Prince Mundhir’s gaze followed the Halfbreed as she left his chamber, and perhaps not for the first time of late, he questioned his cause. The Prophet had visited him in his dreams, and had spent a great deal of time showing him what was, what is and what will be. Mundhir saw the innumerable thousands of the Khanate’s warriors marching into cities of crystal and obsidian; saw the pitched battles as half a million men and women of Eulona’s dwindling realms of Elves, Dwarves and Men marched to meet them. 

Fire, destruction, genocide. Knowledge lost. Entire countries consigned to the tomes of history, tomes that were then themselves scorched by the unfeeling march of the various war machines in play. Mundhir saw entire fields, once laden heavily with crops as far as the eye could see, reduced to immaculate burial grounds. Elf maidens crouched by the graves of their beloved, wailing in tones that stirred his heart to shame. In the distance, great mountains ringed with walls and castles glowed with the unholy rage of some fel-magic. 

“I beat them all,” the Prophet had said with a sly smile, “the immortal races, with their magic and their military finery were no match for Duranar’s divine will.” 

“I will beat them all again,” Mundhir had said with fierce determination. 

At this the Prophet had laughed, he had laughed until there was no air left in his lungs. The Prince felt shame and anger in equal measure. 

“A new age has dawned, little Prince, and Duranar has seen it fit to make a rare acknowledgement,” the Prophet said, as the images of death, fire and anguish melted away behind him. “He made a mistake, even with his impossible knowledge, he made an error.” 

Mundhir looked at the Prophet questioningly, “how does the Lord of All make a mistake, Great One?” 

“Duranar is Lord to fewer things than All, little Prince. He is powerful, and he is the greatest divinity to walk the ethereal plains – but he is neither King nor Slave of the higher beings,” explained the Prophet, although this explanation left the Prince with only more questions.

Suddenly the dark void around them shook, and pulsed with lightning bolts. The Prince lost his footing, but the Prophet was untouched. An angry voice, echoing with rage, passed through them like a bolting horse. The language was one of brutality, of evil, and the Prince felt his heart decline under the hammering blows of a mysterious dread.

“My time is short, Prince, [i]She[/i] has found me. It was foolish that I come here, to you in this way, but that is now neither here nor there. Duranar has a command to make of you,” the Prophet said, his form fading. 

“Name it, I shall serve dutifully,” replied Mundhir, trying to keep himself from falling under the increasing vibrations. 

“Gather the people of Eulona. Meld them to your banner. Time is in short supply, and when the darkness falls, it will take more than the high walls of Eblistan to fight the kind of war demanded by such an evil.” 

Mundhir awoke suddenly, his blurry surroundings quickly scrambling to form images. Had he truly been sleeping? For a moment there he was back in the dream, but then, from the lack of anyone’s notice he must have been out for only a second. The Lizard said something, but his words came from miles away, and the Prince slapped himself to bring his senses to focus. 

[b]"After what I did to save you, this is how you repay my sacrifice? You have me locked in a cage, guards pointing their sticks at me like an animal!"[/b]

The pure bestial savagery of the voice sent Mundhir’s head backwards as if he’d been punched in the face. The guards edged in on the monster, although they exchanged nervous glances with each other. Before the Prince could fight through the pain, the confusion and the rage the Insectoid sent another shockwave of anger through the room.

[b]"I AM NOT SOME BEAST TO BE LOCKED IN A CAGE! If I didn't waste the energy saving you I could have been to my home, I COULD HAVE SAVED THEM!"[/b]

The Insectoid fell to its knees; its chitin armour clattering like steel as it did so. The floor beneath him started to crack as ancient stone gave way to the raw power this being possessed. The guards backed away, no longer certain their numbers could overcome this adversary. It looked up at the Prince, and Mundhir recoiled. 

[b]"They are all gone, I'm the only one left. You don't even know what that means to a being like me. For the first time, I am truly... alone."[/b]

[i]Meld them to your banner. Time is in short supply, and when darkness falls, it will take more than the high walls of Eblistan to fight the kind of war demanded by such an evil.[/i]

The Prince stood from his throne, his weakness from the venom fading. In speed reminiscent of his former self, he materialised in front of the moaning creature and held out his hand. His guards tried to get him away, but he shot them the kind of glances that threatened execution. 

“Forgive me,” he said softly, “mine were hasty words. For your services, you have my thanks, for your imprisonment, you have my apology, and for loss, you have my sabre. We will find out what happened to your kin, for I feel that the evil afoot is something that may affect all peoples.”

He felt a certain pair of eyes upon him, a feeling he was quickly growing used to. He turned his head slowly, and caught the Nymph’s features. He no longer saw some exotic lustful experience waiting to be had, but danger. The Prince, in pursuing the ideals the deeds of long dead heroes had once instilled in his mind, was threatening to alienate his allies from his cause. 

“I’ll go to the Southern ruins,” the Nymph said. 

“I am sorry for out burst to the creature we know as 9, but you must understand, mind reading in Eblistan is an offence punishable by death. It is ungodly to lay bare someone’s thoughts so plainly, but this is perhaps a belief I have been too ready to accept. I will dwell on it for a time, but for now, I feel that our friend needs a new name,” he said, point a hand at the Insectoid. 

“You came to us as a number of cruelty, no doubt. Arise from your sorrow, not as a symbol of Eulona’s twisted ways, but one of hope. I pray that you will take this opportunity to forge for yourself a new future, to choose a new name for yourself, a name that will be known across the world from Eulona to Olcra,” the Prince said.

Hazim marched his way into the War Room, dressed for battle in heavy bronze plate. Gone were the light attire of horse archery, and before the Prince stood a man ready for a toe-to-toe battle. The Prince looked across at him questioningly. 

“Such honours will have to wait, my Prince. The Silver Moon sails on the eastern hills, Nillanor has come,” the Captain Said. “I put the Elderborn host at a thousand strong.” 

“Thrandel,” said Mundhir bitterly. “Prepare my horse, I will parlay with the Mad Prince before I see Man and Elf shed blood.” 

“I would advise against it, Sire,” said Hazim, shaking his head.

“I have fought the Mad Prince far too long, and have exchanged few words. This War ends today, either with my head on a spike, with a covenant or a thousand dead,” Mundhir replied, turning to face those adventurers still in the War Room. [b]“The ruins will have to wait. Ride with me, as I go to meet the Prince. Perhaps all of you could help me persuade Thrandel that this war is an affront to Eulona’s prosperity.”[/b]

[center]***[/center]

A thousand feet pounded the earth in perfect harmony, each contact sending tremors through the ground. Silver banners fluttered in the cool breeze of Spring, and an array of trumpets played their heavenly symphonies. Spears, shields and longbows were held firmly in the hands of grim faced, but otherwise beautiful Elderborn, with their flowing white hair and immaculate complexions. 

At their head, upon a giant pale stag, rode the last Prince of High Elven Kind. Thrandel, was not as pretty to look at as those he led. His face was marred with horrid scars, and through the slits in his golden full-helm, two fleshy patches stood where his eyes should have been. His right hand, gripping the reigns of his mount, was devoid of three of its fingers, and its palm bore the branded mark of imprisonment. 

The ruins of Baalor sat peacefully in front of them; there were no bells tolling their alarm, or sounds of commotion as the hated Eblistanis mustered to form a defence. Prince Thrandel was wiser than to take things for as they seemed however, and already, he sensed that his adversaries were gathering for combat with their usual discipline and professionalism. 

Prince Thrandel had come to respect the Men of Eblistan as worthy foes, though such respect did little to douse the flames of hatred in his heart. Where others may have seen Prince Mundhir in an almost romantic light, especially given his chivalrous nature on the field of battle, Thrandel only saw the embodiment of his agonies. He had gathered the last of his kin for one final campaign to bring Eblistan to its knees, and he would not falter in putting each man, woman and child of that godforsaken country to the sword. 

“They are sending a parlay, my Lord,” said Thrandel’s attendant. “We will wait until they are within longbow range, and then I will give the order.”

“No,” said Thrandel coldly. “I will sense the fear in them, as I explain to their pathetic Princeling the futility of his peoples’ stand. Let them come to me.”