A Spark in the Wind

Appendix A: History of the World

Of the many races that inhabit Mundus, few are as influential as the qualis – the elves. Although they are but one people inhabiting this world, this ancient folk, who once inhabited the sacred realm of Qualior, are now but a shadow of their former selves.

Long ago, ere the many complexities of the world had been layered in, ere the first morsels of bread were tasted in the shrines of Aayur, the qualis awoke in the realm of Qualior: a remote island in the midst of the stellar seas, and there it was that the First Elven Empire was wrought into Mundus. The Old Gods bore them, so they say, as a folk chosen to rule Mundus and lead its people to victory.

Ah, those were the days of glory, when the magic of the elves knew no bounds, and with unchallenged power they dominated all that came before them. But alas, all things foul and fair must come to an end one day, and so it did for the elves, who for long had known no challenge.

When the veil of Mundus collapsed, daemons flooded the world, waving the unholy banners and marks of Morthaur, Destroyer of Worlds. And the elves answered with fire and steel, bringing down many a champion, but before the unbridled might of Morthaur they too fell like leaves in autumn.

One by one, their footholds and colonies were overrun, until at last the elves stared at the face of their own annihilation.

But when all hope was lost, Ayun the First strode into the mouth of danger, and battled Morthaur alone in his own realm. As Qualior was diminished, so was Morthaur and the daemon-tide. Thus the survivors, though homeless and astray, were gifted a second chance.

(i)

OF THE HOUSE OF ALINOR AND THE HIGH-ELVES OF ALÍMAR

In the wake of the destruction of Qualior, the elves scattered across the face of Mundus, wandering the foundered world as lowly vagabonds, ever recalling the days of greatness when they defined the worlds they stepped on. Never again would the likes of their empire be seen again, or so they thought.

Seeing their pitiful condition, Elinor, patron god of elvenkind, showed them visions of a world much akin to their old one. "Alímar," they called it, Motherland in the Old Tongue.

As the news spread, the survivors gathered a fleet of eleven Clans and set course for Alímar. For two years they sailed the endless oceans of night, heeding not the stars nor the endless deeps which lay beneath them, until at last they happened upon Alímar, and they found it beautiful.

An archipelago in the middle of a flat plane, illuminated by the light of seven stars, Alímar was unlike anything they had seen before, yet it was homelier than anything they could or ever would come across. So were born the high-elves: the folk of Alímar.

For many millennia the elves gave up their lust for dominion, for in this world they dwelt deathless and deedless, in a permanent reverie blind to the ailments of mortality. And for ages they dwelt there, whilst the world around them arose and collapsed time and time again, until at last they learned of it.

One day a ship sailed into the harbour, aboard it elves from another world, and from there was shared ill news: much of Mundus, which was once a freehold, now bowed to the Aerryan Dominion, a foe beyond reckon who massacred elves by the millions.

Whilst the high-elves here relaxed under the seven stars, the world they had sworn to lead had fallen in disarray in their absence.

As word spread, the high-elves awoke, wrath filling their minds. "Deceit," they cried, "cozened by god or by devil most foul, what was this if not a ploy to remove us from power?"