By Ann Cotour
The lucky went mad at the start of the darkening, when the light shining down from stars in the East ceased to fall upon the earth. It was this path of darkness and insanity that drew forth the the three wizened philosopher kings on their journey to the cursed lands of Vala.
Though long in journey they did not starve, so plentiful was the flesh of the malformed beasts of the land, set to burn by the tormented farmers and shepherds along the way. Of the few accounts that remain of that time, it is said that nary a sheep was born that did not have two heads or other hideous mind bending deformity challenging to the comprehension of most mortal beings.
After months or a day (many claim time itself had become unstuck) they arrived at the blood stained gates of the city, the unholy city of madness. Upon entering, not a living soul was to be found among the population: those that remained, that still drew breath, had no soul; their eyes had gone dark and vacant as they stood in their own filth, speaking gibberish and pointing to a manger in the distance.
The philosopher kings drew near. Their hands trembled under the extended weight of the gifts offered unto their new Vaconic God. Looking up from it's feast of birth-mother entrails, the entity took their minds, sending the unwanted gifts tumbling to the ground to be forgotten by history and the waves of misfortune that would encompass all who remained.