The sun was setting on the shores of the eastern seas when a group of
Shallam's citizens, returning form a trip to Shastaan, heard a faint
voice on the breeze. Worried, they decided to investigate. To their
great surprise, they found a ragged, soaked man washed up on the shores
of the ocean. Lifting his head weakly, he choked on the sea water that
poured forth from his mouth, his mouth barely moving in a pleading
whisper, "Are they here? Has it begun?"

Under the skillful hands of Sahmie and many others, the soldier soon
began to recover somewhat. Urgency replaced weakness in his tone as he
spoke of a great danger rising. "We must rebuild the bridge" he kept
repeating over and over again, and would not budge until wood and rope
were brought to him. It was at this point that those present realized
that what they had taken for an ocean pier was in fact the broken
remnants of an ancient bridge. Quickly, everyone set to work, and in a
matter of days the proud spans of a wide wooden bridge plunged into the
waters once more.

Crossing the bridge with some trepidation, the Shallamese were surprised
to find themselves on a misty island. Fog curled around a tall fortress
centered upon its shores, and from its depths came the welcoming cries
of many warriors. They were greeted at the gates by a tall, handsome man
who introduced himself as Yilien, the high priest and voice of Arion -
the ancient God of Valor who had passed from these lands many years
past. Yilien began to uncover the old story, telling those gathered of a
time when the armies of Arion departed over the ocean to meet the
advance of a dreaded threat. Yet before the priest could answer the
concerned questions voiced as to the nature of this threat, the
thundering beat of war drums echoed over the city of Ashtan.

For even as the bridge's spans were being built, ship after ship slid
smoothly into the Harbor of Balaton. Grotesque shapes covered the
ground, forming into perfectly arranged battalions. Yet even as the
fearsome troops formed, a cry rang out from every one of their twisted
throats, a desperate cry of worship and power as they chanted,
"Chakrasul! Chakrasul! Chakrasul!"

The battle raged on for many months as the dreaded armies of the
invaders, who called themselves the Nazetu, plunged through the streets
of Ashtan. It seemed that their plundering was unstoppable, and the
disunited armies of Aetolia were unable to slow their tide.
Nevertheless, some brave warriors such as Ishuri swore to not cease
their attacks until every Nazetu lay dead. In the midst of desperate
battle, many a warrior cried to the God of Valor, begging Him to
manifest Himself and guide their efforts. And so it was that Arion
Himself rode down upon a white steed to lead a desperate charge of his
knights against the black-armoured troops of the Nazetu. And yet, guided
by the dark will of Chakrasul, the invaders pressed on, unstoppable and
unwavering.

It seemed that at last all hope had left the city of Ashtan, when the
cries of its citizens finally fell upon the ears of Duiran. In a last
desperate attempt, they gathered their troops and threw them against the
strength of the invading armies. All hopes hinged upon this single
stroke. In a great battle, the troops of Duiran defeated the divisions
of the Nazetu, and the last of the invaders fell dead beneath the claws
of a wolverine.

Yet despite the unexpected and glorious victory, a silence brooded over
Aetolia. The invaders had been beaten off, and the God of Valor had
returned Yet now, the Corrupt One walked the land once more. Friend or
foe, dark or light, god or mortal - all knew that nothing would ever be
the same again.

Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Ios, in the year 113 MA.