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.