Drenwulf was tired. He had been marching with the armies of Ronor, dwarves, and elves for a week, as they traveled to a plain north of a place called the Black Mountains. He did not understand why they had left the city, but he suspected it had something to do with the dwarves. They finally reached the plain, and the dwarves and men immediately began to build walls and forts of out of mounds of soil and clay. The elves began cleaning their weapons, preparing for battle. Drenwulf felt that these three races rarely interacted. Each race camped in a separate place, with a wide gap in between them. He had heard each race insulting the others out their hearing range. They camped here for another week, every day wondering when the dark hosts would approach them. They never came. Finally, they saw a small dust plume over the bulwarks.
"It's a single rider, riding along the Hill Road," one the men said.
"I wish it was a puny Darkling," a dwarf grunted. He lifted his heavy hammer. "We came all this way and I want some sport!"
A man looked at the dwarf. "Do not underestimate them," he warned.
When the rider came into camp, it was an elf. He had blood wounds on his arms, and a bad one on his head. He told a message to the leaders. The leaders did not tell it to the camp, but it soon leaked out.
A man ran up to Drenwulf with the news.
"The city of the elves is destroyed. Gone, wiped out. No survivors."
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