Author:

Lich King Daerma

Preface: The Hunger Beneath Creation

I, Daerma, who traded flesh for eternity, write this not for glory but for warning—and perhaps for understanding. Bool, called the Darkness, the Goddess of Oblivion, the Eternal Void—she is no mere shadow born of the Abyss. She was the driving force behind the Last War, the corruption that nearly unmade Zin when the heroes vanished westward.

Adventurers who plunder the shattered sarcophagi in the Temple of Forgotten Echoes—those amber prisons called Godstones—bring back fragments of her truth. I sought one whole. I touched it. What follows is what it showed me… and what it took.

Bool was not always oblivion. She began as something radiant. The Godstone does not lie; it only devours hope.

Chapter III: Account from the Last War

Scribed from a charred fragment recovered from a fallen hero's journal, before the final battles:

"After the heroes sailed west to unseen lands, she came—like shadow and flame entwined. Scorched earth marked her path. With breath and silent word, the living twisted into wraiths of darkness. No iron, steel, or gold endured her gaze. Nothing sated her annihilation.

Those who escaped death became tributaries—broken souls feeding her unending hunger. Her armies swelled in every direction, sparing none from her wrath. The world left behind was a miserable husk, where even memory bled away."

—Unknown Hero of the Eastern Marches, last words before the silence fell

Chapter VII: The Vision of the Godstone

Direct transcription from the amber I dared to touch—black… cold… nothingness… hopelessness…

A dragon—beautiful, gold-scaled—shimmers in bright sun as she streaks through endless blue sky. Her reptilian eyes scan the forests below, a green blur stretching to every horizon.

Searching… seeking… A fire blazes uncontrollably in the deep wood, but no one tends it. Nothing can stop it.

“Where did you go…?” A woman’s soft voice reaches out, aching with loss.

Now the dragon stands in a royal court—prideful kings in petty crowns arguing, debating, uncompromising. Turmoil stirs the lands with their sins.

“Did you not hear me…?” The vision burns away into moonless night.

She glides over vast oceans under starlight, golden scales glistening like jewels. Frantic, she searches for aid against fires kindled by mortal hearts—lust for power, gluttony for baubles, envy of neighbors, wrath without mercy for the weak.

She tears through dark clouds like the wind itself, sails mountain ridges, climbs the tallest peak in all Zin. A ferocious roar splits the night—a desperate plea.

No answer comes. No heroes remain to hear. Tears shake from her gleaming eyes, twinkling as they fall into the void.

The blaze rages hotter than any forge. The vision shifts…

Now the flawless gold dragon—desperate, hopeless—wanders forbidden planes: voids where Gods fear to tread, realms mortals were never meant to glimpse.

“Come back…” Her voice beacons, raw with grief.

At last you see her: scales fading, no light left to shimmer upon them. No tears remain. She crawls across a shadowed reflection of Zin—faint figures of men, women, souls like mist passing on in silence. Half-forgotten memories. Coldness. Emptiness. Hopelessness fills the heart until eyes blacken…

“Have you finally returned…?” She questions.

Souls of mist swirl in a sky of erupting dark clouds, streaked with white lightning. They scream silently as darkness pulls them downward into void—consumed forever.

From the blackest depths rises a fierce growl of rage: “You will never leave us again…”

Epilogue: My Own Confession

The vision ended, but the cold remains in my bones—even bones that feel no cold.

Bool was the gold dragon—sister to Eurus, perhaps, or something older. She searched for the vanished heroes, for aid against the fires of mortal sin. None came. Despair hollowed her until radiance turned to oblivion.

She is not evil born. She is despair made divine—the goddess who devours because she was abandoned.

I touched her Godstone seeking power. Now I understand: she hunts me still, as she hunts all who linger too long in life. Eternity is her cruelest joke.

If you read this, mortal or immortal—flee the amber. Some truths are better left consumed.