It is told They come from the far west.

From beyond the Walls.

From deep in the forgotten Lands.

Where even Sols kiss don’t dare to reach and no Moon will ever brave to guide those Lost in the darkest of hours.

They descent with blood and death chasing their heels, but never claiming Them as their own. As if even  oblivion is unsure of this prize. They slaughter those brave or unfortunate enough to bare their path. No knight, no shining armor will be left standing where they dare to tread. Leaving only corpses and rust in Their wake.

They hide in the shadows, live in your dreams. Feasting upon nightmares and fears alike. Leaving behind only an empty husk of what once shined so bright.

A soul claimed by the Forgotten is a soul lost, never to be claimed again by Gods or Demons alike.

Their stories are not to be told. Not to be written. Not shared.

It is a Taboo known everywhere across these Lands.

In the glittering white cities in the north, with palaces and gardens so grand they are told to reach the heavens and harbor fruits so colorful and magical they belong only in fairy tales.

In the Barren Lands to the east, beyond the foul marches where the Witches curse and cackle, brew and braze, their twisted magics at those unfortunate to catch one’s eye.

In the south, the mountains and Mines where the darkest and strongest of steels is harvested to aid in the gruesome tales and tragic that are spun without fail across the realm. Even in the grandest of cities, a bastion for unity of all kin-a marvel of magic and architecture. So beautiful it is said to be carved from the most ethereal jewels by the gods themselves. Standing tall and proud at the center of the Claimed Lands, as it has through war and destruction. For centuries it has been a calm pond in a struggle against invasion and corruption. White walls as tall as giants and harder than a dragon's steely hide. In its deepest halls at the center of the impenetrable white Fortress, it harbors the bridge to the realms untouched by true evil.

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And even here those stories are known among all the same. No matter if farmer, warrior or tradesman. Often treated as no more than fable and myth, the tales of the Forgotten are hushed over a campfire with meat and ale. With trusted and stranger alike, those words are no more than whispers in the cold evening wind. Destined to travel the lands and join in a chorus of anticipation and fear. But never to be spoken aloud.

And never shall They be mentioned by name nor sight. Never to be screamed in the evening draft of a cold winters night in the mountains of Ka’Zaar or a warm breeze on the high Eleaen seas. Never to be discussed by scholars in the grand halls of Mathasur or beggars in the filthy slums of Skaasra. For they may only be a tale of the night. A fable like creatures of myth. A Lie woven by the bravest of mothers.

For in every lie, there is a a seed of truth.

And shall It ever sprout again, it will bloom and bring fourth a flower haunted and bloodied by tales untold and myths unimagined. A silent hum that shall herald the end to an audience unwise.

For the chains of His jailers are broken and brittle. Terms fulfilled and promises met. Leaving behind a body free, but a mind trapped in the endless oblivion of thought and things past.

Chaotic and alive.

But never quiet, never alone.

For there are things even nightmares shall never behold, nor books ever tell.

Hiding. Watching. Curious and intrigued.

Contained by only one mind.

Only one Soul, lost at the edge of the void.