El’rathien’s gaze was upon the encroaching darkness. They were legion, and he was one, the only one standing between the elves and them. He was their only hope, but he was set to the task. He slicked back his once silver hair behind his pointed ears, it was now blackened with the blood of his foe. He adorned his ornate armour, once worn by a hundred champions that stood before him. He wielded a long, curved blade, gifted to him by the king for his many victories. He stood defiant before the bridge of eternity, the only pass to his homeland. Against the odds, this would be his last stand.

El’rathien was confident in his ability. Confident in his skill. All elves were trained for battle from the moment they could hold a sword, they perfected every aspect of war into a deadly art. Every part of them, every fibre…