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The Frozen World of Eithiroth
In the year of our lord, 75 AI
A letter to a king...
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In the 75th year of the Age of Ice, our hope fades, my king. The Age of Fire has ended, and Shiva the Destroyer has called in the debt that the mortals owe. This is the word that spreads across our lands. Our time is a dark one, my king, and colder than the hearts of the rulers that waged war before us and doomed us to this lowly place we now inhabit. Eithiroth, they once called it, but now even that has begun to be forgotten. Many who live now are only the offspring of those who were fortunate enough to escape Shiva's blaze and they are far more concerned in finding sustenance, much less remembering history.
I try to remember that we are the lucky ones. We did not die with the untold millions who succumbed to plague, fire, and famine. Despite this, however, we are left with what comes after such things: war, cold, disease, and slow, painful, deaths. Many have begun to believe that we all died long ago in those great fires that engulfed the continents, and this world is just a purgatory. Many believe that Thadur has simply condemned us to our fate. Most people of this land have begun turn to anything they believe will grant them salvation, or escape, from the trials of this world. Some have begun to worship the dead, for they believe that maybe they have achieved some type of holiness for being chosen by Shiva's fire. Some have begun to worship Shiva herself, and seek where she sleeps. Others choose darker means and have begun to worship Salous, hoping that he would spare them of his tricks and treachery if they do his bidding. Yet, if Thadur is truly the God of Forgiveness, Mercy, and Love he surely hasn't abandoned us without hope. This time must be ending soon, granted our lord seems to have been silent for much too long.
Although I could continue to recount more of the ailments that have befallen our lands, I must be brief, and I'm sure you have undoubtedly heard many of these tales. This following tale, however, brings me the greatest distress and it should to you as well. 2 weeks ago, now that our numbers have begun to reach manageable levels, I was finally within my rights to send a scouting party to the old citadel nearest to Warne's castle as per your request. Unfortunately, however, my news of this expedition is grim. Only but 3 of our initial 300 men returned to Hadun at the journey's end, and what they had to report brought greater alarm than their casualties. Only one, a captain by the name of Heinrich Wagner, had maintained his sanity. Wagner, missing an arm, spoke of mobs of the undead that had been unleashed upon the war band after they had passed the Lonely Vale. Seemingly, in a coordinated attack, thousands of these beasts charged into our men in relentless waves.
As you know, we had previously estimated the undead's number to only be somewhere in the hundreds. After losing nearly half the expedition's number, the survivors somehow managed to disengage from the rotting horde and conducted a forced march northwards to complete their mission, with the dead in close pursuit. In a week's time, after losing the undead in the foothills, the party of nearly 150 men reached the outskirts of the citadel, only to find that someone had beaten them there. Great fires were seen all around the citadel's exterior, hundreds of tents, and a makeshift wall that encased the exterior of the citadel along with the squalid refuge. Hooded figures, numbering in the hundreds, were seen bowing before the citadel's open gate, chanting and wailing as smoke billowed out from the bowels of the old fortress and over their bodies.
This was the last sight seen by the party, according to Wagner, before their final battle. For when the party had crested a great hill and beheld this sight, they had not noticed the Wyrms that patrolled the citadel's exterior from the safety of the clouds. Within seconds, the first Wyrm plunged from the sky and into the ranks of the men, followed by at least a dozen more, freezing men with their acrid breath while also slashing, biting, ripping, and dismembering all that stood in their way. In the time that it takes for a knight to saddle his horse, our troops were scattered, beaten, and running for their lives. Some may have escaped to the areas further north of the citadel, but Wagner believes the Wyrms followed this group, allowing him and his companions to escape to the South and return to Hadun with what provisions they could scavenge from their fallen comrades.
As I'm sure you've concluded, our worst fears have been confirmed. The cultists have found the Destroyer's lair before us, and it seems that somehow the ancient thing has awoken from its slumber. This, undoubtedly, has also brought Plaga and Famis out of their hibernation as well, and it is vital we find their locations before they decide to strike out once again with their master. I do believe there is still time, my king, but we must act swiftly or Plague, Famine and Fire will undoubtedly engulf our land once again. I know your wishes to leave you be on your quest for the Dragon's Bane, and your wishes to be rid of your kingly duties, but I must beg for your return at this dark hour. Our people need a leader, one that I could never fill the boots of, and this leader is you, my liege. While the people may not know it yet, you will save our land as the Tomes of the Ancients foretold, but to do this you must accept the prophecy's truth, and that this hero is you, my king. The sins of your father are not your own, and you harm only yourself carrying this guilt that does not belong to you. Your father, and the time of his sins, has passed and it is your obligation to ascend to the position of your birthright.
Return to Grimor, my liege, it is time to bring light to this dying world.
Your friend,
--Reinholdt
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