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In the distant past,
under a benevolent rule the world was united,
owing to the Soul arts.
Until a *** for power caused the awakening of the Old One.
Across the land seeped a colourless Deep Fog,
and the world faced extinction at the hands of the Demons.
Thanks be, we were able to lull the Old One back to Its slumber,
yet only after the loss of innumerable souls,
and half the world, lost... erased by the fog.
In order to mend the fabric of what land still remained,
we entrusted six elders with six precious Archstones.
One to the king of a small yet diligent land,
one to the king of the burrowers underground,
one to the wise queen of the great ivory tower,
one to the chieftain of lost and ill-fortuned souls,
one to the shaman of the tempest-worshipping shadowmen,
and the last to the great giants of the Northern Lands.
The Archstones were placed at nodes across the earth.
We contained the Old One inside this Nexus,
and banned the soul arts.
Finally, we became Monumentals;
half-living sentinels of the fabric of reality.
Alas, the other Monumentals have perished, and only I remain.