The El’koryn Age, named by and for its people, was the first true song in the orchestra that is our history. It was in this chapter that we mortals—though still young and fragile—first began to wield the same power that had shaped the Realms.

Ah, the El’koryn. Their story is both triumph and tragedy, brilliance and blindness all at once. They were meant to be the bridges, vessels through which Energy could flow back into the Realm more swiftly. They were brilliant, graceful, keen-eyed, and shorter-lived than either Dragons or Giants, but longer-lived than any mortal species that followed. The El’koryn were the first true mortals of purpose; their hands built, their voices sang, and their curiosity would prove both their glory and their undoing.

One must remember, dear reader, that the El’koryn did not rise in some empty field with the sun at their backs and a clean slate before them. No — they were born in a Realm already thunderous with wings, already shaken by the tread of Giants, already bustling with the clever industry of Kobolds. Their first words were shaped in imitation of Dragon-speech, their first songs echoed the titanic choruses that rolled from mountaintops. To a fledgling people, every Dragon was a patron or predator, every Kobold a rival or ally, every Giant a reminder of the burdens that came with size, but also a lesson in adaptation. The El’koryn did what all mortals do best: they borrowed, they blended, and they believed they could do it better. And for a time, perhaps, they were right.

It was during this Age that one of the greatest—and most dangerous—discoveries was made: magic! At first, it was only a whisper in the dark — a candle sputtering against the void. But soon the whisper became a chorus, and the El’koryn began to pluck at the very strings of creation itself. Courts and colleges soon resounded with the cacophony of would-be mages mastering these new arts. Now, this is the part where some historians drone on about technique, structure, or control. I, Tobias Elanor, being a Bard of exquisite taste, prefer the story over the lecture: from this tumult rose Zatina Korvaelis, yes that Zatina, the one and only Goddess of Magic (and a personal idol of mine).

As the old saying goes: absolute power corrupts absolutely; forcing Zatina's hand when one of her closest companions, Serath Kaelthorien, grew drunk on this newfound power and began abusing it and all those around him. Naturally, push came to shove and Serath crossed one too many lines. In defense of kith and kin, Zatina clashed with Serath, and what a spectacle that must've been! Two of the most powerful mages of their time slinging spells hither and thither in a desperate bid to be the victor; had I only been there to witness the beauty, the power, the mastery—but also the devastation, one would be remiss to exclude that from this epic tale. All we have to go on is a legend passed down through the eons that their epic clash created the crater that would become Filora's beautiful lake. Unfortunately for the curious among us, Zatina is rather tight-lipped about the whole ordeal, and one can't fully blame her. But what we know for sure is that when the dust settled, Zatina stood alone amongst the rubble and ash, claiming a bittersweet victory.

For her courage, restraint, and prowess, she was approached by none other than Onni and offered the title, honor, and privilege of donning the mantle of Goddess of Magic. She had seen, firsthand, the ruin that unchecked power could sow. Thus, her acceptance of the mantle was not triumph, but necessity. Her charge was not one of indulgence, but restraint: to teach, to regulate, to temper power with wisdom. (A lesson, I note, many still struggle to remember to this day). From that day on, the El'koryn walked tall with fire in their hearts.

But fire can divide as much as it illuminates, and in time, their unity faltered. Some drew inward, seeking ever-greater mastery of magic and eternity in the unblinking gaze of Solis. They called themselves the Sun El’koryn, convinced they were climbing closer to divinity. Others embraced the moons' fleeting beauty, dancing in their light, living fully and freely, believing death to be part of Ikozra’s intended rhythm. They became the Moon El’koryn, philosophers and wanderers. And still others turned their gaze outward, to the sea and its uncharted depths, where mystery always beckons and enlightenment hides in the most unlikely of places. These were the Sea El’koryn, bold explorers who learned to breathe beneath the waves—if only for a time. Three visions, three paths, and though they still called themselves one people, the cracks were plain to see.

They endured for well over ten thousand years, but endurance alone could not heal Gaiaxia. For all their brilliance, the El'koryn held their note too long in the great symphony of Gaiaxia, so long that the song around them faltered. Gaiaxia still weakened. And so Ikozra tried once more, shaping yet another people: the Dweorgas, whose shorter lives and ceaseless work would give back to the Realm what Dragons, Giants, and El’koryn could not. Though the Dweorgas would not be the only peoples to rise in the coming Age, countless more would add their voices to Gaiaxia's choir, creating much of the diverse peoples we know today. For this Age would become known among scholarly circles as the Age of Divergence. But that, dear reader, is a tale I shall save for my next entry.

As faithful to truth as a bard can manage, Yours, ever truly, — Tobias Elanor, Bard, Scholar, Explorer Extraordinaire

© DracTheDrake