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The elf and human mages stood in a half circle, their hands linked, waiting for the signal from General Seleron. The battlefield, littered with the bodies of every race, left one to wonder how many had survived. The scouting reports counted fewer and fewer enemies every year. We had become dieing races.
Seleron lifted his hand high, giving a great Dwarven battle cry to signal to the mages who waited on Peridyn Field. In their final attempt to stop the war, they chanted a spell never before heard in Krel. Their voices rose as their powers multiplied each other, casting an eerie blue light around them. We waited, holding our breath, knowing that if they failed, all of us would die.
Blue lightning danced into the center of the mages, pooling there in a large, crackling orb. With a final cry in a rarely spoken tongue, the mages let loose their creation upon the advancing armies of Orcs, Trolls, and Avians. The orb shot out of the crescent of mages, flying across the field to explode dead center of the enemy army. Lightning tendrils of a sickly blue color burst from the orb, striking to the heart of every enemy standing within range. Those closest to the orb were scattered to the winds, and those further away erupted from the force of the lightning, showering body parts over Peridyn Field.
The Age of Death ended that day. The rest of the living turned their back on the century-long war and returned to what was left of their homes. Slowly the races began to rebuild their lives in the Age of Spirit, and for twenty years there was peace between the races.