His horse stamping its hooves impatiently, commander Fierann of Ulthuan gazed over the open field towards the tight ranks of Dwarfs arrayed before his army. Today their treacheries would be repaid, he vowed, as he raised his finely wrought blade high into the air, its tip crackling with barely contained magic. He swept his blade down in a chopping motion, and the Elves of Ulthuan let out a great roar, surging across the grass towards their hated enemy. Fierann kicked his mount into a gallop, his proud unit of Silver Helms a step behind him.

A trio of great blue-scaled dragons leapt from the ground, weaving gracefully into the air. The Dragon Princes of Caledor borne on the backs of the drakes hefted their ornate lances. Resplendent armor gleaming brightly in the sun, they soared overhead as the Silver Helms thundered over the hard, sun-baked field. As Fierann approached the Dwarf line, he picked his target; an impressive figure with an exceptionally long beard, wielding a large axe bedecked with runes. The Dwarfs stood unflinching before the Silver Helms, their faces grim and resolute. Lances were lowered as the Elves closed on their foe, and the ranks of bearded warriors let out a deepthroated war cry of defiance.

The Silver Helms crashed into the tightly packed Dwarfs with brutal force, their lances punching through sturdy armor, horses kicking out with flashing hooves. Keeping his eye on his opponent, Fierann slashed downwards with his crackling blade. His foe raised his ornate battle-axe before him, and the two weapons clashed in a great burst of light and sparks. Letting fury wash over him, Fierann struck out repeatedly with his flashing sword. Barely able to follow the blurring movements of the Elven commander, the Dwarf nevertheless managed to fend off most of the blows. Those attacks that slipped past his defense rebounded forcefully off his gleaming armor, leaving faint smoking traces where they struck.

Hatred was etched on the faces of the combatants, Elf and Dwarf battling murderously. The resolute Dwarfs struck out savagely with axe and hammer, felling the steeds of the Silver Helms, and dragging them from their saddles. The Elves fought with great finesse, their elegant blades weaving deadly patterns through the air, slicing through armor and flesh. Sorcerous blasts of energy ripped through the ranks of Dwarfs, tossing them into the air like dolls, and Fierann smiled grimly. His brother Danalon had shown great magical prowess even when they were children.

Feinting to the left, Fierann turned his blade in mid air to sweep the weapon towards his enemy's exposed neck. Satisfaction burned in the Elven commander's ice-blue eyes as his blade sliced into Dwarf flesh, cutting through bone and tendon with ease. The sickly smell of charred meat rose into the air as sparks danced over the Dwarf's nearly decapitated body.

With a tremendous roar that made Fierann's ears ache, one of the drakes landed in the midst of the battle. A Dwarf was impaled on the lance of the Dragon Prince, crying out in pain as he was hefted high into the air, his struggling form sliding slowly down the shaft. The drake lashed out with an immense clawed hand, swatting a number of foes to the ground, and roared again. Fierann raised his blade in salute to the Dragon Knight. As he turned back to the fierce battle, the Elven commander smiled grimly.

Today, Elven pride would be restored.