Enaurakain; Land Foresaken, rewrite

Old wives tales say the refuge is still there just hidden from prying eyes till one may come who remembers the secrets of old and can open the portal that has remained locked for centuries. All that anyone knows for certain is that the Forgotten Isle just north of Traith is where the Druids now rest. No mortal has ever dared to wander close to it as the isle is haunted by the shades if the druids. Silently they wander in an endless patrol of their borders. In the late evening the luminous forms of the once powerful leaders can be seen clearly against the night sky.

Now we will move deeper into the south, our pace leisurely as we stroll across clear grasslands and sandy plains to the wooded home of the elves-Parvorten. Weaving our way through the trees, our bodies bathed in a fresh green glow. The indescribable aura of the elven haven fills you with the joy of every living thing. Even now you can feel it enveloping your being, every nerve tingling with a different sensation. As we move inward we discover that enclosed deep within the vale of the elves rests the pool of wisdom. Gaze into its immeasurable depths. It is not possible to know its depth because the depth increases as time goes on. It is filled with the knowledge of all the races, yet it only reveals small pieces of it in conjunction with the character of the drinker. Humans must not drink from it, mere mortals such as ourselves would not be able to comprehend what it would reveal. That amount of knowledge would cause you to lose your mind. It is sacred to the elves and they only allow those of their own kind to drink of it and only then with good reason. You need the elven Kings permission even to venture close to the garden at its borders. The King of the elves is Huithwainlark. The greatest of Elf kings since the passing of Varnhawk; a great warrior king of the first war. A tradition among elves is that in the naming of the offspring they incorporate the name of the first bird that crosses their path as you tell from the name Huithwainlark. The bond between these races is a close one, and has been since the time of the old war. All the elves have free passage through Sincrain and vice versa.

If we were to scurry to the west across the barren wasteland left by the first war we would see just how significant the war was to the shaping of the land. Embedded in the plains is the hatred of thousands upon thousands of warriors, vicious scars rent the terrain where the Dwarven mountains of old once stood, and the tortured souls of the dead roam the land on which their blood was stained. Swiftly we move glancing uneasily at the ground below this is somewhere we shall not spend much time. Not if we want to leave with our sanity in tact, the sounds of the dead can drive a mortal insane.

As we creep round the coastline and make our way to the land of Narfaril a steady feeling of unease creeps into our hearts, like a clawed hand reaching deep inside and slowly grasping the still flexing pump and crushing it, gloating and savoring the taste of our mounting anxiety. An overwhelming primeval fear that makes you freeze when all you want to do is run screaming. This is because we are nearing the Forbidden burial ground of Durunb Origal. An ancient evil of the first war lays hidden in the deep where no intelligent mortal will pass.