Listen, children, to the tales of old. The foolishness of aerkind has only been matched by the foolishness of their creators, who have nearly destroyed themselves time and time again over their views of the gods. This world once glowed with the light of the aershaa, from shore to shore, until aerkind itself nearly extinguished it's own flame...It has been over 100 cycles since the end of the last great war, the one sung to the skies as the war of Moon and Flame. No aershaa was without their opinion, no aershaa was without hatred in their hearts, and no aershaa was left unscarred by the claws and blades that painted the land red. This war had lasted nearly what man would call a century, for there was no breath of agreement in any race. The sunborn believed it to be the final cleansing. A great prophet of their alliance; a fire by the name of Elzeron, claimed to have S'feena visit him in a vision, asking him to call the pure ones to arms and to rid the drey of the moonborn at last. Even the waters, now a peaceful, gentle race, sharpened their fangs and tailblades on every stone across the land. No one had suspected the treachery of the great leader of the Nightstalkers of their time, a dark called Varz, and his powerful means of convincing others of his fabricated visions. It was his preparation for his own great vision of the future; a radical idea of the world being flattened and reborn to serve Khan. Rivers of blood were to be formed to quench the Great Tongue, and fields of meat laid out to feed his endless hunger. In it's own dreadful way, their dreams were to come true, as the bodies of sunborn and moonborn alike were strewn across the fields, their blood constantly dying the rivers red.
This was the era when everything was lost. The draians, a new, young race once said to be a sign of hope and peace, locked themselves away in the rainforests of Sereven, in protection from the foolish giants and the panicked two-legs. The lights, then sunborn and so tied up in their own furies, forgot what it was to love, to dance, to mate - their numbers dwindled, and their gifts became naught but tools of battle; the changing of shapes to be stronger, faster, and more lethal. The peace once formed with man was now lost to tales and truth of fear, the man-stories of demons in the wilderness spreading like wildfire, and the open hunting of aerkind flourishing to protect what was theirs. The furrs that did not fight remained safely in their villages, believing the war to be a sign of the angered gods of which the aershaa were messengers. Prayer and praise out of fear became a constant, and bonded warriors were considered saints.
It seemed it would never end. But the anger and fury of millions died over time, like the ancient tree withers and falls. Some say the war never truly ended, for the same battles over the same stories still continue, but the fields are o longer stained. Many forgot the reason they were fighting. Many grew to not care. The lights themselves stripped their blades and made a pact with their kin to war no longer. The ancient waters and powerful mages of Listhrea erected a great barrier, etched deep within the drey itself, that would forever flow the feeling of peace inward, and the feeling of repulsion outward to give a safe-haven for all that entered. Truly, the war was like a dying flame with no more fuel to burn with.
But even the weakest flame can be rekindled...