Every elf carries inside themselves a fragment of the long-dead god Lash, the Hungry Dark, the Ashes of the Sun, the dust of the grave, the blood of betrayal. Long ago Lash was splintered by its siblings, and hidden away to prevent the reawakening which will end everything. Unfortunately, memories and records are fallible, and the elves forgot what they should not have forgotten.

 

Splinters call to each other. Individually they are weak, easily defeated by the will of their bearer, but when gathered together they begin to become more than the sum of their parts. In the empty places, you can still see the ruins of the citadels: they were so beautiful, before the lash fell.

 

Out of the tide of blood which swept away the old elven kingdoms came two distinct philosophies, still at war hundreds of years later. The elves of the sun fled weeping from each other and scattered, terrified and determined to not repeat their mistake. Others, the dark ones, said that was bullshit: when a god erupts from your soul, this is a sign of divine favour, and that's not something to be abandoned for some petty 'morality’. They remained in the broken heart of the kingdom, regretting nothing, repenting nothing, hunting their cousins and delighting in their fear.

 

This is not a conflict that can be resolved. This is the Curse.