PROLOGUE

Aeons ago at the time when our ancestors step forth on this barren land, was a war waged by the Humans and the Orcs. The kings of the two clans were both power hungry and filled with greed. And because of this, it came to pass that the their world known as Zilux was subdivided into three lands. The land at the east, Lorentia, was of the Humans. The land at the west, Rovenslithe, was of the Orcs and the land up north, Minas Tirith, was of the elves. The two kings had always dreamt of ruling Zilux as their own. So it came to no surprise that the two were at war, seeking for more lands to dominate and more of their minions to scurry about. The elves, however, was not part of any of it.

Now the two were at each other's throats. One by one their people succumb to the enemy's deadly strife. Innocent lives became victims of deadly blades. Blood was spilt every day and the cries of the women and children were burned into the fiery embers turning them to ashes then fled by the wind across the dark-stricken sky. Death was the resolve of their greed. Now their people have grown hatred over each other. There was no peace in Zilux-- only death…

Zilux was a cycle of death…

Then the day that shall leave grave changes to history came to pass. The day when the two shall clash their swords for the dead and avenge them with the smite of their blades against the enemy's throat. Deep was the scarlet sun as it rose through the unending plains. The mist that once covered the treeless plain disintegrated and left nothing but the sun's rays crossing forth the faces of the warriors. Troops with heads held up high with spears and swords in hand, trotted against the luscious green grass. Tasting the bitter wind against their faces as they rush to their enemy with hatred burning within them.

Hundreds died that day and what remained had fled for mending in their lands. One of whom who lived was a sorcerer of evil notion. He fled to a forest up north near the Elven country and cast evil wizardry to the god Memphis. But much to his dismay, the king of the Elves became witness of his deeds and banished him from the lands where the sun's light shall cast forth. However, the evil sorcerer was undaunted by this but as time passed he noticed his body slowly changing. A gust of wind dimmed the light's presence and the sorcerer was up to his knees—panting. His skin became discolored turning into a sickening purple. Horns started protruding through his skull and wings grew from his back. His eyes from a mortal are turned into eyes of deep red filled with fury and pain. He cried out. The pain is too much for his body to conjure. A crystal slowly emerged from his forehead. It was red like his murderous, inhumane eyes. He was there on his knees—in pain. He looked up to look at the king who cursed him of his current state but then he vanished with mists. He cursed this day. He swore by their god Zeffen that he would not be the only one to suffer his fate. All who lay lifeless against the land will not find peace but face eternal retribution as his pawns. As he said these words, he strode off into the shadowy mists.

The following day, the surviving troops readied for battle against their vengeful foes. Suits of thick armor were strapped unto their chests and shields were against their broad backs. Their weapons in their hands as they march for battle across the forsaken plains. As they were nearing each other an unearthly force trembling on the ground began. The ground began to disperse and fissures were made evident on the flawless plains. Hands were sprouting from the ground! Along with them are the dislocated features of the once dead. The carcasses that were burned from the yester battle sprung to life. Orcs… humans… the once dead has risen!

The dead has risen!

One man shouted as he takes gulps of the ill strewn air. The troops halted getting perplexed over the unearthly matter before them. No one seems to know what should be done until the troop leader of the Orcan clan shouted in his native tongue.

Pundor rashdith!

With this order the Orcs charged towards them. Axes overhead as they slew the corpses to their graves. Seeing this, the Human troop leader cast his sword up high and let the sun's rays reflect unto his blade catching the attention of his comrades. Then he struck his sword down and pointed it to the commotion up ahead. With his horse, he advances towards the battle site screaming.

Vishkant!

As he said this, his men followed behind him screaming for salvation. They fought alongside with their enemy each slaying the unholy to their farewell. The fight was perilous and long it was. Nightfall came as it sent its shadows dancing on the site below it. Mist started engulfing the area sending the warriors shivering against the breeze of the cold wind. Each one was struck down unto the cleanly shaven grass with the weapons thrust against their chests. It was the night that ended all.

Daybreak emerged unto the mountains behind it. Illuminating the once dark corners that the nightshade kissed upon. The unholy has won and all that lay lifeless will suffer his fate and need not find peace but eternal retribution in his will. The evil sorcerer called upon his minions to join him in the south for the sun's ghastly light shall unleash them to their doom. As said, they limped across the plains and towards the south. The ground started trembling again as the god Zeffen watched the tormenting fate of the living. Trees started to sprout out of the ground. The forest was so dense that not even the sun's light could penetrate against the darkness that surged within it. There that forest was called the forest of Soriax that divided the lands up north, east, and west from the cursed borders of the south, Moria. So it came to pass that history became a legend and legend became a myth…

OR IS IT…….?