Entry #1

King Dominacus Lomarax, the 13th King, the Formidable and the Last of Repute

12th Day of Winter’s Peak, 38th Year of the Formidable Age

Steel to stone; sweat to tears. For days, the men exhaust themselves mining the mineral of wyrmfire. The Heritage continue to grow, and with their numbers they will soon storm Ivis Jorthrule; my home… Our home. I may be King, but I feel in my heart like any other. The people come to me seeking guidance and protection. My family much the same; my beloved, my sons, my daughter.

The men grow weary, their arms be flailing and their breaths be wearing thin. From morning to endday, I have watched them tire from cracking the stone of the Needle Above the World. The Rocklore, be tense yet trusting, have allowed my men to make camp here for their precious mineral.

I have seen with my own waking eyes of the power within wyrmfire. A volley of ash and flame that befells the strongest of creatures, nor the giants can stand such capacity. A resort I may to fuel our advantage in this war.

This war be needless. For the hopes of proving Men less frail than other creatures of Löndréic, the Heritage do battle with all, largely I, their King. The armies stand ground on the walls of Ivis Jorthrule but they do not see the shadows as do I. The men of the Heritage be sneak, quiet amongst the darkness like the Orcs native to the Deserian Sands. I fear they soon breach the walls and raze the city before completion of the mining.

We need this mineral.

My men continue to crack the stone of the mountain, harvesting what can be preserved. But flames emerge throughout, and screams of ghosts be heard around the Needle. A burning sense and a miasma of brimstone.

A scream in the flame.

Entry #2

King Dominacus Lomarax, the 13th King, the Formidable and the Last of Repute

13th Day of Winter’s Peak, 38th Year of the Formidable Age

The screams do not cease. The flame of wyrmfire summons a growth that engulfs the trees and thaws the snow of the mountain. For times, the screeches be of no form. My men, nor do I, possess an indication of the origin. Be not the screams that give fear but the flames that bear no travel beyond a small distance from the mineral.

Be a similarity to intellect and life. Do these flames know of their form? Of their destruction? They do not collect on hunger beyond the fewer trees. I sit here under the protection of simple cloth and weave, yet question the flames for a lack of consuming what covers. Why do they not feed?

The Needle Above the World be set here in Löndréic before the dawn of the land, during the age of life’s upbringing. No history of the screams of wyrmfire exist much the same as the living flame. No reside in Ivis Jorthrule texts.

Over the sound of steel to stone, the screams hold my attentive mind. I do not see with my waking eyes, but feel the pain within… Yes. Be it an individual seeking aid? Or simply a lure to the unsuspecting? Nevertheless, the heat of the flames singe my skin and the screams follow to my ear.

The men mine from a distance to the flames, harvesting wyrmfire by the stone. I write this to save my time kept from my family, befalling the thoughts of the Heritage. I will come home, my dear ones. By the moons of our world, I will return and end this war.

But behind the screams, I sense a sinister presence. The phoenix sings through the sky, to my magic. She warns me of what comes. A demonic roar beyond the flames and a quake beneath my feet.

What devilry unearthed…

Entry #3

King Dominacus Lomarax, the 13th King, the Formidable and the Last of Repute

14th Day of Winter’s Peak, 38th Year of the Formidable Age

The mountain has not ceased to quake. The trees from whence the flames touch have burned to ash. The screams of ghosts plague the night sky, carried in the winds to the corners of Löndréic. The wyrmfire that be mined now move towards Ivis Jorthrule. What be left of this place be a ring of flame; mayhaps a path or doorway. The more I gaze upon the flame, the clearer it comes to be a life residing within. I do not know what my eyes see but I am certain it be not of my men.

Did our mining of wyrmfire open a path to a place unknown? And by extension, has this path always lingered within the Needle Above the World? Time comes to pass yet answers do not come to me. The phoenix will not show me the way. She warns me of what is to come, yet will show no answers. I question if she will abandon us.

The roars of this new devilry come every few moments. Each thunderous above the next. I record this event, I feel my hands shake. Not from nerves but from what lies beyond this veil. My eyes never cease to gaze elsewhere, be it only upon the ring.

It speaks… It feels… It gives breath.

All the more I lay upon it, the greater it draws.
The men oblivious to what I see within the ring, their mining of wyrmfire staying their attention. Steel to stone. The winds shake the ashes, gifting a gray snow, yet these men never halt. What be sounds of a roar of a giant bleeds the ear. The ground quakes further.

An array of eyes linger within the ring.

Entry #4

King Dominacus Lomarax, the 13th King, the Formidable and the Last of Repute

15th Day of Winter’s Peak, 38th Year of the Formidable Age

What horrors my eyes found. What blood floods the mountain. Few men died but what emerged from within this ring… This doorway. Unimaginable. The screams be not of another, but the voices of the damned. An arid, dry realm of flames inhabited with tyranny and malice. What other entities reside on the other side? I do not dare perceive.

The blood on my hands; on my feet; on my chest. The blood of my men. The rot that surged through this portal bear the strength of goblins and the swift of the elven Wynmaer. A resemblance to the men of the Heritage, quick and sneak in the night, a walk through the flames of wyrmfire.

A skeletal image, flesh of a husk, veins as black as the eyes, tendrils off the back; dead but canny. It be the Heritage that I fear no longer, but these ghosts of a burning land unknown. Never have I laid my eyes upon something so horrid. These ghosts given their true mask, the screams no falter. Further enough to bleed the ear.

We fought the fight. Victorious but at a great cost. Whether one or two or ten of my men, their lives hold dear to their own… Their loved ones. A battle with what we have no knowledge of our enemy. How do I speak to the beloved of their demise? Be it the fight with ghosts with flesh? A fight with these… Demons?

The moment blood ceased shed, the screams quieted. The flames upon the ring crackled and waved through the winds, near an unsettling smile of doom upon the world. These devils fell but the flames began to speak to me as they do now. I can hear the whispers in my head, the echoes of devilry, the rattles of chains.

They only speak of one word.

War.

Entry #5

King Dominacus Lomarax, the 13th King, the Formidable and the Last of Repute

16th Day of Winter’s Peak, 38th Year of the Formidable Age

The winds be still. The mountain unshaken since the battle. My men buried near the ground of the Needle. These demons thrown into a nearby cave to rot away. The portal remains a gaze upon me with a smile unseen. Furthermore, whispers speak of the dead; of a war.

Do the inhabitants of this realm of fire and brimstone discern this war amidst the Heritage of Men and the Kingdom of Ivis Jorthrule? Do they know of why we fight?

The absence of the ghosts did no falter on the fear felt within. A realm itself, with endless possibilities of what lays upon the other side devours me. The whispers speak of this place, of its malevolence. A seared kingdom with merlons that touched the sky of ash. Plains of black flame expanse beyond the eye. A canyon inhabited with souls, be it of this world or another. Power beyond my own… Beyond the phoenix… Beyond the Magistry.

They speak of it the Arid Tyranny.

And War dawns upon the innocent.

But a war that resides in the shadows much like the Heritage? No. I believe a beast far sinister. An evil without fathom. These voices only speak to I, disregards of my few men that now lay in slumber or another few that guard my being.

No threats reemerge from the flames. But I feel it in my bones. What comes next will be of no coincidence or mirror of what we have faced. The snow upon the mountain will soon adapt the rivers of blood. And the cause be of these demonic forces. The whispers say it be so.

But no longer, they change their warnings.

It be a similarity to speaking from within my mind. They say to my ears, the chains unending rattle. Why do these whispers and chains reach the King? Why do they continue to speak of those same three words after the revelation of this burning realm?

Now they tell in circles.

We are War…

Entry #6

King Dominacus Lomarax, the 13th King, the Formidable and the Last of Repute

17th Day of Winter’s Peak, 38th Year of the Formidable Age

This portal expands and the voices do not cease. The chains that rattle with the screams of the damned be striking to my ear. No further presence of these tendril demons nor a sign of beings across the flame in this other realm.

Why will it not close? The Needle Above the World shows no fault for such madness. Never here to show us, never here to doom. Then why will it not close?

Be it some power I cannot see? Yes. What holds this doorway open, I do not know.

These voices still circle the words, we are War.

I have questions. My men confirmed they do not hear such sayings, only the cracks of the mining. The wyrmfire crackles beneath them each day. Those that guard the portal stay at the ready for anything to approach, nearer the flames that do not feed. Alive, they be.

No, not possible. Can they live? Feel? No. A just madness.

We are War.

What do they mean? Our battle to the Heritage cannot be what they refer.

We are War.

Speak to me. Show me the truth of this. But the portal never be quiet a day. The flames crackle, and a deep, menacing voice speaks but not of the voices I hear.

Stones crack the portal; a new devilry. A hand of ash and rock. A face of skulls with a crown of horns watches me through the portal itself.

We are War. Again, an ear of whispers.

But this new voice roars its presence. The men be ready for what comes, ready to give a life for my own.

This voice screams above the rattle of chains… Pride.

Entry #7

King Dominacus Lomarax, the 13th King, the Formidable and the Last of Repute

20th Day of Winter’s Peak, 38th Year of the Formidable Age

Three days. Three days, I have battled the demon of a crown of horns. A mouth gritting fire, eyes pale as the moon’s light, thoughts for sole upon my being. The flames consumed us, left me in this fiery chasm of ash and brimstone.

My men have perished, I be alone to stroll the depths. One step each moment clawed me further and further into the shadow. This realm the voices still speak within the Arid Tyranny.

I could not overwhelm the demon of Pride; ghosts trailed behind such creature with tendrils of black fog. Magic evanesce, gone with the hands of my forefathers. This hole in the fabric of my world stolen what power remained.

I conjure here no longer; I succumbed to the demon.

The essence here ushered me astray, led to a dungeon to be chained to walls of fade in existence. Demons guard my being here, though know little of my record within the texts.

Will my kingdom prosper in my absence? My faith speaks it so.

What of my kingdom’s war with the Heritage of Men? How will they fair? Without leadership, victory lacks.

Little of my presence is acknowledged often with clamoring demon’s passersby. Ignore my rattles of these binding chains, for they know I cannot break nor escape. Rattles… familiar. They sound of the echoes behind the whispering voices. Whispers circling what I still do not understand.

We are War.

I be lost amongst the damned. I, the King of Löndréic, failed my men, my beloved and children, my people. The doorway is sealed, I be forevermore trapped within this chasm. I know of none to read this text, and never break these chains. Until death, my companion be the voices that do not cease, but speak of a personification.

The dungeon darkens, the hole into the space before creation shows itself. Recognize from the words of the whispers. This gives me a power I have never felt, but myself cannot exist.

The Void, once again, we are War.

Entry #8

King Dominacus Lomarax, the 13th King, the Formidable and the Last of Repute

21st Day of Winter’s Peak, 38th Year of the Formidable Age

Never to break these chains, for they are forevermore a piece of me. Singed to skin, burned and boiled. No assist from demons, but these chains severed from the walls. I cannot leave this dungeon, though I be allowed to wander the corners.

What felt from the Void consumed what little of my being remains. I feel it slipping, fading to the nothing beyond shadows. This be my fate? To greet death in such a dark, dreary realm. How I loathe these creatures that bound me after a magic waned. Could not fight far too long; end such evil.

The Void, forcible and merciless, yearned me to ingest. Swallowed what I could not fight. Within my body, it sought control. And still, the whispers from which learned, derive the Void itself. The endless power of such an entity broken my will. No longer will I fight, nor can I.

War.

The whispers now scream over the rattles of the chains on me. They tell of what is to come in years beyond my ability to foresee. I do not know of what they speak. Only of the fall of magic. What has been seen here within, I lack the faith that magic will continue.

The phoenix will die.

My last words be for those I care above all. My beloved, regretful to say, I cannot return. Our children be yours. My son, grow a man your father will be proud to call an heir. My daughter, beautiful to the wildflowers, laugh and love as I once.

You are War.

The whisper endless to scream. My life and spirit fade from a feel. My being to be reborn of blood. A power feared by demons.

I am War.

The Void devours. We exist to walk once more. The man is dead and we return again. Lomarax has fallen.

We are War.

And we will reign.