The Ancient Strife/textfile

This is a text file for the fanfiction "The Ancient Strife". No formatting is present except very basic text styling. Fyrulosor looked gravely at the remains of his kingdom, the ancient land of. It had almost all been destroyed in the invasions of the Guild Wyverns, also known as the Alliance of Wyverns and Hunters. Fyrulosor had attempted peace negotiations, to no avail. They came with the force of elder dragons, destroying everything in their way. Even now, Fyrulosor could detect some of them searching the old grounds of the Castle. It was still standing, in a way, but the courtyard, stables, and Great Hall had been relieved of its beautiful trees and plants, replaced by dull, brown, horribly smelling dirty cobblestones and soil.

Behind the great Pseudowyvern stood a proud Rathalos, Fyrulosor's Adviser. He was descended from Autis, and he was a young warrior when was destroyed. He had fought bravely, to no avail. His name was Blaze, and he had lived in his entire life.

Blaze walked up to Fyrulosor and nudged him. Fyrulosor looked gloomily behind him, staring down the Flying Wyvern. He sighed and looked back.

"It's so depressing... We have fought for so long to keep a free land...and here it stands, amid the flames of evil and destruction. Tell me...Blaze...Do you not wish to see it stand again in control of the Guild? Do yo-" Fyrulosor began.

"I wish that more than anything, my liege. I want to see the guild and Guildmaster himself fall from his usurper throne." The young Rathalos growled.

"...Very well then. You shall be the top general of the Doragokuni Military. I shall ready a base of operations; you gather the best warriors of the land, who share our wish." Fyrulosor said, a broad grin erupting on the ancient wyvern's face.

Suddenly, the sky went dark. A fell wind blew through the land. Fyrulosor craned his neck to gaze above him, and was enraged at the sight. A large, highly decorated Coilron was slowing himself, hovering in front of Fyrulosor. The pseudowyvern knew the Coilron well; it was one of the generals, in fact the top Wyvern general, that had led the invasion of Doragokuni.

The Coilron gave Fyrulosor a baleful look and flew around him. He gazed bemusedly at Fyrulosor's old body, and finally landed.

"...Fyrulosor. It has been a while, yeah!? It seems like just yesterday I had smote you upon your mountain. Yet here you stand...not in pieces, nor flattened. You must be quite the wyvern." The Coilron teased.

"...Corru. You dare challenge me, at the height of my rage!?" The Fyrulosor rhetorically asked.

"Of course not. I come to deliver a message from Tuskurai." The Coilron began, but Fyrulosor was no longer listening.

The name Tuskurai sent shivers down the Fyrulosor's back. It was the only creature any Fyrulosor had ever feared, and it was known to be the most powerful force that humans had ever tamed. Fyrulosor did not doubt this. He had seen Tuskurai's damaging capabilities.

"...I expect you and your forces to be at my gates within the half year. Do not keep me waiting, or thy and thy mean all shall be relieved of thine lives." Corru finished.

"...Tell Tuskurai...That... He shall see me. Most assuredly, he shall see me." Fyrulosor said, glaring at the Coilron.

"Now, GO!" The Elder Dragon bellowed, creating a burst of wind strong enough to propel the Coilron away.

Fyrulosor just sighed.

In the Tundra

A young Barioth stood silently inside a cave, watching the flames of from afar. A chill went down Furosoto's back as he watched the gloomy scene. It was the only place that Furosoto could go for peace when things got tough, and to boot, in a twist of fate none could have predicted, he was born there—in the Woodland Swamp, strangely enough. His parents had fled to, fearing a massive hunt due to their child and the rest of the Barioth who had taken residence there. He longed to be back.

The Barioth slowly walked away from his cave, and jumped wildly into the air, headed towards Doragokuni...And where he knew the Emperor of Doragokuni (Fyrulosor) would be, on Looktop Cliff. Furosoto flapped his wings through the cold air, squinting as the Tundra took its typical toll on flying. In the Tundra, moving was 4 parts effort to 1 part purpose.

The horizon slowly changed to a grey, dull visage, to accompany the cruel flames. The Barioth twitched angrily as he descended to Looktop Cliff. He saw Fyrulosor approaching the exit, and dashed towards him.

"Yo...You....You're.. *gasp* Fyrulo...sor...right...!?" The Barioth choked out.

"..Yes, Tundra Wyvern. What do you need?" Fyrulosor responded slowly.

"...I want to join the Wyverns For Peace. I... I have seen my home destroyed. Will you accept me, mighty emperor of Wyverns?" The Barioth stated.

"By all means, Tundra Wyvern. But I must ask your name." Fyrulosor told him.

"Furosoto. That is my name." Furosoto calmly said.

"Furusutu. Correct?" Fyrulosor tested.

"...No sir, it is Furosoto. Not Furusutu." The Barioth began, irritated.

But Fyrulosor was testing him. He cut in again: "And what will you do if I refuse to call you such?" he calmly stated.

"I will beat you, my king." The Barioth exclaimed angrily.

"PROVE IT! PROVE IT NOW, WYVERN, FURUSUTU!" Fyrulosor roared.

The angry Barioth blasted a tornado of freezing air at the aware Fyrulosor, who dodged it easily. Furosoto decided to cut in to a different approach; charging and blasting, a technique he had learned from Rathian and Rathalos watches in old forests. The Fyrulosor did not expect this, and he reeled in astonishment. He attempted a charge of his own, which the Barioth narrowly dodged.

"...Enough! You have proven yourself. You are worthy of your true name, Furosoto." The Fyrulosor began.

"Thank you, Master." The Barioth replied.

"You shall join our forces, and aid us in guiding them. You are our first new recruit." Fyrulosor said.

"Very well." Furosoto gladly growled.

On Looktop Plateau...

A Fairunokku stood glancing all around his home. He was not surprised to wake up to the old stones and trees burned and tossed. He slowly made his way towards the Wyvern Dome, where the Wyvern Council was meeting. He was to call the meeting while Fyrulosor took attendance.

He took his place on the stage and roared twice to draw their attention. He began to speak, introducing Fyrulosor.

"And now, the Emperor of Wyverns, the ancient king himself, Fyrulosor!" The Fairunokku said.

"Thank you, Fulgur. Now, all of you well know our issue... We must rebuild our home, and contemplate retaliation. These wounds the Guild has dealt us are like nothing else. They want nothing besides destruction for our peaceful land. We must rise against them. It is our only hope to survive!" Fyrulosor began.

The crowd cheered zealously with those words, and Fyrulosor used them as leverage to continue.

"So, here is my plan of action. We rally our greatest forces into one army, and we go forth at the end of the half-year. We have until then to gather our forces. I shall select three generals to gather this military. One will be for the ground, one for the water. Barioth, Furosoto of the Tundra. I summon you to be our commander of the Land. Blaze, Rathalos of . I summon you to be our commander of air. And Fulgur...you shall assist them both." Fyrulosor broadly said, smiling at his choices.

Somewhere on Dragon Bay...

A giant red shape blotted out the sun over a large rock for a moment. The "rock" was a brilliant color, strange for the rocks this close to the bay. The blot was none other than the Flying Army's general, Blaze. He landed next to the shape, and roared for attention from all creatures.

But there was another shape coming as well; a Barioth, Furosoto to be exact. They were coming to recruit more soldiers into their king's military force, and figured Dragon Bay would be a good start, for most of the beings there were brave, stubborn, and powerful.

"Attention, all flying wyverns and land wyverns of any sort! We require every young male to join our military. Any that have reached maturity, come forth!" The Rathalos shouted.

"Come at once, land wyverns, for I shall recruit you into Fyrulosor's army of Land!" Furosoto shouted.

Nothing.

"WE SAY COME FORTH, NOW!" They shouted in unison.

Furosoto, as he roared, knocked over the "stone". Several legs emerged from it and a wild-looking face, too.

"What......what on fucking DORAGOKUNI could be SO FRICKING IMPORTANT!?" The Hermitaur exclaimed.

"Join us, young Carapaceon!" Furosoto began.

"No! I'm a peace lover. I want to stay here, with my friend Setheo. I'm Taur, nice to meet you... And your name is?" Taur asked.

"....Hmph. A crab in an army...quite trying, aren't we, Furosoto?" Blaze chuckled.

"Oh, shut up. You Raths are so arrogant." Taur said angrily.

"And you crabs are rather irritating, no? Yes, very similar to the likes of a vespoid or bnahabra, you are." The Rathalos growled.

"Say as you may, I shall never falter." Taur said, quoting the words of his father.

"Be at peace, Lord Blaze. Master Taur, I am Furosoto and that is Blaze. You know each other, I presume. Now, join us. We require you." Furosoto explained.

"Only if I may bring Setheo." The crab slowly said.

Just then, out of the water from which it had been listening, a great Piscine Wyvern shot out.

"I'm Setheo," The Piscine began. "and Taur, are you out of your mind!? We don't care what they do, huh? It sure as hell seems you do!!!!" Setheo ragingly finished.

The Rathalos glared at the Piscine wyvern, but backed down upon realizing he was in fact a Plesioth, which his kind (in secret) hated and feared with deathly passion.

"Taur, we've everything we need here. You are staying. Don't argue." Setheo coldly said.

"...Well...Won't the wars come for Dragon Bay eventually, Setheo?" Taur said.

"...Yes...But....Gah, you're going, are you not?" Setheo sadly allowed himself to say.

"...Ayep. I am. Coming, Setheo?" Taur asked.

"..If I don't you'll fucking die, so yeah, I am." Setheo said, grimacing.

"Ha, a Plesioth guarding a Hermitaur instead of feeding upon the likes of him! How entertaining!" Blaze said.

"Shut your mouth, fire wyvern." Setheo breathed, like breath of the tundra.

No further words were mentioned.

In the Nightfire Forest...

Several figures came through what remained of the woods. There were two flying wyverns, one swimming through a river that went through the woods, one a crab. It was the army of Fyrulosor, having come searching for more soldiers.

"Awaken, all Land Wyverns!" Furosoto said.

"But no Hermitaurs, we have one too many!" Blaze shouted back.

"That's it, I've had enough. Shut the hell up, now." Taur said.

"And you shall do what, little master, if I refuse?" Blaze questioned.

The next events happened in a flash. The end product was a Rathalos with one less head spike. In his immense rage, Taur had punched him in the face, extremely hard.

From that point on, Blaze had a presumed silent respect for Taur. "I'll do that, big, stupid wyvern." Taur angrily hissed.

Furosoto watched with silent enthusiasm, thoroughly entertained by the spectacle.

"All right, all land wyverns!" Furosoto said again, louder.

From out of nowhere, all sorts of massive wyverns appeared. Forest Barroth, Duramboros, Brachydios, Great Jaggi, Great Wroggi, and an array of others appeared.

And then something appeared that sent the wits from all of them. (They still joined the forces, for they knew the drill-war had, after all, set in before). It was a Garigia, the mighty tree-wyvern that was thought extinct.

"Who dare set foot in Gargair Forest!?" The tree roared.

"That would be I, Master Gargair. We require aid from the likes of those here in the forest. Do pardon us, and allow us passage." Blaze said.

"Prove yourself. At arms!" The tree shouted, slamming his arms at the Rathalos.

Blaze flew back and launched fireballs at the tree, which he batted away like flies. However, there was one that hit him square in the face. He reeled, and relented.

"...At ease. Very well. I wish only for peace. You have my leave. Take this as proof..." He said, producing a perfectly round orb of glowing dark green. He then placed it on Blaze's head, instantly giving him a Crown of The Forests-an ancient status symbol worn by the rulers of Doragokuni's Forests.

"Thank you, Lord Gargair." The Rathalos said respectfully.

"It is time for us to go to our last destination, into the Blazing Mountain." Blaze said.

In the Blazing Mountain...Near Alatreon's nest...

"Alatreon! I summon thee! Cometh from thine fortress!" Fyrulosor, who had came along this time, shouted in the old tongue.

"Under what command, Master Fyrulosor?" A dark voice replied from the shadows.

"The command of the Wyvern Council!" Fyrulosor slowly pronounced, remembering the old Alatreon's bad ears.

"Showeth thine proof!" The Alatreon called.

Fyrulosor produced from his horns a crown of obsidian, a scepter of wood, and a blade of water and shell. He allowed the Alatreon to summon it to him, the Elder Dragon utilizing his power of magnetism to bring it forth.

"...Very well, well indeed," The Alatreon began. "My name is Tenebra. I am the wisest of the Elde in Doragokuni. What bringeth thy to my fortress of stone?" Tenebra finished.

"We must have your aid, Elder. War is upon us. We fight the Hunter's Guild." Fyrulosor told him.

Tenebra walked out of the cavern in which he had taken to staying, and they finally got a good look at him. His horns were scratched and scarred from battle, and his face was ragged. On his legs, the claws were outgrown and blood-red from the lava of his nest. His chest was all but ripped, and the spikes had been dulled over the years. However, they all knew that under this seemingly fragile exterior was an ancient, wise, and demonic killing machine, if he so chose to be.

"...I am old, Fyrulosor. I am not able to fight as I once was, and you still ask me to fight a war? Have pity on an old dragon!" Tenebra said quietly, so his comrades in his cave (little known to the Wyvern Council) would not hear.

"Please, Tenebra. I beg of you." Fyrulosor cried.

"You cannot expect me to do this thing! I have my own lands to guard!" Tenebra growled angrily.

"You do not understand. If the West falls, all lands-including your peaceful Volcano-will fall in ruin. This Hunting guild cares not." Fyrulosor said quietly, the last few words falling like great stones in an avalanche.

"...Ah well... I will come. But do not expect much fighting. I am more of a navigator, an advisor, and a magicmaker." Tenebra relented.

Suddenly, much to the surprise of the Wyverns, a young human dressed in Alatreon scales came out of the cave, accompanied by a long and serpentine pseudowyvern-leviathan. The hunters instantly readied themselves for battle.

"No! Wait! I am on the side of the Wyvern Council!! I am the Descendant of Fyrulosor! My name is Kir." The girl shouted as Blaze lifted up on his wings and began to ready a fireball.

The Rathalos descended, blushing, much to the entertainment of Taur.

"As am I." The Ferrok told them.

"Very well, join us, so we may leave!" Furosoto growled. He hated Volcanoes, fitting of a Barioth.

And so the wyverns gathered all flew back to the Hall of the Wyvern Council. Two months had passed.

Chapter 2

"To order! To order, all the Wyverns!" Fyrulosor roared into the horn.

The Wyverns in the hall slowly calmed, listening to Fyrulosor's words. Taur, Blaze, Furosoto, and Setheo climbed upon the stage and recited their speeches. Each made the crowd even stronger and more excited, and as Setheo finished his, the crowd was in an uproar. When Fyrulosor took the stage, and finished, however, it became a plain furor. Eventually, the wyverns settled and the speakers left, headed for the Guild Gate.

The wyverns were flying, jumping, and swimming each in their own way to the Dead Valley, the only land standing between mainland Doragokuni and the Guild Gate. There were the mountains, of course, but they were not to be worried about; Fyrulosor ruled them and opened the mines at need, allowing them to pass easily under the land formations.

Finally, they reached Dead Valley. They set up a camp for the night, which had descended upon them like a wraith. The fire wyverns kept a fire going, and the rest kept guard. While they were tired, they had enough energy to sing an ancient warring melody:

Wyverns of War

All wyverns unite

Right through the cold

We shall fight;

Till we are too old.

Now all dragons are here

Our night is nigh

We needn't fear;

We are but of power high

All quake in sight

Of our mighty force

For we are the might

and the strength of the storm.

The night seemed to go on forever. The wyverns swapped guards several times through the night, each one retiring as soon as they lost full alertness. The flames of the Guild Gate watchtowers licked the sky, visible from Death Valley. All of the wyverns glanced at each other in worry. They knew that this was their sole chance.

The next morning, they awoke to the beating of fell wings. From Blaze's glance and immediate look of fear, the entire platoon of wyverns was alerted to the presence of it. They all turned, all one hundred plus of them. The wyvern and his rider, a young-looking hunter wearing some sort of strange Guild armor topped by a wondrous tricorne, barely noticed. They did look, however, and laughed gutturally at the wyverns.

"Dare ye swipe a look at us? Thine eyes be dirt, and thine minds, they be of shame! Lower thy look, foolish ones." The human growled at Fyrulosor.

"...I fear thee not." Fyrulosor said.

"Perhas, but ye might as wel'n't; aye, I be the mightiest man ye ever seen. The most deadly the ye evar did meet. Yer nothing to me. My name is Artex, and ye shall fear me or die!" The tricorne donned man laughed.

It was at this point in which a watching Nargacuga decided she had enough. Aiming carefully and making her way through the tall grass, she aimed at the tricorne sitting royally atop Artex's head. She blasted a tail spike, launching the tricorne away. He yelped and backflipped off of his mount, running towards the hat. The "young" man was too slow for an observant Tigrex, however, as it pounced and took the tricorne in its jaws.

"My hat! That be part of my armor! Give it back!" He demanded as the Tigrex used a roar to blast it across the plains.

"Fetch, bitch." The Tigrex said.

Artex glared angrily and motioned the Coilron away. Pleased by the direct follow of his command, he turned back to the wyverns. He spat at the Tigrex, and drew his blades, a pair of Jhen Mohran weapons that were likely custom built to his preference.

The Tigrex took a battle stance, and roared at the Guild hunter. The hunter, with his grand talisman, passed right through the roar, and slashed the wyvern's face. The Tigrex wasn't phased, as he had dealt with this sort before; they weren't affected by much, but when you could hurt them, they took quite a bit of damage. Tigrex growled, almost laughing, and lunged at Artex.

Artex half expected this, and dodged it easily. He slashed again at the Tigrex, full of energy from a pre-consumed Dash Juice. He looked carefully at his watch, realizing the dash juice had about five minutes left. A burning red entered his eyes as his body entered Demonization mode. He slashed angrily, demonically, at the Pseudowyvern. A gash in its wing developed as the powerful weapons sliced through, and Tigrex wailed in dismay. Artex heard this not as he delivered a fatal blow to the head of the Tigrex.

Tigrex angrily spat blood, and body slammed Artex. Artex righted himself quickly, and lunged again at the wyvern. By this time, the Nargacuga finally came back to its senses from the roar, which it had gotten too close to. It gave a forgiving look at Tigrex, who responded with an apology. The Nargacuga began to hack at Artex with its powerful wings, leaving dents in the guild armor. Artex gripped for his Blademaster pouch, and grappled a perfectly round, spiked blade from it, and launched it rapidly into the mouth of the Nargacuga. She cried and winced at the amazing pain, and retaliated by lunging blindly at Artex. He felt the move full force, and was launched back. When he finally got up, the two wyverns stood over him.

They reared up, and both readied bloody attacks; the Tigrex was going to attempt to crush him with sheer weight, and Nargacuga intended to spear him with her wing razors.

The fell move almost ended the life of Artex...

But at the last moment, the Coilron arrived. He grabbed Artex in his talons, flying him a few feet away and placing back his tricorne. Artex smiled evilly, commanding the Coilron (in the Wyvernian tongue) to kill them. The Coilron faced no opposition, as they were still wedged in the ground. He quickly ended their life with a burst of thunder from his horns, and descended on his weak legs, to take meat from both of them. He smiled a psychopathic grin as he ate.

Chapter 3: Arrival and War

The Guild Gate was before them, and it glared at them with its hateful panels of stone. The doors opened slowly as Tuskurai slowly walked out, accompanied by Artex, in a new and improved armor set. They glared hatefully at the wyverns, searing hate through them as a blade would, with the force of ancient powers.

"Welcome to my fortress." Tuskurai said quietly. "I did not expect you so early. You come already to give up?" He finished.

"...Your wisdom recedes, Tuskurai. For art thou not the wisest of elder dragons? Surely you wouldst know the reasons we cometh to thine fortress. What hath changed thee unto thine form, where thy cannot museth a reason? Hath thy truly been lowered? Finally, what giveth thy the power and ability to overrule an ancient ancestor land such as ours?" Fyrulosor replied softly.

"And why is that? Allow me, Fyrulosor, to tell you a tale of ancient strifes." Tuskurai began.

"Long ago...My people...our people......the Elder Dragons... were betrayed, Fyrulosor of Doragokuni. They were betrayed by the Guild, who, at one point, were allies with wyverns. The Guild warred with them, overrunning Doragokuni as if it were nothing. They trampled our people and killed many of them. Now, I stand with them, as they are conquered. How can I? I have conquered them and their ancient ways. You...You betray the race of Elder Dragons. You rise against us, and attempt to conquer our people. Do you not remember your race's roots? We were once wyverns ourselves, and the humans were our comrades. The force I use, you ask? Surely you do not believe it is...our old magic and power?" Tuskurai began his story.

"Indeed I do." Fyrulosor told him.

"Wrong! This power is given to me by my comrade and fell sorcerer, Necromancer of Wyverns, Darkness Swimmer, Shadow Bender, Dragon Feared... The Fatalis. It is the power to build an empire over you traitors, and to invade at will...and finally...to take over the entire surrounding regions, from the Central World to the Minegarde Region. I shall first conquer the rest of Moga...and then I shall conquer...I shall invade and conquer Minegarde...and finally....The Central World. Then and only shall I be satisfied." Tuskurai finished.

"None of this shall come to pass... for you shall not live to see it. All Wyverns at arms! All wyverns, charge!" Fyrulosor roared.

There a bloodiest battle ensued. Tuskurai expected none of the hordes of anti-guild wyverns that appeared from over the horizon at the end of Fyrulosor's roar, and he flew off early, deciding to spare himself from the torture. He did, however, leave Artex to deal with Fyrulosor, who was commanding in his humanoid form, very similar to a human.

Artex growled angrily at Fyrulosor, lunging at him with his two blades. Fyrulosor gave him a deathly glare, drawing his Dark Claw "Demise" and slashing to the east, ripping a small gash in the Guild armor. Artex grimaced and threw one of his blades at his side, slicing through the wonderful golden hair of Fyrulosor. He choked out a growl before launching at Artex, spearing him in the side with his Long Sword.

Artex's blood dripped heavily from the wound, but he did naught to it save for heal it with a mega potion (his last) and drew out a dagger from his hand that was caught too close to the blade and thus was injured. He sheathed his now-useless dual blade as he did so, placing it carefully on the hook which he mounted on his back. He growled and the blade glowed with power, as did his armor. Artex laughed as he ran to Fyrulosor, jumping over him and slicing his back in three strokes. Fyrulosor, meanwhile, had concentrated on an especially irritating Jaggi from the Guild's side.

Fyrulosor tried to cry out, but could not as the knife split across his back and into his lungs, and thus to his heart. His mind fluttered and he turned to Artex. Roaring, he began another onslaught, cutting Artex in several places, and denting his armor. The man still challenged him, much to Fyrulosor's surprise. He finally decided to end it, as he called down his archers.

His fighters he brought were not any semblance of a normal man. They were ruined, and goblin-like, more reptile than man. They growled, and when spoken to replied with burps and yelps, but rarely anything resembling common speech. The ones who could speak were larger, and they perhaps were different than the others. They commanded their underlings with a cruel language which some said was an ancient, ugly, and spoiled variation of the language of the Liméstæn. They also threatened all in their path with their ugly speaking of English. They were known as Ruknurk.

It just so happened that his deadliest one, Drimbul, dropped to a tower that had been brought up in the middle of the field, and angled towards the battling duo of Fyrulosor and Artex. Drimbul took a careful aim at Fyrulosor, loosing an arrow into his chest. He fell backwards, panting as Artex gathered himself, waiting for the onslaught of self-power to slow. Artex rose and began again, when Fyrulosor righted himself.

That was when the most unlikely of things happened. One of the most ancient demons of the world, known simply as the Unmentionable Abomination, came lumbering into the battlefield. He growled his unbearable cry to the field, enticing fear to the hearts of men and wyvern alike. The monster drug around his mace, searching for the remaining wyverns who could prove a challenge for him. Noticing Fyrulosor and recognizing him immediately, he walked at him. Fyrulosor got up and with a mighty stroke felled several Ruknurk, before he was smote with another arrow.

He finally managed to get up one last time, engaging the Abomination. He slashed across the beast's belly, encouraging it to roar and slam his mace into the ground near him. Fyrulosor stabbed the beast, allowing blood to pour out while he battled it. Finally, a fell kick from Drimbul ended the battle, sending Fyrulosor to his knees. Fyrulosor commanded a nearby Duramboros to slay the beast, and watched as Drimbul nocked another arrow, ready to end his life. Before Fyrulosor died, he saw the saddest thing he had ever seen. His supposed allies and friends, the Liméstæn, approached over the horizon, on the cliff. Fyrulosor smiled for a moment, before catching the Liméstæn kings, Ellnor's, eyes. Ellnor gave him a look of pity and shook his head, muttering a silent prayer of fortune to Fyrulosor. Finally, he turned his people around, and headed back. In his prayer were these words:

O, Master Fyrulosor! Forgive our haste We must leave this battle And we mustn't ourselves waste

Our people grow thin In number and blood The new might of men Is but might of mud.

We must now away Ere break of day So we may come again to help some day.

Fyrulosor and his people never forgot this. To this day, it is said they cannot bring themselves to talk to any Liméstæn until they get to know them; this is a paradox, of course, that almost prohibits them from socializing completely. However, you will see how they did help, later.

The arrow pierced Fyrulosor like a heathen blade of old, finally reaching his frail heart. His men and wyverns fought on, oblivious to their lord's condition. In his last breath, Fyrulosor told his men to not forget him, and never forget the Limestaen who did not help them, and to fight until they could not hope to any longer. Finally, Fyrulosor the Silver Dragon was dead.

Upon the ground, his wyverns cried their mourning. The ground shook, the earth quaked, and for a few minutes, all were in furor, and it seemed that the Doragokuni Wyverns may win after all unlikeliness.

But it was not meant to be. The Duramboros and Abomination were still fighting. Suddenly, the Abomination slew the Duramboros and continued towards the masses of wyverns and men alike who were fighting. There was no hope left.

"THE SILVER ONE HAS FALLEN! FALL BACK! I REPEAT, FALL BACK!" Fulgur said, blowing the great horn of Fyrulosor to rally them and call them to attention.

"TO THE MOUNTAIN CAVES! ALL, GO TO THE TENEBROUS CAVERNS, THE WYVERNMINES! FALL BACK! DORAGOKUNI, LAND OF WYVERNS, HAS FALLEN! ALL IS LOST!" He shouted above the furor.

Inside the Tenebrous Caves, the wyverns rallied and began to deliberate in Wyvernian about what to do next. They looked around at each other. There were twenty of them left.

"Is this truly what we have to stand against Drimrud*?" Asked Beema, a young but clever wyvern who knew the history of Moga and Doragokuni. He was a Zinogre, very aggressive but very kind to a point. By now, everyone knew him, and his fighting skills, what of them he had that he could use after the battle.

"So it is. For now, we must deliberate. Do we choose a new leader, and restart our lives in Doragokuni, or do the former and simply go into battle again? I, myself, prefer the first idea. We do not have number nor knowledge to simply battle them again. Even if we attempt to assassinate the King of Darkness, Tuskurai, one does not simply walk in to Drimrud. There are huge gates, which you lot have seen. It is surrounded by a wall, a great wall, and mountains. It is folly to try to fight them once more." Blaze said.

"Indeed....We must choose a new leader. It should be Fulgur. All in agreement?" Furosoto asked.

All raised their wings and paws for yes. Thus Fulgur son of Rulgun was made the Second Lord of Doragokuni.

Chapter 4: Rebuilding

Long years passed. Fulgur's line continued through the ages. They rebuilt Doragokuni, using the old wisdom and the materials that had been left. Forests were replanted; mountains were again sown with the seeds of industry by the Eduri, a folk that shall be explained much later; beaches again were graced with the hard shells and smooth scales of Carapaceons and Piscine Wyverns; again were the skies populated by Rathalos and Rathian, watching their nests, picking meals, and guarding the land.

For two hundred years the land was guarded by Liméstæn rangers who apologized to the line of Fulgur (and, when the time came, the line of Fyrulosor, though at this time all believed them dead). The Guild left them to their devices, though their arm lurked ever closer, watching with the threat of war. Many left Doragokuni, in hopes for a better land known as the Tiel Lands, an ancient haven in which death simply did not occur. Many more, however, stayed, and made new life among the Liméstæn and the other wyverns among them.

Thus passed good ages. Five hundred years passed since the death of Fyrulosor, and it no longer hung over their heads. They remembered him well in song and tale, but never again did someone assume the blame of his death. Until the child of Fyrulosor came of age and ventured to his destiny, no one even spoke of who could have caused Artex to have slain Fyrulosor. But when Fyrul the Second was born, he quickly came of age and requested to know where he could find his father. He, of course, searched in vain for years upon years, without luck, before he was finally told at the ripe young age of 60 that his father died in the ancient wars.

By this time, he had gotten over the death of his father. His ancestral home on the Plains of Arrur, known as the Dale of Doragokuni, had passed to him after his mother's death, and he lived their as a human for many years. At the still very young age of 74, a wandering wise one by the name of Elrasil came to him, bearing with him a scrap of his father's (and little to his knowledge an actual part of Tuskurai) legacy. Fyrul II knew well of Elrasil; they were great friends through many dangers. Elrasil came very welcome to Fyrul, but not the rest of Dalur (the shortened name of Dale of Doragokuni).

You see, there is something I must explain before continuing. Elrasil was one of the three that convinced Fyrul II to go on his assorted adventures for his father. For this, Elrasil was labeled as a "disturber of the peace". He rarely came to Dalur, and came for short times-the inhabitants were no trouble and caused him no problems, but he did find it amusing and somewhat unsettling that they viewed him so darkly because of his "disturbing the peace". When he did come, however, he had the respect and love of one group; the children.

As Elrasil made his slow way on his horse-drawn cart, bumping and bumbling along, many children picked up his trail. He laughed and released some of his treasure, some beautiful friendly insects. The children laughed and screamed and some ran for and others ran from the insects! It was truly a sight.

At this time, Fyrul noticed him from afar, while he was sitting on his porch. He recognized him instantly and rushed to greet him. The young man jumped over log and stream, running swiftly to greet the old conjurer. He finally reached the old man's cart as he was rounding Fullriver Bend. "...You're...Early! That's a first, my friend." He laughed. "..." was the silent respond of Elrasil. "...Fyrul of Dalur... An Earthweaver is never early. He is never late. He simply comes as he goes and goes as he comes and he comes and goes as he pleases, which involves quite a bit of coming and going at whatever time." The old man grumbled, looking up at Fyrul with wizened eyes under stiff brows.

"...well..." Fyrul began. The man began to grumble again, but a smile reached his wise old face wrinkled with age, and he-they-laughed together for a full five minutes. "Elrasil!!! It's wonderful to see you again!!" Fyrul yelled, jumping into Elrasil's cart. "Oh-ho-ho, my boy! It's excellent to see you're still jumping! I would have expected you to mellow down by now," he began, coughing lowly, "but I don't suppose I should expect that out of what Dalur folk do decide to rustle themselves, like you." He continued, laughing. "So! Tell me everything. All news of the world." Fyrul said happily. "Everything...Oh...That's a wide order...very inquisitive for a Dalurian. Ah well, what can I tell you..." He began.

"Things go on in the wide world much as they always have, and likely always will. The great eyes of our enemies on the other side of the mountains have yet to see anything this far..." He continued, breathing under his breath "and for that we have but thanks." He said. The old Earthweaver continued. "It seems the Gate may be breaking down. Our good friends the Limestaen should be able to tear it down with little-if any-opposition, for it seems the Guild has left its hall there." He told him.

"Ah, well, that's good news! Perhaps we'll be able to go see all of the country at some point, aye?" Fyrul laughed. "Well, of course!" Elrasil laughed. "You can't expect me to let your old uncle take care of you forever. Besides that, you wouldn't expect me to miss Gladril's birthday, surely! He's 200 today! A very odd age for any of you folk." He continued, chuckling. Then, whispering under his breath, he made a note-"and an age which I find very curious..so curious that I should like to investigate it." He muttered, Fyrul taking no notice. "I'm quite happy that you've returned, and none too quickly to boot!" Fyrul said, grinning and jumping off the cart.

The cart rolled for a way before stopping at a huge shade tree under the shadow of a great rising hill. It stood amidst the ivy and white rose-bushes and rose up to a giddy height. Or so it was to any who looked upon it; for it was fair through all the years and this fairness was not dampened by the architecture. The ancient home of the Fyron family had never been forgotten, not in all the years which they long prevailed as the chief leaders of the town where the house had been built.

The home itself was delved through rock and stone, and earth, directly into the side of the hill. On the green, grassy, smooth hill itself, which was quite large and akin rather to a volcanic cone in steepness and rise, there was a shallow terrace cut that wound about the western side of the hill and ended on the east. It ended directly on top, right on the tree which stood above the house, offering shade for any who would sit under its cool eaves. The roots, deep though they were, had been manipulated to stretch around and sometimes through the house to offer strength and furnishing as needed, though this had been rare in construction. It had not grown since, due partially to the impossibility of such.

In the terrace was laid a deep comb that stretched into the wide hilltop. The well-kept cut was always filled with the flowers and the garden of its keeper, who tended to hire young farm-lads to care for it. With this generation, arendii (an old Limestaen plant), forget-me-nots, roses, and peonies and lilies had been planted. A small stream flowed through them, for at the top of the wide and strong hill there ran a spring. It ran straight from the very foundations of the earth and emptied into the Deeping Stream, which in turn emptied into the River Sendeol, and that empties into the ancient seas. If one walked from this point, where the garden and entry door stood, across the house unto the other side, which opened to little more than a vent for old lungs, you walked no more than twenty feet. It was perhaps lacking in space, but the rooms had been manipulated for use-and it had several stories, each one in turn supported by tree roots. Trees surrounded this place and lent their strength to whomever would use it.

Inside, the house was all wood-and-stone, with nary a patch nor spot of earthen make to be seen, save where roots peeked out from their hiding places in the deep roots of the world. The wood had been laid carefully so that you could not seperate the pieces, not by any strength yet left in the world. Their foundations were smooth and the laying was smoother, stretching across the hallowed walls into older times when the home had been seemingly wrought from earth itself long ago. It was pleasant. From the north, three windows looked out onto the old Wyvern Hall and past, into the Central World's distant edge-wood. To the East, the fires of the guild were long seen before the good wind from the forest drove the smoke from it away, and the guild gave up its post there to save funds for more important and rewarding conquest. From the South, one could see the mists of the ocean, if you had the eyes of Fyrulosor the Old. None yet had. Some, however, utilized devices of every make to see from this view, this highest hill in all Dalur. From the West...Few had dared look there for any length, but those who did told of an ancient land on their borders, where deadly wyverns had yet to move themselves.

There were no windows or out-ways doors on the lower floors, but there were many more rooms. Only one floor had the semblance of an outward vent, and it was only open during certain times of year when that part of the house (which was used for cooking large meals and storage) was in use and required need of quick cooling. Otherwise, it stayed stone-cold and did not change for weather nor temperature. Some called it a stronghold of the Fyron Family for its lower stories, the first of which, aforementioned, contained food and storage. The lowest story, however, was even deeper than the base of the hill and had been built first, some say. In the darkness underneath Dalur, an ancient path to the Wyvern Hall had been built and long had it been guarded, left to none outside the Fyron Family.

The man slowly rose, and got out of his cart, looking beaten by the harsh weather he had endured. He knocked on the old, black, solemn door and called for Fyruon. After roughly five minutes of a wait, he knocked again. "FYRUON FYRON, OPEN THIS BLACK DOOR OR I SHALL BLOW IT FROM THE WEST WALL TO THE EAST!" he roared, to catch the old man-wyvern's attention. "Gah, hold yer tongue, lad! I'm comin'!!" A cranky voice answered. "I am no lad." Elrasil answered. "All you Branards are lads, or I be but a lad meself!" He yelled from the cellar. "Nor am I a Branard." The old man laughed. "I'm coming, quit it." He said, finally closing in on the door. Without a moment's wait, the knob quickly spun and out lurched an incredibly tall man-wyvern. "...Elrasil? Surely it isn't he, no one's seen him around these parts for one hundred years on the least!" Fyruon mumbled. "Alas, my dear wyvern. It is I. And I return at the time most needed, I warrant." He replied, in a laugh. "Yes, yes, but please, do come in! I've got some ale in the cellar; I was just fetching a barrel." The man-wyvern told him. "Yes, do you need any help with it?" Elrasil called after him. "No, no, I'm fine!" he responded.

It was a few minutes before he responded, and came back up the stairs carrying a barrel of ale. Opening a cork in the side, he leaned it on the rim and poured him a pint. "Please, do make yourself at home, if it can be called such, old Elrasil!" Fyruon said, grinning. "It is as homelike as many a place I have stayed ere I came." Replied Elrasil, bitterly shaking at his encounter with a Kurora in the Forest just east of the land of Dalur, and over the Plateau of Dalur. "Ah! Good then! Now, sit, and we'll talk." Fyruon poured himself a pint of ale, sitting back on a bench and kicking his feet onto the table, made of expensive dragonwood. "Well, go on!" He laughed.

"You're just as inquisitive as your nephew." Came Elrasil, intent on changing subjects. "That may be so, but perhaps I could judge better if you would give me news of your journey! At least, give me news this side of the Stone!" (The Stone was a byword for the Mountain range that divides Doragokuni.) the old wyvern demanded. "Fine then! I will do as you please. Ah, where to start..." and thus began his telling of his journey. Following is the account of it from his point of view.

Elrasil climbed down the stony ledge that jutted towards the Swamplands, atop Leamen Amen, Mountain Crescent. It was the west end of the Stone, or, as better known in Elder Tongues, the Leamen Arie. The stone ledge itself was actually part of the Leamen Stairway; it had fallen into decay and now on occasion pieces would fall apart and crumble. Jaggi, Qurupeco, Kurora, and other mountain creatures were no help for this decay, causing much damage and spreading of debris. To his right stood the path that lead directly down into the Swamp, and thence through the narrow trade routes that carried goods from the East Leamen Arie to the West Leamen Arie, and thence north-west through the Unqare Swampland. Then, the path turned due north, and thus came to the Old Tower, within which stood a ramp that wound for many miles upwards. Then, a bridge built in the prime of the Limestaen transferred the traffic from the Old Tower to the Plateau. There was also an ancient staircase that was made under the span of the bridge, atop an ancient natural causeway.

To his left yawned the Chlorhe Downs, an area renowned for chasms, small streams, and a river. They were covered by dense forests of dragonwood and oak, with occasional pine and elm, and were considered sacred to many who lived around them-primarily due to hunting there, which was exceptional for any area of them. The forest was also thick and green throughout the year, housing many animals and monsters that keep it alive and awake year-round.

But he knew his path was to his front, which had no path. Indeed, though a staircase grandly had been built there long ago, long wars and monster abuse-as well as a tendency for fighting-slowly destroyed the ancient hall that led down between the downs and the swamp, and this area was known as the Dale of Numenrui. Dark was the name of the Dale of Numenrui, which was but a very narrow valley below sea level that gathered the brunt of evil and war; for when the tribes of Numenrui (of which they were named; Numenrui is Limestaen for Lost.) would war against the Plateau tribes, both sides had equal advantage, such as the end of the Dale being within shooting range of the Rockfence, a low jutting path of rock delved right into the side of the Plateau, offering bowmen a safe area of shooting and offering defense to the upper stories. However, from the East side, the Numenruians had the masses of rocks to hide and to throw and to shoot from, and they controlled a good deal of the Downs, which they cut some for wood and others for equipment. Some of course were left as a last defense, and it was known that a series of bridge networks and small homes were set up in the strong trees-and there the ancient places remain, devoid of human life but full of that of animals.

So he descended down the first broken and faded step, covered in old blood from various wars and hunts, not to mention guard fights. There was a mile-long journey completely down to get to the area where the Hall ended, and were less stones had been scattered. At the pace the Earthweaver had to go, it took roughly an hour's worth of a descent to get him to the final place where he could rest. Here, where part of the arch remained and the doors ever closed stood guarding their lands, symbols of the strength of old. Elrasil rested under the shadow of these doors, the deepening shade comforting him. As he noticed, it was getting later with every minute he spent under the arch; he got up again, and began another descent down the hill. Elrasil covered roughly two miles in an hour in this way, still going down the slope until he finally reached the Easternmette, the east arch-doorway of the Numenrui Stone-fence that surrounded the valley (though not all the way around, just the East and West ernmette. Any who dared come from the north or south was deemed worthy to come within the borders, anyway.). Finally, he took his rest for the night and drunk another sip of his Jhen-liquor, provided to him in a gallon's worth when he had passed through the Mohran Tribe's desert. For the most part, Elrasil preferred water, but as none could be found that was viable for drinking, he drunk the liquor. It was soft, and sweet, as if borne upon the wings of spring and yet strengthened with years of hard sand; it was a very empowering drink all around, and well-loved by all.

He set no guard, not even asking his Felyne to watch. A general rule with him traveling was that nothing is forced to lay awake while others lay asleep. This was no exception, if not less, as no living creature to date had been seen after Bloodreign. There, all living things in the valley were hunted and tortured and mutilated before being released, in attempts to breed Shadowed versions of monsters. But none have come to pass. The night passed uneventfully and the morning dawned with the light of the sun swimming through the bars of the Easternmette. Elrasil got up, and, stretching, he picked up his sword-n-shield, and set out again. This time, they were to take a road ten miles straight down the valley, until they got to the Westernmette, in which they would board for a night at the House of Flight, a local inn.

They set out at once, walking swiftly past the archway and down the seemingly solid and well-built (not to mention well-kept by the weather) stone steps, that descended around several trees and into a great path between two mighty rock faces-the beginnings of the Chlorhe Downs. The steps wound down from the archway directly to a split in paths, where the Limestaen had quite a few battles, especially with the monsters of the Downs and the neighboring tribes that sought to war with them, in false attempts to take their fortunes and people-as well as gain ownership over their lands. Here the Limestaen, in the days of their youth and the building of this way, had tarried; signs of their population were everywhere.

Elrasil looked ahead of him, straight into the sudden massive stone that frowned upon him now; he placed one of his hands on the stone and spoke a few words. The great pillar change shape and color, revealing a great many relatively smaller stones and boulders around it. They stood around the outer edge of the left and right paths. Another arch opened up in the door; Elrasil ignored it and they rested there for a moment, pondering. "...Long years has it been since I have passed through Outer Leamen Arie, and I have lost memory of this place, Harna." he mumbled to his felyne, who pricked her ears at his gruff-but kind-voice. "Nya! I have never been here! Don't look at meow!" Harna sweetly mewed, sharpening her small sword. Elrasil got up and paced a few steps ahead, looking around at the bushes before turning and contemplating the two paths. Suddenly, as if struck down, he fell to his knees and searched within himself.

Chapter 5-All is Dark

For a long time he did not speak. Then his voice came, as if speaking from the Stone themselves. "All is dark...and I cannot see ahead. I have no memory of these paths." He rumbled. Then he began to sing.

My path is dark
 * The way is ahead

The stones lack mark
 * Known things are said

Our path ends near
 * And fires clear

To all ends thither
 * I cannot see.

For a long time, he was silent. Then, with a cock of his head, he got up slowly, picking up his things. "Harna," he called, "come! We set out northwest." He muttered, beginning their walk into the descent. The path swiftly went between to rising rock walls, and they continued marching for several hours, practically taking no notice of the sudden walls that surrounded them. In time, they came to a wide canyon's true opening that was so wide, ten men could've walked abreast with much room to spare; and it gradually got wider until it hit a point that it could not, and then there was room enough easily for 18 men to stand abreast.

It was the Lifeless Lands, the huge canyon that stretched far until it went into the hills and became a cave, and then a tunnel, and the tunnel was shaped to the specifications of the Darill-the ancient people who now live in Dalur that had once lived in the mid-west of Doragokuni. Lifeless it was, and yet ever pressing was the feeling of living dread, of hate that never slept. The two companions feared for themselves, yet stood strong against the feelings of death that emenated from the canyon.

"We shall rest here tonight." Elrasil muttered, contemplating his surroundings. He reckoned it was six miles and thus a three-hour's march, if they went at their current speed-which was not by any means fast. They sat down on an old dry log and looked around. Their surroundings were baren, even more so than the highlands had been, and they were not glad, for plants would do them well. The rock faces where grey and black, frowning upon the two travellers with evil eyes. Plant life was little, and what there was of it was rotten and dead, or dead and dry in the typical exhausting heat of Oron-Numenrui Canyon. They disliked the feel and smell of it. After they had eaten, Elrasil warned Harna: "You shall sleep first, as I do not need sleep for hours yet. I shall guard. But do not trust to kindness or good here, in any way! It is very evil. I can feel it in my bones. Trust me..." Elrasil said quietly, as if the rock walls had ears.

Harna slept well for her allotted time, and then awoke and allowed Elrasil to sleep. He slept even better, happy to be sleeping in the comfortable sand of the canyon, rather than on top of a hard rock face. It was soft, and smooth, almost like grainy and dry butter. It was silky and yet stony, very unique and comfortable. Nothing came around for four hours while Elrasil slept; three hours he did, and then for an hour after they had peace.

But a certain Dark Nibelsnarf, which was but a half mile away, thought differently. The little felyne loaded a small bowgun and aimed it at its throat as it approached, while Elrasil took out his longsword. They got to see the Dark Nibelsnarf in all its glory; it had bloody teeth, from its fleshy and bleeding gums and lips. It seemed to have wild, ever-hungry eyes, searching for anything consumable. The back of the creature had changed into an array of spikes that were very sharp and could slice many things in half on simple touch and push. The tail was very much mutilated and changed, now equipped with a heavy ball-and-chain extension, designed to slap blades into any who would come near. It was fearsome and looking for food.

It came within sight range of its foes; baring its teeth, the Dark Nibelsnarf rushed for them. Adjusting her aim, Harna readied a Poison II shot in her bowgun. As the Nibelsnarf rushed towards them and finally was in three lengths of a blade away from them, she shot the small gun, landing the Poison round directly in the back of the Nibelsnarf's throat. Writhing in pain, the creature tumbled out of the sand and laid down crying in pain. Elrasil lunged to the side of it, and quickly launched a deadly series of attacks on it.

Getting up slowly, the Nibelsnarf looked daggers at Elrasil, slapping him with the massive ball-and-chain attached to its tail. Elrasil crashed into the wall, winded for a moment. Drunkenly, he looked ahead, noting deliriously that the Nibelsnarf was in a tug-of-war with Harna, in a desperate effort to throw her into the rock wall. Harna was quickly growing weary of the strain; soon she would faint, most likely, and become lodged within the Dark Nibelsnarf's teeth. But Elrasil managed to rush to her aid, scoring a blow on its spikes. Wheeling around, the Nibelsnarf charged at Elrasil, who dodged and cut off a small piece of its tail. The Dark Nibelsnarf seemed not to notice and came again, this time at Elrasil.

Elrasil had just enough time to block, and kick at its throat before being overtaken by the blow. The leviathan sailed over him and disappeared into the sand. All around him, Elrasil and Harna felt a strange silence. For a few moments, they thought the Dark Nibelsnarf had left them. But it was not meant to be, and the creature lunged another time, to their immediate surprise. Elrasil was launched across the ground several yards, and was bleeding from many areas on his face and left side. He growled viciously and leisurely tossed an Arcane Knife into the creature's belly, doubling it over. Harna quickly got to work on the creature's belly, slicing open its abdominal cavity, before Elrasil got the opportunity to remove even more of its tail.

Now weakened greatly, the Nibelsnarf attempted his final trick in the throes of death; he swam away and readied a charge, that Harna and Elrasil did not detect. Elrasil slashed and managed to get himself away quickly enough. Harna, however, was not so lucky. The hard protrusions on the lips of the demonic leviathan, which basically created vicious horns, slammed hard into Hanra. The battered Felyne flew against the wall, and fell near-lifeless to the ground. Elrasil looked on the Nibelsnarf with hate. Skewering his blade inside the brain of the beast, he killed it and sheathed his sword, running for Harna.

Blood trickled down his arms and on his face where the late Nibelsnarf had scored him on the side and cheek; no wound to fret over. However, he looked upon his fallen comrade with panic, and rushed to her side. She was barely conscious. "Nya.....Nya....El...rasil.......Come here...Nya...Come meow..... Please..... nya.... I want you...to hear...my last words..." harna cried out. "I'm here, I'm here for you. Do not think bad thoughts!" Elrasil cried. "I...want you...to keep my sword...even if it is a knife to your kind...let it ever serve you...good bye..." Harna said. "...Very well. See Darkness no longer, traveller, warrior, great friend. ... Look upon shores of white and trees of green, and skies of blue. See Darkness no longer. Go to sleep. Go to sleep as you did when you were in the house of Elrasil. Sleep now. See Darkness no longer. Sleep." Elrasil said, sobbing into his robe and taking the knife.

The Felyne died in his arms that night, free and breathing the air of a victor. He was proud in life, and in death, and was one of the few who laid claim to the honor of that era. Elrasil began to wear the knife wherever he went, and would never take it off for any reason-save to bathe.

As he took the knife and snapped it to him, he stood. Looking across the field, he began to roar with anger and sadness. "Death! If death come to those who lived so valiantly, I wish to die as one of them! Death! Death to us all! Death! This ravine is dead, this world is dead! All is dead! Death!" roared the Earthweaver, once again revealing himself as a mighty wyvern called the Terralos, in his last moments. "Let death take me if it take she who I considered my ally and friend in both battle and home! Death! Death to all! Death shall most certainly come, so why should we not die together!" He cried lowly into his robe, falling to his knees.

But it was not meant to be. He decided against dying right there, in an inane spur of ignorance to take his life, and decided that Harna would have wanted the quest completed. After burying her with her proper honour, he carved a small stone for her, and set the Nibelsnarf alight. It was a grand fire that lasted for an hour that Elrasil knew of; it was still burning cruelly when Elrasil stopped at the Depths of Oron. He did not rest, and instead went directly inside. In the darkness, he marched for several hours, still occasionally crying at the loss of Harna. For that was his one companion, his one trust, and now it was lost. But after the third hour of slow ascent, it was near to sleep and to night; he pushed himself under an edge of the rock face that stretched inwards and pulled a Limestaen blanket over him that mysteriously camouflaged him from all danger. He slept through the entire night, and then began again when he awoke. It was daytime, and that could be told by one of the unblocked straight clock-vents, ever present in these caves. They were designed to tell the time in the darkness of the Stairs of Oron. Finally, after a long walk, the Earthweaver was in the last dash for it, as they say.

Ahead lay about a half-mile of slight ascent and solid, smooth, well-built road; it would take him roughly a half-hour to find the end, at the pace he decided to walk at. After all, he had a good two months to go before he would be expected. He continued at the pace for twenty minutes. Then, he rested at the chosen area, a mere ten minutes away from the exit. From here, he fancied he could see the details of the outside. He slept for an hour before proceeding outwards. He looked down upon the valley at the fair trees. They had long stood as a welcome form of life in the ever-lifeless place; though it ceased to be so now, and it was rather full of life and very green, as though the dale had awakened from its past evil. "So good has returned to Numenrui," Elrasil muttered happily. The Earthweaver descended the slopes, stopping momentarily to eat under the trees. The lights of Westernmette were close; Elrasil was within a two hour march of it.

With a day's march ahead, he continued on, hoping to get to the West Hall by sundown. He saw little animal and monster life, leaving him to assume that the land was living very frugally and that it was not yet beginning to totally heal. As he came closer to the hall of the West, he noted a large gate relatively close; he walked up to it and unlatched it with a key he had kept secret, and walked inside.

Inside, he was greeted by a tall Dallurian guard who patrolled the west. Nodding in approval, he allowed the battered and weary Elrasil to pass. Elrasil, being too tired and weak to continue on to the House of Blazescale, walked a few paces to a stump that came up out of the ground and wrapped its ancient tongues around where an old boulder had sat for years untouched, but now was gone. Sighing, he sat on it and whispered. "I have lost she who was closest to me. The last of her long line, descended from the original attendant Felyne of Fyrulosor, a great warrioress. It is a loss that no one should have to bear....to see the last days of my companionship fall. No warrior should be forced to bury his comrade." He said in a crying whisper, sobbing at last for the loss of Harna.

The Dallurian sat on the ground beside him. "Harna was brave and kind in life. Her soul-her spirit-shall find its ways to the great halls of her ancestors and her master. Not all death is evil. And death is no end. It is but a path in life we all must take, when our task is done. In the end, death and the end of life is but a passing thing...and then you see it.... Blue skies, white shores, green trees spread over the countryside. Finally, you have reached peace," the man said in a broad accent of the Limestaen. "Can you go no further? You may rest here, in the bole of this tree, and I will order it to protect you, if you wish it," he finished with a sigh.

"You have tipped the debt in your favor, dear old friend." Elrasil smiled from beneath the tears and gestured the ancient sign for good fortune and forgiveness. "I feel my debt is lessened, and I do not suffer you carry any." The Dallurian laughed and got up. "May your beard never wither, Earthweaver!" the old Dallurian saluted Elrasil. He spoke a few words in the direction of the tree stump, and went his own way.

Elrasil stood and sat down again, feeling comfort in the ancient log and the tongues of wood around it. He fell soundly into dreamless sleep, with the small buzz of night insects chirping all around his feet and head.

When he awoke on the next morning, he was oddly comfortable, considering the position and place in which he slept. He got up and looked towards the north; Singlenorth Pass, a long, narrow forest that stretched in wideness from the edge of the plateau of Dalur to the Leamen Arie and swamps. It was but a mile wide at the widest, and a very narrow and grown path wound through it, carrying travelers from the Westernmette Hall all the way to the Winding Stair Tower, which would lead you quickly to the Highland of Dragolaath, a small area of the plateau which few remembered the existence of, and the fact that it was indeed a seperate region; for it was separated by only a small fence of stone and the gates were decrepit.

Elrasil walked to the Westernmette Hall, for the council that was to take place to advise Elrasil and his five companions-not including the "Destinykind" bound to join him-what to do. It was a huge building, long and tall; it was built ever into the side of the red-walled rock face that supported Dalur Plateau. The building's outside was composed of layers of stone and bone, with many layers of dragon shell making up the roof, for the Limestaen had built the hall as a dwelling-place in ages long past. Some said that the blood of Westernmette was almost wholly Limestaen, and it was supported by their uncannily long lives.

Chapter 6-Counciling Elrasil

Inside the hall, Elrasil was greeted by huge pillars of stone that opened up the roof of the place; towards the outer section they were but one fourth of the size they truly stretched to under the Plateau. The darkness was deep, yet illuminated by some mysterious light upon the ceiling, forged from eterele. Eterele is an ancient metal that was made by the Limestaen for use with and against fire and oils, and was beautiful and strong as well. It shone with an eery white light, and it was bright so that they could see the hall and dimly lit, the ten chairs and a long table set before them.

The walls were red, being made out of a reed found near the banks of the river found close to the Westernmette Hall. The panels were strong and old, and even against the stone were a good material. The pillars were forged from iron, eterele, and silver, strengthened beyond its typical means; they were not torn down, ever, by man or beast. It was beyond the power of both to destroy this Hall. For this hall was built far, with many entangled tunnels, into the side of the cliff, and was impenetrable to almost any creature that dwelt within or outside of the Earth.

Elrasil sat down wearily at the table, while his friend Niyn sat at his left. Niyn's best friend, and Elrasil's niece, sat at Elrasil's right. Her name was Eyin. Niyn was akin to Eyin in his thought, behavior, and speech; in looks, they were never to be called similar. Eyin was not an especially tall girl, though she was very thin, and the lack of any width to her body added to her supposed height rumour. Her arms were thin, like her legs, but strong and agile. She was renowned as a rock climber and an investigator of odd holes and caves, haunts in which she had a special-somewhat spiritual, in fact-place. On the flipped side of the coin, Niyn was a broad-shouldered young man, though smaller at his hips. He was strong, bulky, and rough, and none dared call him 'weak'. Despite, however, the continuous rumor that he was a horribly strong and mean person, inside he was a gently giant. So thus was his nickname, to those who knew him: Gentlegant, a play on 'gentle', 'man', 'giant', and 'gentleman'. He was also the leader of the Galad, an elite force tied together by bonds of fellowship sewn partially, at least, by Elrasil. They protected small and large lands across Doragokuni that did not have their own militia force, and they were trained to show kindness if all battle-mates are. But Niyn was a special case; his traits were threefold each, and was known for staying behind places and in corners, silently smoking a pipe and thinking about his next move.

On the other end of the table sat the wisest of all remaining High Limestaen within Doragokuni. Fell and grim they were to look upon; sad faces and old, the last of the ancient wisdom that lived throughout the dwindling bloodline of Ludun, the Chief of the Limestaen at the end of the First Age. Ludun's sons had been long dead ere Elrasil sat here in the hall; yet their names were still remembered, for the death stood behind them but a few hundred years. Lindoth, Ludor, Teletir, and Barume were their names. Lindoth and Ludor were named for him and for each other; and they were twins. Teletir was named for his mother, who was a Limestaen also, and her name was Teleta. Barume was named for the earth, and he was the oldest, though the tale is not remembered; and he never died. His name and his form changed much as years passed, but he became, over time, the lord of all things that sprung from rock, or from soil, or from tree. Gentle he was, and wise also, and fair some would call him.

The Lords that sat here were the great-grandsons of Ludun; their grandfathers were, respectively, Lindoth, Ludor, and Teletir. As the Limestaen have incredibly long (if in fact ever ending) lifespans, their fathers remained still, and their names were recollections of older times, some said. Linod, Lidur, and Telendil were their names, and finally the current generation, the Lords of the Limestaen, are named. Ludun II was the chief; under him were his two brothers, Lidel and Teren. They oversaw the Limestaen operations in the West and the East respectively.

Ludun II was said to be as fair as Ludun the First, who was himself considered the fairest of all that went on two legs, save his wife. Ludun II's dark hair, which shone in a jet-black stream, was long and very smooth, stretching past his shoulders to the middle of his back. This was not a custom among lesser individuals; it was reserved for the Chief, his family, and those who were among the High. Several gems adorned his braids and lengths, many of which were made from stones found and mined long ago, before the tainting of the world. Armor he wore, though none was necessary; it seemed to be one piece, fluid, yet it had seams and bent like a cloth. It was no mail, of course, but rather a set of plates wrought primarily with diririn (a Limestaen-exclusive smith's metal, used solely for armor), and covered each in a plate of wyvern armor-from the Ceadeus, of course, because not only did the Ceadeus' scales bend and flex to show no crevice nor nook nor cranny, but they also represented the Chief's power over many things. Around his waist was a long cloth, stretching from the middle of his upper body to his knees, and fastened at the former. It was black, gold, and blue, the colors of the Chief and his household; it represented power, like a crown. He wore mail under it all, and his thin legs were covered in Ceadeus plates and a fine mail wrought of diririn as well. It was generally agreed that if any should kill him, it should be himself by his own mistake of misplacing his armor; for if this armor was donned correctly as it always was, it could not be penetrated by any save those with weapons of more power than he.

His eyes were another item entirely. Their color was a deep hue of blue, characteristic of the Limestaen of Ludun's line, the Fairwrought and the Chieftains of the Limestaen. To those who were no more complicated than a fire-bellows and were so simple in their lives, the eyes appeared dim with a glitter of the past that shone through. However, the wise and the eldest, and also those whose thought delved far into realms seldom known, saw a different thing. In those deep eyes was reflected hundreds of years of wisdom, pain, kindness, and evil, as if a great well in the deeps of time had gathered all emotion to it and those eyes were the mere in which it reflected.

His voice began, like the wind on mountains whose names have been forgotten. "Welcome, Elrasil of the House of Fyron. You have been summoned and welcomed here today to take council and decide your journey," the voice blew, as Elrasil sat and leaned forward. "and perhaps to gather companions. For you are to take a great treasure with you, given to me by your master; now I give it to you. Produce Tuskurai's Key!" Ludun finished, the last word falling so heavily that the very air seemed laden with power. From a chest inside a vault a young Limestaen esquire got a long and thick piece of parchment, wrapped around a form. Taking this, Ludun slid it across to Elrasil, who quickly opened it; for, as you know, this was something as would carry spiritual, physical, and sentimental worth for Elrasil.

Inside the parchment was a long, black, cold key, made out of a metallic and yet bonelike substance; Elrasil, however, knew it was formed from Tuskurai's shell, the likes of which had never grown anywhere else. This key was said to open the Wyvern Hall, as well as the Nakt Mines under Dalur. It opened a great many other things that had never been known to any, and that even Elrasil did not know about-and would not know about for a good long time yet. He fingered the cold fringes and ridges on its surface. Grinning, he noticed the runes on it; they were tiny, but told the results of the war. 10000 dead all told, and each of them had their rune inscribed on this piece of shell. It in itself had come from Tuskurai, and at the height of his power was built as a devising to lock and to open things with a key that would not be lost, unless by a worthy opponent. But he faced one, once upon a time, and it was taken from him; it was not destroyed, for the Wiser knew that while the hidden dungeons and breeding-rooms of his demonic creatures were better left locked, a smith's forge contained a lumber-room and as such, the key would have been lost ere ever it hit the anvil. For the key had a will of its own; it did not love its master, but it downright hated all else. It hated and loved fire, and ice, and water, and wind; it hated and loved life and death. It was constantly angry and had a love for things that hated, and things in misery. Often it played such tricks on its possessors, though only for device of pleasure.

"Use this wisely, my friend. For you shall pass through perils unchecked, and death, and blood may be spilled of those you love; and already you have lost one dearest to you. But I warn you: Do NOT use it unless at great need. For this thing, as you know, has a will of its own, and will not bend to another." Ludun II continued. "Elrasil, if I may make so bold," Niyn began, "I would suggest turning East from this path, and passing through the Unqale-Numenrui Swamp, or the name as known best, Ùderun. From there, the Galad could regroup; and you should have security from foes on your path, for the Dalur Pass is no easy thing to cross now. It has been infested with the ruin of ages and evil creatures; the gates that once stood there are decrepit and none pass that cannot fly or burrow under. So, unless it is in your interest to beat upon the metal with your head, or eat the dirt away, or test your luck at flying," he continued-smiling at these last words, of course, because it was obvious to everyone what he was doing. He loved this sort of thing; spending several minutes explaining in great detail things that, at first, would seem unknown and mysterious. However, in reality, he never said anything he-or others-didn't already know, but that sounds quite interesting when reworded. "then you shall take the Tower or you shall risk one of the hidden staircases of Nakt Mines." Niyn finished, a hush falling on the last words.

Nakt. That name was remembered even among the Dalurians, who knew it only from what they believed were children's tales and ancient legends; but truth told, many of the Nakt Mines' staircases wound up through Dalur Plateau and through especially large or interesting mountains and hills, ushering out in a large tower. Most of these were in disrepair, and all of them-except one-were inaccessible through both their staircase and their doorway. For the Nakt Mines were made in a lost age by those who had been there before the Dalurians, indeed before Men of any kind had settled here; they were said to be distant kin of the Limestaen, yet were a smaller people who were very strong in mind and body.

This folk was the Eduri, and they were known as great miners, craftsmen, and jewelers of mountain-halls. They never made houses above ground; they dwelt underground, unless at great need, in huge mines. If they could be called that; for these 'mines' were huge, and most contained entire cities underneath the immense rock formations they were built into. Many thousands of Eduri could dwell in one Unosun (their name for their giant 'houses'), and the greatest of these were known as Nakthars, or "Nighthalls". Thus was the name Nakt Mines given; it was the greatest delving of the Eduri, and was never surpassed, for they awakened inside them a great love of anything of worth, and they became greedy. Far too greedy, we would say, though they remained good-hearted; simply greedy, and wished for gold and silver.

This, perhaps, can explain what happened to them; for they fell after the completion of Nakt Mines, and their people dwindled until only small bands living in dressed-up caves remain. Now, you know them as 'hobos', 'bums', and wanderers; perhaps you have met a descendant of theirs, a wanderer among wanderers who will shelter in nothing that is not made of stone-even if he has to dig himself a hole to lie in. Perhaps you have met one who has remained of true blood and is perhaps old enough to almost remember the dwindling greatness of them; if you take delight in works of stone, and of jewels, and inside you a love for metals and stones burns hot, then perhaps you too are of the Ùnos Blood.

"I intended to take the North Path, which leads against the Dalur Plateau and past the Ùderun Marsh, and then on to the Tower to pass over the ruins. Are you saying that this path is no longer safe-or that it no longer exists?" Elrasil began, gripping the handles of his seat with such strength and worry that his knuckles went white. "I cannot say, for the Tower; for it is long since I have seen it myself, and I have never taken that route into Dalur. The last time I went, the Gate was still in use-however broken-down it may be now. But as for the North Path, if you believe you can use that, then you may as well take our best shovels with you; for indeed a landslide and flood right in the middle of the path, near the West Branch of the Leamen Arie, has blocked the path and the only course you could take would be to burrow beneath it," Niyn said, much to Elrasil's comfort. "but there is another course you may take." He finished, pausing for effect.

"The Nakt Mines, I repeat to you." Niyn said slowly. "That is a path none have taken since a past age," Elrasil began. "and I would not take it, unless I had no other choice. The Old Nakturians, and their less mannish counterparts of the Wyverians, delved too deep to make their halls. In that black hole of physical nothingness few have come out alive, in this age of the world. What they awoke in the darkness is too deadly and terrifying for you to imagine. For in the chasm that was the blackest halls of the deepest cave, they awoke Èreng, one of the Ùni that descended with the First Wyverns in the dawn of the world. Èreng, however, is a special case and I need not, perhaps, say more of this dark horror."

"I should say to the contrary, my old friend. For none save you know more of these creatures through experience, and since you have strained oft with this demon in mind, I shall be enlightened if you explain the tale to us." Ludun II said, looking gravely at Elrasil.

"All right, that is all very well. I shall tell you the tale," Elrasil started with a sigh. "Very, very many years ago, indeed nearly five hundred years ago, I entered the Nakt Mines from an entrance very near to the North-reach of Dalur. It was one of the Leamen Ani, the ancient mountain peaks that lie around the West of Wyvernhome. They are tall mountains, yet they have staircases upon them that men once used to scale them and use them. For these are the only entrances into the mines from above-ground that does not go into the side, horizon-wise; and they were once great watch-towers. Indeed the house of my master was one of these; the smallest, as a rule, but the greatest and last of the West. So, I climbed down from one of these towers and the staircase gave way; the darkness did not seem to end. But it did, after a time and in its own fashion; and then, like a bright sun unto the earth. I believe now that it was some sort of blazing fire-orb, as there was of old in the watchtowers. But it was now in the helm of Èreng, and I saw him revealed in his might; and he saw me in mine.

"I, of course, wished nothing more than to escape with all haste. So, I turned at the nearest side path and fled from Èreng. I did not run far ere I found that I was in a great hall; and I did not have to look very long or hard to find out what level I was on. There I stood in the lowest level and the lowest hall that had been delved; yet I knew deeper, in some shadow-cave of blind things there was a great lake, and Èreng had came from that depth far under all earth. My mind went to my path, and realizing my direction on the ancient carved map on the west, I chose the northward gate. Perhaps my worst mistake, as you'll see.

"Èreng had awaited me in that dark hallway; as soon as I stepped over the threshold of the archway, the demon closed it behind me and on I went. I knew I could not go on forever; at some point, in some dark and forgotten hall I would have to lay down and make a choice between bringing down that hall and death. But fate favored me, and perhaps a little hunger; for that creature was starved, and, crawling on all fours with its tail curling around every pillar, it brought down the next immense hall upon it. Up I went, up the winding staircase, peering ever over my shoulder to ascertain that I was not followed yet.

"The staircase wound 4 miles upward, in steps and perhaps in upwards length. I followed it for a mile ere Èreng's long, destructive, fiery stride was felt on the bottom steps and swiftly followed. I feared for my life, for I knew twenty more minutes awaited me ere I could hope to reach the surface, and that Èreng would take the time to crush the staircase-along with every archway leading to separate paths-on his way up. Finally, I began to see the ancient light-shafts and felt a less-than-hot air hit my face. I was in the last mile and soon would be running free down a mountainside.

"It was then that the thought struck me; even if I do reach this place, who knows if it will be content with simply running me off? It perhaps will not be content until I am dead or drowned or somewhere completely gone from its homeland. It is an ancient thing, and has been here as long as I-if not technically longer on the land. It does not take well to strangers. But I heard something I never thought to hear...the voice of Èreng.

"'SLOW! STOP! CEASE YOUR INCESSANT RUNNING!' he called to me. Surprised and in shock, I turned and fled downwards, into what I thought was perhaps the face of hell. 'It is well that you have slowed down-and in fact, came to meet Èreng! Why do you run, as if a thief?' Èreng said to me. 'It is long years ere any have stepped in these halls, and ever have you been the bane of the daring.' I replied. He laughed. 'Èreng is powerful. Èreng rules. Èreng is the master of these halls. I shall be pleased if you simply leave my halls. But tell all your mortal friends this: They are never to descend into my halls again, and if they do, it is my jurisdiction to do what I will.' he growled-it might have been a laugh. 'Very well. What about me?' I asked. 'Èreng says you shall NOT pass again. I shall kill you and eat you, roasted with a bit of fried greenery of some sort, if I see your likes again.' Èreng laughed his growling laugh.

"Naturally, I ran away, finishing the stairs with ease. It is then that I came to The First House of Wyverns, Fyrulosor's old halls, and counseled young Fyrul to begin searching for his father's remains-or his spirit. For Fyrul knew that his father had died, and had accepted it; but he was on the verge of insanity because he knew not where-or if-his father had been properly honored. That is my tale; for afterwards I went on with my errands. No....Unless it is required, I shall NOT go into the mines." Elrasil finished.

It seemed as though the hall was filled with a tension, and the air had grown thicker than swamp-water; Niyn began to sweat with nervousness, fearing what actions Èreng may have taken to prohibit Elrasil's passage to the North Pass. Niyn knew that if Èreng was angry enough to drive Elrasil not only from the mines, but to attempt driving him from this side of Wyvernhome, then he must be very angry. For Niyn knew that Èreng must have caused the North Pass's blockage; only it had the strength for that. Even Ludun seemed deep within thought, and seemed to be fighting with some hidden issue in his own mind.

"This is grievous news. Yet I foresaw it. You cannot pass through the Marshes; nothing has found ways through them in hundreds of years. NONE safely have done so. You cannot pass through the North Pass, for it is blocked by Èreng. And because of the same creature, you cannot go through the Mines...this is a fair puzzle!" Ludun said, uttering his thoughts.

"If that is true...then it leaves me no other choice. It seems I must pass through the mines," Elrasil said, cringing, "and I don't expect I shall return. If I do, think better of repairing the Wall!"

"Very well, it is decided. You shall be the guide and leader of the Fyrulean Order. Take two companions ONLY with you. Choose from any who sit here, or name one who dwelleth near." Ludun said.

"My answer to that, Ludun II son of Linod, is that I shall take my great friend Niyn and the one he loves, my niece Eyin. They could not bear it otherwise," said Elrasil, looking at Niyn. "but I would not have it otherwise, also."

"I should advise you to stay to your path and I warn you do NOT go into the Marshes unless dire need or Death take you there itself. It would be the death of you," Ludun said, "and finally you must set out no more than a fortnight from tonight, or you shall surely draw some evil hither. We do not love evil; but we do not wish for war."

Thus spoke Ludun II. The companions tarried at Westhall for many days, indeed a fortnight; and oftentimes Elrasil and Niyn both were joyful to recount their own opinion of the place.

"It was a place where you could sleep, and walk; for paths criscrossed every bit of the small little valley it sat in. No evil seemed to come there; it seemed as though everything was all pent up, and no one wanted that to change. Nothing ever happened, and nobody wants it to. Indeed, I believe our little meeting was the most stir they've had for many dark days, though doubtless it is for good reason. I must say, it was a good place to stay by any definition: whether you liked good food, long sleep, slow walks, or a bit of everything, it was all there and you never had to go out of yelling's distance." So said Niyn.

"I have always enjoyed tarrying at the House of Ludun, for time does not pass there. Outside, the moon waxes, fulls, and wanes; and the sun rises and sets, and moves slowly in his eternal journey across Niu*, but inside, nothing moves. It is truly a place where change simply does not happen. I have stayed there many times, indeed, for years at a time, and the months seem to bring about no change save the temperature and the weather: in the Winter of the world, it brings about slight chill and the occasional silver flake, but nothing more. But in the Summer of the world, it brings a warmth and a merriness of the heart, such as I have not felt anywhere else." Thus said Elrasil, and truly he spoke.

They were also apt to recall their favorite song:

There is a place, a merry old house, Where the cat doesn't chase the mouse, And all the folk seem quite alright To spend your days around.

For long I've stayed, and I have played, A merry deal myself (yes, indeed!) But still the best is yet to come, If you tarry till sundown.

And dinner comes on flying carts, With golden horses astride, and you will never miss their arts, For they are all around.

So went a small bit of the song; the rest is lost.

On the twentieth day of January, the First Month, they set out. They took with them twenty pounds apiece of supplies, such as they were apt to need and to carry for many long leagues. Much of this was food: they would not come upon any edible thing in the Mines. Early in the morning, they walked to the very western end of Westernhall. This hall, great though it was, ended itself about one hundred feet from the beginning of the rock wall, and then opened up into an undeveloped cavern: the first of the delvings made by the Wyverns in the First Age, and then improved upon by the Limestaen, and then in the Second, by the early Dalurians-who were skilled then in stone.

This cavern proved easy to venture over, and the light from their lanterns provided ample sight-combined with the magical glow of the Alatreon long sword that Niyn carried. They walked along the smooth, black floor of the cavern for a time until they came upon the first chasm. The drop, which was easily no more than a few yards, seemed blacker than a moonless, cloudy night, and seemed to be a bit undercut; however, a bridge in disrepair spanned the gap. The first to attempt the cross of the gap was made by Eyin. She made it without calamity. Her light figure and dainty step helped her, but none others could pass-they had not the skill. As Elrasil attempted to step upon the first plank, it and the rest of the spanning bridge broke asunder, and was lost. Eyin tossed her lantern to him. "You may need it," she said, her voice returning in the cavern, "but it serves me no purpose now. I shall wait here for you."

Niyn and Elrasil made their way south from that point, finding that a stair had been carven in the living stone but a few yards from where the bridge had been. They trusted to thus and descended, finding a rotting smell and cackling stream to be winding its choked way through the ravine. It was no surprise that the bridge had rotted. They found nothing of it, save the ruin and the rotted bolt-pillars upon the pedestals of stone upon which they had supported the bridge. The two walked down this ravine for some time ere they found another way out, another stair. This one was much steeper, and fewer steps: it seemed to indeed be almost vertical. With some difficulty, and much growling and grunting, they ascended and came on their way.

To their fortune, they found no more uncrossable or in-jump-able ravines: they all were spanned by rock bridges. Indeed, the skill of Naktur had not stopped with the smoothing of a road to these bridges, and it was they who had hewn these bridges from living stone in a forgotten age. They did not built the ancient bridge they attempted to cross: it was built in mockery. Mockery, or perhaps a slave's flattery.

For hours, they wandered on, and the cavern grew much narrower, until it was a mere tunnel that one could stand fully erect in and almost feel the weight of the ceiling, and only two could walk abreast. But still, smooth it was. They came around noon to a splitting of ways, an old guard-room and navigation room, in which miners and folk living here would've taken their chosen path. The Mines had four cardinal areas: the Westruk, in the West. The Commons, in the East. The Northruk, in the North. And the Southruk, in the South. All contained the same sorts of structures, except the Commons: they contained shops. The southruk contained most homes. The Northruk contained most lead-ways to guardhouses and watch-towers. The Westruk contained mines, and almost exclusively mines. This specific room was the Parting-Way, as they knew, and the path directly to their left would have taken them into the very heart of the Southruk-the first tunnels of which they had already stepped into. The direct route split again; the right way lead to the Commons, and the direct way wound until it came unto the Westruk. The path on their right, of course, led to the Northruk.

The companions halted here, awaiting sleep and a sign of day, but in here, it seemed the world stopped. They knew time must be passing, but had no proof: the sun shone not in this place.

"I should like to see some sun already," Niyn muttered, "and I don't fear that I shall be too comfortable with these mines any farther in. I've been in light too long, perhaps."

"Or perhaps too little. You are young yet, though you deny it, Niyn Narn's son." Elrasil said.

"I at least am young, and agile, and I shall now look for some fuel for a fire. I'm cold, such as I have never been before, and I need warmth." Said Eyin, leaping up and flitting away in the shadow.

"Though I wonder greatly where you should find such fuel," Niyn said, hiding his obvious laughter.

"Oft it is said, 'The eyes of the wise see best in darkness', is it not, friend?" Yelled Eyin, clearly amused that her best friend would say such.

"If it pleases you," Niyn concluded, and with that Eyin was gone.

Turning east in the passage-though in the deepening darkness, she could've gone west, or east, or north, or south, and perhaps had not known. She kept low to the ground, until she got to the far wall where they had entered the great room; here there was an ancient weapon-rack, which she took up and placed over her shoulder, as though it were a bag or some other weight. She made her way slowly south, picking up odd sticks of wood and burnable things unimaginable and placing them into her pouch, until she came to where the Southruk's Main Tunnel was. Here, she decided that her efforts further were unneeded. She took the gathered fuel back quickly.

They took the fuel from her and began forming the fire pit; it wasn't very long before they had a small blaze going. "I, for my part, need sleep," said Eyin. "Sleep while you can," replied Elrasil, "for you will not be able to ere long. I do not doubt that Èreng has not slept since I've climbed these halls."

And then, they heard it: bum, bum. The faint sound of a drum, deep in the earth. Bum, bum, bom, bom, bum, bom, bum, it came again. "That's a hammer, or I'm a stone!" Niyn growled. "For once, I may agree with you...." Elrasil said.

"Ready yourselves." He shouted.

Chapter 7: Might of the Eduri

The companions armed themselves and sharpened their weapons, listening to the monotonous bum of the drums. "I fear the worst," Elrasil grunted, "and I do not doubt that Ereng has guessed our arrival before even we did. Niyn-who did you tell of our adventure!?"

"No one, sir! No one outside my relations." Said Niyn, now beginning to get angry.

"Very well, keep your secrets! May you rue them in your folly!" Said Elrasil-though Niyn knew his tone had a subtle feeling of both truth and yet hid a more easygoing tone.

When they were packed up, their ran began. Turning towards the western route going towards the Commons, they dashed towards the split in the road. They noticed that the road was well-built, even for the years it had been gone; it had a steadily downward slope-not downward enough that you could worry about a fall, but downwards so that within ten minutes of their jogging run they could no longer see the top of the ramp. With great skill had this floor been arranged; with lights hanging from visibly ancient hooks, they must have picked and shaved and smoothed the ancient path until it was smooth, yet rough. This was so that while you could run at great speeds-to avoid the rather common ancient floods and other dangers in ancient times-and yet never lose your footing, even if you were without light.

For fifteen minutes, they jogged-not too fast, as a rule-and they finally reached the fork. The Bnahabra began to stir as the drums grew louder. Bum, bum. The darkness was no fully whole; it was as if the light of the world here was forgotten. A roused Bnahabra flew right in Niyn's face. Spitting, he began to get angry. "How long before we come to this Commons area?" Growled he. "Five minutes, as the Zinogre runs." Elrasil huffed out.

Finally, the companions seemed to fly into the Commons area. The rush of cold air flowing in from the open sides of the cavernous room seemed to take their breath away, and they finally took a rest. They searched the area around them and found a few remote pillars; the room seemed to stretch far northwards, and the southern wall was but a few yards away from where the hall entered it. Possibly an ancient cavern, hollowed and carved by the years and the hands of elder races, such as was the work of the Eduri, as their name went in Limestaen Language; an ancient race, who hollowed and delved deeper these caverns and mines. The pillars were decorated as if a flowering stem of rock had wrapped itself around each one, rooting at the bold core of the living rock.

Suddenly, the floor seemed to open out before them as Eyin ran ahead. Her feet faltered; her left went far into the void and her right, lifting from the floor, fell hard against the stone. She tried to scream. No sound came from her lips. As if suddenly a great Power had come unto the cavern, she turned and looked at last to her brother. Still no sound came from her. She smiled, oddly. She smiled, as she fell into the gaping face of death itself. Darkness took her; the Power and its light faded and again the unearthly darkness fell upon her.

But it was not to be, and indeed just before she would have slipped beyond all care, Niyn grasped her arm and pulled. Surprisingly, her weight and the force of his pull dragged him downward. He awkwardly yelled, in an odd, bestial sort of way, and screamed for Elrasil. Elrasil sighed (almost growled) loudly and put his force on Niyn's abdominal area, and pulled backwards with all his might. Miraculously, the trio toppled back.

It was then that the noise grew in all its might, and air began to flow swiftly; it was as if the winds of the world had all gathered into that ravine and were now issuing out in one swift, fell move. Hoarse shouts containing words undiscernable came over the wind. They were shouts of war, perhaps, arisen from some dark and horrifying hall of the dead, where the spirits of those deceased who had died in the great Wars had gnawed themselves into wraiths of horror. The sound and the wind both worked against the Three.

"We must search for a western route along the southern wall," shouted Niyn over the noise, "and hope that the entire Commons has not been undermined and filled with ravines!"

"Agreed. Go! Abandon what you do not need. It is no more use here." Elrasil growled, dashing towards where he knew the wall lay.

The wall was sturdy, as was the floor below it, and a rail stretched from the floor and wall and met at roughly chest-height to provide a guide for travellers. It was likely intended as a method of hanging lanterns for mining, and for mining; they often were the first step of a long wall-delved staircase.

The companions ran along the southern wall until they reached the west, and they rested. "I must now rest, even if we are beset by all manner of evil." said Elrasil. They agreed to this quickly and sat down along the wall. Niyn fell asleep. Eyin lighted a torch. Elrasil watched, guarding. Bom, bum, bum. As the drums rolled, the horns began to sound. In their cries, there were words; words of an ancient tongue, as a rule: ancient things were remembered here. "Azhnaszkadul!" some cried; "Kharduli!" others. If the travellers had been more aware, they would've discerned these as the battle-cries of the Eduri, from the First Age of Life.

The Eduri were an ancient race, ancient and wise, though hastier than any Limestaen. They were hasty, it is true; but they were also stubborn, and after making up their fast minds did not change them. Their faces were not all fair to look upon; and many badges of age and power adorned them, for each had a beard and by their fiftieth birthday, they surely had several scars, especially on the forehead and chin areas. They were descended, perhaps, from the Second House of Dalur; for when the First Estranging War raged, two houses collectively known as the Dalurians settled in this half of the Wyvernhome. One, it is said, became the Eduri, and mingled with other races, until they became what they are. Originally, they dwelt within the central mountains known as the Leamen Arie; but their race moved, and began anew under Dalur Plateau. Ever they delved there, deeper and wider, making great halls fair and wide to look upon; and their columns, adorned they were of sapphire and ruby and of emerald flowers shining in the light of many hundreds of lanterns.

From all directions, many bodies appeared; from every hole or wall or void, the bodies rushed at the travelers. Soon, they were surrounded by thousands of the bodies, thousands of the folk of these halls. Then, the great silence settled.

"Who're you, and what be yer business?" Growled the leader, stepping forward with his guards on his great flanks. Very broad he was, but not fat: built, as one who has forever done much labor.

"We are the Three Flyers. The Dragon-heirs. We're those who have been in deep water and lived still." Elrasil replied. He replied in proper fashion, for when greeting yourself to any Eduri, you must give yourselves renowned-sounding titles. And so did Elrasil.

"Hmph," grunted the leader amusedly, "such titles you'd give, eh? Do yer lie? Are ye that great? But that ain't ar business, yar!" He growled, choking a guttural laugh and clearing his throat. He began fairer: "I'm the leader of my folk, since ya won't reveal yer own names. Mine's Dharn, it is, and I'm Lord of these old stones." he said with pride.

"Dharn!? Of all confounded nuisances and troubles, you are the worst! But ah, it is wonderful to see you!" Cried Niyn, jumping from where he had lain hidden in the shadows and embracing Dharn. "How are you?"

"And here I thought you had gone off into the blue, just a young rock and all! But no, here you stand, whole, not devoured by some beastial thing in the wild!" Dharn laughed, and it was a laugh as had not been heard in those halls for many hundreds of years: and the companions were gladdened in their hearts.

Dharn bid his people return to their work and they walked along the wall some more. "We shall go into my prime hall," Dharn said, "and there we shall sit, and think, and talk."

Thus they followed him down a corridor, bearing them further into the rock that had been there forever.

They did not walk far or long; the hall was not long, but it twisted and turned, and each corner was darker than the last; until at last they were blinded, as if by a great light. And so it was: finally, at the end of the hall, they came upon a great door eloquently carved with many symbols, but emblazoned in the middle with the House of Eduri, a round shape as if a moon surrounded by twin crescents upon the right and left, with a pick on the top and hammer on the bottom. Two great lanterns hung on each side of the door. Bright they both were, so that the company stared at them in wonderment; but their light did not falter and after Dharn spoke a few words, they dimmed as the door gave way into a great room.

Great the room was, yet not in size. For this room was the quarters of Dharn, used for both his own private use as a bed-room and for a convention-room; he held meetings of his generals and self here, and it was a beautiful place. Each pillar was carved as with many thousands of trees and flowers, and many beasts; and each facet of the base featured a symbol of the great Houses in Naktur. The bed, far in the back, was the best to be found in these mines, and that was a great compliment. The beds of this people were especially comfortable, as is wont for a busy and tough race.

"Sit, sit. We have much to discuss," Said Dharn, "and I should think that it is not in your best interest to postpone it." For the first time since they had met, the travelers were able to see Dharn as he truly was. He was tall, very tall for the Eduri; and this height was symbolic of the Eduri nobility, for the rulers and lords of the Eduri claimed to be of direct Nakturean descent and are said to have almost never mingled in the long years: they are the last in that half of the Continent* of an ancient race long ago divided. On his head was a stony helm of an unimaginably strong substance-perhaps stone: it would not be uncommon, and their skill with stone was unmatched by any. But this helm clung to his head rather tightly; and it had a beard and chinpiece that resembled a flowing beard of stony hairs, or perhaps that was his hide and hair, this tall helm. His head was set in a proud, hard pose, as if at any moment he could reveal himself as a great King of many places and a warrior forsooth. His garb was composed of a flowing robe, with long sleeves and a long tail that stretched past his knees. This robe was perhaps made of tanned Jhen Mohran leather, although it is wholly unknown how Dharn and his smiths could have possibly obtained this. The mighty Jhen Mohran roamed in the great deserts far to the east, in Ardun, and that was their realm. The Eduri had never ventured across the Leamen Arie.

The cape and breast-plating of his robe was akin to the light, bendable, meshlike armor used in Loc Lac City far away to the East; for it was composed of many links and beads, and the chestplate was of seven layers, arranged so that upon bending they would slide and flow over one another. On his cape was an ancient banner, known as the Edurille; it was a massive wyvern of stone, it is believed, with wings outspread, facing downward. They noticed also that he was a broad man, and stocky; but not fat, and he was well built, as opposed to some of the fatter and lazier members of the population they had seen while going to his room.

That was when they noticed his eyes. His eyes were deep, but ageless; as if they were so old that age had left him and his eyes, and they knew no age save by the crack and wither of stone. It was like there was a great standing of water at the back of them, in the deeps of those great wells. Looking into them was like seeing back in time.

"No indeed, we should be glad to get our business done, for we have much to do ourselves outside these halls: we must get to the house of Fyrulosor, upon the Dalur Plateau." Niyn said with a nod in Elrasil's direction. "So," Dharn began slowly, looking confusedly at them, "It is you, and not these younger ones who have lead you on this journey, Elrasil?" He said sharply. "Indeed, for though I am old, old even as the Limestaen would reckon it, I am yet busy." He responded, easily as sharply as Dharn. "I had no idea you were still in business," Dharn muttered under his breath, misjudging the volume. "And where else would I be? Sitting in your halls, enjoying the best ale and bread, I don't doubt you would like better, Dharn Harannd's son." Elrasil cried out, becoming great all at once. His height grew, he leaned over the small table, and his beard fell lightly across the table, as Elrasil looked daggers at Dharn-a mere foot away from his face.

"All right, all right! I meant no offense. You should know that," Dharn growled. "Good then! To your business, and be sidetracked no more!" Elrasil laughed.

Dharn just sat, thoroughly confused and flustered.

Eyin and Niyn sat listening attentively to the long, complicated conversation about future plans, each deep in their own thoughts-too deep to consider or think about the conversation-other than an occasional nod or affirmation of agreement where needed and applicable. Niyn was thinking about the path ahead: he knew nothing of the Nakt Mines, but knew every inch of the Oraduiel Swamp - all the way from the Leamen Unquale to the Wall of Dalur. He was considering what sort of monsters they would have to deal with when they came to the opening of the wall-wherever it may be. Eduri doors cannot be opened from the direction facing outwards: they can only be opened from the exit side, unless they are doors in a home or not made by the skill of the Eduri. To gain access to them from the outside, someone on the inside must open it. Because of these facts, he had no idea of where the door may open out to-and how close to the Ancient Tower they would end up. Eyin, on the other hand, was considering her weapons, whether she had carried the proper equipment and items. She could never forget the day when her best friend died, due to - in Eyin's mind - Eyin's lack of supplies. What she actually died from was an unknown disease, thought to have been connected to the Deviljho hunt they had done earlier on in the year.

Niyn moved his seat closer to Eyin. "What do you think they'll do?" He asked quietly. They noticed, but made no sign and continued talking. "I think they'll go ahead and try the upper halls...I'm not sure that they think the Swamp has been idle. I think they fear that there have been enemies to take up residence in the Swamp..." Eyin responded, whispering. "...but then, the swamp would still be safer than the upper halls of the Nakt Mines, would they not?" Niyn breathed.

"No indeed, they would not." Dharn said, finally taking notice, "no, not unless I am mistaken of my own halls, for the Eduri have begun a great excavation-we have retaken all the upper halls, save for the two highest, and there our people dare not go. We have however opened up at least one staircase to the Dalurean Lookout towers, and you may perhaps be able to access them." He finished proudly.

"But if we cannot, then we have wasted time we do not have. What enemies have you encountered here?" Elrasil asked.

"Ever since our history began here, in the last age, we have encountered no outside enemies, except for Gigginox and Ghastolach; and we have encountered Urruduk and some ancient relative of the Kurora. But nothing else. I imagine the Swamp is filled to its brine in Deviljho, Great Wroggi, Crimson Qurupeco, and other abominations large and small!" Dharn told him sharply. There was a long pause.

"Whatever the case may be, we must at least assess the Swamp ere we take any other path." Elrasil said finally.

"Very well...when you are ready to leave, my people will guide you. But don't you dare try bringing them out of these halls! Two of my personal lads will 'company 'ee, so don't try anything slick!" Dharn growled under his breath.

"I would not dream of it, Dharn. We will tarry here for a day and a night. What time is it now?" Elrasil asked.

"The moon is at its peak, or so says our lads on the upper halls, and messages carry quickly, they do." Dharn replied proudly.

"That is well! Then we shall stay for tomorrow, and then the night after, and with the first signs of dawn we shall go aagin. With any luck, we may get to the north of the path's blockage by the next night after." Elrasil slowly calculated. "So it is settled!" He finally cried, smiling deeply.

Chapter 8: Venture in the Dark

They tarried there for precisely as long as Elrasil had said they would: and there they learned songs and tales told nowhere else on the world... Among them was the Lay of Naktur. It told of the rise and fall of Naktur, the ancient land from which the Mogan People (those people who had oppressed the Wyverns and the Limestaen-the villains of this story), the Eduri, and the Dalureans came. In after years they could remember only a small fraction of it:

 On an ancient island there,
 * Sat the greatest kingdom, fair

Over seas wide beyond sight;
 * On the greatest rock of might,
 * Naktur!
 * Oh, mighty place of old;
 * Naktur!
 * The ancient home of gold.

Tall were your great mountains;
 * Of marble and of stone;

And deep delved we your caverns;
 * In deep places all alone,

Great were the places delved:
 * Of adamant and obsidian,

And the greatest metal there we would weld;
 * To forge the greatest weapons seen.

Olorin-king there was of old,
 * The final king to rule the gold,

He delved in halls long forbidden;
 * In places deep still he was forgiven,

It is perhaps for this reason,
 * The fall of Naktur, due to treason,

For long did this great king,
 * Doom his people to an evil fate,

Tied by the death and decay,
 * Of times, of people, of murder long forgotten,

And in time came when they would fall,
 * Beneath the stony mountains tall,

For Olorin-king would go to war,
 * To death for he and kin;

And war he waged to dying fall,
 * Of wondrous Nakturen.

But still he conquered, it is seen,
 * And yet his wars go on;

Quenched never by a soldier's thirst,
 * Nor a broken man-of-arms.

Thus it told. They after were told, in Plain Speech, how came the Downfall of Naktur (of which Eyin and Elrasil knew, for Elrasil told many tales and Elrasil had been alive when the great land fell.), which held Niyn in a trance - his people, the Dalureans, hailed from Naktur, but remembered no tales as such. Their history went back but a few hundred years.

On the final day, the messages finally came in for them to head out. The scouts that had been sent out were returning and brought news: an uneasy feeling to the east. Something stirs in the muck. A great evil has been awoken, an evil that has long slept. Go warily. They needed no more warnings; they hearkened to these and prepared against bad times. Among the weapons, they packed a pair of blades for each of the travelers: blades made by the ancient craft of the Eduri.

"Bear them well," the smith said as he sheathed and handed them over, "for we have not made war-craft like this for many years, and it is the best we have made since a long age. They are known as Azhkadar, and are inscribed with many runes. As you can see, their curved shape and slightly serrated blade make them a formidable weapon. They are silent, and will not break. Take them!"

"Thank you, many times over, Smith of the Eduri. May your line never falter." Said Elrasil, bowing low.

Dharn walked up to them. "Ready?" he asked.

"Indeed. We shall leave at once." Elrasil answered.

"I'm to escort you, I've heard," Dharn grinned, "but I've summoned a very old friend." he finished, whistling long and low. The sound reverberated throughout the halls and could be heard firm and gentle for many miles underground. The ground began to shake and then began to rumble, as though a great many feet were running; and then it grew silent, but a feeling of wind and ill weather came upon them. They felt a dark presence in front of them settle. Drawing their azhkadar, they turned towards Dharn. "Traitor..." Niyn growled under his breath.

"Say rather, 're-uniter', Niyn! Be not frightened!" an ancient voice said, from the darkness. It grew ever closer, and then the lights came on and its form was revealed.

There sat Tenebra, the very ancient Alatreon that had once aided them.

"But...We thought that you had died!" Elrasil said with disbelief.

"So I did, so I did! But, by the grace of the Wyvernlords, and skill of the Eduri, I have been brought back, though perhaps I am not what I once was." He laughed. It was a good laugh, such as had never been heard from an Alatreon.

"You look terrible." Eyin said, voicing her thought but also getting her ancient comrade to notice her.

"Eyin!! It is well to see you! They spoke of you when still I was in ill health, yet I did not believe them. To think, that day some 200 years ago would be so fateful... Would you have ever imagined that the same folk who had drawn blade against thee would later bond you in camaraderie?" Tenebra smiled broadly.

"Who could've thought? But that doesn't matter now. And I am with all of my friends now," Eyin laughed, "Niyn, Elrasil, and Tenebra. This shall surely be a grand trip!" She said as they set off.

The paths they traveled were dark ones. It seemed that as the paths went further downhill, farther underground, and more northerly, the lights grew dim and then finally ceased; and Dharn had no other explanation other than "These grounds once belonged to a forgotten dark tribe." He seemed to remember something dark, and sad about them, and would say no more.

As they stopped their first march and sat down for a rest, Niyn took out a parcel he had brought with him, wrapped in a dark brown cloth made from the woven strands of tree-bark, from an ancient species known as ceran. He slowly unwrapped it. Inside lay a black jewel; so dark it was that the rest of the cavern seemed alive with light in comparison. His face turned sad as his memory turned back in time, remembering a past life...A life he had abandoned so that the ancient evil of Naktur could never arise again.

For in his past life, he was a Nakturean, a Nakturean fighting for peace and for the Limestaen - and by extent, the Wyverns. He watched his homeland sink in the waves, blood-red with the lives of his comrades. In a legendary battle, Niyn - in his past life - had stood before Fatalithe, and fought him for mastery of the West - the West of the Leamen Arie. And finally, as all hope seemed lost, Niyn threw down Fatalithe upon the mountain-side and smote him with a crushing blow. But he knew that Fatalithe was ancient, ancient even as the earth would reckon it; and he was Hate, and Hate does not die. So Naran, Niyn's past form, gave its life - its very body and soul - so that Fatalithe could, with hope, be forever sealed, and threaten the West never again. His body became as a vessel, a vessel to house the ancient evil; and they locked it in the Mountain of Fire, shattered the key, and placed it within the Liriel mountain range - the Three Peaks. Finally, in an attempt to isolate control for the future and an attempt to appear at peace with them after many years, Tuskurai himself cut away a piece of his crown and made it into a key, and that key alone could open or close the Doors of Liriel. The stone, the Nakturean Obsidian, was the last living memory he had of the ancient land.

And that is where they were going, in the end: to the Doors of Liriel, to get the Keys, and to unlock Fatalithe from his long slumber, so that they may end evil forever. For if Fatalithe, whose last form was destroyed, was slain again, and his spirit embodied and burned in the heat of Nyronakturen, then his true form would be removed from this world - at least, for many years uncounted. And if the Key of Tuskurai was also melted and made no more, than Tuskurai could never again gain the proportions and power that he had once lived. But as long as both of these things continued, so evil would flow forth, renting the world.

Niyn hummed a small tune as he reminisced of his past life. Eyin walked over to him, sat down, and hugged him. "Niyn," she whispered, "come with me." She said quietly. Elrasil pretended not to notice, Dharn was already asleep. "Where are you taking me," asked Niyn as Eyin got back up slowly and quietly, pulling Niyn up with her, "and--is something wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong, though I sense that is not true for your part." Eyin said quickly. Niyn grimaced in the deepening darkness, wondering darkly where this young girl was leading him. She walked him a few paces down the road, feeling her way with a gloved hand until she found a gap in the stone-work. She grinned in the darkness and walked in, leading Niyn carefully inside behind her. In this lesser hall, which stood shorter than the main course and yet was wider, it was wholly dark; the only light came from a shawl Eyin wore, woven from Zinogre fur and designed to provide a durable and fair hood, vest, or sleeping-place at need.

Eyin took off her shawl, holding it in front of her, and as she did, a light came from it as though it were a lantern of the old make; though it showed light only in front of them, and where they so chose to look, so that the entrance of the cavern was still dark. Already it had faded from view. Eyin began to spot the end of the tunnel, and her feeling of the wall changed from a sense of well-planned stonework to merely chipped-out rock shaping to indeed little more than mine-like tunneling, with small chunks of rock coming apart from the wall if her hand gripped too hard on a piece. Then Niyn noticed the tracks; ancient cords of iron, perhaps, or some stronger metal, that seemed to have been woven out of the ground: the mine-tracks of the Ancient Eduri. Long ago, they had a great mining operation, ere it was abandoned and the northern lands of the Mines were no longer used.

Long ago, during the first wars waged between Olorin of Naktur and the folk of Wyvernhome, a band of Naktureans who were true Naktureans yet loved the Limestaen settled in the caves behind the Limestaen's guarded cord of land. They named it, and delved its caverns deeper, and for five hundred years made it the greatest place: in this time, Olorin passed from the world, Naran the Hero's tale came to pass, and in secret Tuskurai massed forces. By the five hundredth year of dwelling in this place, the Eduri had delved all the current pathways; and many Nakturean smaller tribes had joined them and added to the near-pure Nakturean blood. And so another two hundred years passed; and still more years came. Then the mysterious battles began; and at the time, Tuskurai wore two faces. One, his true, commanded his folk and armies who warred against Wyvernhome; the other, the peaceful and brave disguise of his evil, acted as though it would aid Wyvernhome, and in this way, they seemed at peace for many years. And so it came to pass that after seven hundred years of the Eduri's founding here, they left as they began to sense that the evil plaguing their upper halls was due to Tuskurai's presence in Tuskuraigen, the mountain in the North which he had bought from them to dwell in. Indeed it was: for at this time, the great war which begins our story had just happened. For three hundred years they hid in the northern reaches of the Leamen Unqale, the Dead Mountains, and under them; and it was not until two hundred years before our story began that they returned. A great work still was there, and so the legend of the Eduri endured still.

Eyin lead Niyn to the end of the tunnel, and they both sat down on the bench that had been erected there of stone. "Look around," Said Eyin, "at where I have brought you." She said, as she replaced the shawl on her body and motioned around with her hand. As her hand moved, a beacon of light appeared, so that this back part of the cavern was brought to life from long sleep; but the light stretched no further than the bend of the tunnel, where the ancient stonework of the Eduri ended. Suddenly Niyn was aware that it seemed as though a great chasm surrounded them; and they turned around so that they could see where they looked out to.

In the distance, there was but blackness. Even when Eyin concentrated the light power of her Zinogre armor as much as was possible, no walls could be seen; but it seemed as though a close air, a certain power--the very essence of age was closing in about them from this great chasm. As though from far away, over mountains, Eyin's voice came again: "This is the Black Ravine of the Eduri." As she said the name, the air shifted slightly, and slight traces of dust fell visibly away from the ceiling that ramped downwards to the bench-room that jutted out towards the gap. It was as if the ravine felt that there was no longer any awkward feelings with it and the two people sitting on its viewing-platform.

"This is an old place," said Niyn, "old, yes... and full of memory... And sadness! Why do you bring me to this forgotten, lightless place?" He glared at her in the blindness. The cavern sighed before them and more dust fell, but the air shifted as if in a gesture of anger. "Insult it not! for it is our friend. Not all darkness is evil," Eyin warned, "and this is a holy Place; the Temple of Darkness, as it were ere the fouling of the world and corruption of the Keepers of Darkness and Ice. They were great once..." Eyin sighed, "and so was this. Its great halls have long been forgotten, although an ancient spirit lives here still."

Niyn nodded slowly and looked around, as if he could see something in the deep darkness before him, which he clearly could not. He made a slight move to get up, but Eyin noticed before he could. She quickly pulled him back down. "Show respect, please," said she, "and you will find this a better place than you think." She smiled in the blackness. If Niyn could tell, he certainly showed it, holding her hands in a gesture of friendship. He looked into her eyes, although he knew it not. His mind flashed to moments ago, when he had seen her in her dress: a pale yellow robelike dress, with a corslet of mail underneath and her Zinogre shawl on the outside. She was beautiful...

His thoughts snapped back to him. There she was, in the darkness. Here he was, in the darkness with her. Here they were, in the complete darkness with a forsaken temple amid them. He could easily do whatever he so chose. But he did not, for two reasons: a great respect for his childhood friend, and that he was currently absorbed in thought. "Am I... Falling in love... With Eyin?" He thought to himself. He thought so, but he was not yet sure. He leaned forward slightly, until he could feel Eyin's blonde hair against his own dark head. He could feel her gentle, totally unencumbered breath coming in light but full, as if she had not a care in the world. He kissed her.

Eyin started at this, but not so that Niyn would notice; she wanted the love of someone. And here she had it! The love of a young, able man, learned in both lore and warcraft: a fine man for any young woman. He was everything anyone could want, and Eyin was not a spoiled girl. "I love him," Eyin thought slowly, "and I cannot resist it any longer."