Appearance:

Eleven stars form the outline of Lorminstra's gates, with the brightest star at the apex of the gate. Beyond them is darkness, and perhaps more.

Location:

In the winter, the stars that form the Gates of Oblivion are high in the sky, as befits Winter, the season of the Lady of the Crystal Keys. They assume a more subdued position in the Spring and Summer, resting a few degrees above the horizon.

Lore:

Ages ago, at the dawn of recorded history, there was a man. His race is unconfirmed, though many believe him most likely an elf. This man was a king, with a large kingdom, loyal subjects, and an army that fought valiantly and heroically at his every whim.

This man also had a daughter. She was the light of his eye and the joy of his existence. His wife, her mother, had died giving birth, and the man had never remarried. His daughter wanted for nothing. She had the best mentors and tutors.

Her hair was the deep amber of the purest honey, her skin like the purest cream. Her eyes were the color of the finest, flawless emeralds. Her voice was able to sooth the most savage of creatures.

And, above all, her father, a great king, loved her.

Her death shattered his life. He went mad in the weeks after the fever struck her. While she wasted away, his army ravaged the neighboring lands. He commanded that they raze everything before him. His kingdom suffered as he visited atrocity after atrocity against his own subjects.

She decayed into a wisp of her former self, until the fever took her, her father at her side.

After her death, the king abdicated his throne. He gathered the most loyal and skilled of his troops and set out to revenge himself upon Lorminstra and the other Arkati. He blamed the Arkati for his daughter’s death. Three hundred soldiers, led by their former king, set out upon an epic quest to defy the Arkati.

Luukos was the king’s first target. He thought that by wresting souls from the Serpent’s control he could somehow earn the return of his daughter’s soul.

He and his three hundred began a fanatical campaign against the Luukosians. His scouts ferreted out their bastions of strength, and then his troops descended upon them like locusts.

The Serpent’s followers, even bolstered in strength as they were by their undead minions, fell to the might of the king’s troops. Their temples were destroyed, burned to their very foundations. Their altars were defiled and splintered, and their priesthood was slaughtered at the hands of the king’s army.

Rumors led the king to a supposed stronghold of Luukosian might; a mighty keep, shielded by snow-draped mountains of sheer granite with a bottomless chasm surrounding it, the only crossing a bridge formed of bleached bones.

The stories that reached the king’s ears spoke of legions upon legions of undead, marshaled by a great arch-lich, who served as the general, as well as the high priest of the keep’s Luukosian faithful.

What better a conquest to bolster the progress of the monarch’s quest? He set out immediately, his loyal army following him.

They traveled deep into the northern mountain ranges. They searched for months, beset by frigid weather, perilous climbing conditions, icy winds that howled like demons and continual attacks by the creatures that were native to the mountains.

The king and his army searched for nearly a year, holing up in small mountain towns and caves where they could. During the winter, however, their supplies ran low, hundreds of miles from any form of civilization. The weather was harsh, and the men succumbed to all manners of icy fate. The yeti took their toll on the army as well, dragging several near frozen soldiers into the frigid night, never to be seen again.

The king awoke late one frozen night, wrapped in a heavy yeti-hide blanket. He walked slowly among his troops, his mind troubled, and his heart heavy. He heard a rustle, carried on the cold wind, as if of huge wings, beating against the air.

He turned quickly, his sword clearing his sheath with no sound. He saw, standing above his sleeping men, a woman, swathed in an ashen grey robe. Huge feathered wings, as pure white as the snow surrounding the king’s camp, rose from her shoulders. She turned slowly toward the king, and pulled away the deep cowl that concealed her features.

Her skin was like alabaster, and seemed nearly to glow in the dying light of the campfires. She smiled a small half-smile, full of irony. Her eyes locked on the king’s. They were icy and cold, and of the deepest blue. He shivered under her glance, as she shook her head slightly.

She turned away, and shimmered, as if seen at a distance through a haze of heat, and simply disappeared.

The next morning, the army awoke. Nearly a score of men lay dead, frozen to death in their blankets. The king took his army out of the mountains, back to civilization. Their search for the Luukosian lair was fruitless.

The king and his most trusted advisors spent several months recovering from their trek. They also spent the time sending out mercenary scouts and hiring sages to research their next course of action.

The king’s lieutenant brought an aged sage before him. The sage spoke of the Grandfather, of Fash’lo’nae. He suggested to the monarch that the Sage of the Gods might have some knowledge that would allow the king to discover a way to return his daughter to life.

The king mulled the idea for three days and three nights. On the morning of the fourth day, he assembled his army, and began his search for The Spire, the legendary, even then, library of the Arkati sage.

Five years of searching commenced. They ended when the king’s army stumbled upon an ancient, crumbling mansion, filled wall to wall with molding, crumbling books. Carefully, the king and his lieutenants combed the library for information.

A formula was discovered, to enable a magical transportation across the Veils. The runes were inscribed, and the phrases of power were spoken. A rift between worlds opened. The king and his two most loyal generals stepped through.

They stood in a library with shelves that stretched beyond the sight of normal men. Centered in this mind-boggling place sat a huge desk, carved of woods unknown to men and elf, and bound with metals that had never known the workings of mortal forges.

Behind the desk sat a man. His race could not be discerned, as he seemed to have the mingled features of many Elanthian races.

The king beseeched the Grandfather for his guidance and knowledge. Tears, long unshed, poured down his cheeks as he fell to his knees, begging the Sage for enlightenment.

Fash’lo’nae cleared his throat, and spoke in a voice that crackled like old paper, filled with wisdom and knowledge. He denied the king the aid that he truly desired. It was forbidden for any Arkati to interfere when Lorminstra had decided upon a mortal’s final fate.

The Grandfather did have advice to offer of another sort. He told the king of a magical pool, full of ensorcelled water that glistened like gold. It had amazing restorative powers, even to the Arkati, and was the place where Oleani bathed. To a mortal, Fash’lo’nae assured, the pool would drastically extend their lifespan.

Armed with such knowledge, the king returned to mortal Lands, knowing that he would be able to extend his quest until he finally found success.

The king searched for years for two things, the pool of immortality, and a gateway to the Gates of Oblivion.

He grew old, and many of his troops left for leadership of mercenary companies, or as generals of royal armies. Ten of his most loyal soldiers, his personal guards, remained by his side.

They stood beside him when they finally found a way to visit the Gates. They trekked, once again, across the lands. They finally discovered, through research and exploration, a forest lit by continual twilight.

A wandering path cut through the dense forest growth. The king and his soldiers followed it for what seemed like days, until they came upon a knight standing guard. Swathed in armor, and wearing a white tabard, the knight leaned upon a two-handed sword, fashioned from ghostly white glaes, and slightly translucent. From beneath his helmet his eyes burned out, gazing upon the king and his men. He nodded slightly, almost imperceptibly, allowing the remnants of the once-great army past.

Tired and exhausted, the soldiers finally came to the end of the path, at the base of a huge gate, fashioned of glistening silver ora, set into grey granite blocks. Centered upon the gate itself was a huge lock, impenetrable to any rogue.

Before the gate stood a woman, tall and gaunt. She wore layered robes, black over white. At her waist hung a ring of innumerable keys, all carefully fashioned from the purest crystal. Her gaze was soft as she turned to look at the king, and she smiled slightly as he answered her curious glance.

A rustle of great wings sounded behind the king, and he turned to look upon an ashen robed angel with snow-white wings, and eyes like the coldest glacial ice. The angel laid a hand upon his shoulder. Her skin nearly burned him through his cloak her touch was so icy cold.

Lorminstra, the Gatekeeper, watched the Angel of Death lay her hand upon the king’s shoulder, pulled a key from her belt, and opened the gate, ushering the monarch past.

As the ora gates slowly swung open, he saw his daughter, vital and beautiful, waiting for him beyond.