Through droughts, fires, floods and frost,
the ancient giants stand resolute,
while deep in the rich, dark earth,
their grasp stretches ever farther.

Legend tells of bows so powerful that only giants could draw them back.

Giant's blood you cannot tame,
as wild as an unwatched flame.

When the fires spilled out of the mountain, The First of the Night wove a net
and was carried into the night on its hot winds.
Though we cannot live without danger, we can learn to live with it.

From north to south the sea of fire swept,
Rolling waves of gorging flame,
Growing taller and hungrier,
With every land they consumed.

After the fires swept down from the sky and swallowed the city,
all that lingered, as if locked in time,
was a memory of that which was gone, a whisper of deeds undone.

After the Great Fire, the land lay barren
and our forefathers grew weak.
Mother Gull took pity on them
and gave them grain and water.

The sky, the land, the people burned.
What little still stood soon faced wild, battering storms.
Winter arrived suddenly and stayed for a generation.
Civilisation was not simply halted, but reversed, erased.

Basilisk Acid drips from the hearts of those venomous monsters, though I cannot blame them for their disposition.

They are tragic creatures. Theirs is a sorry tale more closely tied to my own than I care to dwell upon. Alas, the forging of my Dark Ember produced some rather unfortunate byproducts.

But we shall not see any success if I am to dwell on those past errors.

...the spirits of tormented criminals that yield their ill-gotten gains when slain. Eager to protect their trove, these spirits flee when encountered and imbue nearby monsters with dangerous powers... It's also possible for spirits to possess rare and unique enemies, greatly increasing their threat (and value!) to treasure- seeking exiles.

"A sprinkle of liquid encouragement is often required
to garnish the perfect confession."
- Brutus, Warden of Axiom

I designed the Mutewind so I can offer a few of my behind-the-scenes intentions for them:
I always imagine the reason they're hostile to you is that to them you're no different from the Rogue Exiles - a dangerous criminal made even more so by embracing the dark powers of a corrupted land.
I also intended them to have a very merit-based heirarchy [sic]. Their headgear is made from beasts they've hunted, and if we had the 3D art to show it would probably be personalized for each member. This philosophy is reflected in their succession rite [Mutewind Seal Unset Ring].
The three highest ranking Mutewind members have the most distinctive headgear - each is the result of a legendary hunt.
They also talk about their 'bloodline' [Mutewind Whispersteps Serpentscale Boots] being free of corruption, but they aren't all blood relatives. I see it as meaning they consider each other family, in the "once you're in, you're one of us and you've forsaken all of your previous ties" sense.
Disclaimer: The fact this stuff isn't explicitly said in the game means it could be contradicted at a later date, but hopefully it's interesting on its own.

Blood shed is blood shared.

To ascend to leadership, the child of a Redblade warlord
must pull the band from the still-hot
ashes of their father.

Embrace the snow or be buried.

When a fallen leader's body is taken to the funeral peak,
those who seek power must ascend together.
One returns with the seal.
The rest do not return at all.

Rami waits at the cavern entrance for the passing aspirants. One at a time he pulls them in from the snowstorm and covers their mouth as I slice their throats. Blood stains the cavern floor.

Nineteen more days in the mountains... I'll never survive, never earn my Mutewind name... I'm already starving and dying after ten... and is that... a wolf?!

The lords of the sea bow to no one.

Each time, it is granted to the most senior captain of the fleet,
and each time, the ring soon washes ashore once more,
still wrapped around a severed finger.

"Exiled to the sea; what a joke.
I'm more free than I've ever been."
- Captain Weylam "Rot-tooth" Roth of the Black Crest

"May the lubbers feel fear in their
nethers, and may our blades follow."
- Rot-tooth's Rallying Cry

You'll not find a more renowned pirate as Weylam 'Rot Tooth' Roth. In times when Fairgraves was still a whelp earning his sea legs, Rot-tooth was prowling the Strait of Oriath in his ship, the 'Black Crest'.

It's said he build it hisself, lining its hull with the bones of some great sea beast he slew with nothing but a harpoon and a bottle o' rum. Never was there a more nimble, more ferocious vessel. Like that leviathan's spirit still lived and breathed in its timbers.

No one's sighted Rot Tooth for twenty years or more, but I know where the Black Crest is. The Ship Graveyard, no less. Seems that Weylam Roth might have had his last meal with Lady Merveil.

Lilly Roth? Granddaughter of the legendary Rot-tooth Roth? Oh, apologies if I seem a little... giddy. It's not any old day you get to meet marine royalty. I mean, you know how I feel about pirates and all, but the Roths have as much in common with those scurvy sea rats as a... as a shark does with a goldfish.

Lilly has her granddaddy's blood in her veins; it's plain for all to see. Look at the lustre in her eyes, the ruddy blush of her skin. That there's a pirate princess, and no mistake.

As if pulled by divine strings,
the powerful are drawn to the powerful,
breaking any morals and laws that might stand in the way.

To fight an enemy on their lands is a tactical mistake.
Make those lands your own, and the mistake becomes theirs.

Warriors of a distant land, you embark on a journey from which you may not return, but which we will be all the better for.

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My akhara, my people, were long ago tasked with protecting the people of Wraeclast from themselves. Many artefacts of great power exist - you have come across some such in your travels. But there are some artefacts whose power is so great that to use them would put the world in jeopardy. Artefacts like the Horns of Kulemak. We, the Order of the Djinn, existed to keep such power sealed away and secret. Better that the world forget that it, and we, exist, than fight for control of a power they have no hope of controlling.

You have not heard of us because you were never meant to hear of us. I say us... in truth, it is just me left. We came from all walks of life, but we were all orphans, taken in and raised by the Order, and taught never to speak of it under punishment of death. It sounds harsh, I understand, but such was the importance of our duty that a life of solitude and secrecy was necessary.

For hundreds, maybe thousands of years, we remained secret, until Janus Perandus... that... that imbecile... He sold us out. Reaching for the last vestiges of his ancestral glory. Just like his great grandfather Chitus, he may have doomed us all.

Your visions led the Azmeri down into a world left abandoned by the Vaal.
They cast you out, young Egrin, but the Order of the Djinn accepts you.

Egrin of the Dark Between Stars, Forger of the Sealing Blade,
let your name be redeemed by your unexpected sacrifice.

For your loyalty and valour, honoured Betucia, we are proud to put
the requisition of dream-artefacts in your capable hands.

The Peak-dwellers saw you as impure, young Qianga, but the Order of
the Djinn sees you as all the stronger for your uniqueness.

Qianga of the Stars, Deliverer of the Sealing Blade to the Watchers, go now, and
let your half-dreamt life be troubled by nightmares of achromic hunger no more.

You were a casualty of callous Karui warfare, ageless Narumoa, but the Order
mended your wounds. You are bound to us now by your own code.

Your centuries of service have been invaluable to us, Narumoa. Go now,
return to Hinekora, and join your ancient kin in the halls of the dead.

The Maraketh left you to die alone in the desert, young Sumei, but we
saw the potential in you. The Order of the Djinn is your akhara now.

Go to your rest now, Sumei, Master Lorekeeper. The Order shall keep
contained the terrible secret that burdened your final years.

Feuding Ezomytes slaughtered your kin, young Agnar, but we pulled you
from the flames. The Order of the Djinn is your clan now.

The Order was your clan in life, Agnar, Beastmaster, but the First Ones call
back their favoured son. The gift of their Visions will pass to another.

The Ember-dwellers sought to throw you to their volcanic god, young Omid,
but we caught you instead. The Order of the Djinn is your tribe now.

Omid, Master Researcher, has left a final commandment upon his death:
the world must never know.

Young Tsarsk, you were a broken and forgotten child lying glassy-eyed
in a flesh-pit in Trarthus, but the Order found and cleansed you.

Though you were swallowed by your own darkness, you saved countless others
from eternal misery, young Tsarsk. You were not nothing, as you feared.

Your people no longer walk this continent, young Revna,
but the Order of the Djinn will give you a new home.

We lay you to rest in the forest deep, Runesmith Revna, so that you may be
forever hidden from the stars which so terrified you in your final days.
May the secret you took to your grave be lifted from your burdens.

As the first Brinerot to join the Order, you have much to prove,
young Raethan. We are confident you will succeed.

Let him not be called Raethan the Betrayer. His discovery was too important
to keep locked away. Now, for good or ill, it is in civilisation's hands.

Your outlaw camp abandoned you when their surprise attack failed, young Rindwik.
Now that you know we exist, we cannot let you go. You have two choices.

Master Warrior Rindwik fell to one opponent alone: old age.
Only the greatest soldiers can say as much.

Your faith and our Order are not in opposition, young Eutychus.
Let this be the start of a new era of cooperation.

Given the fate of Deacon Eutychus and the men under Cardinal Sanctus Vox,
let none dare the Domain, lest they too feed that vile hunger eternal.

Your ancestry has been much maligned by history, young Sarina Titucius,
but to the Order of the Djinn, you are born anew.

For your valour beyond the Gate, Sarina Titucius, we honour you with the first
Gilded Scarab awarded while its recipient still lives. Remain vigilant.

We pulled you from the raging ocean, young Dhunan,
but we cannot return you to your home. The Order of the Djinn
offers you a place on Wraeclast.

Be at rest, Blightmaster Dhunan, on the distant shores of
your home. A dangerous expedition, but one worthy for
he who gave his life to cleanse Wraeclast.

We pulled you from the piled dead, young Ixchel, while your people were going mad
with fear. The gods may have vanished, but the Order will watch over you now.

It was our error, Ixchel Godstealer, that led to your fate. Chaos is not asleep,
thus not a god, and for your eternal suffering, you have our eternal remorse.

The Syndicate is not just a cluster of like-minded individuals. We have a very wealthy benefactor, who would be very sad to see me dead, but would most certainly look the other way if I were to offer you recompense.

At last, we have a name; Catarina. I know of her. She was a powerful necromancer whose talents were... misdirected. I do not know for certain how she learned to raise the dead back to true life, but... I have my suspicions. And I have reason to believe that such power does not come without a great price.

It is likely she is paying that price in very inhumane ways.

We must find out where she is hiding. Too much is at stake to let her continue.

The picture is at last clear. Catarina has obtained an artefact capable of shifting the very energies of life freely. She sought power, not just magical, but political power. To be able to grant immortality is a powerful bargaining tool indeed.

Wraeclast is fractured. Many little societies separated by vast tracts of land. But it will not always be so, and Catarina knows this. She is playing the long game. She sees herself as an immortal Queen just biding her time.

Her subordinates dare not cross her, for she has the power to gift them immortality, but also to take it away.

She is a tyrant in the making, and the longer we let her accumulate power, the harder it will be to depose her.

I'd not believe you if I had not witnessed the boats lurching onto the shores of Wraeclast myself. So... The gods have returned, and Oriath has fallen. This complicates things, to say the least.

Exile, I believe the Syndicate has been planning to form a new government. The Templar were cruel, but at least they were mortal. If the Syndicate's power continues to grow, they will be able to rule Wraeclast and beyond without fear of reprisal, and we mere mortals will have no choice but to serve, or fuel their cycle of death and rebirth.

What new thing have you learned today? Or this week? How far have you come in your lifetime? If you died today, how much of what you have learned would be lost for all time?

We advance as a society by building upon previous knowledge. Bricks stacked atop bricks. Too often are key advances lost due to an unforeseen death, leaving a gap in the wall. How long until someone climbs high enough once more to continue to build?

We cannot all live forever. Sacrifices must be made. But with sufficient time to build our knowledge, what we fuel with the blood of our brothers and sisters today may come freely tomorrow.

We bury the dead. Insects feed on the flesh and bone... Rot takes hold... An entire lifetime reduced to feed for the grass above. A waste. But the soul, oh, the soul... The soul does not even feed the earth. It drifts invisibly into the ether, never harnessed, never used. Gone.

What greater waste of life is there than to let the soul flutter away into nothingness? We hope and wish for something more, but here and now we have tools that will guarantee no afterlife be necessary. We have the tools to build a utopian life here, in Wraeclast, through thaumaturgy. The only thing we lacked was time, but the gift of the Horns has given us that too.

Brothers and sisters, there's a new empire in the making, and we are its founders. Those that die for our cause will live on within us, and their names will be etched into the foundations of our utopia.

What makes you, you, or me, me? Some say it is the soul, an intangible something that exists before we are born and carries on after death. But I have seen souls that walk the land here and show nothing that distinguishes them from the rats and the rhoas.

It is something else. Something no man has discovered. A whisper. A flickering flame that burns through every inch of our being until it is extinguished. But what if we can capture it before it burns away? Bottle it up? Save it, and perhaps, even give it a new wick through which to burn once more?

You will find no shortage of ferocious beings near here. Kill them, cut from their flesh a sample, and bring the samples to me. We will discover the essence of being.

My master was no stranger to the machinations of the Templar elite like her. I feel a sort of kinship with her. We both gave up our names, though she did so voluntarily. We both sought to make something of ourselves. Where our kinship ends is how she made her name known. I can appreciate the desire for knowledge but, I can never condone the methods used to acquire it.

If it is true that, in her dying moment, she sought to redeem herself, it casts an interesting light on our exploration of the darkness. Perhaps it is our very mortality that drives us to do good, to suppress the primal urges... Our actions outlive us, after all.

Further Improvements to the Preserving Fluid

4 Parts pure and fine powder of Virtue Gem
4 Parts Trarthan Acid, superfluous humidity removed
2 Parts Aqueous Umbra, distilled
2 Parts Thaumetic Sulphite in its most crystalline form
1 Part Voltaxic Sulphite, kept in an ice water bath overnight
1 Part Blood (uncoagulated)
1 Part Blessed Water of Innocence

Mix the thaumetic sulphite with the virtue dust slowly and carefully, adding the trarthan acid one part at a time until the acid takes on a foul green hue. Wait for the dust to dissolve completely.

Add the aqueous umbra and blood at the same time. Ensure the blood is fresh. Coagulants were the cause of error last time, and the boy has paid for it in kind. Mix quickly to prevent separation of blood and umbra. The ichor will foam with dizzying fumes.

Slowly add the voltaxic sulphite, avoiding contact with the skin. Stir out the impure bodies and skim the top.

Add the blessed water and immediately imbibe.

There are some separately scribbled notes

The subject refuses to open his mouth. I have sent him to fetch the chains. I pray this delay does not spoil the mixture, for it is very time sensitive.

Results:

This part of the page was never completed

"She begged the Earth to spare her Son;
Out of love the Earth agreed.
To the other Elements she did not speak
And out of spite They plotted."
- Berek and the Untamed

"From Frost's ice-bound pass
Berek taunted and jeered
Until furious Flame scaled the mountain
Berek escaped through the thaw
And Frost's tortured moans."
- Berek and the Untamed

"Moon after moon did Berek make fools
Of the great and Untamed Three
Until malice for a Brother
Slew the hatred of the Other
And Berek did hunt
Alone and free."
- Berek and the Untamed

The soldiers stormed her throne room.
The guards held them at bay.
The peasants overwhelmed the guards.
The nobles paid for their lives.
The nobles took her throne,
and so she fled to the woods.

She paints her offer in wicked hues
An off-white grin, an elegant bruise.
To the nascent scourge she sings the ruse:
"With me in hand, what else need you use?"

As a maiden I was bound; as a crone was I scorned
Promised power rarely found, delivered fury fairly thorned.
Not enough?...Fine. Now I am become both and another
To take your hand and cradle your talents, not smother
The consummate flames. So hush, dear, say not a word.
Bequeathed, betrayed...beloved. At last, I am the third.