The command from their Gods echoed in the hearts of the Elves, resonating as both an honor and a heavy burden. A feverish construction began in the Elven shipyards to execute their deities' will. The sound of carpenters' hammers and axes rang day and night through the ancient forests that had slept in tranquility for generations. Yet, the Elves' mastery over the woods and rivers led to a bitter lesson when it met the endless, merciless fury of the ocean.
The first ships built, though swift and graceful, were reduced to mere kindling against the colossal waves of the open sea. The fate of the initial fleets was sealed by fragments of wreckage washed ashore and the painful tales etched onto the scarred hulls of the few vessels that managed to return. Some came back with torn sails and broken masts, the bottomless terror of the ocean visible in the eyes of the crew. The rest were lost forever in the cold waters of the sea, leaving behind only mourning and disappointment.
But the Elves did not yield. This failure sharpened their resolve rather than deterred them. For thirty full years, the Elves' brightest minds and most skilled artisans devoted themselves to this singular goal. Every failure was transformed into a lesson, every piece of broken wood into the foundation of a stronger design. They built new ships, each one more durable, larger, and more magnificent than the last. At the end of three decades, the fleet waiting in the harbors of Qualar were no longer fragile attempts, but floating fortresses ready to defy the ocean's wrath.
These new vessels were monuments to Elven engineering and resolve. With lengths reaching forty meters, beams of ten meters, and keels four meters submerged, they sliced through the waves like a knife. Their bows and rudder systems were armored with forged iron plates to withstand the fiercest storms and unknown reefs. Two colossal mainmasts proudly rose amidships, and a smaller mizzenmast fixed to the stern carried three sails. When these sails filled, each ship achieved the power to carry two hundred souls and provisions for months from Qualar to Ethralis in as little as two months' time.
When this armada of 250 vessels anchored in Qualar harbor, it transformed the horizon into a forest of wood and canvas. Yet, this wooden forest was not enough on its own. To conquer the destined lands and enforce the will of the gods upon those savage realms, there was a need for steel and blood. Warriors were required; determined, fearless, and skilled warriors.
The Elven leaders, descended from the ancient tribal chiefs and now calling themselves noble Houses, gathered in the Hall of the Starlight Council. The air in the hall, amidst walls adorned with the pale portraits of their ancestors and ancient runes, was almost palpable with tension. The House leaders sitting around the table governed the continent as a council, and now a historic decision stood before them: who would join this perilous voyage? Earlier scout vessels had determined the location of the destined lands and drawn superficial maps, yet Ethralis remained a place veiled in mystery and rife with unknown dangers. Hesitation, born of this high-risk, high-reward proposition, was etched on the faces of the House leaders. It was a gamble blessed by a divine command, and no one dared to open the first card. Furthermore, the certainty of the promised gain was unknown. A deep, expectant silence hung over the hall.
This suffocating silence was broken by Elandor Veythakar, with a sharp sound like a sword drawn from its sheath. The young leader, with his sharp jawline and burning eyes, leapt to his feet.
"Four thousand warriors! The House of Veythakar shall send four thousand warriors! And I myself shall set foot upon those lands at their head!" he roared. His voice cut through the air of hesitation like a bolt of lightning.
The House of Veythakar was neither the largest nor the wealthiest. But Elandor's ambition and his unshakeable devotion to the gods covered these deficiencies. To him, new lands meant not merely resources and wealth, but becoming part of a divine destiny. The dream of making his House one of the masters of this new world set the blood in his veins afire.
Elandor's daring move spurred the others into action. The larger and mightier Houses, in particular, could not allow a lesser House to take prominence at this historic moment. Valtherion Dravakar, the leader of the mighty House of Dravakar, with his long black hair streaked with grey, rose slowly and spoke in a deep voice that resembled the rumbling of a mountain:
"The House of Dravakar shall send fourteen thousand warriors!"
This was both a pledge of fealty and a blatant display of power. Valtherion's words had the effect of a dam breaking after the first crack. The other House leaders, fueled by the fire of competition, rose one after another, beginning to announce the number of warriors they would commit. Some Houses joined the voyage with a few thousand warriors, while the more cautious ones chose to send a few hundred. Whispers, calculations, and final resolutions quickly turned the council hall into a marketplace.
The five months following the meeting were one of the most intense periods of preparation in Qualar's history. The sound of hammers rose from the shipyards, the clang of armor from the blacksmiths' forges. Warriors were gathered, weapons and armor donned, and the ships' holds were filled with enough provisions for a voyage and war lasting months.
Finally, that day came. The preparations were complete. As dawn broke, the colossal fleet weighed anchor from the harbor. The sails of hundreds of ships filled with wind simultaneously, like the blooming of a giant flower. The prayers and tears of those who stayed behind mingled with the determination on the faces of the departing and the excitement of the unknown. The "Dawn of Destiny" fleet majestically sailed toward Dawn Isle, their first stop and forward outpost. This island was the last safe harbor used by the smaller scout vessels to rest and repair before traversing the ocean.