The Order is old, older than the even the eldest of the Elders with their long white beards in our towns far north, older than the thick oaks that grow on the graves of our long-forgotten heroes, older than the decaying stone sentinels of the desert wastes...

Ages ago, the Writ tells us, there was an old and proud tribe of northmen. They were fierce and proud warriors, bowing to no one but their gods, creatures of awe and myth, spirits whom they had proclaimed inspired by the flora and fauna of their homeland.

Yet, one day fate turned on the proud men and women. The hunts were no successful anymore, the battles not glorious, the campfires not lit day and night...even the land that supported them so well turned hostile, as if refusing to yield to their efforts.

Rallying all their strength and courage, the northmen turned to their shamen for answers. For days and nights at an end the shamen performed their rituals, brewed their strange mixtures and fell into their eerie trances.