When Silas the Sunseeker led his follower across the Endless Expanse, fleeing the Maltari and their inquisitors' pyres, it was only after a long and grueling voyage that, with their last breath they made landfall near Leothora at dawn. The isles were bleak, windswept rocks, but they were a refuge, a new home to the prophet and his people.
But they found these lands were already claimed by someone other than them. It was a spot at the outermost edge of the realm of the Alvae, a lithe, gray-skinned, white-haired and long-lived people who held dominion over most the known lands of the new continent. High King Aldwênnuin on his throne of ivory and ebony welcomed Silas' people, giving them aid and shelter and the isles they had landed to live on. Little did he know that his generosity would bring ruin to his people and the world he knew.
Humans are a short-lived lot, especially to an Alvae. But Silas' people bred quickly, and when his great-grandson ascended to the throne on the First Isles, the rocky shores could no longer sustain the people he commanded. Aldwênnuin still bore the silver crown of the Alvae when Saleras Sunseeker, 4th King of Dawn came ashore near what now is Silas' Orchard, an army wielding iron and steel behind him. For the Alvae, for all their knowledge, wisdom and might, the touch of iron was like poison, and warriors clad in leather, wielding the finest bronze weapons craftsmen could forge stood little chance against such an army. But Alvae Spellsingers and Bonedancers brought the first advance to a standstill in a four day long slaughter on what is now the Bloodgrass Plains.
But it was only the first phase in a very long war that drove the Alvae ever more eastwards and saw their formerly gentle character become hard and twisted.
First, they created the Scortalves by perverting the essence of dying Alvae, hoping that the twisted creations immunity to the curse of iron would win them the war. But the Scortalves were but dim reflections of their source, weaker, less intelligent. Later, the Spellsingers tried the same idea anew, but this time they mixed the essence of Alvae and captive men. Thus the Cerenalvae where born. Void of the failures of the Scortalves they still proved a deadly disappointment to their makers.
For three centuries the Alvae fought a losing war. It was at this point that Aldwênnuin, old and tired even for an Alvae, accepted the suggestion of a young, ambitious Spellsinger by the name of Mâllagon. The West was a festering wound, Mâllagon argued, and if one could not rescue a limb one had to cut it out. The sacrifice of some had to save the future of many. So he gathered the best and most powerful of the Spellsingers, and together they began to sing the Êallor enn Roonarok, the song to end the world. The earth tore open. Fire spew from the chasms, and clouds of ash darkened the sky up to the shores of the Dawn Sea. The Forodduin swelled, fueled by foul magic, while at the same time giant floods rushed in from the sea. Lands shattered and sank. Tens of thousands died beneath the waves or in the fires, unknowing that it was their very lifes' essence that allowed Mâllagon to fuel his deed. To the east of the devastation the same magic worked, but quietly. Trees that otherwise needed decades to grow sprouted from the ground, covering fertile lands and Alvae homesteads alike.
When Mâllagon was done, a zone of death and devastation of hundreds of miles had created an impassable barrier for any invader. It is said that when Aldwênnuin saw what his spellsinger had done, he wept for seven days and nights before he took his own life. But none of this is known to the descendants of Silas the Sunseeker, for five hundred years have passed since.
Muir Logainn and other ruins in the Quiet Marshes still tell of the Alvae's wealth and power, and many of the larger cities in the Six Realms are built on Alvae foundations. The Quiet Marshes mark the eastern extent of the Six Realms. Nobody has ever crossed them and returned, just as no ship has ever sailed back from the Widow's Tears...