It was a radiant day. The wind moved the leaves of the trees that surrounded the village of Beinn An Lar, commonly known as Beinn, a quiet and unknown locality to most of the population of the peaceful kingdom of Sìth. Sunlight filtered through the leaves as farmers worked hard in the einkorn fields. Einkorn, one of the earliest cultivated forms of grain, was very easy to grow and had saved most of the population during a famine. Life for the villagers was surely not easy, but at least they survived.
In the late afternoon, after a night of revelry, a young elf named Breacag woke up, yawning and stretching in his bed. As he shifted, the blankets slipped off and tumbled to the ground. A moment later, noticing how late it was, his ears pricked up, and his eyes widened like those of a Cabar spotting a predator.
"Fuck!" he cursed, leaping out of bed. He scrambled to get dressed, bracing himself for the freezing cold waiting outside. Struggling to pull on his pants, he hopped awkwardly toward the kitchen, grabbing a piece of dried meat and shoving it into his mouth before bolting for the door.
Just as he stepped outside, his father greeted him with a sharp slap to the back of the neck—a well-earned scolding for waking up so late and for leaving the kitchen in disarray after a night of fun with his friends.
"You know we need to gather a lot of wood—not just to light our fireplace, but to sell to the rest of the village! Move it, and don't be a leisgn!" his father scolded, referring to a local animal known for being incredibly slow and lazy. The leisgn was never hunted, as its meat spoiled remarkably quickly—sometimes in less than a minute after death.
As Breacag gathered wood from the ground, something unusual caught his eye near a small tree—a plate? There, embedded in the soil, was a peculiar plate made of what looked like brass or a similar material. Breacag, despite having explored this forest thousands of times, had never seen anything like it.
The plate was inscribed with unreadable text, written in an incomprehensible style that resembled dwarven script. Though Breacag was only 300 years old—a mere child by elven standards—this discovery seemed like something no one in the world had ever encountered before.
Just as he decided to rush home to tell his father, he tripped over a branch. Or so he thought. Upon closer inspection, he realized it wasn't a branch at all but an arm—a clenched fist reaching out from the ground!
Overcome with fear and confusion, Breacag let out a scream as he watched an elf—or rather, a short-eared elf—rise from the earth. The stranger wore two circular glass lenses over his eyes and had strange curly hair, an extremely rare trait among elves, whose hair was almost always long and straight.
The strange creature turned toward the bewildered Breacag, its peculiar eyes glinting behind the circular glass lenses. With a voice that resonated with both authority and mystery, it announced the words that would soon alter the fate of the world:
"PERMANENT REVOLUTION!"