The screams echoed through the stronghold of the Blood Elves—though they did not recognize themselves as the "New High Elves"; that was what the other inhabitants called them, in secret. Their castle was only slightly smaller than the Redcap's tower. Inside, the entire society was debating their next move.
The members of this wealthy elven guild came from various social strata. Most were rich from years of accumulated fortune. Others were merchants who knew how to exploit their position and the favors of the mages of Bloody Coin—mages who accepted any request in exchange for being taught a few attack runes. The rest were juniors: children of elves who worked moderately well-paying jobs. Swept away by the glamour of the Blood Elves, they had begun to reject their childhood friends, skipping over several undistinguished members of their lineage to highlight only the most elitist elements of elven society. On weekends, they went out wearing masks, attacking anyone who looked at them wrong in the streets. They always carried basic protection rings and some second- or third-hand fire or lightning scrolls. These were men and women who worked two or three shifts at their jobs just to afford clothing worthy of an elf, even if they wore only linen rags for the rest of the week.
Admission to the guild was not easy. One had to dress appropriately, pay an initiation fee of more than ten gold pieces, and attend at least one exorbitantly expensive gathering where wine, perversion, and petulance were common. They had to possess at least a few rune scrolls, speak Elvish, feel themselves to be the superior race—and a host of other requirements that they blindly accepted in exchange for being recognized as belonging to the most powerful races on the entire continent.
In the main hall, the hundred Blood Elves were gathered. Glasses of exquisite wine circulated in the hands of magical armor suits—which operated on the Redcap's base magical field and prevented the waste of their precious scrolls. After admonishing and dismissing the apprentice who had wasted the attack scroll, their leader addressed his people.
"Brothers, it is well known that we despise the mages, for they turned their backs on us. All the spellcasters of our race were exiled"—none of them admitted, nor would ever admit, that they had left of their own accord—"and we elves ended up depending on magic scrolls to preserve our power. Today, I saw a merchant who dared to use a dwarven invention to capture our voice! The greedy merchants keep spells hidden to attack us, and on top of that, they use our own voices!" At this, everyone shouted angry slogans, demanding the destruction of that entire community. "Brothers, that is not the point! We have more magic in our cloaks than they will ever find in nearby ruins. Today, I have gathered you for something else." From the folds of his robe, he produced the scroll. "This is an ancient magic map. I have spent two months examining it. It is not as powerful as those of old, but it warns of a strong magical presence at one of our ancient keeps."
Everyone exchanged bewildered glances. They were far too young to know of its existence—he realized this with some bitterness.
"One of our master spellcasters has returned to the continent! We can capture them. We possess the magic that they no longer have. If we succeed in apprehending them—human, elf, or dwarf—we will use them to recharge our scrolls. The Elven Library will become the foundation of our new empire!"
They all cheered, though the elders shook their heads in disbelief at the notion of capturing those who, in ages past, had wielded the power of gods.
"I will organize an expedition to the keep. All elves of level six or higher may accompany me. Those with category four scrolls or rare attack items are welcome. From this moment forward, we are not High Elves. We are those who seek the blood of our ancestors—the power to rule in this new world. We are the Blood Elves! Nothing and no one will stand in our way!"
The shouts were deafening. He waited a moment until they subsided.
"Those who decide to come must purchase the highest quality equipment. I recall there were slaves there; the fortress will not recognize us either. Bring healing potions, protection potions. We have two months to prepare. After we conquer and subdue the mage, the elves, and their castle, we will be as we once were. We will be able to eliminate the rabble! We will no longer depend on disgusting humans! We will be elves as we should be!"
The cries of joy continued for several more hours. The wine, the dances of slaves, and their subsequent tortures made everyone feel better. At the end of the night, they gladly paid the hundred gold pieces for attending. When the castle finally fell silent, the true leaders of the guild gathered.
Two months had passed since they had located the place, but they had reported nothing because they knew magic dwelled there. There was a secret known only to the six of them: the mage in question was human. He was powerful, and many would die before they obtained the power that everyone wanted. That was the reason for the parties. That was the reason for the cooperation. They were forging for themselves the most powerful armor, weapons of the finest metals. If only the six of them remained in the end, that was acceptable. Power was not meant for everyone. The other Blood Elves would pave the way to power. Indeed, it would be a path of bodies and entrails, but the leaders would walk it many times over in order to reclaim the power they had possessed centuries ago—and still remembered.