Adunadain of the Faithe.

	Few knew of his crusade into the darkest of all the hells for the forgotten relic known as the Faithe.  It, like him, became a ghost of history, wandering the pages of tomes that have been buried with the sages that knew of him.  It was his fate to be forgotten.  But if you listen carefully to the wind, you may just hear his name.
	Some have come to learn of his tale, even though he is forgotten by all the world.  Bards, tale-tellers, and songstresses have claimed that a figure of an Elf has appeared to them, introducing himself as Adunadain.  He begins to spin his own tale in their words, as if he took a place in their minds.  The bards act out his crusade, the tale-tellers tell the story to those who listen, and the songstresses sing, verse by verse, every line that came to them of Adunadain.  Fate has its ways with unknown heroes...
	However, ghosts are not always the most truthful of sorts.  Adunadain may have gone to great lengths to find the Faithe, but for what purpose.  The Faithe had tremendous power, but what would a crusader want with that power?  The timeless phrase is always true:  Power corrupts.  What would a hero want with corruption.  Maybe he wasn't such a hero, and maybe he was.  Perhaps he wished to keep the power from the already corrupt.  Fate had determined his course to collide with the Faithe, and fate cannot be denied.
	So I shall begin this tale as all tales should begin: in media res...

	Kneeling before his king, Adunadain had reached the highest position available to him:  Captain of the Holy Knights.  As such, it had become his duty to protect the king, the country, and all its peoples.  A grin crossed his face as King Solonus performed the final steps of the ceremony.  He tapped the flat edge of his mighty sword against Adunadain's right shoulder, then his left.  Solonus now held the blade with the hilt towards Adunadain.  This made the king completely vulnerable to his knight.  All it would take was a quick push on the pommel and the king would die, but that is what made this ceremony so sacred.  It showed that Solonus would trust his life and death to the Elf kneeling before him.
	Adunadain leaned forward and kissed the diamond pommel of the king's sword, an act that proclaimed him as a Holy Knight.  The high priest approached Solonus from behind, carrying a masterfully crafted sword similar to the king's:  A blade lined with adamantine and silver, with three precious stones of magical power embeded in the base of the blade; a garnet of Zerani Volcano, a sapphire of the far north, and a shining amethyst.  The leather of the handle was of the finest bovine in the kingdom, wrapped with a string of gold, and a diamond pommel.  Solonus turned and took the blade in his right hand and presented the kneeling knight with the blade, again hilt outward.
	"Rise, Adunadain, and take this blade.  It has been crafted as yours," said Solonus.  Adunadain did so, taking and examining the shimering sword.  "It's name is for you to decide, my friend."
	Friend...  Adunadain had never been called by such a title before.  The Elves that he was born from had abandonned him as a child.  He was forced to live amongst Men.

	One eve, in the local tavern, Adunadain sat, listening to the bard sing his songs as he drank his ale.  The bard was not at all interesting, but a certain tale caught Adunadain's attention...
	"My friends!  This tale I shall now tell is of the most absolute truth...  I have heard from the sages of my home town of a relic of immeasurable power!  This relic is said to have the power of the gods and more!"  At this point, the crowd was beginning to tire of the bard's rant.  "Blasphemy!" yelled a few, while most others only booed and shooed the bard from the stage.  He quickly found his way from the inn, not realizing that he was being followed...
	"Tell me more, bard," said Adunadain after they had left the tavern, "and you shall earn an extra pouch of silver."  The bard quickly spun around, fingering the rapier strapped to his waist.  Seeing that who had spoken, he quickly gathered himself.
	"Call me Evanil, friend," said he.  "A pouch of silver is worth many drinks and women."

	At a tavern across town, sitting around a dimly lit table, Evanil continued his tale.
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