[Icarus Athrasuriel]

Érwin opened the curtains and looked out over the town. It wasn't a very pretty place, but it was practical for travellers and Ranges, due to it's proximity to the mountains, and therefore the combat.

Perhaps it is time to explain a little geography. The town in which Érwin was staying was called Gordál by Men, but it's Elvish, and original name, was Greenleaf in the common tongue, which was rather contrary to the place itself. It was three leagues from the Dark Mountains, which lay on the border (or rather, were the border) between the free realms and Arenóakú. Gordál was in the land of GÃ*rol, the land of Men. GÃ*rol was immense in size, larger than Weissland. Most of it was plains though, albeit the mountains and cities.

Érwin stood looking at the street. The townsfolk were stepping out of the way of a troupe of Rangers as they walk past. They bowed slightly, and the Rangers inclined their heads. 'Pah,' Érwin thought, 'They have never seen true warriors.' Indeed, the Rangers of GÃ*rol paled in comparison to the warrior class. The warriors of Men in these parts were directly descended from a group of soldiers who sailed across the sea to GÃ*rol many decades ago. It was well known that these soldiers were part of Kais' family, a group of elite warriors from the Realm of Purity. Even now the blood of these men runs like fire through their vains.

He walked out of his room and through the Inn, stopping to tip the innkeeper, and into the street. He pulled up his hood and climbed atop his horse. He rode down the street, not bothering to stop for the Rangers (which caused quite a stir). He had made his decision. As skilled and powerful as the Rangers and Warriors of GÃ*rol were, they needed assistance. They needed it now.

Érwin rode out of the gates, not stopping for the guards, and sped down the gravel road, which gradually became stone. His horse bore him a league West before He saw the smoke. It was north, no more than 200 fathoms. He set off towards it hastily, wasting no time with the road and riding full tilt through the woodland.

It was close and dank in those woods. They surround Gordál, and go as far as the eye can see on most days. Occasionally, when the sun is at it's zenith, one can see the edges of the forest. Southward the Mountains rose behind them, their snow capped peaks looming dangerously over the land.

Érwin broke from the trees and onto the road. Turning, he saw the source of the smoke. There was a caravan party, the carriages and carts broken and burning. There were shadows moving through the smoke, stabbing swords into what looked like rocks, but which Érwin knew that they were bodies. He rode cautiously now, till he could make out the shape of a Ranger, then he dismounted. Drawing his sword, he ran up to the Ranger, and lowered his hood.

"What happened here?" he asked, looking at the body of a dead caravan guard. The Ranger lowered his hood, and looked at Érwin.

"Wild men," he said. Érwin looked up and saw Loter, now thrusting his sword into a struggling barbarian. Loter's sword was long and curved, in the fashion of GÃ*rolian warriors, but made by the most skilled Elven blacksmith in Weissland. The hilt was lightly decorated by a criss-crossing magenta cloth, so sharp it could cut through any armour on earth, and the hide of any demon or monster of Kilnor. There was no cross guard on it. Érwin's sword was in the manner of Rangers, a claymore. It too was made by Elven blacksmiths, and was both strong as a war-hammer and light as a knife.

"There'll be another excursion into the hills by the Rangers then..." Érwin commented, helping an injured Ranger to his feet.

"This was not the work of wild men alone though," Loter said, and took Érwin to an armoured body, the chest plate and shield bearing the golden sword of Kilnor's southern followers. "This is the work of the enemy..."

"But, they haven't broken through the mountains..." Érwin argued, but he trailed off. He and Loter exchanged alarmed looks, and then Loter suddenly sheathed his sword and ran off towards the front of the caravan. Érwin followed.

"We must leave as soon as we can, but now I must ride north-east, and enlist the help of the Elves. I will pass on the news to the Emperor also. I need you to leave for the mountains, talk with Aromun, at the White Pass. I will meet you there." With that, Loter mounted his horse and shook his rangers cloak to one side, to reveal the gold and silver coloured armour of the Elves that lay beneath. He pulled on his plumed helm and nodded to Érwin, then rode off.

"Perhaps it is too late..." Érwin muttered as he walked down the caravan, past the regrouping Rangers. Little did he know how right he was.