The Untold Myth

There is in the dungeon a certain chest, latched tightly, double latched, triple latched, and banded in rings of gold. It is guarded only by its seclusion in the dungeon and has only ever once been opened, and then only for the briefest moment at the Lady’s Feast.

Within is no treasure, not gold, not silver, not jewels, no magic rings are here, nothing to draw the interest of grave robbers and adventurers. It’s value is being hidden, and were it given up to the light of day, it would seem at first a trifle. In the chest, there is only a single, small book. It is the Untold Myth, the myth that can never be read or celebrated. It is a small thing, but within is the secret of the tempest, of the birth of Oréveriel, the nature of Isil and how she came to be. Even the ascendence of Yelloturë and the desert song that drew Liswamirë.

Only the one time was it opened, as the Prophet looked out from the heights of the world and saw, for the first time, all. All he saw, he wrote in the book, in hurried script and in a burst, taking no care for style or revisions. And having written it, he sealed it away, and slept, and forgot all he had written, so that none except the Most High should know the myth.

You curious, you crafty, you followers after the Green God, you who seek to know all, have you not knowledge enough? Must you also know the only Unknown Thing? What hells would be loosed if it were known? It was the desert whisper that summoned Esteluna. It is enough damage. The Prophet was wise, and the Untold Myth will remain untold.