Cold black waves lashed across the northern Great Ocean, and the rain poured down, an ocean in its own right, scouring the face of the sea. Huge gray rocks jutted harshly up into the sky, worn by the power of the tide. A cruel wind swept through, one that would chill to the bone and forced all to take cover. Into this dismal pit of tides sailed huge imposing ships, pitch black and evil, their spikes and flat sides conjuring an image of palpable darkness. But none were as dark as the thoughts of the one who led them on this day. At the prow of the foremost ship he stood, a gaunt and hideous specter clad in his imposing plate armor. He was Malekith, the Witch-King, and the most ancient evil known to his mortal enemies save the power that drove him. It had been long since his forces had set foot on Ulthuan, too long indeed for the one who fashioned himself the rightful Phoenix King. Not since the time of Morvael the Impetuous had his Dark Elves stirred, over a thousand years before. Since their defeat at the hands of Mentheus, Morvael's general, when the Great Lords Khaine and Slaanesh had given them the prophecy. Before a thousand years had passed, Ulthuan would be in the hands of the Dark Elves. Only the one with two faces could oppose them. A cryptic prophesy, as were all of them, but clear for the main part. Only this two- faced man could challenge the supremacy of the Druchii. Khaine's avatar had appeared to them earlier in the High Temple of Khaela- Mensha-Khaine in Naggaroth, a hulking vision of blood and pain. It had ordered them to go to sea this month, to challenge the proud fools of Ulthuan who believed their kingdom safe from a threat defeated a millennia ago. They would learn, mused the Witch-King. They would learn the truth and embrace the foul powers of Chaos, or they would die. That thought brought a smile to his face. Before the week was out, his Black Arks would land in what had been Nagarythe and begin reclaiming what was rightfully his.

Cold elven steel rang out against its twin. Tyrion stepped back to regard his foe, golden hair swinging in the wind. His foe, a slightly-built elven female, nodded in respect. "Why, you do swing that sword better than most men! You might even be able to hit the broad side of a barn!" she laughed. Elenia, leader of the Everqueen's maiden guard. She professed to hate all men, but secretly Tyrion felt that might be more of an cover for her real feelings of amusement and, when warranted, grudging respect. Tyrion smiled in response, before swinging again. With a ringing of finely-forged steel, their blades met again, and broke from the parry to swing to the side. Dexterously, Tyrion jumped lightly over the sword, and swung twice, both blows parried by the skillful Elenia. He'd come a long way since leaving his teacher Hallar. Hallar was a vain and sarcastic elf, and also one of the finest swordsmen alive. Tyrion's father, Lord Arathion, had sent Tyrion and his brother Teclis to Saphery when their individual talents became apparent. Tyrion was a natural with the sword, and his brother Teclis had the potential to be the most powerful mage the Loremasters of Hoeth had seen - ever. Tyrion had originally intended to join the Swordmasters, a group of warrior- ascetics who protected the Loremasters of Hoeth, and for such purpose had been apprenticed to Hallar. The problem, of course, was that Tyrion had lacked the suitable temperament to become one. He was too adventurous, and the quiet life could never have been his calling. He'd seen this about a year ago, and suspected Hallar had known for much longer. Finally Hallar had set him free, pronouncing him 'an adequate warrior, if his longing for danger doesn't make him lose his life!' He'd wandered north, intending to go to Chrace or the Shadowlands, where dangerous creatures still roamed the lands. His stop at the peaceful forests of Avelorn, first intended to be a night, had turned into a week, then a month, and now stretched on indefinitely, the warrior entranced by the placid nature of the Everqueen's lands. He punctuated each thought with a parry or attack, though only half- heartedly. It came as no surprise then, when Elenia's sword smacked into his sword hand. With a grunt of pain his stunned hand released the sword, and it clattered down, punctuated by Elenia's blade at his throat. "And that just goes to prove that the single-mindedness of women will defeat the easily distracted men any day! I'd say you lose. Again" Elenia withdrew her sword, and Tyrion moved to pick his up. "Single- mindedness? As I recall, you were the one preaching about the superiority of women during the battle. Or am I mistaken?" She slapped him on the shoulder. "You know what I mean, dim-witted male!" she said cheerfully. "Do we go back, or do you feel like being humbled again?" "One defeat a day is quite enough, thank you very much." The two friends (though Elenia would loudly protest that if ask!) sheathed blades and moved back towards the large hall that served as the Everqueen's court. Neither saw the eyes that coldly watched them from the trees.

Vuthil laughed silently. The wench indeed fought well, a skill that would serve her well, but Vuthil was a master Assassin of Naggaroth, even if relegated to a common scouting position. He had been ordered to find weaknesses in the defenses of Avelorn for his master the Witch-King, and that he would do. If he attacked them with some of his fellows the next day, they would both fall easily, and a quick attack on Avelorn would indeed become eminently feasible. First though, he would go to the Everqueen's halls. With a map of the place, how much easier might it prove for his master to overwhelm it the next day! He moved after the two with a stealth that came with years of practice. The map would come, and then the spiritual leader of Ulthuan would be dead.