Once there were three guardians of the world as old as the land itself, or so legend has it. Unable to prevent the breaking of the world during the conjurer’s war more than a thousand years ago, these sages disappeared and no one has seen them since. Their existence now dismissed by most as mere fairy tales.
Yet there are those who believe they got separated when the Shaded Vale flooded the valleys of the land, and only the mountains remained as a safe refuge. Till this day Drachar Ris'sul Vohlor roughly translated as the shadow valley blankets the once inhabited fertile lowlands. The residual magic waste corrupting the world, seeping into its crevices, deforming every living thing. Only ruins remain there now and much worse things linger in the darkness.
One of the sages escaped, living on a desolated mountain, waiting for the day the world can be restored. The sphere of pure life-force sustaining him during the millennia, his clothes endlessly mended. As the ages passed his eyes turned white with sorrow as he could not bear to see his world destroyed. Living his days disconnected from his brethren, severed from one more than a thousand years ago as he was cast outside of the time stream in a perpetual state of meditation. The other a constant agony in the back of his mind, the aching feeling of his tormented shape and his corrupted being lost deep somewhere in the Shaded Vale.