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Shortsighted paper kings, usurping and undermining, slaughtering and savaging, until there is hardly any land left fit to rule. Until they’ve reduced everything to ash, stripped away any beauty Anwyvn once possessed.
“And, for the record, being raised with tenderness is not a fatal flaw.”
To annihilate a race, you must do more than kill its people. You must kill its music, its artwork, its architecture. Its customs, its traditions, its religions. You must eradicate the beauty, so only horror remains in the memories of those who live on in the aftermath. So no one attempts to rebuild—or even remembers why they might ever want to.
