Long ago, before the dragons first rose and the Gods walked among mortals an evil presence seeded itself in this world. Within the furious depths of the Fissure of Woe, this great evil waited… plotting his insidious plan for domination over all of Tyria under the echoing hammer of the Eternal Forgemaster.
The Great Repair Anvil waited as misguided heroes brought him hoards of ectos and shards, amassed through many years of blood as sweat. The heroes handed these priceless treasures over Eternal Forgemaster, unknowing that the Forgemaster was only a suffering pawn under the obsidian fist of his evil anvil master.
Years have past, the fissure is only spoken of in whispers. Dragons roam the surface of Tyria, but an even darker evil lies hidden below. The first phase of the Great Repair Anvil’s plans have already come to fruitation. Many dark minions of the Great Repair Anvil have been spread across the whole of Tyria, siphoning niblets of silver and gold from unwary heroes… slowly weakening them throughout the great expanse of time.
Far beyond, past hundreds and thousands of fractals, the Great Repair Anvil waits. In the darkest corner of the darkest realm, two wispy flame-like eyes burn from the iron husk of Tyria’s greatest and most powerful terror. The Great Repair Anvil waits… slowly biding his time as he rests upon a glimmering throne carved out of the rarest ectos and finest obsidian shards.
A figure emerges from the shadows and kneels before his great anvil lord. He bows his head, too terrified to meet the burning gaze of his master.
“Zommorros” The Anvil calls in a terrifying voice that would turn the sea to jade and forests to stone.
“Y-y-yes master?” Zommorros replies with a trembling voice.
The Great Anvil’s eyes flare with the purest and most malicious flames. “Feed those fools on the surface another precursor. Let them play into our hand…”
Zommorros bows even lower. “Y-yes master… I will prepare a dusk right away!” Zommorros rises with a tremble and turns, shakily grabbing a sword from a rack beside him that holds hundreds of similar blades. The genie then quickly skitters out of the chamber like a skritt before a vengeful Aataxe. As the genie hastefully retreats, a terrifying laugh echoes throughout the chamber.
The burning eyes dim and the massive obsidian doors leading into the Great Repair Anvil’s chambers grind to a close. Only dreadful whispers can be heard riding the cursed air surrounding the Tower of the Great Anvil.
“Soon Tyria… soon.”
