To Those Who May Come After:
I say to you, of all shadows that might befall a people, a mad ruler is the worst.
The Charcoal Ceilings has always been hated of the gods; we do not know why, we do not know what caused this, but it is plain and apparent that since the dawn of the Age, our people have been afflicted with troubles that others of our race have not. The Post of Markets, slothful, fat and vain… 56 cities, homes and hillocks… thousands call those places home. The Gravel of Wasps, even more. But we, the accursed, the few… we have only 2 feeble hovels. Our first king, Dakost Shockedkey… slain, by a giant in our capital the year it was founded. Four years later, Queen Urist Bannerspeech… slain in almost the same spot by a many-headed serpent. King Zasit, King Catten… all slain. It was during the reign of Queen Urist II Toolstrike when the worst foe appeared… the elves of the Vermilion Hoof. Since her time, some 90 years past, it has been one desperate rearguard action after another. The knife-ears have given us no peace, no explanation, they just appear, and kill, and vanish again into the forests. Each of our monarchs has fallen to them. When King Nomal, called Sabretorch, fell in the Routed War, we thought our luck had turned. He was a good poet, but a wretched warrior, and we need axes, not poems. He was the wrong king for the time. When Iteb Hammertalks was made queen, we thought she would finally begin proper planning for the war we cannot seem to escape. We were mistaken, and it may indeed be our final mistake.
We have been forced to realize that the queen, far from the warrior she used to be, is quite mad. She is obsessed with death and dying. She raves through the palace, demanding artifacts and books we have never heard of; she sneaks out to other cities, claiming false names, like a thief in the night. When she announced that a new fortress would be founded, we all rejoiced at the idea of finally living somewhere defensible… but then she announced that Jewelcharmed will only create jewelry and gems as an offering to Kadol the Ivory Fortune, god of wealth. Instead of our generals, the leader of the expedition was a gemcutter. There is no iron in this place. The sour taste of despair fills our mouths.
This is the chronicle of what is likely our last feeble effort. May the gods have mercy on all of us.
I, Catten Swordfeet, leave this chronicle of our fortress to whomever may come. Please, stranger, spare a moment to think well of us, sent here to die on the whims of a mad queen during the end of our days, the last gasp of the Charcoal Ceiling. May we meet again in a better place.