soup's warmth and flavor. Dithno finished and went to his bed, a pile of hay with a few blankets laid on top. Thinking of his father, and what would happen to them if he died, Dithno cried himself to sleep.
Dithno sat up with a start as horrifying screams echoed in the valley. Then he heard the cries "Lord Verthas’ men are coming!" People were running past his window, carts were being overturned, children were crying aloud for their mothers. Dithno got off his bed, throwing on his shirt, and grabbing his knife. He ran into the main room. Dithno realized that the door was unbolted, and looked around for the locking beam. Then his mother opened the door, slamming it quickly shut behind her. She winded, and part of her shawl had been ripped off.
"Hurry, Dithno," She gasped, "the door...lock the door." Dithno found the beam and hefted it into place. Moments later the door shook.
"Open up in the name of Lords Verthas and Menthorn" the soldier outside yelled. Hearing no answer, he hefted an ax, smashing away at the door. Piece by piece, it fell apart. Dithno stood in front of his mother, knife in hand. Then she fell to the floor. "Mother!" Dithno yelled. He kneeled at her side. Her skin was bluish and cold, but wet with sweat. She had no pulse. "No! Not now, not her heart!" Dithno bent over her and started pumping her upper chest with his hands crossed, crying and swearing at the same time. Then the beam, finally weakened, broke, and the soldier knocked the door down and stepped in.
"Look you, tell me where the valuables are hidden and I will only cut out your tongue!" he said, gestering angrily at Dithno. Dithno froze, not knowing what to do. Then the soldier swung the ax down at his head. Dithno darted forward, landing between the man's legs, and stabbed his dagger up into the man's groin. The man screamed, falling down and clutching between his legs. Dithno cut his throat, and the soldier's shrieks silenced with a gurgle.
Dithno was shaking all over, and dropped his knife. He curled up under the table, not crying, but just staring out the door into the night. Then more soldiers arrived.
"It’s Captain Jassuk, he’s dead!" one of them shouted on seeing the dead soldier, and the pool of blood. Then he saw Dithno. "That little rat must have done it!" He drew his sword and kicked over the table. Dithno, unprotected, just sat there gazing limply up at him. There were a total of three soldiers inside the room now, two on either side of the door, and the other standing in front of Dithno. Then a long staff was held through the door way, leveled out horizontally, and then wrenched back against the necks of the two guards with such force that it cracked their vertabrae. The two soldiers collapsed to the ground, and the remaining one turned towards the doorway. He fell dead to the ground with a throwing blade through his left eye. Dithno flinched at the piercing yet short scream and then looked up. There by the door stood the old hermit. But he had no beard now, and he was not bent low. Beneath his cloak sheened polished armor, and he wore a quiver, bow, and shield. The hermit came in, and gathered Dithno in his arms. Taking him outside, he placed him on his horse, tying his legs down. Then he mounted and urged the horse into a gallop.
Dithno looked back at his house, and managed to weakly say "But, what about mother? What if father returns? No one will be there to greet him."
The hermit was silent for a while, and then said "Dithno, your mother is dead. I do not know about your father, but I know he will not return here. Do not worry, I will keep you safe." The two of them galloped out of the town. Just as they reached the crest of a small rise, Dithno looked back at Letheram. It was burning. Then it was hidden from sight as a steady drizzle began to fall.
CHAPTER 3
They rode long and hard for the entire night, stopping only for a quick rest by a stream. Once the first rays of light appeared in the morning sky, they stopped for the night. The hermit setup a tent, and laid out blankets.
“Aren’t you going to build a fire?” Dithno asked.
“No,” he replied. “I don’t want to do anything that would attract unnecessary attention. With the wood as wet as it is, a fire would reveal us to the eyes of anyone within 15 leagues.”
“Oh,” Dithno said, tired from the incessant rise and fall of the horse. He perked up when the man offered him food, however.
“It is not warm, but it will keep your stomach full,” he said, handing Dithno a large piece of dried venison and a hunk of bread. Dithno took the food, and sat on the ground, his back to a stump. The hermit sat next to him, and looked up at the stars.
“Who are you?” asked Dithno while chewing.
“Who am I?” the man said. “Well, I have been many things – teacher, warrior, ruler, and, yes, even a hermit.” Dithno stared at the man hard, as if not believing him.
“Then, how old are you?”
“Old? No, I am not an old man, but I am not young either.” The man thought to himself for a moment. “In fact, I am no age at all. But I am very very old.” Dithno looked puzzled. The man laughed.
“Dithno,” he said. “I am an elf.” Dithno was silent for a long time.
“But your ears are normal? How could you be an elf?”
“Long ago, I fought a dwarf in battle. He won, but rather than kill me, he carved off the tips of my ears with a knife. So, even though I am alive, I am an outcast even among my own race.”
So you have been on Mythador from the beginning?” Dithno asked.
“No, not from the beginning,” replied the man. “Do you remember what I taught you about how elves came to be?”
“Yes – I do,” said Dithno. “When Mythador had been formed, and after the uncountable plants and animals had been scattered across its surface, the spirit Dorat-Bingal planned to create the Man. But his servant, Bodethil-temin, was jealous of Dorat-Bingal’s power. Bodethil-temin was the greatest among Dorat-Bingal’s servants, subject only to him. Bodethil-temin felt that he had been patient and waited long enough, for he had seen most of his lesser brothers create Mythador together, while he, the greatest of Dorat-Bingal’s servants did nothing. In time, Fetjethdbladulr, one of Bodethil-temin’s more powerful brothers, was tasked with creating the Elves. He created them as advisors and counselors for the future man. But Bodethil-temin strove against Fetjethdbladulr, causing the creation to go awry. These creations were stunted and unsightly to gaze upon. They became known as the dwarves. Bodethil-temin sent the dwarves to destroy the lands of Mythador where man would be created, so that Dorat-Bingal’s plan might be thwarted.”
“But Dorat-Bingal tasked Fetjethdbladulr to create elves as protectors of Mythador, and they fought the dwarves for centuries upon Mythador, protecting it for the future man.”
“Yes,” said the elf “that is how we came to be, for the most part. I was born many years ago, hundreds of years ago. I have fought and killed many dwarves. But our wars with them only escalated higher. Finally, when mankind was being made, Ethorowfraw, a servant of Bodethil-temin, took men and elves and dwarves, mixing them all together. Then he struck them with a lightning bolt, and they came alive. These are the orcs and the goblins. The spell he used was a powerful one, impossible to break. For every time lighting strikes Mythador, a child born in the womb of an elf, women, or dwarf, becomes dead, to be stillborn. Its life is transferred to a new spawning of an orc. Many haved tried to stop or destroy the spell, but to no avail. Orcs are just as unpredictable as lightning. They rarely fight together. This is fortunate, for as a few, they are weak, like static energy. All together, they form a great tide of death, and they are nearly unstoppable as long as they abide each other’s company. Ethorowfraw now felt he was as powerful as Bodethil-temin, and he fought with him. Thus, here on Mythador, there are dwarves, elves, men, orcs, and goblins all fighting one another.”
“However, the worst enemies of all are the dragons. Bodethil-temin himself created them, and with their fire and smoke they have ravaged Mythador again and again. Bodethil-temin himself was their king, ruling them in the form of a great Heraldic Dragon. He came close to bringing all of Mythador under his rule. However, the dwarves perceived that he might turn against them, so they too fought against him. The dwarves were decimated, and driven into the north. The orcs cowered before the dragons, and fled to the east. Left to themselves, we elves were almost wiped out against the onslaught. However, the greatest of the elvish spellcasters gathered and, calling upon the power of Dorat-Bingal and Fetjethdbladulr, cast spell after spell to the detriment of Bodethil-temin. All of the spell-casters died by their efforts, and Bodethil-temin was driven far from Mythador into distant worlds. There he stayed, for he is fearful of the wrath of Dorat-Bingal, his master. However, we elves suffered horribly by such use of magic, and magic passed from us into Mythador. That is why other races besides elves have mages. With Bodethil-temin gone, the elves able to drive the dragons back into Sssilistra. There, we killed enough of them that they were decimated, and have never since recovered.”
“However, the dragons we killed were not gone forever. Divested of their bodies, their spirits wander Mythador, until they find men that are evil. Then they corrupt the will of those men until they control them completely. These are the flomanros, the untiring servants of the dragons. They are no longer men, merely dragons with bodies of men. I have killed many of these. However, the enemies of the elves, though powerful, are not as powerful as we, for we are closer to the perfection of our creation, while they have wandered far from it.”
“Dorat-Bingal and Fetjethdbladulr guide and strengthen us. It is their bidding that we defeat our enemies, and bring peace to mankind, and to Mythador. Of course, those men that stand against us are our enemies as well.”
“I have never told you my name, Dithno. Indeed, you have never asked it. And why should you – I was just the hermit on the mountain. I will tell you it now – I am Ragertholimenshathropan, but you may call me Shathro.” Dithno looked at the elf with confused, tired eyes.
“I see you are sleepy,” said Sathro “and you have every right to be. Go on and get some rest, I will wake you in the morning.” Dithno watched Shathro for a while as he looked at the stars, before he fell into a deep peaceful slumber. His dreams were peaceful, and during their whole course, Dithno felt a great power shining from behind him, guiding the way he should take.