The slender trees moaned and flexed as they drifted out of place, carving a path through the dense foliage, impenetrable to even the fiercest of flames and harshest of assaults. Only the elves, enlightened children of the great goddess of tranquillity and life, Seren, can command the ancient trees of Tirannwn to obey their will; and even then, only the highest the peculiar race can instruct the most primeval of varieties, such as this. The trees came to a halt, revealing a narrow dark tunnel through the canopy, leading to a small but bright and exuberant garden beyond. A tall and robust figure, adorned in heavy crystal armour, approached and entered the newly formed fissure. As he passed through, the trees once again sprang to life, closing behind him and sealing the living wall once more. "Gwsg hen ffynnon goed" he whispered in a low but soft voice.

In the centre of the clearing sat a tree with a thick trunk and dense leaves, speckled with white blossoms which glimmered like crystals under the beating sun. The trunk was pierced with a staff of ancient design, the metal embellished with dull glowing runes and the top with the Zarosian symbol. From the wound crystal fell, like a waterfall, into a shallow pool of solid glass engulfing the roots. Now stood within the opening, Arweinydd, lord of the elves and trusted general of Seren, briskly paced towards the lonesome tree. Elven cloth lined the joints of the elf lord's armour, joining the plates of solid crystal and allowing the armour to slide over itself, offering the motility required of the agile race. The crystal was jagged in texture, decorated with intricate elven designs matching the embroidered swirls of the adjoining cloth. Flat shards of crystal protrude at the knees and the elbows whilst free fragments float and hover above the shoulders forming a mantle. On his head the elf wore a simple crown, resembling the antlers of a forest stag - crafted from living wood. Arweinydd crouched down and touched the crystal flowing from the wound on the tree's trunk. His fingers slid across its surface. It was wet to the touch. He then ran his hand up the stem of the staff, the runes brightening as his fingers brushed across it. He could feel the energy beginning to flow within the weapon once more.

It was dark. Too dark for a man of the light. Yet, here he found himself… Straying from his path of righteousness and into the foul Northern wilderness. It was a far cry from his home back in Asgarnia; a humble chapel on the shores of the Southern Sea, where the windows would welcome in the glorious sunlight and the walls were soothed by the soft whispers of the waves. Alas, this was a very different place. The salty scent of the sea air was replaced with the stench of blood and brimstone, and the gentle breeze that would caress his beard had been shunned away by vicious winds that threatened to blister his skin. The charred earth cracked under his feet as he ventured further into the barren lands. These parts had been untouched by sane folk for centuries; feared and avoided by all who valued their lives. Not since the Unholy One laid Forinthry to ruin had it welcomed any guests, deterring even the bravest of adventurers with its cruel climate and crueller creatures that dwelled within the darkness. And yet, here he was; Father Badden, a good servant of Saradomin, in this evil wasteland.

Of course, he was not here without good reason. Ever since that fateful day that Guthix had awoken from his slumber and cast the deities of Gielinor into The Void, Badden had dedicated his days to bringing the Holy One back from the beyond. And whilst Guthix had since abandoned the planet, his power remained in place and the act of releasing Saradomin from his dimensional prison remained as challenging as ever. Fortunately, it seemed as though Saradomin continued to bless this realm with his miracles; the most recent of which came in the form of a visitor to Badden's chapel.

He was quite a mysterious fellow, draped in dark black cloth and his face obscured by an excessive hood. Whilst he had remained nameless, he had alerted Badden to the presence of an ancient ritual ground; apparently erected by Saradomin himself to allow his return should such circumstances arise. Whilst the priest had initially remained skeptical even after the departure of his anonymous visitor, further research proved that such a site did exist in the deep wilderness. Though its purpose had previously been unknown, Badden knew immediately what he had to do.

As he reached the brow of the hill he had been scaling, his eyes widened. There it stood; a circular plinth of dark stone, out here in the middle of nowhere. It was quite an unimpressive sight to behold; what had shocked the holyman was what stood atop it, shrouded by both his black robes and his solitude. A figure that, though his features were masked by his hood, seemed all too familiar to Badden. At this moment, he knew he should turn back - but what if this ancient site was indeed capable of returning His Holiness to Gielinor? Ignoring such an opportunity would be a disgrace to his faith and his God; to his whole life. Thus, he proceeded. Maintaining a facade of stone, he approached the man with concealed caution. As he drew closer to the spot, he noticed a strange symbol carved into the rock. A circular frame containing a cross, with compass points on the outer ring. It beckoned something deep within his memory to come forth; alas, its origin escaped him. He was certain he had seen it before…

"You recognise this mark," came the familiar voice of the man who had visited him, confirming his identity. "Like most of our empire, it has been forgotten by most… Alas, that is not why we are here." His words ensnared Badden's curiosity and pulled him forward. Yet, he did not speak… Something about this strangers entrancing manner told him to keep quiet. "You are a man of purity. Your life has been spent in servitude… And unlike most of us, you have not sinned." As he spoke, Badden drew closer still, until he was less than a foot away from the strange, cloaked figure. The atmosphere was tense; it seemed as though in that moment, the winds that stripped the land bare ceased to blow, and the land fell silent as the cold moonlight made a feeble effort to illuminate the wilderness. "Only one as pure as you can bring back our Lord." Now, after an uncomfortable pause, it was Badden's turn to speak.

"What must I do?" the cleric asked, with an instilled air of confidence. He would prove useful in returning Saradomin to Gielinor after all. Oh, he could only dream of how the Holy One would reward him for his efforts upon his return. The stranger chuckled somewhat sinisterly, startling Badden.

"You must die." A flash of silver darted before Badden's eyes as a bejewelled athame was swiftly withdrawn from within the man's cloak. A shot of red, as Badden fell to the ground; his neck stinging and warm as he drew his last breath and his crimson blood pooled on the cold, hard stone.

Arweinydd stood up and span on the spot with elven grace; not a sound ebbed from his underfoot as his agile feet danced around the bracken, muffling any hint of movement. The fissure reopened in the trees, and the elf darted through the tunnel leaving the shrine to itself once more. The tree concerned Arweinydd greatly. Three thousand years ago during the Zarosian invasion of Tirannwn, the dark staff was first thrust into the tree by the empty lords most trusted general, Raazik. The tree’s wound had wept with the purest of waters, as if they were the divine tears of Seren herself. As soon as the dark general had appeared, he had vanished. Within mid battle the ancient Mahjarrat had slipped into one of his many dark portals, never to be heard from again. The weeping tears of the tree froze into pure crystal, as solid and resolute as the staff which pierced it.

Without his guidance, the Zarosian army soon fell to Elven offensive strategy and were push out and beyond the borders once more. Dismayed by the destruction inflicted upon the ancient forests by the invasion, Seren erected the Darian - a barrier of immense energy surrounding the borders of Tirannwn, permitting only the deities crystalline magic to pass in and out of the realm. With the blight of the dark army gone, the elves withdrew from the outside world maintaining an era of solitary peace and prosperity. The tree however, remained a vigil reminder of the days shadow once covered these fruitful lands.

The winds blew through the canopy, whistling through leaves, like singing voices. In elven tongue Arweinydd whispered to them, knowing they would carry his message to the farthest reaches of the elven kingdom. Dissatisfied with his discovery, the elven lord made his way through the winding paths of the forest back to the grand city of crystal, Prifddinas.

“Open the gates. The lord has returned”, the elven guards yelled, atop a majestic crystal gate parting the outer forest from the city.

“We are expecting company from Lleyta. Be sure to direct them straight to the hall.” Arweinydd replied in elven.

He passed through the gates, and made his way up and through the main street towards the keep – a large crystal citadel in the centre of the city, whose vibrant towers pierced the thin clouds reflecting the sun’s light in a myriad of bright hues.

As the dead priest's blood spilled onto the stone, the very ground itself seemed to come alive. Something in the air was stirring, as though the forgotten land was waking up from a deep slumber. As Forinthry began to escape its comatose, the ground beneath the ritual site began to rumble and shudder with increasing severity until, with a loud cracking sound like the snapping of bones, the earth split at the four points around the plinth. From under the rock rose four, large pillars of dark stone, ascending upwards until they reached a peak of about seven feet.

The cloaked figure's eyes widened beneath his cowl at the sight before him - yet, as miraculous as it was, this was not the time for hesitation. Raising his knife above his head, the man began to chant in a language that was thick and foul to the ear; inhuman sounds that seemed to call upon the bowels of Hell with every syllable. As he spoke, crackling purple energy began to manifest atop each of the pillars, with a similar aura encapsulating the blade into which he channelled his power. His words came thicker and faster, marching towards a climax as the energy around him began to intensify. When the moment was right, he brought the dagger downwards with immense force, slamming it into the chest of Badden's corpse. "Lord Raazik, arise!"

There was a blinding explosion of power as the holyman's body burst outwards, organs and shattered bone flying in all directions. When the light had cleared, the thickest and most impenetrable of smokes remained, impairing the man's vision to the point he could not see more than a few centimetres before him. However, he could sense he was not alone. There was a great electricity in the air; an undeniable presence of power - and, as the smoke began to clear, his assumptions were confirmed. There, before him amidst the fog, was a definite silhouette. Tall, dark… horned. Instantly, the man dropped to the ground. "Hail to the Faceless One!", he cried out, bowing at the feet of the new arrival. There was a long and gut-wrenching silence: Raazik was not known for his kindness. There he stood, as still as he was silent. His features were still not clear amongst the smoke, however he was seen to raise his arms and stretch mightily, every bone in his body seeming to crack as he did so. Eventually, he spoke.

"Rise, Daeyal." his deep voice hissed, seeming to echo and bounce on the air. Daeyal obeyed. "You have done well. Your contribution to our cause has been recognised. You will be rewarded."

"Oh, thank you, Lord Raazik! Thank yo--"

"Silence. We have business to attend to." the Faceless Mahjarrat interrupted, his voice colder than the winds that once again howled violently. Before Daeyal could contest, the pair were enveloped in a bright purple light. Daeyal's stomach churned as he felt himself be whisked off his feet. He could see nothing but purple all around him, but his other senses were on fire: his nose was invaded by a stench more vile than he could ever have imagined, his ears rang with a thousand voices all speaking the same foul tongue, his skin burned as though he had been plunged into the depths of a Karamjan volcano. And then, as quickly as it had began, it ended.

Looking around, he found himself in a different place entirely. Granted, they were definitely still within the barren planes of the wilderness - however, this particular spot was much deeper into the forbidden land. In fact, Daeyal was certain he could hear the angry waves crashing against the rocky shores not too far away. Raazik sighed loudly. Now that they had left the haze, Daeyal could see the Faceless Lord with clarity. He was bound in teal robes, shining silver armour protecting his extremities. Of course, his most notable feature was the large, horned mask, which concealed his entire face. It was rumoured that not even Raazik himself could remember his original form - the most potent shapeshifter to ever walk Gielinor, he was infamous for his deceptive skill. Nervously, Daeyal cleared his throat. "S-something wrong, my Lord?" he asked, gulping in anticipation.

"You…" Raazik snarled. "You call yourself a Zarosian? Ha! You are oblivious to the importance of this land." he growled, clearly angered by Daeyal's ignorance. "This… This is the resting place of Ghorrock." he explained, a hint of remorse in his voice as he surveyed the ruined wasteland. Daeyal wondered who Ghorrock was. Perhaps he was some ancient warrior of the Empty One. The significance of the name escaped him. Raazik scowled beneath his mask, his telepathic abilities giving him insight into his subject's curiosity. "FOOL!" he roared with such force that Daeyal was knocked backwards, landing on the black earth. Fortunately, Raazik's rage soon seemed to subside as his pent up frustration was channelled towards another target in his mind. "This is not the fault of our people. Saradomin and the Pretender are responsible for the erasure of our legacy." Despite his masked face, Raazik looked furious. "This world has much to learn of the Empty Lord and His power. Come, let us go inside."

As Daeyal looked around once more, he confirmed that there was not a single building insight. Where on earth did the Faceless One intend they enter? He was not awarded much time to be confused. Raazik stepped forward, raising both arms in the air. He stood for a moment in total silence, not uttering a single word. Daeyal watched intently, until he heard a familiar disturbance beneath his feet. Much like at the ritual site, something was tunnelling its way to the surface; he could feel the intensifying vibrations in his bones. Whatever it was, it was much larger than the pillars from before… It felt as though a thunderous earthquake was tearing through the wilderness, everything in the surrounding area shook violently with the increasing force. The ground began to sink, forming a large crater that split and cracked as it caved away on itself and, from the depths - to Daeyal's amazement - rose a grand, towering fortress. As it ascended, the charred dust of the earth it had erupted from ran down its walls, settling gently as the entire world seemed to fall silent once more.

Satisfied with his work, Raazik approached the huge doors of the castle, which swung open of their own accord as he grew close. Daeyal followed.

Arweinydd passed through the city market place, the scent of fresh fruit and flowers hung sweet in the air. The elves never eat meat, for all creatures of the forest are the sole creation of Seren, and to kill and feast upon their flesh would be as great a sin as doing the same to your own siblings. Instead, the elves eat a diet strictly comprised of fruit, nuts, and edible leaves which had fallen from the plant, flavoured with spices collected in a similar fashion. Ordered tables of fresh produce, elven cloth, crystal objects, and crafts constructed from living wood consumed the city square, with only small clearings existing to make way for fountains and sculptures decorating the extravagant plaza.

Elves of all ages and castes bowed and curtsied as the elf lord gracefully marched passed them, affording them a hasty but respectful nod of acknowledgement. Pleasantries would have to wait, too much was on his mind and too little time existed. His paces quickened as he exited the market and approached the second gate to the citadel, already open in preparation for his arrival.

“Any news from the Arandar pass?” Arweinydd questioned the guards standing post, as he strode into the courtyard, the gates groaning to a close behind him.

“None today my lord.” The guard replied in elven tongue.

“Notify me should any arrive.”

He stepped through the main archway separating the outer courtyard from the inner ward – a large hall decorated with large pillars sporting a great arching ceiling. It was lit with incandescent crystals floating within diamond shaped insets in the pillars. At the far end sat a single throne crafted from crystal, overlain with luxurious gold embossed elven silk, adorned with intricate swirls around a single silver diamond in the centre; Seren’s icon.

He stopped by the throne, passing his gloved fingers across the silk, following the swirls and finally the borders of the diamond. The elf who crafted this magnificent piece had died many years ago; slaughtered during the Zarosian conquest. Many had died, and had been many forgotten. None by Arweinydd. He bore every death and every loss, a permanent reminder of what he, and what Seren, strived to achieve. Peace.

The moment lasted only a fleeting second, as he once again turned to pass through another archway and up a flight of spiralling stairs. Each conceding turn met with a diamond window, which pierced through the thick crystal hull of the tower. As he ascended the city sank and disappeared giving way to the vast forest beyond, and the mountains which bordered it. The snow topped mountains divided the elven realm from the kingdoms of the other races, giving physical protection from the preying civilizations of the east.

At the top of the stairs he was met with large wooden door, gilded with shining metals of a blue hue. Inscribed the thick metallic bands was ancient Elven text. He pressed his hand against the door, and it responded. The wood sang as it swung open, greeting the elf back to his abode. The circular room was sparsely decorated, with only a few ancient banners hanging from the walls, and a large table in the centre. A bowl of fruit and nuts lying on a bed of leaves sat on the table.

Arweinydd picked up a pomegranate, and rubbed his thumb over its skin. The surface was wet; freshly washed by one of the many elves who strove to maintain this grand palace. He broke the skin and placed a few of the crimson seeds within his mouth before placing it back into the bowl. Satisfied, he left the room and out through an arch onto a balcony. The sun was beginning to fall under the horizon, igniting the sky in brilliant auras of red, orange, and violet. Far out in the forest he could see a faint light moving through the trees. They are already coming, and they are almost here.

The heavy doors slammed shut behind the pair (with such force that Daeyal almost leapt from his skin), plunging the fortress into an unnerving blackness. Seconds later, without making a sound, wall-mounted candles on each side of the corridor sparked and were lit of their own accord. As the pair continued silently through the ancient hallway, the process was repeated; rows of tiny candles providing just enough light for Daeyal to see comfortably. The entire building was emblazoned with Zarosian propaganda; the infamous symbol was etched into every appropriate location and flags of purple and black were draped at every opportunity. It was a surreal experience for the Zarosian disciple, who had read about the fabled forgotten fortresses of Forinthry many a time, though their names had been lost to history. To be strolling the corridors of one of them with the Faceless One himself, second in command to the Empty Lord, was the ultimate fantasy for his people. He couldn't wait to see what else Lord Raazik would teach him, what other extraordinary things he would be exposed to. For a moment, he dreamt of retelling these stories to his brothers back home.

"Whilst your fantasies of being a messenger for the Empty Lord are noble, this service will not be necessary." Raazik's deep voice bellowed as he lead the disciple further into his abode, not even turning to face him. "In time, the Zarosian Empire will once again reign over Gielinor. And this time, none shall be able to forget." Daeyal whimpered some sort of confirmation of understanding, before falling silent. Lord Raazik's telepathy was going to take some getting used to. As they reached the summit of a spiral staircase, Daeyal was led into an ancient office - a huge, grand room that seemed to ascend further into the fortress, covering two or three stories. Raazik marvelled; indeed, it was caked in a thick layer of dust, but everything in the tall room was otherwise exactly how he had left it. Daeyal was startled once more as the fireplace against the far wall erupted into flame without warning. Raazik remained unfazed. He gestured towards one of the towering bookcases and, somewhere above them, the tomes and journals began to shift on their shelves. A single, battered book slid forth, and dropped from the great height; stopping mid-air and hovering before Raazik's masked face. Of its own accord, it opened obediently and its pages began to flip rapidly until the appropriate section was located.

Daeyal could not see what Raazik was reading, as the Mahjarrat lord was considerably taller than the human, and the tome's cover was illegible through wear. Already knowing better than to interrupt the Faceless One, he waited; noting how oddly silent the building was, considering the raging winds that tore through the wilderness and their proximity to the sea. He suspected this was the work of magic, rather than exceptional masonry. After a few moments, a loud tearing noise caught Daeyal's attention, as he turned and noticed a page floating beside the book. The tome itself slammed shut and shot upwards, vanishing into the lofty darkness and presumingly returning to its place. Raazik looked at Daeyal.

"Take this scripture to the fourth floor." he directed, as Daeyal plucked the torn page from the air. "There, you shall find a chamber for the brewing of potions. Follow those instructions precisely and with haste." he commanded, with a stern and authoritative nature that told Daeyal he must not fail. "I expect the concoction to be ready within the hour." With that, he turned and left the room; not uttering another word. Daeyal swallowed harshly and made a mental note not to disappoint the general. As soon as the Mahjarrat was out of sight, the cloaked disciple sped out of the room and hurried up several flights of stairs. Once arriving on the fourth floor, he was mortified to find a maze of corridors, each with its own assortment of doors. Finding the potions chamber would surely take too long: how could Lord Raazik expect him to find the room, never mind brew the complex-looking potion he had been assigned?

Regardless, he tried the nearest door to him and, to his surprise, he found it was locked. He moved to the next door and made a similar discovery. Before he had time to investigate, the hall fell into darkness as almost every candle on the floor extinguished in unison, save for a pair either side a door at the end of the hallway. Instinctively, Daeyal dashed towards the lone illuminated entrance. To his delight, the metal knob screeched as he turned it, and the wooden door creaked loudly as it swung open on its ancient hinges. Inside, Daeyal found a moderately sized, circular room with a large, round pool dug into the centre of the stone floor; presumably the vessel in which potions would be made. The walls consisted entirely of rows and rows of shelves, each lined with a vast assortment of strange ingredients. A single round window looked out over the rough sea.

Pausing for only a moment to look out over the waves, Daeyal became curious. A violent storm was raging outside, as far as the eye could see. Flashes of wild lightning shone through the torrential rain and illuminated the black clouds. Indeed, the entire world seemed to be stirring. Moving away from the window, Daeyal studied the page once more and began to collect the various ingredients he required from the surrounding shelves.

Arweinydd awoke to the sound of horns in the distance; their flanged voices bounced along the walls of the room. He stirred under the heavy linen, lifting his large frame to peer out of the open window, sat toward the foot of the bed. The moon hung high in the night sky, its radiance illuminating the crystal city below. He stood up and tread across the hard floor, towards a group of crystal shards hovering in the corner of the room. He placed his hand in the centre of the floating shards, their dull glow responding with greater intensity. The crystals fell onto the back of the elf's bare hand, binding and growing into long thin plates around his arm.

As the armour grew, it appeared to engulf his entire arm, consuming more and more of his body as it moved. As it expanded, more of floating shards fell from rest, joining seamlessly with pre-existing crystal on the back of his hand. Each devoured and incorporated with the crystalline material, which had already spread across his chest and was now proceeding past his navel and down his arm. The sound of cracking wood and shattered glass echoed in the room as the single block of crystal fractured at each joint. Where the crystal had shattered, it began to retract taking form as protective plates, and exposing elven cloth beneath. His previously bare body now draped in cloth and crystal armour. More cracks and shatters filled the room as the crystal on his shoulders broke free and drifted into place above.

Satisfied with his attire, Arweinydd walked out and onto a small balcony adjacent to the room, peering across the city. Crystal spires dotted the view below, like shards of glass thrust into the ground; their height and size decreased the further from the citadel he looked. Many races in the eastern kingdoms beheld magnificent feats of masonry, but few challenged the intricacy and height the elven citadel and spires reached. Carved through the centre of Prifddinas, stretching from the gate of the citadel to the outer gate of the city, was the city thoroughfare; a great long and straight stone road interrupted only by the central plaza. Down it marched a convoy of elves and horses, baring banners of Lletya and illuminated by floating crystals glowing bright blue. Arweinydd span marching back into the room, his cloak fluttering in an attempt to keep up. He paced through the central room, the door wide open in anticipation of his departure.

Remerging at the base of the spiral stair case, Arweinydd made his way to the crystal throne at the head of the giant hall. Two elven guards, donned in elven cloth and wielding metal spears tipped with crystal and heavy crystal shields stood either side of the throne. Both turned to greet the elven lord.

“Good evening my lord. The delegates from Lletya have arrived.” One of the guards spoke in a low tone.

“Excellent. Send word to have them escorted into the council chamber upon their arrival.” He replied.

The elven guard bowed at the request, and marched down the hall and out the large archway at its end. Arweinydd nodded to the remaining guard and left through a small archway in the nearby wall. He followed the long corridor down to a large wooden door at the end, pushing on its side to entice it to open. The door groaned heavily as it slowly swung open, revealing the chamber inside. The walls were etched with long rows, each filled with a myriad of scrolls and ancient tomes documenting the history of the elven race. In the centre sat a long wooden table dressed with a similarly long bolt of elven cloth. Wooden chairs sat either side of the table, with a throne like chair at its head. Elves do not fell or carve trees. Instead they charm the trees to grow into the desired shapes in ancient elvish tongue, taught to them by Seren herself. This attribute means each object and piece of furniture in the elven kingdom is composed of sentient living wood.

A large door at the other end of the chamber rolled open, and a procession of elves marched through. Arweinydd greeted each elf and beckoned them to sit on one of the chairs, before taking his seat at the head of the table.

“Welcome honoured guests. Thank you for your hasty arrival, and apologies for relinquishing you of rest from your arduous travels.” He proclaimed in elven.

“Few delay when the winds carry presage of grave peril. Why have we been summoned?” A slender male elf down the table questioned.

“I feel a great darkness has befallen our lands. The thick scent of burning brimstone hangs heavy in the air, and the metallic taste of dark magic falls from the summit of the mountain border.”

“The work of Zamorakian demons?” A blonde elf lady, garbed in a dress crafted from elven silk, declared.

“I fear the source of this power is of more ancient origin. The Spring of Atgofion is thawing, and the cursed staff which pierces it wakes. At first it’s significance was subtle and had eluded me, but now it’s meaning is as clear as the crystal it is composed of. The Faceless One has returned.”

Stunned silence filled the room. The eyes of each elf widened in fear at the announcement of his name. It had been thousands of years since the dark general had walked these lands, but the scars of his memory had yet to heal.

Raazik slouched in his throne, resting his masked face in the palm of his hand. Whilst he still boasted an extraordinary amount of power, he had retained but a fraction of his original power. His millennia spent in the abyss had segregated him from the ambient magic of Gielinor and, whilst he had been able to siphon some power from the abyss itself, it was not enough. He felt weak: his return and the feats he had performed in the short time since had already left him feeling drained. He longed to return to a time of old; when both his power and the Zarosian empire were great. He may have been thousands of years old, but his Mahjarrat memory never faltered.

It was the Age of Conquest. The Empty Lord ruled most of Gielinor, his reign spanning from Forinthry in the north, down to Senntisten and Kharryl: two very different realms separated by a vast desert, also under Zarosian control. Aside from smaller civilisations of lesser importance, the first struggling signs of Saradominist and Armadylean worship, only the lush forests of the far West remained untouched by the Empty Lord's domination. Seren, a mysterious and elusive Goddess of Peace, dwelled here, seemingly in complete tranquility. Her niche following of elves and woodland creatures lived happily amongst the trees, forging structures from the crystals that formed the heart of their strange culture. However, all this was set to change.

It was Zaros' will that these land be conquered in his name, and he had entrusted his most powerful and cunning general, the faceless Lord Raazik, to see that it was done. Raazik had wasted no time in rallying a small army of the finest demons in the land, and bolstering his numbers with creatures from the abyss, to which he had a reputed affinity. An army this size would surely be spotted approaching days in advance, but the sly Raazik had a plan. Not known for his fair play, Raazik used his magicks to open a portal directly into the abyss, in which he hid his troops. The army marched towards Tirannwn, completely concealed from any form of detection by its detachment from Gielinor. Raazik, who remained in a constant state of divining during the army's fortnight-long stay in the sub-dimension, alerted his troops when they reached the point at which they could enter the Elven lands. And that was that: another portal was opened, and within minutes the Elven lands were flooded with the foul ambush.

The elves were not prepared. For the first moments, Raazik simply enjoyed watching the battle unfold. In this early stage of conflict, many elves fell; their lives taken by blind panic and Zarosian brute force. However, the elves were a highly intelligent species, as well as being incredibly skilful. Once they had adjusted to the sudden shift in situation, they began to grow in confidence, ducking and diving in order to avoid the slow attacks of the huge demons, and scurrying away into the labyrinthine forests of living wood in order to escape the hordes of abyssal creatures. When they returned, they donned full armour and banished their weapons; all made of the finest crystal. Their tactics were impressive: Raazik watched, somewhat bemused, as he noticed several squadrons of Elven warriors and archers, tackling the larger demons as a unit. Many demons fell, bursting into flames and their ashes blowing away in the gentle breeze. Unfortunately for the elves, Raazik was able to continuously recall the slain demons from the Infernal Dimensions, each time their flesh burned with more agony, their souls more tortured. The elves fought valiantly nonetheless, but there was only so long that the brave Serenists could subdue the regenerating forces. Confident in a sure Zarosian victory, Raazik burst into purple flames and vanished from sight.

Moment later, a similar inferno erupted in a clearing deeper into the forest. It seemed as though Lord Arweinydd, his Serenist equivalent, was travelling to consult his Goddess; however, the Faceless One had intercepted his journey. "Going somewhere?" he hissed, smirking playfully beneath his mask, though it was somehow evident in his voice.

"What are you doing here, Mahjarrat?" the Elf Lord demanded, his voice flooded with both peace and hatred simultaneously. "My people have done you no wrong! Leave these lands!" he barked. Raazik was once more bemused. The loyalty of the Elf Lord was intriguing - he seemed to be as loyal to the elves as he was their Goddess. Why was a being blessed with such power so noble? He could tell that Arweinydd had been enraged by the slaughter of his people, but he somehow managed to maintain a stern and collected stance, and had yet to make a move against the Mahjarrat. Raazik opted not to give the elf the satisfaction of answers; apparently, it would be his pleasure to deal the first blow.

Pointing his staff at the elf, he unleashed a torrent of purple light towards the Serenist general, who merely ducked out of the way, and within seconds fired a flurry of crystal arrows in Raazik's direction. The Mahjarrat seethed in anger, raising his arms and being engulfed in energy that deflected the projectiles. This routine was repeated again and again, each side dealing a series of attacks from a distance whilst avoiding and deflecting their opponents with ease. Raazik scowled, he was done playing games. Bursting into flames and reappearing immediately before Arweinydd, he cornered the elf against a nearby tree. Acting quickly, he plunged the sharp end of his staff in the elf's direction, who just managed to dodge the surely fatal blow, causing the staff to become embedded in the tree. Raazik was unfazed by the inconvenience; he could fight with his hands.

Without his staff, however, his spells lacked focus and direction. Bursts of wild magick surged in all directions as the Faceless One unleashed attack after attack, their random and explosive nature becoming increasingly difficult for Arweinydd to avoid. However, due to a series of lucky moves on behalf of the elf, Raazik was tackled to the ground and left vulnerable to attack. The two looked each other in the eye for a brief moment as Arweinydd drew back his bow, aiming a powerful crystal arrow at the Mahjarrat, who was on the brink of accepting his fate in servitude of Lord Zaros. Yet, as the arrow was released, the Mahjarrat screamed out in pain and erupted into a burst of energy, vanishing on the spot. The arrow soared through the space he had been, joining Raazik's staff as it collided with the trunk of the tree.

Millennia passed on Gielinor, though it had seemed even longer to Lord Raazik, who had existed only in the abyssal plane, where time does not flow as it does in the normal realm of existence. And now, here he was… Back in Gielinor once more, and with a new motive. Having spent so long in its masters hands, the staff would surely contain a lot of the Faceless One's ambient power. Raazik knew he was not welcome in the West, but that had not stopped him before. Noting the position of the moon in the sky, he rose from his throne. It was time to check on Daeyal and the potion.

An attractive elf lady at the far end of the wooden table. She wore a long ivory dress woven from the finest elf silk, embroidered with silver ivy. A crystal broach, crafted in the shape of a leaf, held a long silk shawl over her shoulders like a cloak. On top of it sat long ebony hair which flowed from her head, where a tiara of ivy and flowers was woven into her hair and along the rim of her forehead. She was Rhoswen, fair maiden of the east and lady of Lletya. Many thousands of years ago, Rhoswen had been consort to Arweinydd during times of peace, but their responsibilities and ensuing war had pulled them apart leading the distant relationship to eventually fracture. It had been be argued that she was the elven aspect of Seren’s will; fair and gentle, but powerful beyond all measures.

Few in the elven realm wielded the power of the arcane, their magic being limited to the power solely held in Seren’s crystals. Of those which could, none wielded it to the extent to which Rhoswen was capable of. Her knowledge of the divine arts of natural magic allowed her to gaze past the borders of the elven realm and across the lands beyond, to pick the threads of fate woven by the gods and interpret the their temporal will, and the most peculiar of all, commune with the children of Seren without whispering a word. Her talents made her an indispensable advisor to Arweinydd, and it was her aide he sought from this convoy.

Their eyes locked across the room, the murmurs of elven quarrelling became distant. The room appeared to fall into utter silence. Then, like a sharpened blade, her voice cut the silence. Her tender tones bounced and echoed in his head, clear yet utterly distant.

“You seek my counsel. Ask it, and it is yours.”

“The Darian cannot deny him physical access to this realm, and the Arandar pass will not hold against his onslaught.” The great elf answered in a low but gentle tone.

“Your news is but confirmation of what I have already seen. Watching him from a far is difficult. He is shrouded in shadow; his presence, concealed from me. I see only fragments of what is and what has yet to come, like reflections from fractured crystal. Yet, I can feel his taint on the world. He will come, and it will be soon.”

“You must try to locate him”

“I cannot. I will not. Even the purity of the crystal bowl cannot stop his vile magic from flowing through. The longer I watch, the more susceptible I become. I will not be a vessel for his corrupt power.”

“Then come. Let me take you to the thawing spring. Maybe you can decipher what I cannot. I must know its relevance, I feel it is key to preventing the impending war.”

Sound returned to the room as she left his mind. The other elves were still locked in heated debate, oblivious to the conversation that just transpired. The elf lord rose from his seat, and the table fell to silence; each elf falling back into their chair, unwilling to interject their leader.

“I must attend alternative important matters. Bicker if you will, but you only waste precious time as it rapidly fades. Send word of what I have forewarned. We must be prepared for battle should the Faceless One come to claim these lands once more.”

As if in perfect unison all the elves, spare Rhoswen, nodded and acknowledged Arweinydd. He turned from his spot and marched to the door at the opposite end of the room. Rhoswen with elven grace stood and followed him as they departed the room, leaving the other elves to conduct their preparations for war. The two paced through the winding corridors of the citadel and out through the courtyard towards the main city gate. They remained silent along the travels, lost in thought and memories of the previous war … of their previous liaison.

They soon arrived at the forest wall. Once again it parted under Arweinydd’s command, offering passage to the small garden beyond. Rhoswen pushed forward of the large elf, and to the ancient tree sat in the centre of the clearing. The crystal pool had completely thawed, and clear water poured from the wound.

“The tree weeps once more.” Arweinydd called to Rhoswen.

She placed her hands into the pool. The water radiated a green hue around her hands which leaked and flowed to the distant edges like ink spreading in water. Soon the pool was ablaze in green light as the elf lady murmured silently to herself in elven song. At one side of the pool, thick beds of flowers and vegetation had grown, the tendrils of their roots creeping into the water, and at the other, the shores were devoid of life, blackened and barren like volcanic ash. Rhoswen, lost in a trance began to speak in a flanged tone. The two voices boomed, one held the familiar soft and tender tone of an elf, but the other was unrecognisable, spitting and hissing with abyssal tongue.

“I feel great energy in this spring. Two lives, intertwined and inseparable. Like the sun in the moon they are but reflections of the same facet. One of light and one of dark. Neither existing without the other.”

She quickly pulled her hands from the spring, the green hue rapidly fading from the water, and held them close to her chest, as if disgusted and terrified by what she just touched. She turned to Arweinydd, her face pale and her eyes drained.

“What did you see?” He questioned.

“You. Him. The great goddess and the empty god. You are all there. We are all there.”

“A premonition of events to come?”

“Of events that are. Seren and Zaros are bound, and so too are you and the Faceless One. A fine balance had been stirred during your conflict many centuries ago, only now has the equilibrium finally come to rest. I fear disruption of this balance could spell greater perils to come.” She said hesitantly.

“We must return to the city. Warn the others, and prevent what is to come.”

The potion chamber was filled with thick stream when Raazik entered. Daeyal looked flustered and panicked, however Raazik noted that the liquid in the pool looked to be the perfect shade of blue. "You have done well," he said, genuinely satisfied with the man's work. "Find a way to spend your time productively, I have work to do." he ordered as a relieved Daeyal hurried out of the room. Raazik approached the pool, which was built into the stone floor of the chamber. At his feet, the pale blue liquid shimmered brightly and welcomed the Mahjarrat gracefully. With a soft gesture, the bowl rose out of the ground and levitated before him, waiting patiently for its next command. He raised both arms, and the dish tilted until it hung on its side; not a single drop of liquid escaping, seemingly magnetised to the bowl by magical means. Raazik gazed into the shining waters and began to concentrate, as a flurry of ripples emanated through the pool. His vision shifted, the world around him fell into blackness and a brand new one sprung forth before him.

It was a bright and vibrant land, a stark contrast to the dark and dusty fortress he had been standing in. He was looking down upon the lush forestry and flowing rivers from high in the sky. As he descended and drew closer to earth, he began to identify the crystalline structures he recognised as the Elven settlements of Tiranwnn. He lessened the distance between himself and the ground, to the point where his perspective was just a little higher than that of a walker, as though he was hovering above the grass and dirt. He soared through the busy city, surrounded by passersby who were oblivious to his spiritual presence. He passed through walls of wood and crystal as though they did not exist, like a phantom floating through the fairytale land. As he explored further, thunder was heard overhead, as thick black clouds encircled the city in a foreboding spiral, seemingly forming from nowhere. Eventually, he came face to face with what he sought; his staff, embedded into a weeping tree.

It called out to him longingly. It had been disturbed only moments ago, and Raazik could feel the remnants of power left behind by two elves. Raazik was surprised to learn that the staff had not been moved or destroyed, yet he was relieved that it remained in the possession of the Elves. Holding such simple values of peace and security, they were amongst the easiest races to persuade. Offering them safety was like offering gold to a dwarf. Withdrawing from the vision, the world around him melted and he found himself at Ghorrock once more. Now that he had located his ancient weapon, it was time to retrieve it. Besides, he had business to settle with the elves…

***

Rhydian stood atop the crystal watchtower. He surveyed the East as far as he could see, scrutinising it for even the slightest detail that seemed out of place. The province was considered at risk by the rumoured return of the Faceless One, and all of the Crystal Guard were called into action, should an attack be made. The last time the foul Mahjarrat had attacked, he had ambushed from within the city itself, bringing his grotesque creatures of the abyss with him. Rhydian had been fortunate enough to have not lost any loved ones to the battle, however he was amongst the lucky few. Since Seren's instatement of the Darian, they were protected from such atrocities, and so all efforts were made on ensuring all entrances to the realm were safeguarded.

He mused over how suddenly the tempest had formed above him, like some twisted maelstrom hanging over the usually pleasant settlement. He was convinced it was the work of dark magick, as were many of the townsfolk, hiding their young ones away in the wake of the torrential rain, wind and lightning. No, something was definitely brewing in the air tonight. He boasted no verse of the arcane, but even he could taste the sickness of evil. And he would do whatever it takes to ensure not a single elf was harmed by the Faceless One again.

His pledge was soon called into effect. As if by magic, as soon as he had committed to preserving the lives of all elves, a silhouette emerged through the dark fog that had encompassed the city. After a tense few moments, the figure limped into view. It was an elf. An elf with severe, untreated wounds, from which thick, red blood seeped. Rhydian called for a medical unit and ordered that the doors to the city be opened at once, his heart filled with passion as he used his agile to rapidly descend the tower. As the injured elf hobbled through the crystal gates, she coughed and spluttered, flecks of red escaping her bleeding mouth. "What in Seren's name happened to you?" he exclaimed, visibly worried for the safety of the young woman.

"I gathering in woods and I lost," she coughed. "And then… Then they there, they all appear!" she said, her face stricken with fear at the memory of whatever had attacked her, leaving her skin and clothes torn severely. She was only a very young girl, definitely under a hundred years of age, and her naivety only added to the sympathy Rhydian held for her.

"They appeared? Who appeared?" he asked, as a group of medics began to bandage her wounds. The young elf simply sighed, clearly traumatised by the events she had been subjected to.

"Big, mean creatures!" she croaked, tears in her bloodied eyes. "Same ones in pictures, from when the Faceless One fight us. Make nasty sounds." she said, crying as she recalled the evils she had faced. Rhydian hugged her tight and reassured her that everything was going to be okay, though the medics could see the grave look on his face as he addressed them over her shoulder.

"We need to take her to the citadel. Lord Arweinydd must be notified," he said, sternly, before ordering that the gates be closed and their guard strengthened, and leading the young girl by the hand to the Crystal Citadel.

Thunder crashed in the air outside the citadel, reverberating through the crystal walls of the citadel like a Saradominist church bell. It's pitch was high, singing in the cavern like hall beyond the threshold of human hearing. At the far end of the hall Arweinydd sat on the crystal throne, composed and rigid, whilst Rhoswen paced along the wall behind him, trailing her hand along a large tapestry draped down from its high ceiling. It depicted Seren and the elves arriving through the world gate. Arweinydd was stood the fore of the elven group passing through the gate; his right arm held high and light emanating from his hand as he reached to tough the goddess’. By Seren’s feet Direwolves and Grenwalls sprang from the earth, and forests bloomed in her wake.

Dire wolves were rarely seen in the elven realm in this day and age. The majority of their kind had retreated into the depths of the woods beyond the contact of elves following Seren’s departure from Geilinor. The great beasts were said to stand as tall as an elf, both majestic and terrifying, and answered only to Seren’s call. They were matchless defenders of the elven realm during the Zarosian conquest; their great size and strength allowing them to fell even the largest of demons, and their agility allowing them to dart through the thick forests of Tirannwn, appearing and disappearing through the canopy’s dense shadows. Rhoswen sighed and dropped her hand to her side. She felt remorse for the loss of her goddess and the magnificent woodland creatures she tended. But the feeling did not last long. Something stirred in the air, it sent shivers up her arms and made the hair on her neck stand rigid. She turned to Arweinydd. His long ears were pricked up, tense and anguished.

“Something dark has descended on these lands. I can feel the light of Seren waning.” The elven enchantress whispered.

The doors at the far end of the hall swung open exposing the archway into the courtyard beyond. A young elf female hobbled into the room, escorted by two elven guards.

“Lord Arweinydd, there has been an attack on the eastern border. We’ve brought a survivor.” One of the guards said hastily.

Arweinydd lunged from his throne, dropping his hand to a crystal plate covering his right leg. A crystal shard shattered and leapt into his hand, growing and extending into two long thin arms connected by a string of elastic elven rope. The object warped and bent forming a crystal bow. The crystalline cracked and shattered, in a similar fashion to the elven Lord’s armour, releasing small shards of floating crystal which hung around the grip. The arms of the bow arched forward of the elf’s hand and swung back to form the bow’s arc. Arweinydd raised the bow, directing it at the elven woman stood at far end of the hall. He pulled the string back, the arc of the bow bending slightly under the immense pull. One of the floating shards grew and elongated with the pull of string crafting itself into the rough shape of a distended arrow.

“Stand back!” The elf lord bellowed. “This is no elf which stands among us. You have been tricked and deceived by the master of disguise.”

The elven guards leapt back baring arms in preparation to strike. One wielding a less ornate crystal bow, and the other a wooden spear tipped with broad blade of crystal.

“Show yourself Lord Raazik. I can taste the foulness of the abyss; your trickery will not work on me.” Arweinydd spat out the Mahjarrats true name in disgust.

The wounded elf sniggered as purple flames engulfed her body, growing in size and intensity, concealing her from view. Her voice dropped from the high cackle of a woman to a low bellowing laugh. As quickly as they sprang, the flames were quenched. Rising up and dissipating into a cloud of smoke, revealing the giant Mahjarrat within.

As Raazik emerged, the elven guards who had so foolishly escorted him into the building prepared to strike. "Stand back, you fools!" he roared, as purple flame burst forth and danced around him in circles before dissipating. It was not Raazik's intent to wound the elves, as he knew to do so before Arweinydd would be a mistake, but the display did its job of deterring the elves, who quickly hurried over to Arweinydd's side. Raazik chuckled. "Well, quite a glittering assemblage, Lord Arweinydd," he said sarcastically, placing emphasis on the elf's title. He gestured around the room towards the various classes; "Royalty, nobility, the gentry…" he said, sneering as he did so. And then, his gaze landed upon Rhoswen. Her powers had long been a thorn in the Mahjarrat's side, and he was displeased to know she still walked these lands. Masking his dismay, he laughed in her face. "Oh, how quaint," he laughed. "Even the rabble." The elven seer did well to conceal the anger that Raazik sensed seething underneath, yet he continued his act unfazed. "I really felt quite distressed at not receiving an invitation." he cooed, smirking beneath his mask as he felt the elves around him tremble with fear.

"You weren't wanted," Rhoswen snapped at the Faceless One. "What is your business here, Mahjarrat?"

Raazik laughed once more. His laugh has a certain quality to it, so deep and careless in its delivery that it unsettled even the most centred of individuals. "It seems you are not quite as vacant as your gaze would suggest," he chuckled. "Indeed, as attractive as this little party is, it was not enough to drag me back from the Abyss on a whim. It may come as a surprise from one so generous as I," he proclaimed, sarcastically as ever. "But I have returned because I want something."

"And what might that 'something' be, Raazik?", the previously silent Elf Lord interjected.

"Old friend," he said, drawing close to Arweinydd, whose fingers tightened on the crystal weapon which was still aimed in Raazik's direction. "Why so stern? Have you not missed me?" he taunted, though the elf remained silent and looked at the Mahjarrat with disdain. Raazik paused. "Very well: I have returned for my staff."

This time, it was Arweinydd's turn to laugh as he lowered his bow. "So, "old friend", if I did indeed have your staff," he said, clearly enjoying the way in which the tables had turned, but also seizing the opportunity for his kingdom to benefit from this visit after all. With Raazik's power, almost anything was possible. The elf was intrigued to discover what grand gesture his nemesis intended to make, as he was clearly desperate for his weapon. This time, Raazik remained deadly serious.

"You give me my staff. I will spare your people." he said, his voice full of wicked intent that told everyone in the room that he meant business. It was clear that, should the Mahjarrat not retrieve his weapon before leaving, then he would massacre as many elves as possible on his way out. After all, he had been locked in the Abyss for millennia… He had a craving for the scent of fresh blood once more. The room fell silent, with Raazik allowing Arweinydd a moment to assess the situation, and the rest of the party awaiting his response with anticipation.

Arweinydd quietly pondered over the ultimatum he had just been given. Each second felt like an hour as he concentrated heavily, considering every outcome, every possibility, but not once relinquishing his scrutinising watch of the dark lord stood at the far end of the hall. Rhoswen stepped forward, placing her hand on the crystal throne and speaking in a clear but gentle voice - unphased by darkness which lurked before her.

“The elves are resilient and numerous. We would suffer loss, but eventually prevail. Do not test the elves, Faceless One. Our kind live long and the bitterness of your last visit has yet to settle. We have waited and we have prepared; do not assume we would be so easy to conquer.”

“Enough.” Arweinydd barked. Determined to halt Lord Raazik’s retaliation before it came to fruition. Knowing full well of his unpredictable behaviour, it was best to maintain this lucid and benign state as long as possible.

The dark lord stood silent, his faceless gaze unbroken from the elf. Could Arweinydd really surrender the staff? If he was to overlook the dangers of handing a weapon back to a blood thirsty Mahjarrat whose very existence was to serve the Empty God, intent on global conquest, he would still be left with the difficulty of giving into the demands of an enemy. Handing over the staff could merely be a fiendish ploy to assess his weakness; something he could only further exploit. His train of thought was sliced by the familiar silence of Rhoswen’s call.

“Your fears are well founded and your questioning absolute. But he will obtain the staff, the equinox demands it so. We must trust the path Seren has laid for us. It will allow us to delve deeper into the mystery of the delicate equilibrium the two of you share.” She said, her voice bouncing and echoing within his head.

“You assume he would listen to reason and collected thought. He is no elf, he is a Mahjarrat. Born of war and harbinger of devastation. Can we trust in one who turned lush forest into soot, and brought crystal towers to their foundation?” He questioned.

“We have little choice. Our time is limited, and the guidance of Seren is absent.”

“Then my decision is made. Let us at least attempt to draw him from the city.” He spoke, as Rhoswen’s presence diminished and faded from his mind.

“Tick tock, tick tock …” The Mahjarrat spoke in his taunting tone once more. “What of Elven hospitality, Arweinydd? It’s rude to keep a guest waiting! Is your decision made?”

“I will escort you to your staff, but on the premise of one condition.” The Elf lord demanded indisputably. “You will not only not bring harm a single elf or creature within the elven realm, but also take heed of reasonable proposition upon receipt of your staff. Then you and your dark taint may leave these lands, and leave it to peace once more.”

Raazik sneered. "You know, Arweinydd," he purred cruelly. "If all you wanted was a chat, you could've summoned me centuries ago." he chuckled, sensing the growing frustration of behalf of the elves. "Very well. Lead the way."

***

The party, consisting of Raazik, Arweinydd and Rhoswen, had been walking through the forests of the elven province for a while now. The silence was presumably uncomfortable and tense for the elves, being isolated with the untrustworthy Faceless One, however the Mahjarrat was not subject to such trivial emotions. He chuckled aloud. "Whilst I love nothing more than to share these long strolls with you both, I am beginning to grow impatient." his voice was playful, but riddled with an underlying seriousness. "I don't like to be kept waiting, Arweinydd."

"We're almost there." the Elf Lord replied with a bluntness that ignored Raazik's torment. Eventually, the group reached a wall of dense forest, too thick and vast for any of them to enter, let alone navigate. Before Raazik had chance to voice his suspicions, the trees creaked and moaned as they began to shift of their own accord, forming a tunnel through the impenetrable woodland. Mildly impressed, the Mahjarrat followed the elves through the new pass.

"I'm very grateful for the protections you have put in place to safeguard my faithful staff," Raazik announced. "It would be just awful if some undesirable got their hands on it, wouldn't it?" he jeered, knowing that he was perhaps the last person the elves would like to hand the weapon over to. Before they could reply, they found themselves in a large, luscious clearing, in the centre of which stood a tall and magnificent tree. There, impaled into the mighty child of the earth, was his staff; exactly where he had left it all those millennia ago. It seemed to grow excited by the presence of his master, and the air seemed to sizzle and hum with arcane anticipation; recognisable to even the most magically incompetent of individuals. Raazik shared a rare moment of emotion.

"Ah, my faithful…" he called, approaching his beloved weapon eagerly. He caressed the shaft of the battle staff and softly ran his fingers along the Zarosian symbol that adorned the top. It was as sharp and heavy as ever. He gripped it tightly and pulled gently, however the staff did not move. He made several more attempts, each with increasing strength, and yet still the ancient weapon remained firmly lodged into the trunk of the tree, not moving an inch. "Arweinydd!" he growled, his voice filled with rage. "What trickery is this? Return my staff to me at once, lest your kingdom fall to my wrath!" he roared, furious that he had been misled and with every intention of levelling the Elven province before the turn of the sun.

“The forest is ancient and prudent. Brute force and aggression will not sway the trees to do your bidding. Even a mahjarrat of your calibre cannot force an elder tree against its will.” Arweinydd replied.

Raazik hissed at displeasure of the elf’s mocking statement, gripping the staff once more and pulling with great force. Again, the staff refused to move, remaining stubbornly lodged within the tree’s thick trunk.

“Very well. Perhaps witness of compassion and patience might teach you of their virtue.” The elf spoke in a gentle but stern tone. “Stand aside.”

The mahjarrat begrudgingly stood back, allowing the elf space to relinquish the staff from its grip; but not too far, as not to be able to strike the elf from behind, should his promise of the staff fall to falsehoods. Arweinydd lent down to the tree, placing his grip at the bottom of the staff and his other hand on the trunk of the tree. The clear water poured from the base of the staff, trickling down the bark and into the pool below. In ancient elven tongue he spoke gently and slowly to the tree, yearning it to surrender its hold. It groaned in response to his rhythmic words, and Arweinydd pulled on the staff. It did not budge. Again he tried, and again it held firm.

“Fascinating.” The elf queried, clearly bemused by persistence of the staff.

Raazik roared with anger, his patience finally expired. He lunged forward smashing his great weight against Arweinydd’s and gripping the top of the staff once more.

“Enough of this deception and delay! If the tree will not release my staff then I shall burn it where it stands, and pluck my weapon from its ashes!”

Arweinydd toppled slightly, under the tremendous pressure of the mahjarrat’s assault, before quickly regaining his balance with swift elven agility. His hand still held firmly at the base of the staff. Where the majarrat and elf’s hands grasped the staff, brilliant light burst forward igniting the clearing in a flash of white. Black lightning travelled up and down the staff between the two hands, filling the air with a bitter-sweet metallic taste. Bright white and dark black auroras danced across the surface of the pool, which glowed with a deep blue hue, and up the trunk of the tree before meeting and entwining around the base of the staff.

Suddenly, the tree released it. The weight of the elf and the mahjarrat pulling the ancient staff from its embrace, sending them both flying backwards and into the thick carpet of lush grass and wild flowers behind. As the staff parted from the tree, the spectacular display was quenched leaving only the dull afterglow within the waters of the pool. Arweinydd rose, still dazed by the event. He turned to Raazik who was himself rising from his fall and brushing the soil from his robes. The ancient staff lay on the grass between them, glowing with purple energy and free from its primeval hold.

Raazik watched furiously as the elf approached the hilt. His rage boiled with the heat of a burning blade as he watched Arweinydd place a hand upon his property, muttering to the tree in a comforting tone as though it was a small child. Arweinydd's methods were weak, and it brought the Mahjarrat every displeasure to see him touch it. Surprisingly, his mood was not lifted when he discovered that the elven ruler of these lands and supposed master of these forests was, too, unable to shift the staff. Raazik would usually have leapt at the opportunity to humiliate the elf before his old flame, and yet, he only grew more angry with the prolonging of his retrieval of the weapon. "Enough of this deception and delay!" he roared. "If the tree will not release my staff, then I shall burn it where it stands and pluck my weapon from its ashes!" Rushing forward, his body collided with Arweinydd's, toppling the elf but not breaking his grip from the staff.

As his own fingers clutched the hilt of the staff once more, an explosion of arcane energy burst forth. It manifested as a brilliant white light, corrupted and brown by flashes of black lightning. The energy surged outwards and up the shaft of the staff, which softly slid from the grasp of the tree, causing both lords to fall to the ground. When the light cleared, Raazik spotted the staff; lying on the earth between himself and Arweinydd. He did not spare a second, reaching towards the weapon and calling its name; a strange, unrepeatable sound, and the staff slid along the ground and into his waiting hand. Quickly, he rose to his feet and pointed the staff in Arweinydd's direction.

"You," he snarled, the air fizzling with energy as the weapon was reunited with his master. "You have tried my patience for the last time, elf. Only a fool would try to outwit Lord Raazik." As he spoke, he seemed to become more solid somehow, as though his existence on this plane was becoming more confirmed, more definite. He seemed to be becoming more real, despite never having been ghost-like in the first place. "I do not know what trickery you harnessed here, but I shall return" he warned, pausing threateningly. "And when I do, I shall not only incinerate this tree, but burn the whole of Tirannwn to the ground!"

Arweinydd leapt up, readying his bow, and Rhoswen scurried to her master's side. "You have been warned, elves!" the Mahjarrat lord warned, before bursting into an inferno of purple flame. When he had vanished, the surrounding area was charred, black and dead. None of the flora close to where he had vanished had survived… Save for the elder tree, which remain tall, strong and free of not even the faintest of scorch marks. The air tasted of vomit.

"Rhoswen, we must make haste," he said to his aide. He did not receive a reply. "Rhoswen?" he asked, looking around in a state of confusion that soon shifted into one of horror and anger. Rhoswen was gone.

***

Daeyal lay in bed. He had found himself a sleeping chamber and attempted to get some rest, yet it seemed as though the weight of Gielinor rested on his shoulders. A million thoughts flew around his head: what did his future entail? How would he be rewarded for his servitude to Zaros? How long would it be until the Faceless One succeeded in bringing the Empty Lord back to this plane? How many of his brethren would fall in the process? His mind was fuzzy with anticipation. Unable to sleep, he rose from the bed and approached one of the windows. He was relatively high up in the ancient, gothic fortress, which now stood tall over the wilderness and was most likely visible for miles around, despite being absent from the skyline for the past few millennia. The Faceless One's power both impressed and bewildered him: with little effort at all, the Mahjarrat had summoned this previously ruined fortress from the very earth in which its rubble was buried, and now it stood proudly and triumphantly as though it had never been destroyed. Daeyal hoped that he would bear witness to more of the ancient power that Raazik wielded, but prayed that he would not be on the receiving end.

"Daeyal!" the familiar voice of the Faceless One rang through the tower, amplified by magical means and making it all the more fearsome as it echoed and ricocheted through the narrow corridors. Daeyal called out in response and hurried towards the stairwell, heading towards the entrance hall. "Daeyal! Do not try my patience!" Raazik boomed viciously. Eventually, the servant reached his master and found he was not alone. A fair lady, her elven heritage betrayed by her pointed ears. She did not look or sound pleased to be in the company of the Mahjarrat.

"Release me at once!" she demanded, foolishly challenging Lord Raazik. The wry witticisms that he had earlier demonstrated had all but dissipated and his facade remained as cold as the steal mask that concealed his features. He ignored Rhoswen entirely, waving a dismissive hand in her direction as chains appeared from thin air and bound the elven maiden tightly.

"Escort our guest to the dungeon," he spoke coldly. "Take her to the deepest level. Ensure she is adequately detained." he dictated. Sensing Daeyal's intended query, he interjected. "I do not care how. Just ensure it is done." he said, before striding off down a hallway. Daeyal obeyed.

Arweinydd tried to control his anger, but it came to no avail. A wave of emotion washed over him, consuming the elf lord with pure fury. He clenched his fists tightly; the sinews tightening under the strain, his forearms bulging under the pressure. His armour dropped from a brilliant cyan hue to a deep navy, and it pulsed as if alive and struggling to breathe. As his fingers slapped his palms, the ground underneath him trembled, rocking the loose charred earth above. Fissures opened in the surrounding earth as large shards of crystal burst forth, their formation resembling an open lotus. He silently roared with anger and horror within, his emotions running uncontrolled – unprecedented within the elven race. Not only had Raazik welcomed himself within him homelands once more, but he had mocked the elven race, destroyed their most beloved sanctuary, and stolen one of their own (one of his own …). This crime could not be left unpunished.

Though pacifistic in nature, the subjects of Seren were known to resort to aggression where need was dire. Not even Seren could question the use of violence for protection and preservation. Rhoswen must be retrieved; her presence is vital to the wellbeing of Tirannwn. Arweinydd released his grip, and the crystal columns sank back to the depths of the earth. His rage melted giving way to collected thoughts once more. The crystal armour brightened and radiated, illuminating the blacked ground below. Arweinydd glanced around the clearing. The lonesome tree stood at the heart of the clearing untouched by the onslaught of the abyssal inferno. Around it the ground was bare, covered in a thin layer of soot and ash. The pool was mostly depleted, boiled away by the flames; though its basin was beginning to fill once more as clear water fell from the roots and bark above. The dense wall of trees surrounding were partially charred, however the healing process had already begun.

Arweinydd could not leave the sanctuary in such a state. It had flourished in solitude for so long, it would be a travesty to see it laid waste to and abandoned within a fraction of the time. He threw his right hand across the air in front, driving his arm in a long arc. Minute fragments of crystal, as fine as dust, broke from his armour and trailed in as thick tail of mist behind, falling and casing the blackened ground below. Where the mist had permeated into the soot and soil, a sporadic carpet of green had begun to sprout. Arweinydd whispered to it, encouraging it with gentle and nurturing chants. The flora responded and began to thicken and spread; it would take time to reach its previous glory. But, confident with the clearings gradual return to life, Arweinydd beckoned the thick wall to open once more, and darted through the tunnel within.

***

Rhoswen struggled in the chains she was bound with - frustrated at both the mahjarrat’s trickery and his blind insult of having his lackey drag her down into these abyssal catacombs, as if she were little more than one of the many slaves the Zarosians once commanded. The surrounding caves were barely illuminated, lit only by faint embers which dotted the walls. There were vines and roots woven into the stone walls, which brought slight comfort to her uneasiness. But, the comfort did not last. As she reached out with her essence she could feel the taint deep within its bark. The plants and stone walls reeked of abyssal energy, putrescent and vile. Dark magic creped out of the walls and plants, and into the air surrounding. It clashed against her own aura forming the torrent of mixing energy which sat heavy in the air with a deathly ambience and crawled across her skin in a thick miasma. It made her sick to the core.

She squirmed under the discomfort, trying to escape. The magic followed her with each movement, plunging her into deeper nausea. It stuck to her as tight and resolute as the chains tied around her arms and legs. Her struggle subsided as she came to terms with her inability to avoid the sickening air, instead sitting still and depressed. Being so distant from the familiar and warm elven lands had weakened her. She longed for its embrace once more. The lively atmosphere of the Tirannwn woods brought about a deeper energy which extended her reach, but in these caves the still shadows and darkness instead drained what arcane energy remained within her. Rhoswen tried once more to push out with her essence in an attempt to view the distant elven lands and contact Arweinydd. As she pushed through the thick and heavy atmosphere in the cave, the walls blocked her passage. Even the roots and vines appeared to shroud her escape.

“Fine. So be it, you aberrant creatures of the abyss.” She spoke furiously to herself. “You hide yourself within the familiar disguise of roots and viles, yet your core is just as recognisably black as the abyssal demons themselves!”

***

Arweinydd arrived at a seemingly unimpressive area of the forest. The trees grew tall and parallel to each other, whilst the canopy below was devoid of structures, elven craft, or even ruins. To the untrained eye, and even to the majority of the elven kind, the trees surrounding were no different to the many thousands dotting the Isafdar province. But, Arweinydd knew better. To hide something of true importance was to hide it clandestinely. The elf lord paced up to one of the many long tall trunks and waved his hands over its bark. Ancient elven runes materialised and glowed incandescently in a brilliant cyan hue as his hands waved over them, wrapping the tree trunk in a web of cryptic sigils. At the centre sat elven script which read ‘Peace and Growth’. The elf placed his large hand on the writing and whispered in a chant beyond the ears of normal hearing.

Here his hand hovered, the bark beneath cracked and spiralled around the trunk and down to the roots below, before returning up the trunk several centimetres away and joining the crack further up at an apex. The cracks formed long tendrils of bark, which wrapped around and clasped the tree like an octopus clasping a log. Within moments of forming, the fissures in the bark separated and the long tendrils of bark slithered down to the earth below like snakes into a bush, exposing the crystal core within. The inside of the trunk was lined with a thick crystalline wall which illuminated the crystal slabs forming a spiral staircase beneath. Arweinydd stepped into the tree and began to descend the stairs. As he sank into the shadows below, the long bark tendrils slithered from their resting place and back into place, forming the seamless bark trunk once more.

"Now, now, Rhoswen…" came a sinister voice from the shadows, which seemed to shift silently as Lord Raazik stepped forward. "Where are your manners?" he chuckled as he came into view, the dim light of the feeble flame causing his steel mask to shimmer. He was much taller than the elf woman, but she did not falter as she rose defiantly before the Mahjarrat.

"What do you want from me, Raazik?" she spat his name, disregarding his title.

"What on Gielinor could I want from you, elf?" he cooed smugly, making little attempt to truly conceal his motives.

"I am no fool, Raazik." she said, maintaining a stern face despite her predicament. "As a servant of the Unknown Power, you would not drag me to this foul pit without purpose." she explained, her entire aura alive with bravery in the knowledge that confronting the Mahjarrat was a potentially fatal move. The long silence that followed was enough to unsettle even the feisty elf, which was exactly what Raazik had been striving for. Satisfied in the shift in atmosphere, he spoke once more.

"Indeed, you are no fool." he purred darkly. "In fact, that is precisely why you are here. You possess a knowledge that I require, and you shall remain here until you decide to part with it," he said nonchalantly.

After a moment of silent thought, Rhoswen replied. "You are intrigued by what happened today. With your staff and the Elder Tree." she observed accurately.

"Indeed. What power within that tree prevented me from retrieving my weapon?" he snarled, somewhat humiliated by the scenario he was recalling. He had required the assistance of the Elf to remove it from the bark… He, the Faceless One… Rhoswen merely chuckled to herself, angering the Mahjarrat. "And what exactly do you find so amusing?" he spat, scaring her just enough to cease her laughter. Once she had composed herself, she spoke again.

"The power that bonded the tree and your staff was not of Elven origin, Raazik. It was the power of life itself." she tried her best to explain. "It did not exist within the Elder Tree, or within your weapon. It resided within you, and within our great Lord Arweinydd." she paused, feeling the bitter eyes of the Mahjarrat burning with ferocity. "It was the power of the Equinox: with the Gods gone, the world has fallen into misbalance. only the Anima Mundi and the Unknown Power remain, and so in the absence of deities, Gielinor itself has attached to the remaining binaries: light and dark, peace and domination, compassion and apathy… To Seren and to Zaros." she concluded, hoping she had made her point clear. Raazik huffed.

"This is of little relevance to me. Elaborate or suffer the wrath of my impatience." he commanded. Rhoswen obliged.

"Do you not see, Raazik? One would expect such an ancient being to bear some form of wisdom…" she sighed. "In order for Gielinor to remain balanced, the forces of Seren and Zaros must cooperate. The tree refused to relinquish your murderous tool until it was convinced that the pair of you, as the highest representatives of each faction, would put aside your differences and form a union that would restore Gielinor to its former glory." she sighed once more. "Alas, it seems to have been mistaken."

Raazik considered the elves words carefully. What she said did make sense, and Raazik was not above forming a beneficial alliance in the name of his Lord. But this particular prospect unsettled him… How would the forces of Zaros command control and conquer once more that which was stolen from them, with Seren's weak will of peace and harmony getting in the way? Being as cunning and tactical as he was, it did not take long for a plan to form in the maelstrom of his mind. "Very well," he said, returning to his cool demeanour. "I am willing to discuss the next steps of alliance with your leader, the gracious Lord Arweinydd." he announced in a somewhat glorious manner. Then, his tone stiffened. "But first, you must call him here."

His words did not sit nicely with Rhoswen, but what was she to do? She knew Raazik was up to no good… But how would the Equinox ever be restored should the paths of the Lords not cross once more? Nodding in comprehension, she attempted to commune with her Lord; alas, she soon found herself mentally blocked by the vile miasma that enshrouded not just this fortress, but the whole wilderness. Her thoughts were lost amongst the memories of the dead and the lurking energies of the abyss that had seeped into Gielinor with the Mahjarrat's return. After several more faithless attempts, she grunted in defeat. "It's no use. I cannot penetrate the sick aura that lingers here." she informed him. "You will have to release me if I am to contact Lord Arweinydd."

Raazik laughed sinisterly. "Oh, nonsense!" he mused, in a tone that was almost friendly. "Your weak mind is simply not accustomed to these parts. It will require more than notions of peace and love to work ones magic in Forinthry. There are plenty of worthy alternatives that would appease these Zarosian lands, but I always find that one feeling in particular is always enough to activate ones true potential." he soothed.

Rhoswen gulped. Beneath his mask, she could tell he was grinning evilly. For the first time, she displayed fear by stuttering. "A-And what might that be..?"

The Mahjarrat chuckled uncontrollably, overcome by sheer excitement as he muttered but one word in response: "Pain."