The Great Forgotten War
By Douglas Montgomery, Royal Historian of Brugrove. Written in the year 168 AR (After The Reckoning)
Part I: Foreword – The Fog of Memory:
“It is not the absence of truth that frightens us—but the possibility that we once knew it.” – Douglas Montgomery, Royal Historian of Brugrove
In this work, I have attempted to gather and preserve the fragments we possess from what scholars now call The Great Forgotten War, a conflict that reshaped the world almost two centuries past. What occurred in the skies above Brugrove, and across the veins of Nyropa from Porthca to the Ruins of Aenbeor Keep, have left scars that time refuses to heal.
But reader, let me be honest: this tome is not a history—it is a confession. It is a gathering of loose threads, some rotten, others golden, none of them complete. Those of us born before The Reckoning remember only but glimpses. Dreams. Feelings. But not facts. We remember the burn of magic on the skin and the way the sun paused above the Isle of Black—but not the why. We remember falling to our knees—but not what name we cried out. This is the frailty of memory.
There are still some who claim to know the truth. Some speak of a great betrayal among gods. Others of the people’s loss of faith, starving divinity of power. And some scream incoherent babbles of pain and ruin.
This book includes accounts from across Nyropa: the devout and the godless, soldiers and sailors, poets and pragmatists. Their stories contradict. They argue. Some lie. But perhaps, between the lines, you may glimpse something real.
To preserve the dignity of memory, I have not corrected these accounts. I have only bound them together.
May the truth one day forgive us.
Part II: Accounts from Across Nyropa:
📍 Brugrove
“I saw the sky shatter. Not in metaphor, nor madness—but in glass. The heavens were a bowl and it cracked like porcelain, and through the breach I saw light too bright for thought. I heard names that scratched at my bones, and I remember… I remember weeping. Not for what I saw, but for what I had already forgotten.” – Lady Cressidia Vell, Brugrove Noble, Age 87
📍 Valonde
“The Iron Guard arrived one dawn and said nothing. They appeared across different cities, looking for something. I know not where they came from, only that they made home in Brugrove protecting the monarchs past. We welcomed them, for the gods had left us. – Excerpt from The Valonde Archives, Section 3.1.2
📍 The Lost City
“We were trading spice and jewellery when the sky opened. The mirrors cracked across the walls and none of us could remember the rates we’d just agreed upon. It seemed trivial. I asked my brother if the city always had thirteen bars—he said we’ve always had twelve. That’s when I knew.” – Joran the Forgetful, Smuggler
📍 Porthca
“We signed a pact of trade and magic with Brugrove the day the moon broke into crescents. They gave us artefacts that sang, and told us not to touch them bare. But our ship never made it to port. The sea rebelled. Something in it… rebelled.” – Salvaged journal, last entry, Author Unknown
📍 Shazahath Mountains
“We heard them screaming from the peaks. The priests said not to look. Yet I felt the urge to. The mountains were burning inwards. That’s the best way I can describe it. Something inside was trying to crawl out.” – Notes from a mountain scout, now blind
Part III: On The Isle of Black
“I do not recall it being an island.” – Most common quote from elderly citizens across Nyropa
There is no consensus on when the Isle of Black separated from Brugrove. Some maps show it always was. Others do not. Some scholars believe it was once a temple. Others say it is a wound. Several independent writers, prior to the publication of this volume, attempted to describe what lies there—each manuscript has since been lost, burned, or never existed, depending on whom you ask. Others think it a ploy to encourage trade and tourism.
Part IV: On Faith and the Fracture
“The gods did not die—they were forgotten.” – Priest of the Silent Chapel, whose name was never recorded
“There are names I should not write. But if I do not, Silence will devour them faster.” — Douglas Montgomery, Royal Historian of Brugrove
Some religious orders claim that divine power faded because mortal belief waned. That in our greed and faithlessness, we starved our gods. Others claim the gods betrayed each other—that the world was collateral.
Among the scattered accounts of the Great Forgotten War, five names recur like bloodstains that will not wash out: Thrym, Bane, Bhaal, Maglubiyet, Atropal, and___.
The aftermath of their deaths was not limited to the divine. Records tell of priests who clawed their own eyes out, paladins who murdered their families, and temples where every acolyte drowned themselves on the same night. Not faith fading, but faith fraying—a madness born out of the tether being cut too suddenly.
A merchant’s journal recovered from Valonde puts it plainly:
“It was as if the gods themselves had been guillotined, and their worshippers felt the blade as keenly as the neck.”
Whether they can return is a question no one dares answer aloud. Some reference an old religious law, Oblivati Mori, insisting that as long as their names remain, so too does the chance of resurrection. Others argue that their corpses now rot in the plane between all, feeding something darker.
A secretive sect of monks left rare carvings referencing a “Silver Veil,” behind which all true names are hidden. Their writings are fragmentary and mostly symbolic. Attempts to study them result in headaches, and forgetfulness, or in one case, madness. Most result in the scholar becoming bored, and turning to more modern puzzles.
One poem recovered from a ruined monastery reads:
“Before the first clock struck / the tongue was whole / the name was known / the magic spoke itself.” (Most of the stanzas are unreadable.)
Part V: On Magic and Time
Magic is not what it was. That much is certain. Even those who claim arcane mastery admit that the flow has changed. There are spells described in pre-Reckoning scrolls that no longer function. Entire schools of magic seem altered.
Several mages describe the sensation as if someone were “turning down the volume” on the Weave. The official stance of the College of Porthca is that “The Weave has corrected itself.” Others aren’t so sure.
“I cast a spell once—a simple one—to remember a name. The spell shattered. My eyes bled. And all I remembered was that the name was never mine to hold.” – Testimony of Archmage Serla Narren