Arathan. That name had once been spoken by every bard in every tavern across the lands. Ballads were sung of how he had saved the township of Ulierstad from the wrath of the great wyrm Thraklix'upior, and of how he had single-handedly driven back the hordes of the giant-king Jharzak with his mighty magical powers. He was both exalted and feared, for beside his sense of honor seethed an anger that was legendary. He had been the advisor of kings and the usurper of tyrants. He was death to those who challenged or offended him.
But for all the tales that had been told of the archwizard Arathan, all the details repeated by the fireside, nobody ever knew where he had come from. Some say he was trained by a reclusive lich deep in the mountains of Khazar-Thuule. Some say he was raised among the elves of the Lin'Litharn. But these are all speculations, as he had never been known to speak of his past. He had appeared in the lands, fifty years ago, apparently from nowhere. And then, twenty years later, he vanished just as suddenly.
With the passage of time, the name Arathan slipped from the lips of bards, and their lyrics turned to other tales of other heroes. He had all but ascended into legend, and his deeds were only discussed among the very same scholars of arcane magic whom he had abandoned.
But then one day, a door opened in a remote inn at the edge of the Bright Desert and a man stepped through dressed in a shimmering black cloak. The room fell silent when someone whispered the name. Arathan. He had returned, as though not a day had passed, to seek and to plunder the treasures of the legendary Tomb of Acererak.