...rests on a small island in the center of Pelmar's Lake. The island is barren and rocky, except for a copse of conifer trees obscuring the entrance to the tower. Dark waves lap idly at the stony shore and you can see little ripples of Anomic Light far below the surface, the currents of arcane energy illuminating the depths. A few small sailboats are tied up at the dock. The lake is calm, reflecting the dark clouds overhead. The tower itself is of simple construction, with smooth lines and few adornments. It eclipses even King Alem's castle in height, making for an imposing structure. The architecture seems out of place compared to the other fortifications in the city and you get a sense that it is very old, ancient even.

The chambers within are well stocked, and well lit. Ample workspace has been supplied. There are entire rooms devoted to storing empty scrolls, quills. Ink. Oh the endless ink. Wells of it. Literal wells of thick black ink pulled up with buckets. A vast library of empty tomes waiting to be filled can be found in the basement. Many branching stairways leading to the various chambers and floors can be found in the main hall. Atop one of these are the dormitories with a dozen small rooms, dimly lit with torches or candles...

---

There was a rumbling in the halls of the Relnish Keep. King Alem I was dozing quietly on his throne. His snoring was amplified by the vaulted ceilings and empty halls of the once-great throne room of his ancestors. Outside, a warm mist of rain had begun to fall and lightning could be seen streaking across the blackened sky to the north. It was spring, and the rainy season was ending and yet crops were not growing in the Relnish Heartland. Farmers sat idly waiting for something, anything to pop up out of their fields. Many of the farmers had simply gathered their families, packed what few goods they possessed and left for greener pastures. Curled up in his mighty throne, a king slept.

"My Lord! Another one has arrived!" came a shrill voice from the darkness.

King Alem awoke with a start. "What? Who? Bremen?" croaked the King, still groggy from his afternoon nap. Bremen approached the stone dais, and his aging king.

"Yes my Lord! Bremen, your steward. Another scholar has arrived, this one from..." Sitting up suddenly, the king waved his arm in dismissal.

"It doesn't matter where they are from Bremen! Get him to the Tower of Truths now! The work must be completed before....the....end...end comes..."

Bremen sighed in boredom. "I would my lord, but they won't cross the lake to the tower. They have a fear of water I'm afraid. He is just sitting there on the dock. I'm not sure how long the ferryman will wait I'm..."

The king roared, " Water be damned Bremen! Get him to the tower! TIE HIM IN A SACK if you need to!" The king slumped back in his throne after this outburst, deflated.

Bremen coughed into his small pale hand nervously. "Yes, of course my lord."

The king began rubbing his eyes again. "Stop..interrupting my nap Bremen...or...I'll....have you....I'll have...you" The King drifted off into sleep once more. His crown hung crookedly on his head. Tufts of thin grey hair poked out from all direction. Bremen turned and walked out of the throne room without so much as a bow.

"Hey, now. Quit your pushing!" yelled the the chained Deles to his guard. He, like a few of the scholars gathered at the docks, were not here of their own volition. His gaze had settled on a poor man who was shaking and muttering something about water. Poor sod, the Traveler thought to himself.

Deles had heard of the Mad King's rounding of great minds some time ago; while flattered that he was one among many to be considered, he wasn't so pleased to be cattled about as he was. Had he wished to stay trapped in a single place, he would have spent the rest of his days with the Ulloy monks, not wandering about as joyously as he had been.

Still, there was one thing that had been ascertained in his travels; the world was dying, so much was obvious even to the most uneducated of peasants. Yet their king was busy collecting great minds like they were pieces of art; not much of worth except to tell their myriad tales. Great leaders should be quelling their peoples' fears, not callously hoarding the current world's information. Or so the man believed.

Deles knew he should have avoided this country; his last visit had played out just as terribly, yet was probably the exact reason as to why he was known. However, this was an unprecedented chance to gather vast swaths of knowledge in a microscopical amount of time, as well as to share what he knew with fellow scholars; even if they weren't his preferred audience.

The Traveler sighed in resignation as he was pushed forward once more. It seemed fate had a cruel sense of humor to the man.

Lupus looked around in wonder at what he was seeing. So many people were all gathered together by the King, for what, by many seemed to know, or at least wanted to share. Why he was here, he could only guess at. He was a nobody, just a traveling actor and storyteller. Maybe that's why the King wanted them all. To entertain him with stories and legends.

"Or to kill us all so that only his words would be known." Lupus thought grimly to himself. He wouldn't be the first King to have done such a thing, but Lupus wasn't going to go down without so much as begging for mercy. That's right, he was a coward, but he was also a survivor.

He saw a man talking to himself about water, and shook his head. Madmen were often killed by the ruling class, nobody likes a naysayer. But, there wasn't much to be done. Just wait and hope for the best.

If worse came to worse, well, Lupus had talked his way out of worse spots. He had even convinced an angry husband to pay him for the service of having sex for his wife. How Lupus did that, he still didn't know, but he was convinced that a King would be easy compared to that pissed off husband.

Charles groaned and panted as he climbed the stairs of the huge tower, his knees felt like they were soon to buckle beneath him, and his bad one burned like hell. He missed his manor, but he knew that he'd dare not return there, he'd already started to see the effects of the cataclysm reaching it, dying men, beings of a madman's darkest nightmares. He had patrons in the royal family who payed for his journey to the king's court with all his books and writings, and he's quickly made his new room in the Tower like home, and grown acquainted with the king and his servant.

But hell if these stairs wouldn't be the death of him.

He sighed in relief as he saw the door to his chambers in the hallway, pulling himself up the last two stairs with the handrail before falling onto his hands and knees hard. He grimaced audibly, before lifting himself up with a popping noise from his knees. Rotating his shoulders, Charles walked into his study, gripping one of the few volumes he could manage to bring from his shelves, and sitting at his oak table, a light beige thing, a few dark knots upon it. He nabbed a sheet of paper from a nearby pile and a quill, holding open the book with his left, and the quill in his right, he began writing, some in the book, some on the paper, he began to compile what information he had saved, and what information he had gathered in his own mind, and he would stay there until he could not write any longer, and had to sleep, but he dreaded his sleep, as it would be filled of dreams of the future, dreams of death and disease, the earth shattering under his feet and nothing left to catch him. He dreaded that, but for now, he lost himself in his work, and maybe he would discover something he hadn't known before.

He doubted that.

Sister Cordelle of Exeter - The Rebellious Nun

Cordelle was displeased with the summons that had led to her removal from the Convent of the Seven Souls - a humble but cozy stone structure located in the Forest of Exeter in Northern Rein. Though the convent itself was ramshackle, containing nought but the barest necessities for life and quiet meditation, the convent owned much of the surrounding lands and its bounty, and Cordelle missed the fresh air of the forest and the freedom to roam about. The Tower, though much richer in furnishings than the convent, with many a room to wander, was already creating a sense of claustrophobia within Cordelle. The Tower had a pervasive chill, perhaps from being located on an island, and she could feel the cold achingly in her joints. She recalled speaking with a man called Bremen, a finicky fellow who had shown her to her quarters within the Tower. He seemed high-strung, though it was clear why. Though Cordelle hadn't met the Mad King, she had heard much of him at the Convent. The Convent had a tenuous relationship with the crown, and in summation, they tended to leave each other well enough alone to avoid conflict. Cordelle was surprised when the Mad King sent word to convent requesting her scholarly services. The Convent was busy caring for travelers and refugees who were evacuating Rein. The Convent was busiest in troubled times, and she was hesitant to leave it.

There were three others who Cordelle had met in passing - Deles, Lupus and Charles. Interesting fellows, but all consumed with their work and hadn't been much company. Being alone, Cordelle pondered the task before her as she paced throughout the tower. The piles of quills and parchment were intimidating and she wasn't ready to begin. She whistled as she wandered, until a muffled voice yelled at her to keep it down. Retreating into her study, she surveyed the books, manuals and journals she had brought with her to aid her in completing the task. Her eyes settled on a set of books with well worn leather covers, emblazoned with the Flame of Ignaes. It was then that she decided what she was going to record first. Shaking off her cramped feelings and general misgivings, Cordelle sat at her desk to write. She grumbled as she realized the chair she sat in didn't allow her feet to touch the ground. She grumbled loudly, wishing more than ever that she had ignored her summons. The Cataclysm was no fun if one had to spend it cooped up in a tower. Watching the sun reach its zenith, she resigned herself to writing until it sunk into the god-forsaken lake that surrounded the tower that, if she was being realistic, could easily be her tomb as the Cataclysm descended upon Rein.

"Ignaes ignites," she murmured to herself - a type of reassurance that was becoming hollower and hollower as the day passes, "More like Ignaes ignoramus." If there was any time for irreverence, now was certainly justifiable.

---

Moonlight falls upon Pelmar's Lake and the dimly lit Tower of Truths. The steady flow of prisoners guest scholars and great minds has halted for the evening, the boats and ferries secured safely on the shore. To the north, the crumbling ruins of ancient Elvish towers appeared like a broken back upon the Sleepers Spine Mountains. Shadows move in the forests and fields. A wary farmer and his family slip away in the night carrying all they possess. They are abandoning the fetid fields their ancestors have worked for generations, now grown desiccated, while the local shreeve dozes in some tavern, the product of a night's hard drinking. All seems quiet in the Kingdom of Reln.



"...mad. Madness. The King is Mad! The King is Mad! Ha! What fools! They think I'm mad! Haha!

"...oh? Your not m'lord? Are you sure about that?"

" Ahem. I assure you little ghost, or spirit or demon or devil or whatever you are! I am quite in control of my faculties. That is, until I start talking to you! Wretched little thing! Mogaes be damned!"

" Tsk. Tsk. Poor King. Poor Mad King Alem. That is how they will remember you, you know. Madder than Haldisfar. Collecting books and scrolls, scholars and bards like little play things. The King who let The Blight destroy Reln. The King who couldn't lift a finger to stop-

"ENOUGH!"

"Ha..."

"...leave me be...I'm so....tired...damn you...I...I.."

"...ahaha..yes, sleep now little King...sleep while I work...ahaha.."

Bremen took a step up the stairs. He started to shake with fear. He took a step back as a rush of wind suddenly swept down the stairs, snuffing out the candle he held. Bremen heard whispers from dark places, old words not heard for centuries. Bremen turned and fled the hall.