Documents & Lore

## Journals

Strange journal entries discovered across the globe, all seemingly from the same source. Written in an unknown language, these documents appear to be from a prehistoric time, before The Sundering.

### 585 CY, Winter

585 CY, Winter

            There is nothing like a common struggle to bring out the joviality within a group of old friends. I am confident, now more than ever, that in the space beyond exhaustion is brotherhood. This has, no doubt, proven to be the most arduous leg of our journey. Horrid cold and waist deep snows wrestle the nostalgia from these old bones. Those fond memories of adventures past were carried by a younger man’s knees. Our strange guide the only one seemingly unphased.

            Yet, as we pass the threshold into acceptance, the old ways resurface. Bigs harassing Yrag for wearing the cuirass of a man who hasn't spent the last two decades wining with court royals and watching his children grow surly. Yrag’s insisting his armor fits as well as it did twenty years ago, despite the alterations being plain for all to see. The subtle shift of Melf's measured breathing to gentle snores during her nightly meditations. It harkens to the old days, when our goals felt so clear, before the world changed, before the Obsidian Citadel was truly black. Even Callum, our grim leader, was not entirely immune. The compatriotism seemed to warm him somewhat, but there remained the look of reconciliation, a plaintive weight behind his face. The smile that touched his lips never reaching his eyes, and the berth between wide enough to sail a tragedy through.

            I have given up tracking time since we began this vile quest. The days are lost in this endless expanse of winter and its odd intervals of sunlight. Although, it could have been no more than a week since leaving Ten Towns that we reached Stone Hearth, a traveler’s respite set within a hillside cave that homed a Renewal Stone. When we entered, eager to wash the fatigue from our weary muscles, we were met by a pair of giant Sabercats who had taken refuge within.

            The creatures leapt for Yrag, who scrambled to loose his axe from its strap in vain, as I too began to let the arcane fill me. Yet, in half a breath, Callum twitched a finger and a great tearing sound screamed in the shallow roofed stone chamber as a pocket ripped in the fabric of reality itself, swallowing the beasts whole. Yrag too, was nearly lost when, with a shrug of his hand, Callum dismissed the anomaly. The hole faded to a faint shadow and slid away across the cave floor groaning as it went.  It was becoming ever more apparent that, as I had grown languorous in my life as a husband and father, Callum had delved deeper into the art, sought the stranger magics, and seen the further truths.

            It was less than a week later that our strange guide signaled our goal in sight. The Temple rose like a shadow from the icy white of the tundra. Its intricate stonework, carved from the black stones of the landscape, stark against the hoary white. Stout figures moved purposefully about the exterior. The strange ashen skinned dwarves Callum and the Presidium had enlisted to construct the place.

            As we were ushered inside, it became clear that something odd had come over the dwarven masons. The workmen we passed in the torch lined halls muttered to themselves, eyes fixed on the shadows as though something unseen lurked within. Their leader, a clan chief of some sort, was insistent that they delve deeper. A wickedness flashed across his face at Callum's rebuke that their work here had concluded.

            We were soon led to the keystone chamber, deep below the temple entrance. Much like the others we had visited, this room had the familiar feeling of pressure. The dais in the center of the cavernous chamber stood monolithic awaiting Callum’s touch. As he and the dwarven chief moved to the keystone, I turned to scan the movements of our escort, finding I was not alone in this. My old friends, all, creeping backwards into the center of the room eyeing the growing cohort of wild-eyed, dwarven masons blocking our exit. Yrag’s husky voice began to call out warning to Callum but was cut short by a guttural scream from behind. I turned in time to watch the dwarven chief bury a ragged blade in the stomach of Jezri, our strange guide, who had thrown himself between the dwarf and Callum. The dwarf let out another cry, and doubled in size, freeing its blade with a heave that sent Jezri sprawling onto the shrine before Callum, who was until now lost in the activation rites. It was at this point that I was forced to face the attackers before me and lost myself in the surge of battle.

            I feared we would be overwhelmed by sheer numbers when the room was suddenly consumed in absolute white and there was a screaming. The shrieking faces of the dwarves before me writhed in torment. I watched as their eyes burned away to perfect white. I turned to see Callum, hand outstretched, seemingly unconcerned with the dwarven blade now sprouting from his back. Before him, 10 feet in the air, the chief struggled wildly as Callum’s arcane weaves pealed him apart one layer of tissue at a time. But it was past them both that I found the source of the screaming.

            Callum had managed to open the perpendicularity, despite the dwarves attempt to stop him. And, in the shaft of pure white, Jezri hung, in silhouette, wailing in agony. I watched as he was torn into particulate and faded away like ashes. His screams carried by the energy that transfers between planes, lingered far after his body was gone. A sound that haunts my old bones like this northern cold.

            The light died down to the familiar dull prismatic glow of a nexus. Callum dipped his head and took in a breath. Slowly the blade slid itself from his back and clattered to the stone floor. He bade us make ready to leave. I caught him by the arm and asked of the boy, our guide. Too long a moment passed before he seemed to grasp the poor lad’s fate. “He would have only been a liability moving forward,” Callum replied. I attempted to express my discomfort with the way things were unfolding and he pulled my hand free and held my gaze. “Chaos lies in the heart of our orderly universe,” he said to me, as though that should explain. Callum turned into the portal that formed behind him, revealing a grassy field, and moved on never doubting we would follow.

            One by one we filtered through after him, another step closer to our ultimate destination, the ivory coasts of Peloran. Callum moved with a predator’s gate, the unwavering step of a hunter, the solemn confidence of the man who would kill god.

### Spring

            I believe that it is no mere coincidence that our travels led us to the island home of the quirky Locath directly before the grim affair that lied ahead. Whether through reluctance, or the understanding that our morale would be need of a reprieve after the biting cold of the north. Regardless, the fiery disposition of the fish folk thawed our dispositions and drew us out after the horrors we faced under the northern temple. Their reef-bound city shimmered with every shade of pastel under wave-bent light. I couldn’t help but think of little Cora and how she would love to recreate it with her little paints. Even now, at the quivering end of it all, when I reflect upon our time there, I see it rendered in splotches of pink and blue watercolor, guided by the unsteady hand of a child. Though, it was not just the pleasure of their company or their rainbow halls that makes me reluctant to move on. This next in our series of temples, turned the stomach and left me longing for home. But it is these thoughts of home that reminded me of why we undertook this grim affair.

East…

            East into the acid fields, and through the rotten woods. These blasted lands left over by the last war; torn asunder by the wicked, arcane atrocities we all shared in to bring that vile conflict to an end. A distinct and perverse darkness creeps upon you there, light moves as it shouldn’t. And Callum, himself, the worst of it. For this is where she fell and where last he held her. And here, where this quest truly began. For all his noble words of safeguarding the world for future generations, we knew that, for Callum, this was revenge. And it boiled from him, rippling the air in his wake.

            Our new guide, Tchazzar, was a harder sort than our last. Something wicked in the twist of her smile that I couldn’t find a way to trust. Though, when I think upon the fate of our last guide, perhaps it was this wickedness that served her better. Regardless, I would take his strange obsession with regional cheeses over her rasping laugh any day. It was nearly worth the detour, to see her shrink at the gaze of Old Baba, Natasha’s adoptive mother, an otherwise distasteful experience. I am reminded that in all his cold calculating, Callum is in many ways the most sentimental of us all. Rary and Leomond chose to guard the door rather than face the old crone. A more frightful experience than the very throne of death for which we searched.

### The Beginning, 20 years ago

            In the waning light of Selune, she strode across the soft loam of the battlefield, something predatory in her feminine gate. Heeled boots drawing up moisture with each step. Her hat, wide brimmed and pointed, sat just off-center, hiding her eyes. The mark in the shape of a bird’s claw visible on her cheek, her lips a vicious smile. She stalked like a hunter across a field of carrion, hungry for fresh game. Never had the self-ordained ‘Witch Queen’ entered a room that did not belong to her. The ravaged fields of the Extinction War were no exception.

            An attacker leapt for her unprotected back, only to freeze, quivering, mid flight. He slowly rolled forward through the air until his face was level with hers.

"My death will be another victory in the eyes of my master, for every living thing is an abomination in the eyes of The Reaper," said the man, through drawn lips.

            “Well, we can’t have that then, can we?” she replied. There was a squelched sound, as air swarmed in to fill the space that was once filled with a large man. A toad fell to the ground.

            The toad hopped around helplessly, as though unfamiliar in its own skin. A laugh that rose like a cackle faded into the distance as the woman continued south. The direction of the great tree, who’s top disappeared into the midnight sky.

            Such is an account I cobbled together from the addled minds of those few who survived the fields that night. Memories of any apocalypse are spotty at best, and oft lend themselves to grandeur and speculation as the event grows in our recollection. I’m not sure if that night could be exaggerated. What follows is an attempt to preserve the events against the fractures of time…

            As I picked at my day’s rations, high upon the bulwarks of our war camp, I saw great lines of power snap together at beacons in the wide valley below. They formed a magic circle, miles in diameter and although leagues away, my sorcerer’s eyes could see the arcane energy dance in the air of that space. A simple spell at an unheard-of scale. With a deafening crack, a form coalesced from the ether like a figure stepping through falling water. A man of impossible size, as great as creation itself, stood within the circle, face contorted in a look of disbelief that bled into pure hatred. It was undoubtedly The Enemy. My very bones cried for salvation at the mere sight of him. Then, a white and blinding light rose far on the southern horizon. Like a midnight sunrise, the world was illuminated and where the light touched him, the wretched god burst into flame. The light grew blinding and his screams unbearable. I lost consciousness at some point. When my faculties returned to me, an ashen husk, tall as a mountain, was all that remained within the circle, arms reaching to the heavens in disgust. As the distant light faded, I came to see that its source was Eradis, the world tree, its limbs engulfed in white flame.

            So, I sat for a time, as the corpse of a god-made-flesh stood illuminated by the burning of a sacred tree. A dark ash cloud spread across the sky. I felt the hair on my neck rise and the familiar scent of phosphorus hit my nose. My old friend put his hand on my shoulder.

            “Was it her?” I asked.

            “Has she not returned?”

            I watched his eyes search the horizon. His hair was still full then, his beard not yet trimmed to its iconic points. I knew we would go. I held my breath and shut my eyes. Without a word, Callum pulled me through the space between spaces.

            The heat singed my nostrils as I adjusted to the light. Ash drifted down upon a world bleached white by the porcelain flames above. I stood at the base of the tree that grew from the world’s heart and watched it burn. I will always be touched by how such a profane act could produce such radiance. I shuddered in ignorance of what this victory had truly cost us.

            Callum was already searching through the debris and fallen tree limbs. As I slid between falling branches and moved around unexpected gouts of flame, he battered away at every obstacle in his path. Where I have always leaned on having a bit of luck on my side, Callum has bent the world around him with sheer force of willpower. When, finally, I caught up to him, he was kneeling within a translucent dome of force, ash and debris building up around its perimeter. Upon testing its boundaries, I was allowed to pass. He knelt, motionless, next to the still body of a woman, features perfectly still, devoid of all color, laid peacefully on the ground. I reached out a hand.

            “No.” His voice was flat and final.

            Before her was a stone table and upon it a dagger of black glass, a simple wooden chalice, and a locket sat before a miniature model of the circle. It was clearly drawn of her own blood and the points were marked by crystals, similar to those which grow at points of realmic transference. I studied them. It was easier than watching my friend grieve. I gathered the items up in a cloth. Callum moved to stop me, but a cracking sound came from the great tree. The heat had finally reached its core.

            A great split forged up Eradis’ trunk and gouts of flame screamed from its center. From within the dome, we felt the world begin to groan and the ground began to crack open. A root broke through the soil at our feet causing her remains to collapse into an indistinct pile of ashes. Callum began to scream. Around us, deeper roots began to pull themselves free and large chunks of ground were thrown into the air. I wrapped an arm around Callum’s chest and heaved with what remained of my internal store of power and willed us as far away as I could.

            We tumbled out of extraplanar space and crashed onto the frigid ground somewhere across the Andazo Sea. Callum thrashed in my arms, and I held him for fear that he might try to return. As such, it took a moment for me to realize that, even here, on the other side of the world, the ground bucked. After an eternity, in which I feared the world would be torn in half, the tremors calmed to low groans. Callum’s tantrum ended as quickly as it had begun. I could see his mind working behind those dark eyes.  He took her few belongings from me and, with a final look, left.

            What followed next was common knowledge. The roots of the great tree tore themselves from the world. Without their stability, the land had shifted and torn. Mountains rose like daggers, cutting the land in two, and in the sea like teeth from a fractured jaw. Houses were thrown, great cities crumbled, and countless lives swallowed by the earth. Continents moved; the world torn asunder. Maps served only as a reminder of what was lost, cities that now existed below the waves of new seas. So would begin a great age of rebuilding. We found solace in the work and the distraction it brought and that we were alive.

            The Extinction War had ended, and we remained.

## Notes & Letters

Various notes, letters and scraps of parchment found by the team on their journeys.

#### Garewin Jhaan'syn's Letter

A letter found on the corpse of your( Gorwin's ) father from an unknown colleagues of his:

"A rubbing from the alter at Barrow Fen as requested:

Before the Barrow Throne

Beggars and kings stand equal.

Each in their time,

Each on their day."
#### Pillsbury Letter

A note given to you by Pillsbury, the last ramblings of a man your father sent to find Barrow Fen:

Beyond the mouth where the dark ones crawl
and the hobbled ancient watches all,
belching grasses and acid tides,
this is where she resides

#### Wax-Sealed Letter Found on Frozen Corpse

*Found on the frozen corpse of an orc with a scalpel shoved in its eye. Wax-sealed and stamped with the symbol of a G clef.*

"Find the architects of the apocalypse "

#### Tough Anne's Letter

Up the duff.

-An

P.s.

Rekin I'll settle up with me maw an paw round Tennybrook way.

#### Letter from the Raven Queen

The razor in black belongs not in hands of mortal flesh

Upon return a single request shall be honored.

#### Lars' Note from Grampy

A little something... Should you survive. I know what you're running from... Because I know what you are... and what you did.