Dated: Early Autumn, Year 1654
“Five years have passed since the fall of Titranuvigus.” Once a guardian of the eastern seas, the great Titan’s body moved like a drifting continent, home to an entire ecosystem, creatures seen no where else residing on his carapace. Valleys, desserts, mountains, all spread along his large shell, his gentle passage brought storms and harvests in equal measure. Villages built shrines upon his back. Children recited poems about the seasons turning with his breath. Now, there is only stillness. Titranuvigus perished in 1649, during what is now referred to as the titanheart stand among survivors. Despite the valor of those known as the Titan’s Finest Hunters, the corruption that took root in him could not be purged. The cause is still only whispered: a being of terrible hunger, referred to in fragmented scrolls as Shagaru Magala, twisted the Titan from within. The Hunters fought. They bled. But in the end, they failed. Since then, the Titan’s body has remained sunken in the shallows, forming a landmass now known as the Hollow Land, a place avoided by sailors, feared by priests, and sought after by those lured to it’s darkness And yet, the story is not over. Reports have begun to surface across the titanlands and beyond: distant thunder where skies are clear. Carved stone lanterns rekindling on abandoned paths. Strange dreams shared by those who once walked with the Hunters,visions of a mist-cloaked figure guiding them to a shrine carved into the bones of a still-living mountain. The shrine is ancient, some say older than time itself. Four statues stand proud within it’s walls: A guardian with a shell crackling with lighting A fox with shifty eyes and a knowing smile A warrior cloaked in ash and bound by flame A swordswoman mid-step, from whom petals fall eternally Behind it lies a monastery, long-forgotten, yet now, once again occupied. An elder awaits within, said to speak of a spreading corruption, seeded in the Hollow Land and bleeding outward. Some believe this is coincidence. I do not. Those who once served as Hunters have begun gathering again. They speak of dreams that do not belong to them. Discovering powers they never learned, but somehow remember. The remaining researchers of the hunters guild are calling the “Echoes”. Even from distant places, such as Faerûn, I’ve begun to receive letters, heroes who faced a lunar challenge. They come from individuals whose names I recognize only from a single report: “Feast of the Moon. One night. none survived.” I fear this is not the end of the Hollow Land’s tale, but perhaps the next chapter.