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Sacred Duty, Divine Mission

Chapter 1: Mistress of the Cold, The Champions of Fire

In the lands of Ulthuan, the realm of the children of Asuryan, the Asur or in the tongue of the younger races the High Elves stand firm against the never-ending tide of darkness and chaos. The High Elves are divided into several kingdoms each with their own special character and prowess. In the Kingdom of Caledor, one of the most sparsely populated lands consisting of high shear mountains and deep fertile valleys. Though small in number Caledorian Elves boast great power in their smiths, fire mages, and princes who ride the ancient dragons in battle.

In the cloud wreathed peaks of the vast Dragonspine Mountains sits the many fortified manor houses of the nobility of Caledor. In the bowel of extinct volcano rests Alagos-arta. Its large ornate manor is surrounded by shimmering white walls encrusted with runes and wards. The power of these enchantments reflect off the grey weathered rocks. A massive gatehouse guards the one land entrance. It has several towers spaced around its rampart and parapet clad walls. Each tower is topped with a trio of elegantly lethal Eagle Claw bolt throwers. From the towers and manor house flies a banner adorned with runes of denoting power, honor, loyalty, skill, rulership with a fierce storm in the background and a dragon wrapped protectively around a sword in the foreground.

Two large cave entrances dot the smooth curved walls of this ancient volcano. The caves are home to the oldest allies of the Asur, dragons. The oldest son of House Vilyaheru is Prince Rhaltas and he like his cousin Imirk Dragonlord have awoken a star dragon at a young age. His dragon Sethai is one of a dozen star dragon awake at this time. His scales are the dark blue of the deep ocean. Points of captured starlight glitter along the scales of his back. His belly is smooth white the color of sky as seen from below. His head the size of a small house holds eyes of pitch blackness and teeth of yellow ivory. His spear like claws and talons are the color of obsidian. He remembers a time before the coming of Chaos, where the Old Ones where still a young race and dragons reigned supreme. He fought alongside the elves and his kin at the behest of Asuryan and the Dragontamer against the foul forces of Chaos and their demonhosts. Now he fights beside Rhaltas the only elf to wake him since the time of Aenarion.

The other cave belongs to the sun dragon Cynathi who awoke for the youngest son of the Vilyaheru family, the Dragon Mage Hirveren. Cynathi's scales are wrought from molten gold. His belly scales are the pale yellow of the rising sun. Smaller than the mighty star dragons his thirty foot length is more than capable of savaging a regiment of warriors or killing a manticore. His eyes gleam ruby-red and his teeth prefect white as is his claws. He is a young dragon hatched after the demon wars during the twilight of Caradryel's reign.

As the sun rises the sound of ringing steel can be heard in the fortress' main courtyard. Prince Rhaltas and his personal guard are practicing their weapons skills in the chill mountain air. Rhaltas stands at six feet five inches. His build is a toned athletic frame used to the hardship of war and the way of the warrior. His steel grey eyes narrow as he tracks the blade of his sparring partner. With a deft twist he moves out of the path of the sword. Lunging forward his rune engraved longsword darts at his opponent cobra quick. The magic woven into the blade flashes in the dim light.

Hair the color of sunbeams spills froth from his head. Pleated with iron chords and bound into a tight ponytail the prince looks every inch of the powerful ruler/warrior he is. Rhaltas is related to the ruler of Caledor Prince Imirk Dragonlord. Their family lines stretches back to Caledor Dragontamer and the Conqueror. A linage of great glory and great expectation for him and his brothers.

The weapons practice is interrupted by a booming roar as a dragon of monstrous size burst forth from the cavern wall. With a few lazy beats from his wings, great gusts of wind kick a cloud of dust below. Quickly enveloping the elves below. As the dust settles Sethai lands in the courtyard. As he shifts his bulk and gets comfortable the other elves bow to the ancient drake and greet him with reverence. Settling down the great dragon continues to sleep as the sun's rays slowly warm his cold blood. The elves in the courtyard continue their practice. As the dawn turns to day, a rider enters the courtyard calling for the prince. Taking some water from a servant Rhaltas walks over and asks, "What news do you have for me?"

"Your Grace," the elf begins with a bow, "There is a flight of manticores attacking travelers in the Low Shearpoint Pass."

"I presume that the other horse bound princes could not be bothered to deal with those twisted beasts of chaos." Seeing the elf nod in agreement he continues, "Sethai and I will deal with them by the end of the day. Before you leave help yourself to some food and water. Your horse will be cared for."

"Thank you Your Grace. By your leave I will take you up on your most generous offer."

As the messenger walks off Rhaltas turns to his servants and commands, "Get armor and weapons for myself and Sethai." As the retainers leave Rhaltas walks over to the now awake dragon. Staring his partner in the eyes, he knows dragons do want or suffer weak riders. "We haven't had any challenges recently. These manticores hardly rate that but they could be diverting." The dragon nods in affirmation and lays closer to the ground to make it easier for the house retainers to put his armor on.

A half hour later both dragon and elf where clad in shinning ithialmar armor; the silver plates and scales are polished to a high shine. The gem stones flash brilliantly in the early afternoon sky. The enchantments create a hazy ripple in the air as the powerful wards envelope both beings. With his rider secured in the saddle, Sethai jumps straight up and spreads his wings. Riding the spiraling air currents he ascends and clears the lip of the caldera in a blue flash. Once out in the cloud streaked sky his natural colors make him invisible to any observer beneath them, even to trained elven eyes.

As they fly along the routes that have been recently attacked by the manticores Rhaltas is getting sleepily. He stifles a yawn as a foul smell drifts across the wind. It has the cloying smell of death, blood, and corruption; all fresh. Sethai smells it too along with its source. With a swooping leftward climbing turn he gets above, downwind, and in line with sun as he stalks his prey. Rhaltas fully awake readies his spear and shield. In the clouds enemies can burst out of anywhere making a readied bow a dangerous gambit.

A break in the cloud appears suddenly, three dark shapes are spotted beneath us. With deadly silence Sethai tilts his body to the right and pulls in a wing. He enters a sharp dive at the chaos creatures. The air rushes through my ears as Sethai dives at the manticores. With silent commands and centuries of fighting side by side I know what my dragon is going to do. He will slash at the center one with talons and claws. At the same time he will incinerate one of the ones on the side leaving me to attack the remaining one.

BOOM… his wings snap open in an instant. His black talons rip into the smaller creature's wing and back. Ichor jets from the cuts as the claws bite deep, gouging out chunks of bone. With a savage roar as blood sprays from the long slash marks, Sethai twists his neck and unleash a jet of blue-white fire. The cloud of death covers the manticore on the right. Both creature's release blood-curdling shrieks of pain. One continues roaring in pain as the powerful fire eats through its chaos warped flesh. It twists in midair trying to smother the flames as it falls ever faster to its death. Pushing off from the middle manticore, Sethai kicks it causing it to head for a landing.

Using the surprise created I stand up in the saddle and watch the third manticore circle the larger dragon waiting for the opportune moment. Whispering a prayer to Asuryan and the command word for the ancient enchantments of my spear, it glows with the trapped power of a lightning bolt. "For Caledor and Ulthuan!" I shout before thrusting my spear forward, just as the manticore managed to, using its smaller size, to slip inside my partner's turning circle and was going to bite the thin wing membrane.

The spear alight with blue energy slams into the creature's head, right between the eyes. With a deft twist I destroy the creature's brain as burning ichor leeches from the wound. Withdrawing my weapon I watch briefly as gravity takes the body and plunges into the rocks below. With a flick I bring the weapon back into its ready position as we continue the hunt for the remaining manticore.

The cold seas north of Ulthuan churn and an icy green spray covers the decks of a mighty dragon ship. The ship bears banners of a swooping white sea hawk on a starry blue ocean, the personal colors of Sea Lord Aislinn. The Sea Lord walks over to the shuddering figure with an easy grace of those born to the sea. Shouting his voice easily overcomes the dim of the ocean, "Enjoying your voyage young mage," he starts off in a light-hearted manner. Turning serious he continues, "These seas are nothing like the skies above. They are far less forgiving and much colder."

"No Sea Lord I'm not. The cold does not bother me so much. It is the damnable rocking," replies Hirveren of House Vilyaheru. "Still this discomfort will not hinder me in battle, for there is glory to be won killing the hated Norse and other foes of the Asur." With that declaration the air around Hirveren warms significantly. Turning to look out over the sea the mists part to reveal a large squadron of elvish ships. Ten mighty Eagle ships cut through the waves like a blade, swift with deadly grace and purpose. On the flanks of the fleet groups of three Hawkships act as the scouts and relay point for message's sent from the battle groups Skycutters. In the center rest a pair of Dragonships; Mathlann's Glory and the Fire of the Asur. The battle group is loaded up several regiments of Sea Guard and Shadow Warriors. The mission is to wipe out a Norse village that is being used a hub of pirates and rumored to be under the control of a powerful Chaos Champion.

"Good," replies the Sea Lord, "You have done my elves and I a great service Dragon Mage. You will have your enemies to slay." With that Aislinn left the young mage and headed back to the bridge of his ship.

They sailed for the better part of two months, the skycutter's and hawkship's ensured that no vessels warned the Norse. The sea skirmish's where quick and brutal. The hawkships surround the doomed vessel and then as one they turn into the vessel and charge, bolt-throwers firing as fast as possible. Then the skycutters descend and pepper the decks with bow and light bolt-thrower fire aimed at masts, sails, and crew. Once rendered immovable the Hawks close and plunge heavy bolts straight at the waterline sinking the ship and leaving no survivors.

As they approach the inlet the Sea Lord has his mages weave a thick fog around the ships and create a gentle breeze to push it inland. Shrouded, the ships close quietly. Eagle-eyed sentries posted in the fighting tops let loose single shafts from their bows at the cliff faces, killing off Norscan scouts. Getting closer the Sea Guard form their fighting ranks as the Shadow Warriors move ahead in small rowboats. Hirveren and his dragon Cynathi are circling slowly in the heavy clouds waiting for an opportune moment to strike.

The Shadow Warriors finding no warmachines guarding the makeshift harbor and beach signal the fleet that now is the time to strike. At once the sound of CRACK…TWANG…SWOOSH reverberates through the shore as hundreds of white fletched bolts pour from the sky. The dozens of Eagle-Claws were firing with their cluster of sword sized bolts. Each one bears the runes of fire, on impact they spray the blue-white flames of Asuryran in a wide circle, incinerating anything it touches. As the Norscans try to rally, out of the smoke and mists comes the fighting blocks and serried ranks of the Sea Guard. Bows drawn and ready, at the commands of the Sea Helms leading them the lines of white fire, more arrows plunge into the battle piercing flesh and reaping a toll of death. They fire three more volleys, as the Chaos leaders are killed from behind, black arrows sticking from backs and throats, they died with horns on their lips preparing to rally their warriors.

Bows slung the Guard readies their spears and shields as the Norscans charge, led by several Chosen of Chaos they bellow foul prayers with twisted words. These antics would have had lesser warriors, those from the Old World shaking not the Asur, meeting their cries with silence each elf prepares to strike. As the barbarians get closer the fighters of the back ranks fire a last desperate volley straight through the assembled ranks seconds before the two lines clash. As arrows whiz by Menthalas head he ignores them, he trust his brothers aim and watches as the leading line of Marauders fall to the ground dead or wounded to be trampled by the rest of the horde.

Helgelts winces as an arrow hits shoulder, with a grunt he pulls out the barded shaft and continues charging with his men. Rising his shield as the lines clash at the last second saved his life as he hears a single word in High Elvish. Thrust. Ssss…Thunk the first line of spears are thrusted forward. A dull clang is heard by Helgelts as his shield is hit. The sounds of screaming and cracking means that most of his brothers were less fortunate than him. Looking up in the faces of the elves he does not see blood or battle lust but cold grim determination. Ssss…Thunk, the second line of spears is thrusted home, more screams, and more death. Helgelts just barely survived. Praying to Khorne he readies his ax only to see another line of silver points coming forward. Ssss…Thunk, the three rank attacks wiping out more Nosrsemen with ease. Hoping that his prays were answered Helgelts roars, "Blood for the Blood…" His battle cry is ended shortly by another, Ssss…Thunk as the final rank of spears is rammed into the fray. Seeing their leader die the Norse break and run before the elves, who chase them down with ease. In doing so they run into their primary goal, the Champion of Khorne that Aislinn wants killed.

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" the Champion roars and cuts down a dozen of his fleeing men. Emboldened by their leader's appearance the Norse charge again with berserker fury. Launching themselves into the elven phalanxes they loss many more warriors but dozens of elves lay dead as well. Axes forged in hellfire and quenched in blood are sung with reckless abandon. Arms are cleaved off in a bloody spray, as chants to the blood god ring in the Norsecan ears. Shields shatter as the elves desperately try to ward off the heavy-handed blows. Spears shatter on breastplate and bone as the Sea Guard fight back against the berserker's frenzy. Swords ring as the Sea Masters and Sea Helms shout orders and bellow challenges to the enemy Chosen.

The combat devolves into a swirling melee as the Norse try to break the spear walls of the Sea Guard. Bolstered by the discipline of the Sea Helms, the Sea Guard maintain their formations killing dozens with thrust of their spears. The ground already muddy is soaked with the blood of both Asur and human. As the wounded slowly drown or are crushed in the dance of blades. The battle draws the attention of the God of Slaughter and he smiles at the death and carnage.

A clarion note rings out from a silver war horn. Its purity gives pause to the accursed followers of Chaos. Aislinn wants to end this battle and has summoned his Dragon Mage to do it. Calling on the powers of the Gem of Sunfire Hirveren fells the flames inside him swell as well as Cynthai. Diving the Sun Dargon's roar and shadow cause many Chaos Warriors to panic and run. They are killed as the Sun Dragon lets forth his firey breath wiping out a section of the village. Calling upon the winds of magic Hirveren casts a powerful Flaming Sword of Rhuin on his ancient Sunstaff. Instead of being engulfed by normal magical fire the blessed runes on it change it to the blue-white flames of Asuryan.

Aiming for the ax wielding Champion Hirveren shouts, "For Caledor, For Ulthuan, For the Asur!" before striking lightning quick. The holy fire burns through the Champions foul protections with little effort. The cutting edge of the staff finds the gap between helm and cuirass and removes his head in a single bloodless blow. The battle finished the Champions demise the Asur raze the village with fire and fury. They then disappear into the smoke choked mist.

In the cramped confines of the Imperial Capital of Altdorf sits a single estate that holds buildings of a delicate make colored in pure whites and royal blues. Guarded by a detachment of White Lions, Swordmasters, Sea Guard and their attendant lords is the Embassy of the High Elves. It stands out among the squat, dark colored buildings that the humans favor. The embassy usually holds the ambassador, his staff, a few loremasters, and an archmage. Currently there is a second archmage in resident, Master Thelian of House Vilyaheru. He is the middle son of Vilyaheru House and is one of the few mages from Caledor to master all of the eight lores of magic and the arts of High Magic from Saphery.

He is here at the behest of High Loremaster Teclis to show the strength of the High Elf commitment to their alliance with the Empire of Sigmar. He is to act as an adviser and teacher to the Imperial Bright Wizards. They are schooled in the lore of fire and as a Caledorian he has a natural affinity toward fire. Thelian however considers it a colossal waste of his time and skill teaching a bunch of uncultured, unrefined, idiotic over-evolved monkeys to wield the dangerous art of magic. Still it is a request from one of the Defenders of Ulthuan and his honor as a mage of Caledor did not allow him to decline. Still he thinks as he leaves the embassy this meeting tonight might prove distracting.

Looking at the dirty streets Thelian can't help but sneer in disgust at the primitive nature of man. Yet looking at the towering citadels and temples He is also impressed how far this race has come. From living in caves to fighting off demons, maybe the younger races have more value than being an extra line of defenses before the shores of Ulthuan.

Leaving the Embassy he is surrounded by his escort of two Swordmasters and four Knights of the Reiksguard. With a nod to the quicksilver warriors of Hoeth, Thelian turns to the leader of his guard Gergor Von Detleff, and speaks in the human tongue, "Lets us go to the Baron's party Sir Detleff. The fastest route please."

With a bow Sir Von Detleff replies, "At once your grace but I must warn you the fastest route will have go through Tavern Row. There is a chance for some unpleasantries to happen. I would not want to risk the honor and hospitality of the Emperor because of some stupid drunks."

With a wave of his hand Thelian replies, "Your Emperor's honor will not be tarnished by the drunken actions of a few barbarians. I want to get to this party as fast as possible, dance with as few people as possible, and stay as long as honor demands. I find your mages insufferable."

Laughing Von Detleff smiles, "Of course your grace." With a quick command the Knights move into position ahead and to the sides of the mage and his guards and begin elbowing the growing crowd out of the way. The torches are being lit as the sun dips lower behind the mountains. Night is falling and the evening crowd of street urchins, whores, cut-throats, and drunks are coming out of the woodwork. With a snort Thelian is cursing Teclis for forcing him to this hellhole.

The group makes good time through the city. The crowds are not thick in the foreign affluent section but the Baron's ballroom overlooks the river and its harbor and it is on the complete other side. It is around dinner time as they enter Tavern Row. Bars, pubs, and brothels as far as the road goes. Hundreds of buildings were the locals are getting drunk and horny in the thousands. This does not worry the veteran warriors.

A woman garbed in dark greens pushes her way to through Row. Trying to find the Asur Embassy she unknowingly entered the territory of one of the nastier street gangs who love this sort of target; female, beautiful, young, and most importantly alone. They start to trail her, ten men in front, five on each side, and another ten in the back. Their predatory lust filled stares do not go unnoticed. Grabbing her cloak with one hand the other grips a hidden dagger she picks up her pace hoping to get out of danger.

These fools think they are threatening, thinks Yára, the only threat they pose is forcing her to fight and getting into trouble with Imperial Authorities. Not wanting to let their prize escape the men surround the young woman. With a harsh arrogant tone the leader steps forward and draws a large serrated blade stained red with blood of countless dead, "Its' awfully dangerous for a young lady to be out at night. Why don't you let me and the boys here take you somewhere safe." The rest of the chuckle darkly at their boss's words.

One last blast of wind whips down the street before the air becomes still in the flickering torch-light. As the pungent odors of piss, shit, ale, and unwashed bodies fill the air the young woman's hood slips and the men go from shocked to dark glee in a heartbeat. Thelian and his party walk into line of sight of the soon to be fight. "Ignore it your grace. A simple brawl of commoners. The city guard will deal with them soon enough. Let us take the road the up ahead to avoid this," says Von Detleff.

"Normally I would agree with you and let the rabble fight it out but what your eyes can't see, mine can is that a young women is at the center of that group and would like our aid," replies Thelian. Just as he finished speaking the group attacks the young woman. As she deftly dodges the clumsy sword thrusts of the first two assailants she feels the winds of magic being manipulated. As Yara begins to weave defensive wards around her a small fireball explodes in the air above them. Her attackers look scared and try to flee but their movements are slow and getting slower.

"Now that that is over," says Thelian as he finishes casting both a weak fireball and miasma into the street battle. "Have these men be taken to the watch for attempted kidnapping and murder of someone under the protection of Asur Embassy. Also tell the Baron that I cannot attend this evening. An important friend from Lothern has arrived. Swordmasters attend to the woman and let us head back to the Embassy. Good night Sir Detleff." Leaving the knights with their orders Thelian and his party quickly return to the safety that the Embassy provides.

Placing a decanter of Caledorian wine and two chilled glasses on a small table between the two elves Thelian pours the citrus white into each glass, takes a sip, and begins, "Tell me young one what does a spellweaver of the Asrai doing in the capital of the Human Empire and please remove your hood maiden. I like to look upon the face of those I speak to."

Mirroring her host Yara takes a sip of the wine and her senses have taken flight. Placing the glass down with liquid grace she removes her hood in a single twists of her wrist. White hair cascades wave-like down to the small of her back. Her green eyes are flecked with gold. She has the ageless body of an elf. "I'm Yara Master Mage and would humbly request to travel to the White Tower and learn the magic's of my kin."

"What you ask Yara is unprecedented. I by the way am Loremaster Prince Thelian Vilyaheru of Caledor. Your request will take time to consider. Prove yourself to me in a spar and I will personally take you before the Phoenix King and the High Loremaster to plead your case. Fail and your dream will never be realized."

"I accept your challenge Master Vilyaheru," says Yara with steel in her voice.

Glad to be leaving early Thelian tries to roll over in bed but the weight of another is preventing him. Opening a heavy-lidded eye he is greeted by the naked statuesque form of Yara. With a smile he remembers the previous night with relish. Befriending the young spellweaver was the only good thing to come out of this trip. "Wake up melar," I say in quiet voice as I trace little circles up and down her smooth tone back.

"Mmmmm…Don't stop my naur." She mumbles into my chest. As much as I want to listen we have a boat to catch.

"Today is the day we leave for Ulthuan. Unless you wish to stay in bed with me for the rest of the day melar."

Yara jumps up and straddles me, the covers falling from her narrow shoulders and granting me an image of sinful beauty. With a quick kiss to her lips we both ready our belongings for a long sea voyage.

Years later each brother are haunted by dreams of winter and a cold evil laugh of seduction. This and the compulsion to meet together in the Shrine of Asuryan, before the Sacred Fire.

In the ice choked land of Naggaroth lies the Kingdom of Malekith the Witch King of the Druchii or Dark Elves. The twisted traitors of the Asur. They consider the other races fit only for enslavement and they live in a land of frozen in pain and suffering. Vast cities and watchtowers fill the bleak rugged landscape as slaves used to their deaths in toil, in combat, and in ritual sacrifice to the whims of their masters.

In one of the underground palaces far from the noted cities of the dark elves lives the Sorceress Vanmoriel. She is one of the more powerful of Morthai followers and a woman of twisted, perverse, and dark tastes even among her dark elves. She seeks like all Druchii to conqueror, enslave, and sate her lusts for power and pleasure. Her power is also her curse. She like all the other witch elves and dark elves covet the position of those above them. Considering themselves better, stronger, and more devious assassination is a valid and oft used method of advancement. This has bred a strong paranoid streak in all Druchii and is one of the reasons behind her banishment.

Vanmoriel wakes up in the late morning. Sitting up in bed she gives the corpse of her lover a quick shove off the bed. Stretching like a panther she slips from under the silk sheets and heads to the washroom. As she walks the ice colored floors are mired by bloody footprints and droplets from her hair. Once cleaned she dawns a shear robe of midnight black that is made from human hair and spider silk. Her marble white skin shines with unholy beauty. Her eyes are of the deepest blue and can mesmerize the weak-willed. The halls are silent as she makes her way to her warded laboratory. Speaking many passwords and incantations to remove the deathtraps she enters her sanctum.

Vanmoriel seeks to find the power to avenge herself on the witch elves that conspired to remove her. Placing the bloody and still dripping item she brought with her on the large central altar made from bone taken from the still living bodies of pure maiden slaves, both human and elf. The runes craved into the bone are dark and twisted. Homage to powers that mortals should not and seek not to comprehend. The last piece to this ritual is the heart freshly taken from close kin. Her "dearest sister" give this to her last night. In the throes of night of wild passion and lust it was easy to bind her and seal her powers. It took her several long hours of fun with such a flawless canvas to defile before cutting it out.

Placing it on the altar she flicks a switch that beheads several young male slaves that were bound in the room. Their blood and souls powering the initial part. The air grows coppery as gallons of rich red liquid is consumed by the altar. She chants in time with the dark pulses in the air. As the magic reaches a crescendo she slits her throat and gives herself up to the foul powers of chaos to grant her demonhood.

The Lord of Change and Twisted Schemes, the Chaos God named Tzeentch has other plans for Vanmoriel. He discovered a world isolated from the warp. Other powers guard their realm well for they are insulated so much that demons could not manifest there. Deciding to grant Vanmoriel a version of her request he allows her to keep her powers and transports her whole palace to the far north of this world.

Once Vanmoriel awakens she will be in tundra, a glacial palace that sits atop several ley lines of magic. She will become a version of the Witch King, she will the Mistress of Winter. She will have an entire world to subjugate to her whims. With that Tzeentch casts his spell and the warp crackles with shrill high-pitched laughter.

Asuryan sensing the scales that he holds shift, an imbalance is formed. His scared duty is to ensure that the warp remains balanced. Using his limited direct influence he gathers three champions and seeks to rectify it. The compulsions grow stronger and soon each brother travels to the Shrine of Asuryan. Rhaltas from Caledor, Thelian from Hoeth, and Hirveren from Lothern. With faint shock and amusement the three greet each other warmly. Caledorian elves only feel truly comfortable when with their own kin. They are guided by the stoic and silent Phoenix Guard Captain Lord Caradryan himself before the Pillar of Flame.

The fire pulses with life as powerful magics flood the room. The god does not speak with his subjects as much as imparts his mission on to them. The fire increases in its brightness with each passing second. A powerful clap occurs and the light returns to normal. The three elf lords are no longer in the camber. In their place are the runes of duty, service, and Asuryan. The chief god of the elves and order has selected his champions and sent to a faraway land called Westeros with several tasks.