Sample: The Lady of Frostvale

The metallic pounding of hammer on steel rang out into the frosted night. A thick trail of smoke rose from the stone chimney and wound its way through the drifting snowflakes that searched like wandering pilgrims for a place to settle down and rest.

Borogan worked his arm tirelessly at the stubborn steal, his face blackened with gritty soot and his bronze beard flecked with ash. Under the endless k-ping, k-ping, k-ping of his hammer, the hot metal worked its way into the form of a blade. The steady glow of the forge fires, the smell of burning wood, and the image of the blade consumed the Dwarf’s thoughts. His trunklike arms and callused hands were committed fully to their art.

As night slowly gave way to the golden dawn, the sound of hot metal plunging into cold water hissed from the forge door and drifted out along chill winds to the snow-covered mountain slopes. Borogan wiped the sweat from his brow and took the new blade to his grinding stone. One pull of the wooden crank and the masterful contraption began to work. Gears turned as small lead balls were slowly released from their holding container—like magic the grindstone spun. Borogan held the edge of his blade to the stone and slowly applied pressure and angle as sparks sprayed across the stone floor.

Satisfied of the blade’s sharpness, Borogan turned to regard the only person who shared the forge room with him. Two days ago she had brought the ingot of metal and asked him to make the finest sword his craft could produce. She had then knelt motionless in a corner, watching endlessly without food or drink.

Even while sitting she was tall, and when she rose to her full height the Dwarf came only just past her waist. She was robed in a heavy brown cloak and a cowl so thick it obscured her face. She removed the cowl for the first time when the Dwarf presented the blade. One hand, fully adorned with rings of diamond-studded gold and silver, reached into her cloak and pulled forth an elaborate silver hilt. The engraving of snowflakes on it was so elaborate that it could only have been done by an Elven hand. The woman was indeed Elven, her face pale and her features so finely honed they seemed chiseled from stone. Her golden hair fell behind her, and pointed ears parted the golden strands on either side

Borogan took the hilt and blade over to his forge and attached them firmly before handing the weapon back to the mysterious Elf. She sheathed it in a scabbard perfectly built to its design, almost as if she had anticipated the exact shape and size of the blade. In return she handed the Dwarf a heavy leather bag filled with priceless Elven coins.

“You will forever be remembered for this service, Borogan, son of Dunath,” the Elf assured him in a musical but solemn voice.

The Dwarf grunted his reply, thinking only of the staggering weight of the bag that now occupied his palm.

Without a word the Elf turned and walked out of the mountain forge. The heavy wooden door thudded shut behind her, and for a moment she stood alone high on the frigid mountain ridge. Slowly her form began to change, and her Elvish features melted away. Her ears rounded, her eyes turned milky white, and her hair and skin paled until they were the color of the moon. Her face lost its sharp Elven features to become smoother, but retained the touch of agelessness and grace. Her brown cloak was transformed into a gown of silver as delicate and light as silk. It was no longer an Elf standing there on the mountain ridge. Instead it was Calista, Seeress of Anora.

The air seemed to shimmer before the Seeress as if disturbed by a wave of heat. Tiny points of light, like stars come down to earth, swirled around her. The stars came to a halt before her. One by one they took shape, becoming beautiful female forms covered in golden armor and carrying slender golden swords. Their eyes glowed with brilliant light, and cloaks of shining gold trailed behind them. Four of them turned to face Calista and then quickly parted for a fifth—this one far more beautiful than the others.

Calista inclined her head in a bow to Aluriel, the Nymph queen. Aluriel stood a full head taller even than the Seeress, and the gown that billowed around her in the wind glowed as brightly as the full moon. Her eyes were twin shining stars, and her skin was a golden glow. A galaxy of tiny stars twinkled in her hair as she moved. Unlike the others the Nymph Queen carried no weapons and wore no armor, but she clutched a tall ivory staff whose length was adorned with golden threads and whose head was a golden star emanating from a diamond center.

Calista held out the blade to the Fey queen. For one blinding instant when Aluriel touched the sword, it flashed with light as brilliant as the sun. The queen held it for a long moment, her eyes closed. Magic seemed to permeate the air and intoxicated the Seeress before the world exploded in blue fire and a column of sapphire flames churned upward into the clouded sky. Aluriel and the sword stood unharmed in the center of the conflagration.

When the fire receded into the sword, Aluriel handed it back to Calista. “The blade is touched by the powers of the Fey as you had foreseen,” Aluriel announced in a voice beautiful beyond mortal comprehension. “May it send all creatures of Shadow into damnation.” With that the queen and her Nymphs were gone in a swirl of glittering stars that spiraled up into the sky and disappeared into the clouds.

Alone again on the mountain, Calista held the blade and felt its magic. She was smiling when a sudden gust of wind whipped over the mountainside. As the wind howled, the Seeress faded into it like an intangible spirit on a mission to take the sword to its rightful owner.

           

Durain’s horse snorted and pawed at the ground impatiently, but the emperor held the reins with a steady hand. To his left was a long column of troops whose spears and helms glittered in the light of a pale sky. The lord of Frostvale found a temporary escape in the rhythmic thudding of boots and the clink of armor, but the heavy drum and droning horn of his enemy quickly snapped him back into reality.

The emperor’s green eyes focused on the black line of troops marching toward him across the snowy flats. Above their endless ranks flapped the banner with the mountain and snowflake symbol of Icespire. His own men gathered into ranks in front of him, facing the enemy in perfect formation. Only the subtle shuffle of feet and the shifting of weapons betrayed their apparent calm. Behind Durain flapped the banner of his own empire—three snowflakes connected in a triangular formation.

The emperor’s line was formed only moments before the horde before them began to charge. Durain called out for his men to stand fast as the mass of beastly Orcs tore into them like a black tidal wave and then came at Durain himself. The Emperor drew his sword and sliced keenly into the monsters, his armor and cloak quickly covered in the inky blood of his enemy. He looked around in vain for help from his Elite Guard. Many already lay dead and trampled, and the remaining line collapsed in the face of their inevitable fate.

Durain felt an axe rip through his armor, but it was a cold numbness rather than pain that told him he had been hit. He roared defiantly and took the head from the Orc that had wounded him. Still more enemies came to replace the one that had fallen, and Durain’s body lurched as he was hit again and again. He clung to his horse, but the savage Orcs had begun their work on his faithful steed. Its neigh turned into a high-pitched scream as the enemy attacked its legs with their relentless swords.

Durain and his horse hit the ground hard. The Emperor’s world was quickly consumed in leering black faces as Orcs covered him. The weight of his realizations hit him as hard and killed him just as surely as the spear that came down into his chest. As he felt his lifeblood drain out of him, he knew that he would never see his home again. He would never see his precious daughter or his beautiful Arriya ever again. Everything was lost.

           

Soothing cold ran up her index finger as the Ice Queen touched Frostbite. The glittering scimitar seemed to be composed of delicate frost, but that was only a clever illusion of magic, as the sword was harder than any steel blade. The Ice Queen’s thoughts ran with visions of the coming conquest, and she delighted over her certain gain of power and position. Sighing, she slipped the weapon back into the silvery sheath at her waist and rose from her crystal throne. She brushed silver strands of hair from her face as she walked to the small window, one of just a handful of windows in the huge mountain that housed her fortress of Icespire. Her pale eyes looked out over the expanse of white that was Frostvale. It was truly a cold and bright place for a Shadow Demon, but the Ice Queen, true to her name, found the realm exactly to her liking.

A loud rap on the door broke her attention, and she glared at the frost-covered portal in disgust. What slave would dare interrupt her reverie? “Enter!” she snapped.

The door opened quickly to reveal a flayer, a man-shaped Demon with hairless black skin and a hint of claws under his glittering black armor. The lights of the Demon’s red eyes focused patiently on her. Its exceptionally large size and confident stance told the Ice Queen it was a member of her master’s Black Guard, the elite of his private forces.

“The master requests your presence, Mistress,” it hissed.

“Very well,” said the Ice Queen with a dramatic and annoyed shooing gesture. “Tell him I will be there shortly.”

In the bottommost depths of Icespire was the temple of the Demon lord who commanded the Ice Queen. It was a dark place, foreboding to any human or Elf, but home to those of Demon blood. She walked quickly through the twilight of the chamber, passing great black stone columns and pools of black liquid that looked deceptively like water. The chamber was perfectly still.

Concealed in the deepest shadows the Ice Queen could see more of Drethok’s Black Guard waiting for their lord’s command. The Ice Queen walked past them without a thought. If they were foolish enough to get in her way, they would live only long enough to regret it. At the back of the chamber was a raised dais of black stone with a small altar at its center. On that altar, lying on a cushion of black silk, was a small stone as black as the deepest night.

“You called for me, my lord,” the Ice Queen presented, bowing low. She found it amusing that she was paying such respect to an entity that appeared to be a small, black rock. Drethok had been imprisoned within the stone by the twin Seeresses, Calista and Calypso. It was comical that a being as powerful as Drethok had been so easily ensnared; the twins were not lacking in power or cunning.

“My servant,” came the dark, powerful voice of the Demon lord. “Our war with the humans fares well. Your efforts to crush the empire of the north have been impressive; however, I wish to hasten our plan. I want you to take Demon hunters to Frostvale’s Imperial Palace. You must capture the princess there and bring her before me.”

“As you wish, Master,” the Ice Queen bowed, and turned to take her leave. An evil grin spread over her face as she headed for the temple door. Once the princess of Frostvale is in my hands, she mused, the keys to power will quickly follow.

           

Drialla sat looking at each dark face in turn. Her finely clawed hand gripped the black obsidian shaft of her Shadowstaff as she stared into the red eyes of the most powerful Demon lords in Shadow Land—each a member of the Shadow Council, each a master of hundreds of thousands of Demon slaves. The Demon queen’s eyes settled on the lean and powerful form of Bellfallar. In Drethok’s absence, he had quickly taken the position as both the first and second prime, the two most coveted seats on the council. Drialla chuckled silently to herself. The fool Drethok was not even dead, and he was already being usurped.

Bellfallar had taken a rather alluring male form. Tall and muscular his, upper body was bare, and a black silk garment tied by a sash at his waist covered his legs. Drialla felt herself stir at the sight of his masculinity, but she quickly turned her thoughts back to the council. Her eyes left Bellfallar for the large ornate throne next to him. On the throne was Argath, an equally tall Demon creature covered in thick black robes. His face was obscured behind a black cowl so deep that the blackness within it seemed a bottomless pit that could reach down into the depths of the Demon’s dark soul. Argath looked thin and fragile next to Bellfallar, but in reality his strength was far superior, reducing Bellfallar to a pathetic slave in comparison. In one withered but wickedly clawed hand, Argath grasped the Shrinn’Morda. The clawed staff was made of a black metal of Argath’s summoning and was topped with a long hooklike Demon claw, giving the talisman its name. This black scepter, always gripped tightly in Argath’s hand, was the most powerful Demon artifact in Shadow Land.

The lord of all Demons glared down at Drialla, “I thought you were going to assist Drethok with the conflict,” he rasped.

Drialla scowled in return. Most Demons would have been unnerved to find themselves on the other end of Argath’s anger, but not Drialla. If Argath was the most powerful Demon, then Drialla was a close second. The dark queen stood unflinching, a tall black shadow among the other shadows in the room. Her slight frame, similar to Argath’s, belied extreme power and arrogance. “I am still making preparations, my lord. I will march when I am ready.”

Argath stood and roared at her in outrage, “You will move when I command it!” The Demon’s sudden fury caused the other council members, especially the diminutive Shelga, to sit back and grip their seats. Drialla faced him down seemingly unperturbed, but her free hand was cautiously reaching for Shaderipper, her magical and deadly scimitar.

Argath caught the subtle movement and rammed the Shrinn’Morda into the floor, causing the council chamber to shake. Drialla quickly took her hand away from her sword. “I will move when I am ready, Argath,” she said evenly.

The Demon lord’s ember eyes grew wider behind his cowl. He brought his staff level with Drialla, and the Demon queen felt a tingle of magic on her skin. She instinctively counteracted with her own defenses, bringing up her Shadowstaff. The winged Demon that was carved into its head flared its crimson eyes.

Drialla felt Argath’s steel will bear down on her as if a vice were slowly tightening around her body. With all her strength she conjured her own magic against Argath’s and struggled to push him away. The other Demon lords sat tense, each one feeling the silent magic in the air and none daring to intervene in the contest. When Argath was the first to withdraw Tarika, the Demon next in the line of power to Bellfallar and a known enemy of Drialla, lifted her eyebrows.

“Very well,” relented Argath, seething. “Go back to the Black Citadel and prepare your troops. But no more procrastinating, I want Anora delivered to me soon.”

Drialla grinned and bowed mockingly. “As you command, my lord. It is always as you desire.” Drialla could see the rage in Argath’s eyes, but the Demon ruler said nothing more. Drialla had gained victory in their subtle duel, but she knew this was a dangerous game. Argath had backed down this time, but he would not likely do so again. In the end she knew it would come to an open fight, and when that time came she would need to rally ample support.

           

Calypso sat surrounded by pools of shimmering water. Her chamber in the upper halls of the Tower of Prophecy was at peace, but the Seeress’s mind was not. A swirling kaleidoscope of images flashed before her. They were images of the ever-elusive future.

As one of the twin Seeresses of Anora, Calypso did not like what flashed before her. She saw visions of a world steeped in blood and war. The veil of the Shadow was falling. Hideous Demonkind spilled over the landscape as whole nations were ravaged. None escaped, and the rivers ran red with the lifeblood of those caught in the storm of destruction.

Calypso shuddered as she blocked the images from her mind and opened her eyes. She rose with a sigh and moved to the window of her meditation room where she could see the mist void swirling outside. There was an ancient knowledge that was bound secretly within the crystal walls of the Tower of Prophecy. Without the mist void those secrets would no longer be safe from the creatures of the other planes. These were secrets that must be kept from the realm of mortals where the greed of humans and dark Elves could not be ignored.

The ancient Seeress was lost in thought as she continued staring into the mist. Her recent visions sent a wave of horror through her body. She was rarely emotional—no Seer ever had been—but what her sight had just shown her was unlike any slaughter she had witnessed in all the thousands of years of her life. It occurred to Calypso that Anora must be warned of the imminent danger, but she knew this task was too daunting for the twins to take on themselves. She thought of the allies they still had among the creatures of ancient magic—allies that would willingly serve them.

Calypso moved through the silent halls of the Tower of Prophecy, her steps as soundless as a ghost’s passing. Her pale visage, holding the distanced look of an ancient being, was reflected by the smooth crystal that made up the tower as if in a mirror. Along the sides towering above the Seer to reach nearly to the vaulted ceiling stood a row of glass statues of past Seers, many of whom Calypso remembered, wrapped in robes with distant looks on their smooth reflective faces. Every last one of them was dead now, rendering Calypso and her sister Calista one of the last remaining of her kind. Certainly the last two guardians of the knowledge locked in the tower. Her thoughts took her back to the First Age—the age of the first race and the time of the High Elves—when the Tower of Prophecy had been home to many magical beings and many more Seers. That had been so long ago that Calypso, who was ancient in mortal terms, could only vaguely remember it. Those times had been banished by the Shadow’s hand, and nearly all the mysterious and wondrous creatures of magic had been slain. Now it seemed the Shadow had returned to finish its ancient work.

Calypso moved to the balcony door and stepped out into the swirling gray of the mist void. Without the tower wall behind her and the stone balcony under her feet she would lose her orientation. She dared not move far. Even with her sight, she needed the tower to anchor her and keep her from wandering endlessly into the limbo of the mist.

The Seeress kept her focus on the mist, and a graceful humming rose and fell in steady waves through her voice as she called on the ancient magic from the First Age. The mists swirled in response, and within moments a collection of creatures appeared before her. Calypso stopped her summoning song and greeted each gray female form—in all there were seven smooth-skinned faces watching her patiently. They were the last of the ancient Ullundi—magical beings of the First Age—the few that remained in the service of the Seeresses. Mortals from the First Age had called them mist shifters, but it was the ruling High Elves that had given them the name Ullundi, meaning “one that is hidden in the veil.”

When the Shadow had come to destroy the High Elven empires during the First Age, the Ullundi had joined the Sirens, unicorns, and dragons to fight against them, but the Demons succeeded in destroying most of the High Elves and their magical allies. Along with many others, the unicorns, Sirens, and Ullundi were rendered nearly extinct. The dragons submitted and fled into the mountains, but the surviving Ullundi came to the Seers for protection and offered their services in return.

With the help of the Ullundi the Seers were able to separate the Tower of Prophecy from all other planes, thereby protecting what remained of the magic of the First Age. The Ullundi cast the Tower into their mist void realm where it would forever remain separate and safe from evil’s incursion.

Calypso looked again into the faces of the Ullundi before her. She began speaking of a solemn mission—a most urgent mission—that she had in mind for them. The magical beings were to return to the mortal realm and bring with them this message to the people of Anora, taking care to herald it throughout every land:



Darkness shall fall on Anora. The black hand of the Shadow will come along with the clawed footsteps of Demonkind and claim all life it touches. War will come like a storm of chaos, and lands will run red with the blood of all races.

For a great age, the world will be locked in battle with the greatest of all evils. But should all people of righteousness come forward to face this evil, darkness may yet fail to conquer. There is one that shall lead this resistance. That one shall be a girl, young in years, but with skill and knowledge imparted through the ages. This one shall come forth with magic and strength to protect all those who suffer.