Compendium Malifactorum
Lost books detailing the history of the Eldar empire, only the Runfelt missive remains
Runfelt Missive
"... In this, the hot days of our last summer, I Runfelt Neophyte of the Ellesendis Order. Scribe to the court of the ill-fated Heledon the fourth. Last of my brothers in this life write on what is known and what has come to be.
Fallen, Salnei Togei has fallen. Weep, for her gardens burned and towers crumbled. The great city of man liberated from the Ancient Ones has come to be a ruin.
The high and low seek nothing but escape from the horrors that befell us, but the age of the Eldar draws to a close.
Long ago were the years of my youth when I heard tales from the older Brothers, and read reports from the glory days. When the Imperial sigil could be seen from the marshes in the north to the deserts of the south. Wherein Man's dominion upon Ur'Ava was undisputed since The Great Cleansing. Even in my youth the stories shone with brighter gold and glitter than the present, but still then hope lingered that the Eldarian reign could regain what it had lost.
For to dwell in those blessed times, if only in these writings brings reprieve from the accursed life we must endure now.
The accounts spoke of a vast Empire, ruled by the direct heirs of Helekan The Blessed. Where there was no strive for power that befell after the breaking of the line. From the Great City ,now mourned, they ruled over dutiful citizens. From the sister cities Cornorum and Dondur, forming the triangle pillars of the heart provinces, trade and peace flourished.
Outposts far in the Durdar Karch mountains brought ore, timber and precious gems. The wealth of trade made even the most fervent of the Danduer Clans reconsider their raids. More accepting in their subservient role underneath noble humanity.
The Lower De'amonic sub-races were quelled in their bloodthirst and confined to the darkest crevices of the mountains. What folly back then to some, to consider these beasts tales of mythos. Back then there was no talk of the skeeving Vra’traell, The brutish Ur’trael and the fierce Ghorak. Stuff of legends only found in the Bestiaries written by longer ago departed Brothers.
The subdued Vara Nalwa, sparse leeway was given to select few of this accursed sub-race to serve as mercenaries in the Great Eastern Legions. A most gracious feat remembering the betrayal of Baradagan. In those days none of the Whitehairs were allowed near the heart provinces, none were trusted with more than mundane tasks. Only the pure bred sons of the empire held office.
Out to the desert lands and the lone fire mountain in the west, caravans traveled from beyond the Telemar Mountains, from Darvazeh they brought fine glass, obsidian, inks and dyes of unrivaled hue. Priced in the monastery for their illumination properties.
Unbothered our caravans then by the vile upstarts of the desert. No genuine creed was given to these Dragon-lords, fanciful talk of decadent southern races. Closed was their realm and none seeked entry for Slavery was the creed of these barbarians.
Oh, what one would wish to be so sure of these realms, for they came with great fury and vengeance. Brought no finery but fire and ash.
Putrid the lands to the north of Conorum have been for recorded memory, wherein a slow river turned the land swampy and full of vile miasma. Save for fishing and the gathering of peat, to be burned by the lower classes, the province held little value. Yet in those days bespoke by my eldest brothers even here the Empire held sway. Rumors had always swirled in that desolate place. Propagated by superstitious backward swamp folk. Of bodies untethered from life refusing to lay low. Humongous shapes stirring in bubbling bogs. Distant cold green fires, unseen screeching.
Were it but written in the stars, when the time of decline came, we could not see the signs even though they were numerous. The Line of Helekan subdued before my birth, the struggles for power which rocked the empire. The decadence took hold of our realm. Civil honor replaced by greed and self aggrandising. The most nobel throne of man, up for grabs twice in my lifetime: with every second cousin from every backwater pisspot grasping for control. The riots of the undeserving mob, clambering for bread and safety. Oh, remain in the grave my Brothers, for to see our mighty realm succumbed to its baser instincts. Good for you, fathers of my father, for your bones to be dust than to witness the rise of these end times.
Out of our sin. Out of our folly they were born. A fourfold curse blighted the lands when I, Runfeld, came of age among my peers. No longer confined to the bestiaries or the talk of swamp hags. Made flesh, horrid rippling flesh came monsters.
Ordained only by the gods could this fell plague be explained, the 4 headed hydra enveloping our broken realm.
At first the rot set in slowly.
Heledon the fourth, the unworthy. In name emperor, all knew then him to be the offspring of a twice removed bastard. Lacking the noble blood to rule his stewardship was ineffective and easily swayed by a corrupt court of sycophants.
This I witnessed first hand being assigned by my order to be scribe of the court, where I was the only pure brother to remain amongst the decadent fallen. Thus it fell to me to give sage and learned counsel to deaf ears.
News came then of the death of the Danduer king and of his people forsaking trade. Instead they gathered amongst weak willed cultists worshiping a being that they described as the last true De'amon. Weekly we heard of travelers missing in the mountains till the messengers from beyond Dondur simply stopped. In their place came rumours and refugees. Whispers of vile desecration, blood rituals and man being consumed like cattle.
Beyond a grumble among the court that the price of furs sharply rose and the Danduer ale had disappeared from the lavish balls not much credence was given to the Raids. Blind fools that they were. I, Runfelt, was one of the few who saw this for what it was, the beginning of the dreaded end times. I may not have been aware of it at the time but a part of me knew....."
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"...The Vara Nawlar, filthy dead eyes, gathered under a rebellious flag and declared independence. Pledging their allegiance to a vile sorcerer. A self-styled pretender to the throne of Man. Grandmaster Ebuin he dared address himself, though his passed murky as the lands under his sway..."
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