"His web of deceit is beyond complex. It is beyond comprehension of mortal minds. Everything you see in the presence of Narsith is not as it seems; a trick of the mind. Trust not his words, for they, too, are likely to be a whispering falsehood. Beware the Illusionary Monarch, for he is the ultimate scourge. He is unending, and always moving closer to his goal..."





Known by many as the legendary 'Illusionary Monarch', Narsith is perhaps one of the most feared of all contenders for Godhood. For thousands of years he has watched over the ancient land, endlessly accumulating more and more power; ascending his birthright as a mere man and becoming so much more. What is interesting and perhaps terrifying about Narsith is that he rules his lands not with simple strength or tactical genius, but through the use of incredibly powerful magic that has earned him his fearsome title. Simply put, Narsith embodies the absolute mastery of illusions, and can create perfect illusionary replicas of anything his heart desires, from a sprawling army to a hulking dragon; from mountains to entire nations. He has found himself not limited by physical constraints and can create utterly perfect illusions across any distance, and at any scale. So powerful is this magic, in fact, that the illusionary forces and powers of Narsith can actually have a physical effect on the world. It is not known whether an illusion of Narsith can truly run a man through, or if the illusion is so strong that it simply makes the brain of the affected believe that they have come to harm, but it is widely acknowledged that Narsith’s illusions are just as capable of killing as any of their physical counterparts.

It is sometimes said that The Illusionary Monarch cannot be killed, but not because of any sort of protective magic or immortality, but because his web of illusions is so complex and convincing that it is impossible to strike him down. Any attempts to do so are usually met with the revelation that defeated Narsith was simply an illusionary replica of himself. Such powers make Narsith incredibly dangerous, and a foe that inspires fear and hopelessness within all of his enemies. But mastery of illusions also allows him to seemingly teleport by dissipating illusionary versions of himself and creating copies in other places; to shroud himself from the view of his peers, and instigate mass confusion using such frightening techniques. So powerful is his magic that none can discern between reality and his own illusions. Neither God nor Pretender can see past his magical prowess. And that is perhaps the most terrifying thing about him.





Who can really say what Narsith, the Illusionary Prince, really looks like? The very nature of this powerful being belies the notion of an established appearance. Truly, only he really knows his own face, for so many copies and replicas of himself cannot be used to determine such a factor. He often chooses to portray himself and his illusionary copies as a fairly tall man, clad in exquisite armour; eyes glowing like starlight, and long, dark hair flowing in the wind. Oftentimes you can see his own illusionary variants donning crowns constructed from pure crystalline structures, and other times he can be seen wielding a sword of purple flames. But this seems to change often, and folklore says that the appearance of the Illusionary Monarch changes with every season, as to change and adapt to the fears and insecurities of people, and to progress and develop alongside civilisation, like a primordial force that is as fundamental as the world itself.





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N A T I O N

Little is known of Douma. Indeed, there are a paltry few who even know that Douma exists—of those who do not serve him, his fellow Pretenders and a number of master-schemers and professional killers make up the majority. There are, of course, rumors, but there always are, aren’t there? More surprising than their existence, is how accurate the rumors—that He is the ethereal commander of untold horrors that seek to prey upon humankind in this era of chaos—is their accuracy.

Granted, He could not care less about how much humanity does-or-does-not suffer, and He has been active since long before the One vanished, and He has a corporeal form. But the rumors were born of the truth: he can bind his spirit to mist, allowing him to stalk the world at his leisure. And even if this mist is destroyed—which can be accomplished by the same means as any mist, if with greater difficulty—his spirit shall return to his body, none the worse for wear. The second truth is thus: He is owed allegiance by a multitude of spirits both great and weak, both permanently ethereal and able to manifest physically, many of which would be deemed “horrifying” by the common man. They serve him in a great capacity: they make threats, cut deals, and occasionally engage in old-fashioned spy work to find their master Secrets.

More than his own capacity for personal combat—which is no claim to fame, at least amongst the Pretenders—more than his skill with magic—which, while great, is surpassed by several of his peers—the Secrets he knows give him Power. Be they weaknesses to exploit, pivotal stratagems, or perhaps even something to share. After all, the right secret, in the right ears, could fell a greater army than all of the steal in the world—or at least, that’s the principle He of Whisper and Shadow operates by. To those who know of him, he maintains the appearance of omniscience, but it is an illusion. While His wealth of Secrets is great, His servants only number so many, and their abilities can only go so far.

But they are able to serve Him in other capacities—the mightiest can be terrors on the battlefield, and the weakest could slip by defenses unnoticed to harass troops and damage morale with multitudes of little mischiefs.



To speak of Douma’s appearance is tricky. Only that only a small handful of beings the world over have ever directly encountered Douma. This is compounded by the fact that only one—the reigning Grand Prince of Carnelia—is sure to has met with Douma physically. Most encounters with someone other than the Grand Prince are done when he had bound his spirit to mist, and so they are only sure to have only heard His voice—a lighter affair than one might expect, soft in tone and almost difficult to hear—but He can project an image to go with the voice. When He does, it bears a passing resemblance to his actual form: draped in heavy furs, His face obscured by an antlered skull, and His eyes dark voids save for tiny white dots. No eyes have seen beneath Douma’s attire for many centuries, and many rumors abound the Carnelian nobility that purport to say what lies beneath.


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Believe it or not, there was a time when Douma’s hand did not pull Carnelia’s strings.

For many ages, the One was the sole god worshiped by the peoples of the world, there were still many lesser creatures: monarchs of supreme strength, mages of immeasurable might, beasts of indelible power, some of whom now rise as Pretenders to the One’s throne. And while all bowed to the One, they all held great power, and they all held their lands. The Serene Republic of the Carnelian Coast was to be a different sort of place. A place where the common man could control his own fate, where Rulership was won by Labor, by the strength of the flesh and bone, with only the One to answer to. For a time, a short time, it was so, and it was good. But soon Carnelia became a microcosm; the power of the near-gods throughout the world was mirrored by another power: wealth. An elite few found their way to the top, and they became wealthy. Then that wealth was inherited. Then again. Then again. Soon, the Republic’s elections were won by a river of gold flowing into an ever-shifting sea of alliances between families with names soaked in each other’s blood. And then Douma came.

He was a man then, and went by a different name, but it was Him. Those few that know of Him do not know precisely where He came from, that is something only he remembers, though He said once that He suspected the One knew. Whatever His origins, He was the greatest schemer of them all, with a horde of secrets, a mountain of gold, and a palace’s worth of dull steel in a dark night. He did not rule in the sun, but he pulled the strings from the dark corners. He was not the only one to play this game, but he was the one to win. Eventually, he was unopposed in his control of Carnelia, and almost nobody knew.

This done, He gathered more secrets. Dark secrets. He learned, and schemed, and spied, and plotted. It did not happen all at once, probably. Perhaps it was the culmination of a vast number of dark rituals, perhaps it was all the hot blood he spilled—or had spilled—onto the cold ground, or perhaps it was how long he kept to the dark corners where no human eye could see, or perhaps it was all three, but one day he emerged into the sun not as a man, but as Something Else. Carnelia was in the hands of the same sort of creature it had been founded to get away from, and its people were none the wiser. He of Whisper and Shadow had entered the world.

But he had not only been busy changing Himself. The Carnelian Coast had been granted to men because it was a disputed center of trade—none of the conflicting powers who wanted it would give it to a rival, and none dared to risk the One’s displeasure, so they gave it to men, whom they thought they would manipulate. They certainly tried, but we’ve already been over that. Douma proved Himself the greatest intriguer of all, and to Him went the spoils. The wealth of the Carnelian Coast flowed, and its people prospered. Some of the wealth even made its way down to the peasantry.

Carnelia had little in the way of troops, but those could be bought, and those few times where someone would bid higher than Carnelia, Douma would pay the men with Secrets. There were not a great many men on hire, just enough to hold Carnelia in the case of attack. Slowly, those soldiers had sons and daughters, citizens of Carnelia, who Douma decided would do as their forebears did. Then again. And again. And like that, they were tied to the Carnelian Coast by blood, now mercenary only in name.

So it went. So it went. Douma was patient. Douma was waiting. It is infeasible that He knew what would happen to the One, though He would like to have. It is infeasible that He knows exactly what did happen to the One, though He would like to. But when it became clear that the One would not return, Douma knew this was what He had been waiting for. And so He acted. Alliances were forged, deals were cut, secrets were outed, trade was cut off, rumors were spread; though it may have little in the way of steel, the Carnelian coast was at war. It had to be; without the watchful eye of the One, Douma would have to be much more proactive in keeping the Carnelian Coast from being conquered.

He has succeeded, thus far. Yet, in this era of chaos unseen since the One proclaimed Himself the Only God, Douma has not been seen to take any steps toward becoming the new One, like his peers. For now, the motivations of He of Whisper and Shadow are known only to Himself.


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To say that Cod'lata is known to few is a lie, all know the Mad Patron, even if they have never heard their name. This is because all have seen them, a wisp of a shadow in their dream or out of the corner of their eye as they fluttered shut to sleep. All have heard them, the nonsensical mutterings that weave dreams in the thoughts of those at rest or in the sweet lullaby sung by a loving mother. Some have even visited their vault, deep, deep, in the mire of the ethereal unconscious world to which we all retreat at day's end. But no matter the method, all in some respects know Cod'lata.

The patron of sleep, being in Cod'lata's presence inspires near all to drift into a torpor like sleep. It is even said that the breath of Cod'lata can even take one's soul, though in truth all it dose is induce a sleep so deep it is often mistaken for a coma. Now, sleep is not the only part of Cod'lata's domain, as they are also the patron and weaver of dreams. They are able to peer into the minds of those asleep. Able to inspire the sweetest dreams or the worst nightmares (in groups who's size is really only limited by those who are asleep), or consume the dreams of a person (leaving them an empty husk of a person). It is also said that they are able to pull the nightmares from one's head and manifest them into one of their Hounds.

Even their own madness has been twisted by Cod'lata, providing limited flashes of the future through the lens of those who dream. Any seeking advice from Cod'lata in this however usually do so ether by finding Cod'lata's voice or by braving the vault to ask them directly. But any to chose to sup from this knowledge best do it with a long spoon, as the answers one seeks are oft tied with mad ramblings and near indecipherable riddles.

Their greatest achievement however is the Vault of Dreams.

There are two ways to reach the vault. Physically, which requires one to find the entrance which is known only to one or two and incurs the brunt of the dangers of the vault. Or ethereally in one's dreams. But no matter how one visits it, they see the same thing. A structure that looks much like a Victorian ballroom of impossible length, stretching back into the gloom of the perpetual near darkness (which would be described best like the light at midnight on a full moon) for its lamps are perpetually cold. One would also notice that all the windows are in fact mirrors, with a look like they had been frosted over, a quality shared by the mirror like floor. Lastly the sides are strewn with slumped or prone forms, some in armor, some in normal clothing spanning many fashions and periods. However these figures are not dead but forever asleep, caught in the primary danger of the Vault. Which is that if someone falls asleep within its walls they stay that way for what some assume is forever, in a fugue state and tied to the Vault (this danger wouldn't normally be a problem. If Cod'lata's presence power didn't seep into the very stones, and pervade the Vault like a deep fog at all times. Which it has)


To look upon Cod'lata is to know the shape of dreams, and madness. A twisted form of almost wolf like appearance, its fur boiling and dripping like liquid shadow. Its face is a mask of bone, only a few eye holes break the porcelain like surface, no mouth splitting it. That is reserved for the creatures stomach, where a gaping maw opens and closes. For their voice however it seems to be a whisper i the minds of all who speak to them.



The shared dreaming
The muttering rest
The propagation of the dream
Calling the hounds
Walking the Vault

(should be up tonight)







Seras Naia, the Joined's adviser (also the Voice of Cod'lata)

Joined one Leriam Imis

High Captain Keor Venat

Seer Nea Moricc