A young Evander Drayton clashed swords with a creature once noble, now corrupted by powerful dark magic—a member of demon-kind, twisted and vile, brought low by the cruel designs of Lord Varamont, a title he had arrogantly claimed for himself. By Evander’s side stood his father, Edmond the King's Hunter; his mother, Cassandra; and Den Emberbasher. Together, they fought with the Elves, Dwarves, and Men of Monmarolin against Varamont’s sadistic forces and his abyssal horrors.
As the war raged on for four grueling years from 1136 to 1140, their fortunes turned. What began as a vicious struggle to hold their ground soon gave way to a glimmer of hope, the promise that victory lay atop the ever-growing piles of the fallen. Varamont’s arrogance was his undoing. His dark machinations cost him much, far more than he anticipated. He never considered that defeat could come at the hands of the 'lesser' races. Yet, even as his plans faltered, he clung to one belief: the dark magic he had so painstakingly woven would still grant him the power to command the demons and take the land by force.
His once mighty legions dwindled, and still he refused to accept that he could be bested by those he deemed inferior.
In the final days of the great continental war, the Elves of Avendia, the Dwarves of the Iron Isle Mountains, and the Men of Monmarolin—had Varamont surrounded. His abyssal creatures lay defeated, and he stood alone, facing the inevitability of his fall.
"The war is over. It ends today, Varamont," King John declared, his voice laced with hatred. Standing at the forefront of the largest of the four castles, he raised his greatsword high, ready to bring it down upon the crouching wizard.
Varamont’s lips curled into a sneer, his voice dripping with venom. "You small-minded creatures... You think you have won?" A thin, bitter laugh escaped him. "You have only delayed your enslavement." Even on one knee, beaten and bloodied, he refused to surrender. "You cannot kill me. I will be your master."
Before King John could strike, Varamont rose. His pitch-black cloak billowed in the stillness, and his eyes—black and blood-red—burned with hatred and madness. His skull, enshrouded by a canvas of blackened flesh pulled too tight, was a mask of pure malice.
Without warning, Varamont plunged his fists into the earth. For a moment, there was only silence. Then the ground began to tremble. Small rocks jittered across the blood-soaked soil as a deafening crack split the air. Four deep fissures erupted from beneath Varamont, each stretching in a cardinal direction.
Edmond recoiled from the crack that split the earth beneath him. "What in the hell is he doing?" he shouted over the growing roar.
His question was answered in a heartbeat. The fissures widened violently, transforming into gaping ravines that tore through the continent itself. Forests were swallowed whole by the earth, mountains crumbled, and people tumbled endlessly into the abyss.
As the chaos reached its peak and the world seemed ready to break apart, Varamont lifted his gaze, his eyes alight with fury. He smiled, a twisted, wicked grin. "Pathetic creatures," he spat.
In a final, terrible act, Varamont poured every last shred of his life into the abyss. The cracks overflowed with his dark power, and his physical form disintegrated, feeding the corruption that would fill the ravines. The thick, black ocean of darkness that remains to this day was born from his sacrifice.
From that day on, Monmarolin was never the same. Families were torn apart, countless lives lost. The war that ravaged the land and claimed so many souls came to be known as the War of the Lost.
And that was the war that split the world
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