In a distant land, known to most as Caerdiaeth, people lived simple, peaceful lives.
Did the nobility demand tithes and the occasional conscription? Of course. And perhaps the borders were ravaged by a spot of war here and there, for Caerdiaeth was far from unified. But for common folk, these things meant little. A border town disappearing would be a bit of tragedy for the town crier to report on at most, if anyone even noticed in the first place.
But one day, a man was caught in a certain state of indecency with somebody he was most certainly not wedded to, and ended up pushed out a nearby window. He fell, broke his neck, and, tragically, died.
Then the man got back up, reduced to a frenzied, hungry beast, and depopulated half the town before the local guardsmen mobilized, and the other half by the time they realized their mistake in treating him as an ordinary, if crazed, opponent.
In the distant land of Caerdiaeth, the Undead Curse made its appearance once more, emblazoned in a circle of Flame on an unfortunate young man's back.
The Darksign's spread was slow, and yet tragedy mounted. In an era of conflict, any one person's death could now destabilise a whole region, not to mention the rare afflicted soldier who would be met with a terrible fate, of being sent into a meat grinder, again and again and again.
And so, in that tumultuous era, four Lords forged four Swords, from the Souls of four Gods.
The First Prince of Light, Gwenfyr, wielded a blade of pure lightning. Together with another nameless sword, he established his kingdom from nothing, and sought greater power still.
The Six Gravelords forged six Swords as One, wielding their power separately but equally, to form their paradise of the dead.
The Scholars of the Floating Archive made anew a blade of moonlight, for the most learned among them to defend their endless pursuit of knowledge with.
And a certain man from the Southern Kingdoms took the essence of Life and crafted a blade of simple steel, which was no less deadly for it.
Each of them carved a piece out of Caerdiaeth to call their own in turn, and the promise of salvation had thousands flock to their banners.
But the era of conflict was far from over, when each Lord coveted what the rest had most of all. Just think, if one Sword could establish a nation, what could be done if one possessed all four?
An in that distant land, a scholar from another time-
…Something has grown crooked in this era, it seems. A flicker in the Flame's tapestry? The Lord, then the Curse as the final nail to their rule's coffin, that is the way of things. And yet…
-made a decision, and a prediction.
'When time begins to stagnate and crumble, an Undead will arise, gather the four Swords of four Lords, and the world will be remade.'
The scholar spread this prediction all across Caerdiaeth, and let its superstitious common folk do the rest of the work for him. In short order, prediction became prophecy, and a prophecy would leave any Lord wary.
Nudging history back into place, just a little. Let us see, if this flicker can be anything more… We will continue to await an answer.
In the distant lands of Caerdiaeth, there once was an Undead with no name.
They used to have a name, of course, just like anyone else. Before they became an Undead, they had a name and identity and maybe even a family and a job of some sorts.
But unfortunately, they were born in Galou, the land ruled by the descendants of the Lord of Light, who sought to control Caerdiaeth in its entirety.
The Second Prince of Light was not about to hand over his rule to some upstart Undead. When he rose to power he ordered the construction of holding facilities, great gaols that would contain and break the Undead.
In the distant lands of Caerdiaeth, the Second Prince of Light hatched a plan.
The Undead, every single one of them, would be imprisoned. They would be tormented, put through every torture imaginable, until they broke and broke and broke, so utterly and completely that the very will had gone out of them. When the four swords would be gathered, these Undead would be nothing more than empty vessels - vessels that they could then fill with whatever he pleased. After all, rather than some no-name Undead, shouldn't it be the Second Prince of Light who decides the shape of the world?
It was just bad luck, really, that this nameless Undead was born in Galou.
This Undead had a name once, but the gaol's guards came with their rods and their blades and ripped it out.
This Undead had a family once, but the Prince's wizards and sorcerers came with their tests and experiments and scorched the very memory out.
This Undead had an identity once, likes and dislikes and a million other little things that make up a person, before those were twisted and torn beyond recognition too.
This Undead had hope, and that at least remained when nothing else did. It was nothing more than a faint spark, and yet it was all this nameless Undead could cling to - the thought that, if they waited long enough, patiently enough, the opportunity to escape would arise. That even if they could not remember anything about it, a life beyond these grey walls existed.
In the distant lands of Caerdiaeth, an ember of hope flared to life, bright and warm.
A crash and a crack at the gaol's walls, loud and strong enough to be heard and felt all the way in these dilapidated cells. The guard stationed at their door looked wary as he looked from one end of the corridor to the next. They could hear the faint noises of something out beyond, but making sense of those sounds was beyond them at this point.
An eternity passed, and then the wary guard let out a yell and rushed across the corridor with the intent to attack.
An instant passed, and he flew back across the corridor with a deafening crack, armour glowing bright from sheer heat.
They looked on with interest. This could turn out badly, but then again, could it be any worse? They were in no position to complain about the shape their opportunity took.
A cloaked figure approached the bars of the cell, and reached out. At their touch, the bars glowed, then melted, then disappeared entirely like smoke.
A voice like gravel came from beneath the cloak.
"Keheheh… Yer lookin' a little more put together than the rest o' these empty sacks round here, eh?"