stories are told of a time when the skies were blue and bird songs filled the air, when the rivers were clear and teeming with fish, when the oceans were blue and full of life. at times it feels like the imaginations of children and the daydreams of old men. for it makes no sense if you look at the world today, the skies a dark, gloomy grey that suffocates all hope, the rivers and seas a putrid dark green that harbours death.
for the past 245 years, the world has been at war. nobody remembers why it started, few know why they fight still, and fewer see any hope for its end. yet, even in this darkest of times after all professions are now geared towards combat; the bards still roam the land, telling stories of the world that was and recording the world that is, for those to come after us.
while my writings may not be much in that great cause, i chose to write in order to tell those who come later that even now, in what is certainly the darkest period of all existence, hope lives in the stories we hear and if those are lost too then there is little left.
- letter of Grahm, the Bard of the End-