This blade shall bring death and woe to your enemies My Queen. As long as it is wielded by one of your line it shall never know defeat. Yet, I foresee that one day, far beyond even the reckoning of Elves it will bring about the end of the line of Aviondore.
DonAu Tu'vervain, Court seer upon the presentation of Angrost to queen Shalima Aviondore, in the first age.
The faint gray light of dawn had yet to penetrate the canopy of branches. A single figure moved along the darkened forest path with such grace and ease that even the animals of the forest did not notice her passing. She was tall and lithe and moved with a purposeful stride, seeming to fear neither falling nor becoming lost. As light slowly began to filter through the canopy of leaves her form became more distinct, but she seemed so much a part of the natural world that only a keen observer would have been able to tell.
T'larin paused on the edge of a small dale and carefully surveyed the open area. She knew this wood as only an elf could know it. The Elven race was the longest-lived race on the face of Talor and T'larin was no longer young even by their standards. Only death by disease or mishap kept them from being immortal. Slow to anger and to experience other emotions they were considered by men to be aloof and cold. Still, the hot-blooded elven temptress was popular in their myths and songs, for the elves were a hauntingly beautiful people. T'larin was typical of her people; she was tall and light boned with delicate features and long blonde hair. Her skin was soft and carried the light blue hue of the northern tribes rather than the light green of Sylvan folk. Slow to anger and to friendship she was considered cold and proud even by her own people. This was to be expected from the daughter of a queen. Elven society was dichotomous in that men held the power, but lineage was traced through the mother's side.
This area had once been rolling grasslands between the Nero' Larta or Singing River in the common language of men and the swift Se` Larta or Falling River. Men considered the forest here old and they called it the haunted wood. Most men would not dare cross it unless they were in very dire need. To the Elves no wood held any dread and the trees here were young to those of the undying race. It was now called the Westermark and was claimed by the king of Silverwood.
The move was premature in the opinion of many elves for none of the great silver leaved Talthas trees had reached maturity in this area. The king had made the move for reasons other than nature, although he acknowledged that only to a handful of his closest advisors. T'larin had been chosen to be the march warder for the new lands by the sylvan king partly for her intimate knowledge of the area, but more for her better grasp of the situation outside the elven kingdoms. Here on this bright morning in her peaceful woods she allowed herself to think dark thoughts concerning that situation.
The Orcs of the Iron Dust Mountains were massing for war against the young human kingdoms along the coast. The battles had already begun in the north where T'larin and her people hailed from. Here in the south increased raids by orcs and other evil creatures had begun to become more prevalent only in the last few months. The adding of this land was meant to create a buffer for Silverwood. It would also allow the Elves to cut off the direct line of retreat for orcish raiding parties without having to declare themselves openly in league with the humans. While the hatred of Elf and Orc was as old as time itself the Elves, especially the Sylvan Elves were still very cautious when it came to men. They had fought several border wars with the men who lived in the valley of the Nero'Larta in years past. That was ancient history to the men who lived there now, but only a blink of the eye had passed in the long memories of the elves.
T'larin was not of the sylvan people; her people were the high elves of the North and had already created such marches to protect Aslaheim, their homeland. It was for this reason that she had been chosen as Marcher Lord over others with better connections to the throne. Aladar, king of the sylvan elves, trusted her to carry out her mission here without embroiling the elves in the coming war. T'larin suspected that there was some far greater force of evil directing the orcs and that soon all races would be involved. She kept this fear to herself however, knowing it would be unwise to voice it with no proof.
Many of her northern kin felt that Kalouth, the great deceiver was rising again. T'larin was only a child when her father had led the Great host of Aslaheim to aid the beleaguered men and dwarves of the northern coast. Kalouth's host had been crushed and his great tower laid low, but even the mightiest of magics had been unable to destroy the keystone. Of Kalouth there had been no trace and no whisper of him for ages up on ages, until men forgot and the dwarves added him to their legends. Only the elves remembered him for the threat he was. Now rumors came that the dark tower had risen again, but these were rumors, nothing more, for no good creature had set foot in the Forbidden Vale in all the ages since the tower was destroyed.
She considered these things as the sun slowly warmed on her face and shivered as an unnamed chill passed through her. A rabbit carefully approached the small brook and took a drink while songbirds flitted through the trees. They took no notice of her, partly because she was so attuned to nature, but partly because of her garb. She wore a white archer's shirt, which was open at the neck showing an almost daring amount of cleavage. Her green stockings were tucked into well-worn brown knee boots. These boots had been fashioned in the Silverwood and bore a minor enchantment, which allowed the wearer to move silently over any terrain. Her cloak was also of elvish make and bore a minor enchantment that allowed it to blend into any surroundings. Around her waist was a broad leather girdle from which several pouches and her sword hung. A simple leather band with elvish runes of protection painstakingly carved into it held her long blonde hair back.
T'larin sighed and leaned on her bow staff. It was unstrung now and she used it as a walking stick, but in an instant she could string the mighty bow and send one of the lethal cloth yard shafts from the quiver hanging on her shoulder at an enemy. She expected no danger here, but something was bothering her, an almost tangible feeling of menace hung in the air. She moved to the stream and took a long drink of the cool water before starting off again. It was many leagues to the small enclave where her march warders were to meet tonight.
She had been walking for over an hour when stopped suddenly and stared in wonder. Before her a Talthas sapling stood. It had only a leaf or two but it stood nearly as tall as she did. This was a good omen and for a while the feeling of dread left her.
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The Se'Larta was called the Falling River by men. It gained the name because it fell in a series of spectacular falls out of the Ergos Mountains and ran in a swift crescent to join the mighty Singing River, which rolled for leagues and leagues until it finally met the sea at the port city of Waterdown. The Se'Larta could be forded safely in only two places in its long sweep and thus formed an effective barrier. The first was King's Ford near the feet of the mountains and second was Queen's Ford a few leagues above the massive Eagle Falls, the last fall before the two rivers joined.
Over the past few months Orcish raiding parties had descended from the Ergos mountains and forded at King's Ford, marching through the woods they had cut out the huge sweep of the river and crossed at Queen's Ford to raid the villages of men on the east side of the Singing River. Orcs left damage in their wake that it would take the forest years to repair. They seemed to delight in killing living things and marring any beauty they came upon.
