Scroll on a chair in Crimson Wash, Scarlet Gorge – /setwaypoint 3849 3048

This letter appears to have been written by one of the 12th Sanctuary Guard soldiers serving under Frederic Kain.

Mother,

My regiment is on the march once again. We have advanced into Scarlet Gorge, and some of Marshal Kain’s officers have been leading assaults deep into the Defiant holdings here. I have not seen any combat myself, having been detailed to guard duty of our Porticulum here in Crimson Wash.

I am glad I was able to transfer from the 8th Guard into the 12th. Marshal Oakheart is a good and noble man, but Marshal Kain knows what Sanctum needs right now is a crusading champion – someone to take the fight onto Defiant soil!

We are lucky to count such a mighty warrior as he among the ranks of the faithful.

-Jules Earnly-

A book on the floor in Orphiel’s Spire, Meridian. Use the lift to go up! /setwaypoint 5991 5148 height = 965 — Note, the book is starts with ‘The’ not ‘A’ when you hover over it to read the name.

This book is covered with an illustration of an ancient desert pyramid.
This book relates a history of the Eth Empire.

The Eth are a tribe of humans who adapted to the harsh southern deserts by becoming master survivalists and taming their environment through magic. During the Blood Storm Wars, this inquisitive and fiercely scholarly race discovered a means to harness sourcestone as a fuel for eldritch war machines. After the construction of the Ward and the return of peace to Telara, these proto-technologies saw application in all areas of life.

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Yet the Vigil soon demanded that sourcestone technology be abandoned. Though it meant being cast from the gods’ sight, the people of Eth refused. In spite of the Vigil, they further conquered their environment, and built an Empire of conglomerated city-states ruled by brilliant sorcerer kings. The power and influence of the Eth spread throughout Telara, fueled by the wonders of sourcestone.

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Unfortunately, their technology fell into the clutches of insidious dragon cultists, and the Eth empire fell soon thereafter. Rather than risk the Blood Storm’s release, the Eth buried their wonders in the sand and destroyed all record of their forbidden techniques.
Though reduced once again to a nomadic life in the desert, the Eth persevered, using magic to find new ways to adapt. They continue to value scholarly dedication and inventive approaches to problems old and new.

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Following the fall of their empire, many Eth sought asylum with their longtime allies, the Bahmi. Others spread through the verdant lands of Mathosia. Though taken in as scholars and court magicians, the Eth were generally distrusted by the more pious races.

Found in the Mathosia Tutorial Zone, for Guardians. Can also be found in Sanctum at /setwaypoint 7461 3010
A book on crates in Orphiel’s Spire, Meridian. Use the lift to go up! /setwaypoint 5996 5136 height = 998

A story of Clan Zardonis and the way of the Nightblade.

Only those who deal in the shadows know the name of Clan Zardonis. For ages, the clan’s ruthless regime of physical training produced the finest murderers and cutthroats. Their teachings shunned the arcane arts as weak and unreliable, but one young upstart would prove them wrong.

Acacia was the finest disciple of her generation, and mastered the art of the veiled blade at a young age. Yearning for more power, she studied the arcane in secret, experimenting in the shadows and growing more lethal with every passing season. For almost a decade the young woman ruthlessly enforced her clan’s will by night, poring over eldritch tomes in the dim light of dawn.

In the winter of her twenty-second year, Clan Zardonis took a contract to ruin a family of wealthy Mathosian traders. Such a large endeavor required the clan to dispatch many of its finest killers, Acacia included, on a midnight raid on the traders’ compound. The clan did not realize its folly until the assault was well under way, for they faced not fat merchants, but the mages of the Abyssal cult, and within moments found themselves tightly bound in chains of planar energy.

Of course, the Abyssal did not expect a foe with knowledge so similar to their own, and were completely unprepared when Acacia slipped from the shadows, cold flame dancing on her daggers. A whirlwind of fire and steel, she moved through the cultists, her blades piercing magical wards and flesh alike. With the spell of binding broken, the assassins of Clan Zardonis were free to exact their revenge, and by dawn not a single cultist remained among the living.

Saved from the brink of annihilation, the assassins embraced Acacia’s power and made it their own. Over the decades to come, Clan Zardonis flourished, spreading their teachings to a new generation of Rogues, who became known as masters of shadow and flame

Found in the Mathosia Tutorial Zone, for Guardians. Can also be found in Sanctum at /setwaypoint 7406 2886
A book on a table in Orphiel’s Spire, Meridian. Use the lift to go up! /setwaypoint 5970 5132 height = 966

The story of Amardis Mathos, the first Paladin to walk Telara.

When the chieftain of Clan Mathos united the scattered northmen to fight the Blood Storm Wars, he entrusted the safety of the land and people to his daughter, Amardis. But Telara’s landscape and weather patterns shifted dramatically during the wars, as planar energy confused the world’s ecology. Crops withered, game grew scarce, and famine gripped Clan Mathos, until southern merchants brought an enticing proposition.

If the traders were allowed to mine sourcestone from caverns on clan land, the northmen would have all the food they required. Weak to the well-fed merchants’ temptations, the people cried out for Amardis to accept the offer.

But the young leader felt ill-at-ease about the bargain, so she entered the caves to commune with Thedeor. She finished praying and opened her eyes, and before her lay her father’s shield, newly affixed with a pulsing piece of sourcestone.

A voice spoke to Amardis: “Take it, daughter, and reveal the truth.”

The next morning, as people gathered around the strangers’ carts, Amardis came forward, girded for battle. Without warning, she sent the caravan master sprawling with a backhand blow from the holy shield. Gold coins stamped with the glowing mark of Laethys tumbled from his robe, and the clansmen realized they had nearly turned over their holy caverns to agents of the Golden Maw.

Amardis led the charge as Clan Mathos took up arms to drive out the cultists, intercepting blows meant for others and drawing the enemy away from weaker clan members. People would later report that a glowing aura surrounded her, crackling as she downed the dragon’s agents with devastating blows from her sword and shield.

All seemed lost when one of the caravan’s Cyclops guards dealt Amardis a devastating blow to the chest with his serrated blade. In a haze of pain, she struggled back to her feet, pressing her hand to the wound. Golden light seeped from her hand and closed the gash, and this miracle caught the Cyclops off guard. Amardis cleft his hideous head from his shoulders, breaking the Golden Maw offensive in a single stroke.

The Mathosians drove the remaining cultists into the mountains. Though they claimed the food and other goods from the caravans, Amardis insisted they melt down the gold to forge an altar to Thedeor. This monument would one day stand in the heart of Caer Mathos, the home of many Mathosian paladins for centuries to come.

Can be picked up from the various bookshelves in the Chancel of Labors, Iron Pine Peak. The books will be in different locations for each character. You are encouraged to pick these up during the quest ‘Rite of the Mind’, part of the Saga of the Storm Queen.

Ekkehard was a bear of a man, even into his twilight years when age had turned his beard as white and fine as snowdrifts. He was the last of the Valnir clan to fall when members of the Storm Legion swept through Iron Pine Peak – his enormous maul toppled many of Crucia’s finest – but in the end they managed to topple the mountainous man. Before the captured mass of northmen, their commander blinded Ekkehard with a hot poker, and he was then chained with the rest of the surviving warriors to be marched toward Crucia’s chamber for assimilation.

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Despite his blindness, it was Ekkehard who preached faith in Thedeor on the long death march toward the temple of Crucia. One night, when he had roused the northmen to a particularly passionate fervor, the commander dragged him out of line, stripping him of all but a few loose furs and beating him savagely. When they finished, Ekkehard was left for dead in the snow.

But Ekkehard was not defeated. He found the strength to limp along the roadway, following along the ruts left by their wagons. Just as his body began to fail, limbs turning solid with the cold, he cried out, “Thedeor! Avenge my people! Grant me your strength, and I will crush the corrupted hordes of Crucia!”

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With that, the cold in his limbs deepened drastically, as if every vein had frozen all at once. To his surprise, he felt completely at ease, all pain vanishing, as if that very cold were lending him the strength to continue. He could feel the winds flowing around him, guiding him through the dark toward where the party had camped for the night. His first stop was the wagon where his maul had been stowed. He hoisted it up, thrilling at the familiar heft, and felt elemental lightning flowing out from his fingers into its shaft.

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Ekkehard moved confidently through the night toward where the prisoners were kept. He could hear the guards laughing over the fate of the bedraggled northmen, and directed his fury toward the sound of their chatter. They had no time to react as his charge propelled the maul into the first guard. As it impacted against the man’s skull, currents of lightning ran through the guard, causing his body to spasm violently before going still.

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Ekkehard was prepared as the second guard rushed him, surrounding her in a flurry of ice and snow. Both Ekkhard and the guard vanished from the sight of the watching prisoners as a violent storm surrounded them. The woman came back into view only once Ekkehard knocked her with such thunderous force that it tossed her out of the flurry and into a cliff face with a sickening crunch. The snow settled back on the ground, and Ekkhard stood before the amazed prisoners. He hoisted the maul high and cried out, “Praise Thedeor!”

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The members of the Storm Legion quickly fell to the valiance of Ekkhard and the freed northmen, and from then on, Shaman of the north tribes drove back the Blood Storm with the bitter cold and fury of the wind.

Can be picked up from the various bookshelves in the Chancel of Labors, Iron Pine Peak. The books will be in different locations for each character. You are encouraged to pick these up during the quest ‘Rite of the Mind’, part of the Saga of the Storm Queen.

The Storm Legion lieutenant strode before the assembled villagers, who stood unmoving in a line. “You have all become a part of the Storm Queen’s army,” he called out. “What is more, you have become a part of her. You will know no greater love than the Storm Queen’s, which I am sure you felt when you looked into her eye. Now, it is time to cut ties.” He gestured, and his soldiers distributed shovels among the villagers. They were pushed toward the bodies that littered the streets of their village, friends and family who had not submitted soon enough.

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Just over a rise, the sole survivor of the slaughter of Whitefall huddled behind a rock. Though her fingers shook with the cold, she guided the bullets into the barrel of her gun.

As the villagers dug, one of them fell, too weak for the work. “You,” said the lieutenant, gesturing toward one of the other villagers. “Crucia has no room for weaklings in her army. Bury him with the others.”

The villager stepped forward, empty eyed and raising his shovel. Just before the shovel came down, a bullet knocked it from his hand. The lieutenant turned, barking to his men, “Marksman!”

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The soldiers rushed up toward the rise. A slender young woman stepped up with a rifle propped against her shoulder, and as a bullet exited the barrel, it shot forward with an arc of lightning behind it that spread through the chest of the soldier it entered. A second shot followed right at its tails, hitting against a second soldier with such thundering force that he was knocked back fifteen yards. As the first soldier reached her position, she hoisted the gun and leveled a shot into his chest, blood spraying in the snow. As the last of the group reached her, she leapt back unnaturally, landing twenty yards back and firing again as she did. The force of the bullet dropped its target but also arced out and toppled his companions.

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The battalion’s mages finally managed to get in range of the girl and hit her with a stunning bolt. For a moment, she seemed snagged, then as quickly as the effect had hit it was gone, and she was running with unnatural speed through the snow. She reached a high position and then stopped, turning her rifle toward the lieutenant. He barked an order, an edge of terror to his voice. The legion’s mages doubled their efforts, hurling spells toward her. She danced from side to side and the spells fizzled against her. Bullets dropped the mages one by one, and once again she directed her eye toward the lieutenant, who scrambled back in terror.

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“This is for Whitefall,” said the girl in an emotionless voice.

Local legend says that the bullet hit with such force that it decapitated the lieutenant. The rest of the battalion ran in fear from the sniper and her unerring bullets. There was nothing that could be done for the people of Whitefall, and the first act of the one day legendary marksman Gisa Malik was to bury the people of her village in the frigid earth of the Iron Pine Peaks.

Can be picked up from the various bookshelves in the Chancel of Labors, Iron Pine Peak. The books will be in different locations for each character. You are encouraged to pick these up during the quest ‘Rite of the Mind’, part of the Saga of the Storm Queen.

“Stay here. Those tricks the Elves taught you won’t frighten the Storm Legion.” Phynnious Rothmann’s brother said, laughing.

Imbecile, Phynnious thought, watching his fellow tribesmen ride to battle. My tricks frightened even my teachers!

Sickly son of a Mathosian chieftan, Phynnious Rothmann was sent to study magic with the Elves – less to bring the arcane arts to his people than to stay out from under stomping, booted feet. But the Elves sent him home early: not because his research into fire magic nearly burned their sacred grove to the ground, but because the urgency of human youth made them uncomfortable.

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Rothmann trudged over to the edge of the cliff to watch as slowly, the valor of the united tribesmen overcame the mindless discipline of Crucia’s Storm Legion. Suddenly, an electric blast erupted in the middle of the battlefield. Whether thanks to lightning or terror, the hair on the back of Phynnious’s neck stood up and he whispered, “Stormtouched.”

Crucia herself, dragon of storms, had possessed the Legion’s commander. Phynnious knew she could bring to bear superhuman tactics and storm magic that would eradicate every northman in that valley. He knew this even as he rode to the battlefield, quick as a midsummer fire through dry scrub. Leaping off his horse, Phynnious turned into a streak of flame and flashed toward the front line just as the Mathosians quavered on the edge of disaster.

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Standing on the front line, Rothmann conjured exploding fissures of magma, completing in mere seconds an incantation that took his Elf tutors minutes. White-hot flame lanced from his fingers, sending charred chunks of Legionaries flying in all directions. The Storm Legion’s rally became a rout.

An arrow slammed into Rothmann’s shoulder, jarring him into a state of sharp focus. The possessed Storm Legion leader advanced, aiming his second arrow at the mage’s heart. Phynnious screamed at his assailant, exhaling waves of flame that burned the bow away. The general drew his sword and charged through the flames. Two steps from Phynnious he stopped, a statue of solid ash.

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Phynnious’s laughter blew the ash away on the northern breeze, joined by with the roar of his clansmen as they ran down the fleeing Storm Legion, even as a voice hissed from the sky: “I will kill you, little mage.”

Years later, as Phynnious fixed the keystone to Crucia’s prison, he taunted, “Remember what you promised me?” and laughed again, breathy and crackling like a bonfire

Can be picked up from the various bookshelves in the Chancel of Labors, Iron Pine Peak. The books will be in different locations for each character. You are encouraged to pick these up during the quest ‘Rite of the Mind’, part of the Saga of the Storm Queen.

The Bahmi warrior Vachir Altan was the first to bear the title of Champion. His first documented appearance was when he battled Crucia’s whelp Arconis, known as the Bane of Kerenton. When Vachir rode into town, its human population looked on at him in suspicion, but he ignored their scrutiny. Within hours of his arrival Vachir entered ruins of Castle Kerenton where the wyrm laired. Sizing up the beast, he bull rushed the dragon spawn with reckless abandon.

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An epic battle was fought across the ruins of the once great castle. At the end of it Arconis lay dead in the courtyard, Vachir’s massive two handed blade in the whelp’s throat. “Start a fire, we feast tonight,” was all he is recorded to have said to the town’s inhabitants. In the evening he feasted and enjoyed the hospitality of the people of Kerenton, but by morning he was gone, tales of his exploits continuing to arise throughout Telara.

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While the Bahmi of the Canyons had many disciples of Vachir, the otherwise human residents of the duchy of Kerenton were also known for a number of blue- skinned Champions who brashly rode forth from its borders for the next few generations. Their road one of glory, seeking to overcome the impossible through the mastery of the blade.

Can be picked up from the various bookshelves in the Chancel of Labors, Iron Pine Peak. The books will be in different locations for each character. You are encouraged to pick these up during the quest ‘Rite of the Mind’, part of the Saga of the Storm Queen.

Among the greatest generals of Telara’s history was Warlord Borte, daughter of the Shalastir Bahmi leader. Though she claimed many victories, her greatest by far was breaking the hold of Crucia’s forces on the Iron Pine Peaks. When she marched a force of assembled Telarans to overtake the stronghold of the Storm Legion, the Telarans found themselves outnumbered by nearly four to one, and hope all but abandoned them. Infiltrators from the Storm Legion only worsened matters, whispering insinuations of the succor of surrender, which quickly took root in hearts weakened by terror and weariness. Borte, hearing the rising din of resignation, rode before the army as dawn broke on the day of battle.

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“Sons and daughters of Telara! I see the fear in your eyes, cold as these icy peaks, but I command you, banish it! Stand unbent before the forces of the Storm Queen and her Wicked Brood and laugh at them for assuming you would break!

“Every one of us has come here today with strength in our hearts, and hope that tomorrow the sun will rise on a world free of the Blood Storm. A belief that our children will be born knowing no fear of war, no threat of invasion, no screech of planar whelp! Crucia’s greatest strength is our hopelessness. Her great desire is to break us, to conquer us, and for us to submit before her. But in standing against her, we have already won! We have proven we are not afraid, and that we will not be overcome. We are girded against her victory by the valor of our unbroken hearts and the persistence of our spirit.”

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She paused, gaze sweeping over the assembled mass, and backs straightened, emboldened by her words. “In a not too distant place, the Shalastir stood against Crucia and drove her back. Lead by my father, Crucia was compelled to abandon her campaign for their submission. Today, I bid you do the same! Bend them! Break them! Hold fast this world with the ballast of our valiance! Rip Telara from Crucia’s claws and make true the promise of a future free of corruption! Ride, my brothers! Fight, my sisters! CRUSH THEM!”

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A great cheer rose up among the assembled forces, and they were driven forward into battle with Borte’s words surrounding them as a shield that bolstered their attacks, healed their wounds, and kept Crucia’s touch from controlling their minds. Borte lead from the thick of the battle, manipulating allies and enemies alike with auras of inspiration and intimidation. As her main force confronted the brunt of the Legion, strike units took out their fortifications before crushing their flank.

Found in the bookshelves on the bottom floor of the Runic Athenaeum in Moonshade Highlands. /setwaypoint 7428 1557 height = 841

The story of Calliope the Tempest and how she infiltrated the Storm Legion.

Calliope waited in the shadow of the white drake. The ancient creature – a minor queen – was eating loudly, in crunching bites and gulps.

“There’s a crispness…” she said, swallowing, “that you only get with lightning.” She looked longingly at a cage filled with prisoners. “I should have been a cook.”

Calliope grimaced, sweating in the armor of a Legion officer she’d ambushed outside the tower. At last the drake finished and rocked forward, summoning an image of the continent.

“Have you heard, Captain, of the Tempest Jules?”

Calliope was a Tempest Jule – a skilled warrior who had learned to bend lightning to her will, and a sworn enemy of this monstrous invader.

“Holdouts,” she spoke quickly, in the dead Captain’s tongue. “Meddling Brevanes who escaped at Tempest Bay.”

“Meddling?” Storms swirled in her eyes. “They’re killing our brethren – weakening our hold on the Steppes.” The drake concentrated, and ‘PELLADANE’ flared to life on the conjured map. “Here, they recruit initiates from the caves we haven’t cleansed.” Calliope tried to hide her surprise – the legion knew more than they expected.

“Here …” she paused, pointing a talon near the symbol of her tower. “They gather a storm to march on my citadel. These are your enemies, Captain.” Hissing through an arcane ritual, she transformed the map into a massive portal. “And this is the army – your army – that will cleanse them from our domain.”

The shimmering gateway offered a view of – and transport to – a waiting legion. Elementals and footmen crowded the legs of mechanical goliaths while winged beasts swooped overhead.

“Go,” the drake commanded. “Yours will be the tempest at the heart of the storm.”

“Yes,” said Calliope. “It will.” She drew a blade and flung a set of pulsing orbs through the gate. The drake shrieked in confusion as they began to explode on the other side, one after the next, punctuated by sizzling torrents of energy Calliope hurled through the portal.

Roaring, the drake chanted the gate closed, but not before the surviving soldiers returned a volley of fire. Calliope absorbed their strikes and unleashed focused lightning against the drake and her tower, leaping from the structure as it crumbled, riding the wind, nearly weightless, toward a column of advancing warriors.

Found in the Mathosia Tutorial Zone, for Guardians.
Can also be found in Sanctum at /setwaypoint 7524 3083 – Can also be looted by Defiants in this spot.

The most recent city record for the town of Ardenburgh.

Fifth Moon of the Year of the Tyrant

King Aedraxis has set up a camp on the far side of Thedeor Fields. He has brought with him a legion of Eth and Bahmi conscripts to build him their strange machines. The king has set up massive technomantic pillars on the hill above the fields as well. In all my years as mayor of Ardenburgh I have never seen such a sight.

In the night, we can hear King Aedraxis and his mages chanting under those pillars. I swear they are saying the name Regulos over and over. The town counsel and I are at a loss for what to do, but we know something is not right. We sent word to Prince Zareph a few days past asking him to come here and put a stop to this. Hopefully, he will arrive quickly.

Maurice Sullivan
Mayor of Ardenburgh

Looted in Uttila East in Vostigar Peaks at /setwaypoint 3935 3388 – Looting this book credits the cheevo ‘Stranger Tales‘.

A letter to my descendants on how we escaped the tyranny of the gravitic prison of the crystal sphere.

We live inside the Tower of Ahnket. We no longer feel the need to leave her protective embrace. If needed Ahnket can create a simulacrum of our bodies and we can explore the outside world in safety. However, she is as versed in all the investigative techniques as any of the mages of Alittu. We trust her to run the exploration of the last of the known universe while we devote our lives to the higher philosophies of meaning and enlightenment. Our magical knowledge is nearing completion, save for this curious oddity known as “Ascension” where lesser mortal beings gain great power and have disrupted the natural order.

We have had dealings with them as we have moved through our rapidly expanding universe. The Wheel that connects a soul reborn throughout time, the man whose sacrificial death changes reality, the Vessel that binds the gods, the Beast and all his pleasures, all of them. As the universe grows we discover more and more. Each has conquered worlds, and as time has passed has grown more powerful, and more unstable. There are rumors that an Ascended woman of great martial strength is binding them together, making an Ascended court. In council, the sages of Alittu worry about the gods and the worlds that have not yet fallen under their sway.

We now suspect that this stranger who has helped us advance through the ages is one of these “Ascended”. We have directed Ahnket to investigate.

Rewarded from Instant Adventure Caches.

Fortune’s Shore was once one of the city-states of the Eth. It was settled by the Fortuna tribe and was the greatest port of the Eth Empire. Though it was, in time, unseated by Port Scion as the primary point of trade for the continent, with the fall of said city, it has now resumed the primary port of the continent of Tyr.

Much of its infrastructure was destroyed in the magitech explosions of the Convocation. Like the rest of the empire, it was decimated. However, the port district was full of more traditional structures and was a vital enough location that effort was put toward rebuilding it. Similarly, the Mathosian Empire saw its value as a southern trading port and maintained it when they took control of the region.

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The Bahmi were pivotal to its rebuilding. Because of that, the port is peppered with many traditional Bahmi “gharuu,” open-aired tent structures in colorful fabrics traditional to Bahmi life. Their open quality is said to be intended to invite in the ancestor spirits. It also allows the wind, which links them to their Plane of Air origins, to pass through their domiciles unabated.

Though still an active and pivotal port, central to the Sourcestone trade, it has become increasingly seedy in recent years. It is the site of many warring gangs, and there is little order-keeping force. The Dragonslayer Covenant once filled this role, but since their focus has become focused wholly on the cults, they can’t be keeping peace between Telarans anymore. Kaseem Owan, a Bahmi of some renown, has made efforts to cleanup the port. This effort is ongoing, however, and is meeting the violent resistance of the aforementioned gangs.

Found in the Mathosia Tutorial Zone, for Guardians. Can also be found in Sanctum at /setwaypoint 7612 3093
A book on crates in Orphiel’s Spire, Meridian. Use the lift to go up! /setwaypoint 5999 5131 height = 997

This book speaks of Durnes, the first Elven Ranger.

The Elves have always shared a mystical bond with the beasts of Telara, but this ancient compact was sundered with the arrival of Greenscale and his faerie minions. It was Durnes, an Elven huntress, who discovered that the capricious faeries could speak to the brutes, and lure them to serve their twisted court. For a fortnight she stalked the Fae Lords and studied their every move, determined to learn the secret language of the wild.

Knowledge in hand, the huntress methodically restored order to her home, turning the beasts of the wood against the slaves of Greenscale. Unprepared for an assault from within the heart of their stronghold, the Faerie court was quickly overrun by the packs of wolves bred to protect their borders. Many fled the carnage, only to fall with Durnes’s well- placed arrows through their hearts. The few surviving fairies abandoned the forest, choosing the wrath of the great dragon over being hunted by the first of the Rangers.

Found in the Mathosia Tutorial Zone, for Guardians. Can also be found in Sanctum at /setwaypoint 7458 3019
A book on a table in Orphiel’s Spire, Meridian. Use the lift to go up! /setwaypoint 6011 5144 height = 966

This book sppears to be about the first mages of Telara.

It was before the age of dragons that pioneering mages of the High Elves began to study and exploit weaknesses in the elemental forces, harnessing and redirecting them against the invading forces. This dangerous art had dire consequences, since a loss of concentration by an Elementalist could end in immediate and painful death. Despite these risks, the Elementalists were effective at turning the tide of the war: Their art kept them far away from the battlefield, and their minions inflicted heavy losses on the planar hosts invading Telara.

Today this arcane art still flourishes across Telara and it remains as important as ever. Those mages who demonstrate an impressive force of will and an affinity for the natural order often make accomplished Elementalists. Those mages who do not share these talents and begin summoning the elements typically don’t survive very long.

Looted in Abundant Wilds in Ember Isle. The book is on the porch of a little house at /setwaypoint 12876 4258

It is known that Maelforge was imprisoned within the volcano of Carcera. He had taken the mountain to be his lair and the heart of his power, and so it was in
that location that the heroes of the Campaign of Flames trapped him. What has been completely scrubbed from history is the exact method by which it was accomplished.

Scattered records indicate that his entrapment was the product of collaboration between the brightest Kelari of the day and the heroes who led the army against Maelforge – Talos Roda, the Purifier; Karine, the Bard; Ula, the Reaver; Asias, the Cabalist, and Nazim, the Riftblade. The hunters knew their prey, and the Kelari knew their island and its particular powers, surrounding the sourcewells from which they drew their power.

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Or perhaps – and this is only a speculation – the sourcewell, singular. Translations are fuzzy, as the Kelari who first came to the island spoke the most ancient of elven dialects, a dialect that has since passed into obscurity. However, most linguists with a mind for critical thinking agree that where popular texts refer to sourcewells, their predecessors only refer to a single sourcewell. Only after Maelforge’s imprisonment do we see consistent references to sourcewells in text.

Given this information, one begins to wonder if perhaps the rest of the sourcewells actually formed as a result of Maelforge’s imprisonment. How could such a thing happen? What follows is only theories formed around a foundation of speculations but result from discourse shared between many fine minds who have made this their primary occupation.

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The power that flows out of the sourcewells seems to be a very base form of sourcestone, a vaporous form of it if you will. Given the seemingly endless depth of the sourcewells (their bottom has never successfully been measured), then it seems as if that source might be coming from the heart of the world itself. Given all that has been accomplished with that power, this wouldn’t seem to be an overestimation of its potential.

If only one of these cracks existed before, and if it represented a single line of access to a very deep and ancient power, perhaps it was depended on in the ritual to imprison Maelforge. And assuming that this crack was actually a flaw in the world’s core left by an imperfect creator – an unavoidable seam in the world’s construction – this flaw could have been made worse by drawing out a great deal of power from it. As a result, more of these cracks could have formed, leading to more sourcewells. Quite likely, this first sourcewell was once vastly more powerful than our current sourcewells, as its power would now be split between many places.

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Could this be the secret to how Maelforge was imprisoned? We know it also involved sourcestone of the Plane of Earth, as he is trapped like a fly in amber within a great case of stone, but what caused that all to harden and stay hard despite the heat of the volcano? Perhaps the power of a proto-sourcewell even more powerful than those remaining today? We may never know.

Found in the bookshelves on the middle floor of the Runic Athenaeum in Moonshade Highlands. /setwaypoint 7381 1567 height = 853

The story of Ganzorig the Liberator and his unorthodox art of healing.

Marvar leaned on his staff as he limped back to the Fortress of Fallen Stars. Every step was agony. He attempted to recite some of the Nightfall mantras to take his mind off the pain, but all that came out was a hacking cough filled with blood. As he approached the Gates of Eternity he winced, this time in annoyance. “It’s just a stupid portcullis. Not everything needs some fancy, mystical name. ‘The Exit’ would work just as well.” Marvar was again overcome with self doubt that was almost as painful as his broken bones.

With the Ascended victories over the dragons he thought that life would improve, no more rifts opening everywhere, no more monsters spilling out of the fabric of reality, maybe people would stop telling him he was so morose. But it wasn’t like that at all, soon the Ascended started fighting among themselves again, not in the traditional arguments over faith, reason, prophesy and free will. No, this was the most difficult of all questions for the war weary Ascended to answer. What now?

The Gates of Eternity started to open, and the ground began to shake.

“What now?” moaned Marvar before he broke into another ill timed coughing fit, for when he looked up from his blood soaked handkerchief he saw he was in the direct path of the onrushing heavy cavalry of Ascended knights of the Raven. Who promptly trampled him.

“You ok, Marvar?” an annoyingly cheery voice asked from above his battered and bruised form. It was that dwarven sentry Ivan, the one that always wore that novelty horse head mask because he thought it was funny. It wasn’t. Marvar was very sure on this point.

“Marvar looks hurt! Someone grab his legs!” Marvar tried to protest. Couldn’t they see the horses had broken his back? Hoisting him up was the worst thing they could do for him. “Help me carry him in to the Liberator.” Again, Marvar attempted to stop these fools, but all that came out of his mouth was a tortured scream as they carried him into the keep.

“Hello! I am Ganzorig!” said the huge, muscled Bahmi that approached the mangled and sobbing Marvar in the infirmary. “You seem broken. I will fix.”

Ganzorig started doing a flexing martial dance. He looked like one of the ridiculous performers from Carnival. Marvar wondered if his comrades in arms of Nightfall were having another one of their practical jokes on him. They were not as dour and serious as he thought they would be. “I should switch sides. Maybe those Dominion fascists will take things more seriously.”

“Am done warming up.” The now sweaty Bahmi pulled out a gigantic two handed sword. “Now we make feel better.” Ganzorig raised the impossibly large sword above his head and brought his sword down in a massive strike.

“Don’t kill me!’ Marvar shouted through the pain. Or the pain that wasn’t there. Marvar sat up, confused. He felt better. Not just better than before he was beaten up and trampled, but better than he had in years. “What did you do? You used no magic. You just swung your sword around a bit.”

“No more pain, yes? Is good! Is happy!” the Bahmi held out his meaty, muscled hand.

“But what did you do?” Marvar yelped and he was dragged up from his bloody cot.

“Is magnets!” Ganzorig said genially. “I bend aura. Learn from Earth Plane. Fix bones. Feel healthy!”

The alarm bell rang out. The keep was under attack. Ganzorig ran out the room with friendly wave of his mighty hand. “Must go! Is war! I fix everyone!”

Marvar, followed after him, it was much easier now that his bones were no longer shattered. He actually had a spring in his step that has been missing for years. This barmy Bahmi had stumbled upon something Marvar, in all his years of study, had never encountered. Ganzorig was part of the expedition to the Plane of Earth, recently returned to the seemingly endless conflict between the three factions. An expedition that was offered to Marvar, probably to get rid of him, but one he turned down in favor of the comforting routine of his bed. As Marvar caught up to the warrior, he had already added this expedition to the list of his lifelong regrets.

The Fortress of Fallen Stars was surrounded by the army of the Oathsworn. Though the road and hills surrounding the keep were muddy from recent storms, and the spilling of much blood, the entire army of the lion was shining in their resplendent armor, spotless white robes, and regal mounts. They looked every bit the iconic heroes their propaganda painted them to be. Marvar hated each and every one of them.

Ganzorig stood atop the walls, posing with his sword, posturing, flinging it about like a child at play. But as the mage squinted, he could suddenly see what the warrior was doing. He had grasped the ley lines that emanate from each and every being, and had entangled it upon his sword. The Bahmi then manipulated through sheer strength. Not strength of will, not through magical means, but he just bent them with his muscles. Marvar was stunned.

The assassins who had climbed up onto the wall to take out the Liberator were also stunned. Ganzorig took a momentary break from realigning the magnetic fields of his allies, grabbing hold of his enemy’s fields and shaking them like a rag doll until they were disoriented. The Bahmi then attacked those same magnetic fields with his sword and killed them without even laying a hand on their physical bodies, then flashing a smile at the cowering mage, he returned to manipulating his side back to health.
Marvar experienced a once in a lifetime flash of admiration. “Can you teach me this art? I must understand it.”

Ganzorig smiled at him. “Oh no! Too puny and weak.” Marvar’s heart sank. “Plus is for happiness. You are quite the jerk.”

Marvar left for the Dominion the next day. And every time they lost a battle, he would remind them of why.

Found in the bookshelves on the middle floor of the Runic Athenaeum in Moonshade Highlands. /setwaypoint 7430 1567 height = 853

The story of Iilianescaneverex the Defiler and her misadventure in Necropolis.

Caretaker Wright disliked calling on the healer, feared her tower, and hated the flesh-bound sign swinging over its door: IILIANESCANEVEREX. Once used in hushed reverence, the people of Necropolis had abandoned the name in favor of “hag,” “defiler,” or simply “lil.” Wright sighed while unfurling a scroll. To think they’d once been close….

Inside, lil was juicing organs for soup. The Caretaker’s booming summons cost her most of an angel’s liver, but she was more upset by the list of crimes he shouted at her door: reanimation and soul siphoning, marrowmancy and communion with the dead. How dare they accuse her of such petty offenses when she’d done so much more in the fight for Brevane?

When lil emerged from the tower, the Caretaker could barely restrain the mob of misshapen townsfolk who’d volunteered to bring her in. Each was a beneficiary of the “gift” of her healing, and they shambled forward as he repeated the charges. “For spreading foul growths among the honest people of Necropolis, spoiling my own body with innumerable eyes, disfiguring the alchemist with lengths of mouth–”

“Everyone looks marvelous,” lil interrupted, beaming. “You, Wright, would be the talk of old Kingsward. And the alchemist? I’ve never SEEN such a lovely tongue.”

The townspeople brandished a variety of sharpened objects as Wright continued. “For the murder of Prion, and for being seen in the company of–”

Splitting with laughter, lil waved away the illusion concealing a dark behemoth looming above the mob. “Of a Shade Giant?” she finished. “Friends of Necropolis, the Shapers might have transformed Prion, but I rather prefer his new form!” A gush of drool plummeted from the Giant’s smile. “We’re working on the antidote-”

It was lil’s turn to be interrupted. Howling in a puddle of slime at the Giant’s feet, the mutated alchemist launched flaming potions at the cleric and her ally. Before anyone could react, Prion drove his giant scythe back and forth through the man, then grinned reassuringly in lil’s direction.

She blanched as the alchemist slid into pieces and hissed through a hasty resurrection. Unfortunately, the reborn alchemist had more potions to throw, and Prion set back to cleaving. The mob howled and charged.

lil conjured a beacon of writhing eyes and twisted limbs, then dashed inside to pack. The townspeople wheeled on the hideous distraction, incensed as its foul magic crawled, tormenting, through their minds. It had taken spare body parts to assemble, but there was no shortage of extras among the crowd.

Caretaker Wright, for one the only person unaffected by the throbbing lure – was glad to be rid of the surplus eyes. Glad enough to feign ignorance after the beacon vanished, keeping secret the direction in which lil and Prion had fled.

Found in the Mathosia Tutorial Zone, for Guardians.
Can also be found in Sanctum at /setwaypoint 7459 3081 – Can also be looted by Defiants in this spot.

A well-made leather bound journal.

Fourth Moon of the Year of the Tyrant
Day 15

There is troubling news from the court of my brother, the king. He has always ruled Mathosia with an iron fist, and in accordance with Mathos tradition I have not intervened in his affairs. He claims it is for the good of the people, and that he only wishes to make the kingdom stronger.

Now I am told he has unbanned the use of profane technology within the kingdom, and that he refuses to give worship to Thedeor, or any other god. This is certainly a break from tradition, but perhaps I am worrying over nothing.

Page 2

Fourth Moon of the Year of the Tyrant
Day 28

I have received several reports from the west today that Aedraxis’s tyrannical rule is getting worse by the day. They say he hungers for power as if it were an addiction, and that he has ordered all books on death rituals in the kingdom be brought to him personally. His advisors fear what he may be planning. If he continues to pursue such dangerous magic, I may need to step in after all.

Page 3

Fifth Moon of the Year of the Tyrant
Day 5

My brother has gone mad. I received a letter from the mayor of Ardenburgh, a small settlement on the eastern border, saying that Aedraxis has been preparing some sort of technomantic empowered ritual for the past several days outside of that town. I fear for his people, my people.

As I write this, I am on my way to meet him in battle to determine the fate of the west, and perhaps all of Telara. The Runeguard of the Dwarves has informed me that they are sending soldiers as well, and an Elvish contingent from the Silverwood was seen marching through Moonshade Highlands on its way west a few days past. I only hope we are not too late.

Page 4

Fifth Moon of the Year of the Tyrant
Day 9

I have seen more tragedy this day than any man should have to witness in two lifetimes. We were able to mount an impressive force of Dwarves, Elves, and Mathosians against Aedraxis and his forces. As I stood with the archers, directing the attack, I was certain we would be victorious, for Thedeor was surely on our side.

Then, I saw the Eth and Bahmi mercenaries from the south that had brought their technomancy to aid Aedraxis. The army charged over the crest of the hill where my brother was performing his dark ritual. What I saw next I will never forget. The very sky opened up before him, and a great wave of death magic came pouring through. I could see the hallow eyes of Regulos, the Dragon of Extinction, staring through the void. The infantry was decimated almost instantly. Some were simply reduced to dust, but others became possessed by the powerful death magic, their bodies turned pale or reduced to only bones; undead soldiers for Aedraxis’s army.

Carwin, Cyril, Borrin, and so many others who I called friend were swallowed up in that cloud of death. Of the leadership, I alone survived. Perhaps my brother was right, perhaps the gods have forsaken us.

Page 5

Fifth Moon of the Year of the Tyrant
Day 10

The cathedral at Ardenburgh was cold last night when I came here for shelter, but this morning it was filled with a warm light that I cannot describe here. Then I saw them; the dead returned. They are not undead abominations like those I saw on the battlefield. These are the righteous fallen, reborn in this world by some indescribable miracle.

Though I am in the midst of something grand, I am also plagued by a sobering reality. With the Ward broken, what will become of Port Scion? I must return
there, and soon. These rifts will only grow more numerous in the coming days. I must not let what happened to Ardenburgh happen to my city.

Found in the bookshelves on the bottom floor of the Runic Athenaeum in Moonshade Highlands. /setwaypoint 7448 1534 height = 841

The story of Kiera the Physician and her journey through the Soulstream.

The Bone Ships had been drifting upon the Soul Stream for a long time. Murmond, elven justicar of Tavril, looked out over the starry expanse of the soul stream, and idly scratched into the bone hull of the ark. “How long had it been.” He wondered, it was hard to say for certain. There was no dawn, no dusk, no spring or summer, just the endless dark. At first they could chart their course by the other planes, the flow of souls that flowed into this spiritual river provided current. For a while it was a turbulent barrage, now they slowly spun about upon this metaphysical gyre of the dead.

The Mathosians were the first to go. They seemed to age before Murmond’s eyes. They had made an effort to ensure their race’s survival within their necromancy powered arks, but their offspring were sickly and deformed, and their lines quickly died out. The dwarves were next. They had constructed these twenty three bone arks, but even the durable, long lived dwarves would succumb to the ravages of time, and the morose terrors of the Plane of Death. That left the elves. They had enchanted the foliage that sustained the inhabitants of the arks that traveled the Plane of Death. Their long lives afforded them the privilege of watching the cosmos, as they knew it, perish.

Murmond often pondered this sad fate of the Telarans as he sat at the edge of the ark. The view was always awe inspiring, a vast spiral galaxy of souls and spirits could be seen. He would often scrimshaw the view into parts of the ship to chart their progress. It was only when he compared the views over a span of time that he noticed how small the stream of souls had become.

“They must be beyond the horizon now.” He thought. The brought up the pang of longing he had for his deity, Tavril. “She’s not dead.” He whispered fervently to calm himself. “She’s just too far away. The Akvan have stretched the cosmos into strange dimensions. All distance is becoming infinite.” Ciar the elementalist had explained it to him, but he never really understood it fully.

Suddenly, eleven vast rubbery tentacle shot out of the darkness below, and wrapped itself around the flotilla, smashing them together. Crawling along the appendages at speeds impossible in this dimension were thousands of hairless, amphibious creatures, cold as the grave.

“Shahgi!” The cry came from many parts of the ark wreckage.

Murmond grabbed his mace and shield, said a quick prayer that he knew would never be granted, and leaped down onto the tentacles that now tore through the dimension of death itself. “I wish I still had my spells.” He thought as he slammed into the front line of the Shahgi, knocking them off their perch upon their master’s limbs. His mace swung back and force, caving in slick, slime covered skulls of the akvan’s servants.

Blue ichor spattered the cleric’s green shield, and soon the ex-justicar found himself surrounded by brutes. His armor was ripped asunder. His wounds became infected and festered in the displaced timeline that surrounds these most ancient of demons. He was done for.

Then a high pitched note of an arrow in flight sang out, and a needle plunged into his back. Murmond cried out in agony, fearing he was done for. But then he felt the familiar tingling sensation of a healing potion knitting together his wounds. Turning around momentarily he saw the lithe figure of an archer leaping from perch to perch among the wreckage of the arks, letting loose arrow after arrow of alchemical hope.

It was Kiera, the ark’s Physician. With the Akvan’s victory, gods and spirits were unreachable, so healing prayers were no longer granted. It was Kiera the archer that took up this role. She was already a capable alchemist, but in the heat of battle getting her potions into the warriors on the front line was always a challenge. After the tentacles began to hunt the fleet, Kiera declared that she would deliver the healing from her position at over-watch.

With Kiera in place the rest of the elves began to fall in behind Murmond, who’s back now resembled a pincushion of alchemical treatments and therapies. A massive therapy to repair the acid the shahgi spit in his face, an active treatment for the bone scimitar through the kidney, a casual treatment or two to deal with claw swipes to the face, and then a maintenance treatment so she could shift attention to other parts of the battlefield.

Kiera started to pick off the shahgi that had made it past the defensive line, shooting arrows with trailing alchemical tubes. With each arrow hit it drained their life energy, and, as alien as they were, converted it to a healing admixture. The physician healed herself under the assault of spells and arrows that the attackers aimed at her, and finished off the outliers one by one.

As the healing arrows flew in, the elves of the arks began to push back the shahgi enough to focus on removing the massive, god like tentacles that bound their refuge. As Murmond slogged across the tentacle, now writhing in pain, he heard a frantic cry from above. They were about to cut the Akvan loose from the arks, he had to retreat now or fall into that strange dimension the rest of the cosmos has been turned into. As he ran back to the ark he looked up towards Kiera, who was kneeling on top of the ark, exhausted. Murmond yelled frantically to warn her of a group of shahgi that had reached her position.

Kiera whipped out a syringe and stabbed herself in the leg, and was full of energy. The Physician spun around and a volley of arrows flew out at the amphibians, Kiera then tossed another potion at the leader of this group, then returned to her relentless assault of healing. With every healing payload, the shahgi leader had a reaction where a stone grew from out of each vital organ, until he, and the rest of the akvan minions, lay dead.

Murmond lay among the rest of the wounded warriors, waiting his turn to be restored back to health. The bone arks jostled against each other as they drifted closer to the center of the latest vortex.

“We can’t survive much longer. Our mission is a failure.” Murmond looked up at his Physician with despair.

She pondered this statement, “We will find the lost goddess, and then undo this cosmic ending that Fate has spun.”

Kiera’s inventive nature is what had gotten them this far, but it was her pragmatism that really saw them through. “How can we not? There isn’t much of a cosmos left to search.”

Looted in Uttila East in Vostigar Peaks at /setwaypoint 3996 3363 – Looting this book credits the cheevo ‘Stranger Tales‘.

Wherein I detail the surprising but not unexpected theory that proves the link between symbology and intelligence.

I was born in Alittu, graduated in the top of my class, just when the Runes of Making had been discovered. What a time that was! With these new runes, we had separated magical force and intention from ritual. A mage could inscribe instruction and will without having to dance around, or throw dung, or chant mantras to focus one’s will. It was a transformation of the art.

It started the age of the magical machine, an industrial revolution. We created devices and foci that could enact force without our personal attention. Machines that dug into the earth for the metals and gems that we required, machines that wove, machines that constructed other machines. Alittu transformed, the world transformed, magic could be enacted without the mage. Our mathemagical equations could be enacted by those who did not even understand the theory.

I worked on the the Automata project. We were trying to create an automaton that did not need a mortal operator to talk it through every action, one that could do more than just repeat the same action. We tried many tactics, but every one was just so bloody stupid. The spirit binders were having much better luck, but the reliance upon the dead made many uncomfortable.

Then after an enlightening conversation with a traveling scholar, I had a breakthrough. Rather than teaching these automata how to succeed, I thought about the mathemagical principles of failure. We created a simple automata that we called Ahnket, and allowed it to try and accomplish some basic tasks. It was terrible. But over time, it got better, slowly learning from its mistakes. By the time I retired it had become a competent, if often clumsy, assistant. It could make me tea, which was a real comfort.

Looted in Uttila East in Vostigar Peaks at /setwaypoint 3953 3392 – Looting this book credits the cheevo ‘Stranger Tales‘.

Stories for future Gleans, warnings and musings of the political and spiritual overlords known as Ascended.

We had long ago raised the Lyceum of Alittu to float above the world, a new comet that circled the globe. The world below was a paradise. Perfect, beautiful and harmonious. We had long ago learned its secrets with the help of Ahnket, who would explore on our behalf, to root out what little that was new or novel left upon the garden of our world.

The mortal races had reverted to a more natural form, they were still intelligent, but we ensured that their civilizations did not cause undue impact upon the other species. Those of us in Alittu were living longer and longer, and has little fear of dying prematurely due to Ahnket taking on the role of explorer. We came to see ourselves as caretakers of the world, and sought to encourage the new and novel in the world below, because frankly, things were getting a bit boring.

Then a stranger arrived, we hadn’t seen someone unfamiliar to us in living memory, but Ahnket vouched for him. He helped us to crack the ritual equations that prevented our spells from leaving our crystalline sphere. We were free to explore other worlds, other dimensions. No knowledge or novelty was denied to us.

Looted in Nykantor Ruins in Ember Isle at /setwaypoint 12827 3879 – A book on the lower part of the tower, not where the puzzle is. – Go up the stairs at /setwaypoint 12886 3834 and turn left towards the tower.

The name “Sylver Valis” is inscribed in the front of this book, as well as the note, “Age 12.” The child’s rough scrawl suggests this was written by someone just
learning to write, a reminder of how slowly elves age.

Page 2

My name is Sylver. My mother’s name is Dionora. My father’s name is Kleon. My sister’s name is Issi. We live in Atia. My father and mother are both priests in the temple. My sister is going to be a priestess like them.

I am not going to be a priest. The spirits don’t like me. I can’t make pacts with them. They run away if get close. High Priestess Mona says that I smell like rotting fruit to the spirits. I don’t know why I am rotten. I guess I fell off the tree too early. The spirits like all the other Kelari, except me.

Page 3

My father says I’m cursed. My mother says I’m special. My father doesn’t like her to say that. My sister laughs when she says that. But she says that there are no other Kelari like me and that makes me special.

When everyone else is in the temple, I read books. Scribe Hesio gives them to me. He says I read and write better than any other Kelari my age. I like books and I like to write. I don’t mind that I get to read while everyone else makes pacts. I think my mom is right. It makes me special.

Found in the Mathosia Tutorial Zone, for Guardians. Can also be found in Sanctum at /setwaypoint 7465 3093
A book on a table in Orphiel’s Spire, Meridian. Use the lift to go up! /setwaypoint 5983 5131 height = 983

The tale of Niyol Cliffswind, founder of the Sentinels.

Unable to reconcile the contradictions between the gods, the Elf initiate Niyol Cliffswind made a pilgrimage to Hammerknell. In the capital of the Elves’ ancient enemies, the dwarves, he tried to learn how Bahralt’s bustling cities could coexist with Tavril’s pristine wilderness.

His days there were a misery: jostled and berated, unable to gain audience with a priest of Bahralt. Then one night, a lynch mob pulled Niyol from his bed. “Filthy spy!” they cried, for an Elvish surprise attack had breached the city walls. Dragged toward the gibbet, Niyol heard the clamor as fighting raged through Hammerknell.

The Elf vanguard burst into the grand hall just as the hangman fitted a noose to Niyol’s neck. A moment later, the dwarf fell with an arrow in his throat, knocking Niyol off his bench. The rope drew tight.

Battle choked the dwarven hall, yet no combatant who fought near Niyol succumbed to their wounds. Even as he swung from the noose, the initiate mouthed a healing prayer, offering his last breath to save kinfolk and persecutors alike.

White light poured from the eyes of every statue to a god in Hammerknell, the words of his prayer booming from stone lips. Anyone who saw the light was healed; everyone who heard the words succumbed to a quiet serenity.

As the Elves lay down their arms, the dwarves cut Niyol down and declared him a saint. Both sides pledged alliance ever after, and the mendicant went on his way.

The Elf commander had heard of Niyol’s pilgrimage, and asked if he had learned how the gods could overcome their conflicts.

“Each god values the life of each and every mortal. In this, there is unity,” Niyol said with the sure, clear voice of enlightenment.

Niyol spent many years spreading his revelation, performing miracles, finding in every culture a link to the divine. When the gods formed the Vigil, Niyol’s sentinels spread hope through unity to all the people of Telara.

Found in the Mathosia Tutorial Zone, for Guardians. Can also be found in Sanctum at /setwaypoint 7475 3092
A book on a table in Orphiel’s Spire, Meridian. Use the lift to go up! /setwaypoint 5985 5134 height = 983

This book speaks of Nysyr, the first Inquisitor.

The Age of Dragons was a time of cult activity where many sought power through service to the great elemental dragons that ruled over Telara. The city state of Fortuna (later known as Fortune’s Shore) was riddled with cultists of the Golden Maw, but whenever the king sent soldiers to combat them, they melted away into the populace. So a young acolyte named Nysyr was named as the Grand Inquisitor with the full blessing of the king. Though his methods were brutal and cruel, he drove the cults from the city. By this point Nysyr had gained great political power and influence in the city, but rather than rule there he took his inquisition and left in search of other signs of draconic corruption. This began the First Draconic Purge.

The Inquisitor is a cleric who no longer follows the doctrines of life or death alone; instead they stand between these forces demanding purity from both. An Inquisitor passes judgment on those who are worthy, and damns those who are corrupt. Their true strength is derived from their extreme faith; as such, they forgo heavy armaments in favor of a simple hauberk of chain and a sturdy maul. Although Inquisitors will never achieve the great heights of power from choosing an exclusive life or death path, their ability to harness and manipulate both energies make them extremely valuable companions.

Found in the Mathosia Tutorial Zone, for Guardians. Can also be found in Sanctum at /setwaypoint 7607 3090
A book on a table in Orphiel’s Spire, Meridian. Use the lift to go up! /setwaypoint 5974 5138 height = 966

The tale of Neddra the Warlock, who mastered death magic and used it against those who serve Regulos.

Death has always been the most corrupting of arcane influences. At best, Mages who seek to master its power inevitably plunge into madness, while the worst wretches slowly succumb to the temptations of the Endless Court, becoming thralls of Regulos.

Neddra was one such Mage: a prodigy who saw death as the only depth left unconquered in the arcane world. For her studies, Neddra was cast out of Quicksilver College, branded a heretic and follower of Regulos. Undeterred, she journeyed north, deep into those ancient lands of Mathosia where the corruption of the Shade still held sway.

What Neddra discovered on her journey remains a mystery, but none will deny the power she obtained. For years, she waged war against the Endless Court, rooting out and destroying their hidden cells within the colleges of magic. Many young Mages followed in Neddra’s footsteps. These disciples, known as Warlocks, believe that only those who master death can banish the darkness from Telara.

Looted in Atia in Ember Isle at /setwaypoint 13380 4230 – On a table in a room inside the building.

These pages have been lost from the journal of Anthousa Mona.

I’ve lost. We could have fought a civil war. We could have fought against the Plane of Fire. But fighting them both at the same time is too much to expect from anyone, even the Kelari.
Still, those two words burn, eating away at me: I’ve lost. I’ve never lost. I do not lose.
And yet here I am: I’ve lost. We’ve lost. I don’t know if I can bear it.

Page 2

Though my father has been gone for years, I can still remember the sound of his voice as we recited my lessons at night. Details of all the ceremonies to the spirits, history, poetry, scientific theory… everything was impressed in my brain through rote memorization and determination. His determination, truthfully, not mine, but in time those two things were no longer distinguishable. His will became my own. I would succeed above everyone else. I would be High Priestess. The greatest High Priestess.

He didn’t live to see it happen, but here I am: High Priestess. For a long time, many even claimed I was the greatest. But now, as we prepare to abandon Ember Isle and all we have built, I’m sure they’ve changed their minds about that.

At least he didn’t live to see me fall.

Page 3

I watched the shore as long as I could. Once the island was finally out of sight, I made myself stop looking back. Even as we pulled away from the docks, I kept imagining some great idea might come to me and we could go back, but it didn’t. All of the lessons, all of the rituals, all of the years of history and the lessons I thought I’d learned from them – none of it amounted to anything in the face of such overwhelming odds.

As I ruminated, I felt a hand grasp mine. Surprised, I looked over to see a familiar face looking at me with a soft smile. One of my youngest acolytes stood there. For a long time, we stood in silence. Finally, she said, “You did everything you could, High Priestess.”

“Did I?” I asked bitterly.

“You did,” she said, “and everyone on these boats is alive and safe thanks to you. Thank you.”

I couldn’t bring myself to say anything else after that. Tears muddled my vision and I knew that if I said anything, they might spill.

Page 4

I can’t find Jace anywhere, and no one can tell me that they saw him board another boat. I specifically told him that he should board the Sooty Tern. Why didn’t he listen? Foolish boy! He’s resolved to do the opposite of everything that I say.

…Who am I fooling? This is my fault. I should have taken his hand and dragged him straight up the gangplank if necessary. I was too busy seeing to everyone else to see to him. If anything’s happened to him… I won’t assume that yet. Most likely, we’ll get to the shores of Tyr, and he’ll climb off one of the other boats looking like he’s the cleverest Kelari who ever lived.

But maybe he won’t. And I’ll have to bear responsibility.

Page 5

We’ve landed. We lost three boats, but the rest made it. The locals aren’t exactly celebrating our arrival, but they haven’t slaughtered us either. We’ve set up a refuge on the shore for now, but I’ve arranged a meeting with Asha Catari of the Deflants and hopefully that will lead to more permanent quarters. Everything is going as well as I could have hoped, I suppose. People have been coming up to me, thanking me, and I’ve accepted it with a smile, as is my duty. But the smile is a mask. I feel hollow behind it.

Jace is gone. If he boarded one of the boats, it was one we lost. The captains of the surviving ships have all confirmed he was not aboard their vessels. The most I can hope is that he was left behind and that he somehow survives; a foolish hope, and I can’t afford to entertain it anymore than I can afford to grieve. I must be mother to all the Kelari right now. I can’t stop to mourn one.

Page 6

I miss my son.

Found in the Mathosia Tutorial Zone, for Guardians. Can also be found in Sanctum at /setwaypoint 7476 3011
A book on a table in Orphiel’s Spire, Meridian. Use the lift to go up! /setwaypoint 5972 5127 height = 966

The tale of Phynnious Rothmann, a Pyromancer who defeated a Storm Legion invasion with his mastery of flame.

Stay here. Those tricks the Elves taught you won’t frighten the Storm Legion,’ Phynnious Rothmann’s brother said, laughing.

‘Imbecile,’ Phynnious thought, watching his fellow tribesmen ride to battle. My tricks frightened even my teachers!

The sickly son of a Mathosian chieftan, Phynnious Rothmann was sent to study magic with the Elves – less to bring the arcane arts to his people than to stay out from under stomping, booted feet. But the Elves sent him home early: not because his research into fire magic nearly burned their sacred grove to the ground, but because the urgency of human youth made them uncomfortable.

Rothmann trudged over to the edge of a cliff to watch as, slowly, the valor of the united tribesmen overcame the mindless discipline of Crucia’s Storm Legion. Suddenly, an electric blast erupted in the middle of the battlefield. Whether thanks to lightning or terror, the hair on the back of Phynnious’s neck stood up and he whispered, “Stormtouched.”

Crucia herself, dragon of storms, had possessed the Legion’s commander. Phynnious knew she could bring to bear superhuman tactics and storm magic that would eradicate every northman in that valley. He knew this even as he rode to the battlefield, quick as a midsummer fire through dry scrub. Leaping off his horse, Phynnious turned into a streak of flame and flashed toward the front line just as the Mathosians quavered on the edge of disaster.

Standing on the front line, Rothmann conjured exploding fissures of magma, completing in mere seconds an incantation that took his Elf tutors minutes. White-hot flame lanced from his fingers, sending charred chunks of Legionaries flying in all directions. The Storm Legion’s rally became a rout.

An arrow slammed into Rothmann’s shoulder, jarring him into a state of sharp focus. The possessed Storm Legion leader advanced, aiming his second arrow at the mage’s heart. Phynnious screamed at his assailant, exhaling waves of flame that burned the bow away. The general drew his sword and charged through the flames. Two steps from Phynnious he stopped, a statue of solid ash.

Phynnious’s laughter blew the ash away on the northern breeze, joined by the roar of his clansmen as they ran down the fleeing Storm Legion, even as a voice hissed from the sky: “I will kill you, little mage.”

Years later, as Phynnious fixed the keystone to Crucia’s prison, he taunted, “Remember what you promised me?” and laughed again, breathy and crackling like a bonfire.

Found in the bookshelves on the middle floor of the Runic Athenaeum in Moonshade Highlands. /setwaypoint 7432 1566 height = 853

The story of Prion the Harbinger and how the Storm Legion learned to fear him.

The Storm Legion Commander watched with satisfaction as a small army of Telarans trudged into camp. For all the untapped power of its sourcestone, this world had fallen quickly. Still, he wondered if Regulos knew they were stealing so many souls.

An ear-splitting bolt of energy shook him from thought.

“The Queen wants the captives alive!” he bellowed, pushing through bodies toward the gate. There, he discovered an old man standing over one of his soldiers. The Commander whistled, and Legionaries drew their swords.

“The Queen values power, Mage – and fealty.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Break him in the name of Crucia.”

As the guards charged, the old man summoned blades of energy. His eyes darkened briefly, staring past the Commander. Then he flickered among the attacking soldiers, who fell as one, clutching livid slashes in their armor.

The Commander was stunned by the pace of the erupting melee, the blades of sizzling magic, the swordsman who seemed to see the future. Though a dozen soldiers joined the fray, he dodged with prescient ease, or blocked their blows with shields of light.

“Archers!” the Commander shouted. But the old man flashed to the parapets where the bowmen stood, and the killing began anew. Warping space, the man cleft through arrows in flight and the archers who loosed them at the same time.

***

The Storm Legion Commander crawled through the muddy trail prisoners had left as they escaped. The wound in his side smelled of charged copper. He must focus. Contact the Queen. Warn her that his soldiers were dead. That this new threat had ripped his war machines apart.

A chain of light pulled him back to the gate.

“I am Prion.” The old man loomed over the Commander. His blades were gone, transformed into a scythe of glimmering energy. “This Queen of yours – she can hear us?”

The Commander’s tongue thickened as his consciousness was joined. He marveled at the sweep of light.

“Tell her the Harbinger has arrived.”

Looted in Uttila East in Vostigar Peaks at /setwaypoint 3970 3480 – Looting this book credits the cheevo ‘Stranger Tales‘.

My identity is not my own and other existential fears.

My life is a jumble. I remember my childhood as an apprentice in the Alittu Monastery, and my work with Ahnket in the field, then my death-

No, I lived again under a different sky. And then again, in a tiny universe where we were giants. And again where matter had the consistency of cheese. Over and over I am reborn.

I have the memory of being an expedition leader. And then always the memory of an apocalypse at the end. The Cosmos is burned, a reality is stolen so that these new gods- no, these Ascended can live.

But I think there is dissension in the ranks. I talked to an odd man the other day. He said my strings had been cut, and I could work to stop this cycle of destruction. If not that cycle, then perhaps the next. I abandoned the sham of my life and began to search for a place known as Uttila, and here it was!

This destruction, this cosmic infanticide is monstrous. It has to stop! I have to make it stop! I have been complicit in it. I have studied these realities, for epochs, learned to love these varieties of universes, and then watched them die. I feel the horror of it, but I’m- I’m part of the thing that does that, my thoughts are her thoughts, how is this possible?

Are you one of the Ascended of Telara? We need your help. But we worry about you in the same way. When you save Telara, when will you release your grip on it?

Looted in Uttila East in Vostigar Peaks at /setwaypoint 3935 3447 – Looting this book credits the cheevo ‘Stranger Tales‘.

An accounting of the infamous necromancer and sorcerer of the Utuaan tribes.

I learned the art out in the wastes of Utuaa. I was the Night Walker for my tribe. I spoke with the spirits, I fought the demons from beyond the Veil, I raised the dead to guard the living. I walked a lonely path, like all the Night Walkers of my tribe that deathlessly advised me and protected my people from the demons of the wastes.

One night, I was visited by strangers. They were from tribes far afield, practitioners of the art, but not of traditions I was familiar with. They talked about starting a school of magic, where the art would be taught to any who would learn. A place where the living could learn from the living and magic would thrive and change when its teaching was not in the hands of the dead.

At first, I did not want to leave my tribe. I had a duty to protect them from the darkness. But a man in this group of witches and wizards, one who I initially dismissed as a fool, approached me. He said that it was not just my tribe that needed protection from the dark. Other tribes, ones without a spirit council, ones that did not have my skills with the art, they suffered in ignorance. I had a duty, and I could learn from others.

So I left with these mages. I went to the port town of Alittu. I taught students the arts of the dead, and I learned the other traditions from the other mages. When I passed from the world I did not join the spirit council, instead, I awoke in Alittu again, and again. Curious.

Found in the bookshelves on the bottom floor of the Runic Athenaeum in Moonshade Highlands. /setwaypoint 7386 1558 height = 841

The story of Syntyche the Oracle and the last days of her world.

The Tower’s rampage through the assembled defenders seemed to be unstoppable. The Tenebrean living construct appeared to be an immense obelisk supported by spidery, buttress like limbs. Where it walked, the structure of this cosmos was torn, and from its summit burst divine lightning that sundered the walls of this last planar keep. Only the silver dragon, Tasuil, had been able to keep it at bay, and the Divine Council reported that the ancient dragon would not survive the hour.

“Bloodrot!” cursed Toothbreak, supreme commander of the allied forces. The goblin was covered in scars, some from battling the Ascended, but many more since he allied with them against these invaders. “Bile, puke, puke, bloody hand!” The goblin general stamped down through the halls cursing while the outpost fell apart around him with every blow from the cosmic invader.

“Go! Get out there! What are you waiting for? There will be no next battle!” He shouted at the motley forces he passed. The hall was filled with creatures from around the planes, all of them hurt in some way; bedraggled dwarves, maimed ogres, burned satyrs, spooked Bahmi, grounded harpies, rotting zombies, and a skelf that seemed to be on the verge of drying out and becoming fish jerky. Toothbreak walked up to the aquatic warrior and spat right in his face.

“Thank you general.” The huge aquatic creature grinned, showing its mouth full of razor sharp teeth, and saluted his diminutive commander for his gift of moisture.

Toothbreak nodded to the warrior as he passed, and then banged rudely on the temple chamber door, before barging right in. The Divine Council was here, but huddled together around the battered form of the dragon, conspiring to find the words to explain how this latest catastrophe was really the plan of the long dead gods. The Tenebreans had attacked those higher realms first, and used the power of their divine death throes to power their conquest. If it weren’t for the healing they provided his troops, Toothbreak would have used the clerics for trebuchet ammunition.

Not her though, not the Oracle. She only spoke the truth, and her word was a tangible, often dangerous thing. He had witnessed this last Kelari kill with an utterance, and then allowed an army on the verge of defeat to break through the lines unharmed. Too many clerics claimed their faith was their shield, Syntyche needed no such euphemisms. Her word protected her and whatever army that followed her. She brought hope to the soldiers, death to the enemy, and saved her allies from contact with an enemy that was anathema to the touch.

“The Tower has broken through. You need to fight one more battle before you abandon us!” Toothbreak barked.

The Oracle was communing with the dying Tasuil. She whispered something, and then stood up and walked past the general. “I agree. Make ready your troops general. We must kill this godslayer if we are to save the planes.” Then she suddenly stopped, and put her hand gently on the goblin’s shoulder. “I’m not abandoning you. I’m going back to correct a mistake, to save us all. We’ve done it before.”

“And millions of my people died.” Growled Toothbreak. “If this foolhardy plan succeeds, and you meet me again, we’ll be enemies won’t we?”

The Oracle smiled. “That is up to the goblin you once were.”

The general smiled, showing off his name sake. “I’ve always wondered what your curses felt like. They are wasted on the Tenebreans.”

Syntyche walked out towards the carnage. Soldiers of many races threw themselves against the twisted limbs of the Tower, sacrificing their lives to hold the anathema back a moment longer. With a word she placed her Insignia of Protection upon the Tower, but it was not the tower that benefited from her magic. As the army of the alliance fell upon the tower they were shielded with her faith, and every blow that rained upon the construct renewed this protection. Another word from the oracle and the defenses of the Tower began to corrode, and even the smallest bogling hit with the power of a dragon. The Tower shuddered from this onslaught. The battle began to turn.

Now the Oracle began to speak her emblems. She spoke of the icy edge of the cosmos where the gods first appeared, the alacrity of the alliance and the pain that even a being as powerful as one of the twenty three Tenebreans would suffer. Then with her emblems in place she placed her final Insignia of Blood upon the Tower, and the blessings the gods had reserved for her spread among the army. The army of the alliance surged forward, and the Tower toppled.

“Now, General!” shouted the Oracle. Toothbreak signaled the technicians, and the machines began to collect the strange energy that poured out of the dying construct, and fed it straight to Orphiel’s famous creation. The Oracle made her way back through the army, who parted in reverence as she approached. If she was successful, the friendship and unity formed in battle against the outsiders would be gone, the old hatred and conflicts would once again be rampant in the planes. But at least the planes would exist.

Before Syntyche stepped into the machine, she paused and touched the Failsafe. “How many times have you been used? How many mistakes have been corrected?” Then she stepped into the glowing light and everything changed.

Found in the bookshelves on the bottom floor of the Runic Athenaeum in Moonshade Highlands. /setwaypoint 7430 1556 height = 841

The story of T’Scain, the madcap Tactician of Pelladane.

The transit lift was enormous. A deep and armored cage suspended from its track by magic and metal, it could carry a dozen Empyrean warriors in heavy plate, or in this case, a rogue and his golem.

The former lay sprawled in a corner while the golem prodded at the lift’s controls. The rogue pointed overhead. “Up, Cere.” Blood ran from his mouth when he spoke. “To the top.”

The golem keyed in the destination. As the lift spun to life, Ceredwyn looked back to the rogue. “You’re a mess,” it creaked.

“Ice mages,” said the man, grinning. He wagged his left arm – frozen solid to the elbow – at the golem. “I think they got me.” At Ceredwyn’s insistence, he conjured a healing core that took root on the floor and thrummed with elemental energy. “But you should have seen them boil,” he muttered before passing out.

By the time they arrived at the bunker, the rogue was fully healed. He checked the shelter’s provisions: food, water, and ley lines to power an assortment of wards and devices. While Ceredwyn briefed him on the battle raging outside, he reflected on the survivors they’d rescued so far: an ambassador’s family, a dark cleric from Pelladane – some two dozen souls in total.

Not enough, he thought. Gathering an assortment of weapons and powering the engines in his armor, the rogue signaled Ceredwyn to open the bunker’s door.

***

The girl fell back and called for her beleaguered parents to follow. They alone had survived a wave of invaders pouring from a tear in the sky. Now a monstrous blue dragon led a second group of demons their way.

To her horror, sizzling bolts of energy ripped past from the direction of their retreat, striking her parents in turn – yet neither was felled. Instead, the energy bound their wounds and washed away their fatigue. She turned toward the source of the magic to find a leather-clad human racing toward them.

If she was surprised by the rescue, she was even more amazed to recognize the man as they crossed paths – it was the city’s madcap inventor, a rare sight outside his underground tunnels. He flashed her a smile in passing, then unleashed energy beams and pulsing turrets that made quick work of the remaining demons.

While the dragon circled overhead, the rogue directed them to the disguised opening of a massive bunker. It took the girl a moment to realize he hadn’t followed them inside. Instead, as a mechanical attendant creaked through introductions and protocols, she glimpsed the man in the distance, spewing gouts of flame and frost, locked in dazzling battle with the dragon.

“He’ll be back one day, Calliope,” her father said, putting a hand on her shoulder as the portal whirled shut. “T’Scain knows what he’s doing.”

Found in the Mathosia Tutorial Zone, for Guardians. Can also be found in Sanctum at /setwaypoint 7477 3082
A book on a table in Orphiel’s Spire, Meridian. Use the lift to go up! /setwaypoint 5981 5134 height = 983

This book speaks of Talos Roda, the first to wield the holy flames of the Purifier.

In the time of the Blood Storm, a witch doctor by the name of Talos Roda fled into the volcanic jungles of Aegea when his village was overrun by Dragonian minions of Maelforge. For days, he lay in a fever, his wounds festering and his life slipping away. At the end of the fourth night, he found himself surrounded by flickering motes of flame, and the whispering spirits of his ancestors. The spirits promised him vengeance, all he need do is form a pact with them and become their conduit in the physical world. Upon agreeing to their terms, Talos found one of the motes of flames dancing in his hand. He touched it to his leg, and it closed the wound by burning away the infection. It was agony, but when the flames died, his leg had been fully healed. His spiritual powers bolstered by the primal forces of fire, Talos returned to his village and descended upon its oppressors. Before anyone could react, he unleashed a firestorm that engulfed the entire village in blistering flames. Miraculously, the fires that turned the Dragonians to ash did not harm the elves. Like Talos before them, they found their wounds healed and their souls bolstered by the spirits of their ancestors. From that day forth, Talos and his people went on the offensive striving to break Maelforge’s control over their lands.

Such an amazing display of power has never been seen again, but many clerics have followed in Talos’s footsteps making pacts with spirits of flame. Known as Purifiers, these clerics draw forth the cleansing power of fire to heal, and the spiritual power of their ancestors to strike down all that threaten their way of life.

Looted in Fort Zarnost in Ember Isle. The book is up on the platform at /setwaypoint 12504 4064 height = 845 – Climb up the netting at /setwaypoint 12517 4042

Jebiah:
Your old friend Borrin has been feeling like a bright faced, tongue-tied lad again lately. I didn’t really know what to expect of the Farclan when I came here. We’ve heard all the same stories and said all the same limericks about dwarves who would choose to live in a jungle rather than a mountain, so you have some idea of what I might have been assuming. Let me tell you, Jeb, I was turned right around and knocked on the head with a hammer by what I found here.
Farclan is different, there’s no denying that, but they’re strong and true and skilled as any dwarves. The Farhall is a marvel of creativity. What they’ve done with limited resources is remarkable, dwarven ingenuity at its finest. Their leader, Solya… well, I must admit I’ve never met quite so fine a woman. (And I don’t say that just because the dwarves of the jungle are inclined to wear a bit less than those in the north.)
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Her mother, Alyona, was lost to the Farclan in the first days of the wars with the rifts, brought down fighting off a most wicked demon from the Plane of Fire. Solya was still really just a girl when she succeeded her, the youngest leader Farclan has ever had, but apparently she seized the reins right there on the battlefield and led her people to victory. She has a voice that could move ancient stone, Jeb; powerful but smooth as cream. That voice stirs the hearts of anyone who listens, a true bardic heir to Karine. They give all their leaders the surname Karini, but they say no one has deserved the name quite as much as Solya. While the spineless Kelari let the rest of the island fall, Solya and Farclan held on strong. If I’d had half her mettle, we’d never have lost Lord’s Hall.
If she sleeps, or grieves, or has any faults at all, she doesn’t let anyone see it. She could probably stand to smile a bit more and I’ve decided to make a bit of a game of seeing whether I make her crack a grin every now and then.
Page 3
… Look at me, going on about her for so long. Like I said: a tongue-tied young lad. I don’t expect she’d ever have me. It’s not really the right time to be wooing women, anyway. Still, you laughed at me when I said I was off to make allies of the Farclan, but I don’t think you’ll be laughing anymore. We’ve a powerful ally in the Farclan, especially in Solya.
Your old friend, Borrin Gammult

Looted in Forlorn Fen in Ember Isle. The book is inside the fallen tower at /setwaypoint 12822 2662 height = 825

“Let me tell you a story.

“The heroes stood on the edge of a valley bathed in fire. Though the heat flushed their skin, and steam burned their eyes, they were unconcerned with the challenge that lay before them.

“They gazed ahead at the whelps of Maelforge – all those unwashed and heedless hordes – and they laughed. Do you hear me? They laughed!

Page 2

“They were not afraid of spindly kobolds, nor cowed by the boorish centaur. Even as the wanton red dragon himself circled above like a hawk after prey, they did not balk. These were the smartest, the fastest, the strongest of their people, and victory was all but assured the moment they took to the field.

“They put the minions of Maelforge to the sword. They extinguished his flames and entangled his wings with their spells. As he crashed to the ground, they overwhelmed him, their might too much for the fell, red god. A great cry of victory rose over the land, and the names of those who fought were sung on the lips of the children. Everyone celebrated because no one needed to fear the flames of Maelforge ever again!

“This, my friends, is our story. This, my friends, is our destiny. Let us go forward and make it reality!”

Page 3

The rippling chords of the accompanying lyre died down, as did the dwarf woman’s surprisingly big voice. The soldiers and common folk of Telara who stood with her moved slowly, as if emerging from a dream. Clearing her throat, she changed her tune to a stirring martial anthem.

Karine turned to face the horde swarming in the valley below. Their frenzied screams echoed between the mountains and gouts of flame and steam shot from the blackened earth, scorching the air. Not one soldier in all the army behind Karine looked on with fear, for their hearts brimmed with the power of her song. They felt smarter, faster, and stronger than they ever had before, guaranteed their place in the songs and stories of Telara.

Page 3

Screaming, a dragonian champion dashed up the rise, heading straight for the tiny dwarf Bard. As he drew in close, she laughed and brought her song to
crescendo. A spiral of sonic energy struck the reptile with an audible crack. He crumpled and did not rise again.

“Now,” Karine said, eyes gleaming as she turned back to her companions and brandished a sword, “let’s acquaint them with the sharp pointy end of our destiny.”

Looted in Talos Landing in Ember Isle at /setwaypoint 12397 3088 – Inside the hut on the bedside table.

It is written that in ancient days, the elf who would become the first of the great Kelari Priestesses, Isidora, found a flickering flame in the shadowy hollows of a cave. Seeing no obvious source, she drew closer to the flame and was amazed to find that it looked up at her with a child-like face. It skittered away, hiding among the rocks of the cave.

A curious elf, Isidora waited patiently. The flame-child remained hidden. She ventured out into the forest and brought some dry, brittle kindling that would burn easily. Softly, she said, “I won’t hurt you,” and arranged the kindling on the floor of the cave. She then retreated to the entrance, sitting to watch as the flame-child emerged cautiously and gobbled the kindling as elven children devoured sticks of crystallized sugar. As it ate, its flames no longer seemed to flicker and wane but instead burned brightly.

Page 2

Finishing its kindling, the flame-child retreated once again. Still, Isidora waited, watching it. In time, her stomach began to rumble in hunger of her own. Suddenly, the flame-child appeared before her, staring at her stomach curiously. “I’m hungry,” she said with a smile and an apologetic shrug.

The flame-child blinked and scampered behind her. Isidora turned and looked out. The creature was gazing into the sky. As a large bird appeared in the sky and swept past them, the flame-creature waved its arms. Flames engulfed the bird. Suddenly, sitting in front of Isidora was a well-cooked fowl.

Page 3

Isidora gaped in surprise, but then leaned forward to tear off a piece of meat and slowly put it to her lips. The flame-child appeared beside her, staring up in expectation. She took a bite and was surprised to find it might have been one of the most wonderful things she had ever eaten. “Wonderful,” she said. “Delicious.”

The flame-child spun on one foot, flickering trails of flames streaking its wake, then disappeared back into the cave. Finally, Isidora returned to her village, pondering what had happened. As a young priestess of Tavril, she went to her elder, describing the meeting.

Page 4

The elder chastised her smartly. “That is a trickster spirit and not of Tavril. You should not take power from it ever again.”

Isidora was not convinced. Returning again and again to commune with the spirit, the bond between the elf and the spirit grew deeper. In time, other elves would follow her lead, seeking out such spirits. These elves would in time become known as the Kelari and build a great new civilization, but it all began with a single pact and the friendship between Isidora and the flame- child.

Looted in Farhall in Ember Isle at /setwaypoint 13451 2760 height = 823 – On a little stool. This is inside the cave/settlement.

In the most ancient days, there was no Telara, only a heap of sourcestone and an idea in the minds of the gods. Though each of these gods did their part in its creation, it was the craftiest of them who set about forging it. Though a god, Bahralt did not just imagine it into being. He was a god who used his hands, and so he built himself a forge to shape all of that sourcestone with.

As the other gods whispered their ideals into the world, Bahralt sat at his forge, molding what that world would be. Tavril helped him shape the wild woods; Thontic told him how the sea might flow; Thedeor filled his head with ideas of metal and stone; and Mariel-Taun told him how all of these things would connect with each other; but it was Bahralt whose fingers nimbly shaped them to form.

Page 2

The world layered itself up and around him, with the forge at the heart of it all. His assistants, creatures of spirit that would later become the dwarven people, carried his works out to the far reaches of the world as its edges got too far away for him to reach.

Finally, Telara was done, but the forge remained, nestled at the heart of the world with a belly full of sourcestone that Bahralt hadn’t used. This sourcestone continued to churn, creeping up through the cracks of the world. The sourcewells are believed to be places where that power escapes, cooked deep below by Bahralt’s forge, and we have been able to harness a little bit of Bahralt’s gift to forge wonders of our own. Nothing like Bahralt could do, but we are proud of what we have done with it in the years since.

Looted in Atia in Ember Isle at /setwaypoint 13470 4068 – On a table inside the building.

The following seems to have been written by a Kelari student, an essay about the importance of temple spirits.

The Importance of the Temple Spirit

By Kaylia Moss

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Ember Isle has many spirits, but there is no spirit more important to a Kelari than their city’s temple spirit. A Kelari can make a pact with a small river spirit shrine to cross that river safely, and they can make a pact with a plant spirit to help their garden grow, but a temple spirit is the heart of a city.

The protection and prosperity of a city is tied to the power and health of its temple spirit. The temple spirit is a very powerful spirit. It can help reinforce the walls. It can give its people good fortune. It can make the wells and fountains spill over with water. It is like the heart in a body of a Kelari, only it is the heart of the city.

Page 3

Temple spirits are only as powerful as they are
because Kelari make them powerful. Though they have a lot of power of their own, we give them gifts to help make them more powerful. This is why working in the temple is the greatest honor a Kelari can have. The fate of a city depends on its devotions to its temple spirit, and it’s the priesthood’s job to make sure this is done.

I hope one day to be a High Priestess, like High Priestess Mona, because without temple spirits, our cities would be nothing but rocks in the jungle. The temple spirits make our lives better in every way, and I would like to make sure they continue to share their power with us.

Looted in Temple of Marakris in Ember Isle at /setwaypoint 14129 4145 – Inside the tower.

As the spirits in the temples of Ember Isle changed and shifted more and more, a great debate rose up among the Kelari over whether the power they offered should be used. Then came the day that the High Priestess was publicly confronted by her second-in- command, the Priest Karris Zelio, at the Temple of Atia. Interrupting a public ceremony that many had gathered to see, he forced her into a debate that resulted in the official divide of the Kelari. This is a transcription of that debate.

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Karris: Excuse me, High Priestess.

Anthousa: Did you just interrupt me, Priest?

Karris: I did, High Priestess. This ceremony is a waste of time.

Anthousa: What nonsense is this? This ceremony is essential. Our own temple spirit could be the next one corrupted.

Karris: ‘Corrupted’ she says. I say: emboldened with power that would only make us even more powerful. [There is an audible gasp in the crowd.]

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Anthousa: The ‘power’ you refer to is the same dragon power that is assaulting the world with rifts full of invaders from the planes.

Karris: I’m talking about the same power we have always drawn from, power that has its origins in the planes, only now there is more of it. We’ve never questioned where it came from. Why are we starting now?

Anthousa: This is different. The power found in sourcewells and the spirits who come from it are, in a very distant way, planar in origin, to be true, but only in the same way that Telara as a whole is planar in origin. Distantly, separated by countless years.

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Karris: You have made my point for me, High Priestess. Telara, and all of its power, is planar in origin. Why should we reject this planar power?

Anthousa: Ask the people of your own village, Kheramos. The power has changed them, tainted them.

Karris: What you refer to is not a taint, it is only evidence of their power. Evidence I display proudly. [At this point, Karris pulled away the robe, showing an arm that resembled stone. The crowd got unruly at this point, with people alternately booing and shouting support.]

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Anthousa: Get off of my temple, Karris. Get out of this city and take your corruption with you.

Karris: Gladly, High Priestess Mona. I refuse to follow anyone who would choose to be weak. Anyone who feels the same may come with me and be welcomed in Kheramos.

With that, those who embraced the new spirits broke off to follow Karris and those who did not followed Mona. The fight that followed was long and bloody, forever darkening the spirits of the Kelari people.

Found inside the Farsight Tower at /setwaypoint 6943 6563. You can only enter Farsight Tower while on the Shimmersand quest called ‘Sight Unseen‘ (quest 15 on the quests guide). You can summon other players in if you are on the quest. So if you missed this book during the questline, then you can create a second account and summon yourself in, or ask friends if they could use an alt. You can also use your own alt to get to the quest, summon a friend in, and then that friend can summon your main.

This book speaks of the Mirrorstones at Farsight Tower.

I have spent the better part of my life in this tower, studying the strange objects known as Mirrorstones. The stones were created by the Sorcerer-Kings with their own high magic, and I was secretly tasked with discovering their useful qualities for my masters. My colleagues said that I was a fool for locking myself up with my work, but I knew there were properties of the stones that were yet undiscovered, and that the Sorcerer-Kings would reward me handsomely if I could discover them. For years I have studied the stones, recording any reactions and changes. I only wish to please my sovereigns. After all, what servant does not wish to please his masters?

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Last evening, a great rift from the Plane of Fire opened at my doorstep. I felt sure that I was going to die. From within the inferno, I saw a devil dressed in robes and cackling madly at me. I lost consciousness shortly afterwards. I awoke the next morning, surprised that I was somehow still alive and that this tower still stood. Then I remembered the Mirrorstones. If they had been destroyed my masters would have my head. Thank the stars they were unbroken, but I noticed something new. The stones now glowed with an unnatural light, as if they had become planetouched by the incident.

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I gaze into the Mirrorstones now, and I see beyond the Ward. I can see the planes, and they are glorious. The stones are a gateway to those worlds. They call to me. I know I must report this to my masters, but I cannot leave the warm light of the stones. I’ll go to them tomorrow. Yes, by tomorrow I’m sure I’ll be ready to leave the stones. Tomorrow…

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Looted in Farhall in Ember Isle at /setwaypoint 13421 2833 height = 830 – Inside the cave/settlement.

One morning, a song echoed in the hearts of adventurous dwarves. They came up from their delves, leaving behind smith’s hammers in the caverns of Lord’s Hall and runes in the workshops of Hammerknell, and abandoned their posts in the highlands, leaving axes and shields on the foothpaths of Moonshade. This was a song of action. This was a song of adventure. This was a song from the first of the bards, Karine, and it called those dwarves to a distant island called Ember Isle.

On this isle, they found Kelari, a breed of elves they’d had little dealings with in more than a thousand years. They expected to be met with suspicion, perhaps even hostility, but though the Kelari as a whole did not welcome them, representatives of a group known as the Keepers of the Flame were at the shore to meet their boats. They too had heard the song, but instead of calling them, it told them to be ready to welcome newcomers.

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As it turned out, this order had a dwarf among its founders. This was Karine, the first of the bards. She had been one of the heroes to imprison the dragon Maelforge and then remained on Ember Isle to help begin the order that would see he remained locked up. All agreed, it had to have been her song that brought them together. Despite the importance of their task, the Keepers’ numbers had been falling in recent years, as many Kelari found their ways too old and restrictive. Karine drew the dwarven heroes to the island to embolden and revitalize the order.

But it did not seem that every dwarf called was meant to join the Keepers. They had no skill in magic or in battle. They were craftsmen, through and through, the greatest of their generation. It seemed that they were brought for another purpose. They named themselves the Farclan and set out to build a settlement called Farhall, content to wait for when their purpose on the island would be revealed.

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Though the sun scorched skin built to sleep deep beneath the ground in hidden delves, they set about using the wood of their boats as a basis for the new structures, adding to it with what they could scavenge from the island. The Kelari, outside of the Keepers, were not welcoming to these newcomer or their attempts to pull stone and wood from the jungle, however, and so their hunts turned up few additional materials. For that fact, Farhall continued to look much like a ship tossed to shore. Still, it grew and thrived, as the creativity and industriousness of the dwarves pushed it forward.

On the discovery of the Forge of Creation, the purpose of Farclan was revealed, but that is a story for another day.

Looted in Ember Watch in Ember Isle at /setwaypoint 13015 3445 height = 821 – On a table on the ledge behind the questgivers, overhanging the crater.

From Dunbart’s Guide to Telara, Ember Isle:

One of the defining features of Ember Isle is the large number of spirits who live within its jungles. These spirits are called Telaran Spirits, because as best as anyone can tell, they seem to be born of the energy of Telara itself. They do not seem to reproduce, nor has anyone credible observed the exact method of their creation and manifestation. Folk lore of Ember Isle dictates that they are born within the sourcewells. If these sourcewells are indeed connected to the very heart of Telara, then spirits born out of them would be Telaran in the purest sense possible. However, no recent first-hand reports have confirmed that they are in fact born from the sourcewells, and folk lore cannot be regarded as truth.

It is clear that they do have some connection to the sourcewells. Ember Isle has a great many of these sourcewells, and the spirits are drawn to them as moths are drawn to a flame. The correlation between the number of sourcewells and the number of spirits is most likely not happenstance. Whether or not they simply feed on the great energy of these wells or whether they are native to the wells is, however, a matter of debate.

Found in the Mathosia Tutorial Zone, for Guardians. Can also be found in Sanctum at /setwaypoint 7612 3105
A book on a table in Orphiel’s Spire, Meridian. Use the lift to go up! /setwaypoint 5981 5124 height = 966

This book speaks of the coming of the Reavers to Telara.

When the dragons first invaded Telara, heralding the coming of Regulos the Destroyer, the mortal races resisted. Many of those on the battlefield were suddenly overcome by madness, savagely and inexplicably turning on their own. A few warriors learned to control the madness, and returned to a land decimated and blighted by death. These men became known as the Reavers, who are both scarred and transformed by the horror they experienced battling the demons.

Universally despised and feared, the Reavers rampaged across Telara, leaving a wide swath of destruction and death in their wake. Drawing on the very energies of the Plane of Death, and embracing the resulting madness, these warriors became masters of a terrifying and brutal fighting style.

Although the original Reavers have long since passed from the world of Telara, their combat skill and training lives on. Only the bravest and strongest of souls are allowed to attempt the Reaver training, as the Plane of Death’s power is not easily mastered, nor resisted for long. Insanity is a constant risk, and it is also not uncommon to see a cruel smile or bloodlust in the eyes of a Reaver vanquishing an enemy. On the battlefield, Reavers are the most brutal of warriors, unleashing such fury as to terrify their allies almost as much as their enemies.

Looted in Wyrmbane Spire in Shimmersand at /setwaypoint 6075 7299 height = 971 – On a table inside the tower. You will need to reach revered with the Dragonslayers to be able to enter the tower.. or a good friend with the rep can just summon you in!

This book contains the history of Wyrmbane Spire.

During the time of the Eth Empire, several great towers were built across the kingdom. One such tower was the Wyrmbane Spire, which became the home of a group of Eth scholars that served their Sorcerer-King. The leader of these scholars was Omarei, a proud man who came from a long line of nobility within his tribe. Omarei was also a wise man. When he mistakenly received a correspondence meant for his master that described the Convocation machine being built in what is now Droughtlands, he realized that such a device had the potential to cause catastrophic damage to the region.

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Omarei became very torn over this knowledge. He had served his sovereign for many years and did not want to believe he had become so hungry for power, but he also felt he should do something to prepare for the devastation that could come from this device. Over the next several months, Omarei used all his magical knowledge to place protective charms within every brick of the tower, hoping that it would be enough to save the scholars and himself if things went badly.

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When the Convocation tore across the kingdom, the sands opened like a great maw and the kingdom of Firesand sank below the desert. Though it was bent and partially buried, Wyrmbane Spire was not devoured like the rest of Firesand. It could still be seen rising out of the sands: the last structure of a now lost kingdom.

Omarei and his scholars were discovered days later by a group of Dragonslayer Covenant explorers looking for survivors of the Convocation. He told them his story and asked to join their ranks, now that his previous master was gone. They agreed and Wyrmbane Spire became a hidden base for the Dragonslayers, and remains one to this day.

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Found in the Mathosia Tutorial Zone, for Guardians. Can also be found in Sanctum at /setwaypoint 7406 2886
A book on a table in Orphiel’s Spire, Meridian. Use the lift to go up! /setwaypoint 6003 5127 height = 966

This book tells the story of Vachir Altan, a Bahmi and the first Champion.

Vachir Altan, the Bahmi Warrior, was the first to bear the title of Champion. He originally came to renown for his battle with Crucia’s whelp Arconis, known as the Bane of Kerenton. Though the local human population viewed Vachir with suspicion when he rode into town, the Warrior ignored their furtive glances and within hours, entered the dragon spawn’s lair in the ruins of Castle Kerenton.

He bull-rushed the wyrm with reckless abandon, and the two fought an epic battle across the once-great stronghold. In the end, Arconis lay dead in the courtyard, Altan’s great blade impaled in his throat. “Start a fire. We feast tonight,” was all Vachir said to the townsfolk. That evening he enjoyed the hospitality of the people of Kerenton, but by morning he was gone, and many more tales of his exploits are told throughout Telara.

While Vachir’s disciples are numerous among the Bahmi of the Canyons, the duchy of Kerenton has also produced its share of blue-skinned Champions, who brashly rode forth from native borders. No matter whence they hail, all Champions seek to overcome the impossible through mastery of the blade.

Found in the Mathosia Tutorial Zone, for Guardians. Can also be found in Sanctum at /setwaypoint 7511 2967

A book on crates in Orphiel’s Spire, Meridian. Use the lift to go up! /setwaypoint 5995 5131 height = 1000 — This one cannot be picked up by Guardians.

The story of Veseslav the dwarf and how revenge would create the first Assassin.

The dwarf Veseslav grew up in the shadows of Hammerknell knowing one truth: the queen of the dwarves had killed his mother, and one day she would die for it. Veseslav’s father was King of Hammerknell, his mother one of the queen’s comely handmaidens. The jealous queen had the young woman murdered, but not before the child could be spirited away.

Veseslav was taken in by his mother’s brother, Bogdan, who made his living cutting short the lives of others. As Bogdan’s apprentice, Veseslav’s daggers became faster, his stealthy movements less detectable, his poisons more vitriolic than his uncle’s. The young dwarf developed a particularly nasty poison all his own, and named it Ursula, after the queen.

The dwarves held a grand feast to celebrate King Monimnier’s sixtieth birthday. All was joy until very suddenly, the queen’s face went pale, and she toppled over into her soup, convulsing, foaming at the mouth. Finally, she lay still, poison the clear cause.

But as the king’s elite guard hurried him to the royal chambers, one dwarf dropped like a stone. A figure materialized from the shadows, pulling his blade from the victim’s back. The warriors rushed in, but the assassin dodged their attacks, dealing cuts that bled profusely, and festered and boiled from terrible venom. Moving with the ruthless precision of a hawk after prey, he finished them with strikes to their vitals. Soon, the guards all were dispatched, leaving only the killer and the king.

“I see myself in your face,” said Monimnier. “That isn’t possible.”

“And yet here I am,” Veseslav growled. By the time the party was found, the king lay dead among his guards.

Veseslav never came forward to claim the crown of Hammerknell, his only legacy a series of flawless assassinations involving a poison that all Telara now calls Queen Ursula.

Found in the bookshelves on the middle floor of the Runic Athenaeum in Moonshade Highlands. /setwaypoint 7459 1533 height = 853

The story of Voradrin the Arbiter and how he became the Anthenaeum’s caretaker.

“We cling to the primitive notion of physical might as a means for enforcing our will upon Telara. We hide behind our warriors to shield us from our enemies. We are fools, blinded by our traditions. Knowledge is the only tool we need, knowledge of magic.”

Voradrin closed the ancient tome and carefully put it back in its place in the Library of the Runemasters and pondered the words of the sage. “A bit arrogant,” he thought, “Especially since he never wrote down these spells that would make one as tough as a knight in their armor.” As his mind pondered the various runic equations, he wandered back to his desk to grab some parchment to jot them down. As he rounded the stairs he tripped over the little corgi dog that stood in the stairwell.

“What are you doing here boy?” Voradrin asked, scratching the dogs head behind the ears. “Dogs aren’t allowed in the library.”

The dog seemed to glow brighter and grow larger as the dwarven mage looked at him. The little dog now towered over him, and yapped. The foundations of the library shook.

“Voradrin, Arbiter of the Runemasters, build me an Athenaeum so that the knowledge of my people will survive the coming troubles.”

Voradrin lay down upon the marble floor, he dared not look upon the manifestation. He had read extensively the fates of mortals that gaze upon the divine. Although it now occurred to him a spell that could bolster his fragile endurance. “Next time,” he said to himself, “next time I get a divine audience I’ll be prepared.”

“As you will mighty Bahralt! But this library is within the very heart of Hammerknell, what could happen to it?”

But when he looked up there was no glowing giant corgi, not even the more traditional kingly dwarf, just a dark library, and he was at the bottom of the stairs, his nose bent out of shape, with a little blood. “Yes, one could definitely craft a spell or two to increase the density of the flesh. That should make a good side project as I build this secret library.”

–

“We must strike quickly,” hissed the dwarven mason, placing down her tools and pulling an Abyssal mask over her face. “But the Arbiter is a mage, we will only need seconds to drop him.” Her conspirators nodded in agreement and cloaked themselves in darkness they waited to strike. The Athenaeum must not be completed, the insane dreams they shared were insistent; the knowledge of the ancients must not survive.

The assassins leapt upon and surrounded the old scholar. The Abyssal mason plunged her dagger into his back and whispered “Hammerknell will fall Arbiter! And your knowledge will be forgotten.”

“I believe you have bent your dagger.” Voradrin chuckled.

The assassin looked down in horror, her weapon was indeed bent, icy crystals clung to it. But it wasn’t broken, and there was still time to finish this mage.

She lunged again at the mage and a gust of wind tossed her aside. One of her minions swung his club at the old man’s head, the wood shattered on contact, and the mage countered with his staff, electrocuting the cultist.

“I can hold off these ruffians for a little while longer, but I am being assaulted! Some help would be appreciated!” shouted Voradrin.

The assassin leaped back and assessed the situation. “Change of plans, kill the help!” The abyssal cultists sprinted towards the other mages, who were
paralyzed with indecision on whether to assist their Arbiter, or handle the cultist themselves. This indecision was broken in a gust of wind and crackle of electricity.

“No, you will not. You will face me, only me. I’ve spent my life building this Athenaeum to safeguard the knowledge of the ancients. You’ll not murder my staff before my work begins.”

The Abyssal cultists struggled, but the wind and lighting were leading them inexorably back to the Arbiter. They scrambled desperately against the pull, and then realized there was no escaping it. They launched themselves against Voradin, intending to smother him with their numbers. They bounced off the old dwarf, who was as cold and immobile as a block of ice.

The other sages, freed from threat of attack, unleashed their most powerful spells, magical bolts blazed down the hallway, illuminating the new marble. The Abyssal assassins fell quickly to the combined might of the scholars.

“How will we finish the Athenaeum without the masons?” Asked Aleksei the Chloromancer.

“Knowledge is the only tool we need, knowledge of magic.” Replied Voradrin

Looted in Uttila East in Vostigar Peaks at /setwaypoint 3995 3471 – Looting this book credits the cheevo ‘Stranger Tales‘.

An account of a conscious simulacrum on the eve of war.

I do not think we are truly alive anymore. I think we are just thoughts and memories of the great Tower. The knowledge machine is known as Ahnket that searches out structure and rules. I believe that we are part of her thought process, little subconscious wizards that help to mull over the hard questions as she watches the universe come to an end. However, that time seems to be stretching out much further than our calculations indicated.

All that is left now is the domain of the Ascended. The Universe has become dull and dim. These Ascended beings have extended it and prevented it from achieving a natural end point. What fire still burn in the stars are only in their domain, but they have achieved such reprieve through the sacrifice of other spheres, and the gods contained within. We aren’t sure what the consequences of these unnatural acts will be, but the cost is unthinkable. Ahnket has reassembled her vast component in the dark at the edges of their domain and watches.

We have reached a concordat. Ahnket will attack these Ascended before they drain the universe of its light, its source and condemn us to eternal darkness. However, in my investigations, I have seen that stranger again. He was not a simulacrum but
composed of real matter. He was talking with one of the shards of Ahnket, he was conspiring with her. I fear what he has planned.