Thousands of years before the rise of the northern kingdoms, the ancient empire of Acheron occupied the timeless deserts of the southern continent. Its great buildings were grown old, and crumbling into ruin long before the ring of the first axe echoed in the cool greenness of the great boreal forests that encircle the northern polar cap. And long before the first rude hovels had risen in clearings laboriously created by hand, the last remnants of that evil land had been swallowed beneath the waves.

In the waning days of Acheron, dynastic struggles brought a female child to the throne. The priesthood, long the de facto power behind the throne, thought to use her as their pawn. Such was not to be, a child prodigy she advanced further in the arts of magic and science by the time she was a teenager than many would in a dozen lifetimes.

Eventually a combination of fears of her rising powers, and her excesses grew so great, that even the iniquitous priesthood of that evil nation finally rebelled. By night a group of conspirators came together and upon entering the royal palace they slew the unresisting Zytharis and her retinue as they slept.

With great pomp the conspirators buried her, in a ceremony befitting the most powerful of queens, tens of thousands of hired mourners lining the streets.

That night, a hot wind arose in the desert, spilling from the restless sands to the great stone lined boulevards of the capital, where it eddied in the gutters, twisted and curled along the streets, till at last its questing tendrils came to the great house where the conspirators sat at meat, toasting their success. Borne upon the breeze, was a whisper of a name, and when the revellers heard it, they fell silent, staring at each other white faced.

With dread in their hearts they stole to her tomb, where in the silver moonlight, the silent bodies of the slain guards confirmed their darkest fears. Trembling, the plotters encircled the tomb with glyphs and wards and finally steeling himself against his fear, the chief priest himself went into the crypt unto Zytharis herself.

It was a day and a night, before a troubled and deeply disturbed man emerged from the crypt. Inexplicably to his underlings, he gave orders that the crypt be taken in the dead of night down to the ships, moored in the harbour below. Then he readied himself, and many of his fellow conspirators for a long voyage.

For many moons they voyaged till they came at last to a cool northern land. Leaving the ships, the high priest pushed deep inland until he came to a pleasant vale, surrounded on three sides by hills, here he decided to bury the lich queen. The inhabitants of this green and verdant land were a barbarian people, in their simplicity no match for the sophistication of the priests and wizards of Acheron. Like cattle, they were enslaved and driven day and night till they fell and died burying the crypt in the side of the hill.

Meticulously the priests covered all traces of the excavation, slaying the few survivors amongst their barbarian workforce. This done, the high priest slew his underlings and mingled their ashes with those of their erstwhile slaves. The task finally complete, the priest sailed home, alone but for a tiny crew, just enough to handle the single ship. Barely had he set foot on the shores of Acheron once more, when he slain by his fellow conspirators.

Leaderless, the country soon descended into anarchy, the streets of the capital awash with blood.

And from that day forward, men preyed upon each other in an ever-downward spiral of violence, brother turned upon brother, war begat chaos, and plague followed famine. At last even the gods grew tired of that iniquitous country and turned their faces from it, and so it was that, that evil land was claimed by the restless swells of the great southern ocean.

And so Acheron passed from history into legend, and from legend into myth. In the outside world, seasons came and went. And in time a people came that knew not the legends of that dark episode. In that green and pleasant vale, they made their habitations, and so the years have passed, and still Zytharis waits, the evilness of her soul unsated …