This is a one off story and I only intend to do this bit, it leaves you with excitement!
The Fight for Kolkgran, Prologue
It had been known to many that the elves of Eldraven were the dominating protectors of the south. Tales and been told for many 100s of years of how they courageously fought off all opposition from every land. They moved like angels rode on horses that were white as snow; they fired fine oak bows which shot precise slick arrows. But recently it had been different in these forsaken lands.
A powerful wind swept over the shaded plains of what used to stand as a bright and cheerful city. The searing sun overhead left the air a murky brown and all around pain and death was evident. All that could be heard was the chugging of supply carts, the clanging of metal and the chopping of wood. There was no sound from the disgruntled workers; it seemed as if everything had died. There was no life in their faces, no emotion, just a blank canvas as if everything had been erased. They were ordered in lines which stretched on for miles; if they moved they were wither killed on the spot, or sent to an execution camp to face a slow and horrible death. The issuers of these jobs were the Gurks. They were hunched mounds of thick, brutish limbs. They stomped with stubby feet, causing the earth to shake. They made noises that sounded like they were spitting out their insides and they were expressionless looking as if they had been made by the hand of man.
The sky had darkened from the hellish industry and labour. What used to be lush green grass and tall towering tress was now a depressing wastelands of stench and mud where foliage did not grow. There was no life here. For the elves their lives had been scolded by the burn of the evasion. They all knew that there was only one culprit and his name was of mystery and darkness: Lord Emperor Ziogan. Until this day the name Ziogan was known as a myth, a story from voodoo magic. No one, not even the elves, were prepared for his onslaught. No one in this world has been has been known to glimpse eyes on his figure; it seemed as if he was a shadow which moved with the wind. No one knew what he was, where he was or even what is intentions were. However, to the elves, Ziogan was an evil hell bounder. He had taken everything away from them and he must be stopped. The Gurks were Ziogan’s trusted army; together they were strong and powerful, like machines. They could be heard and smelt for miles with their slow heavy footsteps and their strong and distinctive smell. They had obliterated everything that stood in Ziogan’s way. They had swept south of Kolkgran like locusts; Eldraven was just a minor detail.
In Eldraven they were no day or night, just an ongoing fight for survival. Every second of every day felt like an age for the elves, many dies from exhaustion and suffocated from the intoxicating fumes that filled the air. The only noises made by the elves were their screams of pain. The screams echoed throughout the plains which sent a shudder through every single worker. It had been 10 years of this; the same old routine, no new obstacles for the Gurks to face; everything was going to plan, so organised, so efficient.
Over the horizons to the rocky landscape of the Jazarazhan Mountains, stood a lonesome figure embracing the age of heartache and terror. He had been standing there for years and had grown wiser and grown older with every day. His bright blue eyes paned over the deserted wasteland that stood before him. He was at the tallest point of Kolkgran but this did not intimidate the young wanderer. His torso was thin and scrawny. It as bruised and blistered and he lacked any real physical presence. The clothes he wore were tattered and torn and his only weapon was that of a rusty copper sword. He had set up camp in Jazarazhan after the fierce invasion, for he too was an elf.
However he had escaped the chains of the Gurks cage, while the others had sold themselves into a life of misery. Somewhere in his head were memories of the beautiful Eldraven that once stood. But these were hard to grasp as his last image of Eldraven was the Gurks destroying his beloved sisters and brothers and ferociously eating away at the core of the city. There were markings on the walls of the crumbling ruins, where he had set up camp that described ancient threats which have now been resurfaced to menace the beleaguered races of Kolkgran. As if spurred by unseen forces, Ziogan has laboured these theories and exploited worldwide weaknesses to push the world to the brink of oblivion. As many races had become broken, warped shells of their former selves the sky had become blacker full of great perils and spite. There are no days, in the mountains, just nights. Viscious clouds had blocked out all the sense of light. It is only a matter of time before Eldraven was about to cast over by this looming shadow and doomed for eternity.
The lone raider looked up at the sky. Lit by the burning campfire aglow, a tear ran down his face. He knew he needed a lot of reinforcements to help save Kolkgran. Where could eh find such brave warriors, he thought. Everyone that he knew had either been killed or sent to work for Ziogan. It was not in the elves way to leave their homeland; they had been very accustomed to building up s close and protective society. For this lonesome elf the future looked bleak and an impossible frontier to conquer.
As he glimpsed back over the land a brutish cry echoed trough out the canopy. Falling debris broke into thousands of pieces as it hit the floor almost destroying the camp. As he breathed in an intimidated sigh, he realises the cry was closer than he expected. So too was the smell.
The Fight for Kolkgran, Prologue
It had been known to many that the elves of Eldraven were the dominating protectors of the south. Tales and been told for many 100s of years of how they courageously fought off all opposition from every land. They moved like angels rode on horses that were white as snow; they fired fine oak bows which shot precise slick arrows. But recently it had been different in these forsaken lands.
A powerful wind swept over the shaded plains of what used to stand as a bright and cheerful city. The searing sun overhead left the air a murky brown and all around pain and death was evident. All that could be heard was the chugging of supply carts, the clanging of metal and the chopping of wood. There was no sound from the disgruntled workers; it seemed as if everything had died. There was no life in their faces, no emotion, just a blank canvas as if everything had been erased. They were ordered in lines which stretched on for miles; if they moved they were wither killed on the spot, or sent to an execution camp to face a slow and horrible death. The issuers of these jobs were the Gurks. They were hunched mounds of thick, brutish limbs. They stomped with stubby feet, causing the earth to shake. They made noises that sounded like they were spitting out their insides and they were expressionless looking as if they had been made by the hand of man.
The sky had darkened from the hellish industry and labour. What used to be lush green grass and tall towering tress was now a depressing wastelands of stench and mud where foliage did not grow. There was no life here. For the elves their lives had been scolded by the burn of the evasion. They all knew that there was only one culprit and his name was of mystery and darkness: Lord Emperor Ziogan. Until this day the name Ziogan was known as a myth, a story from voodoo magic. No one, not even the elves, were prepared for his onslaught. No one in this world has been has been known to glimpse eyes on his figure; it seemed as if he was a shadow which moved with the wind. No one knew what he was, where he was or even what is intentions were. However, to the elves, Ziogan was an evil hell bounder. He had taken everything away from them and he must be stopped. The Gurks were Ziogan’s trusted army; together they were strong and powerful, like machines. They could be heard and smelt for miles with their slow heavy footsteps and their strong and distinctive smell. They had obliterated everything that stood in Ziogan’s way. They had swept south of Kolkgran like locusts; Eldraven was just a minor detail.
In Eldraven they were no day or night, just an ongoing fight for survival. Every second of every day felt like an age for the elves, many dies from exhaustion and suffocated from the intoxicating fumes that filled the air. The only noises made by the elves were their screams of pain. The screams echoed throughout the plains which sent a shudder through every single worker. It had been 10 years of this; the same old routine, no new obstacles for the Gurks to face; everything was going to plan, so organised, so efficient.
Over the horizons to the rocky landscape of the Jazarazhan Mountains, stood a lonesome figure embracing the age of heartache and terror. He had been standing there for years and had grown wiser and grown older with every day. His bright blue eyes paned over the deserted wasteland that stood before him. He was at the tallest point of Kolkgran but this did not intimidate the young wanderer. His torso was thin and scrawny. It as bruised and blistered and he lacked any real physical presence. The clothes he wore were tattered and torn and his only weapon was that of a rusty copper sword. He had set up camp in Jazarazhan after the fierce invasion, for he too was an elf.
However he had escaped the chains of the Gurks cage, while the others had sold themselves into a life of misery. Somewhere in his head were memories of the beautiful Eldraven that once stood. But these were hard to grasp as his last image of Eldraven was the Gurks destroying his beloved sisters and brothers and ferociously eating away at the core of the city. There were markings on the walls of the crumbling ruins, where he had set up camp that described ancient threats which have now been resurfaced to menace the beleaguered races of Kolkgran. As if spurred by unseen forces, Ziogan has laboured these theories and exploited worldwide weaknesses to push the world to the brink of oblivion. As many races had become broken, warped shells of their former selves the sky had become blacker full of great perils and spite. There are no days, in the mountains, just nights. Viscious clouds had blocked out all the sense of light. It is only a matter of time before Eldraven was about to cast over by this looming shadow and doomed for eternity.
The lone raider looked up at the sky. Lit by the burning campfire aglow, a tear ran down his face. He knew he needed a lot of reinforcements to help save Kolkgran. Where could eh find such brave warriors, he thought. Everyone that he knew had either been killed or sent to work for Ziogan. It was not in the elves way to leave their homeland; they had been very accustomed to building up s close and protective society. For this lonesome elf the future looked bleak and an impossible frontier to conquer.
As he glimpsed back over the land a brutish cry echoed trough out the canopy. Falling debris broke into thousands of pieces as it hit the floor almost destroying the camp. As he breathed in an intimidated sigh, he realises the cry was closer than he expected. So too was the smell.
