Long ago, in an age when Tiagion was recovering from the Battle of Sundering between the Divine Champion Lusanfîr and Abhorred Brother Sathanîr, there was a magnificent city in the far north. Untouched by the troubles and marring of the World and its splendour was never again seen or heard of. Silver walls and towers that dared touch the heart of the heavens above, great fountains that sprang rivers outside from their canals sitting in a verdant valley of peace and plenty. A vast city of light that bloomed like a crystal flower of winter.
Called Sarand'halon (Heavenly Place) the Magnificent, the city was home to a collection of known and lost people, all gathered and remaining where they awoke since the Days of Birth, except for Man, who still dwelled in the Far West before their exodus. Life here was one of happiness and no care, their rulers chose not by competition but through elections to who was adored and wisest amongst them for years until the seat was granted to another, often still advised by a Ring of Elders; those elected before. They had once set up an outpost or fortress of some kind in the west, as seen by the unknown ruins standing upon the Crooked Hook.
Roofs of gardens and plaza's of arches and pillars, wealth rose like grass in spring and none lived poorly within Sarand'halon. What few weapons and armour they crafted as badges of office to their most esteemed, were highly sought after well within the Ages to come, such was their craft to be untouched by time and just as deadly when used. Their realm was all that lay in the north and cold did not touch the land here. With such great and undisputed territory, the northern cultures then were known to be warm and caring in these older days as war and conflict had not yet been set upon their minds and they were content with what they had. As for the people living here, the Old Ones, they mirrored animals of the wilds that learned to walk on their hindlegs and formed their own language, which they shared with the first elves. Blessed with endless life and spared from diseases, they devoted themselves to wisdom and learning; a child of theirs could easily match an old scholar from the lesser peoples.
At the height of Sarand'halon's splendour, the people decided to erect a great tower to tribute the powers that gifted them this wondrous life and so construction of the Citadel began. So massive was this undertaking, folk turned grey and old, as did their children and their children after. For many years, while the looming construction pierced the clouds and rivalled the mountains, the people abandoned it as they thought no such worldly structure is enough to please the powers beyond. There it stood like a headless and crownless colossus over people less than ants in its grandstanding.
One day, a queer-eyed individual, and his companions, one that had burgundy flashings in his own and one tall and cloaked from the light of the sun, entered the city. The queer-eyed one introduced himself as a humble merchant, drawn by the tales of splendour and wonder. Not like his bitter-cold companions, whose lingering starvation lightened their daunting eyes as unnerving to most. Claiming to be of a race not yet landed in these parts of the world, they promised the people to finish their wondrous monument in a single night. Mocking the merchant in particular, the Old Ones scolded them until one Elder heard them out on the promise.
They would finish the work of Sarand'alon's passed generations so long as the burgundy-eyed man could choose his own home within the walls. The salesman however simply desired the Elder's ring as insurance that the agreement would be met. Such jewellery carried a heavier weight than all the wealth and influence of the Elder and his people, to possess it is to possess the city. At first, there was a heavy doubt yet the desires of the crowd pushed that away and the Elder surrendered his ring.
An agreement had been struck. Asking why the salesman would not want a home himself, the man simply said he was, "more at home on the road than kept between walls".
Night fell sooner that day and crept like a dark poison in the air. Chill winds howled as if sung by the damned, the Sun never shone upon these lands again.
The very stones of the unbuilt Citadel glittered a pale ghostly blueish light and an unseen bell tolled for the labour of the Salesman. Stone upon stone, wall upon wall, the Citadel rose as the bell tolled. It kept growing until its splendid, crowned top grazed the night’s dark clouds and it commanded them to swirl around the structure like a mantle of coldness.
For the Beast-Folk, it was the greatest miracle to ever behold. But for the tall companion that the Salesman left there, it meant doom for those who dwelt in Saran'dhalon. For the other red-eyed one, it spelt opportunity unexplored.
Their morning was greeted by a dense fog creeping like tendrils in every path and home and it brought Winter’s cold embrace in Summer. Never did the Sun break through the stormy clouds above, all of which whirling around their beloved Citadel. It was then that the Salesman was spotted sitting on the rooftop of the Elder he struck the bargain with. He jumped off effortlessly like a child would hop off a fence and demanded just payment for his services but was scolded by the Elder for what befell their city.
Assuring it was nothing more but a parlour trick that would be removed when he had what he wanted, the Salesman demanded nothing more than the time of all the good folk in Saran'dhalon. Confused about the payment, the Elder refused and banished the Salesman for his strange trickery. Smiling and sighing with a feigned disappointment, the Salesman whistled an odd but particular tune as he walked out the city gates. This tune was carried in the air and accompanied any desperate enough for his services or when he was near ever since.
His two associates that remained in the City explained they were but mere travelling companions from the western shores, but the Elder said they were allowed one night of sanctuary and then must leave as well, for they would be a reminder of the day he struck his deal with this odd merchant.
The young hours of the night had barely begun before murmuring whispers turned to horrified screams as a mass of Beast-Folk marched solemnly towards the Citadel as if beckoned by its strange bells. They all had the same rosy colour in their eyes, the same that the Salesman flashed as he shook hands with the Elder. None made it to the gates to flee the influence of the bells, all tolling the same tune as the Salesman’s whistling.
This fair folk, who once taught the first elves language and culture, would be nothing but a shapeless memory to all but the oldest beings in the World. Even then, a fruitless effort.
There was one who was not enthralled by the bells, however. Only by the will of another was he left alone, to witness the downfall of his people. Barricading his home, the Elder chanted forgotten spells to ward himself though he knew it had no purpose. He heard the crunch of bitten fruit nearby and found the Salesman eating a pear while tossing the Elder's ring playfully like a coin.
"Remember this day, my friend. Remember this day, when you wronged me. All I wished was for a slice of time, now I take it all. You will remain, with my gift of a deathless existence, bound to a hole below. Severe, agreed. But so was insulting me after my labour was complete!"
With a sense of ceremony, the Salesman then drank a bottle of wine in one gulp and smashed it to the ground; a custom he would enforce since that day.
Darkness surrounded the Elder and then found himself in a dimly lit library with books set in shelves carved into rocky walls. Deep below the ground, in the Salesman's first lair, where books would appear describing every year, he had all the ancient knowledge he could never depart unto another.
We know nothing of the fate of the Old Ones. Few ever returned from the Black Vale beyond the Mountains of Helloth, their minds rend from reason and sanity. Talking of husks of faded greatness, hollow slaves to a rising power in the shadows is all that is known. The North became a land of ever-winter. Now Sarandh'alon the Magnificent was no more.
What stands in its place is only known by the drawings of the surviving madmen.
A broken Citadel whose top defies any natural law of the World, towers and roofs bent towards it like black spires bowing. Mists of dread rolling over a dead stream of ghostly waters. Serpentine eyes of blood looming over all beneath. Sarandh'alon was dead. There now stood something wicked beyond all measure, a ghastly rotten and insidious maw darker than the heart of the Rotten Lord himself.
There stood Nûrdûndh’alon, the Eldritch City; Anchor of the Void.
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