背景资料：一些历史文献

[布布]

净化之火圣殿的信仰十二法则

信仰十二法则是被称为正义的圣Malorn的正义之手所编写，圣Malorn的最响亮的名字是至高无上的大祭司和净化殿的主人。正义的圣Malorn在神圣城市Cair Haldoran里，在被护佑的神圣执政官的帮助和指导下，在大转变后的六十六年内编写完成。也许净化之火焰永远也不会挥舞！也许它将像坚定的灯塔般闪耀或者像可耻的灾难般黯淡无光。

1． 我信奉万神之父，全宇宙至尊无上的众神的统治者。

我们，忠实的信徒，信奉无所不能的永远的万神之父－这位创造了Aerynth和现代人的凌驾众神的神－无上的力量和卓越的统治。

2． 我信奉他独一无二的意志的力量和他的仆人们的力量。

我们，虔诚的信徒，信奉万神之父在天国中的信徒－执政官们的力量，信奉那些得到他的恩惠的圣者们的光辉。我们相信他们是一切祝福和奇迹的源泉，他们的力量只不过是万神之父的反映，而不是他们天生就是被佑护的神圣执政官，因此有了对万神之父意志的误解－对邪术，罪恶，邪恶的诞生的误解。

3． 我信奉人类的优势，因为我们是万神之父最伟大的子孙。

我们，万神之父选中的信徒，信奉人类是唯一出身于万神之父的，他的手赋予我们躯体，他的灵魂赋予我们生命。在整个世界的生命中，人类可以完全的感应与接受到万神之父天赐的恩赐与仁慈。我们信奉人类是万神之父的伟大事业唯一忠实与合适的继承者，也是他的天赋与才能最有价值的感应与接受者。

4． 我信奉神所制定的Cambruin的法典－最高王国。

我们，正义的信徒，信奉神所制定的Cambruin的法典－人类中最伟大的最高王国。我们相信Cambruin是被万神之父挑选并加以祝福的，是他在Aerynth的工具和战士。我们相信他伟大功绩的无上威严和他的法则的真实可靠。我们相信忠实的信徒们有义务与责任去荣幸的接受Cambruin的法典中活跃在生命中的五种美德－英勇，慷慨，谦虚，仁慈和正义。

5． 我信奉正义之圣Malorn的真理与教义。

我们，值得尊敬的信徒，信奉最高王国Cambruin的斗士－正义之圣 Malorn的教理与声明。我们信奉被神圣执政官所启示的Malorn的神圣的真理与智慧。我们信奉蕴含着神圣的真理但其中的智慧被隐藏的圣诗之书－它现在是被人类不完整的解释的主题。我们信奉圣剑之书，同圣诗之书相对比，它是正统的天启的产物。它蕴含着纯正的鲜明的圣洁的真理。

6．我信奉忠实的信徒的灯塔与邪恶力量的拯救者－净化之火焰的力量。

我们，纯粹的完全的信徒，信奉净化之火焰－万神之父亲手点燃用以对抗罪恶与邪恶的圣洁的火焰，它在大转折的非常时期给了圣Malorn以启示。我们信奉这启示真理，清除软弱，治愈与回复忠诚，肃清卑劣的火焰与光辉。我们信奉那些亲眼见到净化之火焰的光辉并感觉到它拯救罪恶的力量的人们，相信他们可以真实的感觉和了解到万神之父正义的美好的意愿。他们宣扬万神之父神圣教义和驱除邪恶的作法永远值得我们赞扬。

7．我信奉同混乱和黑暗这整个世界的孪生敌人之间永不妥协的战斗。

我们，献身与神的信徒，相信我们最大的敌人－孪生的邪恶在持续不断的妄图败坏万神之父的一切功绩与事业。第一个敌人是混乱，它使它接触到一切事物变得堕落并且它想要毁灭整个世界。第二个敌人是可怕的邪恶的黑暗，它毒害死者的灵魂，引诱生命堕落直到死亡，挑战万
神之父的意志和愿望。我们相信忠实的信徒们一定会同他们永远的战斗下去，一切被它们碰触和诱使腐败的事物都必需托付给净化之火焰。

8．我信奉同三重罪恶－信仰的堕落与败坏－间永不妥协的战斗。

我们，正直的信徒，相信罪恶的存在－那些已知的或未知的被这个世界上的愚昧的人们对圣洁的愿望的滥用。我们相信世界上存在着混乱和黑暗这对孪生兄弟的有害的致命的势力，它能使那些渺小的生命变得傲慢无礼和妄自尊大，引诱着他们远离净化之火焰的光明，远离万神之父赐予的恩惠，投入到罪恶的黑暗与阴影中。我们相信罪恶是通过三种途径出现在这个世界上：
行为的罪恶叫犯罪，思想的罪恶叫谬见，话语的罪恶叫异端。我们相信那些最黑暗的和最极端的都是异端。

9．我信奉净化之火焰的力量可以拯救和超度罪恶。

我们，才华横溢的信徒，相信罪恶所带来的涂毒－不同于混乱或者邪恶所直接带来的腐败与堕落－是可以被净化之火焰所治愈的。那些罪孽深重的灵魂，虽然总想投奔邪恶，但如果他们能坦白他们所犯的罪恶也还是可以被拯救的。那些罪孽深重的灵魂必须被出示给净化之火焰的
光明和威严，在它的光明中那些灵魂将会逐渐认识到他们所犯下的错误。但忠实的信徒们要当心，因为罪恶是狡猾奸诈和诡计多端的，只有通过重重磨难和严峻考验才能将它们从受害者身上驱除，才能将人性和躯体中的罪恶洗涤干净。我们信奉活着的灵魂中的诚实与正直才是最重要的和最高尚的东西，我们信奉罪孽深重的躯体和灵魂以拯救者的名义献身是正义的和值得尊敬的做法。

10．我信奉正义的道路，虔诚事业的力量和永远警惕着罪恶的行为。

我们，时刻警惕的信徒，相信忠实的信徒们一定会活跃在他们正义的人生之旅上，这些都要归功于圣剑之书。忠实的信徒应该欣然的以怜悯和亲切的态度做着他们的工作，应该永远拥护与支持纯洁质朴与孝顺恭敬的美好品质。所以那些未经启蒙的人们应该被召唤到圣焰的光辉下接受照耀，所以也许那些忠实的守卫灵魂曾来源于入侵的罪恶。我们相信忠实的信徒们最优秀的品德是警惕：因为那些高尚的受到神的护佑的事业也许会导致自满与自傲，而这正是罪恶的预兆。忠实的信徒们必须始终提防与警戒着，时刻找寻他们自身和邻人身上隐藏的罪恶的污点，因为的确，所有卑劣的罪恶都可能在不经意间将忠实的信徒们带到邪恶中去。

11．我信奉凌驾于其他一切教会的圣殿的无上权威。

我们，我们的信徒，信奉圣Malorn所建的圣殿，他声明了那些已经皈依他的教义的人们，宣称净化之火焰也许真正懂得了万神之父神圣的意志和愿望。圣殿因此凌驾于世界上其它所有的祭坛和教会。我们声明不承认那些由罪孽深重的精灵族建立的所谓的神圣的万神之父教会，它们已经被邪恶的势力所侵染而堕落。虽然人类通过长时间的努力去弥补它，虽然人类已经做了许多成功的努力，但是神圣的万神之父教会已经悲惨的沦为异教的牺牲品，他们的大主教已是邪恶的代言人。我们相信神圣教堂已经失败了，它的成员们的躯体必须被带到圣殿去赎罪。

12．我信奉世上的统治者的力量，倘若他们是正义的。

我们，被佑护的信徒，相信忠实的信徒们可以效力于任何国王，领主或统治者－，如果他们可以证明自己正义，公正，正直的话。没有比天堂和Aerynth的统治者万神之父更伟大的权威：一切力量，无论是世俗的或宗教的，都来源于他的意志力。他规定了Ardan和Cambruin的法则，所以我们能识别出神赐与正直的人指挥他忠诚的信徒去处理世间之事的权力。每一位君主或元首都有义务和责任去拥抱圣焰的光辉，去走正义的道路。任何不这样做的君王的每一个命令和声明都会使忠实的信徒们堕入罪恶和邪恶的深渊。每一位忠诚的信徒都有着神圣的义务与责任去蔑视去挑战这样一位胡作非为的君王的权威，因为一切腐败堕落的工具都必需托付给净化之火焰。
 

[布布]

Winter is Coming

“From the perils of the Age of Strife, All-Father deliver us.” Anselm murmured under his breath as he returned to his desk. He threw another handful of coal onto the wrought-iron brazier beside his chair before returning to the sheaf of missives spread out from his desk. Troubling news… everywhere troubling news. Cardinal Merudan was agitating for another Conclave again, earthquakes and floods in the lands of Mourning had smashed entire cities, and all the while the Order of Sentinels clamored for more men and aid, to keep the Second Scourge at bay. The Demons have yet to move in strength, saints be praised, the abbot thought to himself. But why?

As the prelate reached for ink and quill to draft a reply to the Lord of Bastion, he heard the bell ringing in the yard, and the low rumble as the portcullis went up. Anselm frowned. “Who would they dare admit at this hour?” he asked the empty room. By the time he had reached the door of his study a panting novice was there to tell him.

“M’lord Abbot…” the boy stammered, making the bow of obedience.

“Steady, my son. What has happened?”

“The stranger at the gate… he has called for you.”

“For me?” Again the old forehead creased into a deep frown.

“Aye, your reverence. By name.”

“Then I shall see him. Lead on.”

“He is in the infirmary, your reverence.”

Dozens of questions raced through Anselm’s mind as the novice led him through the echoing stone halls, past the carven busts of old abbots dating back an age, and grim-faced portraits of the holy saints. Faint echoes of the midnight rights in the chapel reached Anselm’s ears, and he let the gentle chants calm him. The old man had witnessed the War of Tears, the Great Schism, and the Turning itself. Surely tonight’s events could be of no great import. All the same, the old Prelate gasped to see the face that awaited him in the infirmary.

“Renard! May all the Saints be praised! Can this be?”

“Aye, old owl,” the withered figure answered through chattering teeth. “’Tis I.”

A quick glance at his former pupil, and Anselm felt his heart sink. Ice was matted in the young man’s wispy beard, and the dark purple marks on his forehead were a grim omen indeed. Frostbite? Anselm wondered. Can it be? Is the winter so much worse on other fragments? One glance at Renard’s blackened fingers gave Anselm his answer.

“Sister,” he said to the healer who was piling another thick blanket on the stranger. “Send for Brother Baudwin. Wake him if you must. This man needs healing now.” The hurt was too great for lesser blessings, the old man knew.

“My humble thanks and praises be upon your abbey.” Renard hissed through clenched teeth. “You will forgive me if I do not bow.” Anselm noted a new scar that ran across his old friend’s forehead, and saw the blood stain that matted his vestments.

“Renard, what is the meaning of this? We had long given up hope of your return. Where have you been? What has happened to you to leave you in this state?”

A shadow of remembered pain passed over the stricken Prelate’s face. “Lord Abbot, the road home from Dalgoth City was longer than I dreamed. I come to you now… from the Isle of Vorringsheim.”

“Vorringsheim? In the realm of Vorringia which was beyond Vanderlund of old?” Anselm sat down at the news. “But those lands are lost…”

“No longer. The gates will reach them. I have been there, and returned.”

“What tidings have you then? Did you find Greensward Abbey there?”

“Greensward is gone. The Doom that came to Vanderlund consumed it after the Turning. The Dark has taken deep root there, and all matters run ill.”

“Ah,” the abbot said, and shivered at the thought. “Was it then the Thirteen, who have wrought so much havoc in the Mirrored Worlds?”

Renard’s face frowned in confusion. “That name I know not. The angry dead there are bound not by thirteen, but by one.”

“Tell me more!”

“Aye. The Turning has ruined the lands, as elsewhere: Vanderlund and Vorringsheim now have a narrow sea between them. All the ancient legends are true, old friend – I have seen things only half-remembered in ancient tales! Valkyr, the Berserks that were Theoderic’s terror, Half-giant daughters, and great Minotaurs as white as snow! The Beast Lords, they say, have returned, and all their feral children are howling in the North.”

Anselm wondered at the news, and wondered how many of these tiding were delirium born of pain or fever. Shivering, Renard continued.

“The Northmen still hold the northern reaches, as they ever have. The scattered survivors in the south have been without the light of the Holy Church, and have turned to the Old Faith. But they are sorely troubled, for Evil stirs in the north.” Renard suddenly started, as if troubled by a dream. “And to the south as well! A dread island called Maelstrom, full of demons!”

“Aye my son, there is one here as well. Every fragment holds one.”

Renard’s eyes widened in terror. “But how…”

“It is not yet known.” Anselm put a hand on Renard’s shoulder to comfort him, and was shocked to feel how cold the Prelate in the sickbed felt. Where is Baudwin?

“His eminence and the Holy Cardinals still pray for guidance, but little is known for certain. Most see the Deceiver’s hand in it.” The old man made the sign of the rings and shivered to mention the name. “But the scourge is yet to fall. Something keeps the Legions at bay.”

“In Vorringia… they say that the Ice stays the hellfire.” Renard’s eyes widened, and his voice sank to a whisper. “The Mother of Winter is freed.”

A long moment of silence followed. Anselm was so shocked by the news he did not think to notice that the chanting in the chapel had stopped.

“The Mother of… Frykka, who the Furies name in their songs? Surely not. She is but a fable, a myth of the Invorri.”

“No, my brother,” Renard answered, his pale face growing whiter still. “She is real. All too real. And somehow she has been loosed from the prison Torvald set her in. She has made some pact with the Dark Outside, and now reigns as a queen of cold and death. I have seen her children, the Frostborn. And the legions of the frozen dead, stirred to hellish life by her kiss! Vorringia crawls with them! But they are not the worst… I have seen Frykka’s champion.”

“What champion is this?” Anselm asked. His hands were trembling, but not from cold.

“Torvald has fallen.” Renard said. “A titan is dead. The Winter’s Mother has raised him up, a foul terror of ice and cold whose slightest touch is death.”

“By all the saints! Still, Torvald turned his back of the Father of All long ago. His grim fate is well-deserved.”

Renard chuckled grimly. “Say not so to any Northman. All the Invorri are mad with grief, howling for vengeance. They seek Frykka, but cannot find her in Vorringia. Meanwhile, the Mother’s legions teem and spread. And the Runeways to Vorringia are open. ”

“Dear Father in Heaven.” Anselm whispered. “We must warn the Bishop at once! You shall tell me more when you have rested. Where in Perdition’s name is Brother Baudwin?”

Just then a scream echoed from the hall outside. Anselm tensed, listening. The ring of steel came from the yard, and gruff shouts in some guttural tongue.

“They are here!” the old Prelate cried, and immediately called upon St. Lorne for blessing.

“No! All-Father forgive me, I was followed!” Renard cried. He tried to rise, but sank back to his bed, coughing furiously.

They’ve crept over the walls like thieves, and caught us in our beds, Anselm thought frantically, his old fingers fumbling at the belt of his vestments. He found the hidden belt pouch even as his mind reeled in fear. We’re caught. The old Prelate started for the door to bar it, but it opened even as he turned. Death was standing there.

A great Minotaur, his fur white as hoarfrost, came into the room. Red gore matted his pelt, and the beast’s eyes were gold as flame. Anselm gazed in horror at its curved horns, carved with foul runes and painted crimson with dried blood.

“Unclean beast!” the old man shouted, “Get thee back! Strong is my soul with the Strength of the All-Father!” A bright flash filled the room as the holy chant was finished, but the hulking creature stood unfazed. From his bed, Renard screamed. “A Blood Horn! We are doomed!” The foul thing laughed.

Anselm reached into the hidden belt pouch, and fumbled out a sparkling gemstone. The Minotaur leaped into the room, axe held high, but paused as the old man held the stone high. Khalledriel, blessed messenger, aid me!” He cast the stone down, at it shattered. The Minotaur tensed, expecting some new spell, but nothing happened.

Please be awake, be awake, be awake! Anselm thought. Hundreds of leagues away, the stone that was the mate to his was now glistening with holy radiance. Deacon Farrouk, summon me! With haste! Be awake, for mercy’s sake please be awake!

But a tense second passed, and Anselm felt nothing. The Minotaur grinned, and barked something in its wretched speech. It calmly stepped forward. Anselm bowed his head. From the fury of the Northmen, All-Father deliver us.

The Minotaur’s axe flashed in the light, and the Prelate’s blood painted the walls crimson.

The cold night soon echoed with the shrieks of the dying and with savage howls, the like of which had not been heard in those hills for centuries. Outside in the night, the first snows began to fall.

Winter had come.

 

[布布]

The Unleashed Darkness: Chronicles of Oblivion

These fragmentary pages comprise the final testament of Deacon Abelon of Melvaunt, who vanished in the winter of 99 SY. They were found stuffed into the entrails of one of the thousands of walking corpses that attacked King’s Cross just before the appearance of the Isle of Oblivion. To this day, no sign of Deacon Abelon has been found, nor has he returned to any Tree of Life or known Ruin.

The 15th of Torvald, 99 SY

As High Bishop Renard ordered, I have made my way from King’s Cross to the Abbey of Caerwynt in the remote plains of Estragoth. Derroth, my guide, tells me we shall arrive tomorrow. The road has been long and fraught with many dangers. Throughout the lands of Aerynth, some two dozen petty warlords have declared themselves baron, warlord, or marquis of whatever patch of land they can claim with a charter, a crown, and an iron fist. I fear that war, already common in this Age of Strife, shall become endemic as these new monarchs seek to impose their will upon the face of the world, even as their rivals storm their gaudy new palaces. Indeed, many now proclaim that we have already entered the “War of Realms” – a bitter struggle for power among the would-be monarchs of the newly emerging domains. Too many times we were forced to take another road around a province embroiled in siege, or fleeced for “taxes” or “road tolls” by gangs of armed thugs serving some warlord. Alas, the Bishop’s seal held little awe for too many of them.

I have seen frightful things on my trek across war-torn Aerynth: new siege engines that can bathe entire armies in gouts of alchemist’s fire, Dwarf-trained engineers that can undermine the stoutest walls, and crafty saboteurs who can wreck a siege spire with a simple chant. Caerwynt lies far from other cities, and I hope that I may find a respite there from this bloody game of crowns, and devote myself fully to my sacred task.

The 17th of Torvald, 99 SY

I fear my mission for the Bishop has failed. Caerwynt Abbey is no more. We came upon the abbey in the cold morn, and found it empty. Every door stood ajar, swaying in the breeze. All of the inhabitants, some 200 souls, are gone, with no sign of their passing. It is as if they have turned to fog and joined the morning mist. Lannod the scout has ranged for more than a mile, and he swears he has not found even a single footprint. On every door we found a foul glyph, painted there in blood: three crescent horns or moons, pointing outward, in a circle. Brother Corben paled at the sight of them, intoning chants to Saint Wend. The outer village is devoid of life: dogs, livestock – even the gnats and flies – have left this place. The silent village quite unnerved us all, but it was only a prelude to the horrors awaiting us in the chapel.

Here we found living things at last: ravens, hundreds of them, huddled among the peaks and gables of the roof. Their eyes followed us everywhere, and I swear I could feel malice in them. Acolyte Norran first heard the pattern to their croaking, and try as I might to dismiss it, I heard it, too, a single word: “beware.” Even bowshots could not drive them from their roost. If only we had heeded the ravens’ warning…

Merciful Saints, give me comfort to endure the sights that I have seen! That desecrated church, thick with the smells of a slaughterhouse, its altar bathed in blood and filth … the icons and emblems of the Holy Church inverted and befouled … the unholy diagrams, scrawled in blood. But worst of all, the horror that awaited poor Norran in the reliquary – in the urn that once held the holy libations, he found a heap of eyes. Hundreds of eyes, still slick and glistening with blood and slime, plucked no doubt from the heads of every living soul at this abbey. The sight drove Norran mad with fear, and even my most powerful blessings cannot restore order to his mind. Corben made to count them all, but lost stomach for it at 156. I can hear poor Norran whimpering and gibbering even as I write these words. None of us shall sleep tonight, I fear.

I can still hear the damned ravens as well, croaking from atop the abbey. I can hear new words now, mixed with their warnings.

I wonder … how is it that they know my name?

The 18th of Torvald, 99 SY

At last, Lannod has found some hints of a trail. They who watched us in the night left footprints as they fled. The trail leads west. Corben is adamant that we follow the tracks and seek righteous revenge for what happened in this place. I cannot help but agree, though I wonder what horrors await us at the end of this new path …

The 25th of Torvald, 99 SY

Our long race across these lands has finally reached its goal. It is as Corben feared: the villains have made straight of the runegate of Haedan’s Stone. All along the road from Caerwynt we have seen their handiwork: empty towns, villages of festering dead, and everywhere that terrible sign, three crescents drawn in blood. Last night we finally caught a glimpse of our foes, the pale skin of the Shades almost gleaming in the light. The distant figures performed a bizarre ritual at the gate, and then opened a portal, the likes of which I had never seen before, a pillar of energy darker than the midnight. By the time we reached the ancient stone, our quarry was gone and the portal had closed.

Lannod knows the Traveler’s arts, and swears he heard enough of their strange chant to open the gate. Though I deemed it folly, Corben urged him on. Even now, Lannod is making his 10th attempt to open the portal. Strangely, the portal on the gate is the Eighth Gate – the gate of the Unknown. Lannod knew of chants for the five elemental gates and the gates of Law and Chaos. He had never heard of anyone using the eighth gate – even the wisest Magi are baffled by its presence. I look back on the horrors we have seen in this long chase, and I find myself praying that he fails.

The 27th of Torvald, 99 SY...?

I am no longer certain of the date. There are few ways to note the passage of time in this blighted place. The moment Lannod opened the black portal, my heart sank. I could feel the power of the gateway tingling in my bones, cold and baleful as the winter wind. Corben raced through, and I followed, fool that I am.

I have journeyed from one end of Aerynth to the other, from Khar Thale to frozen Stormvald to the blasted heart of Maelstrom, but never have I seen or heard of any place so terrible. Nothing in all my service to the Church has prepared me for this. This place is pure Darkness, pure Evil. The dark sky glowers down upon us, with only a hint of pale light at the horizon, like the last breath of dusk. The air is cold, and a driving wind howls mournfully. The ground is the color of bleached bone, with pitted rocks dusted with mounds of fine dust, like ash. Corben swears the stuff is powdered bone. More terrifying than the vista was the news that Lannod could not reopen the portal.

After much argument, we made our way across the darkling plain, past hideous things that could only be called trees in the bleakest nightmares. For hours we saw nothing, and then came upon the greatest horror of all: what we had taken for a stone pillar is actually a towering obelisk of bones: stacked bones, millions of them. Lannod has not spoken since he noticed the tooth marks on the bones. The look in his eyes frightens me.

The Month of Torvald?

From every shadow, ye Archons, deliver me. Through strife and darkness, ye Saints, deliver me. Past every terror, All-Father, deliver me. Look upon me, Caeric, blessed paladin, and guide me through the shadow you once faced.

Despair hangs heavy on my soul. I am now alone in this blighted place … yet not alone.

They came for us without warning. There were dozens of them, foul things that had once been men, and even the decayed husks of Minotaurs and Aracoix. We fought them as best we could, and our blessings kept the things at bay, but their master was different.

The thing that commanded them … I have seen the thing that lurks in Abbadoth, calling itself Lord Charne. The scholars call it “Vampire” – this thing was its kin, but far more terrible. The red eyes, the skin like alabaster, and that hideous strength … Corben fought with all the fury of Saint Lorne, but to no avail. I saw the thing withstand a stroke that would have felled a drake, then laugh and rip the head from Corben’s body, holding it aloft to drink from the severed neck!

I alone managed to flee, past charnel heaps of corpses and unholy obelisks, past hideous creatures defying reason that seem to have been wrought of others’ bones, animated by some hideous malice. Now I am hidden, half-buried in a heap of bones. I pray that death has sent Corben back to King’s Cross to deliver a warning, but I cannot know if this hellish place even lies on our home fragment. I must find some way back to Aerynth, before th

All reason has left my life. All light, and all hope. I write these words as a captive, in my own blood. They have not yet found this journal, and I pray that they will not before I can make my one last, desperate attempt.

The Vampire will not let me die. At the end of every torture, his hideous blood restores my flesh. I have tried to escape many times, hoping that their mindless servants would kill me, but they answer the fiend’s will. I have contemplated the unthinkable, but too much of my faith remains intact for me to end my own life. At least for now …

Given the things I have seen and heard, I am amazed a single shred of faith remains within my soul. I have looked upon blasphemies, seen the Necromancers working their arts upon dead flesh. I know now why they took the eyes of all the poor souls in Caerwynt … The Vampire will not let me die – there is too much chance, I think, that I might escape to the Tree at King’s Cross and warn the Bishop. Their plan cannot allow the risk.

The pale fiend has told me much: how he is of the Belgosch, one of the four great clans of the Nightborn, and how the Vampires have been waiting for the day of their advent. He told me the true cause of the War of Shadows that wracked ancient Ardan, and the arcane traps wrought by the Nameless Titan to keep the Hungry Void at bay. He told me what really happened to Ithriana when she took Shadowbane to the lands of her kinsmen, and how she truly became the Lich-Queen.

Time first drew the Void’s hunger to Aerynth. The Elves sought to tame the Dark; the men of Ardan held it at bay. Even the All-Father could not stop it: He wrought a truce, but it ended at the Turning. Now the universe is imbalanced, and the very Trees of Life that gave us hope in the Dark Years gnaw at the barrier, weakening it with every soul they preserve. Why were we so deceived?

Shades were but the harbingers of doom – the Void has looked out through their eyes and wrought its dark designs with their pale hands. I have looked upon the Gate these fiends have built in this wasteland. I have seen Ithriana, the Lich-Queen. She lives! I have seen what lies beneath her pallid mask! And I know her aim – the Dark shall consume all light, and all life shall become death.

I have but one hope: if I can warn Aerynth, the worst may yet be averted. These pages shall be my soul’s salvation. To any who read these words, deliver them to a Bishop of the Holy Church as swiftly as you can, and arm yourselves! Soon, all lands shall fall under the shadow of the Throne of Oblivion. All-Father, forgive me for what I must do …