Many years passed, but in my mind there still, stood a barrow of malefic repute known only as the Tomb of Den Divzar. Long had the grave stood, marking the ancient barrier between three territories, yet in all the years the ancient stones had stood, no living soul had ever dared to make claim to the surrounding area. So long had it been that the lands around the tomb were wild with untended groves, and the woodsmen who lived in the neighboring towns dared not venture into the sight of the infamous crypt. Legend said, be that old drunkards bending the ears of their younger kin, that inside the crypt was housed riches enough to make a king weep. Some rumors said that Den Divzar was a banished mage of Azora known for his foul research, and inside his tomb were his final works. Most, however, simply thought that the place was eerie and not worth the trouble to clear away, filled to the brim with long forgotten corpses. Busy with other and far more pressing matters, the people of the three nations were happy to let old bones rot, leaving local rumors as exactly that. Yet with the passing of time and the conflicts of a tumultuous age, it came to pass that the leaders of the three great nations became so desperate, that they were forced to lower their standards to consider even that of old wives' tales. Three then were all that could be spared to go to the Tomb of Den Divzar and find his supposed riches, or maybe his book of fel magics, or perhaps nothing at all.

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One was sent from the north; from atop the storm-carved peaks of the Mountains of Gint, where the old giant lords slept beneath the falling snow and frozen stone. His was a journey of redemption and suffering, a way lost and found by weeping and the gnashing of teeth. One was called forth from the west, the land of the endless lords and sacred law. Where cities stood atop the ruins of a thousand ages passed, its people living among the crumbled wonders of a bygone world. His was a quest of rebirth, for such is the way of his people, and tradition was the oath sworn by every blade in the west. One came from the east, the Realm of Azora, where spires stretched into the sun and a gleaming city soared above the world, lofted by strange sorceries known only to its denizens. A scholar in the grand capital of Myrian, the city of wizards, his was a tale told by teachers of all generations, a lesson in humility that surpassed all mortality. Three came to the point where their nations converged and in this we begin our tale...