Longshadow

Prologue

"Would you have me start from the beginning, my lord," asked the Mind-flayer, his long, slender face tentacles writhing as the words left him.

Lord Elwin pressed himself against the black velvet of his chair, his soft hands gripping the golden armrests as he regarded his castellan. A high elf of the Elendarii Imperium, he stood shoulder to shoulder with Ceraxes, though at present the Mind-flayer seemed to dwarf him as he relaxed in his study. Standing just over six feet, Ceraxes painted an imposing figure. He draped himself in a dramatic black cloak that covered his boots, making it seem as if he glided across the timber floors of the study. Golden trimmings lined the cloak, and dark gems had been woven into the fabric so that they glinted in the light, giving him a regal appearance. But it was his face that captured the high elf's gaze: slimy, covered in a thin layer of mucus that gave the pale blue skin a sickening sheen, the four tentacles always writhing, always feeling for something. There was no nose, just a smooth patch of skin where a nose should be, above which hung faded white eyes with no pupils. Those eyes fixed Elwin to his chair, pinning him there, demanding an answer.

"Yes," the high elf said, afraid that Ceraxes sensed his fear, that he was peering into his mind even now as they spoke. Mind flayers were known for their psionic ability, but Elwin could feel no intrusion, sensed no violation of his inner world. An image of the castellan's tentacles slithering over him entered his mind, and for a moment he was unsure if his mind had created the image, or that it had been planted there against his will. "We were discussing the camp accommodations, were we not?'

"Indeed," said the castellan, one of his tentacles coiling in response. "The elven campgrounds seem sufficiently supplied. We barely had to consult our personal reserves. It seems the legion's reputation for logistical competency is not unfounded."

Lord Elwin disliked the condescension. "The Imperium's legions are the finest soldiers in all of Elroth, perhaps the world. They would not bungle their supply lines."

"Of course," Ceraxes replied, his tone obsequious. "You should be aware that the Anticipation of Hanali Celanil has made her arrival known as well. Apparently, her priestesses have busied themselves with constructing a fountain of sorts, a way to pay homage to your goddess of...love, was it?"

"Yes," Lord Elwin replied, aware of the Mind Flayer's disregard for the concept. "Hanali Celanil is the goddess of love and beauty." The lesser races of Elroth knew what love was, but they failed to comprehend the vastness of the experience, the depth. Their feelings were shallow at best, surface level emotions like those of children. Elves possessed the grace and the patience needed to truly love, and they did so fully. There were no half measures. To an elf, to love was to take something into one's soul, to hold it there and turn it over, again and again, until you merged it with your very being, all the while keeping it separate from yourself. An elf could spend a thousand years loving something. He believed the Common word for it was zeal, or perhaps fervor. But Elwin had lived long enough to know that words, whether they be in the Common or elven tongue, fell short.

"I would pay my respects to the Anticipation," said Elwin, feeling an urge to leave the Mind-Flayer's presence. The past few months required that he spend more time than he was comfortable with Ceraxes, preparing his castle for what could be the most important wedding in recent memory; the wedding of the elven princess Azariah Ard'Syl to the orc warlord, Kragnak One-Eye.

The Imperium had been at war with the orcs for close to five-thousand years. No conflict had dominated the continent so, and yet both people had little to show for it. The Imperium continued to drive progress and spread civilization, its grand mission undeterred despite the tenacity of the mountain orcs. Still, the elves were never able to defeat their old enemy. Orcs continued to pour down from the cliffs and peaks of the Teeth, always raiding, always spilling elven blood. Some believed the conflict to be one without end, that elf and orc were fated to continue this drama until the elves returned to their paradise in Arvandor.