Chapter One
Septumes 25, E25AD
The war has begun. Like fire, a massive horde has swept through Aztheroth and killed all; consuming and destroying, and leaving nothing behind. However, this story is of a huntsman, who is right now requesting audience at the king's court.
Belyse walked slowly and nobly down the great hall, his face void of expression, deep in thought. He glanced around, his subconscious mapping out the castle. The great hall was a clean white marble, with red and purple silk draping the sturdy oak tables, hanging upon the colored-glass windows, and rolled carefully along the floor leading to the high chair, which was a brilliant gold, and in which King Arnan was sitting quite comfortably. There were countless weapons hung upon the spotless walls, each shining so brightly it almost hurt the eyes, and underneath each piece was a sparkling glass case with priceless objects neatly set inside.
"Rise, young Belyse, and speak to your King." Belyse had reached the king and was kneeling before him, his head bowed in respect.
"Noble king, I beg you to take your royal guard and help to destroy these… These beasts, who plunder our villages and kill every living thing they come across. Your guard easily outmatches them, but they need a commander. Instead of risking your life, I would be honored to take up this mantle. I have commanded many before, and am perfectly able and willing to do so again." Belyse said, his eyes meeting the king's.
"Who is this man, who enters my court with such an imprudent and foolhardy proposition?" demanded Arnan, "Do you not think that I have had the same thoughts, and countless times have these been thwarted by my tactician?"
Belyse was a young elf at the age of only seven hundred years, dark-blue and taller than a man. His yellow eyes seemed to pierce your very soul, and his bluish-purple hair was long and straight. He was a master hunter and tactician, his eyes well-adjusted to the night. His deep voice was clear and strong, and his muscles seemed to almost rip his shirt in two. His long and pointy ears protruded from any hat he wore, which some thought a little funny. He was a fan of longbows and elven swords, two of which were currently being held by the court's defenders. The equally large and muscled tiger beside him was used mostly as a good persuasive mechanism, though the cat had to eat sometime. After Belyse had found and adopted the tiger as a pet, there seemed to be fewer and fewer deer and elk in Ugar's Forest, where he lived.
Belyse, in general, was a very sweet and caring person, healing and helping wherever he could. When the occasion called for it, however, he was an extremely frightening figure. Not without good reason: Whenever he was attacked, all that was left was blood and little pieces, completely unrecognizable. The only scars he has ever acquired, which seem to only be on his arms and legs, are from his pet.
"I thought you would have, but your tactician hasn't talked to me." said the elf.
"And why would he speak to you?" asked Arnan, quizically. At this, Belyse recounted his plans of attack to the king, Arnan's eyebrows moving farther upward the longer the conversation went on, "I have but a handful of my Royal Guard, and the horde's massive numbers will completely crush us." Belyse pointed to a spot on the map in front of them.
"We will wait there." The elf bowed, and turned on his heels and walked away, grabbing his bow and sword on the way out. The cat, after watching a tasty mouse squeak by, followed its master.
Belyse was crouching behind a bush in Ugar's forest, observing his future dinner. Slowly, silently, still watching the animal graze upon the grass, he drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it. Raising his bow so slowly it was almost painful, he drew back the string, aiming carefully. He kept unmoving, almost not breathing, almost ready to fire. Without warning, an orc came charging from behind, his footfalls so heavy they shook the ground, and his sword point aiming right for Belyse's heart. The elf wheeled around and fired, missed, stood up quickly, turned on his heel and unsheathed his sword, parrying the attack just in time. He then came around with a swift counterattack, letting the brute's head fall to the ground. He whistled for his cat, but the only thing that came was a large group of orcs. They surrounded him, encircling him, studying him. He waited for the first to attack, planning out his strategy carefully. Then one charged, and he parried the weapon with effortlessness. It was too easy… Something was wrong.