"The elves, like many races, lived on the brink of extinction. Our places of origin date back eons in antiquity. We traveled fleeing the destiny our cruel master had in store for us. With much effort, we arrived at this continent.
Here, everything was barren. There was at least water, and that consoled us. While we replenished our meager supplies, we witnessed a battle between gods—that is what we called them then. There were several, of various colors. They looked gigantic. None of us wanted them near—vicious, cruel, murderers—so we tried to hurry. We did not see who they fought, but it was probably against each other. Just as we were returning to our vessels, a giant shadow blocked our light. It was enormous, majestic, black.
All its attackers were eliminated as if they were children. But not unscathed—we saw many of what until a few years ago we considered invincible scales fall. The dragon went to perch on a mountain. It was so large we could see it without anything from the coast. Since it did not seem interested in us, we decided to stay.
For decades, we grew our food and worked hard to create a future for ourselves. No, young mage—before, we had no power. As time passed, we saw we lived longer. Yes, before we had a lifespan of two hundred years. But many of us already reached one hundred eighty when we arrived at the isle, and we felt stronger as time passed. When I turned four hundred, they attacked again. This time, there were fewer, but they looked more corpulent. My tired eyes could still see the flames coming out, cremating the earth. Since we stayed on the coast, nothing cultivated was affected. In the end, they fled again. But this time, the master of the place was also wounded.
He flew slowly—nothing of the former elegance. He perched on the mountain again, but we heard him. He called us and asked us not to be afraid—that we were there escaping those who attacked him. So he would give us power, enough that what we crafted would survive the attacks. There, we received magic. It was not a pleasant sensation. Every vein, every cell of our body burned. When the torture finally ended, we felt different—powerful.
It took a thousand years to develop that power. But thanks to it, we built much. We created beautiful forests, gave life to the scant life that survived there. We protected them from the sporadic attacks of our savior's other enemies. Finally, we did not live in fear. That was how our children grew.
I was elected mayor, then leader, and finally king—all by the will of my people. Our city rose near the mountain. We asked if he wanted us to serve him in any way, but he never answered. So we limited ourselves to living as best we could. A thousand more years passed. During that time, more refugees began to arrive—survivors from other continents. As we had been supported, we decided to help. We taught them to work the land, to work metal and wood. All lived in harmony—except our children.
Those who had been the joy of the elders soon became our headache. They provoked fights, dominated small isolated groups by force. Whenever we found out, we reprimanded them. But they were our lineage—our first offspring—and we could not eliminate them. Secretly, they spoke with the Black God. We knew, but it was not evil.
Three thousand years after arriving on the continent, the White attacked. It was the first cataclysm on our continent. It was ours, and we called it Greenleaf because that was what gave us the most emotion when we received the fruits of our planting. The White was enormous—even larger than our god. He fought valiantly, but it was a desperate battle. In a burst of fear more than heroism, we launched our best offensive and defensive magics. The White, taken by surprise, barely managed to launch destruction upon our town. Still, we lost thousands. Finally, the Black made it retreat. But he had been gravely wounded.
The elders were very busy working, saving the lives of our people and the refugees who, terrified, saw their past come to where they thought they were safe. We could do nothing. We buried many of our people. Like them, we suffered the losses and dried our tears. It was necessary to keep building this place. So we decided to ignore our children.
Half a century later, our people had fully recovered, and those around us were gradually beginning to show glimmers of civilization proper. We let them grow at their own pace, not to influence them. They were people, not copies of us. One day, my son and his friend came to see me. They were no longer children, but in their eyes shone an emotion I had not seen in years. He told me the Black had made a pact—that he would teach us to forge a weapon with which we could defend ourselves against any enemy of the Black, and that it would even serve against the White. Disbelieving, I accompanied him to where he and his friends—with 'help' from many refugees—had built something away from the elven cities. They called it the palace, even though I had never lived here before, when in reality we were not interested in such banalities. And there it was—his mark on a gold plate. On it, we wrote about the pact—that we would defend him while he healed and use that weapon for good. That happened when I still moved—before our children's betrayal, before my son the prince ascended the throne after my disappearance."
The voices fell silent. There was much to absorb. Refugees? Black? Could it be the dragon? If what they said was true, this continent was incredibly old and uninhabitable due to battles between them. But they did not let me think further.
"We kept our word. Now you must pay the price. When I was dethroned, they feared that if the refugee elves died, they would lose their power. So they imprisoned us. They cut off our arms and legs, took our tongues and eyes. We are but bricks that are maintained and give maintenance to this castle. Pay! You must give us eternal rest! You must stop the madness of the Blood Elves' king. He is my son, the greatest murderer—he killed the Black!"
The floors opened. What had been an empty hall was revealed as a macabre garden. The bodies of beings that once had a semblance of life stood upright, without limbs, hanging like overripe fruit. I did not want to kill them. There was so much they could teach me of the past—to understand what they did. I was sure that king was the one who condemned his daughter. But the friend? The Lich perhaps? I could not think—they kept screaming in my head to kill them, to free them, to condemn their children. Argh! I needed time!