End of an Empire

By: Raven aka Shadowcat

Part 1:

We are living in the last days of my world. My name is Prince Ryth’ike Drae’an. I am the last prince of my realm, yet I will never be king. These days, my thoughts are consumed by the great irony of the Elven scholars.

Always they wrote of the end of our era, heralding the human’s. Yet the humans are the only race who will be joining us in our graves. The next era will not be the Age of Men, as we all have thought. It will be the Age of Dwarves and Gnomes and orcs… the Age of Technology. We, the “higher races”, no longer have a place in this world.

But I have unfinished business. I have crossed an entire continent to reach my destiny, not atop a proper warhorse like any good Elven prince, but instead riding a stolen orc Mecha. It seems odd that I, the last Elven martyr, will be labeled a traitor. However, no other Elf has ever crossed the Glass Desert and lived.

I found the lost city of Myr, nestled within a jungle whose sole inhabitants are said to be the goblins, which are the only beings capable of surviving a nuclear war. The city of Myr is far more beautiful then I expected, and still seemingly intact. It dangles atop the canopy, above the toxic fumes. Built into, around, and through the tallest trees in the world, its wood bridges somehow survived almost two centuries without maintenance.

Once again, a sense of irony strikes my mind when it occurs to me that I, a Dark Elf, am the first being to set foot upon this marvelous achievement in High Elf architecture. When I was a child, my empire of Gy’senth was still feuding with Myr. Funny that we, the hated Dark Elves of the East, ended up being their final allies… that is, of course, before they were destroyed in the Great War.

It is eerily quiet, with none of the noises one expects to hear within a jungle. The goblins must truly be only living organism alive within this jungle. I take a moment then, to look over the creaking bridge I now stand upon. It occurs to me that I would be very dead before I hit the ground, and the goblins would surely happily eat the jelly-mash that was me.

But now I must press on, for my purpose is not to worry or sightsee. Most of the buildings look rotted out, obviously not protected by the same enchantments that were placed on this bridge. At least, I would hope better enchantments were placed; or else my purpose is actually to fall quickly to my death. Too bad there are no longer gods to pray to.

My long, silvery-white hair, for which I received so much attention back home, fluttered slightly within a breeze. The first breeze that I’d felt sense I’d entered Myr. Perhaps my search is not yet in vain

I now suspect I was traveling through a poor district, for suddenly up ahead the buildings are remarkably more kempt. I would almost not be surprised if a haughty young Elven girl stepped out from behind one of these doorways to spit at my leather shoes and dark skin.

I believe I am getting close now, for suddenly a wave of majic has broke around me. It is a wonderful feeling, cool, refreshing, powerful. If I could have one final wish it would be for the lesser races to know, even for a second, what they were losing. The majic rivers have all but dried up everywhere else.

An amazing amount of majic swirls about the ivory gilded noble buildings which are now around me. It is no wonder the High Elves built their capital in such a vile jungle: there is so much majic around I can almost see it.

Before me, I can now see a grand building. It is almost entirely ivory, with blue, swirl accents which mimicking the flow of majic around it. The façade only barely pokes out from within the gigantic tree the rest of the building is confined within. My prize is so close I can almost taste is.

The doors are fifteen feet tall, and made entirely of marble. Even with the abundant majic around me, I can only barely force open the majestic doors. I am about to wish myself a job well done, when a loud screech sounds from inside the darkened building.

In the fraction of a second it takes to fly across the room my eyes adjust to the darkness. It is a high-rank demon, with gnashing fangs and foul intent. The Elves were smart to try so hard to guard their treasure.

In the old age, this would have been an excellent trap. I would have drawn my rapier and led with a quick, low thrust. In the old age, I would have been dead.

Alas, we are no longer in the old age, and a single shot sends the demon sizzling and shrieking to the floor. What a pity.

I pick up my pace, crossing the treasury without even a single glance towards the rooms strewn with gold, silver, jewels, art, and ornate weaponry. All of the rivers converge in one spot, I can feel them. I am so close.

It is said that with their dying breaths the High Elves shrieked out in unison and enchanted one final artifact. It supposedly is the highest achievement of majic, the strongest blade ever crafted. The Blade of Myr was once comparable to the Holy Grail. Now it is within my grasp.

I pass through a series of hallways, the majic now steering my body, compelling me forward. I reach the door, and through the door lay the sword.

It sits upon a pedestal of pure ivory and a skylight was built above it, which now lets in pale moonlight. Shimmering with glory, the Blade is roughly six feet of pure Elven steel. It is no thicker a piece of parchment and no heavier then a deck of cards. I raise the sword from its place, whirl it about, and cleave it straight through the pedestal.

With a sword like this I can end an empire, which is exactly what I am going to do. I am finally ready to see my uncle…