Hello again. It's me.
I've been fiddling around with some ideas in my head about the origins of
the elves, what they are, who they are, etc., for my BR game I'm running.
Not to mention the Cold Rider, of course I had ideas about him before i
knew who he was in offical canon of the game-world).
Anyways, I started righting this story here, and what do you know there it
is. So I thought I'd post it.
I'll continue to post each successive part every other day, or until enough
of you scream at me to stop unloading the crap ;)
Anyway, here's part 1. Comments - positive, and (of course) negative
thoughts are welcome...

At last. The Final Battle, where everything was to be decided.
He and his people had been tricked long enough by the Darkness known as
Azrai; though he had been branded a traitor, his name stricken from the
records forever, his mate forever lost to him - it was all worth it. Soon,
the generals of his people would see and hear the truth, and the threat of
his people falling under the shadow of Azrai would be no more.
Now, he waited. He had waited a great deal in his life; for one reason or
another, he had remained, hidden , watching, waiting, at what must have been
many, many years now (centuries, as mortals viewed time, he supposed). And
as usual, his body was alert for the inevidable confrontation, between what
mortals called Gods, while his mind drifted, aware but unaware, his mind
empty of distraction for the time to strike.
Azrai would pay, and his power? Pah. It was that; mere power. That and
the mortals accursed ability to recieve energies from these beings (and the
reverse, as well) that brought his people's downfall - the fall from the
heights of the First people. To fall so far as to follow a greedy,
shortsighted thing such as Azrai.
Azrai would pay.
He hoped, actually, that perhaps his involvement would be unneccassiary -
after all, this Azrai was powerful, and perhaps it and the other beings
called Gods would destroy themselves in the conflict to come. But he could
not count on that - above all, Azrai had to die. And logic dictated thier
strife through thier followers had reached thier peak; it was here, this
single moutain, that they would take physical form and war amonst
themselves, thier followers - and his people, curse Azrai to the hottest
pits of the Land's core - would war about them, unthinking pawns in the
Third people's petty games of dominance. Worse than a pack of rabid, wild
dogs, they were...
The manefestation of Azrai was nothing as spectactular as some - merely a
forming of inky darkness, forming the humanoid thing of evil and darkness
that was Azrai. from nowhere, Azrai drew his blade, a blade of flaming
darkness, shedding darkness like light, making all the colors about him to
reverse themselves in that unholy light.
It stood, its formless head facing the great battle below that had been
going on for some time now, seemingly emotionless in form, but his rage was
evident in an untangable way, a rage enough to wither most mortals to dust.
The elf that hid, watching Azrai, requiring all his will to hold his hatred
at the sight of Azrai in check to this point grinned. he thought,
Indeed, the tide of battle of the tiny figures below on the sides,
foothills, all about that moutain was changing - one did not need the eyes
of Gods to see that - the Elves, on steeds of both earth and sky had turned
sides, crushing the lines of Azrai's minions from behind as the servants of
the other Gods rallied thier tired forces and attacked from the front - the
Elves betraying the great betrayer, beating him at his own game.
The rage of the Dark Lord was evident; never had any single being, mortal or
god or in-between - had ever betrayed the betrayer, and lived. It raised
its blade, pointing to the battle below; as it did so, the very air turned
inside out; man, elf, and otherwise withered to dust where they stood, never
to return to the Land.
Now it is time thought the elf, drawing his own blade,