AN ELF AND HIS...
by Kisania Vrealsan

I lay stunned and terrified at my horrible fate,
Above me an ogre did torment and tease.
When suddenly from the shadows where he did await,
Leapt a strong Elven lord wielding his longsword with ease.

"My saviour!" I gushed, as he vanquished the beast,
"My pleasure," he replied with a smile.
"There is danger much greater off to the east,
Will you accompany me to town for a while?"

My heart leapt with joy as he reached out his hand,
We set off on the trail and he slew every foe.
I thought, "He is the bravest elf in the land!"
How quickly I fell and how little did I know.

We passed a lady Dwarf. "What a nice AS!" she exclaimed.
I'll admit, at this remark I discreetly took a glance.
On his arm I would be envied, adored and famed,
He was easily the most handsome lord, this was my chance!

Once in town he brought me to a lovely garden,
We held hands, he gazed longingly into my eyes.
"IM", he whispered. I breathed, "I beg your pardon?"
"IM", he said knowingly, "The thing up in the skies."

A philosopher? A star? A...GOD? "You are!", I smiled with glee.
He shook his head. "ICQ?", he asked slyly.
I replied, "You sought and you found, and I am honored it was me."
I batted my eyes at him and kissed his hand shyly.

He shook his head. "OOK", he grunted. "The voices in the clouds."
My love turned to horror, only one thought could I entertain,
As he kept speaking nonsense, not in whispers but aloud,
This elf, this God, my dream, was completely insane!

The moral of this story, I'm afraid, is quite crass.
Never judge an elf solely on his bravery... or his AS.

A Fond Look at the Always Temperamental Tall Ones
by Tempus Thales

He rode through the North Gate, slowly guiding his black charger through the busy avenue that led southward into the heart of Wehnimer's Landing. His long, yarrow honey hair was pulled back into a tail revealing a lean, chiseled face and sharp, icy blue eyes. A heavy gray woolen cloak draped his broad shoulders, protecting him from the chilling autumn winds that blew in off of Darkstone Bay and covering the thick, black fighting leathers that strained against the strong, corded muscles of his massive body. An ancient rolaren longsword, Abyssalraken ("Hellreaver") it was called in the Northlander tongue, hung from his belt while a black shield, bearing the silvery image of lightning streaking down from storm clouds, hung from the pommel of his saddle. He slowly rode through the crowd, barely taking notice of those around him as his thoughts drifted slowly away to another time and place...

"Rally around the standard!" cried the dark-haired Northlander as his kinsmen survivors began to form in a tight defensive circle. It was a lost battle, Morikai thought grimly to himself as the enemy slowly closed in. "Give these blasted curs a run for their coin, lads!"

The siege of Ravenclaw Keep had lasted nearly three days, with the fighting as intense now as it had been on the first day. It had begun as a small skirmish with a patrol coming under attack by dark-robed monks, and then slowly escalating into a full scale battle. Morikai DuGault had known of these monks. He had been one of them. They were war-priests, one and all, and even the lowest acolyte could best nearly any skilled veteran of the blade with the training and discipline they possessed. They craved war. Yearned for it. Thrived on death, destruction and, especially, the domination over their chosen foes. Their attack on Ravenclaw was, for them, a chance to exhibit their prowess in battle, as well as seek retribution on one that had turned away from the Order.

Morikai had somehow seen this day coming. He had prepared his men well, all of them Northlanders, like himself, but had he prepared them enough? For nearly twenty years he had evaded the Order of the Star, its dark leader, and its even darker god. Twenty years. He had established Ravenclaw nearly half of that time ago building the fortress from the foundation up with the help of those few men that had escaped the Order with him. During those years, he had come to gain respect in this part of the frozen north. More followers fell under his banner. The leader of this rag-tag group of survivors, outcasts, mercenaries and runaways glanced up toward the heavens for but one breath of a moment.

"Kai, my God and my liege," Morikai prayed silently as his massive hand gripped his waraxe harder. "We soon will run by your side, everlasting, as so told in the tales of our people. But first, let us take a few of these ragged monks with us!" He finished with a howl and a warcry that sent him charging into the fray, more surprising to his men than to the monks that fell to his deadly axe.

Morikai DuGault made history that night, although his deed would never be known in this mortal existence. He took down nearly thirty monks, including one very surprised field commander whose eyes still stared wide in disbelief as his head rolled to a stop near his dying corpse, before he was brought down.

A cry of pain brought Tempus out of his thoughts. Glancing to his left, across the street, he caught sight of the field hospital that had been erected by the Healers' Guild several years earlier. Spurring his massive steed onward, the Turamazzyrian noble-become-mercenary left the cries and wails behind. Saying a silent prayer to a god he did not even acknowledge, Tempus commended his former sword-brother's spirit and let the fleeting memory fade from his mind. The human mercenary had ached dearly to have been at that final stand, but when Morikai had uttered his final prayer, Tempus had been stealing southward bearing Morikai's only son, Khoralas, to safety. It had always been said the giantmen, Northlanders in particular, had an ever-endearing love of battle. How ironic, the mercenary smiled inwardly to himself, that some loved it so much they went to their graves with a warcry on their lips and their weapon embedded into their foe.

Rebirth
by Maricc DreamServant

The cool mist of the waterfall next to the Shore of Dreams fell upon the once noble and honorable giantman warrior. The almost deafening sound of the falling water seemed to not bother him. His mind was elsewhere as misty water trickled down his battle-weary face. He had been many places, seen many things, and made many friends, but none of that mattered now. Touching the symbol of the rising phoenix on his chest, the giantman warrior squinted his eyes to look through the waterfall and see the Shrine of Ronan. Ronan, Night-Lord and Dream-Master, the god he had turned to after the Darkness of the Lord of Lies had a solid hold on him. His once evil soul was still tainted, and he had carried that on his shoulders for more time than he cared to.

He entered the shrine to find a young cleric deep in prayer kneeling before the water font on the altar. The cleric stood with an expression of calm on his face and turned to the giantman warrior. (Although he was much smaller than the giantman, the cleric almost felt taller because of a deficiency in the Giantman's posture.) The giant's shoulders were sagging and emotional stress had aged his face well beyond his years. He looked deep into the cleric's eyes.

"This is the end, friend Maricc. I cannot live with this guilt anymore," the giantman said with sadness in his voice.

The half-elf shook his head. "Ronan will forgive you, as I have. You do not have to do this," he said with hope burning in his eyes.

"No, my soul is not mine anymore. I did not make the right choice. Lord Ronan hates me for the choices I have made. I cannot live with myself anymore!" the giantman screamed.

"You have already made your choice, I can see. Go then. Do what you must," Maricc said boldly. The giantman turned, drew back his armor, and showed the half-elf the tattoo on his chest. Tracing the phoenix's wings, he turned and exited the shrine.

The giantman walked to the North Gate. There he met a small sylvankind sorcerer. This sorcerer was like a brother to him. By the look in the giant's eyes, he knew what was about to happen. The giantman unsheathed his sword and readied his shield. The sorcerer sighed as he lead the giantman to a place where evil was more than abundant. They trod through the village where the centaurs lived, avoiding all confrontation. Passing a clearing, they caught sight of their goal, a giant spider-shaped temple.

The sorcerer drew his blade and readied his shield. Looking to see the determination in his friend's eyes, the sorcerer knew the question he was about to ask was foolish. "Are you sure about this?" The giant looked to him and nodded once, then he entered. The sorcerer cautiously followed behind him. They passed through several doors, twisting and turning as they trudged through the giant temple's legs. Soon they found what the giant sought for. Several large spiders dropped from the ceiling, spitting webs at the sorcerer and the giant. The giant dodged as the sorcerer was engulfed.

"NO!" the giant screamed as the darkness in his soul, the darkness of following the evil Lord of Lies, Luukos, for such a long time. The rage built as the dark light of the Lord of the Night shone upon him. He slashed and stabbed at every one of the spiders, killing several as more converged on him. The giant was swarmed by more then he could handle. Already dying, he fell to the ground. As he slammed into the floor, a golden firebird flew from his fallen figure. As the darkness engulfed him completely, he understood that in death he had found his release. The sorcerer suddenly found himself outside the temple with webbing all over him. He stood, cleaned himself off, then returned to the town. He had helped his friend to free himself.

At the Shore of Dreams, in the shrine of the Lord of the Night, before the altar to the Dark God of the Night, knelt a cleric. He stared into the font, praying. The water in the font stirred and took shape. The symbol once worn proudly on the chest of the giantman burned in this water. A tear ran down his cheek as he touched the font. The ripples in the water quickly subsided. "He is free, Lord Ronan. He is free," the half-elf said softly, as he began to pray again.

More Rat Tales
by Freesha Mosscatcher

Much has been written of Spike, proud war rat and hero, defender of Wehnimer's Landing and beyond. Many know of Lady Seckara, self proclaimed rat priestess and rodent advocate, who leads the Rat Revolution. But how much do we really know of their arch-nemesis, Lord Shallowgrave Ratcatcher? Often lurking in shadow and slinking about the sewers, the unsmiling Shallowgrave is oft misunderstood.

Just recently, Spike had occasion to visit Wehnimer's to meet at Helden Hall with the illustrious Lord Hyoko. This visitation put Shallowgrave in a frenzy of agitation. He hid near the Helden gates, hoping to sneak in on the heels of some unwary member, but alas, he could not find a way inside. In frustration, he began tossing about the flayed carcasses of rats, victims of his lethal traps placed throughout the sewers. As his ire grew, so did the pile of rodent remains. Folks from inside Helden Hall came out to see what Shallowgrave was up to, and he shook his fist at them, yelling at them for "harboring vermin."

Not long after, the source of Shallowgrave's unrest emerged from the gates: Spike, in all his war rat glory! Upon sight of him, Shallowgrave growled deep in his throat, loosened his rat deathaxe, and prepared to render Spike lifeless. But Lo! Spike, with rodent swiftness, lashed out with his tail and caught Shallowgrave solidly in the chest, throwing him to the ground! The crowd cheered, thinking their hero had the situation well in hand, but Shallowgrave had other plans.

Shallowgrave did not despair, for he had a plan to end Spike and all rat kind forever!

How does a man sink to such depths of hatred? What poor twist of fate shaped and molded Lord Shallowgrave into the rat bane he is today? For answers to these questions, we must look deep into Wehnimer's dark and less enlightened past.

Let us go on a journey, if you will, into those darker days. Imagine a strange dark elven woman, fleeing for her very life. Battered and beaten, she found her way into Wehnimer's from the western gate, desperately in need of help to fend off her pursuers. Her cries fell on deaf ears, as her language was unfamiliar to the citizens of town in those olden days. So great was her need, and so terrible her plight, that in desperation, she stole a horse from the stables and attempted to save herself. The townspeople, not comprehending her intentions, caught her and hung her as a horse thief. They flung her body into a shallow grave, but alas, she was not quite dead. Indeed, she was barely alive and pregnant. And with her last dying breath, she gave birth.

The town's rat catcher was toiling in the graveyard that overcast and blustery day, and heard the mewling of an infant carried on the wind. Upon investigation, he found the babe and its dead mother, and took the child as his own. He cared not for the child, so gave it the least imaginative name possible. He named the elfling Shallowgrave.

As Shallowgrave approached manhood, his master mysteriously disappeared forever. Rumor had it that the old rat catcher had met a most ironic and grisly fate, overcome and devoured by the very rats he so often hunted. Henceforth, Shallowgrave swore that he would suffer no rat to live, and far exceeded his own master in skill of the profession. His very wardrobe is evidence of his proficiency, as every article he wears is made from the pelts, whiskers, and bones of fallen rodents.

At first Shallowgrave was a quiet skulking fellow. It was not until Spike came to rest in Wehnimer's, and the Lady Seckara began her mission to raise the townsfolk's compassion towards rats, that Shallowgrave came forth to make his stand. No longer was his work performed in quiet solitude in the catacombs, for with the advent of these personages, his work came under attack. How could anyone doubt the validity of his profession? How could any mistake his means and goals and anything but in the best interest of public health and safety?

With his rat catching coming under such harsh criticism from the growing Defenders of Rats movement, Shallowgrave was forced to develop a more insidious and long term scheme.

Back to present time and the gates of Helden Hall, where Shallowgrave was knocked practically senseless by repeated blows from the massive tail of the mighty war rat Spike. Spike leaves without a backward glance, disdaining the rat catcher as is his wont. Seckara the rat priestess dances and cavorts around the stunned body of Wehnimer's only rat exterminator. It looks bad for Shallowgrave, and the crowd cheers, but wait! What is this?

Shallowgrave comes back to consciousness slowly, emotionlessly, in total control of himself. This is a man of tireless patience and absolute determination, satisfied that each day brings him closer and closer to his goal, total rodent annihilation. As he stands, he pulls a few fibers of rat hair from his rat-crested leather armor left there by Spike's great rodent tail. Rat hair! Only a few in the crowd understand all the implications of this act.

Later Shallowgrave was seen down in the sewers, sitting quietly in the shadows while stitching the rat hairs onto a strange rat effigy, the Spike voodoo doll. This voodoo doll is part of Shallowgrave's master plan. He consecrates a stickpin in the blood of a hundred giant rats and tortures the doll during his rituals. He knows that the war rat fur he sews into the doll increases its power to maim Spike and hurt the Revolution.

Ask Lord Shallowgrave, the next time you see him, for a glimpse of his Spike voodoo doll. The likeness is uncanny, its power proven.

Rumor has it that the Master Rat Exterminator may be taking on apprentices to whom he can teach his craft. It has become impossible for Lord Shallowgrave to be in all places at all times to fend off the rodent hordes. Just recently, rats and ratfinks invaded the peaceful town of Rivers Rest! Several rat defenders were on the scene, and later Lady Seckara herself arrived to give the fallen rodent brethren a proper burial, but oddly, Shallowgrave was noticeably absent. The Rat Catcher was on far away Teras Isle, battling for his life against plagues of spectral rats, obviously the bloodthirsty spirits of all the rats he has slain.

The time fast approaches when all who dwell in Wehnimer's must choose, to live peacefully with the rodents and Spike, or to be rid of the vermin infestation forever! Who will stand with Lord Shallowgrave when the Revolution comes?