Author:

Transcribed from the direct psychic imprint of Eurus, God-Dragon of the East Wind, by the Seer-Priestess Lirael of the Stormbrook Athenaeum

The Full Lament (as psychically imparted and faithfully transcribed):

Hear me, mortals of valor, for I am Eurus, last of the Four God-Winds, she who carries the breath of the east across Zin.

When the first fires of the west kindled, none heeded the warning. They burned only remote forests where small creatures dwelled; we thought little of it. But the flames spread—hungry, unnatural—devouring plains and farms alike. Kings bickered, each realm searched its own corners for answers, and still the blaze marched onward.

Then I heard my sister's scream upon the western wind. A cry of agony and triumph both. After that... silence.

Plagues followed the fire. Famine followed the plagues. War followed famine. Thus began the Age of the Darkness.

The earth itself grew uneasy. What began as tremors became eruptions—marauding hordes of orcs, goblins, gnolls, and fouler things spewing from the depths. Those we captured bore eyes of black ichor and swore allegiance to one master: Bool, the Destroyer, voice of the Shadow that lurks beneath creation.

Desperate, I called upon the last great allies of the light. I petitioned the Gods of Mount Celestia. At first they were silent—lost in their own disputes, or perhaps bound by ancient edicts. Yet mortals and lesser gods alike raised their voices in prayer, and at last the Gods heard. Never blaspheme them, seeker; they do care, even for us ancient ones and for fleeting mortals both.

Three is the number of power. Thus, in the Seven Heavens—where the purest metals sing alongside celestial forges—the Gods crafted three blades of god-slaying might:

1. Lightbringer, Oath of Holy Might, radiant and pure.
2. Whiterazor, blade of cleansing frost and unyielding truth.
3. And the third, the Sword of Comta, whose true name is spoken only in reverence.

Surely these weapons, forged and tempered by divine hands, would suffice to end the usurper. The Gods had been distant, but now there was hope.

The wind whispered secrets to me—familiar scents of smoke and corrupted gold. I knew then what I would face.

I stood at the Last Battle of Men, proud and unbowed, beside reborn Votune at her Great Heart-Tree and mighty Meotl, Lord of Storms. Six Archmages flanked us—Keraptis the Yellow chief among them—and the assembled Armies of Light filled the field. The sky was hidden by roiling shadow; the sun wept behind clouds of ash.

Below, blood and battle raged. And there she roared—my sister—wreathed in shadow and flame. In her claw she wielded the Sword of Comta, once Lightrazor, now twisted and filled with the stars of the void. The Shadow cannot create; it can only mock, warp, and corrupt what the forces of Good have wrought. Lightrazor had become Blackrazor, all-devouring, hungering even for the souls of Gods.

She struck down Meotl first. Then Votune. Their divine essence fed the blade's darkness.

I descended and gazed into the Destroyer's eyes, seeking any glimmer of my kin. Once they had been pure gold. Now they were voids that consumed all light in Zin.

It was as I feared. She was my sister, twisted beyond recognition by Bool's whisper.

I fought with every tempest the Gods had granted me. But divine power alone could not prevail against the corrupted blade. She struck true—Blackrazor pierced my breast. The wound was not mortal, yet when I wrenched free, the tip shattered within me, embedding a shard in my golden heart. The unleashed magics ravaged both armies. My sister released the broken blade in agony and fled into the depths.

Weakened, I commanded Keraptis the Yellow: "Take Blackrazor and flee. Guard it where the Darkness cannot reach."

The Last Battle ended in pyrrhic victory. The forces of Darkness were crippled, scattered. The elves fled their ancient groves into deeper wilds. Keraptis vanished into legend, bearing the fractured sword, and died years later in hidden exile.

Now the shard's pain grows unbearable. It corrupts my heart as it corrupted my sister. In my despair I have sought my own end, but a God-Dragon's life is not easily surrendered.

Blackrazor, fractured, can now be wielded only by mortal hands. Keraptis laid cunning traps and wards around the remnants of the three blades to bar the Darkness from reclaiming them. The dungeon he carved lies near my lair, hidden in mist and mountain.

I have waited long centuries for heroes of true bravery and valor—such as once walked Zin in abundance—to answer this call.

Retrieve the shattered Blackrazor. Bring it to me that we may destroy it utterly and cleanse my heart. Then, together, we shall face the Darkness before my sister returns to finish what she began.

The wind carries you now. Heed it.