The War of the Races: 1. The Obsidian Sword

Bitter angels cry for thee

who hath fallen far

from land or sea

into a pit of self-loathing,

to suffer there eternally

Bitter angels cry for thee

who hates thine friends,

who hates thine gods,

but mostly dost thou despise thyself.

With strength of will one might applaud,

thou dooms thyself to forever Hell.

Bitter angels cry for thee?.

Prologue- Year 377-

Enter the Gnome

Daerkin Makina Lovax Seir del Raimin Grett Gigrel Semmon Raksheer was having a bad day. The gnome glared furiously at the parchment, willing the confounded thing to make sense, but the magic simply wouldn't come to him today. He absently stroked the short, light brown, neatly trimmed goatee that adorned his tan face.

The gnome had a striking appearance indeed. His eyes were deep, shimmering blue flecked with shining traces of gold. Short, spiked hair shot neatly from his head, and his goatee was neatly trimmed and combed. Daerkin (as he was called among the more short-spoken races) wore shabby red robes, underneath which was a fine suit of light leather armor that provided no more constriction than would a slightly heavy shirt. Pouches covered the gnome nearly from head to foot, dangling on belts and flapping softly as he walked, as well as various scrolls and scroll-cases that jounced and jingled whenever he moved. Tucked away in small sheathes were two small, finely crafted daggers with razor edges and needlepoint tips, and on his back was strapped a light crossbow, as well as about seven dozen bolts (kept in one of those many, many pouches).

"Master Raksheer," a tall, imposing elf with golden hair and regal, superior eyes that were the color of tree bark in the spring asked as he slowly opened the door to Daerkin's quarters (the gnome's full name was Daerkin Lovax Raksheer, that is, to the more short-spoken races).

"Yes, Raylshon?" the gnome asked, sounding a bit agitated. He removed the small spectacles (with a tiny lamp on the bridge), and rubbed his temples. Why wasn't the magic working?

"Our presence is required in the Main Hall. The HighMasterofAnyand-EverythingMagicalWithintheConfinesofThisCompoundofMagicalStud y has summoned us. Perhaps we should shorten his title? It would save us all quite a bit of time." Raylshon said this with a slight smile at his gnomish friend.

"Nonsense! You would think an elf of all people, those who live for centuries, would appreciate a gnome's viewpoint! Everyone is always rush, rush, rush, never accomplishing anything and alwaysrushing,rushing,RUSHING!" the gnome took a moment to calm himself and to regain the practiced speech he had to make himself use before the more short-spoken races.