The sky was bright as another day came, the town sted in all its glory was calm. To what could we owe this strange peace, after? To what could we owe this silence still drift? The time of a thousand years, dynasties. Dynasties of man came and fell, the elves; they kept a steady eye on the people, taking any which had promise themselves, “A honor” they called it, dine with the gods. Yet those which were taken were never seen, either kept for a generations time, or killed off like a pestilence forgot. A honor or a sentence, who could say? Many came willingly, some spat at them. So an era of peace and farming came, the time of great inventions now forgot, the libraries of old, all in ruin.

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A few remembered, the books which lain low, a few remembered, the elves above high, a few remembered, told through stories long, but more forgot, too many drowned their tears. Now in decline, a slow, unnoticed fall, we return to a age of old quiet. Yet few would not forget, yet few rebels… remained, a new enemy at their door.

“The elves, the godly beings made by us…”