A black, heavy cloud came out of the west, laden as if with rain
It filled the sky with its dark and brooding-ness
And in the valley of the Similarill, Fair Elven folk of the forgotten past,
The sun shone brightly upon the valley floor and the grass shimmered in its light.
But the fair, fair Elves of the Similarill felt a quaking in their
hearts, though they saw not the Brooding cloud as it came from out of
the Darkened West.
They sang their songs of yesteryear in their gaily sweetened voices and
the light, tripping words of their tongue, but, though the air in the
valley was bright, the children laughed not as they played.
They, too, felt the fear that was coming.
In the Elder house of the Lord of the Similarill, a great council was gathered.
On the western borders of the Valley great, the brooding cloud hung like an omen,
In its dark gatherings, a great evil could be felt.
In the council hall of the Elder house, Elf stood next to Elf and the
quaking that was in their hearts kept the spirits still, as never
before had it been since Dawn first brought her Elven kin to the Valley
of the Similarill.
"A great evil has come upon our valley fair," Spoke the Lord of the
Similarill, "And all that are true and fair know for they feel it in
"What Evil this may be, we cannot know," Spoke he who was Lord, "And
for that we have gathered together. On the western edge of our land
most fair, given to us by Dawn herself ere the beginning of Time, a
great, brooding cloud has gathered. To what purpose it pertains, none
yet shall know. Within its walls lies this evil we have felt in our
"Though it stands on the border of our realm, yet it has to pass that
line which fair Dawn laid for us in our defense, before we passed from
the living earth into Similarill fair. If it should dare to pass, there
is naught that we can do save perish and die each according to his own
law." So Spoke the Lord of the Similarill.
In the council hall, all was silent.
Outside, on the western edge of the valley that was fair, the valley
which grew the golden Ceranfruit, that of pure joy in the earth of old,
The brooding cloud hovered and swelled.
Lightning ripped across the surface and sent down lancets of light to strike the ground,
As if, unable to cross the line of defense that Dawn had lain, it sought to break it open with the forces that lay within it.
The Elven folk gathered about their houses, watching the brooding cloud in the western sky.
No songs were sung, no music played, as they watched the cloud in its
violent temper, bash the ground along the western edge with bolt after
bolt of lightning.
A great trepidation swept the Elves and a few began to cry.
Of the Elven Kings of yester yore, Of the shining ones that played on
the rims of the stars, Of the Child-like people of the great and
fruitful trees, the last, the ones saved by Dawn when the great scourge
called man had scoured their way across the land that was beautiful,
destroying all that stood in his way, The last day of the dawning of
the Old Ones had come to pass.
Through the ever crescendoing claps of thunder, a great and glorious song began.
The Elves of the Elder sung, in the tongue of the old, before the
coming of man, and the exile to the Dawn, the song of remembering.
Elven children looked round with wide and sorrowful eyes as the Elders sang.
On the western edge, the ground was torn and most, if not all, knew that it would hold the cloud no more.
And so the children sang the song of Lariaok, He who once was the King
of all, before the coming of man, who had led his people towards the
Dawn and perished as they were saved.
And as the valley of the Similarill became filled with song, in the
clear, glad voices of the Elven folk, like crystal clean and clear, the
brooding cloud crossed over the western edge and filled the bright
summery sky of the valley with its dark, foreboding-ness.
A torrential downpour fell from the cloud and drenched the Elves through to their very souls, Yet still they sang.
It filled the air with crisp cracks of lightning, and dropped hail the
size of large rocks upon the waiting Elves. Yet, still they sang.
Once the valley of the Similarill had become filled with the darkish
liquid of the falling rain and the ground had been scored by shafts of
bright, piercing lightning, a great shadow fell from the sky.
Wrapped in flames of utter black and wielding a fiery scimitar, this
shadowy figure hewed a path through the singing Elves, slaying all in
Spouting words of destruction in the ancient guttural tongue of the
Baldagor, he strove amongst the Elves and laid bare their bones. Yet,
still the Elves were singing.
In a black, fiery rage, he cleaved and slew all in the valley,
screaming in rage at the Elvish voices that rang clear and true in the
valley of the Similarill.
Then his task was through. The Elves stood no more in the valley that once was fair.
The rain still fell from the sky and the Baldagor stood heaving in the
valley's center, his scimitar in hand, dripping the blood of those that
once were fair.
In the valley air, their voices still were ringing, echoes of those that loved all most dear
And as the Baldagor began screaming, his voice a guttural roar of pure
rage, theirs could still be heard singing, In the Valley of the