Our onslaught on the Ancient gate was met with little resistance. Thus, its stone was promptly crushed to dust beneath the march of my men.

The Ancients are trying to lull me... they've sapped energy from their barriers to fuel the cloistered weapon in their midsts! This is a declaration of war — so war they shall get!

I can see their fabled Citadel in the distance... proudly crossing the horizon's line; ripping through the waxing moon's light!
This is where they keep their flame, so my wandering friend says... where they will summon fire to rain down on MY people, scorching the earth of MY lands!

The reign of rats must end...Together, we must tear them down.
Down the gullet. Down the spiral.
Down, down, down
to us.

— Lord Vorgoth, Guard of the North, Ruler of Rimgard

Two heartbeats rattle my ribcage.

One clings to a vengeful rhythm. It expands, rips and tears, suffocates me from within. It feels righteous, though vindictive.

There is another tone that reverberates inside. A quiet hum, mild with remembrance of... of what, exactly? Some spectre of myself I do not recognize; less wizened and haggard.

He speaks of a border that can only be ruled by a strong hand. Of a proud but shattered kingdom, wishing to unite — held together in a fist. Of a seed of secrecy, a threat, planted in the outer rind of his brain and nurtured until rootbound.

He is the Guard of the North
The warden of the wall
And he, too, is crushed under the fist

For he lives in a world of mice and men, where the cowards tether one below
Where one needs a sword to sever these ties that bind
Ties that cannot be remade
Where the weak are culled, and one must rise to live
So the walls must be taller, and the ascent higher
and the distance grows forever, until everything below is misty blue

The mist unites, so says the seed
In the Shroud, everything is whole, and all is one, and one is all
And so the right hand stretched out to deliver what it carries
A fist; a sword; an end
A cerulean thread to stitch two hearts as one

— Lord Vorgoth, Guard of the North, Ruler of Rimgard

Destiny draws near. Their cursed Citadel is closer than ever... and within it, their weapon. The fire which we ought to snuff out... The Mother Flame, which threatens to burn us alive. The source of their infinity, and lifeblood of their kind.

We must separate the mice from the men
The rats from the rulers
The Ancients from the ashes of rebirth

We must douse her. To unite everything. To become whole, so the Wanderer says.

He stood by my side, one step from the edge, arms stretched out wide.
"This is what the birds see." He said. "The birds of prey. High, far up above the rest... floating."

Why, yes. I should float. Above the rats. Above all.
This is where I was meant to be from the beginning, and where I'm meant to bring forth the end. Though my heart aches... I will fulfill my duty.

— Lord Vorgoth, Guard of the North, Ruler of Rimgard