A stalwart vision.

Vast landscapes, rugged histories, a kingdom’s contests of faith and courage… all but crumbling memories. Your lives here have become forfeit.

Horses skid to the earth, riders slain before they touch the ground. Whitened fists clutch mud and muck, as the hordes of Khaaless trample the weak. The dead and wounded lie strewn on the shore of the warm sea, awaiting the touch of the encroaching fire that will purge them all.

That which had prospered has become an ancient ruin overnight.

Plundered. Barren. Pestilent. Forsaken. These are words that surrogate the beauty that was your city.

Ardath, the singularity of peace in a war torn world, has fallen. Chalk dry in the sun and littered with debris.

The future of your home is glimpsed in cataracts of detail.

Those that survived became entranced as they watched their homes burst asunder from their boats.

A voice– thin as spoken through the throat of a serpent– whispered, “Send to me my son.”

The dreamers awoke as one, gasping, struggling to wrest sense from impossibility.

Chronicles of Draugh