About 300 years ago the Orchalents flew in. Two-by-two, you could hear their cries of battle piercing the cold night air. Golden gimlets and spears were flung fruitlessly at the invaders. Orchalents are as crafty as they are savage. Mercilessly destroying the fabric of our spirit connections, laying waste to our existence on Gorth, our history, our culture, our very lives. We were done as a nationhood.

Except I survived that terrible night, I alone. I am the sole holder of the secrets of the spirit connection, my fading memory the only account of what we were, what we could have been. I am the last of The Gorthdwelt.

I have travelled all over telling my stories, and nobody has believed a single one. I am old and tired, and I shall not have the energy to enscribe every story, so I hope that those whom I told will remember one day and eventually believe in our mysteries.

Having a spirit-connection with no-one to connect to is painful, but no more painful than not to be believed. A golden gimlet tarnishing in my bag is of no interest to archaeologists of either stripe. Everyone has spears. Orchalents are a myth told to children to make them do what they are told.

Gorth and The Gorthdwelt never existed. I have been alone for 294 years, and now I am done. I write this in our language, which no-one can read. But I hope that some scribe, some intellect, someone of any stripe will translate it.

All I ask is that you research the traveller known for telling stories. I had infamy amongst some, who spat at me, drove me out, enslaved me. There is a hardly noticeable trace of my stories out there. But it is there nonetheless.

Please re-find me.