Old Gnome Almanac
An Adventurer's Guide to Arkaynia
Written in Four Hundred and fifty two in the year of our Lords, post-maelstrom
The Old Legends of Arkaynia
(for full effect, read as if spoken by old Asian Man)
Loooooong ago, men were gods!........But before they were gods, they were savages, fighting for the scraps of Arkaynia with the goblinkin and the orc. Struggled as the aloof elves look down upon them and laughed! Ignored as the mighty dwarves toiled beneath and prospered. Then came the coming of the Eldarth, the Elders, ancient men cast out from a land beyond the great sea. Men who wielded the arcane arts effortlessly as if breathing air.
The Eldarth took pity upon the men of Arkaynia. They taught unto them the ways of magic and gave wise council unto the courts of chieftans, warlords, and mighty warriors. And as the ages passed, great nations, kingdoms and empires arose among the world of men with the wise words and high wizardry of the Eldarth on the right hand side of every court.
So great was the power of men, that even the noble Elf trembled at the sight of their mighty thrones and envied the magic of the Eldarth. So great was the deeds of men, that the dwarves heard their summons and presented their toils and tribute from the depths of the Underdark for the glory of men. With the help of the noble elf and dwarf, armies of man purged the beasts who would devour them, cast the goblinkin to the darkest, farthest holes of the world, humbled the giants, and brought the orc to chains.
And so in time, nothing compared to the glory of the realms of men. With such mastery of magic they wielded, in time they no longer needed the Gods, and the Gods were cast aside and forgotten. Ever greater they reached, with an undying thirst for power, perhaps, in time, even to take the throne of the Gods themselves. . . . . . . . . . .But, then the Maelstrom came.
No one knows where it came from or what it truly is. Many say it was the gods' own punishment, just by giving unto mortal men what they so desired. Others say it was brought by some dark ritual of the Eldarth. Some even say it was a curse of the unspeakable one hoping to finally destroy the mortal realm.
In truth no mortal shall ever know, only the gods. The maelstrom was an otherworldly tempest that swept the whole of Arkaynia with screeching, howling winds, lightning of many colors, and thunder that cracked the stones and shook the foundations of great cities. Despite its terror, most lived when it passed. But a curious thing happened when mortal men emerged to a new day. For the lowly street magician was now a grand wizard, and the grand wizard was like a god.
Alas, the men might have the power of gods, but not their wisdom. No written word survives the time of the maelstrom only the echos of their screams. Every bitter feud, every petty desire, and baseless mortal whim was thrust upon the lands of Arkaynia. Soon mighty armies clashed, perished, and were reborn to fight again. Cities and Nations were ground to dust as land were heaved into the seas, seas were banished for new lands, mountains crumbled, and face of Arkaynia was remade and remade again. Wild magic was let loose upon the mortals of Arkaynia as countless new races were forged in magic to worship their new masters and others devoured in the cataclysm. Chief among the new fool gods were the Eldarth who struggled against one another, their brotherhood forgotten. Each determined to reign supreme. But with each cataclysmic duel, they ripped the world apart anew, until the Eldarth were annihilated, vanished, never to be seen in the world again.
And then the Maelstrom returned, but as that terrible storm passed, the powers of men were gone as quickly as they came. A darkness fell upon the mortal world. The Age of Beasts began.
Sages say that the Age of Beasts lasted a mere one hundred years. Bah! Did men care to write of their darkest hour? Did they have time to write on parchment of the re-awakened dragons that roasted them? Hordes of ramping orc and goblin that feasted upon them in their own halls and with their own fine silver? It is difficult to write of histories as dark warlords puts your writing hand to chains. Was it one hundred years? Five hundred? Ten Thousand? No one but the gods know...Men were too busy surviving and putting the last of the mages of old to flame.
Alas, the noble Elf fared little better than man. They did not succumb to the Maelstrom as men did with the wisdom of millennia. With collapse of men, they retreated into their forest realms, the ones that yet survived. Alas, the chaos unleashed by the Maelstrom could not be escaped. The noble elves were beset by the orcish and goblin hordes, horrific and profane unworldly plagues, and the raids of pitiless, desperate human warlords, and the starved dwarves chased from the last of their homes by the dark tide.
Ah, the poor dwarf! As men and elf were left with scraps, dwarves lost all in the Great Exodus. Dwarves once ruled the underdark. After, the Maelstrom, the underdark was cast in chaos much as the overworld was. But the stalwart dwarf rallied. They held fast at the Great Gate of Karth'Thordrun, stood their ground as the dark denziens of the Deep seeked to spill forth into the Dwarven realm. Perhaps they would have held fast against the dark tide of the deep if it were not for their own brethren , the gray dwarves, the Duegar clan, keepers of the gate. When the great black vanguard of the Drow arrived, their traitorous brethren threw the gates open. Not even the gods could have stopped the dark horde. The dwarves were driven to the precipice of oblivion until a great dwarven hero, name, arrived.
This dwarven savior and his legendary companions pledged to hold the dark tide at a horrible price: Exodus from their beloved dwarven halls of their ancestors to the overworld and their last mountain strongholds, but avoid extermination. The council of clans reluctantly agreed. As the legends valiantly held the tide, the dwarven race poured unto the surface into the awkward embrace of the sun, and the lucky few took dominion of the last dwarven refuges in the tallest mountain strongholds.
When the surviving savior and his legends returned to the dwarven people, they were cast out by the ungrateful, resentful council of clans, cursed to roam the world, never to see the halls of their fathers. Legends have it that the Savior yet lives wandering the world in search of the sword of the Fyor. According to prophecy when the savior returns, he will gather his dwarven people to face Ragnarok. In untold numbers of taverns, one hears the dwarven bellow of chants, song, and prayers for his return, singing and praying for the horns of Ragnarok.
In time, with blood and tears, men found and forged steel and banded under the banners of lords to stay the all-consuming darkness. Few words were written in this age, the Age of Steel, but they were written. Sages say it lasted two hundred years, only steel and guidance of the new-found gods, Fallen and True, to lead them out of the darkness of the Age of Beasts. What to say of the Age of Steel? Humph! Men lived and died by the weight of their steel, and the gods were made happy!
......And now comes the Age of Kings, two hundred years hence. Now new kings and heroes are made. Now magic has been rekindled and the armies of men march once more against the black hordes. Now, gods willing, new legends will be made. But, there is light on the horizon. Is it the twilight of the final night or the light of a new dawn? Forget the old world! They are dead! You are the Old Legends of Arkaynia!
