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Chapter 1 In days long past, when the sun kissed the peaks of Almaris, and the gentle whispers of the wind breathed life into its verdant landscapes, the tale of a prophecy was born. Born not in the grand halls of the wise or the whispered corners of the sages, but in the elusive dreamscape of a select few. These chosen few, plucked out seemingly at random from among the descendants, began to receive vivid, bone-chilling visions. Echoes of a looming apocalypse that initially seemed too horrific to be real, too cataclysmic to even fathom. It was a nightmare that clawed at the edges of their waking minds, leaving an inescapable dread that gnawed at their peace. Yet as the hands of time continued their relentless march, the skepticism that had once been a comforting blanket began to fray. The veneer of denial cracked, the raw fear seeping into their hearts. The terrifying truth of their prophetic dreams was acknowledged, setting forth a wave of alarm that reverberated through every corner of the realm. The threats of the worm, the malevolent necromancers, all those foes that once terrorized the lands, were now but shadows before the terrifying face of this prophesied cataclysm. The might of Iblees was manifesting itself, taking horrific forms that threatened to plunge the realms into chaos and destruction. The sinister September Prince then, the ravenous undead befrore, and now the demented Mori'Quessir with their abominable beastoids, they all converged, their horrifying powers suffusing the air with a palpable dread. The very lands trembled in fear, the skies darkened, and a chilling wind swept across the landscapes, portending the doom that was drawing near. Chapter 2 Against this maelstrom of despair, a flame of hope flickered to life. The diverse races of the realm, roused from their disjointed existence, found common ground under the looming shadow of annihilation. The descendants, who had long been at odds, buried their old grudges. Magi, druii, xannitesi, and even blood magi, once immersed in their own individual pursuits, now came together. They discarded their differences and instead, combined their unique wisdom and arcane powers to create a beacon of hope. It was a light that pushed against the impending darkness, a beacon that stubbornly burned in defiance against the terrifying might of their adversaries. This newfound unity, though born out of dire necessity, held a beauty that was both poignant and inspiring. It hinted at the possibility of what could be, of a world where harmony was more than a fleeting dream, if they only dared to put aside their discord. Their fight, however valiant, was not without its losses. Almaris, a realm once teeming with life, succumbed to the onslaught. Its beautiful landscapes, once the epitome of nature's magnificence, were laid to waste. This once thriving realm was now nothing more than a desolate expanse of destruction. This bitter defeat set off a ripple of panic among the descendants. If a realm as grand as Almaris could be decimated, what chance did the others stand? Chapter 3 This spirit of resilience pervaded the human kingdoms as they faced the monstrous threat of the Mori. In the shadow of their malevolent power, humanity found strength and unity. They banded together, forming alliances that stretched across their borders, creating a tapestry of hope and camaraderie. They were ready to fight, their hearts burning with the unquenchable fire of their shared conviction. In this newfound unity, they were more than just individual races or kingdoms, they were a beacon of resistance. Their resilience breathed life into their ravaged lands, their unyielding spirit becoming the drumbeat of a defiant anthem against the growing darkness. They rose like the phoenix, ready to protect their land, their people, their legacy. The courageous men who dared to tread the desolate landscapes held onto the rhythm of their songs to keep despair at bay. Among them, a youthful Haenseti man bid adieu to his kin with a promise of a swift return, his melody echoing, "We all go marching, all go marching, all go march away. When I come back, we'll have a Baron-ay". His memory persists in the mournful cries of a desolate Mamej. The elves, once a race characterized by their discord, were also caught in the throes of this fight for survival. They too sought unity, desperately trying to pull together the frayed threads of their kinship. But old habits die hard and the old prejudices and biases of the past still lingered. Haelun'or, once the shining city of their people, was yet again left out of their discussions. A poignant reminder of the divisions that still plagued them. They hadn’t learned from their forefathers' mistakes, and now, they dared to dream of a future where all elves were united, their strength combined to face the looming cataclysm. Yet, in the face of these challenges, the spirit of hope still shone bright. Amidst the darkness, a symphony of whispers echoed through the realms, weaving a tale of unity, of resistance, of resilience. They clung onto it, the flickering flame pushing against the encroaching shadows. Their hearts were steadfast, their resolve unyielding. Descendants, diverse in their origins yet united in their purpose, toiled ceaselessly. They were like a legion of ants, their efforts harmoniously orchestrated, their spirits indomitable, working towards a shared goal. They served their kin, their nations, their esteemed monarchs—Kings, Queens, Sohaeran, and Maheralan—with unyielding dedication. They sought not just their individual survival, but the collective survival of their realm. Their unity was their shield, their shared resolve their weapon against the looming apocalypse. Despite their valiant efforts, the reality was a grim specter that loomed over their dreams of survival. The realm of Almaris was lost, its glorious landscapes now a desolate expanse, a painful reminder of their defeat. And while they had banded together for now, there was a gnawing fear that their unity was as fragile as the peace they sought. It was inevitable that once they fled to a new continent, their old rivalries would resurface, and the cycle of destruction and death would continue. Chapter 4 Yet, amidst the struggles and the bleak outlook of their future, the symphony of their unity continued to resonate. It was a symphony born out of necessity, out of desperation, but it was also one of hope. Despite the chaos and uncertainty that surrounded them, they dared to hope, to dream of a future where they could survive, where their realm could thrive once again. But the passage of time, relentless and unyielding, continued its march. As the echoes of their struggles faded, new challenges loomed on the horizon. In this new land, untouched by the shadows of their past, fresh battles awaited. The descendants would have to face these new threats, their hearts filled with an unsettling blend of fear and excitement. The tranquility they had found was fleeting, a mere prelude to the upcoming turmoil. The Mori'Quessir, who once loomed as an invincible foe, was now but a haunting memory. Their past transgressions, which once seemed insurmountable, were now whispers carried by the winds of time. The descendants had found respite from their overpowering grasp, but this was a brief reprieve. For hearts that longed for power and purpose, the lull was a test of patience, a harbinger of the battles that lay ahead. And so we found, the lands of Braveos. An empty canvas, awaiting colour. I write these words hoping you'll pay heed to my warnings, for only the resilient shall endure. Your inconsequential presence is a mere fleeting moment in the vast tapestry of time. Direct your attention to the collective rather than the self, lest we find ourselves trapped in a cycle of errors. The harmonious songs of birds already carry whispers of discord within. We are inclined to replicate the blunders of ancient legends, becoming victims of the very same missteps committed by our ancestors. - Oem Mali'thill