The Diaries of Archibald
Entry 1, 11 June 1165
Free at last! Never again will I take for granted what it means to bend limb and breathe air. But what air do I breathe? What land do I flee
across? It is my Enroth, surely, but so much has changed in the ten years I have been my brother’s coat rack-made an insensate stone statue by his
pet wizard, Tanir. If it wasn’t for those fool “adventurers” I’d still be
there now. Tanir! I promise you I will repay the insult one day. And repay
it with usurious interest.
I have started this journal to help me make sense of the chaos of events. I am a hunted man, but have found refuge in the remote estate of
my colleague in the necromatic arts, Nimbus. His apprentices tell me that their master has sailed for Erathia. I wish he had not been wise enough to
leave them with so few details…all I can derive is that the Necromancer’s Guild has some bold plan for Erathia. Perhaps I should join them?
Both my hated brother, Roland Ironfist, and his loathsome queen Catherine are absent. Roland is, by all accounts, taken by strange demons.
Catherine left for Erathia five months ago to attend her father’s funeral and has not been heard from since. Their brat, Nicolai, sits on the throne
with the loutish Wilbur Humphrey standing as Regent. Ah, if only I were in a position to take advantage of things here in Enroth! It is like a
widowsweep berry ripe for the picking.
But first, I must rebuild. With no nation, it is as if I am once again at the beginning of things. Where are my fellow guild members? I cannot
reach them by means mystical or otherwise. If I could only rally them to my cause! The apprentices are no help-they are content to work their crude
“exercises.” Amateurs! What endless pride they take in their zombified rats and mice! Bah, the useless things fall apart inside of hours. Pathetic.
I really must have a talk with their master. Surely, he is neglecting his role as a teacher if his students perform so poorly and expect my
delight! The other day, I observed one of them fumbling a basic cantrip! One of his, so called, “advanced” initiates! I couldn’t believe it. I am
forced to the sad conclusion that either the student or the master was a complete incompetent. I hope for Nimbus’ sake that he has had an unusually
bad string of luck in finding quality apprentices.
Entry 37, 23 October 1167
I find myself aboard a fast and sturdy ship bound for Erathia. How strange are the events that compel me to leave behind my native land!
Nimbus returned to his estates bringing with him a small party of Necromancers - apparently all of any power that remained in Enroth - he
was gathering to take to Deyja in Erathia so that they might serve the lich-king, Nicolas Gryphonheart. Yes, that Gryphonheart! Catherine’s
father.
The Erathian guild has made a bold and perhaps foolhardy play for power. The guild leader and king of Deyja, Deathknell, sought to take the
Erathian throne by assassinating Gryphonheart and then reanimating him as a lich, bound to his service. Well, he got as far as the reanimation, but
the binding did not take. Instead, the lich killed Deathknell. Now Erathia and Deyja have a new king…and the guild has a new leader.
Now Gryphonheart has called the Necromancer Guild to his aid, and I and the Necromancers of Enroth are heeding the call. He fights his daughter,
Catherine. That is a cause I can hearken to, indeed! Incidentally, this little mission is now my mission. I took it from Nimbus in the guild
Challenge of Dominance. Needless to say, I won. I wasn’t surprised by my success, but rather, at the ease of it. Really, if Nimbus’ powers are any
measure of the state of the necromatic arts these days, clearly the guild has lost much of its wherewithal since my day. What we need is a
systematic program of research. One which will re-instill in us the vigor of the past. It is hard to believe that this is the same guild of Henden’lal or Neberneith!
Those luminaries would never have let things become as they have were they still around. Perhaps it is my destiny to restore our power to its former glory!
Entry 143, 5 August 1168
Reversals within reversals within reversals. That is the way it goes for the fortunes of kings and would-be kings these days. Or so it seems.
In her victory speech, as it was reported to me - I was, to be sure, nowhere near - Catherine made much ado about stability. True, the “dark
and vile forces who had wronged her father so,” were defeated, AND her father “now lies in the state of natural quietude he deserves,” AND “the
people of Erathia can lay down their swords safe in the knowledge that peace reigns instead of terror.”
Oh, let her think all that if she wishes. Let the peasants think it too. That can but help my cause. For as the lich, Gryphonheart, replaced
Deathknell, so have I replaced Gryphonheart. Catherine faces a more devious opponent in me. What my predecessors used like a bludgeon, I will
use as a tailor’s needle. The Necromancer Guild, under my leadership, will enter a golden age of advance. Even now, our new laboratory of research is
producing new knowledge. And as knowledge is power, so will our - and my - power grow.
But all plots must begin somewhere or remain formless. Perhaps my seed of discontent will root in those fertile “disputed lands?” Time will tell,
and the telling will be against my brother and his wife! So swear I here!
Archibald Ironfist
Guildmaster of Necromancers
Rightful King of Enroth
The Story
An uneasy peace has fallen upon Erathia. When the human king, Nicolas Gryphonheart, died, great battles were fought as the elves, hinterland
tribes and other factions all made their moves to take advantage of the ensuing turmoil (This is all resolved in Heroes of Might and Magic® III).
Things have settled for the moment, and hopefully for a long time.
No longer consumed with running a war, Lord Markham has turned his
attentions to other pursuits. Among them has been the organizing of a great contest. Scant as it is on information, his invitation has
nevertheless proven an irresistible draw to a certain small, and slightly down on its luck, party of adventurers. Gathering their meager equipment,
they board the ship provided by Lord Markham and set sail to Emerald Island, the site of this contest.
The Black Rose
Written by Bard Tanni
Well met, traveler! Allow me to introduce myself to you. I am Bard Tanni, a troubadour of Erathia, spinner of tales,
and in this case, a deliverer of warnings. This is a dangerous road that you walk, stranger. Do you see that figure over there? I speak of that
cloaked figure riding a dark stallion, blood-red cloak flying behind and silver sword gleaming in the light of the setting sun. The person under
that cloak may be human or spirit-no one can tell you for sure since anyone who has seen that face close up has not lived to tell the tale. The
figure on that horse is death.
The figure first appeared 10 years ago, when this was still a common trade road. A merchant caravan was travelling from
Spaward to Steadwick carrying, among other goods, a newlywed couple off to start a new life. The man, Anthony, a stonemason whose work had no peer,
and his wife, Rose, a woodcarver whose figures seemed to breathe with a life of their own.
They had met a little over two years before and knew that they were meant to be together. Unfortunately, right after they
had pledged their love to each other, Anthony had been sent to Steadwick to rebuild the castle walls. Rose could not go with him. They had been
separated for a long year and a half while Anthony worked. He came back to her when it was done, told her of a house that he would build for them in
Steadwick, and asked her to marry him. She said yes and they were married straight away, all their friends and family celebrating their joy. The
caravan had left the next day.
About halfway to their destination, their caravan was attacked by bandits. The only warning was a slight glint of sunlight
from the hillside before dozens of men came screaming at the caravan from all side, swords brandished. The caravan guards were completely unprepared
for such an attack and were cut down by the bandits' bloody swords. Rose, dragged out of her wagon, was forced to the ground and assaulted. Anthony
leapt out of the wagon to keep the men off his poor wife. He threw himself at one of the men, knocking him off his feet, and allowing Rose to
scramble away. "RUN!" he cried to her. She turned to flee, but there was another man behind her who grabbed her. She was turned to watch as the
bandits beat Anthony and slit his throat. She screamed as they laughed and threw her to the ground again. She passed out before she had to feel
anymore.
She awoke bruised, stiff and bloody. She opened up her eyes and saw the carnage around her then howled a blood-curdling
scream. All her terror, rage, fear, hatred, and grief boiled up in her at once. She felt power stirring within her and she looked up into the sky,
spread her arms wide, and cried out her vow of vengeance. A dark force came over her and she knew what she must do. She picked up a sword that
lay under one of the mangled bodies of the dead guards, and followed the tracks of the bandits into the hills.
She walked tirelessly for a day and a night until she reached their caves. There was but one sentry outside. She screamed
her banshee cry and fell on him, silver sword cutting him apart before he could utter a cry. She moved into the caves, sword flashing, killing all
in her path. With her inhuman strength and speed, the bandits never had a chance. Some escaped when they realized that they could do nothing to stop her.
When there was no one left in the cave, Rose looked around wild-eyed, sickened by what she had done. The spirit of
vengeance that still possessed her whispered to her that the bandits still lived. She fought against it with all her might, yet still it whispered,
telling her of all the atrocities the bandits had committed, of the women and children slaughtered. Rose gave in to the voice, letting the vengeful
rage fill her, losing herself in cold fury.
For the past ten years, that cloaked figure has haunted this stretch of road, midway between Spaward and Steadwick,
slicing apart anyone unfortunate enough to meet it. At night, you can still hear her cries of grief carried on the wind as she rides, still in
pursuit of the vengeance that she will never achieve.
The Silence
Written by Bard Tanni
This tale is the oldest that I have to tell—a tale of the Silence. The legend of our Fall from the favor of the Ancients and
the Silence we have endured ever since.
Years upon years ago, when the Ancients spoke freely to us, great magic was ours to command. There was magic that could
build, change, teach and heal. There were the Heavenly Forges that wrought glorious magical artifacts. And there were terrible weapons that none
could be trusted to wield.
It is these weapons and men’s folly that legends say brought the Silence and the Fall. It is said that one of these weapons
fell into the hands of bandits, who had staged a raid on one of the Ancient armories. They, in turn, were raided by the local authorities of
Aliant, a town located west of what is now called the Mire of the Damned in southern Enroth. The weapon was confiscated from the bandits by the
Mayor, who held onto it for…safe keeping.
Widely viewed as one of the most wicked men in history, Mayor Alan had not set out to do harm. Although certainly not
perfect, he put the people’s needs before his own. He loved his family: his wife Elaine, their son Michael, and daughter Alanna. His children were
healthy and happy; Michael was working his way up the ladder of the military while Alanna was the envy of every young woman in the kingdom.
Alanna’s beauty, with her father’s raven black hair and her mother’s brilliant blue eyes began many a fight among her suitors.
One dark night Alanna was found murdered outside the council meeting hall. Her grieving father swore vengeance on the
murderer. A message came to Alan accusing his fellow council members of the crime. He ordered the five elders arrested for murdering his daughter.
Their vehement denials fell upon deaf ears as Alan dispensed with a trial ordered them executed. One of the five elders, Theodore, was caught while
the other four escaped. His execution was swift and painful.
The remaining four, Eldan, Andrew, Thomas, and Matthew, fled northeast to Vissias, a country is south of what is now
Blackshire, and begged sanctuary. Alan’s forces pursued but were met by the army of the Vissians who stopped them at the border. Alan demanded the
"killers" be turned over to him. The Vissians refused. The two sides fell to fighting, and by the end of the day, Alan’s son Michael had fallen in battle.
Blinded by grief and rage, Alan activated the Ancient weapon. The wrath of heaven poured out of the artifact, instantly
slaying both armies to a man and filling the land with poison. Fire rained onto the town of Aliant, burned the green fields of Vissias, and wrought
ruin for hundreds of miles around. Uninhabitable for centuries, the formerly lush lands of Vissias and Aliant became the vast desert known now
as Dragonsand.
The Colonial Government pled with the Ancients for help, but there was no answer. Some say that the Ancients were appalled by
the destruction that we wrought upon ourselves and would not speak to us until we became more civilized. Others are not so sure the events are
connected, refusing to believe the Ancients would abandon their children so casually. In any even, without their guiding voice, most of the great
magic slowly stopped working and the Heavenly Forge that created these powerful artifacts began to break down.
The legends are unclear on the exact date of the Day of Fire, but they are clear on one thing—the date of the awful Silence
that followed soon after. A new calendar was formed to mark the dark occasion—a constant reminder of what happened 1,168 years ago.
History of the Elves: the 'Pure Bloods' and the 'Renegades'
Written by Bard Tanni
The Snow Elves of Vori, or the 'true elves' as they will be the first to point out to you, are an insular race.
They have isolated themselves in the far northwestern corner of Erathia. Their history is long and glorious. Just ask them. Very few know of their
founding, and fewer still know of their struggles. Most of our information about them are legends, old stories remembered by their cousins, the Elves
of AvLee. Although there is no love lost between we humans of Erathia and the Elves of AvLee, I was able to speak to a number of their scholars, in
the interest of preserving history. I present to you what I have learned.
Generations ago, the elves were one people, living in their blessed homeland, Vori. The good King Sil-Gandir ruled over his people for
hundreds of years, considered by many elves to be their Golden Age. Near the end of his reign, a number of the elves became somewhat restless. They
chafed at the stolid life that their parents led and wished for more excitement. With the belief that there were great things beyond the
horizon of the sea, they petitioned the King to support an expedition. The King refused. He informed the young adventurous elves that their lives
were too valuable to waste on a dangerous journey away from their blessed homeland. The young elves would not accept that. Led by the headstrong
Elvólas, the young elves began to build a boat to take them across the sea.
King Sil-Gandir discovered the plot and brought Elvólas to his court. He entreated the young one to cease his
preparations and to stop turning the minds of the young to his folly. Elvólas pleaded with the king to reconsider. He spoke of the glory that
they would bring home and of his dreams of the land, not so far away, that would house them. The king ignored his whimsical raving and ordered him to
stop his madness, under penalty of death. King Sal-Gandir would not allow them to go, under any circumstances. Elvólas hung his head and accepted
the king's orders.
When Elvólas returned to the ship, he told his friends that they must be off that night. He told them of what had transpired at the
king's court. He gave them a choice. Either they could give up their dreams of the new land, or they would have to leave before sunrise the
next day. The unanimous vote was to leave. The next morning, when the first of the elves were waking up, they saw that the young elves were
gone. All their belongings had disappeared. The only thing that they would have seen, vanishing over the horizon was a large boat. The name on the
boat was clearly visible: "Mitetiiro" - Renegade.
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The Diaries of Archibald