Identity:
Zulmash was his name by birth, and many are the other names that have been bestowed upon him since: He Who Felled the First Tree, Humbaba's Bane, Lord and Bringer of Civilization, Breaker of Stones, Master of the Ploughlands and Rivers, King of Akk-ila. He is best known throughout his homeland and the barbarian reaches beyond as Lugal, a title of his own construction. It means many things: 'great' and 'giant' and 'strong' and 'king,' but his role could be summarized as 'God-King'. More accurately, he claims himself to be not quite a god. He can command beasts and men, but not nature itself, so by his own reckoning that makes him two parts divine and one part man. Still, he is Lugal.

He commands a great deal of fear and respect, but for all that he has done for his people he is not beloved. That is no matter, for he cares little for finery or the excessive praise of his name, though he does certainly hold himself in high esteem. If one were ignorant of his past acts and great exploits, he could be observed for a day and it might be easy to dismiss him as a petty warlord, but in truth his grandeur and might is far more than meets the eye and so the people know that he is indeed Lugal, not some mere warlord.

Potency:
Lugal possesses fortitude of both body and mind as well as an unwavering ambition, fueled by a confidence that is tempered just enough by reality that it has not given way to empty arrogance. Though a peerless warrior by mortal standards, in combat he remains no more than a warrior--he does not hurl lightning nor conjures flames. If he finds himself in battle, he relies upon such mundane weapons as his own hands, or his favored weapon of the axe. What makes him formidable is that he does not fight alone, and is wont to march with an army of Akkylonian men at his back and great hordes of beasts as his vanguard and heralds.

A charismatic figure that leads naturally and by example, Lugal’s aura is such that men and even animals find it difficult to resist his will. That is his true power--commanding and dominating all around him, that they may fall in line and take their places in the order that he envisions. Rebellion against his righteous rule is a rare thing, and the few acts of defiance against his will that do happen are of course answered with violence and force from his part, for he is a pragmatic ruler and can wield cruelty and brutality just as deftly as mercy. He appreciates gratitude and of course prefers to be loved rather than hated, as is only natural for a man, but in the end he knows that those things are not so necessary and cares foremost about maintaining his image of might and authority. More than their adoration or thanks, the Lugal demands that his people display proper obedience and respect, or failing that, fear.

To be clear, his magical powers take the form of four Auras listed in order of increasing importance:
He has an Aura of Splendor, that gives him his grand ambitions and glorious image,
an Aura of Might, that has slowed his aging and bestowed him a robust and youthful body,
an Aura of Tenacity, that gives him his stubbornness and mental grit,
and an Aura of Authority, that grants him the power to impose his will upon men and beast alike.

Ambition:
Lugal values order; that is why he has created civilization and brought laws, hierarchy, and purpose to his people. He views the conquest and eventual destruction of nature as his sacred and ultimate charge. The forests and hills are evil and full of mystery and horrors, so they must be tamed and made into fertile farmlands. The monsters and beasts must be broken and made to heel, that they may be tamed and put to work towards useful purposes as the gods surely intended. This worldview and realization of order leaves no place for nomadic or wild peoples of the sort that Zulmash and his kind once were; those that do not till the land or work in cities of their own volition do themselves a disservice and are like animals milling about aimlessly, failing to achieve their potential and realize their purpose. Upon encountering such wild peoples, the Lugal and his followers enslave them that they may be exploited both for their own good and for the benefit of his kingdom as a whole.

Another of Lugal's aspirations is to build the greatest ziggurat that is or ever shall be. Aside from the prestige and glory of seeing a mountain of brick raised by his will and to honor his name, he believes that if he could build a temple high enough to brush the skies, he could climb its stair and wrest power over heaven just as he has already claimed dominion over the land of Akk-ilon below and the animals and men that dwell upon it. In doing so, he would achieve theosis and ascend to fully realize his potential as a god. Then he would be able to finally command heaven and conquer nature. He would raze the forests and flatten the hills, and he would bend and warp the rivers to his will just as potters shape wet clay, and finally the tyranny of the Chaos would finally end and the people could bathe in his benevolence and mercy rather than the uncaring and pitiless whims of nature.

Life:
In his youth, Zulmash and one of his companions dared to do what no others would--they crept into the dreaded Cedar Forest, where monsters lurk and gods once lived, if the legends are to believed. They followed their noses, for there was a certain scent reminiscent of honey, only more intoxicating by far, that clung to the breeze. As they ventured into the forest, they grew lost and were eventually ambushed by the Humbaba, a monstrous being that guarded it zealously, and Zulmash's companion was mortally wounded. Nonetheless, the two managed to defeat the Humbaba and Gilgamesh forced the monster to guide him through the forest. At the end was a great bush that bore golden berries, and Zulmash gained his magical powers through the consumption of those berries. He kept the Humbaba and all its sons as laythings and slaves thereafter, forcing them to harvest the trees of their own domain to offer as tribute. For this feat of greatness and for the magical might that this brought him, Zulmash was recognized as Lugal.

Lugal would now be considered an elder by most folk's accounting, as it has been some time since the passage of his fiftieth year. Even so, his mind and body remain sharp and his great powers have granted him a youthful vigor that is not so easily dispelled. He has the look of one who is more like half his age, even if he is not quite still in his peak. As Zulmash brought civilization to the lands and built up the very cities and institutions that have elevated his people to greatness, and so he sees it as only right that he takes his just due. He has wealth beyond measure; little in the form of gold or trinkets, but he personally lays claim to many great tracts of the land in his kingdom and all the slaves that work those regions, and he similarly owns vast herds of thousands of goats, sheep, swine, and cattle.

Identity: Kulgha the Crone, the Beast Hag, the Glutton, Mother of Toads, Charnel Witch, Tyrant of the Bone Ziggurat.

Potency: Kulgha is old, hard as her true age may be to discern from her bloated features, and with time comes wisdom, even to one as foul as her. Above all she is versed in the craft of all manner of portentous plants and other such growths, knowing with certainty which can poison and which can chase away illness, as well as how to mix and dry them so that their properties will be tempered or magnified. With a concoction, she may grant otherworldly visions rumoured to be the dreams of dead gods, wring one’s body and spirit through pain and ague to an exceedingly precise limit when she wishes to test rather than kill, or put one into a sleep so deep that not even being cut with a blade will rouse them. In more earthly terms, her knowledge of herbs and spices likewise makes her a superlative cook, capable of transforming nearly everything into a flavourful meal; though the ingredients she favours are so gruesome that only her most depraved minions willingly partake of such feasts.

Nor have the decades left her with nothing but knowing what to boil in a cauldron. Over a lifetime of guiding the brutish bands and hordes of her compatriots, she has grown cunning in some tricks of rulership. Though never an accomplished warleader, stateswoman or orator, preferring to leave such roles to her more skilful acolytes, she knows well how to inspire her underlings and menace her foes through hoarse omens or covetous promises. Fear and greed are her tools in this trade, and they are well-worn in her gnarled hands. If all else fails, she is not loath to resort to more tangible weapons - her spear-arm is ever as strong as it was in her prime, and her eye for the javelin remains deadly.

Yet her most dreaded power is her macabre and unnatural witchcraft. In her hands, human flesh, blood and bone become arcane ritualistic tools, and the feats she may accomplish by charring, cooking, curing and consuming them eclipse even the remarkable results of her herbal draughts. It is known that by feeding on babes and youths she has kept herself alive and sturdy for far longer than any of her savage people has ever reached, and that her warriors, glutted on the remains of their strongest enemies, grow to strength and proportions thought to be impossible in mankind. Her sanguinary brews, seasoned with cerebra crushed in a pestle and stirred with an etched bone, can drive men to bestial fury, poison the sky with bloody rain, the ground with gory morass and the rivers with charnel sludge, or call forth an infestation of venomous crimson toads, thought to be Kulgha’s familiars. Some even claim that by preparing a special offering she can invoke three horrifying beasts from a world long gone by to do her bidding, though no one has ever been known to glimpse these beings and lived to tell the tale.

Ambition: To feast, to amass wealth, to make merry. Devious as she may be in her gnarly age, Kulgha has never been of a more refined spirit than the rest of her people, and like them she wishes for little more than to enjoy the crass pleasures of life, indulging her bottomless hunger and idle avarice. That she cannot do so without taking from others is a testament to the ferocity and belligerence of the folk that birthed, forged and acclaimed her.

Identity: Gokudd Khaar Amod Khaar (Greatest Will Amongst Wills), refers to himself as Khaar-am-khaar; Despoiler of Heaven, Architect of Eternity. References to him have been made through a grand variety of manners and carry many seperate forms, but some have referred to him as “he who wills the world into shape,” and “he who molds the world with will;” “The Ambitious One.”

Potency: Khaar-am-khaar manifests his will upon the world by taming it and using it to create his own desires. How this is done is through his Goleumkod, or golemancy. He is capable of creating subservient animate constructs through inanimate matter. They may take many shapes, and they may vary in many sizes, but his power is yet limited.

In addition, the architect of eternity’s greatest asset for creating the eternal people to inhabit his eternal nation, the soul transference rite. With it, he may place the conscious of mortals within golems of his own construction, and even transfer his own into different bodies for different purposes. He is the only one he may do this with, however. All others are bound to one form, and may never return after.

But beyond his mighty arcane arts, Khaar-am-khaar wields little expertise which his longevity has not earned him through his wisdom, and his stubbornness through his perseverance. Khaar-am-khaar is a grand dreamer, a magnetic personality to many who seems endless. It is through this that he has acquired a suitable council with which to eliminate the weaknesses of his own personal rule of the Kingdom of Akka, a nation he forged from nothing, a land of many dreamers.

Ambition: Khaar-am-khaar wishes to create an eternal people for an eternal empire, a people bound by nothing but eternity, to replace those gods who perished before time in whatever unspeakable circumstance may have emerged. To do this, he will will the world into the perfect shape and form for his nation and produce an eternal city which will be unperturbed by whatever rambling lunatics may emerge throughout time’s passing.

Life: Amongst wizards there are many who are older than time may potentially record, and Khaar-am-khaar is no exception. Whilst he may not be as old as others, he left his mortal shell at the end of its thread, and has lived for many decades since inhabiting the many forms and working the many tasks necessary to build the nation of Akka which he has carved in the mountains of Bunu. The fledgling nation, and the sudden emergence of them and their heralds who travel far and wide to speak of its prosperity, are no stranger to many of civilization’s numerous strongholds.

When he emerged from his quest, his self transferred into three seperate, three-irised eyes embedded within his new bedrock form, he walked the lands and spoke of his dream and demonstrated his power. The people, awed by his determination and ability, followed him feverishly. With each stop, their numbers doubled, and after many years of walking from village to village, city to city, and tumbling and negotiating with the various authorities of the world at the dawn of time, he had finally arrived at the great mountain Bunu, where he found the Eyes to Eternity with which he now molds the world through the world’s own hands, he undertook the dauntless task to build Akka, the eternal city.

Now Akka is a city of prosperity, covering enough space to put many seasoned scholars to behold in awe at its marvel. But it is not yet complete, not yet perfected. The mountain-top rivers which flood into its terrace gardens are not yet at perfect capacity or efficiency, and the housing is not yet numerous enough to warrant roof over those many ambitious ones’ heads. A paradise in making.

Identity:

Aurochylys - Lord of Champions, Master of Bloodlines, Judge of the Worthy, Thief of Will, Despoiler of Unions, Adversary of Conscience.

Potency:

Aurochylys is a healer. He is capable of healing great injury from which recovery would normally be impossible, and can cure a great many maladies that afflict the body. He can also promote vigor and cultivate strength, reshaping those graced by his boons into peerless bastions of peak physical performance. He is also renowned for his supposed capabilities to extend natural lifespans and to ward off death. However, these all pale before the utility of his most terrifying power: Having healed the body or granted good health, he can then take both away from the recipient - leaving them broken and ruinous husks of what they once were.

Rumors and gossip of the true nature of his powers are widespread, numerous, and run a wide gamut of unbelievable nonsense. What is consistent though, is as follows: Aurochylys cannot revive the dead, and despite having power over life and its very essence, cannot steal it from others. He can only take back the boons he has given. He can cure maladies such as blindness and deafness, but not for those who were born blind or deaf. He can promote the regrowth of missing limbs, albeit slowly.

Those who serve him are referred to as three groups - the Immortals, the Deathless, and the Eternals. The names of each group, while clear exaggerations, are nonetheless indicative of an individual's favor with Aurochylys. The Immortals are many, being numerous persons of wealth and influence who have been gifted with eternal life and youth. The Deathless, fewer in number, are for the most part all great warriors, soldiers, and champions of battle, who have been granted eternal life, enhanced vigor, and strength - who are possessed of preternatural physical ability and prowess, and fear only the most debilitating of injuries. The Eternals are the personal servants of Aurochylys, who resemble ordinary mortals, but who are rumored to be nearly entirely free of any fear of death - though the truth of the matter remains a mystery.

Ambition:

Rule By Providence - Aurochylys desires to establish dominion and control over the entirety of creation by proxy, through the control of royal lineages and bloodlines graced with his power - such that effective rule should always be equivocated with his favor and his will.

Life:

The personage of Aurochylys is shrouded in mystery - few have ever seen him. Many who have been graced by his power have admitted to not having known him on sight. He is usually described as having been a stylite in his early life, who faced persecution for his religious practices and was sentenced to death - only for his power to awaken within him upon his sentence of strangulation being carried out. As the stories go, the king who sentenced him to death became his very first servant - and slave. The circumstances of Aurochylys life are otherwise not well known - he is reclusive and mysterious, the nature and origin of his sorcerous powers unknown, and only the small, select few Eternals are known to have regular contact with him. Even to this day, with untold thousands living in his shadow, there are few who know his whereabouts or current plans. What little is known of him is contradictory and confusing - it is said he is generous and charitable, but also wrathful, vengeful to the extreme, and callously petty. It is often remarked that Aurochylys might well 'curse' an individual with great health just for the pleasure of one day depriving them of it. His temperament is best described as capricious, his actions born as much of whimsy as they are of discretion and deliberation.

Potency:
Plethwi’s Dragon is not merely a figurative title - Veles is, following a certain curse from his former master, transformed permanently into the great monster of the ages. Veles has for much of his life since been stuck in this draconic form and has become dangerously competent in his new form. His dragon form is of the archetypal saurian kind - four limbs plus two wings, ability to breath intense flames, claws and tail. His scales are extraordinarily tough, with his upper scales almost completely impervious to mortal weapons, while his ‘vulnerable’ underbelly may require vast numbers of thrown spears and javelins to fell him, as if he were a Mammoth. While the oral traditions and stories of him often compare him to serpents and of deathly speed, in truth Veles is in fact a slow flyer and moves rather like an unstoppable mountain or armoured stone than as lithe blades amongst grass, as the stories go. The stories of speed as such, rather are likely inspired by the shocking terror and suddenness of his attack, which often comes at the dead of night.

Compounding his bestial might and catastrophic flames is his retained intelligence as a sorcerer, including even his ability to continue his use of the sorcerous powers he possessed as a human and which Plethwi instructed him in use, though now as a immense dragon, Veles often requires mortal hands to aid him in the preparation of rituals and ingredients - particularly in the formation of curses, which he specialises in. Much like the curse placed on him by his former master the sorceress-goddess Plethwi, Veles is able to bind others into numerous and often gruesome curses. In particular, Veles favours the use of a form of Geas, a cursed magically binding contract that compels others into its terms at risk of horrific punishment from the curses embedded within. In general, for Veles to perform his curses or ‘witchcraft’ as other users of Plethwi’s magic have called it, he requires the acquisition of often exotic ingredients - strange herbs, precious stones, items or substances associated with the target, and for larger more complex curses, intricate casting circles with ethereal languages that instruct in the curses construction.

Veles, as the Dragon of Plethwi however is not merely a user of this witchcraft, but also a severe victim of it. Plethwi did not merely curse her former apprentice with draconic form and think this curse of great endowing power was the true punishment - but rather the intricate nest of geas’, compulsions and hidden curses embedded into the impossibly complex curse, designed to turn him into an enslaved beast and pet for any whim she could fancy. While Veles eventually escaped or broke enough of these geas-bound conditions, it has inevitably led to him being afflicted by a number of curses that have either altered his body, mind or soul.

Beyond his personal power, Veles also possesses considerable geo-political influence. While Veles himself is no official king or chieftain of any state, he rules a dispersed network of tributaries and autonomous vassals that have come to either bow to his will willingly or submit through overwhelming force. These vassals provide him tribute, often sums of gold and resources, or large quantities of food, or ‘women of regal birth’. The third tribute in particular derives from one of Plethwi’s geas conditions when she bound him to her, which was that he must funnel his magic powers only through a woman of regal birth and noble bearing, which once was herself, but now he kidnaps princesses and chieftains daughters or otherwise receives them as tribute.

Ambition:
Upon his transformation into a dragon, one enslaved to the will of his former master, his most desired wish was to be free of his curse. Even after breaking away from Plethwi’s control, he continued to try to find the means to free himself and transform back into a man. However, as the years became decades, and then finally centuries, his ambition to return to humanity faded, either from acceptance of his new form, the corrupting influence of Plethwi’s curses on his mind providing new and wildly diverging instincts and desires, or simple frustration and hopelessness at the irreversible curses strength.

Now, Veles is driven by a combination of bestial compulsions (despite his human intelligence) and the remnants of vaguely remembered dreams and ambitions he possessed when he was still human, such as his desires to master magic from his passionate youth or collect all the ancient artifacts of the dead gods, as was often what he did when he accompanied Plethwi in her travels to secure said powers. Revenge too, against his treacherous master is a desire built up deep within the hidden recesses of his mind, even if the remnants of Plethwi’s curses on him forbid him from even thinking of killing her. This desire itself is conflicted also, due to the complex relationship he had with Plethwi, as well as the bizarre nature of her betrayal and the inciting of Dyeus the Thunder God and himself into ‘battling eternally for her favour’.

Life:
Once, over a century ago, Veles was but a mortal man. Born on the palace-isle of Menea to a handmaiden, he was discovered as a child by the almighty travelling sorceress Plethwi. Plethwi, sensing great potential for sorcery in the boy persuaded the king of Menea to force his mother to relinquish him to her tutorship. Veles accompanied the sorceress Plethwi through his youth, adolescence and young adulthood until finally, his master betrayed him, deciding to turn one of her most complex curses ever made, one in which he assisted in crafting the foundations for, on him.

The reasons of her betrayal are only suspected by Veles - perhaps she grew tired of him, or felt threatened by his rapid learning of her magical arts. Perhaps the reason really was what she told him after he broke free from her enslavement, that she would forgive him for some vague past transgression and ‘win her heart back’ if he slew the mad barbarian warlord hero she sent after him, a ‘test’ that would become the century-long vendetta it is today. Perhaps she did it out of pure maliciousness, or just because she could.

Regardless, as every year passes, Veles the man fades away ever more distantly and so Veles the Dragon of Plethwi replaces him, obsessed with hoarding gold and artifacts, demanding tribute from mortal kingdoms and collecting maidens of ‘regal birth’.

Identity
His name is Dyauphater, or Dyaus Phater.
The daylight sky-lord and patron of warriors and masculinity -- Lord of the vast diurnal sky. For the heavens are the celestial steppes through which he roams on his chariot pulled by his two trusted flying goats. When he flies, he does so in a conjured storm cloud. As such Dyauphater is known also as ‘storm-bringer’.

He is a champion of the untamed wildlands at the outremer of the civilized world. Dyauphater is a warlord, and one of several leaders at the helm of a confederation of independently minded roaming and pastoralist societies known as the Schayan. The Schayan people deify Dyauphater as their patron and protector.

Potency
Beastmastery, as many a Schayan had in primeval times domesticated the wild horse that roam their hyperborean homeland.
Mundanely Dyauphater is proficient at animal husbandry and carpenting, crafting wheels for the trademark cart for which the Schayan are renowned in traversing their vast, largely sparsely if not unpopulated homelands. Dyauphater' affinity for animals showed in the care he put into his flock of goats, combining his husbandry with wizardry to selectively breed two magical-goats -- Bokkos and Kapros, his inseparable companions and probably Dyauphater’ best and mightiest friends. They are flying, celestial goats whose burning fur crackle with fire and lightning, emit great light and possess great magical aptitude. Indeed, you might go so far as to call them wizards… despite being goats.

Dyauphater himself isn’t capable of flight and it is only through Bokkos and Kapros, and the cart that they transport him with, that he is capable of aviation.
To be sure, Bokkos and Kapros are arguably the true source of Dyauphater’ power and make up two thirds of his full strength. When the three are together, they are all-mighty bringers of the untamable tempest of the sky!
The connection of Bokkos and Kapros towards Dyauphater is so strong, that Dyauphater can butcher one, eat it, and then resurrect it using its bones, and continue on roaming the wide open skies though nothing had happened without the goats thinking any less of him.
Even a celestial sky-lord needs to eat, you see.

Dyauphater no longer has need for a spear… His spear is lightning and the elements around him, which shapes in his hand at will, and which he uses to great effect in smiting his enemies.

Ambition:
As Dyauphater regards himself the spiritual successor of the Gods of Old, he feels the compulsive need to show his greatness to the world. As such he is struck with vanity and a shallow hungering for glory. Particularly to win the affection of and marry the beautiful Plethwi. The Sorceress Plethwi had stated that only he who passes her arduous trials could win her heart. Accordingly, Dyauphater has vowed to do just that, and he cast off to his first trial... obtaining the tooth of the dark dragon Veles.
However when Dyauphater challenged the dragon for a fair battle of wizardry, Veles refused to meet him in battle and instead evicted him from his lair. Slighted and indignant, Dyauphater spurred on his Schayan kinsmen to invade the Dragon's northern tributaries for no reason other than to get Veles' attention. It worked.
However when Dyauphater bid his kinsmen to leave, the Schayan refused to relinquish their new hard-fought cities and properties. The Schayan conquests led to the rise of a new Kingdom -- the Schayan ruled Kingdom of Ittarya.

Life:

What is known:
He grew up amongst a royal clan of the Schayan. He unearthed the power of wizardry, which inflated his pride and self-worth monumentally, and saw mere kingship as insufficient. He combined his wizardry with his knowledge of husbandry towards spawning the greatest of beasts, which led to the creation of Bokkos and Kapros.
After which he became an outrider, departing from the northern wastelands of Hyperborea. He discovered the civilized world and these strange agrarian settlements known as ‘cities’.
And he discovered Plethwi, the sorceress and fairest woman in the world, who had ensnared him under her spell. Dyauphater, in a sense, lost his freedom, and now dedicates his life in seeking a way to woo her. Thus began Plethwi's arduous trials.

Identity: Elmer the Wise, The Patient Bull; the Wiseman; the Horns of Civilization; the First Carpenter, Eternity’s Scribe, Primeval Man, Patron of Academia

Potency: The Elmer known throughout the world as the ‘Horns of Civilization” is a man of terrible posture. Standing nearly eight feet tall, his height towers over the others, making him an imposing figure to behold; his long shadow swallowing smaller individuals like pebbles resting at the foot of a mountain hunched over with the weight of age. Despite his proportions and his crooked frame, the aura surrounding him is actually one of calmness and deep thought. In a sort of dichotomy, his stature is opposed by this mindful presence, which plainly shows that he is a man more comfortable with words and ideas than force.

As is the case, in his youth Elmer gave up his personal life to study, to learn, and to educate those around him; he forfeited any chance of rest so that he could focus on the duties that he believed in. Along his path to rulership, a road that lasted ages and spawned legends, Elmer continually elected to give up pleasures and opportunities in order to pursue goals that he found important; he led resistance cells against tyrannical rulers when he could have ascended beside them; he gave up bodily pleasures in order to hone his mind; he gifted his savage brothers with enlightenment when they berated him for leaving the darkness of their caves; and he even chose to fast during times of imbalance when he could have fed himself at leisure. All of these choices formulate the man known as Elmer the Wise.

Just as his title denotes, Elmer’s wisdom is his greatest weapon. A scholar in all things mundane and extraordinary, Elmer has spent every waking moment of his dreadfully long existence collecting all sorts of knowledge. The earth holds no secret that Elmer does not know or ceaselessly attempts to root out. His sharp mind formulated sacred geometric equations that splice corners of reality and allow him to peek into its private parts. His gnarled hands craft contraptions and automations beyond the scope of mortal man. Matter is but a tool, capable of being ripped apart and put back together with the right alchemical recipe and enough force. It is all these things and more that allowed the Wiseman to rise to the position of leadership he holds now. His guidance of savages and their path to enlightenment has put him atop the ziggurat of the social hierarchy among many a kingdom and people. And while it’s power appeals little to him, his self-appointed duty to dredge life up out of the trenches of ignorance and savagery pushes him to educate, administrate, and guide man to the light and the pinnacle of existence that is civilization.

Ambition: Knowing all too well that his selflessness is often taken for arrogance, Elmer often keeps his rather lofty ideas for mankind to himself. Compulsion pushes him to share his wisdom with anyone who will listen. He derives joy from seeing the light in the eyes of a child who finally learns to read, or the student who finally grasps the principles of matter. Elmer and his disciples are a Mecca to any scholar, craftsman, or chemist seeking to learn and understand the world they reside in. And he is all too happy to lift those who roll in mash in the mud of savagery up into the light of civilization. As is mankind’s natural evolution.

Life: The oldest scholar—perhaps the most ancient in existence—carries with him a legend of perseverance, self-discovery, and wisdom that brought him to the position that he holds today. Elmer, born in the man’s early history was one of those lucky souls who led their life on the path towards peace and serenity. A scholar by trade, he worked tirelessly to study and archive the vast philosophies of his native lands, and in his journeys he helped promote the idea of self-discipline and the value of knowledge to those he encountered. His efforts to educate others helped bring prosperity and opportunity to many who would have remained ignorant in those troubled times, and brought about the vestiges of earliest civilization. By all accounts, his life is a noble one, filled with the virtues of a stayed hand and a wise tongue.

Identity: Though as youthful in appearance as in age, Gwndyric is already known by many names; he is called Bearhert, Rid-Cub, Fire-in-th'-Een, Stane-n'-Sun-in-th'-Veins, Lang-Spear, Lad-wha'-wid-Don-Crown, Laird-o'-Mony-Breeks, and even He-wha'-is-Seendle-Fun-Claes. Though young, tempestuous and full of fire, Gwndyric is held as the prophesied hero of all the Sinn Dhein. At least, by those who believe the prophesies.

Life: Gwndyric was born a special case as the exact nature and details surrounding his birth are completely unknown. Among some rumors and myths it is said that he was born to the bears that raised him, while others admit that it is far more likely he was simply orphaned at a young age. All that is known is that a young Gwndyric was caught by a shepherd, stuffing his face with the steaming meat of one of the shepherd's cows. As recompense for the loss of the cow, Gwndyric was taken in by the family and presented to the local chieftain. The older man, wise as he was noble, offered up a solution; let the young wildboy pay for the slain doe with service and familial duty. With that, Gwndyric was christened as Aed and was adopted as a stripling member of the Clan.

Though his early youth was difficult as the boy called Aed had little in the way of human knowledge, the lad slowly learned the life of a herdsman. As a child of the Sinn Dhein, Aed was raised with all the knowledge necessary to keep cattle, give praise to the land, and defend his home when needs called for it. The family's wolfhound, which had passed the month before Aed's adoption, was soon replaced by the fiery youth. As dogged as any hound and equally as vigilant, the red-lad soon made a name for himself as a potent fighter and herdsman. Local soothsayers assured the adopted parents of Aed's potential and spoke of the kyne about him as something mighty to behold. Still, Aed was but a herdsman's son. Even in those young days he was a lady-killer and the charm held in his bronze eyes, flaming hair and charming smile could melt glaciers. Some even said he was as virile as the bears who raised him and the bulls he herded. No matter the task Aed seemed more that able and rival clans dreaded him for both the sudden loss of their cattle and of their daughters for Aed is strong, quick, and dreadfully cunning.

The moment that cast Aed as Gwndyric and into legend was a tale worthy of the throat of any bard. Numerous folk spoke of Aed's herd being raided one night when he foolishly left them alone to spend his night with a distant beauty. Upon learning of this, and of the poachers' cowardice for having jumped his herd only when they knew he was away, Aed howled long into the night. There was a power in him that could not be stopped and by dawn of the next day he had somehow caught up with the raiders. Two dozen strong and full of muscle, those hearty reivers thought themselves easily a match for the boy. Nae it were so, with Stane-n'-Sun-in-th'-Veins cross the way. Whatever divine spark of sorcerous potency was born from the his happenstance of birth cracked that morn and the very light of the sun and the rocks of the earth answered his roaring command. Of those score or more of warrior-lads, none left that place with their blood right-side in. Thus was Gwndyric named.

It was of this tale that called to the Seer of the Sinn Dhein, which gave focus to his prophecy and led the elderman to Gwndyric. So armed with the tale of his power and the prognostication of his own dreaming, the Seer found his way to Gwndyric and told the boy of his destiny. Gwndyric was told of his divinely-inspired parentage, his clanhood with the Gods of old no longer rightly worshiped by the Sinn Dhein, and of his fate that sang of the crown that would sit squarely on his head. Since then, Gwndyric has learned from the Seer's tutelage and gained ever more kyne about him.

Potency: Gwndyric is a sorceror of considerable raw power if little direction. From his supposedly divine ancestry, Gwndyric has inherited an intensity equal to that of the sun in the sky and the fire below the ground. Gwndyric's powerful collection of spells are more honestly referred to as outbursts and represent a lack of scholarly control over the acts he performs. Much like the very earth and sky he roars into action, Gwndyric's abilities are natural and primitive. The Howling, Gwndyric's means by which he calls onto his magical gifts, comes out in the form of shouted curses, charming know-nothings, or mumbled phrases. When so rightfully expressed, through expletive or act, Gwndyric can make nature howl and shake alongside him. His is the natural powers of the world, making tree grow, rock roll, and lightning crash. Most of all, he is a blazing son of the flaming sun; spears of solar anguish flash downward from above or straight from the man himself towards his enemies.

In addition to the natural world shaking at his step and rising at his cries, Gwndyric has the capacity to strike that power into others. When men and women hear the howling they surge with fire and fury. In each warrior this can be expressed differently; for a man of strong arm but weak constitution, a rage fills his heart that burns away fear like darkness cast far from sight while a man of great heart but little strength might feel his skin turn to oak and his arm filled with bull's blood. With the howl men become as bears and bulls, their blood full of fire, their minds moving like water, their legs as fast as wind, and their hides as strong as stone. So it is that alongside Gwndyric comes a retinue of firebrands, warrior-companions all empowered by the sorcerous rantings of their chieftain as well as all manner of natural things, from beasts that walk and fly and elemental creations that despise the enemies of Sinn Dhein.

Of his own might, Gwndyric seems only empowered further by the magics of his making. The Howling, in its intensity and consistency of use, has seemed to either suffuse new strength into the warrior-lad or perhaps raised to the surface the power that hung beneath his skin. He is stronger than the mightiest bear, faster than the most zephyrous whirlwind, and more hardy than the toughest of bulls. While he Howls these strengths are empowered further, though seem to return to normalcy as the howling subsides.

Ambition: Gwndyric's wants and needs have remained largely the same; he wants a herd of his own, a gorgeous woman in his arms, and a spear in hand to protect his home. It is, in fact, the scale that has changed. From his tutelage under the Seer, Gwndyric has come to see things very differently from his youthful past. ALL cattle in the herds of the Sinn Dhein are his to protect, all women of his people his to care for, and all lands of the Sinn Dhein his to safeguard. His goals, then, have been made simple; Gwndyric seeks the unification of the disparate and often conflicting clans of the Sinn Dhein as one people as the Seer prophesied so that the invasions and predations of those who would wrong them can be stopped wholly and utterly. Gwndyric's primary, driving desire, above all things both real and fae, is the freedom of his people. As such, the lad who would wear the crown will unite his people and set clarity in the land to show clearly what is Sinn Dhein and what is not.

Identity: Only a year into his powers as a Sorcerer, and still young, Irawhaki has few names and few deeds to earn him names. Still, he is known to his people as The Undying, The Great Uniter, and the Soul Speaker.

Potency:

Irawhaki is a master sailor and fisherman, capable of piloting the canoes of his people through almost any weather.

Irawhaki is a skilled warrior, though by no means a master of warfare and combat.

Irawhaki's powers are related to death, the dead (and undead), and the crossing between life and death. Of those abilities that are relating to his body, chiefly Irawhaki is no longer mortal. He no longer requires food or drink (though he does partake out of enjoyment), sleep, or to breathe. He suspects that he also no longer ages and his body is in stasis, but being only a year into his powers there is no way of confirming that.

While his body can sustain wounds and heals from them (if it can) like a normal human, when Irawhaki dies of these wounds his soul is briefly thrown into what he has named the Afterlife (where all the souls of the dead go, more on that farther down). He spends a few moments there and then is thrust back into his body, whatever wounds he may have gained before his death completely healed as if they had never occurred.

Irawhaki can also see supernatural things that are invisible to others. Ghosts, spirits, and others that do not wish to be seen.

Being in tune with the death and the souls of the dead, Irawhaki can go to what he has dubbed the Afterlife. It is where the souls of the dead all go, from the beginning of time. The oldest spirits there talk of other Afterlives, created by the Primordials that came before the Sorcerers of today. Afterlives either torn down by their creator's deaths, or sealed forever with their creator's departure. It is a place of mystery, danger, and ruin. In some places, the Afterlife will resemble the living world, and travelling between the two is simple. In others, particularly powerful or numerous souls control how Afterlife acts and what it looks like. Irawhaki has only visited some very small parts of it, and only explores very carefully. Amongst the press and flow of the mobs of souls that traverse the Afterlife, there are ancient spirits in the Afterlife. Monsters and champions of the primordials, lesser beings that sought to reach the heights of the gods, and others. If he isn’t careful, his soul will be destroyed and even he can’t come back from that.

Irawhaki can go into the Afterlife both physically and spiritually, and take others with him, depending on his needs.

Irawhaki can manipulate souls for his purpose. He can summon the souls of the dead to him in the living world, to aid him in scouting a new area, tell him of the history of the land, or warn him of dangers. He can summon the dead to fight for him though it is easier if they have vessels (similar in shape to what they were when alive) to go into. It is possible for him to create spectral warriors or monsters, but more difficult. The stronger the soul, the more power it takes and the less control he has over them.

The souls of soldiers or wolves who had died hundreds of years ago can be put into skeletons and commanded to fight for him easily. The soul of a champion of the Primordials or a monster of the Primordials is much more difficult and almost entirely independent if he can summon them. When the souls of the dead are corrupted (becoming demons or monsters) or wrathful (possessing or attacking the living) he can purify or calm them and return them to the Afterlife.

Irawhaki can let souls enter and partially possess him, granting him the skills, knowledge, and power of the soul in question. A mighty warrior would grant him their strength and skill with arms, while a hunter their tracking and ability to move silently through nature. In theory, this also means anyone with magical abilities would be granted to him so long as he allowed their souls to reside in his body. Irawhaki is afraid of doing this, however, as souls that are powerful enough to have magical abilities are also strong willed enough to potentially over power him and cast his soul out of his own body forever.

By far the most terrifying of Irawhaki’s abilities is his control over the souls of the living. He can sense and feel the souls of all the living things around him, and by concentrating can grasp onto them. So far all he can do is violently remove a living person’s soul from their body and cast it into the Afterlife (the less powerful, less magic touched they are, the easier it is, with other Sorcerers, powerful servants of them and magical creatures being impossible), but not even he knows how far these powers will develop and what more he may be able to do.

Ambition:

Irawhaki has three main goals, currently:

1) Put to rest the angry and corrupted souls of the world. With the death, slumber, or otherwise departure of the Primordials, many of the souls in the world have been put out of balance and enraged. These result in corrupted ruins, haunted forests, and other dark places mortals are taught to fear. Irawhaki wants to bring balance and peace to the world through putting those souls to rest.

2) Gather artifacts of the Primordials, especially those that will grant him access to powers he does not have and augment his abilities. He has heard whispers and rumors of older, more powerful Sorcerers that seek to shape the world to their will and bring all others under their control. He will make himself ready for their arrival. He must.

3) Craft a proper Afterlife for the souls of the dead. The most ambitious of his goals by far, Irawhaki seeks to make a proper place for the souls of the dead to go to. Currently the Afterlife is a wild, untamed place, subject to the whims of chance and wills of the strongest or most numerous, and everyone is thrown in together regardless of if they were good or evil. Irawhaki seeks to create an Afterlife where all can be content, and the most evil and dangerous of souls are locked away.

---

Potency:

As a child, Ulfrag was raised under the stars. They watched over him and the ways of all his people. They delivered answers. They delivered questions. On the night of his birth no stars, nor clouds, nor sun, nor moon met the child as he cried into the night. It had been told. And yet the gothi of this backwater tribe looked down on her son with confusion. How could a heart have such love, and yet such hate?

One score years passed since that night. The Boy has grown mightier than he has wits to control. He bends the mist and air around him, whispers words into the air that no mouth has spoken, and bends the eyes of many to dream in the light of day--both of wild delights and primal fears. At his will, shadows and light dance through the water and wood as he steps on the twilight of what is real and what is other. The water and rocks hide him, some even say they keep him company with the stories they tell. They say he often takes the forms of other beasts who slink in the brush, always watching, always listening.

The people fear Ulfrag, yet are drawn to him. The frigid bog which has sheltered them from dangers of the outside world now will take no seeds. Both fish and fur have moved far afield. They look to their gothi for answers, yet she only questions the stars.

Ambition:

Do the stars make our fates? Why do the stars say who falls in battle and who raises the head of their foe; who grows fat and old while others wither from foul water; why a rock may grow moss in its rest and not be shattered by the tides? Perhaps the world is better off in a place where the stars and their terrestrial kin have no such say. Or perhaps without the stars to choose, the world is doomed to chaos. No matter the answer, Ulfrag's people must survive. With his mother’s last breath they shall be his charge and he will share their fate in this world or the next.

Life:

Ulfrag’s people are scarcely known by those who do not neighbor the tribes of the north. They are a forgettable folk who struggle on the edge of existence. Though meager in number and sophistication, their communities are tight and culture rich. They are a hearty people, but even the strong have their limits.

Legend has it that the people were called to this land by a force. This whisper led them from the chaos of the wilds and bronze blades of the “civilized.” In the time before even the grayest of elders, this swamp was the petrified remains of carnage from bygones ago. The bodies of giants lay strewn throughout her wastes. Their stony carapaces now seed the life of trees, moss, and lichens so heavily that they are almost unrecognizable. But the people of this land know they live in a graveyard and know they must one day leave it lest they add to its count.

At the heart these ancient bodies was found a fragment of an ancient weapon. It’s primordial owner long since having left or perished. This shard is what called to the wandering people of Thokk. It was pulled from the murky depths and placed upon a sprig of birch. The weapon reborn is held only by the gothi of the tribe. It is the ceremonial and literal linchpin of power. All who know it and feel it, fear it. The people whisper that it is the cause of primordial stone that liters their land. Whether or not it still holds this power is unknown, but fear holds a greater power all its own.

Identity: Pennaeth Nolwenn ach Dinordow: Forgemaster of Dinordow, Ranger of the Freeholds, and Tyrantsbane

Potency: Six years into her “reign” as a sorcerer, Nolwenn is still testing and learning the nature of her Power. This much is clear : Given even the most mundane of rocks, she can mold them into bronze of the finest quality. Nor does the smith need flame or hammer to ply her trade : Norwenn’s fingers render the toughest stone into molten sludge, and her palms shape any substance effortlessly without fear for burns, cuts, or bruising. Moreover, not by Norwenn’s whim but seemingly because her power has a mind of its own, a few of her creations possess unusual qualities. This applies foremost to her personal tools and weapons. Arrows and javelins are known to break against her armor without making a dent, but a single arrow from her own bow can pierce through shield and plate. Her sword glows white hot, but retains its shape with incredible stubbornness. Still, occasionally, power will pass into an object crafted for another : A scythe made like any other allows a farmer to reap three heads of grain for every stalk it cuts, and a helmet intended as a gift restores the eyes and ears of a grievously wounded veteran. Thus far, at the direction of her followers, Norwenn has taken such blessings to mark “chosen” devotees. The farmer now leads the council of her freehold, and the veteran sits on Norwenn’s council of war. But neither the sorceress nor her comrades really know the intentions of whatever presence accompanies her abilities. Is it the ancient War Goddess Nuada guiding a champion? A mountain spirit following the terms of an unspoken pact? A remnant of the Chaos, working according to “logic” beyond mortal reason?

Ambition: Is there such a thing as a “good” King? Perhaps, but if so Nolwenn hasn’t seen it yet. With Kings come governors, tax collectors, mercenaries, and slave-drivers. Under a “good” King, are the slaves happy and free? Do the mouths of hungry villagers come before the war-chest? Nolwenn doubts it. So she fights first to defend a different way of living, and second to purge the old way as far as her power can reach.

Life: Since her days as a simple apprentice, Nolwenn was a prolific craftswoman. But such skill means little for the reputation of no-name bondsfolk, children of no-name bondsfolk. In the lands of Donubia – the fertile, hilly crossroads of the island kingdoms to the South, the Dragon’s tributaries and Ziggurat Empires across the deserts to the East, and the herd clans to the West – the esteemed court-slave is no less subject to the whims of their sorcerer-lord than the rural serf, and perhaps more so for sheer proximity. They do as their lords command, and for Nolwenn this was tending to the war-forges of the Druidlord Cadoc in his capital of Din Cadoc. Her javelins flew in his retaliations against tax evaders and fugitives, and her plating insulated his Staff of Power as it drove rivers away from Cadoc’s enemies – starving entire villages to demonstrate his authority.

Yet, the clever bondswoman worked harder than her lord realized. Weapons flowed also to storehouses for secret collaborators, and a remarkable bronze-plated bow into her own hands. The Staff of Power was no use when Nolwenn’s arrow landed in Cadoc’s eye, nor could it even hold its form when she shattered it upon her forge’s anvil. But the Power itself did not die...it simply moved and assumed new form. Nolwenn found herself the new Sorcerer – but she would not assume the title of Lord. She would only be Pennaeth – Warchief and Protector. There would be no more bondsfolk or dynasts in Din Cadoc- now renamed Dinordow. The people would rule themselves.

From there, the Ranger worked systematically. Every hillfort of every governor Cadoc had appointed was overrun, and its satellite villages united under councils of their former serfs and slaves – turned free cultivators and artisans. Now the Forgemaster of Dinordow protects a loose but sizeable confederacy of such freeholds. Despite three years of peace, even the masters of the greater cities of Donubia fear the growing power of Tyrantsbane and the disturbingly well-equipped militias that follow her.

Identity:

The woman who is now Setlacana claims to have abandoned her name as she crossed the gates of the underworld, beneath Catcatepetl, where it is said that only the dead may speak. She emerged as Setlacana of the Endless Dance, and as she danced atop the four towers of Eztotlan and lit the four beacons she was said to ascend, becoming Cihuāmitoāni.

Potency

Setlacana’s sorcerous gifts, taken from blood and now flowing within her own, are keenly focused in a particular direction and usage--her power is the power of passion, the fires that it starts, and the blood that it courses through with every thrum of pounded drum and beating heart. All that Setlacana does and is known to do spills this destructive and consumptive passion ‘cross the world, and its ardour is known to nestle within the veins of men and light a fire that can never be quenched. It begins slowly, and is easy to ignore--but it soon twists the thoughts and the body towards its desires and passions, and creates a hunger that no amount of feasting or revelry can ever hope to sate. As the fire within the blood begins to boil only the ecstatic pleasures of the flesh will suffice, and the heart becomes a pounding drum whose sound invites equal parts euphoria and madness.

When the blood begins to catch alight, the body is changed in small ways too--the blood begins to sizzle and boil within the veins, and the catalytic nature of the ardour begins to convert some of it into Teoatl Ichinoa. It is the essence of corruptive, destructive pleasure--and though it cannot be allowed to settle in the blood, as its fire would burn away the flesh, there are ways it can be safely consumed. It is known to cause the ardour (if it has not begun already), a rush of ecstatic pleasure floods the very soul, and the ceaseless, pounding beat of the Endless Dance makes itself known in the heart and the mind.

Setlacana is a consummate dancer--every movement of her body, every smouldering gaze she deigns to visit upon her would-be worshippers, every rhythmic stroke and slash of the Xiptecpatl against her skin draws the eye and ensnares the mind. The passion with which she moves is contagious, and the constancy of her undulating steps hammers her magic home--as she dances, she bids the blood to rise and follow, and it has been known for men to resist her rapturous advances but still dance along to her tune without knowing quite why, and without being able to cease.

Beyond her magic, Setlacana is a woman of many talents--she plays practically every instrument that has ever been brought before her with a grace and skill befitting her form, and the human body is one such instrument she has mastered. Through years of presiding over ritual sacrifice, she knows full well each of the corded muscles and tender crevices to pluck to draw forth screams of pain and pleasure alike--and she is well-versed in the practices necessary to preserve the flesh once the soul has passed, and turn them into the drums and the flutes and the ocarinas that drive the Endless Dance.

Ambition:

Setlacana is, first and foremost, a creature of exceptional passion and fervour. She spends her life in a cloud of ecstatic, fervent bliss--giving thought primarily to what it is that will stoke the flames within her blood to ever-greater heights. She shares this ecstasy freely with all who meet her, and wishes to find those who might resist the ardour for long enough to spur her debauchery on to its limits--and to then shatter those limits. It should be noted that, despite her pursuit of hedonistic and destructive bliss, Setlacana is not a negligent or derelict ruler of her people--she cares for their needs as surely as she takes care of her own and will go to extravagant lengths to ensure that her people’s Endless Dance is never interrupted by want of food, shelter, or space--and will defend them against external threats with extreme prejudice.

Life:

Within the four towers of Eztotlan, the story of Cihuāmitoāni’s ascension is never far from the lips of a priest or a child. Though the tale does not decorate the carved walls of the temples, where the glories of the absentee gods above and the imprisoned gods below are carved into stone and metal, it is told through song, through dance, and through blood:

As the story goes, Setlacana was once another woman--the high priestess of Ezo Totec--and supped from his sacred blood to make a pilgrimage beneath the earth and into the Coctlan to face off against the gods of death. Before the gates, she drank of the last drops of the gods who had walked the earth before ascending to Izoltan. At the gates, she was visited by Ezo Totec, and drank of his sacred blood to ensure her safe passage through the treacherous trials within Coctlan.

It is said that for four years she descended beneath the earth to the very bottom of the worlds, and observed the Gods of Death performing the sacred dance that permitted their eternal existence. Swift of foot and empowered by the divine blood, she was said to have studied their movements for an entire year, to learn their patterns and practice them herself, until she caught their notice--but by then, she had already learned the dance, and they could no longer kill her. So stunned by this revelation were they that they forgot the next step of their dance and she danced still, allowing her to kill them and triumph over death.

Four years later, she was said to rise from the depths of Coctlan, dancing still, and taught her people the Endless Dance that the Gods of Death might no longer torture their souls for all eternity when they died.

How much truth is contained within this tale is for Setlacana alone to know. She is the only one still living who can remember a time where she was not Cihuāmitoāni--though it is known, from time to time, for those who partake of her Teoatl Ichinoa to remember a different story. Those that speak of this story are never far from the knife, or a missed step in the dance.

To tell the story of Myrda is to speak of three tales entwined. The sense and culture of a people--the Taryne; to speak of the mortal--Myr; and to speak of the Sorcerer himself--Myrda Sciorene. So it is that you must know of the Taryne, a people whose only place in the world could be described as desolate. Vast ravines amid a stony wasteland of brittle flora and sparse, hidden fauna. It is in these lands which no other desired that the Taryne made their home, living in deep caves to escape the harsh winds and harsher shifts in temperature. Among these far-flung people carving a niche in the wastelands of Taryn, Myr was born to a pair whose names have long since been forgotten.

The boy who would become Myrda is said to have been born touched by the spirits and so--soon after he could fend for himself--he was released into the world. It is said that he wandered for eight days eight times over, barely subsisting on the little he could forage or trap. Like many of his people, death was a friend, always walking several steps behind, waiting to catch you when you fell.

Yet, though his prospects were bleak, he never failed to catch himself and carry on. Many times was he run out of settlements, for the sight of his spirit touched eyes--like glowing amber limned with silver--told his people more than he could ever explain away. Still, a fire was in those alien eyes, and a strange droning hum had entered him, pulling him like metal to a lodestone. With time he found a place somewhere near the center of those lands.

Through near-starvation and terrible thirst over craggy hills and deep within ravines, he trudged. Eventually, he became aware again. He knew not how long he had wandered, only that he could go no further than the deep chasm before him. With the last of his flagging strength, he descended.

No one knows how far he went, nor how long he remained in that abandoned place. As no one saw him emerge, it is a mystery whether it truly was the same lad who eventually clawed his way back up from those depths.

All that is known is that someone did emerge. Someone who resembled the young man who'd once begged at the mouths of many caves, asking only for what he needed for survival.

Yet it was no starving adolescent who passed the threshold of that first cave-home. It was someone else entirely. He was a man with quiet, piercing, haunted eyes, full with a deep knowing unheard of in those lands and a strength of presence utterly unknown to the Tarynean people.

He called himself Myrda Sciorene.

In those days, he was simply a man of great presence and wisdom. He taught. He worked, and he directed. With time he came to know each of the many tribes, and with each his rapport was unmatched. Slowly over a matter of many years, he drew their leaders closer to him, and the youth of those places closer still.

With these would-be outcast children, he built his own place, and therein life grew more abundantly than anywhere else. Yet the earth remained as desolate and unforgiving as before. Nonetheless, many plants came to grow upon his land, spreading slowly. Water too seemed to spill from that place, purer than anywhere else. Its life-nourishing essence pressed out from the city. Wherever the water touched in that desolate land, it brought--with the slow patience of time--new life.

So it was that the Taryne expanded from their former homes, their small hidden settlements becoming towns, and then--in lesser number--cities as trade was established between clans. All the while, Myrda’s power, and renown grew for the people who had been his knew from where the bounty had come, even if they could not understand its nature...or its price. So, as the Taryne grow and expand, remembering age-old grudges of those who had driven them from their ancestral lands, Myrda’s power changes him, with his people none the wiser.
Dwelling now in the great edifice of Anaryd Vhana, Myrda exerts his influence over the world, remaining in shadows--only his most trusted students and confidantes allowed to enter his presence. To his people, he is Sotyras, Lightbringer, He-Who-From-Nothing-Springs-All, Wiseman, leader, and perhaps sorcerer. However, as sects of his people take up arms, thinking to conquer foreign lands to avenge their long-gone kin--those many who died in the ravaged plains of their home--he comes to be known by others beyond his ilk. Reaver, Devourer, Writhe, and to those few who witness his power directly and live: He-Whose-Shadow-Eats-The-Soul. This reveals Myrda to be a sorcerer of two natures, one who desires the betterment of humanity, his people especially. A man who is not the least bit averse to sacrifice and long arduous work. Compassionate, driven, fierce, and wise. Yet...at once, a person with a hunger behind his kindhearted gaze, a darkness behind his ferocity. A shadow...hiding in plain sight, limned by light, hovering in the center of awareness, unseen. Perhaps the Taryne are wrong to idolize him so, after all, no one knows for sure if Myr and Myrda are one and the same...or if something other wore his skin when he left that long-forgotten place.

Only time will tell.
Myrda’s power is a force from beyond, pressed out into the world; the echoing consciousness of a dark memory of ages past. It is like a slithering, skittering horde of venomous insects, harmless if left alone, dangerous if disturbed. Infectious, this power impugns upon the sanctity of the world’s natural laws, manifesting a whispering resonance that shifts the nature of things closer to its own. It can change the laws that govern the properties or nature of any substance--living or inanimate--though at a great cost. With each alteration of the world, each manifestation of Chaos’ dying hold, the unseen contagion subsumes its host--or those chosen to hold its dread influence. With every display of sorcerous might, Myrda is subsumed further by this calamitous intelligence, its nature eroding at his humanity in both body and mind. Believing firmly in self-sacrifice, as many of his people are, he accepts this cost so that the Taryne might prosper in truth; so that others might never go hungry as he did...so long ago.

Though this eldritch essence slowly subsumes its host(s), it similarly gives boons of a fashion to them, in the form of additional limbs, augmented physiology, and exceptional longevity. For as they alter the world, those twisted rules warp them in kind, causing mutations to occur even as strange anomalous properties come to inhabit the host’s vessel. In this way, though his body is frail beneath the robes and inhuman viscera, he remains a danger if confronted physically. Beyond this Myrda is an adept survivalist and scholar, studying the world, its histories, and cultures, as well as knowing how to survive in it. He understands his people, both intuitively and on a more rational level, and a good thing too...for if logic had no hold in his mind, he might already be lost.

The Other claws at the edges of reality, its echo heard only by the mad and dying, its touch only by those who have given themselves to its insidious embrace. Yet, there remains hope amidst the inevitability of consumption, it is for this that Myrda grasps. Every second of every day he pursues the betterment of humanity so that others--if not he--might one day cure the blight that he bore back into the world from a foregone age.

With the sweat of his brow and many sacrifices of both flesh and mind, Myrda is a man seeking redemption in hopes that his life’s works might absolve him of crimes committed in the future. He is a man of fierce passion, tempered by the sobering truth of immortality, his appetite sated by visions of worlds beyond their own, forces neither seen nor understood, terrible things better left in the far reaches--unseen, ignored, unnoticed. Having brought such a thing to the fore, Myrda Sciorene’s greatest desires are to exploit this power for the benefit of man and to understand this thing, so that he might conquer it--if not in this life, then perhaps through those who come after.

The doings of his people are another matter, as while many have accepted peace and wish only to live and love; others remain unsatisfied, carrying grudges, desiring ever more. Myrda’s life is an endless struggle to achieve his goals while sating the needs and wants of his people, his mind ever at war with itself...and perhaps something else as well….