The origin of species and the concept of evolution are no great mystery, especially among the elder races who were present to witness the process firsthand. They observed how the younger proto-races, over multiple generations, adapted to overcome the selective pressures culling their numbers. In most cases, the elder races themselves were those pressures.

When questioned on the matter of elven evolution, and how such a smorgasbord of exotic variants came to exist, from wood elves to drow to elves of the sea and more, elves will reply dismissively. “Oh, we don’t do that any more. We got that out of the way eons ago.” This is partially true. Their birth rates are too low and their generations too long for them to adapt through crude trial and error, so instead they evolve in person.

At random, roughly every two hundred years or so, an elf will enter a fey mood, the crysalium. If their body senses threats or changes in its environment, it will undergo a process of metamorphosis to fit it. If confined underground, for example, their eyes will adopt night vision (at the cost of day blindness). Dietary and behavioural changes are common, but the changes can be drastic, spawning bizarre new organs or spiderlike appendages.

Within elven society, the process is deeply embarrassing, equivalent to an awkward puberty, and feared for its potential to lock them in grotesque forms or for them to be shunned by their communities following the change. To avoid triggering the process, elven society champions stagnancy over all else. “High elves,” the most useless of all variants, are considered the pinnacle of elven evolution, as they will only spawn in settlements that have maintained comfortable stability over thousands of years.

If an elf senses the change approaching, they will retreat to a place of dull security to see it through. More often, however, it comes without any warning at all.