The Tiran Wars

Deep in the heart of the Hiradul mountain range, Mt Hiradul towered above all others. Deep inside the mountain, an obsidian encased figure began to move. Slowly at first, but soon the obsidian itself cracked and began to fall away, revealing Gray and Black mottled skin. Arms four times as large as a man flexed so powerfully that the obsidian broke into a million jaggeed pieces.

As the Demon Giant awoke, memory flooded back to it. The final crushing blow to his great army of Goblins, Orcs and Giants. The Demon Giant had fled back up the mountain to this cave, pursued by a single man, The hero Fala'din. The hero's elven made sword had bit deep into his chest, so deep that the giant had to trigger a massive eruption inside the mountain, encasing him in obsidian and saving him from certain death.

For five hundred years, the Demon Giant had slept, until it was time once again to visit evil upon this world. Such great evil that none would stand after he was done. The Demon Giant flexed his terrible muscles and let out a laugh so tremendous that the mountain itself shook and trembled around him.

For hundreds of miles in every direction, Goblins, Orcs, Giants and all manner of evil beasts lifted their demonic visages to Mt Hiradul and let out a great triumphant scream. Before packing their belongings and rsuhing the the feet of their master.

None knew exactly how long and wide the Hiradul mountains were. Huge exploration parties had been mounted before and many had gotten hundreds of miles into them, but none had emerged out onto the other side. On their way, many of the exploration parties had encountered huge portions of the Demon Giant's army. Goblins and Orcs hassled them each day,until the party had no choice but to turn back for their homeland, The Kingdom of Tiran.

The small hamlet of Haunts stood between two rolling forested hills, a mere thirty miles from the foothills of the Hiradul mountains. The triangle rooved houses were different from the ones in the southern reaches of the Kingdom of Tiran, they were shaped so snow would roll off, while the southern homes had flat rooves. The homes were clustered in a circle around the community well and commonroom.

Game of all kinds were plentiful in the rolling hills surrounding Haunts. Children ran and laughed among the tall pines, playing games of Knights and Goblins. Women beat dirty clothes on rocks next to a small stream inside the forest and gossiped about what everyone else was doing. The hunters ventured out every other week for seven days and came back with dead deer, elk, bear, bison and boar, to feed the community. Everyone was happy. Until God's year 763, when the Demon Giant awoke form it's five century slumber.

Ryn'ntar had stayed out far to late this night and had gotten his clothes dirty on his way home. His mother had scolded him and put him to bed without his evening meal. His mother shook her head "Do you know what happens to children who do not obey their mothers, Ryn'ntar?"

"No." Ryn'ntar said with a half sad-half angry tone to his voice.

"The Demon Giant comes as they are sleeping and eats them." Ryn'ntar's mother told him in a voice that would make adults laugh, but was utterly terrifying to a child.

"Mother, please do not leave me to the Demon Giant!" Ryn'ntar cried, as he threw his arms around his mother's waist and clung there.

"I am sorry, Ryn'ntar, but I cannot undo that which you have done." his mother scolded, before pinching out the candle and leaving her son's room. Once she was out of the room, Ryn'ntar's mother smiled. In five hundred years the Demon Giant had transformed from a recognized danger to a fable used to frighten and teach little children that did not obey the rules.

Meanwhile in a valley five miles from the village of Haunts, evil came bubbling out of the shadows.

They came in the night. Hundreds of goblins ran straight at the wall surrounding the small village and leapt over it in a single bound, landing silently with burning torches in their hands. The tossed the torches onto the thatched roofs.

Men were cut down, as they came out of their homes, sword in hand, to fight the goblins. Women fended off goblins with pots and pans, trying to keep the goblins from grabbing their children, but in vain. Homes were sacked, the dead men, women and children were scalped by the attacking goblins.

Tears rolled down Ryn'ntar's face in a never ending stream, as he ran. He had brought the goblins here. His mother and father were dead, because he had stayed out to late. It was all his fault. Ryn'ntar ran until he could no longer breath. He had long since left Haunts, running without any direction in mind.

Ryn'ntar could no longer breath and he fell to the ground, underneath the bows of a huge pine tree. He still sobbed to himself, he had cried so long and so hard that he had become sick and was now dry heaving. He looked pitiful, a boy of no more then eight winters huddled under the spreading branches of a pine tree. Alone in the forest, so very alone.

High above Ryn'ntar, in the pine tree a small figure crouched and looked down in curiosity. Serban of the Du'ellofar elves could not leave this young human to die in the forest. Standing four feet tall, Serban held a small elvish made bow in his hands, as he considered the sobbing human below him. If it had been any other Du'ellofar the boy would have died that night, but Serban could not leave the boy to die. As Serban glided down to the ground, he had a sudden rush of insight, this boy would be the next one. This boy had just ran into his destiny.

Three thousand miles to the south and a full month later, Brother Casting, a fat and jolly monk of the Church of Eve'lyn Of The Guiding Light, knelt before King Marka'lo Dun Eff'ngham "Yes, your majesty I am completely sure." he said, his forehead pressed to the ground.

"This is not just a small gathering of the beasts?" The King asked, his head and upper body tilting forward in the throne at the monk.

"Yes. My Father Abbot has looked many times with his magical stones." Brother Casting said, sttill not looking up at the King.

"I do not wish to speak with you, Brother, go and retreive your Father Abbot. I must speak with him in person." King Marka'lo waved his hand towards the door "Go NOW!"

Brother Casting skitered towards the large audience chamber doors and was gone in a moment.

Queen Marie Dun Eff'ngham placed a hand on her husband's forearm and whispered to him "Dearest, you must be kinder to the church. They hold sway over the people's immortal souls and they can use those gem stones. We would not win a civil war between church and state"

"Oh, but those monks anger me greatly, my queen." her husband replied, cracking his knuckles.

"But you must condone them, they can squash the people's view of themselves without batting an eye. That would make us rulers of nothing, save for a single castle filled with five hundred soliders." Queen Marie Dun Eff'ngham whispered to him.

It was not until the next day, that Father Abbot Martland stood in front of King and Queen. King Eff'ngham found it irritating that the Father Abbot stared at him, like they were equals. It made him want to beat the man to unconsciousness with the royal scepter. Instead, the king killed his fantasy and said "I must know for certain that the Demon Giant has indeed risen again, Father Abbot."

"I have looked many times, my king. There are so many goblins at Mt Hiradul that you cannot see the ground." Father Abbot shook his head "It seems we must blow the horns of war one more time. That more lives must be lost, so soon after our border war with Tyrina."

"Please, Father Abbot, check once more, for me." King Mark'alo asked, as if the old man in the robes had a choice.

"If you insist." The Father Abbot replied, as he removed from his pocket a small stone. Mark'alo did not get a good look at the gem, before it was pushed into the Father Abbot's forehead and the old man began closing his eyes.

Father Abbot Martland fell deep into the magic of the gem stone. Letting it soak deep into his soul, mixing with the very essence of him. He grew stronger every moment until, in a rush of light, sound and sight, Father Abbot Martland looked down on his physical body from above. If anyone had been able to see the Father Abbot, he would seem as he always did, a small older man with thining and greying hair, except that he was completely transparent.

The Father Abbot had trained his whole life in the use of the gem stones and so it only took a single thought to send his spiritual being flying towards Mt Hiradul and towards the Demon Giant. He soared high above the deserts, forests and lush grasslands, a full three thousand miles in a mere thirty seconds, until he hovered high above Mt Hiradul. He could no longer go any farther. His way was trapped by an invisible barrier which kept him from venturing into the Demon Giant's actual lair, but Father Abbot Martland could see just fine from his vantage point.

Millions upon millions goblins, orcs and Giants milled about at the foot of Mt Hiradul. They had heard their master's call and had answered, at least five million strong, with more streaming into the steps to Mt Hiradul. They yelped and beat sword, spear and dagger against sheild, enthused for the fighting to come.

Watching the legions of goblins, Father Abbot Coram Di'able Martland's stomach sank into his feet. This was a war that would desimate the entire country of Tiram, perhaps the entire world. For what kind of army of god or man could stand up to such overwhelming odds?

In another thirty seconds, Father Abbot Martland was back in his body, three thousand miles to the south, safe from the Demon's legions. At least for now. "Yes, my king, The Demon Giant has awakened."

King Mark'alo Dun Eff'ngham stood to address the entire court, filled to overflowing with courtiers and courtizans. Scribes sat at desks along the walls, writing every single word on parchment. The royal guard standing at crisp attention, grim looks on their otherwise handsome faces. "Muster the cavalry. Inform my brother in the northlands of the Giant. In ten days time we will leave for the northlands, to guard our borders from the Demon. May god smile upon us, for he has surely forsaken us this day."

Rules

1. No Godmodding, keep the characters believeable.​
2. No words like"Dude, Cool, Rad, etc" Act your time frame!​
3. Characters like The King, Father Abbot and The Queen are NPC characters and can be controlled by anyone, but another person's character is there's alone and np one elses.​
4. No modern weapons, Guns, Cannons, Mortars, Tanks, etc. Once again, know what time frame you are in.​
5. Have reasonable names, No Vinnie Stampthenoobs or I.P. Dailys. Having trouble with one? Here is a simple fantasy name generator for some help. http://rinkworks.com/namegen/​
6. All characters must be on the same side as each other. No lone wolves!​
7. Have fun or I will get someone else to kill you!​

Age:
Hometown:
Country:


Name: Ryn'ntar, soon to have a true Du'ellofar name.
Age: 19

Age: 26
Hometown: tur'kehder
Country: tiran
Training: training by the great knight of tur'kehder.
Profession: mercenary
Education: none.
biography: was only 15 when the first raid begun, and has constantly trained to defeat the demon giant and his armies since then. he leads an elite force of mercenaries. he is armed with a mace, a dagger and a shield with a spiked boss.

Age: 32
Hometown: N/A
Country: Saxones

All of the folk of Terrak'an turned out that night, to honor the new Ranger. Unlike human celebrations that were purposefully rowdy and loud, the celebrations of the Du'ellofar were silent ones. Not a soul clapped or cheered, as the new Ranger was lead out into the glade.

In the center of the glade rose an oak tree. In front of the tree, the Lady of Terrak'an herself, Lady T'omarowee stood, her arms crossed in front of her and a stern expression upon her heart shaped face. Serban stood behind her, a smile on his face, he clutched a wrapped bundle in front of him. The lady of Terrak'an bade Ryn'ntar to come and kneel before her, as she gave him his true name.

Unlike the Du'ellofar, which were clothed in great flowing robes in this holy place, Ryn'ntar wore nothing at all. The cool green grass felt good underneath his bare feet, as he strode towards the Lady of Terrak'an. It was very cool this night, but in this glade in the middle of the forest it was comfortably warm.

Ryn'ntar kneeled before the lady of the Du'ellofar. He looked down at her bare feet, while she motioned to Serban for the bundle he held in his hands. Serban relinquished his charge without a second thought and felt a stab of pride, as Lady T'omarowee unsheathed a fine elvish sword. The sword was perfectly straight and had a crossguard the bent upwards at a steep angle, so with a single twist of the wrist it could shatter a normal human-made sword. A small emerald was inlaid into the pommel of the sword, it was elvish magic that made the blade strong enough to hack through solid steel without shattering. The blade gleamed in the moonlight all three feet of it.

"Ryn'ntar of the late Haunts, you have been amongst us for the past eleven years. We have taught you all that we know in the ways of battle and forest. It is time you rejoined your own people." Lady T'omarowee smiled, before laying the finely made sword upon the ground at Ryn'ntar's feet. "The ways of a Ranger are not always easy, nay, it is a lonely a hard road to journey down. The world is wrought with suffering and we have trained you to ease this suffering among the humans, use the our sacred ways to guide your blade. This night, you are no longer Tu'kar the Ranger in training, you are Toroe'th. You are now Du'ellofar!"

Then, Lady T'omarowee extracted from the same bundle as the sword, a finely made elvish bow and quiver. The bow was made of the root of a willow tree, but instead of being cut from the tree, Serban himself had used the Elven magic to sing the wood from the tree. It was crafted, not by Serban's hands, but by the tree itself. The bowstring was made from the stomach of a deer and was stretched tought.

"Toroe'th, The Protector, this name has nnot been given to a Ranger in five hundred years. May this name guide you higher then even it's previous owner. We bid you farewell this night. Never again return to this forest, Toroe'th."

Ryn'ntar could not move, as the Lady of Terrak'an, Serban and all the other Du'ellofar began to disppear into the forest. One by one disappearing from sight. It was not until all the elves had disappeared form view that Toroe'th could once again move, but he did not. He did not know what to do next.

((Come on guys, let's start the role play!))

It was a cold night in the forest that Coenwulf was currently training in. A beautiful night, really, though, just in case it got too cold, Coenwulf had brought an extra overcoat. Currently, he was sharpening his große Messer on his sharpening stone, when he saw an elf go past, nearly too fast to see, but Coenwulf's eyes were trained to see the fast things in the world. Curious as to what was going on, Coenwulf followed the elf's tracks to its place of origin, where he came upon a boy, well, barely a man at least, standing there, doing nothing, and wearing nothing. "Hail, boy! Do you need clothing? I have an extra coat if you need it."

Name: Faeron
Age: 206
Hometown: Feras
Country: Rwendia
Training: Elven training with the Bow and elven sword, Under Taenion the wise.
Profession: Archer
Education: Apprentice to Taenion the wise.
Biography: Faeron is an Elf who lives in the forests of Rwendia next to Tiran.
The elven mages from his hometown Feras had foreseen the awakening of Demon Giant. Rwendia was in turmoil, the elders were fighting about whether to help Tiran in the was against evil. Many argued that this was not there war.
Others that they would come for Rwendia once Tiran had fallen.

The whole of the east side of Rwendia was getting their armies together, Many of the south towns were stirring as well, including Feras. Faeron had never been one for politics. He had set out with some of the towns from the east when the mages first foresaw the Shadow one, as many elves called the demon, returning.

He was now in the Forests of Tiran, not as big or dense as those of Rwendia but he had become accustomed to them. He had seen many animals and races that did not live in the Forests of Rwendia, including the other 'elves' who stood only around 3 feat tall, around 3 and a half feat lower than that of a normal elf.

Toroe'th thought hard upon his life up until this point. The Lady of Terrak'an was correct, Ryn'ntar was complete now. He had the mental, physical and spiritual aspects of the Du'ellofar training perfectedto the highest level attainable. He was able to defeat the greatest warrior of the Du'ellofar's and so he was ready to become what his training had conditioned him for. A Ranger. Toroe'th The Ranger, The Protector of the Timber.

It was with trembling hands that Toroe'th reached out and took the hilt of his sword. From the moment a boy is excepted as the next Ranger, his blade and bow begin to forge themselves. It took this blade eleven years to fully form, as with the bow. It was a perfectly balanced blade, light enough to manuever with the utmost precision, but strong enough to withstand the heaviest of attacks. Toroe'th had seen Serban use his bow at tremendous distances, the elf had once shot a small acorn that Ryn'ntar had thrown hard into the air, the arrow had cracked the acorn in two perfectly and equally. Toroe'th wondered if this bow could do the same.

What was he to do? Toroe'th lay there prostrated on the ground for many hours. He prayed to the earth and the forest that they may see fit to tell him his path from this sacred place. It was fully midnight by the time Toro'eth stood.

He swung the elvish sword in tight circles around his body, instead of commanding it, he fell into the power of the emerald inlaid into it's pommel and the sword became a part of him, as much so as the hand holdign onto it. The sword cut arcs too fast for the eye to follow, the blade sharp enough to shave with made a loud whistling sound as the muscled youth cut wide swaths in the air with it. It was not until he was covered with sweat that he quit the ritual of The Dance of Swords, the most sacred of the elvish gifts.

It was as he bent over to clutch fervently at his bow that a large man lumbered into the clearing. Toroe'th's breath caught in his throat and he was purely shocked to see another human standing across the glade from him. The sacred glade where only Rangers and Du'ellofar could trod.

"S'u Tu'iloth Dun Ann'rth!" He proclaimed, he didn't notice he was using the Du'ellofar dialect and not that of the humans, an angry tone to his voice "L'ivi!"

If the human standing at the edge of the glade had been able to understand the secret dialect, he would have heard Toroe'th shout "You are violating a sacred place! Have you no shame?!?! Leave!"

Témalad slouched over in his seat inside the tavern at the humble hamlet of Fallo'thar. He stared absent-mindedly at the tankard of ale that had been served to him. It was ale of questionable quality, tasting something of damp wool, but ale nonetheless.

"This could use something to spice it up a bit", he thought, producing a small flask from under his coat. He pulled the cap off, and splashed a bit of the clear liquid it contained into his ale. The mixture frothed a bit, and then settled back down. He reapplied the cap, and stashed it back under his coat. He then took a sip from the tankard. "Much better", he thought.

He took a powerful gulp, and let his mind wonder off to wherever it wished to go. It was a slow night for the tavern, with few patrons besides Témalad present. He liked the atmosphere it presented, since it allowed him to enjoy his ale in peace and quiet.

After finishing his ale, Témalad left the tavern without another word, or even a look back. As he was strolling along, he heard a voice from behind him:

"That's a nice coat you have there".
Témalad turned around, and saw a dark figure looking back at him.
"Let's make a deal", said the figure. "Fork it over, and I'll let you live."
"As tempting as your offer is, I'm afraid I must decline", Témalad responded. He took a step towards the figure, and with one motion, he swiftly drew a dagger from under his coat, and slashed the figure's throat.

Upon closer examination, Témalad discovered that the figure was a Human male, who had been carrying a cheap knife. Témalad searched the late criminal's pockets, and discovered 3 gold pieces and a vial of acid. "Not much", he thought, "put it more than paid for my ale". He pocketed the loot and went on his way.

Age: 26/16
Hometown: None, now lives in Tiras (or whatever name for the capital of Tiran you prefer).
Country: Unclaimed region, now lives in Tiran.
Training: Skill with bolas, whip, longbow, and axe, general magical capacity, athletic abilities.




"I see...Do you like horses, Your Majesty?"
"What?" The question caught Marie off-guard.
"Do you like horses, Your Majesty?"
She smiled, "Why yes, I do. Why do you ask?"
"No reason. No reason at all." Vine said innocently.
He turned and cantered out of the court, quickly so the queen wouldn't see his grin.

Name: Dosot Faner
Age: 45
Hometown: Fal'En
Country: Tiran
Training: Paladin Training (Light and Healing Magic training, Swordsmanship, and Archery Training)
Profession: Holy Paladin of Fal'En
Education: Fal'En Monastery
Biography: Dosot Faner was the great-grandson of Kamer Kane, one of the founding members of the Paladin Order. Dosot Faner grew up in the Fal'En monastery, abandoned by his father at the age of three years old. It was said that his mother, an elf, lived in the monastery to watch over her son. However, she died before Dosot knew her. Even then, he showed promise in the art of light training. Even at three years old, he could summon light beings and heal cripples. He was destined for great things.

Now forty-five years old, Dosot Faner has long since left Fal'En. The city, which he and the Fal'En Order of Paladins were to protect, was destroyed by the minions of the Demon Giant. His grandmaster and mentor, Qu-Gan Jun, pushed him out of the Tower of Holy Order into the river below. As Dosot swam to shore, and where the stables were located, he looked up to see Qu-Gan fighting the Demon Giant himself. Qu-Gan fought bravely, but in the end, the dark magic of the Demon Giant swallowed Qu-Gan in dark aura. Qu-Gan was no more, and became the Death Knight of Fal'En, the ruler of Fal'En in the Demon Giant's stead. Dosot swore revenge against the Demon Giant for this. Dosot has now retreated to the home of the elves, in the city of Du'ellofar.

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"S'u Tu'iloth Dun Ann'rth! L'ivi!" were the words Dosot heard. He turned around, as his grey and gold trim armor shined in the moonlight. His red cloak, which was slung over his right shoulder, had holes and was tattered at the bottom. On his back he carried his two handed sword, the sword My'Shar, elvish for "My Guard". His arms were crossed behind his back, his left hand held in his right.

"Yes, a sacred place. I am allowed here friend, do not worry of this. My mother was an elf, like you. I have never learned her name, but have always carried the long blonde hair and blue eyes she gave me," Dosot said. He gave a smirk, and his blond goatee moved up as he did so.

"So what brings you here my friend? I can see your not an elf yourself," Dosot said as he lifted his right hand and motioned towards his ears.

Name: Regal
Age: 34
Hometown: unknown
Country: unknown
Training: Training of the highest quality in the ways of the axe-lance
Profession: Warrior
Education: Home-schooled
Biography: Regal is mostly an enigma, even to himself. This is because he suffered a massive traumatic attack from goblins when he was younger. When he awoke he remembered nothing of his previous life. When he realized this, he adopted the name Regal. He learned the blacksmith's trade and forged an adamantine axe-lance and shield. He forged them to be stronger than most metals...it took him the better part of two months to make just the basic metal to be used. He then set about learning how to use his weapons. He became deadly in his own right. He harbors an intense hatred for goblins and their allies, seeking to undermine them whenever he can. He also is somewhat of an isolationist, but realizes that the sudden gathering of the goblins requires him to make alliances. He will do this gladly to repay the goblins in full.

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Regal was at a waterfall nearby where he was relaxing. He didn't get that many opportunities just to relax. When he heard the odd dialect, he frowned, grabbing his axe-lance and shield. He did not fully understand the words, but the intent was clear. The person being spoken to was obviously not welcome, and Regal was too close to the voice to be welcome either. Realizing this, he got up and walked off, away from the voice.

"S'u e'th dun Du'ellofar!" Toroe'th lifted his blade to point vaguely at the two humans invading the sacred glade. He had the sinkinng feeling he would have to shed blood this night, for these men had seen Terrak'n, the Du'ellofar people's homeland. They were a threat to the continued existance of the Du'ellofar.

Toroe'th held his blade low, as his leg muscles bunched in a sudden leap, the kind Guth'er had used to almost defeat him in his final challenge. He landed with both feet planted perfectly balanced in the tall grass and was about to perform an attack that would take the feet out from under the Saxon, when a loud voice cut through the ritualistic quiet of the glade.

"I was told we had unwelcomed trespassers. Stay your blade, Toroe'th." The sharp voice of T'omarowee, Lady of Terrk'an boomed "As the young Toroe'th said, you are unwelcomed visitors here."

There was a short silence, in which everyone in the glade became edgy, "I see now, Dosot Faner, son of Su'eth en Du'ellofar." Lady T'omarowee continued "I am not adverse to drawing the blood of a once-elf. Your mother was a disgrace to our people. It was only my friendship to her mother that kept her alive to bear an abomination. I had sincerely hoped that you died when she gave birth to you."

Toroe'th was confused for a moment, before understanding. When Su'eth en Du'ellofar had beded one not of the people, she had effectively sealed her doom. The Du'ellofar were a different race of elves and because their numbers were not great, they were forced to live in secrecy. By having a son that would be both, Du'ellofar and human, Su'eth en Du'ellofar had jeopardized the very existance of her own people.

Toroe'th wondered weather Lady T'omarowee was about to correct her mistake in letting Su'eth en Du'ellofar live.

"It seems, luck has smiled upon the two of you. Upon the day a Ranger has completed his training and been givin' his name, we Du'ellofar cannot spill blood. Such would be disrespectful to the spirits. So go now, Dosot Faner and Coenwulf of Saxon, Toroe'th will lead you out of our home. Speak not a word of this and you will not be harmed. I wish to not have to tell you what shall happen, should you reveal our secrets."

Faeron and another 5 elves were scouting around the last town where the Demon Giants army had destroyed. They had not left a single survivor, they had just massacred them all brutally, burning the whole town.
Faeron and the other elves split up looking for anybody that may have survived, even though they knew it was futile. Faeron came across a group of goblins savaging down a boar. Well well well, said Faeron, Making the goblins turn, they laughed at him, drew their spears and axes and ran at him. Faeron drew his curved elven blade, he stood about 1 and a half feet above the goblins.

One goblin lunged with his spear, Faeron quickly stepped to the side and slashed the goblin in the back. Another two goblins lunged with their axes, he nimbly stepped backwards just before their axes would have cracked his skull, he jumped back to them and slit their throats. There was just one goblin left, he dropped his sword and ran, Faeron laughed and took out his bow, he drew an arrow and shot, it got the goblin in the in the leg, crippling him. Faeron mad his way to the goblin, put his sword to his throat and said, ''If you tell me where the Demon Giants army is heading to next I shall let you live''
The goblin started squirming, Faeron pushed the blade harder into his neck.
''Coran Pass squeaked the goblin, please don't'' kill me! ''Us elves never lie Goblin'' spat Faeron, he walked away from the goblin and called to the other elves, They set off to Coran Pass.

Coenwulf was surprised to hear the barely a man speak in the elven tongue. "I'm sorry. I don't speak elf. Please repeat in a language I can understand." But, another man appeared from the forest, this one a half-elf. "What brings you here?" Coenwulf asked the newcomer. Before the half-elf had a chance to reply, the barely-a-man got ready to attack, with a sword that was made by elves, and prepared the proper countermoves. "You do not want to fight me, young ranger. You will not live to face the consequences." But, before the fight could begin, a full elf came into the clearing, warning them to leave. "I see that you know a few things about me, though you can't even get my land right. It's Saxones, not Saxon. I am an Axonia, not Saxon. And, you are not the only one who knows people's names, T'omorowee." Coenwulf said all this in a heavy accent, what would later be known in other worlds as Prussian. "And, the De'ellofar are not the only people who say they own this land. You are tresspassing in former land of the Axonia, given up because we found it was only to be used for training. But, when we shrank in size, the only people who used the land are exiled warriors. I should say the same thing to all of you, and unlike you elf, I am not restricted in my fighting."

Upon hearing so many voices in the clearing, and the anger he had heard being dissipated, Regal felt bidden to approach the clearing. He arrived in time to hear the elf-woman's last words. Upon hearing them, Regal's eyes rolled up in his head as an odd vision flashed across his mind.

A woman, screaming, as a goblin pursued her, laughing. The woman, looking pleadingly at Regal to do something, her mouth moving, but as she was starting to speak, the vision started to blur. The woman's words were garbled, and Regal couldn't understand them. The vision faded.

Regal awoke to find he was lying on his back. He took a moment to collect his thoughts. The only explanation for what had occurred was that a piece of his memory had been unlocked by the words. What relation Regal had with the language (indeed, he understood nothing of it) he didn't know, but something about it had triggered the memory. He had a feeling that what the woman said was extremely important...perhaps even his lost name, but he knew nothing about what might allow him to fully restore his memory. Realizing that his presence was now revealed, he stood up, startled...his limbs were shaking. His throat was dry and sore, as if he had been screaming. "My name...well, I don't know my actual name...it was lost with my memory. I go by Regal. I'm sorry for intruding...I was making my way out of here..." he trailed off.

"Ryn'ntar Toroe'th." Lady T'omarowee said "Take these men from our presence. Guide them to Therin, then do as you wish. This is your final challenge from Du'ellofar."

Having remembered his native language, Ryn'ntar replied "Yes. m'lady." Then he looked at the three men "Come with me."

Three hundred miles south, Micheal McConnell watched as the wagons he was guiding bumped and jostled down the trail. There were at least fifty wagons, each was loaded down with wood, brick and humans. They were headed northwest, making a stop in Therin, before continuing on to the ruins of Haunts.

This was the begining of the "Peaceful Invasion", free land in the northlands, deep in the Demon's territory. It was a simple plan, by sheer numbers, Marka'lo dun Eff'ngham planned to drive the Goblins, Giants and orcs out of his lands.

But, McConnell thought as he watched his wagons, This undertaking will need heroes.

Témalad heard a multitude of voices coming from the woods. He couldn't make out most of it, given the distance, but he could make out a few bits and pieces. Among them was talk of violence and bloodshed. "Sounds like a job opportunity", he thought with a smirk.

He went back to the campsite he had fashioned, and grabbed a few materials. He then hiked off into the forest, following the voices. After about twenty minutes, he came to a clearing. Peering in, he spied an a Half-Elf and three or four Human men. He was unsure of the number of Human men. One of the men was dressed in a strange style of armor, and spoke with an accent that Témalad did not recognize. Another was stark naked, despite the fact that he held a large, elaborate sword of an Elven design. The Half-Elf also wielded an Elven sword, despite being fully clothed.

Témalad had heard a variety of languages used, and so at first, he was unsure of which he should use. He elected on the local Human dialect before stepping into the clearing. "What's the meaning of all this?", he asked nobody in particular.