The Days of Gleir Rathwen
On the steep Tywili Cliffs, Bayala Tirin saw her city built. A glory it was, open to the four winds, the stars of all the heavens, and the heaving breast of the sea. And so it was called Gleir Rathwen, starlight over-sea. There artisans wrought marvelous crafts, farmers tilled the plains, hunters hunted, and fishermen went down in coracles and skiffs to ply the strait.
But the fissure of the Durek axe ran ever deep, and one day Anathon, Gleir Rathwen's greatest mage, grew weary of the bustle and noise. His eyes stayed, as Tirin's had done, to the Spirerock, and he resolved that there he should make his home. Disciples who wished to learn from him soon followed, and word spread wide of the marvelous city - and the hermit mages who dwelled nearby but apart.
Had he and his pupil stayed: had they not been proud: had they cared for our people, perhaps they would have seen Gleir Rathwen's Fate and warned us, Anathon's hauteur and folly cost us dearly, for our first city was appointed its hour and day to end, no matter that our Goddess loved it, still. Anathon turned his gaze, and none knew the terrible storm that came from the south. None knew until the day a hunter staggered through the open gates, wounded mortally, and told of the rolling Horde. An army of Jottun-kind, thundering through the land, moving northward, crushing all in their path. Closing in on beloved Gleir Rathwen.
The wearing was too late, and our kindred were ill-prepared. Before they could fully arm themselves the Jottun horde had come. Many bravely fought, and many bravely died on the Night of the Falling Stars. At last, our will was broken and those who remained fled to the Spirerock, seeking refuge and protection from might of Anathon and his pupils who tossed the seas into a foamy rage the Jottun could not cross. Barred from finishing their work, they set about destroying Gleir Rathwen. When dawn had come, Bayala Tirin's first city lay in smoldering ruins.
Out of shame and tears, Anathon made a home to all who lived upon his rock. Stone was carved and tunnels dug. A place of worship dedicated upon the spire-top itself to Lyria, who gives all their fate, and takes all away. This was the day Gleir Rathwen fell, and Rathir was born.