It has been three hundred fifteen years since the Desolation removed peace and order from the land. We are left wanderers in our own world, crossing the vast expanses of Chol without direction or hope.
Perhaps I allow myself too much sorrow. Though we have lost much, so much that we do not know the least portion of it, there are those who roam instead of wander. Who move with power and grace. Mayhap these heroes will carve an ever widening wall of safety and beauty for those of us too weak to follow the yearnings of our souls. These few, strength unimaginable, provide me brief surcease from sorrow. Dwelling on their strength and courage is my only respite.
But in thinking of them I am forced to consider those who are of stature with them in power but bereft of their goodness in spirit. They neither wander nor roam, but scurry about as beetles on dung hoping to uncover some rich morsel. If I call the one heroes, these others call themselves ‘adventurers’. Thinly veiled mercenaries and looters, they wreck havoc on the order I crave.
Still, they are not without their uses. Indeed, a hero may be more noble but sometimes less able to do what must be done. An adventurer will go and do as they are bid if the price is right. Yet one must be careful in dealing with them. Though they seem scoundrels through and through some conceal noble souls beneath blood and ill-gotten wealth.
If the gods were truly wise they would not allow such corruption. Ah, but the gods seem to have withdrawn from Chol since the Desolation. Our home turned to Wasting! Our gods abandoning us to darkness and ignorance! What are we …
It is sad that even in these, my secret writings, I can not remove my passion from my work. If only the sluggards of this nation could be as moved as I we could work a truly wondrous awakening. Hence my efforts. I must be cautious, I walk the finest of lines. There are depths to which I must not descend even for such a great work. Slowly, slowly I gather power. I may be set back but never wholly stopped.