"So it is old," I said.
"Older than you know," The White Beard murmered.
"I have never seen a blade of this type," I said swinging it experimentally.
"It is a Middle Blade. They are made not in these times, but in Albinion Era after the fall of the Empire, made, they were," The Wise One said.
"It is truly old then, almost as old as you…"
The White Beard just sighed.
Malarith is one of the Wonders of the Manmade world, for its made by Human Hands a long time ago.
The Twilight Tunnels, the Imperial Gate system, was the backbones of the Imperium. The ability to travel almost anywhere via the Twilight Tunnels, allowing for near unlimited trade for little money, quick communication (any message anywhere nearly instantly (or within 3 days for the hinterlands), and easy personal travel. The Order was charged with the creation, maintance, and defense of The Gate System.
The Twilight Tunnels, the Imperial Gate system, were the backbones of the Imperium. The ability to travel almost anywhere via the Twilight Tunnels, allowing for near unlimited trade for little money, quick communication (any message anywhere nearly instantly (or within 3 days for the hinterlands), and easy personal travel. This system can be adapted to any gate system.
Wytchwolde-Under-Ash, once a great Thorpe, was razed to the ground by the ruthless, and truth told more than slightly deranged, Porcelain Princess and her henchmen, the Purifiers. When the flames had at last subsided, and a kaleidoscope of swirling, dull-gray ash choked the sky, nine hundred acres of old growth iron spruce, black larch and weeping birch, was burned to utter cinders, along with the entire coven of witches comprising the Sisterhood of the Silver Teat.
Now, centuries later, the forests are somewhat re-grown, and the town of Foolswater stands where Wytchwolde-Under-Ash once did. It is said that even to this day, one can still find ashes in the otherwise potable well-water of this village. Once a year during the Winter Solstice, the “Ash-Wind” comes to Foolswater, a suffocating black cloud that passes quickly but leaves dead birds and animals in its wake, darkening the trees, and staining the sky with black snow. The inhabitants of the village know better than to be caught outside during the day-long Ash-Wind. Everyone is locked snugly inside, singing old hymns that curse and re-curse the burned witches who once called this place home.