He came from beyond the Sinele River, from beyond the Orcish lands.

This is the terrible rhyming couplet that Elloharin keeps folded up in a small glass vial, tucked in a hidden compartment in his backpack. He doesn’t need to keep the paper anymore, the verse has been burned to his memory. He smiles ruefully at the thought of the fine elven aesthete, wasting his brain on such pathetic poesy. Of course, his memory is perhaps justified, the poem is The Dimmed’s only link with a long forgotten past. He is 117 years old. Young, for an elf, and yet he has forgotten so much. In his dreams he hears singing, elven singing, and rises in the night, only to hear the sound of crickets chirping. Or worse, he’ll dream of terrible screaming, painful, haunting screaming. These are the nights he dreads, when he wakes up sweating, his skin paler than the moon above him. Dark circles are under his eyes. He would be handsome, even beautiful, but his eyes alternate between a horrid, intense gleam, and an apathetic dullness. His hair, pure black, is rough and not in order. When he cannot sleep, he must walk. And continue now, following the words of a poem, written by a human madman.

His musing is disturbed by a jabbering to his right. He stops suddenly. His elven senses reach out into the surrounding must. Orcs. Five of them. Should he go around them? He can, easily. Orc’s are loud, and stupid. He can hear their course chatter.

"Goolag, you are a fool! You heat the water first!"

"Maga, not another word out of you!"

"Or what? You’ll gut me? Like you did Berga?"

"Maga, you’re a dead orc!"

"She’s waking up." One of the other orcs speaks.

El creeps closer to the orc encampment, he can now see a small fire being raised.

"Gag her, before she can scream."

"Aww, I like to hear’em scream!"

"Maga, gag her. Now."

El can see the orcs now. Their cruel, ugly faces and their hunched backs are shadows against the light of the flame. Two lesser orcs hold a burlap sack. The sack struggles weakly.

"She’s tryin’ to get away."

"Can we have a little fun with her before we eat her?"

"Yeah, Goolag."

"Elven pussy? I don’t think so."

What? El’s blood boils. His eyesight dims and there is a thunderstorm in his head. His skull begins to pound. He drops to his knees.

"What was that?" Asks Goolag.

"Aww it was nothin’"

El cannot close his eyes for fear of seeing his dreams waking. He cannot open his eyes for fear of seeing his waking dreams. There is no further course of thought. With a war cry long forgotten, he is on the orcs. The first are dead before they even know what is happening. The third has time to raise his shield. Not high enough, and certainly not quick enough. His head is cleft. Maga and Goolag face off on either side of him. El kicks dirt on the small fire, burying it. He throws the blade at Goolag. Than he is on him. They roll on the ground. Maga stands indecisively waiting for an opportunity. Than with an evil grin, he heaves his short orcish sword down, intending to cleave both El and Goolag. He can only get through half of Goolag before his sword gets caught in the midst of Goolag’s spinal column. El is up before Goolag has even died. He inserts a small dagger into the armpit of the surprised orc. Then reaches across his throat with another dagger. Maga falls, choking on his own blood. The whole exchange hadn’t lasted longer than a minute. Five felled orcs lay in a circle around the embers of the campfire. Goolag still lives. Kneeling down over him, El takes lifts his head up.

"What now? Eh, Goolag? No more elf hunting for you."

His voice is low, and hoarse. The visions are beginning to recede and the battle haze begins to dissipate. He drops to his knees, panting. El is strong, but his constitution does not allow for extended fights. It is why he kills so quickly. He is now crying. The headache is only a dull thudding against his temples. He feels a soft hand on his shoulder, without thinking he grabs it and throws the slight figure to the ground. It is a girl. Must have been the girl in the sack. She is terrified of him.

"Who are you?" She stammers.

"Elloharin."

The elf girl has dark pupils, more he cannot tell in the dark. His infravision, does not disseminate color. She calms after he returns her words in elven.

"Why are you the dimmed one?"

He is silent for a minute. The headache is almost gone.

"No one has ever asked before."

"Where are you from? O shining one?"

"The east. Don’t call me that." He mutters.

"There are no elves in the east."

"Where do you live brazen one?" El asks.

"Not so far, I think."

"Then I shall escort you home."

Later when El is alone again, he takes out the poem and reads it. Read the words, upon the wall. He saw a sign in town, a post: It read: "The Duchy of Merriam hereby decrees, by order of his Royal Majesty, the King, that Rinder is in need strong fighters. Desperate men need only apply."

Elloharin is not a man, but he is desperate. He cannot go on like this anymore. Where is he from? Why can he only remember the last score of years? Who was the madman who gave him the only scrap of past he now clings to? Why does he hear screaming whenever he closes his eyes?

Appearance: Pale. Delicate. Unkempt. Unknown character tattooed on his right arm. He did not put it there to the best of his knowledge.

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LAST UPDATED: 10/23/00 JSD