The White Elves had once been a great race. Works of art, both in iron, gold, steel and wood were common among them at the time. Anything that they set their minds to do flourished. Time passed and they eventually became one of the greatest civilizations ever known to the world. They had awesome armies, great fleets of ships for both the trading of goods and the defense of their borders. Unified under one king they had been at that time, and the great city of Arthuniel, with it's black walls of enchanted rock, high towers, and strong keeps had been a wonder without peer in the known world. Kings and lords from the outside felt like beggars and paupers when they steeped under the might gates, made of oak, reinforced by steel and bronze, spells of protection and power cast over it. Poverty was virtually nonexistent inside the walls, and all the men, women, and even children were known to be happily occupied in their many tasks in keeping the colorful city flourishing. But something changed in their nature. Happiness was replaced by greed, and the want for more. A new, younger king came to power, and he immediately turned forces that had originally been designed to maintain peace and order in the land towards looking outwards, into the untamed lands on their borders.
And as happens to all things greedy, the change was not for the good. It was subtle at first, and it took many lives of men, and even elves, to finally notice what had happened. Division and malcontent had seeped into the lands of the White Elves, and they engaged in a bloody and dreadful civil war, that spanned over a thousand years. Arthuniel was at the center of this conflict, and over the long years of bloody conflict had become nothing more than a ruined city, fulled of ghosts, memories, and legend told of gold beyond belief hidden somewhere. But nothing of the sort could be found, and it would take a bold adventurer indeed to brave the lands, ravaged by war, and try to find treasure in the haunted place. It had been named Murgoluther, Land of the dead, by the time that the war was over. By then, the once great civilization had been torn to many pieces, and the remnants, now tribes, struggled to make an existence. They had long forgotten the crafts of their fathers, and turned their expertise and cunning towards the making of weapons, and the developing of war-magicks and machines and engines of like purpose.
Kax himself was of the old line of kings. It was well proven, although, without might of arms it meant less than nothing. But he had might of arms. His father did, anyway, even though he had proven time and time again that he was more than capable of fielding, feeding, and fighting his own forces. Not very into the magic, he turned himself towards the art of combat, and was virtually unbeatable in th field, with any weapon. The blood of kings ran true in him, he was told. His father had managed, somehow, to reunite all of the tribes of the White Elves, and they had formed a fighting force immense strength. Warring with their Sylvan kin had only been logical. Despite the way that the war had gone, his power only seemed to grown, and he had even begun rebuilding the ruins of the the great city, although it was a work to last many lifetimes to complete it, and restoring it to it's former glory was hardly to be expected.
So Kax was surprised and angry when his father told him that peace negotiations had been initiated. The details of the truce had not been told to him, and, in his opinion, they could be shoved into a dark hole, or burned. If he was to take up his father's place as ruler, he would disregard any peace truce, and kill all that stood in his path. Of course, he wasn't leader yet. His pointed ear still burned with anger as they rode their troops of horsemen, with himself and his father at the fore, to finalize the peace treaty.
"The castle is three leagues distant, sire," One of the scouts reported. The king told his men to take their horses ahead, as he wished to have a few words with his son.
"Do you comprehend why we are making peace, my son?" He asked in a deep voice.
"No," Was the simple answer, with more anger and fire in it than any spell.
"You will, my son. You will."