Name: Eira Foundling

Race: Half-Elf/Half-Human
Class: Babarian-esque Ice Mage*
Background:
Gwyn's life began like most do, springing forth from her mother. Unlike most, hers happened amidst a blizzard. Her mother, once the wife of a Norsinian noble had committed adultery with a travelling Elf. The deceit was kept from her husband for several months, but he still discovered the truth. Enraged, the noble decided to put his wife to the sword for said crime. Several servants ushered their forsaken lady from the castle and into the northern wastes. Like this the group travelled for months, always on the move. They knew of the wild tribes farther to the north, of bear-men and savages. That was their goal, to seek refuge among them. Alas, it was not meant for them. No one truly knows what happened to the servants, but Gwyn's mother did not survive the blizzard's fury. She gave birth, unaided and alone, Amongst howling winds and piercing cold.

The woman only had moments with her bloodsoaked infant before the winds picked up and swallowed them both. Eventually the blizzard died. There was only one body left, that of an infant's. Scarred, and skin as cold as ice, but a fiercely beating heart stayed in her chest.

Eira, as the child would come to be known as, was found by one of the northern tribes. Amongst them she was raised, though never truly excepted. She was scarred, deformed, and her touch brought pain. You see, Eira had inherited her true father's ability of empathy, but, like the rest of her, it was scarred. She could experience nothing from others nor truly show them herself. Only one thing passed through her accursed touch. The cold, biting winds of a true blizzard.

Now, Eira, in the loosest sense of the term, could be called a mage. She does have mana afterall. But she can't use, at least not intentionally. The Northern cold just builds under skin, unable to escape. But it wasn't till that fateful day, where her Rage, all that anger and pain, from years of being treated as less then a person boiled over. It did not come like the Orcish Bloodrage, which is hot, and wet, and red. No, Eira's is as cold as Northern Snow, as expansive as Winter, and as uncaring as the world itself. The girl, only 14 years old, had lashed out. Her power coalescing into great blades of ice as snow covered her eyes. When she could see again, Eira found that the other children, who had been tormenting her, were stuck by frozen spears to great glaciel pillars. The other tribes feared her, and she feared herself. Banished from the only home she knew, Eira was forced to go south.

And she did, the girl, but a child at the time, travelled for years. She never stayed long in any place, for fear her powers would resurface. A fear that was well-placed. It was in the Yolta that they came in force again. Eira had been drugged and imprisoned by bandits, aiming to sell her a several others across the Stormwall Mountains.

Thokgrim meeting Eira




Name: Fflam

Race: Scaled Long-tailed Fire Drake
Class: Flame Juggernaut
Background:
Fflam's raising was fraught with accidents and misshaps. Unlike the rest of his mother's brood, Fflam could not control his body's flames. None of the Shokhanate's Dragon Breeders could figure out how to stop the young Fflam's flames. None of the Dragoneirs could bind with him for the flames of his body would scorch and burn all who tried. That was, until the only friend of the young drake brought another. Fflam could not touch his only friend, this he new, but that did not mean he did not like his friend being with him. Fflam's friend was smaller than the other green stick things that walked around, even though he was green himself. Fflam did not understand why the other green stick things seemed to not like Fflam's friend. After all, Fflam's friend came and spent time with him, and that meant he was good, right? Anyways, Fflam's friend brought another, thoough they were weird. They were smaller than Fflam's friend, who was already pretty small Fflam thought. And they were pale, almost white. Fflam had never seen a white stick thing before, but Fflam was a smart boy. He would not touch the pale stick thing, even though he really wanted to. He knew better. This made him a smart boy. His mother always told him so, and so did Fflam's friend, which must mean that Fflam was really really smart, right?

Fflam was lost in his very smart thoughts while looking at the pale stick thing when he felt it. He did not know what it was. He could see the pale stick thing touching his snout. As he focused on it, confused because his flames just went around the pale stick thing, a pulse shot through his head. Fflam wanted to roar, to recoil from the pain that this pale stick thing brought, but he couldn't. His body was stuck. His wings would not unfurl at his command. He needed to get away. Pulse. Run. Pulse. Roar. Pulse. Pain. Pulse.

Fflam's eyes shot open, but he did not see the pale stick thing. He saw himself. He knew it was himself, though he knew not how. And he knew what that pulse was. Ice, Cold, Winter. He knew this because he still felt the pulse. But it came from him and it was Fire, Heat, and Summer. Fflam's vision swam back and he saw the pale stick thing. No, this one was no stick thing. This one was his and his alone. This one was Fflam's rider. And as Fflam's recognition of this fact sparked, so did Eira's, and that ancient magic of Bonding, still not understood since the days of the first Dragoneir, coursed through and around them.

Fire and Ice, Cold and Heat, Summer and Winter, swam from and around the two. And Thokgrim, 8th Son of the Shokhanate, knew he had made the right choice.

Thokgrim, 8th Son of the Shokhanate, also known as, the forgotten son, the scorned prince, and the Shokhanate's bastard. Thokgrim is not the son of his sibling's mother. His blood is different, and it is seen, known, felt in every action he takes. His shoulders, too narrow. His tusks, too short. His bones, too weak. His strength, too frail. No one knows from whose loins he sprung forth. All that is known is that after coming back from a skirmish along their southern border the Father of the Shokhanate held the babe in his arms. Thokgrim himself has no idea who his mother is, for his father refused to tell him. And the only woman who could take her place refused to Thokgrim her own.

And so, Thokgrim grew. Hated and refiled by the scores of his half-siblings. How the Mother of the Shokanate pushed them all out, Thokgrim had no clue, but push them out she did. As he grew, the ridicule continued. He could wield no weapon with any skill, nor would the orcish rage come forth. The only solace the young Thokgrim had was in the palace's great libraries. They were, thankfully, empty of his siblings. It was in these halls that he excelled. His knowledge of other cultures and magicks growing by the day. Of lands far across the seas where naught but the saltiest sailor has been. Of beasts seldom seen by the mortal races. Of the words of ancient elves and great leaders of the Shokhanate.

It was here that Thokgrim learned his version of War. He was not to fight and bleed on the frontlines. No, it was in these hallowed halls that Thokgrim learned his place was among the maps and informants. He was to push the different pieces, to trust in those under his command rather than his own strength in arms. To lift the capable to where they needed to be rather than to try and force his broken body to perform adequately.

His brothers and sisters scorned him for his propensity to be in the libraries, but his father took notice. Thokgrim was removed from the standard practices of his siblings. Many took this as a sign that his father had given up on him, much to his step-mother's delight. Thokgrim thought this too. He was a mere 22 years of age when this happened. And, believing that his father had forsaken him, Thokgrim attempted to drown himself in naught but alcohol. It was during one of these episodes that his half-siblings conspired against him and had him bound in chains.

However, That was also the event that lead Thokgrim to meeting his Dragoneir. A woman of such fiery rage as to overshadow all of his siblings. No, Thokgrim would not wield a blade or hammer. His weapon is his Dragoneir.

He walked in front of me. A strange man with strange notions. He wanted to make me a Dragoneir. Not just any Dragoneir, but His, and his alone. I remembered his face, looking down on me. It was after I had lost control of myself. Apparently he had been the only one to survive. Honestly, I didn't quite believe, still don't. I also didn't believe him when he said he was a Son of the Shokhanate, but here we are, walking the halls of his very own palace.
I couldn't help but to release a sigh, mist on my breath. I was annoyed. This man knew I was annoyed. After all, he had basically blackmailed me so that I'd follow him. I didn't need another population chasing me down. Already had that in the north.
"-is yours," My head jerked up as he finished talking. The orc was giving me that infuriating half-smile of his as he gestured toward the open door.
"What'd you say" I cringed inwardly. While I could speak common orcish with a decent amount of fluidity, High Orcish was a completely different beast. It was flowing, like elvish, but unlike elvish every sound came from the bottom of your throat and tore you up. How these greenskins spoke it all day, I couldn't figure out.
He laughed. The fucking orc standing before me laughed. "Oh dear, you really can't speak High Orcish can you?" He took a breath to steady himself, still shaking from laughter. Thankfully, he had changed to speaking the common tongue, which was another language I was merely adequate in. "No matter, we will get that fixed. As I said, these quarters are for you. Your wardrobes have already been stocked, though I doubt anything will fit you. We have the tailor and seamstress coming in a few days. And yes, I assure that is the earliest they can come." Thokgrim, for that was his name as every person in this damned oversized house like to say every five seconds, continued into the room. "As you can see, one of your walls doesn't physically exist. It's been enchanted to keep the elements out, but to let anyone keyed to it through."
I tried to keep my expression schooled as I walked into the room, but it was impossible. The room was huge, bigger even than the chief's igloo. Off to one side was a great big bed, one that could fit no less than six of me side by side. There was a desk and a vanity. Their craftsmanship undeniable. What struck me the most about the furniture though, was that unlike every other part of Thokgrim's palace, they weren't covered in gold. No, my furniture had silver, and I thought they were far more beautiful for it. But the strangest part of the room, besides the invisible wall, was that the majority of it, a good 5/6ths, was empty.
"Hey Thokgrim, why is this room so large when all of what is apparently mine fits alongside that wall?"
"Ha, I thought, for a moment that maybe you didn't remember my name again." I scowled at the prince's smirk. I may have called him a Greenskin a few times during their journey. "Anyways, enough on that. The rest of the space, is for your dragon."
I gulped. This scrawny orc had been serious. At first I had thought he had just taken some 'curiosity' to me and would soon throw me aside. But no, this idiot was serious. Wait! He can't be, right?
"Thokgrim, you can't honestly be expecting me to be a bloody Dragon Rider of all things!"
"And why can't I?" He smirked, again.
"Because I can't control this, whatever it is." I gestured with my hands, the small crystals of ice on my palms clearly visible. "Dragon Riders are supposed to be the greatest warriors of their generations. I'm broken, Thokgrim." My eyes looked up into his. I thought I had been tall, and yet this scrawny excuse of an orc still towered over me.
"And that is exactly why you will be my Dragoneir." He said softly, his smirk having fallen away. And then, he was gone, and I was left in this great big empty room by myself.

Eira POV
I tossed about, unable to find any comfort. So used was I to sleeping upon hard rock and gravel that a truly soft bed felt torturous. Finally, my eyes snapped open. I could not stay in this bed. It seems that no sleep will come to me this night.
A wind tousled my hair. Wait. What? Bolting upright I stared at nothing. It was the empty wall, the very one that Thokgrim assured me nothing would pass through. So, either Thokgrim is a fool, payed for shoddy craftsmanship, or this wind is something else. Standing from the admittedly luxurious bed, I went over to the pile of clothes on the floor. It was strange. To be surrounded by such finery, given to me by a man I had only known for a handful of weeks.
"Daughters, keep the winds at bay," I whispered. It had been years since I had sent a prayer to any of my gods, but here I was. In a foreign land and amongst strange people. Oh gods do I feel truly lost.
Despite my whispered plea, it seems the Daughters had a different idea as the wind blowing into the room grew. It wasn't cold. Though, I don't rightly know what the cold feels to anyone else. The wind moved. Twisting inside my too large room. The papers stacked neatly on the desk were picked up and carried along, scattered throughout the room. Seeing the sight, a strange bubble of joy spread in my core. Memories of being a child amongst the ice and snow rose to the surface. I tried to bury them, to forget, but much like the scattered papers the winds brought those memories up with them.
I had been no more than 7 Winters. Still shunned by the entire tribe I would find myself running to the old spirit lady. I had heard rumours about her once being the tribe shaman, but those couldn't possible be true. After all, she was always old. That stray, childish thought brought a smile to my face. That was not all I remembered though. The woman claimed to be able to talk to the spirits. When at first I asked her about it I had thought she spoke to our gods. Apparently that was wrong. She spoke to the little spirits. The small creatures of ice flurries and water ripples. Of the little embers and the sharp stones. She showed me how once. My body moved as it remembered that age old dance and song.
At some point my feet carried me out to that oversized balcony, but I didn't know. All I could see were the snow plains of my youth, and of an older woman guiding my arms and legs. The steps varied often. Some times they were slow and ponderous, like stone. Other times they were fast and fleeting like the winds themselves. My body contorted strangely. I could still see the old woman as she danced. Sometimes it would look as if she disappeared, other times she looked more solid and real than she did normally. Sometimes the colors of her body would dim and gray while others they'd be more vibrant than the sun itself. My body groaned and protested as I tried to mimic her dance. I knew I could complete it, even if I was nowhere as proficient as my old teacher.
I had never seen or spoken to the little spirits that the old woman talked about, no matter how much I danced. And tonight was no different.

Thokgrim POV
Damn it all. Hundreds of thoughts flashed through my head. Which of my siblings had it been? Why had they done it? After all, I had dropped from the race by that point. And my father. What was he thinking? The light of my candle was burning low. Taking a breath I decided to get some fresh air. I liked to stand out on my balcony. The cool night air helped me to focus. But tonight was to be different then most.
I smiled at that thought. Everything had started to change ever since I met her. Doors that I had thought locked to me were starting to creep open in my mind. I would be the first of my siblings to sponsor a Dragoneir. Oh yes, several of my brothers and one of my sisters had Dragoneirs under their leadership, but that was not the same. I knew that if I went through with this plan that my fate would be tied to hers. Her victories would be my victories, her defeats my defeats. It, of course, didn't help that she wasn't an Orc. While most of my father's court wasn't outwardly racist, they were condescending and dismissive of any they thought weaker than themselves. Which ended up being practically everything other than orcs.
Shaking my head of these errant thoughts movement caught my eyes. It was across and below me, at the base of the second spire. I already knew who it was. It was her. The woman was dancing in naught but one of the oversized nightgowns I had procured for her. And yes, she was dancing. At first I had thought she might've been going through some sort of weapon forms, but there was no glint of steel in her hands. I became entranced as I watched, unable to pull my eyes away. I was not pulled to her like a man is to a woman, no it was something else. Like a moth to a flame. Something so bright and ethereal that my eyes could do naught but look. I had never heard or seen of a dance as complex and strange as hers. Not in the entirety of mine or my father's libraries. I had thought that I had been a skilled dancer. I would find myself comfortable in the ballrooms of every nation that currently stood after all. But this, this was something else. Like the moth's flame her form seemed to flicker and jump. My eyes would try to follow only to be wrenched towards her when she moved into an unexpected form.
Eventually, as I knew not how long I stood there watching, she stopped. And with a final look up at the moon, we both went back inside.

Arvel POV
My hand tightened on the shaft of my spear. There was something unsettling about the southern stretches. It was still cold, but they did not have the great ice plains of my home. It was nights like this, when the Sky Father's torch does not hang in the sky, that I missed my home the most. Gulping, I stared out over the wall. It was unnatural, wrong to have us out here on a night like this. If I was home, then I'd be wrapped in furs with my family around me. Not here, standing like a beacon for all the dark things to hunt. I feared them not because I was coward. No, I feared these dark things because why else would the Sky Father keep his torch in the night sky. We were not meant to fight these things of moonless nights.
I spun, my spear already coming down as a hand touched my shoulder. My breathing was already ragged and my vision unfocused. When my eyesight cleared I realized who I had just tried to attack. "I-I-I'm sorry, Lieutenant!" I flinched as my stammering turned into a shout. The older man just looked back at me as he held my spear firmly in his grasp. I wouldn't be able to take it from him even if I wanted to. The Lieutenant could use Prana. I had seen him cleave a Great Bear in two with one swing before.
"Arvel," he said, his voice filled with the assurance of experience, "what fool put you on the wall tonight? I know we're mostly Wildermen but we have enough southerners for nights like this." The man seemed truly concerned. It reminded of my how lucky I had been to be sent to his company.
"Some of the men fell sick, sir. I was told that I'd be taking their place." We both knew it was a lie, and we were both powerless to do anything about it. Those soldiers didn't fall sick, they just found joy in being able to harass one of the northerners when they could.
"Is that so? It's a rough night tonight."
I followed the man's gaze as it went back over the wall. The mountains loomed in the distance. I knew most southerners thought of us as being superstitious fools, but they had never felt one of the Long Nights. There are things in the dark. Things that feast on all manner of beast. As my fear began to spike a saw movement coming over one of the rocky ridges.
"Lieutenant, there's something out there." I nearly whispered, hoping not to attract the attention of whatever creature prowled this moonless night.
"Don't worry Arvel, there are no beasts..." the Lieutenant's voiced faded to nothing as flickering lights appeared across the ridge. "Stand your guard." His voice commanded as he ran to gather the men.
I stood there, like a statue or an elk that realizes it's been spotted. This was it, I thought. The torches kept appearing, but I saw no glint of worn steel, nor were there lines straight and ordered. And, as I watched, I noticed that their torches flickered and bobbed. They were not steady in the least. Then slowly, disorderly, the mass of torches came to a stop. One of them left the group and came to the wall, right to were I was. I saw her as she approached. I knew at once what she was, an elf. I had heard my grandmother's stories of them. I had never seen an elf myself before.
"Guard!" She shouted, her voice carried unnaturally across the winds. "We seek asylum!"
"Why would a company of elves be seeking asylum here? Why not Avalon?" I shouted back. I could see her face in the flickered light of her torch. It was cut and bruised with dirt smeared into her hair and clothes. And yet, despite all this, this woman glowed with a beauty that I had never seen before.
She looked up at my and I saw pain in her forest green eyes. I saw fire and lightning. I saw great fathers of the forest being felled by war chasing axes. I saw dire drakes rush across the skies tearing through Dragon Riders. I saw an exodus of a people banished from their home.
"Avalan has fallen."

With the snows of Norsinia falling from the northwest and the desert winds of Fera blowing from the south, the nation of Yolta is a diverse region as snowy tundra and grassy steppe lands meet at the edges of the Iron Sea. Further towards the east however, the land becomes much more rich and fertile as humid rainforests, river valleys and misty lakes dominate the region up to the coast where the orc Shokhanate rules from in the capital city of Eto.

Like Norsinia, Yolta is a nation of two distinct people, though more in terms of actual race than culture. There are the native humans known as the Ayjin - distinguishable by their narrow eyes and yellowish skin tones - and the orcs descended from the first settlers to arrive from the eastern continent of Vaim, nearly a millennia ago. Despite arriving as conquerors, the orcs of that time ended up becoming liberators as they joined forces with the native Ayjin and the Dragonier to fight against the Elder Dragons, and so the nation of Yolta came to be.

Forged in the fires of dragon flame, the humans and orcs of Yolta are more or less one as a people with each having the same rights as the other. However, the nation's leadership is clearly biased towards orcs with the ruler, Oguma Khan, being an orc and a direct descendant of the first Shokhan at that. A lineage that has not been broken since the founding of the nation. A fact that has chafed at many of the Ayjin in the past, though that does not stop them from rising to the highest levels of the Shokhanate and influencing its rule.

Regardless, in terms of religion, the people of Yolta practice a form of sun worship originating from Vaim where they give praise at dawn's first light for each day they are still alive. This meshes well with the native Ayjin belief which holds that all things (living and non-living) possesses its own spirit, including the sun which is considered to be chief among all. It is therefore common for elements of both religions to be mixed together, such as the Ayjin practice of offering a portion of their meal to the spirits and the Vaimese practice of bowing in gratitude within the light of the rising sun.

On the matter of Vaim, several more fleets have been sent from the eastern continent throughout the course of history since the founding of Yolta, the most recent being as early as 30 years ago. Time and time again, they've attempted to establish their rule over the nation of Yolta, and time and time again, they were turned away by the elite warriors of the Shokhanate, the Keshirai. It is only a matter of time however before the Vaimese return to reclaim their wayward colony and it is for this reason that the people of Yolta are a martial society, ever prepared for warfare.

It is also for this reason that the Shokhanate can only spare a portion of its forces for the Sunpeak Alliance while the rest remain in Yolta, lest it be undefended from another Vaimese attack. Rest assured however, if the blades of the Shokhanate can break the Elder Dragons and fend off the fleets of Vaim then the Empire of Kovosia will be no different from the rest. Against all foes, the Keshirai stand...

With vast deserts and savannahs in the north and dense jungles to the south, the region of Fera bears a dry climate with little rainfall and hot temperatures all year round. Such conditions are generally inhospitable to all but the various beastfolk tribes inhabiting the region, each one perfectly adapted to the environment they live in by design of the Elder Dragons who created them.

Even after the extermination of the Elder Dragons and the subsequent liberation of the beastfolk tribes, many remained in the areas they originally inhabited, marking the borders of their territories and leading to the current formation of Fera with its many different states. Any conflicts that arise tend to be kept within the tribe and territory they occur in, but for those that extend further, the Council of Elders step in as mediators and sometimes adjudicators with the Honour Guard serving as its military arm, a combined force of volunteers from every tribe in the nation.

It is these members of the Honour Guard who will be sent as Fera's contribution to the Sunpeak Alliance and though they all come from different tribes, they are dedicated to preserving the freedom and sovereignty of their people. They also share a spirit of competition with each tribe seeking to outdo the other, so they often hold joint training drills and tournaments. Each year, the winner of these tournaments is declared as the champion of the Honour Guard and receives a great sum of gold, crops and the equipment of their choice.

While every tribe's contribution is valuable, there are four who stand out from the rest as having contributed the most: the tribe of the lion, the bear, the wolf and the dragon. As it so happens, the current champion of the Honour Guard is a member of the lion tribe by the name of Shisom who will serve as the field marshal and act with the Council's authority in the war to come.

In terms of religion, the beastfolk mostly adopt the elven worship of Gaia and infusing it with a form of totemism where each tribe's totem usually reflects the animal they were hybridized from and serves as a conduit to the Allmother. In this way, they acknowledge the nature of their creation but credit it to Gaia, without whom the Elder Dragons could not have done without.

There are however disturbing reports of dragon cultists who worship the Elder Dragons as gods and engage in attempts to revive them from the dead, but so far none have been successful and such cultists are seen as a strange but minor fringe group. Best to be ignored or outright avoided.

In any case, with the Empire of Kovosia presenting a clear threat to allkind, the Honour Guard of Fera are eager to prove themselves in battle. To free the land from yet another tyrannical force and stand tall as liberators...

Vast caverns, labyrinthian tunnels and great cities hewn from the stone itself, these are the things that define the Deep Kingdoms lying far beneath the surface of Tirn. Though untouched by sunlight, the dwarven cities are ever lit by rivers of lava and phosphorescent lanterns, and water is drawn from nearby aquifers where fish, moss and mushrooms can be farmed for food.

Despite being referred to collectively as the Deep Kingdoms, each city is its own state with its own ways and laws, but in terms of culture they are generally alike with their love of wealth and status displayed through the way they dress, speak and act. Throughout the ages, the greatest source of conflict for the dwarves has been among themselves as they vie for dominance over resources, rulership or reputation. If there was anything that ever united them, it was a common enemy in the Elder Dragons who coveted the dwarves as slaves of labour. Without them however, the dwarves of the deep have once again fallen into quarrelling with each other for every reason imaginable.

In terms of religion, the dwarves of the deep mostly worship their ancestors and the stone itself, which they believe will hold firm as the surface world eventually sinks beneath the waves at the end of all time, leaving the dwarves as the sole survivors. In times of need, they invoke the name of a particular ancestor to draw upon their wisdom and expertise relevant to the situation at hand. If no such ancestor exists then praying to the stone will suffice, though it'd be less effective. For those who have disgraced themselves or brought disrepute upon their family, they are cast out as exiles on the surface and stricken from the records, their names and deeds to be forgotten by the stone.

With tunnels spanning the entirety of Tirn, there are many ancient gateways to the dwarven cities scattered throughout the land, but most of them have been blocked or destroyed over the course of time - especially during the war against the Elder Dragons - leaving only one common entry point in the heart of the Stormwall Mountains: the Frostgate. Now closed with war looming on the surface.

Before sealing themselves away from the outside world, the dwarves of the Deep Kingdoms traded mostly with the Kovosian Empire which they've held close relations with since the fall of the Elder Dragons, so it is of little surprise then why they chose to abstain from fighting. Even so however, with dwarven society as stifling as the tunnels they come from, there are bound to be a rebellious few who disagree as well as those born on the surface who stand to lose everything should the Empire prevail.

Stubborn, quarrelsome and uncompromising, the worst traits of the dwarves also happens to be their best. Though the lords of the Deep Kingdoms have refused the call to arms, there are those who remember the dwarves serving honourably as stalwart allies in the war against the Elder Dragons. Perhaps the few that have joined the Sunpeak Alliance will be enough to turn the tide or at the very least hold the line. Even so however, the Frostgate remains closed and as long as there is war on the surface...

Like Norsinia, much of Kovosia is a wintry landscape that becomes more temperate towards the south as frozen ice shelves and glaciers give way to sprawling taiga forests and steppe lands. Unlike Norsinia however, Kovosia is home to the Black Mountain, an active volcano that dominates the west much like the World Tree does in Avalan.

Though it is surrounded by forests and much greenery now, the region around the Black Mountain was once a land of ash and fire and it is for this reason that the people of Kovosia were known as 'ashlanders', a name that has stuck since its founding a thousand years ago by the first Dragonier and dragon slayer, the Paragon Alaric.

Just as the land of Kovosia saw the first death of an Elder Dragon, so too did it see the death of the last and with it thousands of years of tyranny and oppression. Because of this, the people of Kovosia do not worship any deities but the hero-god Alaric, the human who gave hope to allkind and proved that the Elder Dragons - long thought to be immortal and invincible - could die after all.

Ever since they were wiped out entirely over 200 years ago, an age of peace and freedom followed with all the races of Tirn being able to choose their own paths for the first time in history. The Kovosians however, much like the dwarves of the Deep Kingdoms, quickly fell to infighting and the nation became divided into many petty kingdoms, each vying for dominance over resources and territories.

It was only recently that all these kingdoms became united under a single banner by the Warrior King Agememnar, who had returned from serving as a Dragonier in defence of Yolta against the Vaimese invaders, 30 years ago. It was there that he became aware of his power and responsibility as a Paragon, and those who knew him among the Dragonier would agree that he was a changed man ever since.

Where once his duty was to protect the age of peace throughout the land of Tirn, Agememnar now leads the armies of Kovosia in terrible conquest, armed with dwarven steel and a single promise to his people: 'the age of dragons is over. Now begins the age of humanity.' And so an empire is born...

Thousands of years ago when the World Tree was young and allkind roamed the land of Tirn freely, the Elder Dragons came from the skies and burned the world to cinders. Like a swarm of locusts, they descended upon the land and devoured all life on Ith, eating hungrily, greedily, mercilessly and then just as suddenly as they appeared, they vanished. Returning to the stars once again... but not all of them.

For the few who remained, they deigned to rule what was left of the world as gods. At first benevolently, uplifting those who survived their wrath and teaching them the ways of agriculture so that all that was consumed before might be replenished. Afterwards, none knew hunger ever again and with the world as their garden, the Elder Dragons were loved for a time, worshipped as living deities by the very people they once fed upon. Yet there were those who remembered the destruction they had wrought and demanded justice, and so the age of resistance began.

Time after time, the people of Tirn rose up in defiance and time after time, they were crushed. With each act of disobedience, the Elder Dragons became more cruel and oppressive in their ways, which only begat even more insurrections. Many times did the ancient tyrants purge their subjects to the brink of extinction, hoping to crush all hope among them, and many times did they fail for no matter how long it would take, whether a year or a hundred years, more would rise up to avenge the fallen.


For the longest time, it seemed an impossible battle. The Elder Dragons were powerful beyond reckoning and even after many centuries, not a single one could be slain, but all the lives lost against them paid for the knowledge that they could be hurt. They could bleed and that was more than enough to keep the hope of victory alive. In time, those who fought against the dragons became more organized. More refined in their tactics and strategies.

They used adamantium weapons, forged by the dwarves to pierce the scales and hide of their enemies. They used the power of magic, most potent among the humans, to enhance their martial prowess and combat techniques. They even used the dragons' own spawn against them, riding them into battle with the assistance of the elves and their empathic abilities.

Throughout the ages, these revolutionaries came to be known by many names. Slayers, defenders, reclaimers, dragoons, each generation scoring another wound upon the enemy before giving way to the next until finally, a hero emerged. The human Alaric, Paragon of his kind and the first being in all of Ith to slay an Elder Dragon. So the Dragonier came to be and with them a turning of the tide.


With this mighty deed, Alaric founded the nation of Kovosia upon the corpse of his kill and led the Dragonier to further victories across the land of Tirn, striking the fear of mortality into the hearts of the immortal dragons. After a lifetime of fighting, half the Elder Dragons on the continent were eventually slain and for all their efforts, it was not battle that eventually claimed the Paragon's life, but simply old age.

With the Paragon's passing and his life's purpose admirably fulfilled, the Elder Dragons no longer fought to dominate, but to survive. Their numbers being drastically reduced, they sought shelter in the furthest reaches of the world with some fleeing to the eastern continent of Vaim, only to be slain there by the orcs who had already cast down their draconic overlords. The rest hid among the highest peaks of the Stormwall Mountains, or the deserts of Fera or even the frozen north, surrounding themselves with those who yet remained loyal for protection.

Many times they sought to regroup and retake everything they had lost, and on few occasions they even came close, but each time the Dragonier would defeat them and though it would take another thousand years after the death of their founder, they would eventually succeed in hunting down the Elder Dragons to the last. However, it would be the people of Kovosia to finish the task.


High above the clouds where the air was cold and thin, it was among the Stormwall Mountains where the last stand of the Elder Dragons took place. By then, only 3 of them remained. The first was slain by the elven archmage, Sifa; an original member of the Dragonier who fought alongside Alaric and would later become high queen of Avalan. The second was slain by the orc Temuro Khan; a scion of the Yoltan Shokhanate who would later go on to serve as grandmaster of the Dragonier and continue to do so to the present day.

The third and last Elder Dragon fled wounded to the west, where it fell in Kovosia and drowned there in a sea of spears and swords. Slain not by the mighty Dragonier, the most powerful champions of Tirn, but mere men. Soldiers armed with steel and zealous wrath, who celebrated their victory by devouring the flesh of the dragon and drinking its blood before rendering its remains into trophies.

With the death of the last Elder Dragon, a new age of peace dawned upon the land of Tirn and its people, and allkind were finally free to live without fear of fire and fang. With their purpose fulfilled, the Dragonier transitioned from an order of dragon slayers to a force of peacekeepers, its members culled from all levels of each nation's society to foster relations and mutual respect.


Yet now, a mere 2 centuries after its beginning, fractures have begun to show throughout the age of peace. Vaimese warships frequently assault the shores of Yolta. Dragon cultists have begun espousing their beliefs to all who would listen among the beastfolk of Fera. The dwarves of the Deep Kingdoms have fallen into infighting and the men of Kovosia suffered the same with numerous pretenders and false Paragons vying for ownership of the nation before the genuine article appeared in Agememnar, returned from the defence of Yolta 30 years ago.

Named Warrior King for slaying or subduing all who challenged him, Agememnar abandoned his charge as Dragonier to unite his people and lead them south to conquer the elven nation of Avalan. It took only a month to fall despite being under the protection of high queen Sifa, whose current fate and whereabouts remains unknown.

Now with the armies of Kovosia marching upon the Stormwall Mountains, the Dragonier have sided with the eastern nations' Sunpeak Alliance to stop the advance of the Empire and further deterioration of the age of peace.