A Journey That Changed The World.

A century before Archer's birth, Draven Drakebane, one of the few survivors who witnessed the horrifying events that unfolded, penned the haunting tale of the Doom of Frostholm. A long time ago, a city nestled within a large valley in the northern part of the Avalon Empire.

This extraordinary city existed above and below the earth's surface, a testament to its inhabitants' coexistence. Frostholm was a beacon of trade and fortitude in the north. It was fortified by giant walls and guarded by the icy currents of the Shadowflow River.

For ages, it had stood as the mighty bulwark of the Duchy of Frostwyn, staunchly defending the empire against relentless threats. Its splendor resounded far and wide, drawing millions of visitors each year.

The sails of Dwarven, Elven, and various other races' trading vessels are unfurled within its bustling harbor, bearing exotic goods to be sold and traded. The city had always been there; no one knew who built it, but the Avalonians settled it.

The nobles were wealthy, and the citizens were happy. Men above worked hard in the fields surrounding the city, growing plenty of food for the population. Dwarves lived below, mining ore and gems, crafting great works of art and weapons of war, which they sold in the city above.

But one day, the various races wanted to praise the gods who blessed their city. One of the city's nobles suggested they build a temple in its center. Everyone agreed, and they started gathering stone smiths, masons, and workers to create the grand project, which took sixty years to complete.

Nestled in the city's center, a magnificent temple rose, a testament to timeless beauty and grandeur. Built entirely from gleaming marble, its pristine white facade glistened in the sunlight.

Towering pillars stood sturdy and regal, like sentinels, reaching skyward with intricate carvings and delicate reliefs. Once they finished the building, a mysterious man stepped forward, proposing that they build a grand tower dedicated to the Goddess Valeria that would pierce the heavens.

It would Symbolize Frostholm as a radiant beacon of hope in the unforgiving northern realm. Over the passing years, generations of citizens worked tirelessly on the magnificent tower, meticulously crafting it with rare Prismarble stone.

Children marveled as they watched their fathers and grandfathers dedicate their lives to the tower as it soared ever higher into the clouds. As those children matured and assumed their father's roles, the tower became a testament to their skill and tireless efforts.

However, as construction progressed, it became increasingly challenging to build higher. The men wrestled with this predicament for years. Desperately seeking a solution, they turned to the skilled Dwarven builders, appealing for their help.

However, despite their impassioned pleas and promises of generous rewards, their requests were met with staunch refusal.

The Dwarves remained resolute, skeptical towards the mysterious figure who proposed the tower's construction.

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[Twenty years before Archer was born]

Twenty long years passed as their wits were on the verge of breaking, and that's when the same mysterious stranger emerged from the shadows, extending a helping hand.

His presence bore a mysterious aura; he offered assistance for a single request to let him do his own thing. The people, brimming with hope, eagerly agreed to the agreement. Guiding him to the temple entrance, they watched as he walked through the gate.

He turned around and warned them against entering until midnight. Time passed slowly, leaving the city shrouded in anxious anticipation. People gathered in small clusters outside the temple entrance, their gazes fixed upon the awe-inspiring white tower piercing the heavens.

Amidst the gathering, the leaders searched for the mysterious man, who had vanished without a trace. Only his contribution stood proud atop the towering structure, an ominous bell.

Yet, undeterred by the man's disappearance, the leaders joined the party, reveling in the joyous occasion. As the jubilant celebration of their father's completed work continued, the approach of midnight cast a foreboding shadow over the party.

However, atop the towering structure, the great bell stirred with an eerie resonance, its chime reverberating ominously through the night. It rang once, then again, and finally a third time.

Each stroke of the bell sent shockwaves through the souls of the people below, causing them to stagger and clutch their ears in agony. A foreboding sense of dread took hold as the bell tolled thirteen times, its haunting toll echoing through the depths of their being.

The final chime dissipated, and an immense storm cloud formed above the city, casting its ominous shadow over Frostholm.

The heavens unleashed a deluge of obsidian rain, which rained relentlessly upon the people, swelling the river and flooding parts of Frostholm. The city was struck by thunder and lightning, igniting fires and intensifying the citizens' panic.

Days turned to weeks as people endured the relentless downpour. Night after night, the bell rang thirteen times, worsening the weather. The torrential rain showed no respite, only intensifying daily, wreaking havoc and plunging the city into chaos.

Starving and in dire need of assistance, the citizens fervently prayed to the gods, hoping for deliverance. However, their pleas went unanswered, leaving them in profound disappointment.

The Leaders dispatched riders to other cities, but they vanished, never to be seen again. Fear swept through the streets, propelling the panicked masses towards the temple's sanctuary, their last hope.

However, to their horror, the doors were shut, denying them safety from the darkness that had invaded the city. The weeks stretched into agonizing months, further worsening their fear and despair.

With each passing day, the terror thickened as citizens vanished without a trace, their lifeless forms later discovered half-eaten.

Whispers spread like poison, tales of men-sized rat creatures prowling the alleyways, their presence invoking terror. Despite the rumors circulating, some people disregarded them and continued their tasks.

However, the weather intensified further, with lightning and thunder converging above the city. The blackened clouds loomed ominously overhead, their darkness intensifying with each passing moment.

Driven by hunger and nerves, the citizens pleaded for aid, seeking refuge within the walls of the forts, pleading to them to open the gates and grant entry to the people. However, their pleas fell upon deaf ears as the people retreated behind the impenetrable gates of the city forts, leaving the citizens to confront their doom alone.

Night after night, the tolling of the great bell pierced the darkness, its chilling resonance striking fear into the hearts of those who dared to listen. But on a fateful night, the six tolls of the bell brought a shower of meteors that descended from the heavens.

Hurtling toward the homes and stores of the city, obliterating all in their path. Devastation reigned as the river water surged, swallowing the once-thriving fields. In the wake of the deluge, the remaining food stores became a banquet for ravenous rats and other vermin, leaving the citizens starving and terrified.

With each passing moment, even more, comets rained down from the heavens, destroying many buildings and leaving a trail of blood in their wake. Consumed by heightened fear, the citizens of Frostholm once again sought sanctuary at the city forts, fervently requesting shelter and aid.

But they got angry, claiming that their resources were stretched thin, leaving them unable to offer help. They cast the pleading citizens out of their halls, telling them never to come back. Months went by, and a grim specter of death was hanging over every street.

Abandoned bodies lay strewn along the roads, left to decay, as the lives of the citizens succumbed to the relentless onslaught of the ongoing chaos and the invasion of creatures that roamed the city.

The guards, tasked with safeguarding the people, found their efforts were worthless. They couldn't keep up with the reports or patrolling every street. Consumed by fear and hunger, a group of Frostholm nobles, accompanied by their loyal guards, launched an assault on the gates of the underground sanctuary.

Stepping into the depths, they were met with an oppressive darkness that engulfed them, forcing them to draw close and ignite their torches. Within the flickering light, a gruesome scene revealed itself—tattered remnants of fabric cloaked gnawed bones strewn across the scene.

With caution, they combed through the chamber, yet they didn't find anything. As the men ventured towards the grand hall, their footsteps faltered abruptly, and were frozen in terror by an unsettling sight.

Dozens of radiant crimson eyes were fixated upon them, their piercing gaze cutting through the abyss. Of the thirty courageous souls who descended underground, only three emerged from the entrance, their bodies battered and souls broken.

They recounted tales of towering abominations and rat-like creatures that plagued their every step, weaving a story of pure horror in the depths below.

The city guards hurriedly attempted to reinforce the entrance to the underground domain, frantically erecting barricades. However, their endeavors proved futile as it was already too late.

The attacks increased throughout the city, and the ominous black rain intensified by causing floods on most streets, casting an eerie atmosphere over the city whether it entailed abducting helpless guards, whose horrifying cries echoed through the city, or ruthlessly butchering a shopkeeper on his way home.

[If there are any mistakes, point them out, and I'll edit it. Thanks]