Work In Progress

[Icarus Athrasuriel]

This story is based in the world created by the inventive and intelligent members of The White Council. To properly understand this story I suggest you go to http://s10.invisionfree.com/TheWhite...ex.php?act=idx .

Otherwise, you can sit back and enjoy. Please comment though


"There was a light," the old man began, "Dim, but visible. Like that seen at the end of a long tunnel. Like the fading hope of victory against insurmountable odds.

The light was surrounded by blackness, a never ending darkness that gave way to no colour. Other than the light, there was nought.

Words were spoken, powerful, immortal words. Words of a language never known to any Man, Elf, Dwarf, Hobbit or other creature.

They spoke of creation, knowledge, destruction. They spoke of everything that would ever happen. That has happened, what is happening, and all that will happen.

The words lasted all the ages of this earth and more. They lasted many lives of Elves. They lasted an eternity.

And thus, the light brightened. It grew. Like approaching the end of the tunnel. A suddenly, the light was never ending. Like the blackness before it, there was no colour to mar it.

And so it faded. It faded again, but this time into many dots. They sparkled, like wrought silver. Sparkling like the everlasting hope, the everlasting life of the earth.

Then the eyes opened. Many eyes, eyes of creatures that were like unto gods of men. They gazed at what they saw, and named the dots Érwin. That is stars in the common tongue of the earth.

And then they heard the words again. They understood them, and began to speak themselves. Their voices were like singing, immaculate and flowing, keeping to an immortal and beautiful rhythm. And thus, from their words and thoughts, the earth was wrought.

And they shaped it, they shaped the earth. They lifted it to create hills, and lowered it to crate valleys. They put upon it grass and rock and all plants. Under it they put gold and silver, which we now cherish above much else.

And then they stopped singing, and thought for a long time. Occasionally they shaped more creations, similar to the earth, but different. None were as beautiful, none could match the original. And so they stopped, pleased with the earth, and, for millions of years, they rested.

The words, of that unimaginable language, flooded into the universe once more. They spoke of beauty to come, of life. And so, with this new rhythm began for them, the gods sang once more, and shaped out the oceans, making much water. Then they sang softly, and split into different rhythms. Each song became a creature upon the earth, made of the earth. And the earth breathed, through immortal elves. It changed it’s face through the skilled miners, the dwarves. It built upon itself through mortal men. It lived in the meadows and looked after it’s plant life through the gardeners and harvesters. Some creatures had other powers, magical as mean would call them. Though men know not of true magic, true power.

And so creation seemed complete, perfect. But one rhythm faltered, one song stopped," the man stopped. He leaned on his staff and sighed.

"When it began again," he continued, "It was different, it’s singer was different, changed like his song. And so another plane of the earth was created, where once more darkness ruled. And there evil creatures sprang that would undo the work of the gods.

When the gods learned of this, they were quick to anger. They discovered the faltered song, and sent it’s singer to the darkness he had created. They shut it off from the earth with an almost unbreakable wall.

And, as life gazed at the stars and wondered at the earth, creation was done. But creation is only the beginning. And, like all beginnings, there is a middle, and an end."

The assorted men, all of whom were Rangers, here to exchange stories, clapped. They applauded the old man as he sat back down. "Nice story Érwin!" one shouted.

"Pity you used your own name though!" another joked. Érwin laughed with the Rangers.

When it calmed down, the Ranger closest to the fire asked, "And what happened to this evil?"

"Oh, it escaped it's dungeon. It was beaten back though, as were it's hordes, by the valiant men of Gráhér. That is the Realm of Purity in your tongue," Érwin answered, "But it was not defeated."

"Why not use our tongue Érwin?" a Ranger asked, "While in our company?"

"Because, Larón, I prefer Old Elvish," Érwin answered. "But as I said, the evil was not defeated. Even now, the White Realm and Weissland battle with it."

The men looked at each other, and the one nearest the fire smiled and shook his head, sharing a friendly, but knowing glance with Érwin. Then one Ranger said, "You speak of the White Realm? It is but a myth, never mind Weissland, a simple fable."

Érwin looked up at the Rangers, and said, "A myth? Oh yes, the White Realm is nought but a myth." He stood, and left the circle.

"A myth indeed," he muttered as he walked back towards the town...



Érwin closed the door to his room in the tavern silently. It was late, and he was tired. The tavern, known as the Raktos' Arms (after the old 'Realm of Purity' myth), was situated in the centre of the small town. It itself was only a few kilometres north of the Dark Mountains, thus it was a popular way station for the Rangers and soldiers.

"Well told, Érwin," a voice said. It was soft, and Elven, but it sounded old in the way men see it. "I see you haven't lost any of your knowledge since my last visit."

"Who are you?" Érwin asked, looked into the dark room, and leaning on his staff.

"It is only me," the voice said again, and out of a shadow, a Ranger walked. He stopped a few metres short of Érwin, and took down his hood. It was the Ranger from the fire. Though he looked different. Not as rugged, and far more fair. He pushed his hair behind his ears. It looked silky now, smooth, reflective. And so he revealed his pointed ears. "Come, Érwin, lower your hood."

Érwin did so, and his hair fell behind his back. His face too seemed more young and fair, but his eyes aged a million years. "Well, I wouldn't have told it if I couldn't remember, would I?" he said, sitting down.

"Of course not. But you needn't tell them about the White Realm," the Ranger-***-Elf said.

"The story would be incomplete then," Érwin argued.

"It still isn't complete. You failed to tell them of Him. The one they fight against. You failed to tell him that He is the fallen god," the Elf countered.

"If I had told them that it would have frozen their hearts, and they would have fought no more," Érwin said, standing, "And if that happens, then all will fall."

"It seems that it will anyway. I bring news from the North. Ortin Port was taken by force three days ago," the Elf said, sighing. "I do not know who by."

"It can't have been Him, his naval strength is not enough," Érwin pondered. "Weissland?"

"I hope not. If the Rangers fall, and the old alliance is broken, then nothing will stand in His way," the Elf said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "The Rangers and men have fought valiantly, but we need assistance from the North. My own men will come from the mountains, if Almirith will allow it. As will the Elves of my mother's clan."

"We cannot defeat Him in outright war. Pitched battles are not our strength," Érwin argued.

"Which is exactly why we need help from Lord Sunnycool and his allies!" the Elf pushed.

"Not even then will we stand a chance!" Érwin shouted, standing. He grew tall, and dark. As a King may when he reveals his true power.

"We must try!!" the Elf now shouted. His voice quietened, and he said, "Whether the hope is dim or not. Like the fading light at the end of the tunnel..." All grew quiet now.

"Go then, and I shall ponder this over night..." Érwin said.

"They will come, Érwin. My men and elves will come when asked, you can count on that," the Elf said as he made for the door.

"I don't doubt you. I don't doubt you at all," Érwin sighed, slouching back into his chair. "Goodbye Loter. Till the morning."

"Aye, till morning," Loter answered, and closed the door behind him.

[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.