Deep in the freezing darkness of Old Shanatar, a curse was uttered over the Mordinsamman.
The hollow, bitter words echoed against the slick stones in the lightless realm that had become a tomb.
Tolls of priceless magic were paid to pass by gates which were stolen shut. The punishment would be exacted over an eternity, for long contrived plans laid to waste.
The curses continued in an endless, tireless stream, and the hatefulness of damnation burned in the gloom. The magic of ruin and creation was so closely intertwined.
A sensation availed itself from above. Like the light that filtered down to the furthest depth of the sea, the warmth of light above bathed cold rock.