Dalestor, captain of the guard, clad in his full plate mail armor, strode up the stone stairs to the battlements of the castle. His armor shone in the setting sun. Having seen little combat, apart from the yearly tournaments, the armor retained its original sheen. The symbol of Brightsfall, an anvil and a single stalk of wheat grass sat emblazoned on his chest plate. He had been given the command of the guards of Brightsfall a few short years ago. His dedication in training, standing in the community, and family bloodlines all played a factor in his election. The prolonged years of peace between the kingdoms transformed the position of captain of the guard from a position of respect and honor to that of a political mascot. Petty crimes and local disputes took up most of the efforts of the guards of Brightsfall. Those old enough to remember the wars of old considered this a blessing. This evening however, the inexperience of the guards seemed more like a curse. This small fortress by the sea now sat at the brink of war. As he walked slowly to his position of command, Dalestor began to recollect the beginning of it all.
It started simple enough. Traveling wagons went missing, turning up dead in the forest, any supplies having been taken, yet coin and valuables left untouched. Then isolated farms were found raided and stripped of any resources, the inhabitants slaughtered and scattered about. Dalestor had doubled the patrols on the roads, guessing it was the work of the local wild men, nomads with an ancient history in this land. They claimed ownership of these lands, claiming the kingdoms had stolen them from their forefathers. Yet no record of any interaction between their ancestors and those of the kingdoms existed in the records. This theory was soon disproved. Survivors emerged, telling tales of dark skinned humanoids, wielding wicked curved blades and speaking in a strange guttural tongue. To Dalestor they seemed more like creatures from a dark story, spun to scare children into obedience. The people began to refer to them as dark elves. Their facial features matched those of the forest folk of the north, but a dark twisted version. They wore dark armor, and always attacked at night, seemingly fearful of the sun’s rays. Their stealth and speed allowed them to slaughter several families in a village before the alarm would sound. The numbers of those survivors gradually grew. These things seemed more interested in the supplies the villages provided, killing only those they encountered and those who attempted to fight them. Brontik Strongarm, lord of Brightsfall, petitioned King Taldori for aid. The petition was brought before the Council of Kings for deliberation. Eventually the council decided that without any prisoners and without any direct conflict with the guards themselves, the threat would be treated as a local disturbance and nothing more. They chastised Brontik for his lack of strategy, who in turn lashed out at Dalestor. Frustrated, Dalestor organized a hunting party, fitted with hounds and trackers, to delve into the forests and wipe out whatever this threat was. After seven days of searching, they found no foreign creatures. They did, however, discover strange boats on the beach at the edge of the forest. Constructed from a strange blackened wood unlike any from this land, the small boats seemed expertly crafted. Their shape was sleek and smooth, yet resembled more the rafts used by larger ships for parties of men to come ashore. Ten boats were discovered in total, large enough to carry fifteen men each. This threat was greater than Dalestor had previously suspected. He immediately sent messengers with the news of their findings. Days would pass and they would never return. Three times Dalestor sent out couriers, and three times the couriers disappeared. Eventually no one dared leave the borders of the city. Any outlying villages lay burned and looted. All survivors were ushered into the walls of the city. In the span of seven months this threat of an estimated one hundred and fifty had crippled a city and the surrounding lands of over one thousand people.
That night Dalestor gazed from his post, a perch on the wall where the archers and infantry could easily see his commands. As he gazed out across the sea to the south, his heart sank. What he saw filled him with a despair deeper than any he had ever known. A vast armada of ships dotted the expanse of the sea before him. The approaching ships were innumerable, stretching out past the horizon. This host could only be meant for one thing, invasion. Dalestor had no time to wonder where the armies of the kingdom were, survival was the only priority this night. The sun gave its last dying light as the first invader set foot onto the pebbled beach. The fading light mixed with the dark armor of the invaders made the army on the beach seem like a roiling mass of black shadow, growing ever larger as ship after ship began to come aground. Torches were lit to combat the onset of darkness, yet the fire’s light failed to illuminate those on the beach front. Dalestor sat puzzled, it was as if the beings themselves forced back the light to keep them enshrouded in shadow. Dalestor used the dim light to look out over his troops. Three hundred and fifty guards, fifty able bodied veterans, and one hundred volunteers from the common folk sat in waiting. Five hundred men, tasked with the defense of the city, against a seemingly endless mass of invaders. They all stood, each with a façade of courage on their face. The bulk of their numbers placed upon the battlements with bows and ballista at the ready. The rest at the southern entrance waiting at the barred doors to face any attempt at intrusion. The heavy silence pressed down around the defending army like a chained anvil around their necks. Dalestor could already hear a scattering of stifled sobs from amongst the men. "Something must be done..." He said quietly to himself. As a stirring began in his heart the protective instincts took over his mind and he spoke. "Men of Brightsfall," Dalestor called out to his forces as he took a step forward, "this night we stand at a precipice. We stand at the end of an age. An age of peace and unity between the kingdoms. A golden age of progress! The gods above have blessed us greatly, but tonight they call our debts. Tonight in this city, on these walls, we face the darkness that I’m certain the gods have been holding at bay, postponing our fate. The same fate that meets all those whose names live on in the songs of history. Tonight we earn that same glory, a place at the table of the heroes of old. Tonight we etch our names in history with blood!" A resounding cheer erupted from the army, bolstered by his words. "For Allestar!" Cried Dalestor as he unsheathed his longsword and held it aloft. The steel blade reflecting the torchlight. The army echoed his cry and held their own weapons in the air. A feeling of warmth began to run through the captain’s body, starting from his chest and bursting out through his limbs. As the adrenaline pumped through his blood, he called the archers to arms with a single command. As if in response, deeps drums began to beat from down below the walls, among the invading forces. Dalestor could sense the size of the drums by the sound they emitted. The deepest of basses that made his ears ache and the pebbles on the ground vibrate. The beat was slow, a rhythmic foreshadowing of things to come.
Dalestor shouted another command, and the archer notched their arrows and drew back to aim. He couldn’t make out any formation in the darkness of the beach below, almost as if the invaders were part of the night itself. Yet, by the immense orchestral rhythm of marching armor and men, Dalestor suspected that not many arrows would miss their mark that night. He lowered his sword to point out into the dark, and gave the command to fire. The flutter of arrows being released into the night air could barely be heard over the constant beat of the drums.
Within seconds, cries of death were heard from below. Excitement began to build in Dalestor’s heart as he heard the damage that was dealt. A glimmer of hope for survival emerged within him. Yet, as the drums immediately began to increase their tempo, that hope was swept away. With the changing drums, appeared pinpoints of light amidst the shadow. Purple, alien light that grew from the size of a candlelight to that of a torch. Whatever hope the army had, quickly turned into dread as the dark masses below began to chant in unison. The language in which they chanted was guttural and harsh. Dalestor could not fathom the abyss from which these creatures emerged. Dalestor rallied himself and shouted the command to ready the second volley. As if in response, the glowing flames of purples fire shot high into the air. Each flaming orb, ten in total, began to spin and whirl, forming a cyclone of magical fire that lit up the night sky. The coalesced flame shot toward the fortress like the head of some terrible spear. The explosion tore through the southern wall with such a force that it knocked Dalestor fifteen feet and onto his back. The flames ate through the stone as if it were paper. Those unfortunate enough to be caught in the vicinity were vaporized, and those too close wailed like damned souls as the flames tore at their flesh.
Dalestor lifted his head and tried to get air back into his lungs. His eyes met those of a young man, no more than sixteen years old, whose legs were missing and whose torso was slowly turning into a black tar as it melted away. The young man clung to the edge of the hole in the wall that the explosion created. His eyes looked upon Dalestor, his mouth agape in a silent scream of torment. Dalestor lunged to catch him as the young soldier’s grip gave way. Too late to save him, Dalestor watched as the boy was engulfed by the flames below. A jetson of flame burst from the gap in the wall as the fire consumed the body. Dalestor scrambled back away from the flames and stood. Panic began to rise in his throat. His eyes watered as he looked out across the beach and witnessed the full might of the invading force. The bright light of the burning wall illuminated a dense sea of bodies, all in tight formation, approaching the now vulnerable fortress. Dalestor could estimate their numbers at least ten thousand strong. the army stretched out left and right beyond the light of the fires, leading him to believe that this wasn’t even half of their numbers.
This invasion not only meant the doom of Brightsfall, but threatened the existence of Allestar itself. In a state of shock, a primal instinct overtook Daletsor. He cried out the signal for retreat out to the rest of the castle. Hundreds poured form the northern gate, desperate to distance themselves from the dark elves. Families scrambled to cling to each other, as others were trampled to death by the mindless mob. Explosions continued to rip away at the walls of Brightsfall. As he ran, Dalestor knew, the future of the realm was in peril. The Council of Kings must be warned.