"Enough!" Slamming his hand down on the table the king brought
immediate silence to the bickering elves. "Enough of this
useless accusing, blaming and complaining. Are we duergar or
drow to be giving short sight to the problem? To be talking as
any one of us would have it this way if we could choose? No!
I have heard enough and now we must decide what to do about it."
Sitting back down again the King exhaled deeply, and for a
moment his 1,130 years showed on his face, the lines which so
rarely appear on true elves showing deep and etched, a mark of
the troubled times.

"Majesty, as we all know, for years so-called adventurers of
foreign lands in Thera have come to hone their skills by killing
our people, our merchants, even my own guardsmen who are
charged with protecting our fair Darsylon. For years we have
seen our people slaughtered and our trade dry up as we fail to
stop wave after wave of these dark brutes. But our bickering
here discussing who did what and when gets us nowhere as you
rightly say, and so I say we must turn now to a new path. All of
our efforts have been fruitless. We must, I say, think outside
of all normal patterns and determine some new path, a completely
new idea. Only this will bring safety and peace back to our
lands." Sitting down, the Captain of the Guards kept his back
straight and his eyes steely as he challenged each of the wise
councillors around the table to dispute his words. None did.

Moments go by. Longer than any human or felar, arial or dwarf
would feel comfortable with, but barely considered long by elf
standards. Finally, the only elf older than the king, the high
wizard Vorilotirantharas rose from his chair, shaking off the
hands of the pages behind him. "I'm not so old I can't lift
myself from my chair!" he was heard to mumble. Fixing his
bright eyes on each of the elves around the table he spoke
quietly but clearly: "There is a way." Pausing, not to create
greater interest but instead as though he gave one last, final
consideration to the plan he was about to propose, the mage
continued. "There is a way. We have discovered magic which
will make our warriors more than mere fighters, more than mere
defenders. Truly, more than mere mortals. With elves such as
those that the magic will create, our people would be able to
rest safely in their homes, and once again the trade of all
lands would find a home here in our Grand Marketplace." One
final pause, then, bowing his head. Looking up he finishes.
"But there is a price. A terrible price. To work, the magic
must be begun within hours of birth. The baby must be taken
from the mother and the rituals must begin. Each day the ritual
must be continued, each day and without falter. No life outside
of the magical infusions and the martial training can be had.
They will be cut off, abandoned, considered dead. They must
have no contact with anyone other than their instructors and
those of the magical arts who tend the spells."

A moment to let this horrible fate sink in to the listeners.

"There is more. The magic works, in part, by unleashing inner
rage, inner animosity which is alien to most of our kind. These
soldiers will become what other elves abhor. They will be more
akin to the duerg or drow we fight than to other elves. And,
finally, they will be very difficult to control. Each of them
will be a force beyond anything you have seen before, anything
you have heard of before. It will be near impossible to keep
them from doing as they wish, and if they one day wish to turn
upon us, we would be hard pressed to stop them." Lowering
himself into his chair, the sorcerer nodded to himself, as
though assuring himself he did the right thing in offering this
option.

"The question then," said the King, "is what can we do to ensure
these enhanced warriors maintain enough of our elvish mind,
enough of the integrity we need, to keep them on our side once
they are free to act on their own?"

"I believe I know a way, my King." From the back of the room
comes a voice seldom heard in these meetings. It is the voice
of an old priest, one in robes worn only by one elf at a time.
The robes of the former Lord of Honor, Cador. "My Lord may
be gone from these realms, but his teachings remain. Here is
my suggestion, my Lords. With each daily ritual of magic, with
each lesson on how to swing a sword, with each instruction of
tactics and strategy, instill in these soon to be powerful
fighters the virtue of Honor. Make each breath they take a
breath of Honor. Make Honor their food, their drink, their
soul. Then, and only then, will you be sure that the powers
and strengths you give them will forever remain in service to
the good of Darsylon and it's people. Then we will know that
these supreme fighters will fight for us, not against us."
Turning, the old priest exited the chamber, his work done.

Looking around the table, the King stared each person in the
eyes, looking for agreement or dissent. Slowly but surely he
received a nod from each and every person sitting at the table.
Looking over to the wizard then, he said quietly, "So let it be
done."

The babies were taken. Each had been given a foreign name, a
non-elvish name, to set them apart from those they would one day
protect. No family or social ties would be allowed to cloud the
minds of the tools they were to become. Each was told they were
orphaned, and each was told their parents had died from raiders
and pillagers coming into Darsylon. Thus was a life of honor
and service started with a lie.

One hundred years pass. The wizardry and magical rituals
had been done and the schooling, both in martial ability and in
a life of honor, has been completed. All that remains is the
final binding, the day of graduation as the young men and women
had come to call it. With the final spell, the fighters would
unlock the special gifts that had been growing in them, the
gifts which until now had only been useable when a mage was
present to turn them on, so to speak. Now, those powers would
become a permanent and always present part of each. It was the
culmination of their lives to date.

Standing among his fellows, Darmok felt excitement, energy and,
truth be told, some nervousness. Not nervous that he would fail
to act as he should or that he would not live up to the high
standards he had been drilled with, but rather nervousness that
he would no longer be surrounded by the others. Soon he would
be alone among other elves, a people he belonged to in name, but
whom he had never seen, never walked among, never spoken to.
But he would not only do so, he would thrive. This he promised
himself. And he would protect them, and keep his people safe.
No enemy would come again and ravage _his_ lands.

The High Wizard took his place, his hands holding the staff and
scroll which together with his words formed the last part of the
spell, the culmination of magicwork of a hundred years. Raising
his arms above his head, brandishing the staff, he began the
words. As his voice uttered the first sentence, the doors to
the chamber burst open and in flowed a band of ugly, vile
brutes. Warriors, deathmagi of the necromancer guild and
fighter magi of the antipaladin guild stormed into the room.
With the last spell still unspoken, Darmok and his fellows were
excellently trained men and women, but of no special power or
quickness. Their reflexes were still mortal. Turning, they
sought to fight, unarmed, the marauders. But before any of them
could engage, a bow was lifted, an arrow was shot, and a small
groan was heard. Collapsing, the final spell unspoken, the
High Wizard looked down at the arrow piercing his chest. With
a look of horrible sadness in his eyes, he closed his eyes, and
died. A terrible fight ensued and most of Darmok's comrades
were slain, but in the end they killed each and every one of the
invaders. But it was too late. With the High Wizard went the
only elf who knew the final words. The spell, now, could never
be complete.

Ten years pass. Darmok and the few other survivors have been
living in the barracks with other guards. They know nothing
of daily elfin life, and they are shunned by all normal elves.
Without the final spell, their powers remain forever gone, but
the rage inside them, the anger and the war they seek is still
a part of them. But they are powerless to fulfill the call.
It is only the Honor which was equally bred in them which keeps
them going every day, every hour, working to defend their lands
as simple regular guards, but without the simple comforts of
family, friends, or any belonging at all.
Rather than continue to live in this world of pain and lonliness
two of the surviving experiments killed themselves. Darmok,
feeling instead he had a different path, became surer and surer
that it had been the poor wisdom of the magi that led to this
horrible fate. He had not even had a choice! Taken as a babe he
was molded by their magic. He understood the need, and could
accept the idea of sacrifice of one for a greater good. But the
one who sacrifices should make the choice, not have it made for
him! And, worse still, to have the sacrifice made, and then not
be able to fulfill it because the magi could not do as they said
they would do, that was the final straw.

With a heavy heart he resolved to prevent this from occurring
in the future. Sad though he would be when he faces goodly
beings, he would fight the greater battle, that against all
magic, to ensure that the poor wisdom of mortals - even the
wisest, most long lived ones, the elves - did not again betray
those who suffer such fates. Leaving Darsylon, for the first
time, he entered the wider lands of thera. And began his search
for the village of warriors who shared his desire to rid all
thera of magic and preserve it for the Gods. He began his
search for the Battleragers. From them he might learn new
tactics even his great teachers had not known. And to them he
would bring the honor, the courage and the integrity many claim
they lack. We shall see....