Before the valleys had names, the Maker shaped the land. Mountains were raised and rivers set running, and stone was laid on stone in a pattern only the Maker knew. The oldest carvings give the Maker one name: Arudael, the first maker.
The land remembers that pattern still. Cut it and it closes. Burn it and it greens. Whatever is broken, it rebuilds toward the shape it was given.
All but one thing. Far below there woke something the Maker never designed, and where it rises the land goes grey and does not come back. The ward-builders called it the blight belowNor-vesh. A thousand years ago an alliance of peoples drove it down, and the ward-builders, the Maker's apprentices, carved the Maker's own patterns into standing stone to hold it there.
Then came the long quiet. Nobody could read the patterns any more. The stones were good stones, square and strong, and they went into walls and wells and hearths. In the valley's old mine, the miners dug too deep.



