Two armies moved swiftly through the cool night of late spring. They moved like fog, silent and untraceable. The two masses were made up of elves, one dark, and the other gold.
  The armies met in an open meadow that was bathed in the silvery light of a full moon. The elves charged across the dew soaked grass, with a battle cry on their lips of pure hatred against the other�s race.
  The elves met in a flurry of blades and bodies. In only a matter of minutes 150 men lay dead. The ground was now slick and saturated with the blood of the fallen. Soon more would join them in death.
  They moved with speed and grace that most would envy and dreamt about having. If it weren�t for all the death the battle would have been a beautiful dance of blades with many participants in a swirling mass.
  Many grand and wonderful warriors who were great heroes and even greater people died. They fought with all they had, but that didn�t keep them from the cold grip of death that soon wrapped its icy fingers around them.
  It didn�t matter how many of his foes an elf cut down before he was teamed up on or someone with more skill or less fatigue was able to bring down the brave warrior. Not one person could prove that they were the greatest without getting a sword between the ribs or a cut across the throat.
  The battle did not go on much longer before all lay dead except for a score of dark elves and only one gold elf. The gold elf stood alone before the mighty warriors without fatigue or injury.
  The gold elf was old and a veteran to war. Hope had flown from his body though, and he was ready to give up and die. With a prayer to the goddess of the moon, he started to drop his sword and turn away from the bloody scene. But before he could put down his weapon a ray of silver moonlight engulfed the old warrior with feeling of comfort and peace of mind. The old elf was no longer afraid to die.
  His body became outlined in silver fire and his eyes flared with anger and hate beyond anything a mortal could have in its short lifetime. It was something divine. He had called on his goddess�s avatar and had been possessed by her, the lady of the moon.
  With a battle cry in a long forgotten language, the warrior rushed across the body littered field and cut down all the remaining enemies with lightning speed and impossible strength. The silver fire burned his body and consumed his soul.
  The fires of divine power fled from his body once his enemies perished, but the flames of hate still burned brightly in his eyes. He ran far into the woods to a small clearing that was bathed in the silver light of the moon and collapsed. His body burst into flames and soon all that was left was his ashes and his sword that was drunk with the blood of his dark elven foes. The ashes of his body were soon blown away with the wind to scatter across the forest.
  His spirit can now be seen running messages for the lady of the moon in the light of a full moon as silver shadow.