In the moonless city of snow, the outlander warrior mourned a realm shattered, never to return. There, amidst the frost, he lay to rest in the ground a hope that would no longer bear fruit.
Leaving his unspoken longings alongside that lonely final mural, he began to wander the frozen plains, solitary and unmoored.
He believed that by casting his old greatsword into the deathly frost, he would be able to forget the weakness of days gone by,
Throw himself into endless battle, and thus find solace and joy in the tang of iron and blood.
Yet, the warrior abandoned the hollow lie of his own despair at the very first moonfall after he left the great hall of that mountain country.

It was a fleeting moment of confusion and folly. All he wanted, by pure instinct, was to save the maiden under attack.
All he wanted was to never again see that face and head of silver hair, bright as the moon, buried under all that ice and snow.
This was a man who believed he had long broken the oath of a warrior, and who wished to spill his blood in conflict merely as a means of diversion.
He launched the astral silver lance, yet untainted by crimson, into the black tide of beasts with all his might,

In a strike that generations of scholars and bards would later memorialize as "The Ruin."
Ancient songs tell of an outlander who roamed the frozen plains and brought calamity to a land of peace.
They sing of the man who, for the sheer joy of conflict, drove a cold tip of astral silver through the wind and snow and shattered the snow-covered mountains,
And in so doing, leveled three thriving kingdoms and consigned vast lands to utter desolation, leaving multitudes to wander the wastes.
The cries of the innocent, mourning the calamity wrought by that single blow, could be heard everywhere.

But the song is but a song. Before the bloodbath around him could even become legend,
The outlander stood dazed amidst the ruins, seeing nothing but fragmented glimpses of wind and snow.
His wayward spear had pierced the stone that held up the earth,
And the maiden that he meant to protect, too, had perished in the billowing darkness.
The survivors of the ruined lands saw the man named Imunlaukr as the sworn enemy of their fallen peoples,
Hunting him without end.

For the warrior who claimed a craving to entertain the gods with strains of strife and blood,
The warrior who sank into despair but refused to accept his fate and sought redemption, yet ended up bringing on even more grief and sorrow...
This was the very moment he finally ceased longing for salvation and turned away from the life of a warrior forever.

Once upon a time, the mother of roses and lilies graced the girl's silken swaddling with a violet perfume, to ensure that an endless stream of joyous dreams might ward off death's bitter gloom.
The beautiful songstress, who once plucked elegant melodies, also bathed her wings in the warm, gentle waters of compassion, for the precious newborn was never meant to be touched by the music of the world's mundane strings.
This was a time when the chains of eternity had yet to be shattered, and when carefree refrains could still be heard before the throne of the heavens.
It was a time when the days beneath the silver-white tree were as sweet as honey, and glorious messengers thronged the primordial paradise.
In a rich, golden dream steeped in the warmth of the spring sun, the innocent child basked in the doting love of all her sisters.
In their cradle of tender blue, they shared laughter with the morning dew and new-blown buds;
And by the black stone that had yet to fall, they sang soft tunes to the fading sunset and quiet evening breeze.
Their bright eyes had never witnessed the spilled crimson in the world below, nor had their slender hands ever touched the sad pain of injustice.

Then, starlight from beyond put an end to that bucolic idyll, and the bonfire of disobedience was kindled by misguided desire.
The eldest daughter who dared overstep met her end, plummeting from the mountain peak, while the armored emissaries who swore to strike down the Lord of Hosts perished one after another.
All this time, the youngest child, the most beloved of them all, was hidden far away, in a palace deep within the wilds, sequestered from the storm of violence and the relentless rain of blood.

"I shall press on to the throne of the most high, vindicate the wronged, and set the oppressed free."
"But we must not harden our youthful sister's heart and send her off to war against the false lord."
"And no matter the outcome, we must never call upon her callow wings, nor should she ever be made to carry our burdens."

While no one knew the capricious ruler's desire, their righteous rule still afforded one the chance to choose one's path.
And choose the youngest did, to cast off the divinity and her former powers. Then, miraculously, this child was allowed to retain human form.
Thus did she step into the world of the mortals, with nothing more than her broken wings and a fragile body of flesh and bone.
In this utterly vulnerable form, she wandered alone through a land filled with sorrow and tears, tainting her once pristine feet with muck and mire.

This went on for thousands of years, in which countless towers turned to sand, and songs of lament dissipated into the night breeze.
The envoy who wandered, the envoy who met the witch, the envoy who at last was relieved of the past...
Through the journey and memories that belonged to her alone, she found her crown irreplaceable at last.
The world she had never once deigned to behold was now etched forever in her eyes, the eyes of one who can no longer sing,
And so the solitary guide now stands, her crown wrought from the countless joys and sorrows of men, and the grand adventures of mortal heroes.
"What a beautiful world this is!"