Those who knew how it began were no more.
Perhaps some unfortunate farmer moved a stone that should have stayed put. Maybe some foolish child undid a seal in a shrine somewhere. It may have even been a fiery stone shooting across the heavens.
Whatever the cause, it was not so very long ago that the Death began stalking the continent.
Disease traveled on the wind, consuming all the people it encountered; the dead rose, the trees withered, the air grew foul and the water rancid.
The King of Time issued a proclamation: “Find the source of this Death and seal it away.”
Thus heroes arose all over the continent, and so they, too, were swallowed one by one by the Death, leaving nothing but their corpses.
The only exception was a single party, which left these words alone: “The maw of the Death lies in the northernmost reaches.”
None left knew who discovered this. For those adventurers, too, were spirited away by the Death.
The Dungeon of the Dead.
The entrance to this vast abyss yawned like the jaws of the Reaper, and people gathered at the foot of it, until finally a fortress city was born.
In this city, adventurers sought companions, challenged the dungeon, battled, found loot…and sometimes died.
These days of glory went on, and on, and on, repeating over and over.
Riches and monsters welled up without end—as did the incessant hack and slash.
Life was spilled like so much water as adventurers drowned in their own dreams until the fire disappeared from their eyes.
Sooner or later, all that remained, glowing like an ember, were the ashen days of adventuring, which went hand in hand with the Death…
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