Fifteen years before Aethyr set foot in Ashmark, a catastrophe descended on the land. From the depths of the dead dungeon, a miasma of sulfur and rotten black mist seeped into the region, spreading outward and choking the life from all it touched. Fields were stripped bare, trees petrified, and the people of Ashmark were left frozen in terror, bodies calcified in twisted final moments—like a macabre echo of a Pompeii long forgotten.
In a desperate bid to halt the spread, Master Grandir and his strongest peers from the College of the Arcane gathered at the dungeon's door, casting containment spells powerful enough to tremble the ground. But one by one, the masters faltered, their magic sapped by the relentless force emanating from the dungeon. Only Master Grandir, with iron resolve, remained standing as a massive figure emerged from the dungeon shadows, its form shrouded in a cloak of darkness and its eyes blazing red with a deadly intelligence. It was a creature of unfathomable malice, towering three stories high—a creature of nightmare.
Master Grandir summoned his last reserves and cast Banishment of the Hollow, a repellant spell known to bind even the most sinister of ghoul spirits. His voice rang out over the dark mist, cutting into the creature’s aura with all his might. But as the spell took hold, Master Grandir staggered, his energy failing. Then, through the haze, another figure approached—Alious, his lifelong ally, arrived at his side, chanting in unison and adding his power to the banishment. Together, they pushed back, their combined energies like a raging fire against the encroaching shadow.
But the creature merely laughed, its form pulsating, as if savoring their defiance. The air thickened with a dark magic so potent it made the world seem to warp around it. The creature's hollow voice reverberated, chilling to the bone: "You fools… I am eternal. Cast all your paltry boundaries, for they cannot hold me. As long as I exist, you shall be barred from this place!"
With a guttural roar, it cast Eternal Boundary, a spell so rare it was thought lost to time, throwing the two masters back with the force of a storm. Alious and Grandir were cast from the dungeon, landing bruised and bleeding at its edge, unable to step beyond the cursed threshold. A wicked voice echoed from the darkness, a chilling promise that slashed through the air: "I shall return, stronger and more ravenous. When I rise, I will tear the souls of the living and feast upon them, for all shall pay for the deeds of the man who bound me here!"
Yet, as despair closed in, a new wind swept over the land, bringing with it the scent of wild forests and fresh rain. The skies split open, revealing the figure of Madremonte—the Mother of all Dryads, an ancient being, sworn guardian of life and natural magic. She descended like a green tempest, her presence bringing vibrant life to the dying land, her voice a soft whisper that was felt in the bones rather than heard.
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"Silence, shadow of decay," Madremonte's voice intoned, as her presence infused the land, combating the miasma with a wave of green energy. Plants erupted through the stone, covering the dungeon walls in a living tapestry. "You are not eternal, for nature alone has that claim. A champion will rise—a mortal child touched by destiny, who will bring you to your knees."
The creature laughed, an eerie sound that cut through even Madremonte’s power. “A champion, you say? I have feasted upon mortals since the first light broke over this cursed world. Send them, and I shall rend them limb from limb.” Its red eyes burned brighter as it hissed, “Fifteen years from now, I shall awaken. And when I do, not even your precious green lands will protect you.”
Madremonte, unfazed, cast her gaze over the region, her power spilling through Ashmark, leaving trails of verdant growth and blooming flowers that encased the dungeon’s edges in eternal greenery. She then turned to the two masters, who had knelt in reverence before her, each humbled by her divine power.
“Listen, Masters of the Arcane,” she intoned gently, “for when the time comes, you must not forget. A child blessed by the forest shall rise and confront this ancient evil. You will know him by his courage, by his unwavering will to defy the impossible. Guide him, but do not restrain him. He must walk his path to become a force that even darkness will fear.”
The masters, weakened but emboldened, bowed before her. “But, O Mother of Dryads,” Grandir asked with a voice that trembled in awe, “can you promise this child will prevail?”
Madremonte’s expression softened, yet a deep sadness flickered in her eyes. “I cannot foretell his fate, but I grant him my blessing. With it, he shall wield the resilience of nature itself. His journey will be one of trial and hardship. And when he stands before the shadow, you must believe in him, for it is belief that will light his path through the darkness.”
With that, Madremonte vanished, leaving a blanket of verdant growth to cover the once-cursed lands. The dungeon was left sealed, its entrance choked with vines and flowers as though nature itself had locked the evil within. Yet whispers of the encounter persisted only in hushed circles, hidden from common knowledge. It was an event recalled only by those of power, with records in the College restricted and scrubbed of detail to prevent a panic.
In the shadows, however, the whispers grew bolder. Vargath, the dark warlord, sought to harness this miasma, forging an alliance with the dark sorcerer Merodach. Together, they would plunge the world into chaos and make a pact with powers they scarcely understood. The world was changing, and few knew the storm that brewed beneath the calm.
A dark chapter had been written into the annals of history. And while few remembered that day, those who did sensed that soon, a child would rise—a child who bore the mark of Madremonte’s blessing, and who alone might stand against the shadow.