The Kunnown Coasts

Over 3,000 years ago, The Eldurs were banished from Planar-Prima.
This war, fought by heros of legend, is known as the Cleansing.
Since this gift of sanity was earned, empires have risen and fallen.
The seals, earned with blood, are beginning to rot.
Horrors long forgotten, passed to legend, rise from exile.
It is time for new legends to rise;
Or all will be FINIS

An eerie fog hangs over the southern banks of Mount Dread. The mountain protrudes from a land bridge surrounded by a salt lake and the Kunnown Seas. Near the peak of the mountain looms an obsidian tower. A few beams of light manage to pierce the gloomy skies to pool on the blackened shores. Bodies litter the burnt glassy earth, some freshly killed, others centuries old. The freshly dead are mostly humans and orcs, but including a few elves. The older bodies are skeletal, many chipped or on the verge of turning to dust. As a cloud passes over the sun once more, a surge of purple flames begins crawling from the tower, hungrily spreading from body to body. An unlucky raven is caught amongst the fallen; Flames spread up its body, burning cracks in its form as it screeches it's bone chilling death cry. Across the bleak shores of the Lost Land, bloodcurdling guttural screams split through the morning's eerie silence. The corpses begin to rise, gathering up their weapons and shambling off to towards Rosewall.

Bells sound out across the top of the Rosewall's battlements as Elven scouts sight the Eternal march forward. Captain Liander clinks his tea cup onto its saucer, returning to the window at the front of the lounge. He adjusts his uniform before retrieving his pocket watch. He scowls, "15 minutes early today." He stuffs the watch back into it's regulation position before turning examine Lieutenant Rel'ethar's expression.

Rel'ethar's gaze does not leave his tea as he shrugs. "O.L.D. must be conducting an operation again." He says, distracted. The quality of his favorite tea has declined in this shipment; He will need to have word with his butler to send his complaint. Dumping the contents of the cup onto the floor, Rel'ethar watches as the tea soaks into the thirsty wood of Rosewall before bringing his attention back to Captain Liander.

Alone in the Wildwoods of the Lost far to the west, a lone monk dressed in verdant robes long stained red with blood tends a campfire. Despite the sun being nearly in the middle of the sky, her surroundings are in a twilight. The oppressive forest about her devours the sunshine, leaving only hazy puddles of dim light to accompany her. The forest is silent. Sister Penelope is quiet too. She has been since her initiation into the Order of the Sennethis, when she made her oath to stand vigil over the Wildlands of the Lost. This does not bother Sister Penelope. She never was much for words anyway.

She pokes the fire with an old, charred walking stick. She watches as the charred exterior burns like paper, and floats away, revealing a glimmering Silver-Steel spear head. It glows a luminous grey in a beam of sunlight, casting its beams about the forest. She idly watches the last of the charred remnants float up into the air, before reaching to her pouch to produce a hand rolled cigarette. She sighs contentedly as she brings the warm spear up to light her smoke with its heat. A sickly bitter smoke coils through the air as she blows a smoke ring. Then in a flurry of motion she dives over the fire, spinning midair and thrusting her spear through the smoke ring and through the head of a goblin. Voices to the left. A twirl of her spear. Six beady eyes squint. Three strikes silence their cries. A whistle? An arrow flies past her left ear as she steps behind a tree. She pauses. Closing her eyes, she takes another puff from her cigarette. A smoky red haze fills the thicket. She stalks. She hunts. She slays. She waits. The fire is warm. That was a good smoke.

The Coasts of Kunnow