Author:

The Inscription (translated from Old Vorathian by forbidden scholars; the original script causes nosebleeds in the weak-willed):

I am Azrath Kane, last king of Vorath, once called the Sky-Jewel of the Eastern Ranges. These are my chronicles, etched in my final hours. Do not judge me harshly for the mistakes of men and gods.

For hundreds of years, the kings of Vorath pledged allegiance to the queens of Thaloria. Our trade delegations descended the perilous slopes, bearing minerals, forged metals, and rare herbs in exchange for grain, military aid, and laborers bound in service. The aid kept the winged terrors—pterafolk raiders—from our high ledges, and held back the savage tribes that prowled the jungle valleys below.

Precious were the herbs that clung to Vorath’s exposed crags: Eyebright to mend clouded sight, Citronella to ward biting swarms, and Kaeth to quicken the blood like dark fire. Life was good beneath the watchful eye of Comes. Trade flowed abundant, and our terraces bloomed eternal.

Then the tumultuous fires of Zin swept the world, casting most continents into turmoil and igniting the Great War. Lord Varak Thorne, champion of Comta—god of wonder and holy protector of the City of Marvels—dared pose the Three Questions to the Gods upon Mount Celestia. The heavens gave no answer.

But a stranger appeared: cloaked, hooded, bearing no tongue within his mouth. This silent one influenced the great protector, whispering truths without words.

I shunned the stranger, clinging to old oaths. Yet the fires blazed unchecked, and famine gnawed my people’s bones.

While I rejected the Mouthless One in loyalty to Comes and the old alliances, Varak Thorne—enraged by divine silence—embraced him in open defiance of Gods and kings alike. Unspeakable power was granted. Varak raised a legion of undying horrors that served only the Mouthless One’s will.

Battle came—a war of men against gods, living against deathless. My great city Vorath, built terrace by terrace through divine blessing and mortal toil, was unmade. Flames and undead hordes consumed the Sky-Jewel until only ruins remained.

I perished in the throne hall, bound by the Mouthless One’s lingering magic, cursed to linger as guardian-wraith. Even now I wait, incorporeal and watchful, for his silent calling.

When the hand is whole again, he will speak without mouth, and all oaths will break.

Cultist Marginalia (scratched in fresh blood-ink at the base of the final tablet):

The first finger rests here, in the tomb's heart—guarded by Azrath's shade. Take it, and earn the Mouthless One's favor. The War of Sin nears its true ending. Silence will rule.