who favored their mother added to the numbers and power of the Moonflower clan.
It was a wise solution and a fine example-on this the elves of Leuthilspar were quick to agree. Few of them, however, followed in the High Councilor's footsteps. Unions between the various races of elves had become increasingly rare, and although relationships among the Gold, Silver and wild elves remained amicable, the various peoples began to draw off from each other.
As time passed, some of the more adventurous elves left Leuthilspar and spread across the island. A few of these travelers mingled with the wild elves that lived in the deep forest, and in doing so gave themselves over fully to a life lived in harmony with the sacred island. But most settled on the broad, fertile plains in the northwest to raise crops or train their fleet and nimble war-horses.
In the far north of the island were rugged, heavily forested hills and mountains. Wresting a living from this wild northern land was not an easy task, but it was a task well suited to the energies of the burgeoning Craulnober clan.
Theirs was a minor noble family, brought to Evermeet as honor guards in service to their liege clan, Moonflower. At the head of the family was Allannia Craulnober, a warrior who, despite her diminutive size, had survived the battles of the Crown Wars and had fought back the waves of monsters, orcs and dark elven raiders that threatened Aryvandaar. She knew all too well the horrors of battle, and the need for constant vigilance.
The growing complacency of Leuthilspar's elves, their utter certainty that Evermeet was an inviolate haven, were matters of deep concern to Allannia. She therefore chose a land that would test her strength, and would demand that she keep both her wits and her sword's edge sharp. Amid the struggles of life in their wild holdings, Allannia raised her children to be warriors.
Chief among these was Darthoridan, her eldest son. He was unusually tall for an elf, and more powerfully built than most of his kin. When he was yet a boy, still growing toward his full height, Allannia foresaw that no sword in the Craulnober armory would suit his strength. She sent word to the finest swordsmith in Leuthilspar, and had him create a broadsword of a size and weight seldom seen among the elves. Sea-Riven she called it, for reasons that were not entirely known to her.
As he grew toward adulthood, Darthoridan became increasingly restless. He spent his days in endless training, drilling with his warrior mother and his brothers and sisters for a battle that never came. Though he did not complain, he felt a keen sense of frustration over the singular focus of life in Craulnober Keep. Yes, he and his kin were becoming fine warriors, even by elven standards. Even so, the young elf longed to be so much more. He could not rid himself of the growing premonition that skill with the sword was not enough.
One day, when his hours of practice were over, Darthoridan sheathed Sea-Riven and wandered down to the shore. He spent many hours there, ignoring the dull aches in his battle-weary muscles as he challenged his strength and agility by climbing the sheer cliffs. More often, though, he merely sat and gazed out to sea, reliving the stories brought by travelers from the wondrous cities to the south.
This evening his mood was especially pensive, for his mother had decreed that the time was coming soon when he should travel to Leuthilspar and find a wife. This news was not at all unpleasing to the young elf, but he found that the prospect of transforming dream into reality was a bit daunting.
After all, the Craulnober clan holdings were isolated, and their keep was a simple tower of stone lifted from the rocky cliffs. Darthoridan knew little of the customs or culture of the great city. In her concern for a strong defense, Allannia Craulnober had focused on nothing else, and had taught her children nothing but the art of warfare. Darthoridan was hardly prepared for life in Leuthilspar; he did not feel confident in his ability to court and win a suitable bride.
If Allannia had her way, he mused with mingled frustration and wry humor, then he would simply march into the elven city, challenge a likely looking battle-maid to a match, defeat her, and carry her off to the north.
Darthoridan sighed. Ridiculous though this image might be, in truth, this was all he was equipped to do.
When he was head of the clan it would be otherwise, vowed the young warrior. If he had only his own will to consult, his chosen wife would be a lady of high station and exquisite grace. She would teach their children what he could not. In addition, all Craulnober younglings would be sent into fosterage with noble families in the south, were they could learn the arts and the magical sciences which flourished in Leuthilspar. They would learn to master the magic that was their heritage-and the results would far outstrip the few experimental spells that Darthoridan managed to fashion in his scant spare time.
Despite the dreams that swirled pleasantly through his thoughts, Darthoridan remained alert to his surroundings. He noted a small blotch of darkness in an oncoming wave. He squinted against the light of the setting sun as he tried to discern its nature. As he watched, the surging waves tossed the unresisting object back and forth, as if toying with it before casting it upon the shore.
With a sigh, Darthoridan rose and began the descent down the cliff to the water's edge. He had little doubt as to what he would find. From time to time, the torn body of a Sea elf washed up on the northern shore, a grim testament to the wars that raged beneath the waves. It would not be the first time he had given the mortal body of a sea-brother to the cleansing flames, and sung the prayers that sped the soul to Arvandor. At moments like this, he found that he did not regret his hours of training with sword and spear.
As he suspected, yet another victim of the Coral Kingdom lay in shallow waters, rocked gently by the waves. Darthoridan waded out and lifted the dead elf in his arms, bearing her with honor to her place of final rest. As he stacked the stones and gathered driftwood for the bier, he tried not to dwell upon the Sea elf's garish wounds, long since bled white and washed clean by the seas, or on how young the little warrior had been when she died.
'If the battle is not over before the children must fight, then it is already lost,' Darthoridan whispered, quoting his warrior mother. And as he worked, as he watched the flames leap up to greet the setting sun, he prayed that this young warrior's fate would not be shared by his youngest brothers and sisters, or by the children he himself hoped to sire. Yet if calm did not come to the seas, how long could they avoid a similar fate?
When at last the fire burned low, Darthoridan turned away and began to walk along the shore, hoping that the soothing rhythm of the waves would calm his troubled heart. The receding tide left the shore strewn with the sea's debris: broken shells, bits and pieces of ships lost at sea, long rubbery strands of kelp. Here and there small creatures scuttled for the sea, or busily tucked themselves in for the night in the tidal pools that dotted the shore.
As Darthoridan skirted one of these pools, he noted the odd shape of a piece of mossy driftwood that thrust up from the water. It was shaped rather like an enormous, hideous nose, right down to the flaring nostrils. He looked closer, squinting into the tangle of seaweed that floated on the surface of the pool.
A silent alarm sounded in his mind, and his hand went to the hilt of Sea-Riven. But before he could draw the sword, the tidal pool exploded with a salt-laden spray and a roar like that of an enraged sea lion bull.
From the waters leaped a scrag. Darthoridan stared in horrified awe as the creature rose to its full height. Nearly ten feet tall, the sea troll was armored by thick, gray-and-green mottled hide as well as an odd chain mail vest fashioned of shells. The strange armor clanked ominously as the scrag lifted its massive hands for the attack.
Darthoridan instinctively leaped back. Tall though he was, his arm and sword combined could never match the scag's reach. The creature's knuckles nearly dragged the ground, and though it held no weapons, its talons were formidable. If the scrag got hold of him, it would shred him as it had no doubt slain the Sea elf girl.
The elf raised Sea-Riven into a defensive position and waited for the first attack. Darting forward, the scrag took a mighty, openhanded swipe at the elf. Darthoridan ducked under the blow, spinning away from the troll. He lifted the sword high overhead and brought it down hard on the troll's spindly, still-outstretched arm. The elven blade bit hard and deep, and the severed forearm fell to lie twitching on the sand.
Darthoridan dashed the spray of ichor from his face and lifted Sea-Riven again. Just in time-the scrag came on in a frenzy, its massive jaws clicking as it gibbered with pain and rage. Its one remaining hand lunged for the elf's throat. Darthoridan managed to slap the creature's hand out wide, then he dived between the scrag's legs and rolled up onto his feet.
Marshalling all his strength, the young elf gripped his sword as he might hold an axe, screaming out an incoherent battle cry as he swung at the back of the creature's leg.
Sea-Riven connected hard; the scrag toppled and went down. Now it was Darthoridan's turn at frenzy-his sword flashed in the dying light as it rose and fell again and again. As he chopped his foe into bits, he kicked or flung the gory pieces as far as his strength allowed. The troll could heal itself, but the task would be longer and more difficult if it had to gather its scattered parts.
