What can I say? I thought everyone had read the Narnia books.
The Aielwood has been home to elves for generations, which for elven kind is long indeed. For the entire length of its existence, it has been ruled by the Children of Aielvar, descendants of the wise half-dragon half-elven queen who bound the fractious tribes of the Aielwood to her. It is peaceful, except for the occasional incursion of the dwarven barbarians, and even those are almost ritual in nature.
Well, perhaps not so ritual to the dwarves, who are reported to be slowly dying in their mountain fastness, but the elves do not care about them.
There are ruins beneath the loamy topsoil of the Aielwood. These ruins are breached only by brave young elves, and only very recently. The first breach was the most exciting thing to happen in elven society for a thousand years. Inside, there were monsters, and treasures, and rare artworks of surpassing beauty. As is the elven way, the art was considered the most valuable, with the thrill of the danger posed by the monsters a close second. Treasure is for dwarves.
The PCs are young elves, ruin-delvers, strutting proud in the nature-formed avenues of the wood with alien gewgaws brought back from the ruins tied in their hair. All is bright joy and sudden danger and the thrill of an extended life risked.
And then, and then…
And then there is a rumor that a warped child has been born to the Children of Aielvar. There is a rumor, only whispered in the corners of the Aielwood, that the oracles have said he will die in threescore and ten years. And there is a rumor that he, unlike any other elf ever known, can create new art.
These rumors are a fire, and the well-arranged formulae of society are its fuel. When perfection is damaged from within, the surface reflects the center. A shadowy figure — perhaps even a dwarf, or worse, a monstrous fullblood dragon out of legend — wishes to hire the PCs to retrieve the child.
“You will save your kind. And redeem mine.”