The Chronicle of Ruin Mist

As Preserved in the Fading Records of the Fourth Age

Let it be remembered.

Before the kingdoms of men, before the sundering of elf from elf, before the long shadow swallowed the light of the world, there was only greatness — and the slow turning of ages now lost to ruin and mist.

Of the First Age — When Titans Walked the Heavens

In the beginning, the world was whole.

The titans reigned from radiant Over-Earth, vast and unchallenged, their footsteps shaping mountains, their voices echoing across realms. With dragons wheeling through the upper skies and eagle lords ruling the winds, they commanded the Gates of Uver — seven great doorways wrought from the deepest substance of Samguinne, binding realm to realm.

Men, elves, and dwarves labored beneath them.

Yet even in that age of dominion, a seed of defiance stirred.

Ky’el — greatest among titans — beheld the suffering of the lesser races. And in an act that shattered heaven itself, he broke the chains of men, elves, and dwarves. The Great Purge followed. Light dimmed. Blood darkened the thresholds of the gates.

When at last the gate to Over-Earth was sealed, the First Age ended not with triumph, but with sacrifice.

Thus began the long forgetting.

Of the Second Age — When the Freed Built Kingdoms

Men raised banners.

Elves shaped hidden realms of beauty and power.

Dwarves carved empires beneath stone and root.

For a time there was uneasy peace. But freedom bore rivalry, and rivalry bore war. Slowly, memory of the titans faded into myth. Over-Earth became legend. The gates fell silent.

The world endured — but it did not heal.

Of the Third Age — And the War of Ten Million Tears

Hear now of the great sundering.

In the twilight of peace rose Dnyarr, Elf King of Greye, whose pride and fear ignited a flame that would burn for a thousand years.

He united the elves against men.

Thus began the war that history names in many tongues:

• Dnyarr’s War
• The Thousand Year Siege
• And by those who bled and buried their children — The War of Ten Million Tears

For a millennium the earth trembled.

Cities fell and were rebuilt only to fall again. Forests burned and regrew in haunted silence. Rivers ran red, then black with ash.

Men and elves, once freed together under Ky’el’s sacrifice, became executioners of one another’s hope.

Alliances shattered. Dwarves withdrew into shadow. Ancient magics were unleashed and lost. The very land seemed to recoil from the carnage.

When at last the war ended, it ended not in reconciliation — but exhaustion.

Men stood victorious.

But victory tasted of dust.

The trust between races was broken beyond easy mending. The unity of the early ages was gone. The realms, once joined by gates and shared destiny, drifted apart in suspicion and fear.

And it was in the long sorrow after the war that the truest meaning of the realm’s name was revealed.

Ruin Mist. Not merely lost ages. But ages drowned in ruin. A world veiled in the mist of tears uncounted.

The war did not simply scar history — it defined it.

Of the Fourth Age — The Cleansing and the Coming Shadow

In the aftermath, the kingdoms of men turned inward.

Blaming magic for their suffering, the great kings decreed a cleansing. Creatures born of magic were hunted. Ancient devices shattered. Lore burned. For five hundred years the purge raged.

Children grew to adulthood knowing nothing but suspicion of wonder.

And in that long dimming of light, when memory itself was thinned and fractured, Sathar, the Dark Lord, returned from beyond the veil.

The world, divided and weakened, was ripe for shadow.

Elves were no longer united. The West raised arms even against the sacred East. Dwarves warred among themselves. Giants withdrew. Dragons were thought extinct. Titans were dismissed as wicked myths.

Only the Queen Mother of the East dared to speak of unity — of men and elves standing together once more as they had beneath Ky’el’s sacrifice.

Few listened.

The Present Hour — Twilight of Men

Now the Fourth Age wanes.

Men rule, yet tremble.

Elves remember, yet distrust.

Under-Earth stirs.

Over-Earth waits.

Some whisper that this is the final turning — that if darkness triumphs now, there will be no Fifth Age, no rebirth, no new dawn.

And yet, in hidden places, long-lost guardians stir. Keepers of ancient truths. Watchers between realms. Heirs not only to sorrow, but to hope.

For though the War of Ten Million Tears reshaped the world, it did not extinguish it.

The ruin remains. The mist endures. But so too does the possibility of light.

Thus is the Chronicle written.

Thus is the warning given.

Thus waits the fate of Ruin Mist.