[CHAR] Starless

[ravenDivinity]

N A M E / A L I A S

Altim

T H E S K Y S P L I T T E R & H E R O O F C Y N D E R I A

A G E O F L E G E N D

1 , 9 3 7 Y E A R S A G O

M Y T H O L O G Y

Altim was born roughly 2,000 years ago in Cynderia, one of the fragmented states of the West, into the family of a merchant class father and a lower class mother, who worked and married to achieve a higher status and escape the cycle of poverty in the ghettos of Cynderia. In the capital city of Cynderia, Altim received his education, and although he performed excellently in scholarly pursuits, he felt alienated by the traditional society of his homeland and called to the adventure in the world. So compelled was he to escape the life, which his parents had intended for him from the very beginning, that he ran into the forest to find a journey of his own. By the 8th day, Altim was starving and thirsting on the brink of death, and he had no food or water. The adventure he had so painstakingly sought eluded him; all he found in the great woods was isolation and emptiness. As he lay to sleep that night beneath the boughs of the trees, Altim realized his folly and wept tears of shame. He cried for the worry of his elders, and he pitied himself for naivety and ignorance. In one act of kindness, he freed a bird whose legs were caught under a stone, and he drew his final breath.

This selfless act and tragic epiphany did not go unnoticed in the shade. In the morning, he woke in the waters of the holy fountain in the forest temple, under the care of the High Priest. The High Priest of the temple told Altim of Faerthus, the God of Wisdom, whose countenance rewarded the virtues of man with intelligence and knowledge. In the night, Faerthus had blessed Altim with new life and new wisdom, and in the day, the High Priest sent Altim home with food and drink. The prodigal son returned a prudent sage, and his family welcomed him with love, song, and joy. From that day forward, he thanked his family for what they had done for him, and they allotted him more freedom, even against his rejection of traditional Cynderian views. Altim became a devoted follower of Faerthus, whom Altim prayed to regularly for guidance and faith.

The tale, for Altim, did not end after his life-changing revelation; many years later, when Altim reached the tender age of 18, the neighboring empire of Bytheron declared war on Cynderia. The siege on the nation seemed endless, and the people grew restless and discontented by the losses experienced under their king. Altim fled the capital city for the safety of the temple of Faerthis and for the aid of the god in peaceful Cynderia's time of need. There the High Priest of Faerthis prophesied the fate of Altim's homeland and gave Altim an ultimatum: save Cynderia and bring greatness to the land, or suffer the consequences of failure and watch the land burn to the ground. Altim did not find adventure, adventure found him. From that temple, Altim took food, water, a horse, and a magical violin from the Priest, who in turn blessed the youth with power.

He rode from the temple into neighboring kingdoms to warn of the Bytheronian threat to the east and to temper his magical abilities in order to rise up and fight the Bytheronian Empire. The surrounding kingdoms united under Altim's warning, and Altim himself conquered dissenters to raise a powerful army. The army quickly retook Cynderia, and Altim used his powers in the final battle of the arcane between him and the King of Bytheron. Joyous celebration followed, and Altim was declared a hero of the Republic of Cynderia, the new nation that rose from the united sovereignties, a great uniter of the lands who called a storm and struck the King of Bytheron with a mighty bolt of lightning. Altim refused to become the leader of the new nation that rose from the ashes of the old Cynderia. Instead, he retired to become a scholar and died in the arms of the man he loved.

Beyond the grave, numerous tales were spun about Altim's greatness, and songs were sung from generation to generation, each one praising the wisdom of Faerthis and the journey Altim took to attain the artifacts and abilities that allowed Cynderia to win the war. As time passed, many of the older, truer depictions of Altim faded and disappeared, and newer versions of Altim's legend survived. His love for beautiful men, his studious nature, his divinely-gifted precepts, all of these things were erased by the passage of time and the ignorance of mankind, but no man would ever forget the great nation which owed its existence to Altim and Altim's impact on the world.

A P P E A R A N C E

The last-surviving testament to Altim incorrectly depicted the youth with short, light blond hair and a flute. He had neither, and he was never as tall, sinewy, or wealthy as the tale portrayed him. In fact, his physical appearance is very different from what his flawed description may lead people to believe about him. In reality, Altim in his prime appears 18 years old. Framing his soft, amber-brown eyes, he has medium-length, dark brown hair that he parts to the left, close-trimmed facial hair that if left unattended grows into a full beard. His stature is a little shorter than average at about 5 feet and 7 inches (or 170 centimeters), and he weighs only 150 pounds. Now, despite his meager weight and height, Altim himself is fairly strong for his age, and his strength, though nothing like the exaggerated brute he was depicted as, shows in his broad shoulders and lean, muscular frame. His fingers are long like a musician's, his arms thick like a blacksmith's, but in general, Altim is of a lithe, statuesque build. The books show Altim in rich outerwear, regal capes and crowns, but he has never worn either of those things and in fact opts for simpler clothing. He is typically caught in loose, canvas pants and tunics, covered by chainmail, belts, and hood. He puts his feet every morning into tight, knee-high black leather boots and his arms into strapped-down, brown leather gauntlets.

A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T

The many stories woven about Altim speak often about a mighty warrior who smote everything in his path with sword and shield, but the truth about Altim is a history of a person who won his battles with cunning, wisdom, and high magic. The violin, which he was given by the High Priest of Faerthis those 2,000 years ago, is by far and by large the most important weapon he wielded in his lifetime. With it in his arms, he easily honed the capacity for magic that he was given by Faerthis. Although after some time he had tempered his magical powers enough to use a diverse range of skills without the help of the violin, the songs he learned were still nonetheless incredibly practical in their applications. That violin enabled Altim to play songs of healing and anthems of tempestuous destruction, to sway men and women to emotional hymns, to cry for the aid of the gods and goddesses in their hallowed temples. Aside from the violin, Altim recruited the aid of other ancient artifacts, a staff that dramatically increased the accuracy of his power, a sword that could purge souls, and a bow that could pierce dimensions and deliver an empowered shot. Of course, after the revival of the heroes of old, the other curios disappeared from his possession, but his magical violin and spellcasting voice maintain their powers at his enchanted fingertips.

S O N G

Edvin Marton - Tosca Fantasy

[Harbringer]

Ellarian

The Rampart | Unbreakable Wall of the North

Between the two Mountains of Dust lies a pass which acts as the only way into the heartlands of Ansus that does not have a high rate of attrition. Historically, this pass has been used by many invading forces from the north in order to raid the Southern deltas and, despite its strategic importance, remained undefended for centuries. Barely wide enough to admit two men abreast, the pass is a natural chokepoint for armies. During one of the Heartlands' army campaigns into the north for pacification, it was routed by a barbarian ambush which left them at almost half their numbers. Retreating meant that they would have to enter the pass, which would slow down their progress significantly. That meant, of course, that they would have to have a rearguard, which would most likely die by the time the others make it out. That duty fell unanimously to the Shield Bearers, that group of soldiers who forsook the blade in favour of carrying great tower shields, though this does not make them any less deadly in combat. Send forward in the first wave, the task of shield bearers was to engage the enemy, form a wall, and batter them back while protecting their comrades. This made them the first in, and the last out.

Positioned at the center of the line, Ellarian and his fellows formed a protective barrier around the remnants of their army as they slowly backed towards the pass. One by one, they split off to join the retreat, the line growing ever smaller as the pass funneled them in. All they way, they were under attack from barrages of arrows and barbarians who threw themselves onto their shields, where they were then flung off down the mountainside. Soon they reached the narrowest part of the pass and, after beating some sense into the more foolhardy of the remaining Shieldbearers, Ellarian remained the only one in the pass...and yet the barbarians refused to let up, charging into the breach and onto Ellarion's pitted shield.

For three days and three nights, Ellarian stood vigil over the pass, pushing the attackers back and suffering many wounds in the process as blades reached around the shield, their owners receiving a heavy bash to the face a few seconds later. With no time to rest or refresh, Ellarion rapidly began to fatigue. As he received a brief reprieve, he slid down with his back to the shield, content with saving what remained of his countrymen, and prepared to slip into blissful oblivion...at least thats what he had thought. A single rock fell on his head, causing him to look up to see loose boulders hanging precariously over the edge. An idea formulated in his head. Unwedging his shield from the pass, Ellarian began to bodily slam against the unstable cliffside. The barbarians, finally seeing the man behind the shield, immediately rushed to the attack. Axes sank home in his arm, spears bit into his torso and swords cut to the bone. But he didnt stop. With a final, mighty crash, he thre all of Ellarian threw all of his bodyweight onto the cliff, causing a rumbling. In a great avalanche of stones and boulders, the pass was blacked off; yet Ellarian himself was unharmed by it in a moment of serendipity. With his job finally done, he slipped into the sweet embrace of death's bosom.

Such a loud noise, however, was not to go unnoticed. When scouts checked up on the site of the rockslide, they found the corpse of an imperial shield bearer collapsed onto a boulder, his entire right side cut open with multiple snapped spears in him. Recovering it, Ellarian's corpse was brought back to the capital, where he was posthumously heralded as a hero for his actions. Stories were told of the predicted events, and his shield was mounted in the castle armoury as a trophy. He was essentially canonised. He was made out to be the most virtuous, honourable soldier, something for all of the military to aspire to. Children loved hearing his heroic tale spun from the mouth of bards and skalds, and the pass he fought so hard to protect was named after him in his honour. And yet, if he were still alive, he would not want any of these frivolous parties or titles. In fact, he probably would have been somewhat upset at all this...


Portrayed on several murals, Ellarian is typically depicted as a bulky middle aged man with rapidly greying hair and dark brown eyes. With his hair done up in a bun in the traditional Imperial style and a stern, piercing gaze, he is seemingly the epitome of the disciplined soldier. What the murals fail to portray however is the sheer amount of scars and keloid tissue that covers him. One almost cannot trace an inch on his skin without running over an old battle wound. Such is the life of a shield bearer. Classically, Ellarian is also depicted with a thick, unkempt white beard and, to a degree, that is true, but in reality it is quite well maintained, or at least as well as can be while on campaign. While a bit short, standing at 165 cm, one cannot deny that he is a large man considering his muscular girth, enhanced even further by the Imperial armour that he wears and the towering shield that he habitually carries.


Aegis: A thick, standard shield originally wielded by the shieldbearers of the Imperial Army, it has now fallen into disuse. Made from solid black iron trimmed through with silver in the shape of the Imperial insignia, the Aegis is heavy and unwieldy, but if placed in the right hands, it is a terrifying weapon indeed.

Banner of the Forefathers: An old Imperial banner taken off of the snapped regimental standard of the 12th Imperial Army, the Banner of the Forefathers is now being used as a kind of cape for Ellarian as a homage to his former comrades. Provides a +10 bonus to leadership and +5 to charisma

[Corvidae]

T h e W i n d w i t c h

"Self-sacrifice makes me wanna puke."

Crow

N A M E / A L I A S

Crow

Stormcaller | The Windwitch

A G E O F L E G E N D

Approximately 2,000 years ago, give or take a century.

M Y T H O L O G Y

As a child growing up in the lawless outskirts of a derelict village, Crow learned to rob and cheat to get by. Growing up on the streets with little more than a gang of juvenile vagrants for company left Crow with an intimate familiarity with the delicate arts of delinquency. She was a covetous scavenger that rifled through the garbage, dug through its ilk in the vain hopes it'd earn the right to live another day - hence the name.

(Her former 'gang' leader had never been one for empty pleasantries.)

Stealing, extorting, and a tiny bit of conning honed both mental and physical agility, while life on the streets taught her self-reliance. When she was ten, a ragtag group of criminals took a shine to the young delinquent and brought her into their fold. By the time Crow was thirteen, she had become a seasoned accomplice, and she relished the thrill of every heist.

The nights were long, sometimes. Long, cold, with only the intermittent rumbles of an empty stomach to break the monotony. Wet, too, when the clouds chose Crow as the object upon which to vent their frustrations. Many a night was spent nestled between piles of snow, huddling futilely for warmth, listening to the thunder roaring a vicious lullaby.

She’d never been one for religion. She’d never hunched over her own hands, tipped her head skywards, a frantic stream of murmured pleas spilling from her lips. She’d laughed in the faces of gods and heroes alike, citing the former as nonexistent and the latter as corruption incarnate - as bastards that destroyed the lands, their treachery leaving a trail of scorched, ruined villages and destitution in its wake.

(She was seventeen the day the soldiers slaughtered one of her friends in cold blood.)

She wasn't quite sure exactly when the winds began to bend to her commands - a gentle, caressing breeze would explode into a tempestuous maelstrom in time with the flare of her temper, thunder would crack with every loud, boasting laugh.

(She was seventeen the day her 'friends' left her to die outside the barracks, their comrade avenged.)

As any starving, scared young adult might do when confronted with an unnatural phenomenon - one that threatened to crumble the relative stability of her daily routine, at that - Crow severed ties with her former compatriots, fled her backwater, ramshackle village, and turned to a life of solitary crime.

(She was eighteen the day she contemplated razing their shoddy little hovels, stripping away all they held dear, ruining them like they'd almost ruined her.)

(She was eighteen the day she promptly cut that intrusive-thought shit the fuck out.)

It came as very little surprise to anyone when the young thief ran afoul of one of the local smuggling rings. It came as even less of a surprise when the leader - an impish, capricious young lass who was as fickle as she was whimsical - took a special interest in the wayward vagabond. Not only was she a valuable asset (criminal know-how and a pretty face?), but the rumors had a way of spreading. Whispers of the witch of the wilds, knight-slayer and (alleged) rampant vigilante of the poor burned through the cities like hellfire.

(They were only partially true. That man wasn't a knight, and she sure as hell wasn't some kind of cloak-wearing do-gooder. The nerve of some people, jeez!)

Negotiations were discussed. Invitations were extended, and soon the King of the Ports had recruited her 'court mage'. Fealty was sworn, allegiances were forged, and the dynamic duo's reign of terror-but-not-quite kick-started.

It came as absolutely no surprise when they fell into bed together approximately one year later.

The legitimate, permit-wielding naval fleets took a certain, justified amount of offense to their ships being plundered and their trade routes compromised. They didn't pose much of a threat, initially - when you're a vengeful, hero-hating smuggler with the gales themselves wound delicately around your fingertips, few things do. The King of the Ports, complacent in her perceived authority, disregarded most threats, vows, and promises of war-waging with little more than a flippant, dismissive hand-wave.

(She had the skies themselves squirming beneath her nightly. The navy could, quite frankly, go fuck itself.)

Unfortunately, speculation as to the nature of the King and her Hound's relationship had spread from the King's crew to the taverns. Specifically, Crow's sapphic tendencies. She met a girl, that night. Another one, one that wasn't her King.

(She couldn't help it, how was she supposed to know that lying wretch was a spy? She was pretty, and she'd offered information to the crew in exchange for board, and she'd said nice things, and damn it, Crow was such an idiot!)

One particular battle went horridly awry, to put things mildly, and the uppity little Crow found herself impaled through the stomach on the point of her paramour's dirk, bludgeoned over the head with the flat of her own glaive, and, eventually, imprisoned. Held captive like some common war criminal. Like a dog.

(The irony was about as bitter as the rusty tang of her own blood.)

The fleet had been dispatched to dispose of the smuggler problem, and that, apparently, included the destruction of the port-side villages, too. Salvo upon salvo of cannon fire was launched. Alarmingly few hit their marks, and most of the artillery sought purchase in the clusters of homes and markets.

She couldn't abide it. As much as she loathed the weak, as much as the mere notion of self-sacrifice repulsed her to the point of nausea, a crime this heinous was exactly the sort even a lowlife bastard like her couldn't allow.

And though she was bound, life trickling out of her chest in sticky red rivulets, consciousness ebbing away with every ragged, pained breath, she could feel it. Feel the pull of the wind in her veins, the tug she'd come to know as magic yanking at her gut. The storm raging outside called to her, choppy waves and roaring thunder and steady, reverberant drum of the rain hitting the decks above combining in one harmonious symphony.

She leveled the entire fleet.

The King survived, slunk back into the city's underbelly to replete and rebuild, pride stinging as badly as her wounds.

Crow's body was never recovered, but the legends of the wild Windwitch, the Stormcaller and Knightslayer, were bandied about the land as if on the wind's whispers. Though the tales were altered to suit the bard reciting them - in some, she was a pirate; in others, a diligent young soldier; in one, a hermit that had retreated into the mountains, built a hut, and cannibalized some children - her final moments remained, mercifully, intact.

In all the stories, one thing was consistent: she had died before her time, and the concept of self-sacrifice had made her quite ill.

A P P E A R A N C E

Crow’s face is thin, all prominent cheekbones and angular cheeks and narrow, mischievous eyes. A faint, barely-distinguishable smattering of freckles spans a soft, slightly upturned nose. Small lips born to twist into a crooked, devil-may-care grin host pristine white teeth. Significantly detracting from an otherwise imposing aura, Crow clocks in at approximately 5’2”, meaning one could conceivably hoist her over one’s shoulder and carry her off mid-argument.

(The legends rarely get it right, however, preferring to depict their revered hero as a tall, strapping young lass, which...couldn’t be further from the truth.)

Straight, side-swept dark hair falls in choppy layers down her back. She’s adamant in her refusal to shear it short, and so, for pragmatism’s sake, she binds the majority of it back in a long braid. What’s allowed to hang freely has got this windblown, perpetually tousled quality, as if the wind itself is bending to its whims.

She’s lean and narrow, alabaster skin stretching taut over a reasonably toned physique. Power is written into every movement, every challenging stare or cocky smirk, brimming deceptively beneath her skin. Years of acting on the ‘fight’ portion of her instincts has imbued within her a certain sense of confidence – her posture is aggressive on the battlefield and assertive everywhere else, and she typically stands with her feet spread, hands planted firmly – defiantly – on her hips.

A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T

Armed with little more than a time-worn, battle-ravaged glaive and a rusty dagger, Crow has never looked the part of the legendary beastslayer, even during the height of her career. (The glaive's sole purpose was a fulcrum and balancer; something to pivot around or vault off of. An enabler for a reckless, octane, highly ineffectual combat style.)

But that’s all right - she rather prefers it that way.

She’s the Windwitch, the Stormcaller, the fury of a thousand bolts of vengeful lightning, after all - not the Steelsinger. Not a knight.

Not a true hero.

Manipulation of the wind has always come easiest, be it conjuration of an updraft to propel her skywards or a razor-sharp gale to cleave off an adversary’s arm. It’s the most comfortable, like an extension of her own body. The rush of adrenaline she gets whenever she invokes this magic is almost intoxicating - it’s like liquid euphoria, dissolving all her worries, all her cares.

The skies themselves heed her commands - while she can’t generate her own personal rainstorms or clap her hands for an emergency lightning strike, existing thunderstorms fall under her dominion. She can direct lightning, conduct it through her glaive, hurl arcs of white-hot hatred at those foolish enough to oppose her. She can’t produce it herself, though. Never could.

Rain has always been the most difficult. The most elusive. She’s reluctant to admit her ineptitude when it comes to the more nuanced art of water-management, but unfortunately, it’s a glaringly obvious shortcoming. She can’t even so much as reduce a deluge to a drizzle.

Her hidden talent is pretending she's more competent than she truly is.

T H E M E

Two Steps From Hell - El Dorado

[Jack Travidi]

S i k e s

N A M E / A L I A S
Sikes / Novissah's Prophet

A G E O F L E G E N D
499 years ago

M Y T H O L O G Y
They always tell stories of the boy blessed by Novissah, the once proud and graceful near-omniscient Goddess. They say he could see the future and the past, sometimes even things happening at that moment but somewhere else. The legend most know tells of Sikes seeing a darkness swell over Ansus, a murky vision with something sinister lurking in it. The tale goes on to say that he then ventured away from his home and family to the Bastion of Light, a dwindling fire dancing in his eyes. It haunted his dreams and left him exhausted, the vision giving the sixteen year old waking dreams in which he traveled toward the fire, waking somewhere different from where he’d fallen asleep.

Weeks later, the boy arrived, disheveled and dirty, demanding to see Novissah’s Fire, and an explanation for his visions. The High Priests refused and Sikes camped just outside the Bastion for thirteen days before the Priests admitted the near starving boy, taking him in and sharing their plight. They had become desperate and fearful, Novissah's Fire no more than embers. It was something they’d never seen and they hoped Sikes could help them to rekindle it, blessed by the Goddess as he was.

Novissah’s dying days were filled with Sikes trying to commune with her and keep her Fire alight, trying desperately to discover what lurked in the dark visions. The general population does not realize he failed, as Sikes and the High Priests never revealed that such an event ever occurred. Most believe that Sikes succeeded, devoting his life to Novissah and to helping maintain the Fire he once rekindled.

No one, of course, connects the ensuing chaos with this myth. No one realizes that this event, a Fire being brought low, was a catalyst for the turmoil that would take over until the Last God fell and Ansus was reunited once more.

Novissah’s Prophet did end up dedicating his life to Novissah, though it was not in the way most thought. He traveled around Ansus, using the abilities he had been granted to keep faith in her alive, hoping to let others feel the personal connection to her he himself did. Even with her gone, he could use his visions and tools to answer the questions of those who were in desperate need of knowledge.

Sikes never betrayed that Novissah’s fire had diminished and he was frequently permitted to visit the Bastion, even as another fire began to suffer the same fate as Novissah's.

As the continent fell further and further to chaos, Sikes found his power overwhelming. There still exist jokes about Novissah's poor prophet, suddenly blinded as he was assaulted with visions of darkness, of something lurking, of a ring of flames being extinguished until nothing remained... And it was as he had one of these visions, at the age of twenty-eight, that he stumbled into the river beside which he'd been resting, on his way to the Bastion once more to seek answers from the High Priests once more. His visions had changed ever so slightly, the complete darkness now followed by a speck of light, which seemed to wound the lurking thing in the darkness... it could only be a sign that the Priests had learned something.

And so the poor prophet never saw his own end coming, the river washing him away before he could get the answers he so desperately seeked.

A P P E A R A N C E
While not old, Sikes is into adulthood, having spent his years travelling and helping those in need. He’s fit from travel, but not particularly strong, much of his time spent trying to discover the dark thing eliminating the Fires and how to destroy it. Sikes dresses simply, in fact, and his skin is marred by a light tan and the occasional scar from, erm, hurting himself in his survival attempts. Dark hair covers equally dark eyes and his facial features are more rounded than they are sharp. He’s also taller than most people, standing over six feet tall.

A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
Sikes doesn’t have a lot of equipment, per se. Floating around somewhere, maybe in a museum or mausoleum, is his old hunting knife, something he forged with the aid of his father as a child. There also is a crystal bowl and an assortment of gems which would allow him to more easily control when he received his visions and even ask to receive one. The reflection on the water in the bowl or on the shiny surface of the stone will change to show him things, though it is less often to be something true and even fails. He carries none of this with him now, with only dreams (waking or otherwise) to guide him.

[Blackbeard]

N O R C O K H A N

Theme Song


T I T L E S
Wolf in the Mountain | The White-eyed King

T I M E O F L E G E N D
30,592 Winters since


A P E A R A N C E

Due to the lack of artistry in his time, there are very few sources that can correctly gauge his aesthetic. It is true that he is taller than most men, standing at six-foot-six, but he does not tower over rooftops as is sometimes claimed. His eyes are not quite the pure white that is depicted in the tales either, they are in fact a very light shade of grey and whilst he does indeed have pupils, it makes his stare is no less forgiving. It is difficult to discern whether or not Norco is an ugly man for his ragged black beard, stained white in places, hangs over his mouth and chin like a chain-mail coif. Cheek bones sit high on his face, stretching his rough whitened skin that darkens ever so slightly in the crevices of his wide nose.

His attire in the books and fables has forever been an example of his barbarism. Scantily clad across his broad chest they like to infer that his skin is armour enough. The truth is that during his time Norco wore many furs and pelts of animals that he had personally hunted. A bears head sits on his shoulders, halved down the center of its head and turned forward to match his gaze, they act like pauldrons of a brutish nature. Cloths and leathers cover the rest of his body leaving only his hands and head uncovered and exposed to the elements.

A B I L I T I E S & W A R G E A R

Norco is known as a warrior king, one of the deadliest to ever live. A swing of his axe can cleave several men in twain allowing him to carve his own bloody path through a battlefield. Whilst he is not the most skilled warrior in history his disregard for his own safety makes him insurmountable, wounds and injuries have been said to heal in hours rather than days. A blessing of endurance, no doubt from his father.
Norco is also known to have a particular affinity for the cold. Having been raised in such circumstances this is hardly surprising. Beginning his campaign in the frozen east his battles have become legendary in their own right. Gliding across the ground with an unnatural ease a close mist shields him from those who seek him, his ambushes are renown. His prowess in the bitterness of winter went so far as to claim the snow itself was his ally.

Banemaw - The Axe Norco wields is known by this name. Forged in the blood of a great wolf and sharpened upon it's teeth, its blade is said to cause wounds that may never heal, demanding the death of any who feel it's bite.

M Y T H O L O G Y

In the frozen wastelands to the East, myth tell us of a man so huge that he could not feel the sting of arrow tips, that swords bounced from his skin as if striking a sheet of iron. That his very step would imprint onto rock. Indeed this hulking warrior, this behemoths legend has stretched to the very edges of the world and back. Passed down generations as tales told around a fire, everyone at some point has heard that name, Norco Khan.

Our story begins with a people known as the Kulgan. A clan of barbarians that lived at the foot of a mountain fixed into the eastern steppe horizon. Christened Ironmaw mountain, it served as the highest peak within twenty leagues, overlooking two smaller mountains to its left and right.
The Kulgan annually traversed the only safe passage through these mountains, eager to reach the bountiful forest that flourished on its far side. It was in the thirty-second year of Chieftain Kosk, a most notable leader in his own right, that those gatherers returned with more than roots and berries. In the snow covered mountain pass, a boy was found. Wrapped in a grey cloth, protecting him from the biting cold, his cries bounced from the rock faces and high into the air. It did not take long for the expedition to find the boy, sat upon a boulder free from the snow. The sole woman in the group stepped forward and picked him from the rock like a root from the ground. The very first thing she noticed were his eyes, a pure white with no pupil, no iris. She could describe them as two perfect spheres of marble if only she knew of the precious stone.
“A gift from the gods!” She exclaimed to the people traveling with her. A boy supposedly placed in their path so as to live a normal life, but he would grow to be anything but normal.

The people of the Kulgan took the infant in, raising him as one of their own. He grew, and grew fast. By the time he was seventeen he could match any man around for size. They were no strangers to watching him achieve feats they thought impossible, from picking up felled logs in the building of huts to large for any other to carry. Or the most famous of his fables, the confrontation with a colossal dire wolf which he dispatched single handedly with nought but his hands, earning him the name ‘Wolf of the Mountain’. It wasn't until his early twenties that Norco began to wonder of his origins. He had been told the story of the baby in the mountains many times before, yet if left too many questions unanswered. That winter Norco left the village, he headed for the mountain pass in search of those answers.
A year passed and the Kulgan heard nothing of their adopted son. Some feared his death after traversing the pass in the dead of winter, a pilgrimage none dared to take. Another winter passed, another followed. It took five long years, when his fate had been decided, that Norco stepped down from the mountain to the people he once knew. Norco was different, in the five years he had seemed to grow only larger. His face and body showed exactly what it took to survive as he did for so long, muscle and sinew tying all of his limbs in place. He had become a man. The people gathered at the villages edge to watch a Goliath stride towards them. A man few believed to be real, a man with pure white eyes. The woman who had lifted him from that rock nearly two decades ago fell to her knees as she recognized the nearest thing she had to a son.
His gaze pierced her with an air of pure might, taking a knee himself, his face softened for the slightest of moments as he took her hand. The words he spoke in that moment have been written in the history books of almost every civilization since, "The Wolf returns".

Norco Khan quickly became one of the most legendary warriors alive, single handedly he dragged the small village of barbarians to the heights of a recognized world power. Indeed since that day it has been said that to travel to the east is to walk into the jaws of a wolf. They spread throughout the east in startling fashion, crushing anything and anyone that stood in their way. With Norco as their leader, the Kulgan were a seemingly invincible people. It took several decades, yet the Kulgan at one point in history ruled the entire eastern fringe of the known world. Mercifully for those who dwelled in elsewhere the great clan were reluctant to leave the frozen steppes, they were too acclimatized to the cold and struggled in every season but winter.
It was not until he reached the age of forty-seven that Norco met an enemy that he could never hope to defeat, time. His hair grew white, his face sagged and wrinkled. The white-eyed king, as he would come to be known in the histories, was laid to rest in the very place he began his journey, the mountain pass above his old village. A pile of stone rests, sealed together and immovable as if to match the man underneath. Some say that whilst walking through the mountain pass, you can still hear the cries of a young baby boy. Alas his tomb has never been found by the many adventurers that have strived to traverse the east. Some think the legend was never true.

Many years later the bards of younger nations would sing of his journey into the mountain, the five long years he spent in the numbed pass of Ironmaw mountain. It was rumored that atop that mountain, Norco questioned the gods. Bellowing his frustration towards the heavens in a thunderstorm so violent it cast a shadow across the world. A single bolt of lightning struck the hard stone ground, meters from where he knelt. A dire wolf. Larger than any living beast approached Norco from that scared rock. It did not bear its teeth, it did not advance with aggression. It simply sat in front of Norco Khan. He did not know it, but that wolf was no beast, it was a god. The father of Norco Khan had come to stare his descendant in the eye, to give his final blessing. His survival in the mountain had proved his worth and he was accepted by his progenitor. The wolf tipped it’s head skywards, to which Norco followed. Confronted by a strange alignment of stars, in the shape of Ansus, a cloud drifted across its expanse. A cloud in the shape of a wolf's head. Norco Khan, the wolf in the mountain, the white-eyed king, was to become the mightiest warrior the world had ever seen. It was a title that he undeniably lived up to.

The Kulgan, under new leadership managed to continue their reign for a few years. However without Norco, they could not resist the empires that lay on their doorstep. Year after year the Kulgan lands shrank, retreating back the cold, bitter wastelands of the east. Even today there is still a town at the foot of the Ironmaw mountain. They no longer call themselves Kulgan, but their blood is linked, and they still await the wolf in the mountain to descend once more, to lead once more.

"And when you die,
The only kingdom you'll see,
Is two-foot wide,
and six-foot deep."

_{- Extract from the saga of Norco Khan -}

[Invisible]

Beast of the Forest



Theme

N A M E / A L I A S

Pricia

Beast of the Forest & The Fair Maiden

A g e o f L e g e n d

41,692 years ago



M Y T H O L O G Y

Ancient myth tells of a man who possessed the soul of a giant beast of the forest known as a Torgarian allowing him to become one with the creature. This man was a knight, a king in fact who thirst was not for blood, nor money, nor power but for the peace which all but never existed in the lands now known as Ansus. Rather than kill the opponents he fought on the battlefields of a castle formerly known as the Borgar Village, he would fight using nothing but his palms and would focus on hitting pressure points to paralyze his foes. Borgar Village is no more than a castle now ran over by vines and ancients creatures which supposedly guard the tomb of this king. Some say his bloodline still runs through somebody in the East Ansus but once again, this is all just a myth.

And even a myth has its own fallacies, ones often picked up over time by misinterpreted words or the slight change in them to suit the times and those who rule over the group telling the myth. The truth can indeed be found in Borgar Castle which hides under the shadow of the Lone Mountain known as Urgain, or King’s Crown in the language of the Borgarians who once lived there. Written on a single tombstone, faded by time and the many passing of beasts and man alike, lies the below.

Here lies Princess Pricia, heir to the Borgarian throne and Strongest of her Kind.

Princess Pricia.. she died much younger than she should have but that is what happens to heroes who are seen as monsters. Even if your intentions were of the best for your people, one cannot escape the mob started by a rumor created by some drunkard in a tavern. The princess is truly the ‘man’ of myth who possess the soul of a Torgarian, or Shapeshifter as they were known in the tongue of the Borgarians. Having been born with the Mark of the Wild, Pricia was granted the power of shapeshifting by the Goddess Goethia, Queen of the Wilds. As such, Pricia could change between many creatures as part of her birthright but she could not always control them. When she was very young, Pricia would occasionally shapeshift into a wolf and try to play with people in this form, not knowing the she was any different from them of course.

When the young Pricia was nine years of age, she was sent away to the Monastery of Goethia- less a monastery really than a giant tree growing above a lake where Goethia’s worshippers lived- to train and control her powers. All members of the Monastery were marked by Goethia as Pricia was but their powers only allowed them to ‘commune’ with Goethia through the act of rituals involving incense burning. The young princess spent much of her life learning with the Priestesses before leaving at nineteen and swearing a vow to tell nobody of her training with them nor of her powers. But when the time came that her small Village came under combat, Pricia had to transform into a direwolf and defend them. When it came out that the Princess was the person who had attacked them early on in her life, she was driven from Boragar and went off into the turbulent world alone.

At least, that is what she thought she was when she left the comforts of her village and went into the roads beyond. Goethia contact Pricia herself and called her to take up arms against those who wished for war simply for the death it would bring. So, the princess spread across the lands which have now become Ansus and brought down groups of bandits and warlords whose only goals were to cause chaos. To aid Pricia on her Journey, Goethia gave the young woman the Staff of Nature’s Breath. But not even the Goddess could foresee the Fair Maiden’s death at the hands of people who believed her a monster simply due to a single rumor. In the end, the last sight Pricia saw was that of a crowd cheering to cut her head off. Not even a single person shed tears that day for her parents were dead, her village falling apart, and any friends she had were due for an execution as well. Yet still, her body was delivered back to castle where she was born and she was buried.



A P P E A R A N C E

Pricia stands at an unimposing four feet and eight inches tall and weighs just under ninety-two pounds. Despite her looks, Pricia’s body is all muscle and her training with the priestesses of Goethia taught her how to fight without having to be much stronger than your foe. The girl is light on her feet and hardly makes a sound as she moves through the world. But this does not mean that she doesn’t stand out of course. Pricia is known for wearing vibrant green robes and clothing which stands out even in the dimmest light around her. Never has anybody seen the Maiden with long hair and even getting a glimpse of her cutting her hair seems next to impossible. It is almost as if her hair never grows anymore. Found on her right shoulder is the Mark of the Wild she received from Goethia.



A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T

Once upon a time Pricia bore the Staff of Nature’s Breath which had been blessed by Goethia to allow her to manipulate the air as if it was a part of herself but the staff was taken from her when she was captured for execution. Somewhere in some king’s castle probably sits a simple looking staff that no man has touched since it was taken from Pricia. The Maiden was also given a pendant which allowed for the normal animals of the Wilds to identify Pricia as a member of Goethia’s ilk and thus pass through nearly every forest in the land unharmed. But, like her staff it was most likely taken and may quite possibly be worn by a Queen who thinks it just a beautiful trinket passed down through her family. Either way, all Pricia is left with are the powers granted to her by the Mark of the Wild and even they are not quite what they once were.

No longer can Pricia transform multiple times throughout a day as, with the death of Goethia, the Mark’s power has faded from it former glory. Now the Mark only allows transformations six times a day. The most common form Pricia can take in her transformations is a sort of mix between a dire wolf and a human, the Hound of the Wilds Goethia once called it. Its true name is Kallimor, a beast which is sentient enough to wield weapons and wear clothing but still can be copied by the Mark. Though, the copying of a Kallimor is imperfect as it simply enhances Pricia natural form instead of making her into a Kallimor in full. While in this form, Pricia stands at six feet tall and weighs nearly a hundred and thirty-six pounds. Pricia takes on the strengths associated with the creature she transforms into which also means that she gets the same weaknesses.

[rivaan]

N A M E / A L I A S
Ki'ira Infera – Calamity

M Y T H O L O G Y

Ki'ira is a very unusual character from legends, her first mentioning comes from records about 1800 years ago. The place was not named as it was a nameless battleground where two opposing armies clashed. At the time of her appearance there, she wrecked havoc among both armies, sending many to the embrace of death. The chaos on the battlefield continued until the two armies retreated, leaving her alone in the field of death, afterwards she vanished. From that point in time onward, she would appear at random intervals in the middle of battles, attacking everyone she comes across. She became one of the fairy tales on the fields of battle. Every commander sent to fight, would fear her appearance as it would mean the destruction of his armies. Thus she was nicknamed the Calamity on the battlefields.

Ten years after her first appearance, Ki'ira appeared for first time in the middle of a pillage of a town which was later recorded by survivors from there. After the town's protectors were slaughtered and the aggressors began pillaging it and indiscriminately killing it's residents in twisted games they forced them to take part of, a single caped individual walked into the town. Records state it was a woman, but on her head a pair of fox ears could be seen along with a tail that was moving around behind her. When the pillagers tried to attack her, the woman went into rampage, mowing down every last one of those who tried to fight. Records state that those who tried to run away form the carnage of their friends, were slashed from afar, using what witnesses only describe as flying blades of fire. According to the records, she was laughing during the entire slaughter and when there were no more enemies around, she just took a bag from one of the dead bodies, filled it with some food and then walked away as quickly as she appeared. It wasn't until a year later that the mystery woman was recognized as the walking calamity.

Ki'ira's stories were always similar, she would appear during a battle and would always mow down soldiers in both sides. Occasionally she would appear when there were pillages going on, would kill everyone with a weapon and then vanish again. As the number of people saved by her continued to increase, some began to regard her as a mythical fox creature that appears to save the innocent from aggressors. Which wasn't always far from the truth, in fact her rampaging on battlefields had caused many wars to stop in their tracks, effectively saving the lives of many civilians, but also costing the lives of many soldiers and capital, as the money she costed to countries wasn't insignificant at all. Eventually a coalition from several countries was formed to deal with this calamity. The strongest warriors were gathered and send after her as she had proven that her power was overwhelming.

According to legends she should have been around 29 years old when that happened. Despite the protest from the side of normal people, the expedition from multiple countries was sent after her. The calamity made her final stand near a now not existing village known as Kaleze. The soldiers had attacked the village to draw her out and she appeared for the joy of the village's inhabitants. The soldiers quickly reorganized and attacked her. Legends state the battle continued for days as the soldiers were many and strong and even had magic on their side. The calamity was not behind them though, her strange powers over fire allowed her to sweep many in her attacks. When the battle ended, not one of the soldiers send after her was standing, but they had done their jobs. Ki'ira was mortally wounded as dozens of weapons were sticking out of her body. In her final moments it's said that a single child approached her to offer her a cup of water. She took the cup, drank the water and thanked the child. As she reached a hand to pat the child by the head, she died. Her hand, softly placed on the child's head, her body still standing tall with her sword in her other hand. Following the defeat of the expedition force, all the kingdoms sent soldiers to retrieve her body and belongings, but not a single soul was to be found in the village. The final legend states, the villagers knowing soldiers will come for her again, took her body and placed it in a coffin and left Kaleze with Ki'ira's body and belongings. No one knows where they went and what happened with them. Some say they found a new place to settle down away from everyone where they idolize her to this day, other say they were ambushed on the road and killed to the last person. No one can say for sure, but what is known is that her body was never recovered or found. Still to this day she is regarded as many things, for some her story is the one of a person who gave her all to protect the innocent from the horrors of war, for other she was the personification of destruction and chaos. As some tell it to their children to learn and become a better person, others use her to scare their young into obedience.

Yet for those with the iron will to find the truth, a single clue remains, locked inside one of the many libraries. Unknown to most and ignored by those who have seen it, a single small leather bound diary lies covered in dust. It's content are nearly impossible to read as it has nearly dissolved under the relentless tides of time, but the old diary written by an old forgotten general contains a single untouched by time sentence:

“And by our hands, by attacking those who had not the power to protect themselves, we awoke a fiery monster in the form of a child...”

A P P E A R A N C E

My Hider

(Mind not the elfish ears :3)

Ki'ira's appearance is quite the discussed topic for records that contain it have been lost so all that remains are varying legends. Some described her as astonishing otherworldy beauty while other as a mostly foxlike monster with long face and slit eyes. Still her most distinguishing feature were her fox ears and tail, they appear in every legend and even the vague mentioning in historical texts. She was always told to have the pair of red fox ears and a tail.

In reality, Ki'ira was tall 1,75 meters tall, with long straight dark brown hair, reaching down to her waist, which was often put in a braid. Her face was beautiful with clear skin and a pair of piercing gray eyes. On her bare body could be seen many of the scars she bears as marks from the devotion she had towards fighting WAR.

A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T

Ki'ira has been often depicted as a monster that slashes people with her bare hands, but as many myths that's simply not the truth. She was an excellent sword wielder who lived her entire live with a sword in her hand. Additionally the abilities of fire she is often told to have had are quite true. At a very early age, she learned magic and specialized in fire. As magicians go, she was never formally taught, all she know, she learned herself by the trial and error. Her favorite magical attack were her flaming wave slashes, she often used those to take down multiple enemies at once. Additionally she would often coat her entire sword with flames, thought that would destroy every normal not enchanted blade.

While her abilities themselves helped about her incredible strength, it was also her equipment that proved worthy to follow her in her legend the most. The calamity had many different artifacts, most of which no one knows how she acquired. Names and existence of many were lost in the time, but a few still live in her legends:
Infernal fang – that was her signature weapon, a longsword that she wielded with one hand. It had glowing red blade with many carved figures on it. It was a magical artifact that could withstand heat and fire and it's blade was harder than even the greatest steel. In her entire life it never broke, never chipped and never dulled.
Blessings of the fox goddess – The legend about her having fox ears and tail come from these artifacts. A headpiece looked like a pair of fox ears and leggings had a tail attached to them. The ears gave her the ability to hear so far away that she could actually hear the clanking of an armor from miles and the tail allowed her to run nearly as fast as a horse and not leave tracks behind her. Though she still tires with time and cannot run for a long time.

A G E O F L E G E N D
1815 years ago.

When revived from her supposed eternal slumber, she only had her headset from her 'Blessings of the fox goddess'.

[Transience]

A n s u r T h e F o r e f a t h e r

M y t h o l o g y

Ansus has not always been. One quick jaunt through any of the historical colleges in the Heartlands and the scholars will remind you that Human-kind is not native to Ansus, rather they came from the Southern Continents after fleeing some unknown disaster.
It is here that the interpretations of Ansus' ancient history somewhat diverges. Some scholars are adamant that the current royal family is directly linked by blood to those who led the first men to the expansive land of Ansus; some are sure that the movement was pioneered by a group of tribal leaders from the Southern Continents. However, the most prevalent tale by all accounts is the 'Tale of Ansur, the Forefather.'

It is said that he was the bastard child of a Southern Queen and a rogue God, and his conception was heralded by a host of sullen angels. He is said to have emerged from the womb following the impact of a falling star from the Heavens, and he emerged with wings like tendrils of blinding light. Obviously such a story can only be the work of fiction, but it is well established that Ansur was an otherwordly child by all accounts; mastering archery and sword-fighting at an age that some say simply is not possible, and quickly rising to leadership amongst his people.
Whether Ansur was formally recognised in a state of Kinghood or not is a fact that has been lost to the winds of time, but it is well recorded that he acted as a guide and mentor to the expansive cult that formed around him, a following with such great numbers that it became a faux-nation all of it own. It is a generally accepted theory that the world before Ansur was godless and hedonistic, and that he alone brought order and fear of the Gods into his fellow Men. Some credit Ansur with the advent of civilised life; a proud accolade indeed.

However, in his thirtieth year, the land that he knew as home supposedly fell to an event that is not properly recorded. This is where the Tale of Ansur truly begins: he rallied men and women from across the land and led them through the Northern Passages, sailing through expanses of storm marred seas, trekking through hellish swamplands and battling through infestations of barbaric sub-men who guarded their lands with fury and zeal. There are countless tales and fables that stem from this period, stories of epic heroism and incredible acts of valour. It is said that the long journey through the Northern Passes took over a hundred years, many of his followers succumbing to the ravages of time, and many others bringing new disciples into the world to follow Ansur to the lands in which they could begin anew; yet Ansur himself was unphased by time, and remained youthful for the entire century that he was at the helm of the Great Journey.

And so it was that at the end of the one hundred and first winter, a new land grew upon the horizon. Ansur's followers decided that it would be named after their leader in his honour, and to immortalise him for his undying effort to bring new hope to mankind. Ansur and his followers travelled deep into the heartlands of the newly founded Ansus, and toiled to build the Bastion of Light, a great fortress dedicated to the Gods which Ansur claimed to owe his success.

From there, the solidity of the story falters. There is little scripture detailing what became of Ansur after the creation of the Bastion of Light, but some say that he gave himself to ashes to light the Great Fire at the heart of the fortress, and there are some who beleive that his spirit still resides in those holy walls, ready to return and guide the people once more.

A p p e a r a n c e

"Ansur is not a giant, but his presence is felt by all. His corse is lean and strong, and his eyes pierce the very soul with naught but a glaze. The people look to him f'r strength and guidance, and he responds with valour and fortitude. He adorns himself not in gold and steel, but rather leathers and furs that he procur'd during the time he spent in his homeland; his face is ragg'd yet welcoming, and he hath the hands of a man who hath work'd his due at the forge."

- Arcillius the Scribe, year unknown.

There are many accounts of what Ansur looked like, and many of them differ tremendously. Some writings claim he was over nine feet tall and wielded a sword of holy fire, whilst others claim he was a short, stocky, stout man who was rounder than other legends would admit. While nobody can know for sure the true nature of Ansur's appearance, he is never depicted as wearing any suit of metal armour, and never adorns himself with jewels or other sightly embellishments. He is also normally depicted as hiding his face under a hood of furs, while a great hawk sits at his side. Some illustrations show him wearing a crown of dulled iron, and others with a rugged, unsightly mess of facial hair during the Great Journey.

A b i l i t i e s A n d E q u i p m e n t

Ansur is said to be like a God striding amongst mere mortal peers, a trait that some attribute to his apparent paternal figure being of divine origin. He was supposedly stronger than a Dragon (he is said to have barehandedly wrestled three such magnificent beasts to their death during the Long Journey), faster than the most mighty Jungle Stalker, and wiser than all of the Gods combined. His skill with a blade was world reknowned (So incredible was his skill, in fact, that three sword-figthing styles are presently named after him) and his accuracy with a bow was as if the arrows themselves were extensions of his very being.

Some retellings of his story state that magical assaults simply did not effect him, and there are other accounts that tell of him splitting a titanic ice sheet by summoning a great, piercing flame from the sky.

Surely such tales cannot be true, but who can really know? He is a long dead man who is sure to never return to the land of his design...

A g e O f L e g e n d

Ansur's mythology is one of, if not the oldest in the known world. He was extant an approximate 60,000 years prior to the present day.

[Dead Cruiser]

"I have seen nations and peoples reduced to ash and ghosts. It brought no pleasure, even to a heart as dark as mine."

N A M E / A L I A S

Volkimir Sturmkirk
The Mortifier, Dark Prince of the Shadowlands

M Y T H O L O G Y

The coastal mountain ranges to the West of Ansus have a dark and bloody history, one often not discussed alongside the many other legends that fill the nation's colorful past. Nothing lingers there but darkness and sorrow, most say; all best left buried. In times long before the Unification, these reaches were called the Shadowlands, referring mostly to the thick forest that covered the rocky foothills. The Shadowlanders, a hardy and simple folk, were ruled over by their Prince, a scion of the noble bloodline of Sturmkirk, descending from the heartland kings of ages past. It came to be that one spring, famine gripped the Shadowlands, and what had once been fields and forests became naught but dust and death. The ruling Prince was known to be an alchemist and a wizard, and so devised many possible solutions to aid the plight of his people. His attempts failed, and the Shadowlanders starved in droves. When it came to be that his own wife and sons died from hunger, the Prince was finally driven mad, and bargained with a demon to end the plague. He summoned the monster Silgengar, an abyssal creature of infinite malice and dark cunning. In exchange for the blood of the Sturmkirk patron angel, Marycz, he would bestow on the Shadowlanders immunity to age and disease, and freedom from the curse of starvation.

The angel was lured, trapped and exsanguinated by the mad Prince, and Shilgengar held up his end of the bargain. The Prince and his remaining family were cursed with vampirism, so freeing them from the famine, but damning their souls to oblivion. Some say that the Prince wished only for eternal life, and was so satisfied by the bargain. Others claim that Shilgengar bestowed the famine on the lands, and so plotted the downfall of the noble Sturmkirks. Whatever the truth, the Sturmkirks quickly sank into untamed depravity and debauchery, keeping their peasantry as a farmer might keep cattle for slaughter. Blighted in the eyes of gods and men, the Shadowlands became vilified as a locus of pure evil. Witches, werewolves, and all manner of other monsters sought asylum in its depths, as there were none who would dare follow them.

Well after the Shadowlands had become known as a hell on earth, a man emerged. He roamed Ansus, searching for fame and fortune with which he might bring glory to his proud name. For he was the Prince of House Sturmkirk. Volkimir by birth, this enigmatic figure bared no shame in revealing himself to be a scion of the blighted vampiric house. Throughout the lands of Ansus and beyond, Volkimir plundered ancient tombs for treasure and lost artefacts, studied lost magical traditions, and sought dark and decadent displays of pleasure and carnality. Though he was a rarely-seen figure, he traveled far and wide, and so rumors built up greatly in the many lands through which he passed.

As ages passed, the Dark Prince had already passed into something of an urban legend. Stories of having seen him were dismissed, as no man could possibly still be around after such time. However, he was an immortal vampire, and as such was very much still alive and active. Volkimir's years affected him curiously; a larger world began to reveal itself to him. He found himself less concerned with his own escapades and enjoyment, and saw the needs of Ansus as issues that he was obligated to attend to. He took on a strange responsibility, to protect Ansus and its peoples from threats that their mortal perspectives could not perceive. He manipulated history to achieve his ends; sometimes from the shadows, sometimes in a display of power and ruthlessness. Where an assassination or siege may be foiled, the next year a leader or an entire people may be mercilessly culled. His exploits in these times were many, and to the common folk he was a capricious figure at best. Volkimir came to be seen more as an omen than a man, and none could say if he were one of good or ill.

The history books will only recognize Volkimir Sturmkirk in one place: the War of Midnight Suns. Just as suddenly as famine had befallen the Shadowlands, darkness fell upon the Heartlands of Ansus. The suns had fallen, and did not rise again even after days had passed. Then came the invasion of darkness. Apparently ill content with what remained of their territory to be exploited, the vampire nobles of the Shadowlands declared war on the Heartlands, and rode to conquer them. Hordes of undead and knights as dark as new moons filled their warhosts, and countless mortal armies were crushed by them. The Dark Prince would not abide this. Just as he had subtly manipulated the nations of the world to more suitable destinies, he again manipulated them to better fight the forces of evil. He taught them the weaknesses of the undead, and how to turn their armies against them. He lead warhosts of his own, meeting his own blood on the field of battle. After months of hardship and war unending, the suns once again rose, and the Shadowlanders had been driven back. The vampires cursed Volkimir, damning him as a traitor, and giving him the epitet of "Mortifier." Even with this, Volkimir knew there was more work to be done. With a host of warriors borrowed from the sovereign nations that he had saved, he rode into the depths of the Shadowlands, and was never seen again.

Time passed, the all was silent in the West. Monsters no longer creeped out from the Shadowlands, and skies cleared over the blighted kingdom. Slowly, frontiersmen returned to the lands to trap in the forests and harvest its lumber. Farmers followed, sowing fields that had been reaped in many years. Before long, the empty nation was entirely resettled, unofficially conquered by the common folk. The old castles were torn down, towns were built, and mention was never made again of the Shadowlands and the curse of House Sturmkirk.

A P P E A R A N C E

As an ageless vampire, Volkimir is considered to be an avatar of dark and forbidden beauty. Seen usually as a tallish man with the well-balanced build of an experienced warrior, Volkimir Sturmkirk is a striking figure to behold. His features are sharp and angular, balanced by his masculine brow and strong jawline. His eyes are the most distinctive feature of his face; their black sclera and golden, luminous irises are distinctly inhuman, and Volkimir's gaze is piercing and predatory. Sharp, white fangs are revealed whenever he smiles or speaks, and his incisor teeth seem unnaturally sharp and jagged. His hair hangs to the top of his shoulderblades, and is so fair that in most lighting it seems completely white. Volkimir's skin, while usually so pale as to seem translucent, takes on a sickly, ashen hue when exposed to sunlight, stripping away his last disguise of humanity. While depictions vary depending on the particular instance, Volkimir's "signature" attire strikes a balance between the practicality of adventuring clothes, the mystique of a dark magician and the regality of a noble knight. A floor-length, ornate leather coat is worn over a enameled, ruby-encrusted breastplate. Engraved armor plates are set into the shoulders and forearms of the coat, the shins of his black, woolen trousers, and the toes of his thick-soled leather boots.

A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T

As a vampire, Volkimir is at once much more and much less than a normal man. His strength and speed are both mythic; far greater than what can be attained by common men. He can see in darkness just as well as in light, can hear a heartbeat from across a full feasting hall, and can smell a living bloodscent from a league away. If he so chooses, he can move in complete silence, become invisible, or fly through the air like a phantom of night. Neither age nor disease blights him, and his half-living flesh is greatly resistant to cold and poison. However, he is cursed to feed upon the lifeblood of mortals, requiring at least a human body's worth of blood every turn of the moon. Sunlight is his bane, searing his skin and punishing him with migraines should he come in direct contact with it. Silver nauseates him, and the sight of his own reflection fills him with delirium. Moonlight reflected in water or by a silver mirror inflicts Volkimir with temporary blindness, should it meet his eyes. Though he can recover from wounds faster than most mortal men, any wound inflicted by silver or living wood festers rather than heal cleanly.

Most mortals have but a few decades to practice their skills, whereas Volkimir has had thousands of years to perfect his own. He is a swordsman par excellence, wielding a bastard sword with inhuman power and grace. His knowledge of ancient cultures and legends are both profound, and he speaks many tongues both living and dead. A master manipulator, Volkimir is able to turn both common men and entire nations to his will. These are merely his mortal skills, as his magical arts are far more profound. By plumbing ancient ruins in distant corners of the world, Volkimir is master of many magical practices forgotten by mankind. His favored spells fall under the domain of "sangromancy," a rare and secretive school of black magic that specializes in manipulating flesh, bones and blood. Volkimir's most infamous techniques are to painfully disintegrate flesh to ash, or to manipulate the matter of still-living bodies, turning his enemies and prey into puppets.

Almost as famous as the man himself is his legendary sword, Elbrus, the Bound Blade. While ornate in design and flawless in construction, Elbrus is quite unusual in having been forged of a metal not known to earthly smiths. The blade is seemingly unbreakable, with an edge as sharp as winter, and so dark in color that it appears to consume light rather than reflect it. Intensely magical, the sword absorbs the life-force of those it wounds, giving Volkimir a considerable advantage in lengthy duels. However, this is not a mere enchantment; Elbrus has bound within it a powerful demon, sealed within the sword countless ages ago by a holy warrior that gave his own life to contain the monster. The sword has an unspeakably unholy aura to those sensitive to such matters, and the demon whispers foul promises and fouler threats to anyone weak of will that comes to wield Elbrus.

A G E O F L E G E N D

The War of Midnight Suns was roughly 2,500 years ago, though Volkimir was born an indeterminate number of millennia before.

[Vigfast]

The Green Knight

"But if thou art so bold as all men say, thou wilt grant me in goodly wise the games I ask."

The Green Knight

N A M E / A L I A S

Sir Otto Oddmund Ormsson (though his name has long since been forgotten), instead he is known as simply as the Green Knight.

M Y T H O L O G Y

The Green Knight by Harald Silvertongue

Inside the Golden Boar Tavern, the fire roared pleasantly, the ale flowed freely, and most of the village sat gathered in a circle around a grizzled old man dressed in shades of blue and green. Across his lap rested a well-worn lute and a foppish hat sat precariously his head, threatening rebellion in a quick flight to the soiled floor. Brazenly disinterested in the occasional glances of the townsfolk, the old man slowly, almost lazily nursed his tankard of ale. Only when he was sure that the he had the attention of the entire tavern, did the strange fellow finish the last of his ale. With a sudden start, he slammed the empty tankard on a nearby table, replacing it with his lute as he rose to his feet and released an unceremonious belch to the laughter of several children sitting nearby.

"Now, as I’ve said,” he began, offering the smile of a born performer. "I am the legendary bard, Harald Silvertongue," applause followed, and the old man removed his hat, offering a quick flourish and a profoundly alarming stumble in the direction of the fireplace. “Tonight my dear friends, let me regale you with the legendary tale of the Green Knight."

Strumming his lute haphazardly to set the stage, Harald returned to his chair, threatening for a moment to destroy the simple wooden object with his significant weight alone (food and drink were his preferred vices). With a nod of his heavy head and a tap-tap of his right foot, he began to speak in the slow, musical manner of a master bard, "The chosen of Tavra, they called him, for the goddess herself had seen fit to bless him with her many gifts. Yet once, once he was but a man of flesh and blood like you and I. A Nalmorian noble was he, the first son of an ancient house with roots in the once great city of Tarakor."

"No greedy nobleman was he, nay, but rather a brave knight, who had won his spurs on the fields of Ardare, and spent the better part of a decade fighting against the Ferothian invaders. After the war was finished, he returned to Nalmar a hero, and was given a vast swath of land by the grateful king to call his own. Tarva, the goddess of nature, was herself so pleased with his valor, that she shared a spark of her divinity with him and tasked him with guarding the endless forests that surrounded the Kingdom of Nalmar."

"Yet, he did not stay in Nalmar, for in those days the gods still walked among us and their champions traveled across the lands doing great deeds. The Green Knight was no exception and he was seen all throughout the realms, marching ever onwards. They say that he challenged all who crossed his path, testing their gifts in the arts of war, and judging whether they were worthy heroes or villains in disguise. The stuff of legends, I say to you, truly, those duels were such, but but alas, it would take the better part of a week for me to do it justice, so for now, I ask that you simply take my word for it," the bard said with a wink and a calming wave of his hands.

Tapping his lute dramatically, Harald graced the audience with a select bit of quality lutemanship, properly setting the mood for the more dramatic part of the story,"A life of strife and hardship was his, years of endless warfare were his, years spent fending off challengers were his and years of endless wandering were all he knew. However, the true test of the Green Knight would come with the rise of the necromancer Ustga and the darkness that followed in the corrupt wizard’s wake."

The old bard practically jumped to his feet, menacingly raising his arms wide as he stood to his respectable full height. When he spoke, his eyes had grown dark and his voice carried a new sense of menace, sending several of the younger children retreating to their mothers, eyes wide with fear. "A blight spread across the lands, entire villages succumbed to disease, and hordes of undead razed cities to the ground, all at behest of their foul master. Many heroes answered the desperate calls for help that followed, but all met their end without success."

The old man paused seizing up the audience with a cruel grin and a forced cough. Showing a great amount of patience and cunning he waited until a patron waved a coin in the direction of the barmaid, who quickly provided the bard with another tankard of ale. "Thank you, my throat was a bit parched," he began, before downing a respectable quantity of ale with obvious pleasure. "Now…where was I? Ah yes, terrible times, death and the undead."

Replacing the tankard of ale on the table, the old man strummed his lute, playing the well-known first refrain of a tragic ballad whose name and verses none still knew. "Filled with fury the gods were, for the balance had been broken, and no mortal man, not even a wizard had the right to go so far. Yet, none was more furious than the goddess of nature, for Tavra abhors all that is unnatural and wrong."

The silence that filled the tavern hall, beside himself of course, pleased the old bard, and he relished in the rapt attention of his audience before continuing. "Lamenting the foolish pride of Ustga and the corruption that he spread across the realms, the goddess walked the lands in the guise of a mortal, doing all that she could to stem the tide of cruel death. Traveling across the lands, she sought the aid of all the great heroes that did still draw breath. Yet, the hearts of men, even great men, were filled with fear when faced with the monsters of the abyss and those precious few that still had courage were scattered as if by the wind, fighting endless numbers of creatures beyond the grasp of death"

"In the end, it thus came to pass, that it was only the Green Knight who answered her call. Alone, did the knight face Ustga and his undead horde in battle, near the jeweled city of Estmor, in the heart of winter, when darkness still commanded the months. Surrounded was he, Tavra’s champion, outnumbered was he, the stalwart soldier. Death loomed over him and his fate seemed sealed."

A series of anxious gasps echoed across the tavern and Harald grinned, silently congratulating himself on his talent, before resuming his role with a most grave nod, "A hard battle took place, in which many hard blows were dealt and returned; but it ended by the death of Ustga and his dark tower fell, reduced to rubble."

Loud cheers erupted, and children happily clapped their hands together, certain that a happy ending was well in sight. Harald, himself, had never been convinced by the most popular versions of the tale, which ended with the Green Knight at peace, rewarded for his duty. Alas, Harald was but the messenger, and he knew that he had no choice to obey the simpleminded desires of his audience.

"Having slain the foul necromancer and ended the blight, the Green Knight returned once more to the wilderness. Some say that he lived his remaining years in peace, dying a peaceful death in the forest he guarded at the impressive age of two hundred and fifty years. Others claim that the valiant knight suffered a mortal blow in the battle against Ustga and that his story ends with his noble death."

"Yet friends, I say to you with certainty, none of these other stories are true. No, for the Green Knight did not cease his wandering, he did not quietly slip into the silent darkness of the void. He has remained vigilant for all these thousands of years, he has not forgotten us, he still lives! Seek him out and if you are worthy you will find him and see that he is as real as I."

Accompanied by applause and a series of rousing cheers, the ancient bard bowed deeply and holding out his hat, he collected a sizable number of coins from the audience. It took all his skill as a performer to keep from sneering with disgust. What fools, what hopeless dreamers it was he faced, happily believing that some long dead hero still protected them. Now of course, Harald considered himself a learned man, he had heard of the sightings of the Green Knights by the common folk and he had read the writings of less distantly dead men that spoke of encountering a strange knight armored in green. It amazed the cynical bard sometimes what fiction the desperate mind could create.

"What was his name?" A young boy asked with grave concern as he dropped a coin in the hat of the grizzled bard, interrupting Harald in the midst of his blissful contemplation.

Harald Silvertongue laughed and spoke with a smirk on his face, "Boy, only the gods still know his name, and they don’t speak much these days. At least not to the likes of me!" With a final swig from his tankard of ale and a burst of laughter that seemed to shake the very wooden beams that supported the thatched roof of the humble tavern, the old bard strolled out into the night, smiling quietly to himself as he felt the newfound heaviness of his hat.

A P P E A R A N C E

"In the ancient stories the Green Knight is depicted as a giant of a man, a towering figure adorned with armor of metal and wood, his face always hidden beneath a great helm decorated with the antlers of a strange beast. The grim sword Foebane he ever wielded, the bringer of death to all manner of unnatural creatures."

- Harald Silvertongue, the famed Bard of the North, in the year of our Lord 1015.

"At the behest of the king and with little ceremony the Green Knight removed his helm. His black hair was long and ragged, reaching to his shoulders, his beard equally unkempt and the man seemed to have lost himself to the wilderness. Calm green eyes looked at our party with only a polite hint of amusement, lingering on each of us as if in judgment, and a broad mouth shifted into a modest, disarming smile. His noble features and the antiquated, exceedingly formal manner in which he spoke led me to believe that he must have been a member of one of the ancient Nalmorian houses."

- statements made by the legendary bard Perdan Goldenlute to the Alundo, royal scribe of the Kingdom of Telrov, year unkown.

A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T

Abilities

"Like many mythical heroes, the Green Knight was favored by the gods themselves and Tavra, goddess of nature, was said to have given him great gifts of power so that he could do her will and restore balance to the lands."

- Enin the Priest, "On Gods and Men", year unknown.

" The favored servant of Tavra, the Green Knight was the recipient of a number of her boons:

The Gift of the Sun - The tales of old make bold claims, many suggest that the Green Knight had learned to be as patient as the ancient trees of the Nalmorian forest, no longer just a man, needing naught but the sun and rain to sustain himself.

The Will of the Forest - Unmoved by danger, impervious to the bite of blades, uninterested in the stab of spears and uncaring of the kiss of arrows, the Green Knight was as indomitable as nature, marching ever onwards.

Mastery of the Forest - Blessed with a divine spark from Tavra, the Green Knight was said to be one with the forest. The oldest ballads sing of his ability to create all manner of plants as if from the empty air, to shape even the mightiest of oaks in accordance with his will, and like his master to move unimpeded through the forests by man or beast."

- The Arch-Mage Yerlo, "The Might of the Heroes", year unknown

Arms and Armor

"The Green Knight was said to carry three mighty weapons:

The Bow of Swift Justice - A massive bow made of stout wood and covered with moss, uncannily accurate and possessing a silent bite that few beings could survive. Although the Green Knight could use the bow with ease, legend says that only one granted the favor of the knight himself could draw back the string of the bow even halfway.

The Heartwood Spear - A heavy spear carved entirely out of ancient oak and dressed in dark green vines. The spear was said to stand taller than even the Great Knight himself and was adorned with a leaf-shaped spearhead, fashioned from a piece of dark wood, perfectly smooth to the touch. Far stronger than steel, the remarkable spear bristled with arcane energies. Affixed just below the spearhead was a simple yellow banner, referred to by bards as the "Banner of Tavra."

The Sword Foebane - A grim, two handed blade, forged by Tavra with one purpose in mind, to restore the balance of nature. Far too large for any normal man to wield, the longsword was said to bring instant death to the unnatural beings which plagued the lands. Nonetheless, it is a beautiful weapon, inlaid with intricate patters of silver that seem to mimic the branches and leaves of a tree, with the hilt of the legendary sword forming the stem and roots.

Oaken Armor - In all the stories, even the most ancient, the Green Knight is described as wearing a green robe and a strange set of armor crafted out of a wood and metal. No mortal smith could have forged the steel just so, nor could the finest carpenters in all of Nalmor have bent the wood in such a manner. The exceptional armor was capable of absorbing great blows and it was said that it allowed the Green Knight to weather even the worst of storms."

- Jeyro the scribe, "The Arms and Armor of Legendary Knights", year unknown.

A G E O F L E G E N D

The Green Knight belongs to some of the oldest ages of Ansus and while his story has not been forgotten, the true man, has been buried beneath thousands of years of legend.

[Transience]

T H E S T A R L E S S
T H E W H I S P E R E R B E Y O N D T H E W A L L
T H E K I N G I N B L A C K

T̅̄͛҉̴̘̜̣͓̠̟̲ ̱̉͋ͅH̵̨͙ͪͬ̔ͬ͡ ̵̞̽̌̽̀̃̃͊͠Ȩ̶̛͎͖͙̮̘̯̳ͪͭ̽̒̓̾́ͧ̇ ̢̢̬̦̯̝̺̠̈̈́ͫ̊̏ͦͧ̌̐͘ ̸͔͕͓̎̍͗̅̒̍̑ͬ̓̀K̵͈̆ͬͤ̑ͩ̀͟ ̛̙̫ͫ̌͡͝I̟̰̲̣̫͚ͫͬ̽ͣͣ̊̈́͆̀͢ͅ ̤͎̱̣̱̟͚̺͛̒ͅǸ̨̹̰̞͐̄͐̌͘͝ ̨̛̹͎̬̝̮̻̘͍̿͝G̖̜͚̙̣̼͚ͣͮ̆ͥ̚ ̨̪̲̠͇́̈̑ͧ̓ ̗̹̙̖͈̙̻̟̎̏I͔̹͎̬̟̤̖͍͙̅͟͡ ̸͈͇̱̮̳̤̌̌́̚Nͨͣ͋̃͐̓́͏̴̙̪͕̭̹̹̩̠͙ ̼̬̬̹͉̊ͮ͟ ̴̱ͫͤ͟͝B̷̥͖̻͆͋͌̀͢ ̵̷̘͇͖͗̒̈͋̆̍ͫL̴̍̄̑̓͆̂͛̏͞͏̩̘͖̺ ̭̻̙͙̣̌ͬͫȀ̡͎̺̯ͮ̓͂ͫ̓ͣ͞ͅ ̿͊̒͛̈́̕͏̹̟͔̞̭͙͚C̨̜͓̯͛͛̀͋̾̒ ̧̼́̐Ḱ̷̂͆ͪ͂̊̅̚͏̷͍̻̝̬
T̨̨̛͓̟͍͖̯̔͒̀̍ͦͮ͗̑ͬ͗ͬͤ̚ ̴̹̼͖͕̼̼̗̰͕̖͂͑ͤ͒̓̅ͮͧ̉͂ͫ̋͢ͅͅḨ̴̻̜̫̖̮̰̮͉̗̻̇͒̆̓ͪ̓͋ͯ̈̊͗̚̚͞ ̷̧̢̞̖̝͓̠̞̞́ͭ̽ͥ̄ͩ͗͡Ē̸̡͚̰̭̼͇̥͇ͫ̃̇̌ͭ̊̄͒̄̋̃ͫ̊̊̚̕ͅ ̢̠͉̰̹̥̥̼̙͓̭̂̌̇͋̎̒̋̒ͬ͑͂ͤ̓͊̚̚̕ͅ ̛̛̞̬̆ͧ̉̃ͧ̓ͥͫͫ̀͞ͅ

T H E K I N G I N B L A C K

K̶̵̡̗̞͉̄͗͊͋̇͌̍̈́ ̶̨̺̱̦̘̏ͬ̀̅̓͗̏̎ͪ̐͠Iͯ̿ͬ͌̑̀̐ͬ̌́ͨͬͨͥͦ͋͒҉҉̵҉͕̜͓͉̤̮̝̭̜̮̘ͅ ̋͂̎̉̄̓͒ͮͫ̋͆ͣ̃̄͐͂̕͞͡͏̠̰̰̤̗̣̰̟̘͓͔ͅN̢̯̦̭͚̼͙̝͉̫̰̳͇͙̳̝͉̪̯ͬͣ̓̒ͣ͗̇̄͋͌͒̓̂͗ͪͬ͞ ͆̉̆ͮͬ̈́͡͏̪̣̻̼͍͙̩̫̻̲̼́͢͝ͅG̵̸̩̻͓̲ͣ̾͒ͬͭ̀͡ ̛̖̞̙̫̟̖̲̲̦̯͔͖̰̰̱̰̭͋̏̈́̿͝ ̧͛̒̽ͫͮ͆̔ͮͤ̐̃̇͒̍ͯ̾͐͗͏̵̬̳͙̝̺̱̯͈̜̙̕͟Į̶̧͓̝͍̖̻̦͖͇̹̻͍͍̝̱̳ͩ̃ͥ͛̽͒ͮ̄̄ͧ̋̕ ̸̶ͨͣ͋̎ͫ͋ͨ̌̔͒̎̈͟҉̯̝̝̘̥͉̘̺̟̘̰̬̫̮N̵͖̱̩̜͙͆͛̎ͤ͛ͮ͐͡ ̢̯̣̫̼͓̜̪͈̬͖͔͑͋ͨͭͥ͗ͩ̍́͠ ̴̧̺̲͔̫̟̮̼̩̦͓̣̲̲̱̭͍̞̐̌̋̍̄͆̄̈̌́͐ͨ̈̔̋ͣͦ̚͡͠B̴̵̥̝̗̤̗̬̮̫̪̣͔̞̤̝̞͕̰̓̒ͨ̈͐̍̐̇̐̃̈́̑̕͟ ̵̛ͣ̐ͦ̋͌͐͊͑ͨ̕͏̺͇̬̤̠̦͇͇̭͍̺̼̫̰̹͓̰L̵̰͕̤̮̂͂̎̅ͮ͋͒͆͟ͅ ͯ̄̀ͩ҉̶̴̧̣̥̭̦͖͓̥̬̥̪̹̩̝̀A̷̢̘̱̟̦͊͆̓̇͗̊̋̑͐̿͌͒ͫͥ͐̑̒ ̴̛̛̯̺͎̰͖̫͙̣̬̼̄ͩ͒̾ͫ͆̒̕͠ͅC̖̼͉̥̝̳̪̈̉̏̌ͯͣ̐ͦ̍͐̌̽ͦ͌̆̈̆̀̚̚͞͠ ͭ̀ͥ́͑̌͛ͬ̌͏̵̴̷̤͉̝͔̪̥̫̣͖̠̱̭̫̰̪̬͠K̴̩̻̟̖̝̉ͫ̃̈́ͫ̄̄̂̋̑̎̿̐͗̎̃ͩ͡

T̨̨̛͓̟͍͖̯̔͒̀̍ͦͮ͗̑ͬ͗ͬͤ̚ ̴̹̼͖͕̼̼̗̰͕̖͂͑ͤ͒̓̅ͮͧ̉͂ͫ̋͢ͅͅḨ̴̻̜̫̖̮̰̮͉̗̻̇͒̆̓ͪ̓͋ͯ̈̊͗̚̚͞ ̷̧̢̞̖̝͓̠̞̞́ͭ̽ͥ̄ͩ͗͡THE KING IN BLACKĒ̸̡͚̰̭̼͇̥͇ͫ̃̇̌ͭ̊̄͒̄̋̃ͫ̊̊̚̕ͅ ̢̠͉̰̹̥̥̼̙͓̭̂̌̇͋̎̒̋̒ͬ͑͂ͤ̓͊̚̚̕ͅ

T H E K I N G I N B L A C K

̛̛̞̬̆ͧ̉̃ͧ̓ͥͫͫ̀͞ͅK̶̵̡̗̞͉̄͗͊͋̇͌̍̈́ ̶̨̺̱̦̘̏ͬ̀̅̓͗̏̎ͪ̐͠Iͯ̿ͬ͌̑̀̐ͬ̌́ͨͬͨͥͦ͋͒҉҉̵҉͕̜͓͉̤̮̝̭̜̮̘ͅ ̋͂̎̉̄̓͒ͮͫ̋͆ͣ̃̄͐͂̕͞͡͏̠̰̰̤̗̣̰̟̘͓͔ͅN̢̯̦̭͚̼͙̝͉̫̰̳͇͙̳̝͉̪̯ͬͣ̓̒ͣ͗̇̄͋͌͒̓̂͗ͪͬ͞ ͆̉̆ͮͬ̈́͡͏̪̣̻̼͍͙̩̫̻̲̼́͢͝ͅG̵̸̩̻͓̲ͣ̾͒ͬͭ̀͡ ̛̖̞̙̫̟̖̲̲̦̯͔͖̰̰̱̰̭͋̏̈́̿͝ ̧͛̒̽ͫͮ͆̔ͮͤ̐̃̇͒̍ͯ̾͐͗͏̵̬̳͙̝̺̱̯͈̜̙̕͟Į̶̧͓̝͍̖̻̦͖͇̹̻͍͍̝̱̳ͩ̃ͥ͛̽͒ͮ̄̄ͧ̋̕ ̸̶ͨͣ͋̎ͫ͋ͨ̌̔͒̎̈͟҉̯̝̝̘̥͉̘̺̟̘̰̬̫̮N̵͖̱̩̜͙͆͛̎ͤ͛ͮ͐͡ ̢̯̣̫̼͓̜̪͈̬͖͔͑͋ͨͭͥ͗ͩ̍́͠ ̴̧̺̲͔̫̟̮̼̩̦͓̣̲̲̱̭͍̞̐̌̋̍̄͆̄̈̌́͐ͨ̈̔̋ͣͦ̚͡͠THE KING IN BLACKB̴̵̥̝̗̤̗̬̮̫̪̣͔̞̤̝̞͕̰̓̒ͨ̈͐̍̐̇̐̃̈́̑̕͟ ̵̛ͣ̐ͦ̋͌͐͊͑ͨ̕͏̺͇̬̤̠̦͇͇̭͍̺̼̫̰̹͓̰L̵̰͕̤̮̂͂̎̅ͮ͋͒͆͟ͅ ͯ̄̀ͩ҉̶̴̧̣̥̭̦͖͓̥̬̥̪̹̩̝̀A̷̢̘̱̟̦͊͆̓̇͗̊̋̑͐̿͌͒ͫͥ͐̑̒ ̴̛̛̯̺͎̰͖̫͙̣̬̼̄ͩ͒̾ͫ͆̒̕͠ͅC̖̼͉̥̝̳̪̈̉̏̌ͯͣ̐ͦ̍͐̌̽ͦ͌̆̈̆̀̚̚͞͠ ͭ̀ͥ́͑̌͛ͬ̌͏̵̴̷̤͉̝͔̪̥̫̣͖̠̱̭̫̰̪̬͠K̴̩̻̟̖̝̉ͫ̃̈́ͫ̄̄̂̋̑̎̿̐͗̎̃ͩ͡
T̨̨̛͓̟͍͖̯̔͒̀̍ͦͮ͗̑ͬ͗ͬͤ̚ ̴̹̼͖͕̼̼̗̰͕̖͂͑ͤ͒̓̅ͮͧ̉͂ͫ̋͢ͅͅḨ̴̻̜̫̖̮̰̮͉̗̻̇͒̆̓ͪ̓͋ͯ̈̊͗̚̚͞ ̷̧̢̞̖̝͓̠̞̞́ͭ̽ͥ̄ͩ͗͡Ē̸̡͚̰̭̼͇̥͇ͫ̃̇̌ͭ̊̄͒̄̋̃ͫ̊̊̚̕ͅ ̢̠͉̰̹̥̥̼̙͓̭̂̌̇͋̎̒̋̒ͬ͑͂ͤ̓͊̚̚̕ͅTHE KING IN BLACK ̛̛̞̬̆ͧ̉̃ͧ̓ͥͫͫ̀͞ͅ

T H E K I N G I N B L A C K

K̶̵̡̗̞͉̄͗͊͋̇͌̍̈́ ̶̨̺̱̦̘̏ͬ̀̅̓͗̏̎ͪ̐͠Iͯ̿ͬ͌̑̀̐ͬ̌́ͨͬͨͥͦ͋͒҉҉̵҉͕̜͓͉̤̮̝̭̜̮̘ͅ ̋͂̎̉̄̓͒ͮͫ̋͆ͣ̃̄͐͂̕͞͡͏̠̰̰̤̗̣̰̟̘͓͔ͅN̢̯̦̭͚̼͙̝͉̫̰̳͇͙̳̝͉̪̯ͬͣ̓̒ͣ͗̇̄͋͌͒̓̂͗ͪͬ͞ ͆̉̆ͮͬ̈́͡͏̪̣̻̼͍͙̩̫̻̲̼́͢͝ͅG̵̸̩̻͓̲ͣ̾͒ͬͭ̀͡ ̛̖̞̙̫̟̖̲̲̦̯͔͖̰̰̱̰̭͋̏̈́̿͝ ̧͛̒̽ͫͮ͆̔ͮͤ̐̃̇͒̍ͯ̾͐͗͏̵̬̳͙̝̺̱̯͈̜̙̕͟Į̶̧͓̝͍̖̻̦͖͇̹̻͍͍̝̱̳ͩ̃ͥ͛̽͒ͮ̄̄ͧ̋̕ ̸̶ͨͣ͋̎ͫ͋ͨ̌̔͒̎̈͟҉̯̝̝̘̥͉̘̺̟̘̰̬̫̮N̵͖̱̩̜͙͆͛̎ͤ͛ͮ͐͡ ̢̯̣̫̼͓̜̪͈̬͖͔͑͋ͨͭͥ͗ͩ̍́͠ ̴̧̺̲͔̫̟̮̼̩̦͓̣̲̲̱̭͍̞̐̌̋̍̄͆̄̈̌́͐ͨ̈̔̋ͣͦ̚͡͠B̴̵̥̝̗̤̗̬̮̫̪̣͔̞̤̝̞͕̰̓̒ͨ̈͐̍̐̇̐̃̈́̑̕͟ ̵̛ͣ̐ͦ̋͌͐͊͑ͨ̕͏̺͇̬̤̠̦͇͇̭͍̺̼̫̰̹͓̰L̵̰͕̤̮̂͂̎̅ͮ͋͒͆͟ͅ

T H E K I N G I N B L A C K

ͯ̄̀ͩ҉̶̴̧̣̥̭̦͖͓̥̬̥̪̹̩̝̀A̷̢̘̱̟̦͊͆̓̇͗̊̋̑͐̿͌͒ͫͥ͐̑̒THE KING IN BLACK ̴̛̛̯̺͎̰͖̫͙̣̬̼̄ͩ͒̾ͫ͆̒̕͠ͅC̖̼͉̥̝̳̪̈̉̏̌ͯͣ̐ͦ̍͐̌̽ͦ͌̆̈̆̀̚̚͞͠ ͭ̀ͥ́͑̌͛ͬ̌͏̵̴̷̤͉̝͔̪̥̫̣͖̠̱̭̫̰̪̬͠K̴̩̻̟̖̝̉ͫ̃̈́ͫ̄̄̂̋̑̎̿̐͗̎̃ͩ͡

T̶́́͟͝ ̵̨͢H͟͟͝͝ ̴̨̧̛͝E̵̡̕ ̀͠ ̕͢K̵̴̀ ̢͞҉I̡̨͠ ͡N̴͢҉͢ ̸̢G̵̵̵ ̧́̕͞ ̶̶̡́H̴̶͟ ̶̡͡͡A̡͝͡ ̶͏S̀͜͞ ̵̛̕͠ ̷̡͘R̸͢҉͜ ͟͜E̡̡͘͢ ̵̸̕T̨̀͟͞ ̡͢U̶̧ ̸̨̢͢R̨̀͞҉ ̷̧̛̀͝Ǹ̢ ̶̸̡́͟Ę́͟ ̨̨D̨̕͠͠

H̴̨̺̞̳̲̦̫̘̻͉̞̜̼̠͉̮̹ͅA S T A R L E S S M O N S T E R ̨͍̼̯͎͍͉̀͟Ì͖̰̞̗̺̝̀͝ ͠҉̗̣̩̝͈D̶̪̺̘͈͢͝ ̵̴̴̮͓̟̗̮̘͕͖͈̩͔̙͠ͅͅĘ̵̨͕͖̻͇̙̞͖͔͘̕ ͔͓͕͎͓͘͜ ̧͖͓̘͈͕̰̣̝͟B̡̛̛̙̬̻̤͍͉̺͈̲̮̘̺̦͖̜̺́͠ ̨̠̻̺̮͎͕̱̗̭̰͇̱͇̼̯̜̲́E̶̡̫͔͎̥̬̰̝͝͡ͅ ̶̤̣̻̳̪̙̹͓͡͠ͅY̨͏̶̢̳͓̮̗̖͎̩̰̕ ̸̷̶̖͓̺̠̪̗͉͚̩̱̀O̴̢̡̖̗̘͎̲͈̤͢ͅ ̢͘͠͏͉̮̜͓͍̙̖͕͓̻Ń̡̮̮̟͈̲͞ ̱̞̝͉̗͍̰͔͞͝ͅD̴̢̛͇̗̼̘̹̱̱̣͓̬̻̺̯̹̠͍͕̯̭́͟ ̡̥̦̯̦̹͔͓̫̖̘̯̞̙͜͟ ̵͙͚̗̦͕̜̞̼͇̫̳̕͢T̢̳͉̗͔̹̼̠̞̳͡ ̡͍̼̦̰̱͇̞H̴̰̘̺͉̩̼̟̺̱̘͍́ ͏̙̺̝̳̩̺̮̼̪͕̜̣̰̗̥̬̯͖̕͘͟Ę̡̧͚̬͈͎͈̤͔̺̙̥͉͉̀͘ͅ ̢̨̤̼̳͇͎̙̮͍̬̙̺́͝ ̨̱̟̮̲̹͖̥͍͈̠̙̘

T H E K I N G I N B L A C K

S̢̛̠̙̗̱̘̹̘̞̮͍̺̹̣͈̕͜͝ ̶̛̖͉͉̘͓̻̥̺̹͉͓̥̠̭̯̠̀͟ͅṮ̢̳͉̗͇͙͎̮̤̳̤̻̠̖͍̝͕̕͟ͅ ̡̧̧̖͉̲̫̳͍͓͚̥̫͚͞A̸̢̗͓͔̜̬̟͙̜̘̟̹̼͔͔͟ ̙̮̹̱̙̙͚̱̻̣̲̺͎̲̪̱̩́͢͜C O M E F O R T H I N E S O U LR̷̵̢̧͉̹̪͙̲͚̫̺̤̩͚̦͕̟̻̝̱̀ ̀͠҉̡̲͚̼̲͎͍͕̭̬͠ͅŚ̢̛͎̫̠͍̀͝H I D E F R O M T H E S T A R SI̡̨͠ ͡N̴͢҉͢ ̸̢G̵̵̵ ̧́̕͞ ̶̶̡́H̴̶͟ ̶̡͡͡A̡͝͡ ̶͏S̀͜͞ ̵̛̕͠ ̷̡͘R̸͢҉͜ ͟͜E̡̡͘͢ ̵̸̕T̨̀͟͞ ̡͢U̶̧ ̸̨̢͢R̨̀͞҉ ̷̧̛̀͝Ǹ̢ ̶̸̡́͟Ę́͟ ̨̨D̨̕͠͠

H̴̨̺̞̳̲̦̫̘̻͉̞̜̼̠͉̮̹ͅ ̨͍̼̯͎͍͉̀͟Ì͖̰̞̗̺̝̀͝ ͠҉̗̣̩̝͈D̶̪̺̘͈͢͝ ̵̴̴̮͓̟̗̮̘͕͖͈̩͔̙͠ͅͅĘ̵̨͕͖̻͇̙̞͖͔͘̕ ͔͓͕͎͓͘͜ ̧͖͓̘͈͕̰̣̝͟B̡̛̛̙̬̻̤͍͉̺͈̲̮̘̺̦͖̜̺́͠ ̨̠̻̺̮͎͕̱̗̭̰͇̱͇̼̯̜̲́E̶̡̫͔͎̥̬̰̝͝͡ͅ ̶̤̣̻̳̪̙̹͓͡͠ͅY̨͏̶̢̳͓̮̗̖͎̩̰̕ ̸̷̶̖͓̺̠̪̗͉͚̩̱̀O̴̢̡̖̗̘͎̲͈̤͢ͅ ̢͘͠͏͉̮̜͓͍̙̖͕͓̻Ń̡̮̮̟͈̲͞ ̱̞̝͉̗͍̰͔͞͝ͅ

H A I L

D̴̢̛͇̗̼̘̹̱̱̣͓̬̻̺̯̹̠͍͕̯̭́͟ ̡̥̦̯̦̹͔͓̫̖̘̯̞̙͜͟

T H E K I N G I N B L A C K

[EnterTheHero]

N A M E / A L I A S
Erebus Thane = The Dragon-Blooded = The Uncrowned

M Y T H O L O G Y
Come, sit down, and drink with me, as I tell the tale of a king with no crown, a lord with no titles, a man with a simple, yet insane, seemingly-impossible wish.

Let me tell you the tale of Erebus Thane, the man who became a dragon.

Long ago, when this country was still young, a tribe of travelers and vagabonds was set upon by bandits. But when all seemed lost, and the brigands' victory seemed assured, they were turned back by a young boy. He carried no weapons, not even a simple belt knife. But his teeth grew into fangs, and his fingers sharpened to claws. He slew many of those who threatened his people, and drove off the rest. And so he was left to contemplate the wonder of what had just occurred.

Some time later, his parents took him aside, to explain his bizarre transformation. According to them, their bloodline had been touched by that of dragons many years ago. Perhaps one of the great beasts had come to them in the form of a man. Perhaps some ritual tainted their line with its essence. Whatever the cause, Erebus had somehow manifested the gifts hidden in their blood, an event that had not been seen in many a year.

Erebus was ecstatic- a great power boiled within him, waiting to be unleashed. And so, when he came of age, he set off on his own, to study his unique gift, and enhance it, in order to accomplish his truest, most sincere wish- for if a dragon could take the shape of a man, should not the opposite be true?

Whatever the case, whatever means he accomplished them by, it is clear that he succeeded in his goals- tales across Ansus tell of a man who, with naught but a gesture, could shape parts of his body into that of a dragon. Great wings sprung from his back, the legends say, and scales harder than steel grew across his limbs. No blade could pierce him, no arrow could slay him, as he rained down lightning upon those who stood in his path. He was a wandering warrior, travelling where he saw fit according to his whims. He was a conqueror, who leveled mountains and crushed cities. He was a hero, who slew far worse monsters than he. He was a god, deigning to alight upon the base earth. Many tales exist, none quite agreeing with the other about who the Dragon-Blooded truly was.

Whatever the tale, however, one thing is agreed upon by all- wherever Erebus Thane walked, it was his dominion; the Uncrowned King of all the world.

And then, suddenly, strangely, his legend ends. The Uncrowned walked across the horizon, never to be seen again. Where he went, what end he met, if any, remains a mystery...

A P P E A R A N C E
Were it not for his unkempt nature, one might find Erebus appealing, handsome even. Strong, sharp features, as a broadsword, one might say. Taller than any mortal man, with a physique to match. Twisted, tangled black hair and beard adorn his head, with eyes that glow unnaturally, like a bolt from the heavens has been caught and frozen in his eyes. He dresses simply, in mere leathers and furs- he has no need for regalia.

His body is forever altered by the means by which he acquired his gifts. His hands and feet are scaled and tipped with vicious claws. A strong tail winds its way from the base of his spine. When angered, his teeth grow long and sharp, horns start to grow from his head, and sparks of lightning dance across his skin and scales.

A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
The Uncrowned carries no blade- his teeth and claws will suffice. He wears no armor- his skin and scales match or transcend mundane iron and steel. He carries no bow- his very breath smites with light and lightning. He has no retainers- his brothers in arms and in the skies are court enough for one such as him.

He has no throne. Only the world whose breadth he walks.

A G E O F L E G E N D
Nigh on five thousand winters have passed away since the Uncrowned last walked his dominion...

[VoiD]

C I N N E A D

S P E A R O F T H E W E S T

M Y T H O L O G Y

The circumstances of Cinnead's birth have long been subject to controversy. In the version of his tale traditional to the highlands of where he grew up, Cinnead was born to a village hunter and his wife. However, in the tale courtly bards often tell, Cinnead was the son of a noble baron who was stolen from his cradle by a vengeful crone. Regardless of his true origins, all agree that the hero was blessed by Faerthius with his incredible cunning and that Fulthrim, not to be outdone, bestowed upon Cinnead a part of his own fury. This fury would only manifest in battle and would come to be known as his daemon.

Though the details of his birth and childhood are foggy at best, Cinnead first came to prominence at a relatively young age. He was said to have been a hunter of extraordinary skill, able to venture into any forest and catch enough game to feed the entirety of his humble village. He would boast of hunting boars by himself, a task usually requiring a party of ten or more, and that how no beast of Goethia's was safe from him. Cinnead's hubris angered Goethia, and she sent one of her Great Beasts, Ladon, to punish him and his village. Cinnead encountered Ladon on his next hunt, and their battle lasted three days and three nights; the earth was said to have trembled and shook with the ferocity of their fight. Finally, Cinnead triumphed by thrusting his spear into the beast's unprotected mouth when it roared. Furious at his triumph, Goethia appeared before Cinnead and made to strike him down. However, ever cunning, he immediately begged forgiveness for his tresspasses. Mollified, Goethia forgave him and granted Cinnead the pelt of Ladon.

Several years later, Cinnead celebrated his manhood ritual by going on a grand hunt. Accompanied by a dozen hunters from his village, he set off into the northlands tracking a boar. They traveled for many days and nights and crossed a great distance; far enough that the other hunters wished to turn back, fearing the monsters that lived in the forests ahead. Cinnead placated them with eloquent words, and the next day they stumbled upon the cave-lair of Arges the Giant. Arges slew ten of the hunters and captured the rest, along with Cinnead, seeking to preserve them for a later meal. However Cinnead, crafty as he was, tricked Arges into thinking that there was a second hunting party and that he would lead Arges to them in return for his freedom. When Arges agreed and went to untie Cinnead's bonds, Cinnead struck his eyes and tripped him onto a stalagmite. Cinnead then leapt atop the felled giant and dashed his brains across the cave walls with a large stone, and claimed an ear from his corpse.

When Cinnead was twenty, he was invited to be part of the retinue of a famous lord. There, he met a hooded man who would not give his name. Offended, for Cinnead had already given his, he challenged the man to a game of riddles; if Cinnead won, the man would give his name, and if the man won, Cinnead would leave him alone. The hooded man accepted, and so they traded riddles back and forth for the better part of a day, before the man became stumped. He thought and reasoned and scratched his head but could not come forth with an answer, and so he admitted defeat, revealing himself to be Orthus. Impressed with his wit, Orthus gifted upon Cinnead one of his own spears: Brionac. Made entirely of black iron and enchanted to be as light as a feather, the spear would return to its owner upon calling its name. He warned Cinnead that by accepting this gift he would achieve everlasting fame, at the cost of a short life. Cinnead, in his hubris, did not heed Orthus' warning and claimed Brionac for his own.

With Brionac, Cinnead would go on to have many more adventures. He would battle great beasts, rescue fair maidens, slay evil tyrants, and increase his legend with each passing day. So great grew his fame that no man in all of Ansus did not know of his name or deeds. He was welcomed with celebrations befitting the highest of lords wherever he went, and was much beloved amongst the common folk. But although he was hailed as a hero, men are but mortals and as such he was the target of lords envious of his fame. One such lord, Count Adolar of the Reaches, was a particularly jealous man. So great was his hate for Cinnead that, after some years, Adolar gathered a great host of men to slay him. Cinnead ran afoul of them crossing the highlands of the north and, despite felling many more his number, was mortally wounded. He retreated to a hill, where a solitary tree grew; the only in tree in hundreds of miles of highlands. There, he chained himself to it's trunk so it may hold him up, and slew any man that approached him. For five days and five nights he stood there against the tree, and on the sixth day after the bodies began to pile like a great wall and the blood began to run like a river down the hill, did Cinnead finally give his last breath. His killers would not approach him until a raven landed on his shoulder, so furiously lethal was he even at the doors of death; among the slain lay Adolar. That tree and hill are said to still stand today, and are immortalized as Cinnead's Stand.

A P P E A R A N C E

Though there have been many depictions of him across history, few can agree on how Cinnead appeared beyond those detailed specifically in his myth; a young man of average height and build with a wild mane of hair. Usually he is shown to be wearing some form of scale armour, accompanied by hard-boiled leather and a fine fur cloak, and always is he depicted with his famous spear Brionac. As he was a famed hunter of beasts, Cinnead is often seen prowling in a forest.

A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T

Cinnead is known to have been perhaps the greatest spearman to have ever walked the land. Such was his skill, and so renowned was it during his time, that the smallest form of patronage was enough to launch any prodigious warrior into the highest echelons of fame. He was known to possess a truly heroic level of guile and cunning, a trait of his that was more well known than even his skill with a spear. Often would lords and kings call upon his council, and often would they bless his name afterwards, not realizing that they had been made utter fools of.

During his short life, Cinnead accumulated several magical items of great value. The first, and greatest, is his spear Brionac, with shaft of bone and head of enchanted iron. Crafted from the bones of a titanic sea beast and blessed by Goethia, the spear will return to it's owner upon command and is said to be never dulling. Cinnead was also said to possess a cloak of fur, cut from the hide of the Ladon the Great Bear, supposesdly impervious to the ravages of the elements. Most tales vary on the rest of his equipment, though all agree it was enchanted in some form or another.

A G E O F L E G E N D

34,000 years

Theme

[Dawnscroll]

CLARENT

The Kingmaker
Knight Commander Coquelicot

M Y T H O L O G Y

The Song of Clarent

On the coming of the morrow
And as the dawning light catches in small places
I shall thank my Liege for my long and happy days.
Yet I see not the same Liege whose voice greets the sons of my sons.
For in grace and horror I had seen Him long decades ago
And lingers his strength revealed across my memory as I go towards the Well.
Over the mountains lie many things.
Some great and grand and wonders that call to young fools,
And I, principal among such in my youth,
Did but stray over the paths through the peaks of Sangfroid.
Haughty and proud but soon to find
The warnings upon the ancient maps were but true:
"Here there be dragons".
Over the mountains lie many things.
Some unhappy, broken, and rife with strife and war.
Under the gaze of the dark tower beyond wherein lie the Witches
Trespass many things that would soon end the life of a fool.
To me came chief of such fates as the ground 'round me shook,
As whispers of wind grew great,
And around me the pines rocked.
Great was Fafnir of the world beyond the mountains.
Terrible was the dragon lord, great among his kind,
Rumors of whom even found purchase in Ynys Mons fair.
How many walls had fallen in the lands over the hills,
Torn asunder at the shock of his tail?
How many creatures run through on his talons?
How many ripped asunder by the teeth tall and white?
As the dragon crested the pass I hid,
Sheltered shivering among the rocks, barely finding a place.
My hands across my mouth to muffle my breath
Less the scent of my fear catch in his muzzle,
Less I scream aloud as his claws crushed the rocks around me.
Sat I in dread as he stood over me unknowingly,
Looking down from the high rocks to Flanders beyond.
Hissed like acid did his drool and spit,
The rocks foaming as his hungry maw opened above me.
Panned his vast greedy eyes, alight, over the lands beyond,
And shook I with fear as he laughed.
Yet even his greed was not the end of what I was made to witness,
For even as I pulled deeper within the rocks he lifted himself,
And with a deafening roar summoned more horrors.
Seven sons had Fafnir, and seven sons came at his call.
Up they came, sliding over the rocks like vast serpents.
Soon they enveloped my place of hiding,
And my fear was consuming, and I dared scarce to breathe.
For though slight were they in stance under their sire,
Over each hung the same power,
And their eyes blazed with malice.
"My sons!" called the drake,
His voice like rumbling thunder far across distant hills,
"Tis' Ynys Mons below us, fair for the taking!
Their armies have burned,
And who fears the She-King?
Come, we go forth to take for our own
These fat lands, fit for the harvest."
New fears through me flew,
For I knew it t'was not fields of grain
Or apples shining in the summer sun,
Which they set their eyes upon as a harvest.
Nay, t'was not shining gem upon which they sought to slake their hunger
And shuddered I in fear for loved ones below,
And in horror at what awaited Ynys Mons fair.
About me they pawed at the rocks,
Their talons clawing away the layers of slate and shale
As though it were just grass upon the earth,
As they pondered the feast before them
And laughed in horrible pleasure.
Round about me pooled the acid, powerful vapor,
That dripped from hungry lips.
Yet, even as I shuddered in terror,
As I felt faint from the vapor,
I saw them lift their heads
And sniff at the air as does a hound
At a scent that floats upon the breeze.
So it was that the sons of Fafnir turned to him
And his head lifted in wonder at it.
"What could be so scented?"
Pondered aloud the beast, pawing at the earth,
Making rubble of the mountainside.
"D'jac, eldest of my scion," called Fafnir
"Make down these paths
And find what it is that catches as scent
And what it is that drifts about on the breeze."
So went the eldest of the sons
And as they waited they sat sunning themselves,
Laid out across the vast tables of rock
Until D'jac returned.
As he returned to them
His eyes thereon sat uncertainty,
Puzzlement was there cast.
"Father" spoke the eldest,
"There lies in these woods not far away a temople,
One of stone, yet overgrown with vine,
The rocks cast asunder.
There upon the hewn stones caught I the scent of that which approaches.
A flame burned within the halls, as if newly lit
And as such it seemed since long before my birth!"
From where I laid hidden,
Wrapped in worry and doubt,
I saw the dragon lord tilt his head
And long ponder these words.
"Sivek," called the drake,
"Most powerful of my scion,
Lift yourself and seek."
With that up rose Sivek,
Shrouded in power and might.
Down the mountain he crashed
Throwing trees before him,
Birds and beasts of the wood
Fleeing before him in fear for their lives
And in terror at his passing.
The dragons rolled there, scratching themselves
Ruining the rocks, shattering them as they awaited
The return of their brother and son.
As I waited in fear I heard his coming,
And did the dragons as well, for he bellowed
His pain carried on the air, reaching high,
And he fell among them wounded and bleeding.
"Father!" called Sivek, thrashing about,
the diamond spears deep in his leg and side,
"What approaches, it rises to this place not alone!
An army marches with it, can you not see the dust
That grows in the western sky?
Though I trampled, bit, and thundered
Had that army stood, and what comes on us now
Leads it such that we cast it not to fear but resolution!"
Listened then did I as Sivek pulled the spears from his wounds,
As he simpered and spoke of the men with cloaks of black.
Fafnir looked across his child unmoved,
"How is it you were undone by the Tuath?
By those who drink wine and and eat oat, those who sing and play?
"Jahken, most sly of my sons! Go now down this mountain,
Whisper until you find what rises against your kin!"
With that they sat and pulled at the spears,
Licked the wounds of their brother as he cursed
And promised that it was upon his teeth
That Ynys Mons would be broken.
Yet not long could he invoke such wrath
For returned did Jahken, wailing in pain
For he was less an eye.
"Father!" called the dragon that crashed to the earth,
Body tearing at the mountain as he flailed,
"Sly and clever have you named me,
yet what comes for us now
Is devious beyond any doubt!
For a trap was laid where the river enters these woods,
And as a fool I was ensnared, and an eye it has cost me!"
Rage was growing within the drake,
Fafnir, his face raw and twisting.
"How has my line come to this?
Where are my strong sons?
What has reduced my scion to wurms?
What has vexed them,
And made them as whelps that mewl and cry?"
With this I shuddered anew
And darkness itself draped o'er the rocks wherein I hid.
"Father," spoke a voice as a chorus of ghosts,
"Rhesk, I who over darkness and evil hang,
Let my blanket of loss float over the Tausi
And fear itself will fill them
And name that which vexes us."
With that he sent forth Rhesk
And as his sons licked their wounds
He paced, and watched I from my hidden place
As the old drake did crack the rocks in his talons
As though worry followed him.
Not long did the dragon lord go thusly
For a voice unfamiliar reached to him weakly.
"Father," called a voice small and beset,
And Fafnir let out a roar of disbelief.
His eyes stared over Rhesk,
The body trembling and shorn of darkness,
As forward came the broken form.
Aghast stood Fafnir, fighting to believe what he beheld,
His son thin and crushed.
"Cast I sheets of fear over them,"
Came the dragon's voice
As though spread thin over the stones of a river,
"Yet, no sooner had I done so than there was light
And in it was a presence
Of one devoted to their She-King
And I was undone, my darkness stolen on knives of light!"
Laughed then did Bomlas, arrogant and haughy.
Proud was this son of Fafnir, and he bowed to his brothers
And mockery was in it.
"Father, would my dear brothers consent to it,
I should be the one to end this menace.
For if fear, strength, and slyness shall not prevail
It is poisoned words that would make best the issue."
Off then went Bomlas, head held high,
And as the dragons awaited his return I looked on,
Watching in horror and awe as their slight motions shifted the river,
Even those wounded still wiping away with ease the ancient trees
As they rolled, moaned, and worked their wounds.
And there I saw rage tempered by concern and doubt
Living upon the face of the dragon lord.
With head held low came Bomlas
And the eyes of judgement were upon him.
"Father," came the dragon's voice, "I am beaten.
No sooner had I reached the edge of these woods
When I saw we were encircled
And though we can easily break an army
No force is there that could break that which assailed me."
"A voice echoed to me through the woods,
A million voices made of one,
And it spoke of giving its life
So the She-King would live.
It comes here, and before I could poison it with words
It laid me low, denounced me utterly in harsh speech.
It comes here, dreading not death if even one mortal to save."
"Return your craven tongue to within your disgraced head!"
Roared the father, crashing his claws across the face of his son.
"Lay here now your brothers, one less an eye,
One pierced through, another shorn and trembling.
Words beat you?
Are you not my son?
Lacon, my wise son, heed your sire and speak with me."
Now came another son of Fafnir,
One who had sat quietly pondering.
Though terrible and vast, there was in this one
Something of a thoughtful grace.
"Lacon," called the drake, "Wisest of my scion.
Go you now down the mountain
And find what you will."
Not long did Fafnir wait, for as the day grew bright
Returned to them did Lacon, and upon his face sat doubt
As deep and as powerful as the sea.
"Father, know I what has befallen us.
Though scarce can I believe what I have seen.
It must be made real to another, lest I know it true.
Send forth my brother Hylon, that he may see it too.
Now came the smallest of the seven sons,
One not so imposing, and Lacon whispered to him,
Yet from my sheltered place I did hear.
"Sit quietly and speak not. Listen and soon you will know."
Softly and uncertainly from the mountain went Hylon
And his brothers did wonder at it.
Yet Lacon spoke not and Fafnir fumed and paced.
As the day moved on my body grew weak.
Cramped was I in my earthen shelter
And yet even though I sat high above them on the mountain,
Still did the vapors of the dragons reach me
And filled me with dread whenever one would cast his gaze over the pass.
I sat there in fear, and knowing no aid would find me.
Yet my deliverance drew near.
Returned then did Hylon, his eyes wide in amazement.
"Lacon," he asked his brother in awestruck tone,
"Was it a Man that revealed himself to you?
Was it a Man in robe of black,
His words sweet and his promise sincere?"
"This is what I saw," answered the wisest,
"And in his such magic flows that ne'er I have seen."
Nearly called out did I in joy, yet I stifled my hope
As harsh eyes drew up their ire.
Began then a rumbling laugh,
One that seemed born of thunder across young mountains.
Yet not long did it last,
For soon he was berating them,
Shaming his sons.
"One Man has done all of this to my scion?
One Man hath made them crawl as wurms?
And why should this be so?
I know of the Kingmaker, and yet I know too what has been lost!
Where is his youth, in which he slew Grael?
Even now the snow creeps upon his flower.
Were you too enchanted by the pretty stones he carries?
Did he kneel and bartered, my sons, to draw you down?"
"Father," spoke Lacon, wisest of the sons,
"Doubt not that in the Man there still rests power.
The Man is the Word, the Land, the Castle.
He will suffer us not and we are already undone."
"We may go to the East!" called Hylon,
"This he promised me as I lay among the ferns,
let us make that our path, and peace here may lay."
"What has become of my sons?
Where are the dragons who laid out kingdoms?
Where are my scion who bathed continents in flame?
Come, rise! One Man shall not keep us from this land
And the mortals below will learn fear.
I am Fafnir! What can long stand against these teeth?
Who would try to stand before my scion and I?"
With that the light did draw down,
And as a Man slid down the broken shale
Rising to reveal a form of grace
And beauty in the very midst of the dragon and his kin.
Reeled did they the seven sons of Fafnir, yet stood he firm
And gazed did the dragon into the eyes of the one there revealed,
He staring back at the dragon lord from beyond ages.
"I am Clarent of Coquelicot, and this is Ynys Mons over which I reign,"
Came the voice of my prince, beautiful and terrifying at once.
Not had I heard it so in my young life,
And I pulled myself deeper into my hidden place in fear of it.
"Your sons have one and all known my presence,
Fafnir of the land beyond the Tear,
And each has felt my judgment and promise."
"Speak not to me so proudly, Kingmaker,"
Laughed the drake as he eyed him
"For I know many things.
Where are your knights?
Dare you face us alone?
How do you expect your She-King to keep her realm
When seven sons have I to make my claim?"
"Seven sons have you Fafnir,"
Came the voice of the sovereign,
"Yet only five stand near.
And as many sons as you may have
It matters not in the reckoning.
For you may have fathered sons
Yet mine is not the line
That will end upon the sunrise.
"Father!" called Lacon and Hylon,
"Listen to the words he speaks,
There is a power in this man,
One beyond us all to overcome!
He has made to us a promise,
To go to the East in peace,
Let us go now there and drop our claim!"
"Blood traitors!" called the drake,
His voice shaking the mountain,
"No sons of mine are you,
Who are so scared by a single Man!
Come, those of you who would still be my sons!
Rise, rise against the mortal here standing!
Rise, rise, now is the time to cast him down!"
At that rose the five sons,
Each looking to avenge their loss upon the man.
Darted they at he, slashed with claw,
Bit with tooth, whipped with tail.
Yet none could land a blow upon him.
Fire they spilled in long whipping cords,
Yet the sovereign slipped their wrath.
Fafnir, the great vast drake himself,
Nearly caught him, made him flash and slide,
His dark eyes coming alight at the thought of a kill,
Of divine meat across his lips.
Great was my fear for him as the drake spoke,
"Powerful are you Clarent,
Yet I know that the flower is wilting."
With small smirk
And smile upon his face
Did the Prince of Coquelicot
Flash among them,
Spoiling their motions.
With a laugh did he take to the air
And erupt as brilliant daggers.
"Do you think yourselves even half the might of those heathen devils,
From whom I wrested back our people?
Do you think yourselves even half in power and magic
As the Witches, mother and daughters, who now sleep in deathly sleep
In their towers over these mountains?
Dare you name yourself as better of your Brother
That lively wretch, Grael, yet now fallen, whom I slew?"
With that came a rumbling roar from Fafnir
One both horrible
Yet something less than what had been heard before.
"Gather to me, my sons!
The man doubts our strength?
Shall we light now our own deep and powerful magic?
Let our fires coalesce, and let it flow forth and steal out his sly tongue!"
With that Clarent was surrounded
And they growled and sought him with fierce eyes.
At once their eyes alit with light of pale grey
And from within their gaping maws,
Where stood teeth tall and horrible as stands of swords,
Flowed dark fire that did wrap and twist
Until as orbs of unholy flame it sat waiting to steal his life.
Move did I to cry to him, beg him to flee.
Yet within a moment that which has sat in my eyes ever after was revealed.
It was then that my Lord dropped his pretense of flesh
And rose the Monile in white torrent of flame.
A horrible light was in his eyes,
Light glittering from the sovereign as ten thousand spears falling to the earth
Or erupting in crackling arcs high into the skies.
Wavered did the sons of Fafnir,
And turned they to his might.
Yet he brought forth the magic within,
And with that they joined him in his assault.
Set they the pale light upon the sovereign,
Seeking his destruction and death,
And I feared for Him as it rose into the darkened skies.
Then erupted magic from the sovereign,
Great waves of it that shuddered and shook the mountain,
Threatened to collapse the sheltered place where I had but hidden.
Became he so brilliant that no longer could I look upon him,
And his voice filled the valley that the river had cut over ages,
Where the dragons looked up in amazement
And it was as though the voice radiated from him, unspoken.
"Oh, you fools!" came the voice of the sovereign,
Flying from within the prism,
"Know you not from which my power flows,
That which gives me my very name?
Know this now and despair,
And Death claim you in this moment,
For who should slay a dragon but a Knight?"
With that did the power of mountain erupted
Cascading as a stream through rapids, pouring as a waterfall
Over the valley, mountain, and river below.
Reflected was the magic of the dragons,
Returning back to them, yet greater by multitudes
And fear was in their eyes as the fire crushed them,
As his light weighed down upon them.
Oh, that I should never see such a sight again!
As the sons of Fafnir were overwhelmed
Their jaws creaked and were peeled back.
The flesh of their faces torn away,
Their eyes made as water and streaming down their faces.
Not long enough did they live to scream,
Merciful in that regard was the judgement of the Monile.
Yet still stood did Fafnir,
His magic greater than that of his sons.
Yet even he could not long stand in the face of the Kingmaker.
And he wavered and was cast down in ruin
As the very mountainside began to become molten
As the rocks glowed red and my place of hiding
Became as an oven.
"Sovereign, Majesty!" called I, lifting my voice
From where I had hidden all of that long day.
"One of your Acolytes lies here,
Awash with fear and in hiding!
I beg you, withdraw your judgement,
Less I too should be killed,
Overcome by my sovereign's might!"
At once the light lifted, and once again
Clarent of ancient face and fatherly countenance was there,
Looking to where I had beseeched him.
Yet at once did Fafnir call out to him,
Heaving in pain and wincing with each breath.
Defeated was the dragon lord, his flesh charred,
The scales flaking away, the limbs shriveled.
Slowly he lowered himself to the bowl of the mountain,
Where the fire river now hissed and steamed across the boiled rocks.
And as the earth hardened as he danced upon it
Came he before Fafnir, his enemy and that of his people,
And listened as he fought to speak.
"Do any of my sons live," asked the drake through stammers of grief,
"Do any of my scion still walk, do I still have a line?"
"The two whom you cast aside sit nearby," he spoke,
"Weeping for their father and brothers."
"Lacon! Hylon! Wisest and fairest of my sons!" called the drake,
Pain racing through him as his lips bled and he pawed at the earth,
"Go to the East! Wiser and humbler than your father are you,
For you knew what I would not hear, which I refused to believe,
You now are all that remains of my line, for your father dies here."
As I lifted myself from my shelter I watched
As the dragon lord lay dying,
As his charred flesh cracked and flowed from him his blood.
"Knew these things," he spoke softly as his eyes watered,
"From the lips of my kin, that all the Knights,
And my Brothers, and more foes,
Had you felled in times now long passed."
"As a whelp I mocked them in silence,
How could a Man, a prince who knelt before a She-King,
And cast aside steel and armor for stones
Cause such fear in vast great dragon lords of old?
When word came over the mountains
That the Knight Morgant had been killed
And we saw him as the Bane of our kind
I thought you reduced by half, and Ynys Mons mine for the taking."
"Here now I lay, a broken lord,
And before me a horror I'd spare any father,
Is before me laid bare and open.
My sons. My sons! Dead they are, and twisted in death,
Burnt by the earth itself!
Would you not tell me, I beg,
Clarent, how it is that you are still so strong?"
"Oh Fafnir," spoke my sovereign softly,
"Not you, your sons, or your Brother,
Whom I slew in equal combat
When the War of the Seven reached an end,
In pain and loss are equal to Man and Drake
In these long years much has changed,
And the Flower has wilted."
"You can not know what I have suffered,
What I would suffer still,
To give my little grandchildren who are dear to me,
Even a day without fear and pain.
You can know not what I've been made to do,
Yet my strength is now lost, and flows my magic vexed.
And 'tis not only my heart torn in twain at my enemy's fall."
"I am a fool," said he as the pain grew in him,
As his body trembled, rocked with the hurts that multiplied,
"The victory is yours, and I ask your favor,
Send me to be with my sons,
Sooner now than later, if that mercy you would grant.
For Regent is named both your sword and your throne,
And the heart of a dragon lord easily can it pierce."
"This I will grant you," spoke Clarent as he rolled to his side,
And as Fafnir wept, both from his pain and the loss of his scion,
Did my prince lay one small kiss upon his head
And place a shard of Regent to his chest.
With one heave, one push
Did the stone slide betwixt scale and flesh and deep within
And quell the fire that burned within
And there on the mountainside died the dragon lord.
Noble form dressed in the blood of their kin,
Turned He to Lacon and Hylon who wept nearby.
Bowed they in fear of his might and caught in his beauty,
And with his blessing he dismissed them.
Promised they not to eat of Man,
And to their word they must have held true,
For not again in my life have I heard their names whispered.
Stood I on that high place,
Looking across the ruins of the mountain,
The great bowl carved there by dragon claw and dragon's fire.
Yet it was the one radiant Man that stood there among the litter
And ruin of his foes
That put the most fear in me, made me tremble,
As he lifted his hand to me, calling me to him.
Laid his head across me did, my Liege
Made soft sounds of reassurance as a father would,
The mountain crashed around us, drove down the ruins.
He bade me flee, and bequethed the Shards of Regent
His magesty and words lifted me above the mountain, drew out my fear,
As the bodies of the dragon lord and his scion were entombed,
Laid beneath the crushed mountain, and the river flowed over the place,
And with a whisper of magic did crash the waters o'er the graves.
To the home of my father I returned
And scarce would any of my family believe my words.
Yet I would not retract them,
And a great bowl filled as a clear lake in the mountains beyond
The shimmering shards of my Liege
Prove these words true.
For in all the years since that day
Has no Knight, as true as Clarent
Guarded the throne of Coquelicot

The Man Behind the Myth

Clarent was powerful.
He sat in the center of the orphanage’s main hall, bathed in the light of his newly awakened magic. Around him orbited several dozen books. He had one of them open and was reading all about bladecasting when they came to collect him.
Two guards, lightly armored and bearing a red poppy crest, strode into the room. Between them was a tight faced man with a weathered face, garbed in fine clothes. Clarent had never seen an noble before. He recognized the symbol well, however. “You’re King Solom,” he said.
Solom regarded him for only a moment, his face expressionless. “Kneel,” he said at last.
Clarent considered his words. “Why should I?” he said. “If you’re here to execute me, I die if I kneel and I die if I don’t. If you’ve decided to conscript me, then will my bad manners really change your mind?”
Again, the king’s face did not betray his thoughts. “Leave us,” he said.
Nobody spoke. The matron as well as Solom’s guards both left immediately. The King continued to regard Clarent with his cold stare, and Clarent began to feel like a child for the first time in years. Suddenly, sitting in the center of the room seemed silly.
"Clarent,” Solom said. “You killed a boy.”
“He wasn’t a boy,” Clarent said. “He was older than me.”
“He was a boy, and you are a boy. Children both. You will tell me why he is dead.”
Clarent was amazed at how Solom could make such a deep and rich voice sound bland and lifeless. “He tried to kill me,” she said, “so I stabbed him in the neck with a rock.”
“You killed him with magic.”
“I did,” Clarent said. “He survived when I stabbed him in the neck, but I broke his voice somehow. When he came back to the orphanage, he tried to kill me again. He was choking me in the kitchens and I couldn’t stop him this time. And then I felt all warm inside, and suddenly I felt all good.”
Solom nodded. “An awakening.”
“He backed away,” Clarent said. “But I knew that he’d try again. He’d come for me in my sleep or stab me with a knife. So I grabbed him with my magic,” he said, remembering. “I pulled him in all different directions. He came apart.” There had been blood everywhere.
“Yes, Clarent, you broke it. You are an extremely special young boy.”
“Valuable,” Clarent said. Solom cocked her head. “I’m valuable. You want me to fight in your army. And if I don’t you’re going to kill me. That’s why you’re here.”
Solom began to step closer. “Essentially, yes. Magical talents are extremely valuable, and you are the most valuable magical talent. I had come here prepared to appeal to you as an orphan. I was going to tell you that everything would be okay and that I was going to care for you now. I had intended to make you feel wanted and to offer you a home.”
Clarent swallowed. “You aren’t?”
“I am,” Solom said. “But now that I have met you, I see that I can make what you will find to be a far more compelling offer, one even more true. It was in the way you refused to kneel, the way you sit before a king instead of rise, the way you described killing the boy. This will make you less inclined to rebel.”
He stepped inside Clarent’s bubble of books and leaned down. “Power, Clarent. If you come with me, become my servant, and do exactly as I say, you will become the strongest mortal man to have ever lived. I will teach you to kill your enemies, and you will make my enemies yours. You will never want for food, shelter, or attention, and you will be respected by your allies and feared by your rivals.”
Clarent looked up at him. The offer wasn’t something he had to think about. “I accept,” he said. “But I have a question.”
“Refer to me as ‘Your Highness’.”
“I have one question, Your Highness.”
Solom nodded in approval. “Ask.”
“You weren’t clear. Is this a conscription, or an adoption?”

“Name?” One of the guards asked.
“My name is Lucille,” she said. “I’d like to speak with Major Comol.”
The guard looked her over. Lucille wore no uniform, instead preferring a deep crimson gown. “No,” he said.
“I urge you to reconsider your response,” Lucille said. “I’m very important, you see.”
“What I see,” the guard said. “Is a rankless child attempting to interrupt an important meeting being held by the acting head of the army. Get out of here.”
Lucille turned her head towards down the hall. “Clarent!” she called out.
Clarent had been speaking with a soldier of the army. He appeared to excuse himself from the conversation before striding towards Lucille and the guard.
“Get us in,” Lucille said to him.
“And who’s this?” the guard asked, looking Clarent over. His eyes took in a black-robed youth somewhere close to Lucille’s age of sixteen.
Clarent gave a polite half-nod, half-bow. “I am sir Clarent, Knight of the Natural Order. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
The guard laughed. “You?” he asked, “a Knight of the Natural Order? I suggest you take that robe back to its owner before he gives you a whipping, boy.”
Clarent did not appear offended in the slightest. “The Natural Order does not consider age a substitute for experience or skill. I request that you allow Lady Lucille and I into the inner ring to speak with Major Comol.”
At this, the guard’s laughter redoubled. “Is that so? Tell, me, Sir Clarent, what kind of knight of the Natural Order requests anything from a lowly guard like me?”
“A well-mannered one,” Clarent said.
“Just my luck!” the guard shouted. “I got the only polite knight out of the whole order. Any of the others would have killed me by now, right? But not you. Oh you are too kind, Sir Clarent.”
“Thank you,” Clarent said with a nod. Lucille appeared to grow impatient.
“Scram,” the guard said. “I know for a fact that the Major doesn’t have any Knight Commander with the army.”
Clarent nodded again. “I am not with the army. I have been assigned as Lucille Coquelicot’s knight protector, so that she may continue to hold no rank during her stay here.”
“Look, kid,” the guard said. “I don’t care what story you two have cooked up. You keep running your mouth and I’ll have you both strung up by your ears. Understand?”
Clarent regarded him coolly. “How stupid,” he said quietly, “can you possibly be?"
The guard’s jaw fell open. “What did you just say to me?”
Clarent continued to speak, his voice calm and level. “No man would dare impersonate a Knight of the Natural Order. I am young, yes; and so your doubts as to my rank are not entirely unfounded. But if you were to consider for even a moment that there is the slightest chance that I am who I say I am, you would have treated me with a little more respect. Just in case.
“You could have excused yourself, checked my identity on the ledger, then returned informed; and yet you did not. Do you understand that while in this camp I am the word of King Solom?”
The guard looked from Clarent to Lucille, uncertainty showing on his face. “I’ll check the ledger,” he said, “but if—”
“No,” Clarent interrupted him. “You will not. You will decide here and now whether or not you believe what I am saying is true. If you allow me through and I am an imposter, you will be punished by your superiors. If you turn me away and I am not an imposter, I will invoke the wrath of Solom.”
“That means he kills you,” Lucille said.
“That’s exactly what an imposter would say,” the guard said. “You don’t want me checking the ledger.” Clarent noticed a bead of sweat glistening on his forehead.
“It is,” Clarent said. “But it is also a pointless cruelty, if I am who I say I am. Doesn’t that fit the descriptions of a knight of the Natural Order that you’ve heard?”
“I...” the guard looked around frantically. “You can’t expect me to...”
“Three seconds,” Clarent said.
“Okay!” the guard shouted. “Just go! Major is going to have my ass for this regardless.”
“Thank you,” Clarent said as both he and Lucille strode past the guard. “You will undoubtedly wish to check my weapon.” His robe fluttered, and nine sharpened pieces of metal neatly stacked themselves onto the ground. “Nine pieces of iron.”
The guard looked down at the metal, and Clarent knew exactly what thought ran through his head: only the owner of the blade could manipulate it with magic.
“Consider it a rare kindness,” Clarent said as he turned to move deeper into the inner circle. “That I will refrain from shedding blood before the daughter of our king.”
The guard gaped at them as Lucille turned to give him a cheeky wave.
“Well,” Lucille said once they were well on their way to Major Comol. “That was almost mean of you, Clarent. I’m surprised.”
Clarent raised an eyebrow. “I was doing him a kindness,” he said. “Any other member of the order will kill him if he shows that much disrespect. I taught him a much-needed lesson. Still, I would like to use my power for something other than being your bully for once.”
“I hear Grael is getting restless again,” Lucille said. “How does slaying one of the strongest dragons in the world sound?”
“Impossible, even for you and me. I was thinking more along the lines of rescuing a damsel. Something that makes the world a better place.”
“And instead you’re stuck opening all the doors I can’t kick down,” Lucille said. “Perhaps I should ask Father for a rank.”
“King Solom,” Clarent corrected. “Titles are important.”
“All knights say that,” Lucille countered with a smile.
“Tell me,” Clarent said. “Why are we about to interrupt a meeting between Major Comol and all his most trusted officers?”
“You hadn’t already guessed? And here I thought you were suppose to be teaching me these things...”
“I have my suspicions,” Clarent said. “The greatest of which comes from the fact that you don’t wear jewelry.”
Lucille fiddled with the gemstone earrings that dangled from her ears. “You’re so observant,” she remarked. “But this is just for the worst case scenario. I’m just going to tell the major that I’m taking command of the army.”
Clarent stopped in his tracks. “You have got to—no, you know what? I know you enough to know that you aren’t joking.”
“Well,” Lucille said, stopping to face him. “Let’s hear your objections.”
“You can’t,” Clarent said. “It’s insane! King Solom put you here so you’d learn how the army works, not tear it apart from the inside out!”
“Father doesn’t ever do something for just one reason,” Lucille said. “And I have learned how Men make war, Clarent. I’m going to make some improvements.”
“By staging a coup? Can you hear yourself speaking right now?”
“I can,” Lucille said, growing irritated. “Father gave Comol this army so he could take the Tear. He has failed to take the Tear. I’ve deemed it necessary to step in.”
“You’re doing this to impress him.”
“Why else do I do anything?” Lucille asked him. “You are my knight protector and you will do as I tell you. And right now I am telling you to stand idly by while I seize command from Major Comol. You can do that, yes?”
“When your father learns of this—”
“Don’t presume to know the Princess better than I do, Clarent. Now come.” She turned and swiftly began to walk away.
“This is crazy,” Clarent muttered before following her. “I don’t have my blade, Lucille.”
“You won’t be needing it. Your job is to stand idle, remember? You’re a Knight, and if you stand near me I look important by proxy.”
“You can’t take whatever you want just through looking important, Lucille.”
“I know that,” she said. “But I can take the rest through power, intelligence, or sex appeal.”
“Sex appeal?” Clarent asked. “Is that why you walk the way you do?”
“Yes,” Lucille answered. “You’d be amazed at how easy it is to get a man to do what you want when their sole interest is taking you to bed. Back there you got us through the guard because he thought you were a Knight of the Natural Order.”
“I am a Knight of the Natural Order.”
“Irrelevant,” Lucille said. “The position is not something real; like your magic, it is an invention. The rules of bladecasting, which were selected in a fashion that is seemingly arbitrary, cause Men to look upon you with respect simply because of the color of your robe.”
“What are you getting at?” Clarent asked.
“I am the most influential woman alive in the kingdom, and yet I hold no rank, and so in many ways I am powerless. Comol is a major, and this imaginary position gives him a very real store of influence. But he’s proven he can’t use it anymore, so I’m going to take it away from him.”
“And then you’re going to win the Tear?”
“Yes,” Lucille said. “If a single man can influence others by the way they dress, and the way they act, and the way they are spoken of, cannot an army? Where is the robe that demands our enemies reconsider? Where is the title that will bring them to their knees without a drop of blood shed? I propose that an army is not unlike a man.”
“You sound like you’re a book all of a sudden.” Lucille ignored him.
The inner ring of Comol’s camp was constructed around the ruins of an ancient town that had apparently been burned to the ground by Grael in one of his more active years. The result was a collection of barely-habitable stone ruins that served as housing for the army’s commanders.
The central structure, the bare remnants of what had once been a keep, was where Major Comol held his war talks. Nobody was allowed in or out while they were ongoing.
Clarent threw the doors open with an excessive amount of noise and magical flare. Inside, over a dozen men stood around a large round table. At their center was Major Comol, an aging man with a green uniform and blue sash.
“Major Comol,” Lucille called out as every pair of eyes in the room turned to her. “Your failure to consult me before making the decision to retreat was about as ill-advised as the decision itself. King Solom will be most displeased.”
Clarent blinked in surprise. It seems he had taught the Princess a thing or two.
Establish yourself as a being of power and authority; let the disparity between the princess they see and the princess you act like intrigue them.
“Coquelicot,” Comol growled. “I told you I’m not interested in teaching a woman the intricacies of battle. Get out of here before I have your ears beaten.”
An effective counter; he made you appear little while ignoring your claim to authority. If only he had challenged it. Ah, well, nothing to do but make him appear childish as well and drive the Princess bit home.
“You act childish, Comol. Attempt to harm me and I will have you hung for treason and then quartered for incompetence.”
Enough time has passed that they will all have noticed the bladecaster standing at your side. Let them ask, who is this woman who threatens the major with death?
The major stared at her, mouth agape. Clarent didn’t blame him: she had, up to that point, played the simpering princess. “You dare,” he said at last. “You dare accuse me of betraying the crown?”
And now, answer their question.
“I am the blood of Solom himself, and I speak with his voice,” Lucille announced. “I do not accuse you of betraying the crown. I convict you of it.”
If you’re lucky, he’ll argue against the treason and not the authority.
“I have done nothing to betray my King and Princess! You speak nonsense, Coquelicot!”
That was easy. Let’s make him angry.
“My Father instructed you to take the Tear. You are about to order a retreat.”
“Staying in the Tear will result in a loss!” Comol cried.
“Retreat guarantees one!” Lucille shouted. “Or have you forgotten that, Comol?! Do I need to remind you that when you retreat, it means you lose!”
Unless you win, in the end. But we won’t let him in on that.
The major’s face was growing red. “You dare talk to me that way?” he bellowed. “I am the veteran of a decade of war! I commanded decisive victories at Hockensgrade and Middenland!”
Belittle him.
“Neither of which were won by retreating, if I recall.”
“Bitch,” was all the major whispered.
Time for the most potent weapon of all: blatant lies.
“King Solom suspected your incompetence,” Lucille said. “But even he did not think it would be this bad. Four defeats in two months. Three villages lost to Prince Theon. Your failure is indefensible and drastic actions must be taken to ensure you do not hinder the crown’s aims any longer.”
“You have no authority,” Comol said, fuming.
“On the contrary,” Lucille said. “You have no authority. I am stripping you of your rank and its privileges. You are to return to the capitol immediately. If you do not follow this order, I will invoke the wrath of Solom. Clarent, take the major and confine him to the barracks.”
Major Comol snarled and drew his sword, the tip coming to rest just at Lucille's throat. “I’d like to see you try, well-born bitch!”
Displaced air swished around Lucille as her knight came alongside her, only inches away from the major. Comol's mouth opened, but the only sound that came out was a soft gurgle before his eyes glazed over. He collapsed into three neatly sliced pieces of meat, and a torrent of blood rushed out around Clarent’s boots as they hit the floor with a meaty thud.
Lucille's earing hung empty
Clarent dismissed the blade, and the gemstones clattered to the floor. The knight had used them to cut away from his charge, and as a result the officers' faces and hair had been splattered with blood. They table looked on, motionless.
"Not all power is imaginary, princess," he told her aloud.
“I am going to tell you exactly what I want to happen,” Lucille said to her new underlings. “And you are going to make it happen. It is through this method that we will win the Tear. If that isn’t how it worked before, that’s how it works now. But please, feel free to make suggestions; my doors are always open.”
The men around the table were silent. Lucille could feel Comol’s blood soaking into her gown. She licked her lips.
“The engineers will begin clearing trees for an enforced camp three times as large as needed. The squires will begin lighting triple the current amount of campfires at night. They will set up every tent we have rather than only the amount we need, and they will space them such that they fill the new area.”
Noone spoke, so Lucille continued. “They will do this as we move towards Salvos Valley , as if to attack Bridleburg.” Lucille looked up at the table of officers again and waited.
A nearby officer took the bait. “Bridleburg appears—”
“To be an easy target, yes,” Lucille said. “The enemy wishes us to engage there so they can flank us with a surprise contingent from the south. Elementary, really; but we aren’t going to attack Bridleburg, we’re just going to make it look like that’s what we’re doing. And our foes will hesitate to attack us when scouts report an army three times its previous size is camped at their doorstep. They will assume we got reinforcements from the capitol, then wait for us to engage.
“But we won’t. By moving into position to attack us from the south, they will leave the main stretch of the Tear lightly defended. We will then send our two hundred best bladecasters, and a courier for each, to take the river south. They will operate in teams of twenty and, starting from the north, they will scorch and desolate every piece of fertile land in the Tear.”
“You can’t be serious,” a officer said.
“I am. The enemy has demonstrated that they are committed to the Tear, and they will split their contingent to deal with our guerrillas rather than attempt to force an engagement, especially when they think our numbers have tripled. They will fail, however, and every piece of edible food between here and the the end of the Tear will be consumed within the space of two months.
“Prince Theon controls an aqueduct. This means that with a committed force of engineers, they could re-sow the land. To that end we will also dam the river.”
“You’re going to turn the Tear into a wasteland,” an officer said.
“I am. Over the course of the next four months the enemy will suffer starvation, desertion, and poor morale. We will convince them we have a strong foothold here while forcing them to spread their forces thin. With our backs to a supply line, we will be relatively unhindered.”
“This is vicious,” the same officer said. “Nobody makes war like this.”
“Exactly,” Lucille said. “They won’t expect it, and they won’t know how to react. They’ll still control the Tear, and they’ll still have the larger army, so standard practice dictates that they wait for us to make our move. But we won’t. We’ll starve them out and then strike when they begin limping back to safer territory.”
“If they think we’ve reinforced,” he said. “They’ll think the King has taken a larger interest in the Tear. They may respond in kind.”
“They won’t be able to feed an army on scorched earth,” Lucille said.
“I didn’t mean soldiers,” he said. “What do we do if Sir Morgant takes the field?”
Another man barked out a humorless laugh. “What any army does when The Dragon Slayer takes the field,” he said. “Die.”
“I will kill him,” Clarent said.
The officer stopped to look at him. “You’re not serious?”
“I can best King Solom in single combat,” Clarent said. “My ultimate purpose in this war is to kill his nephew. If Morgant takes the field—” Clarent looked down at the blood he stood in. He wanted more. “—he dies.”

“Good news,” Lucille said as she entered Clarent’s chambers. “I outrank you now. Lieutenant Coquelicot.”
Valiant sat in the center of his room, sharpening a shard of his blade. “You don’t outrank me,” he said, his eyes focused on the iron shard in front of him. “I’m a knight and you’re a soldier. Different castes entirely.”
“But,” Lucille said. “I’m officially the right hand of Father himself, now.”
“King—”
Lucille waved a hand. “Whatever. He’s Master General King Solom to me now anyway.”
“And do you actually call him that?” Clarent asked.
“In public, yes. Father tolerates a great many things from me, but undermining his authority while he is present isn’t one of them. I’m a good little bastard.”
Without looking up, Clarent switched the piece of his blade for another one. “You heard about that?” he asked.
“Lucille Coquelicot!” she cried with a chuckle. “Solom's little bastard. A fine nickname to be given by your enemies, I think.”
“I disagree,” Clarent said. “But I don’t think you care. I take it our stay in the capitol is almost finished?”
“After my triumph in the Tear I’m getting my own army to conquer the North. What’s that big stretch of land north of the Tear called?”
“The Heart,” Clarent answered. “We’ll be getting closer to Grael. And his brother, Fafnir.”
“And I should care why?”
“Because they’re brothers, and the two strongest dragons in the world. Each of them can reduce an army to ash, Lucy. And they stay out of one another’s territory, which is the friendliest relationship between two dragons I’ve ever heard of. The last time Grael was seen was a month ago, when we were pulling out of the Tear. He levelled an entire village of almost a thousand men.”
“I’m not a knight, Clarent. I don’t care about dragons.”
“Oh?” Clarent said. “The last time anyone saw Morgant, he was driving Fafnir back into his lair. He is The Dragon Slayer, after all.”
Lucille frowned. “I always thought that was just a catch-all term.”
Clarent shook his head. “Even among Solom's knights, Morgant is legendary. I play chess. Morgant slays dragons. Still, he hasn’t managed to kill Grael of Fafnir yet.”
“So Morgant may still be in the Heart,” Lucille said. Killing her cousin would make her uncle end of the war. She would fulfill her purpose. Father would be proud.
“He may,” Clarent said, “But either of the dragons could make your life extremely difficult. And they’re far more likely to target us than Morgant, seeing as they know he’s a threat.”
“If they do,” Lucille said, “then we kill them. Simple enough.”
“Hardly,” Clarent said. “Still, it’s said that Grael’s hoard could buy a kingdom, and that it contains the purest gemstones known to man. The blade a caster could make out of those stones would have no equal.”
“Money and power,” Lucille said. “I never took you for the type, Clarent. Aren’t you always talking about making the world a better place?”
Clarent laughed. “The only reason I seem like such a good man is because every time someone see me I’m next to you, Lucille. I like the uniform, by the way.”
“Really?” Lucille said, looking down at her pure white button-up coat and cloak. “I think the gold trim might be a bit much.”

Clarent broke through the knights' guards with ease, leaving corpses in his wake. He roughly grabbed Lucille, forcing her against the wall. A line of iron shards crossed her neck, their tips drawing blood.
“Tell me again!” growled the knight as blood burned against his face. “That I'm dismissed!”
Lucille shut her eyes. “Clarent...”
“Knight Commander,” he corrected her. “And you won’t do this to me. You can’t just throw back everything I thought you. You can’t just undo what you and your father made me. I’m your knight protector, Your Highness, and I’ll win this war and kill your father even if I have to drown all of Ynys Mons in its own blood.
“And you,” he said, pressing his blades into Lucille’s neck. “You are going to rule when I am done. I will give you the world. And you, Lucy. You’re going to be a Queen.”

"Grael was seen again," she whispered from the door.
From the looks of things, Clarent had been packing. He was no longer the youth who acted as the shadow and her body guard. His shaven face had been gone for nearly ten winters now, a tight black beard hugging his chin.
He was no longer a young man.
Then again, she supposed she wasn't a flowering maiden herself.
He stood when Lucille entered. “Your Highness?” he asked. “Are you crying?”
Lucille realized that she was. “I can't do this,” she said, turning away. “I called the army away from the Tear.”
“You didn’t,” Clarent's eyes widened. He began to pace. “You have to send them back back. You have to reinforce those towns, and tell them to look to the skies.”
“No, Clarent. They're... they're gone. That dragon would have burned all of our men... all of our defenses. But I won’t let him. I won’t be remembered as the Queen who lost her kingdom.”
“What happened to doing whatever you thought was right?”
Lucille put a hand to her temple. “I don’t know what I'm doing!” she shouted. “This war will go on for decades! I need you,” she said to Valiant. “Bring me a list of the ten wealthiest nobles. They need to have at least a hundred banners to call upon.”
“Lucy,” Clarent said. “What are you talking about?”
“I... I need to marry. We need to have an ally to call upon. I have to have a child,” she said. “I need to—” She swallowed. “Get pregnant. My suitor will have to be a noble of considerable influence.”
“You leave a dozen villages to burn,” Clarent swore, “and you expect me to find a man for you to take to bed? You’re out of your mind.”
“What was I supposed to do, Clarent? Turn the entire army around and lose the Heart. Fail the kingdom? I am Queen Lucille Coquelicot. Do you think that any part of my position requires me to value so few lives? Does it surprise you so much that I am what I am?”
“I know you,” he said. “You aren’t a monster. Stop talking about children and go to sleep, Lucille. I’m not making you any list.”
“Why not?” Lucille asked. “Jealous?”
Clarent froze “What?"
“Come now, Knight Commander. I know what you want. So did my father—or did you think it was a coincidence that he put us together? Yes, Clarent Coquelicot, you would make me powerful children indeed,” he mocked, his voice dripping with poison.
Clarent gritted his teeth. “I am the strongest bladecaster in this army, Lucy. You know that. You wouldn’t need a list, you won't need an army, and you won't need any of this nonsense.”
“You think so?” Lucille said. “I’ve never seen you fight a real foe. Have you ever even killed anyone that wasn't on my orders? All you ever do is go on about making the world a better place. But you never will.”
“I don’t want that,” Clarent said. “Not anymore.”
“Whether you run away to your new Order's little monastery or not, this is going to happen."
“Don’t do this, Lucy. You’re acting insane.”
“You want me,” the Queen said. “You’ve followed me for years, Clarent. You don’t want to make the world a better place, you want to make me a better person. Better than father. You want to fix me. Well this is your chance. You’re a knight, so prove yourself—slay some of my enemies and call it a quest.” Queen Coquelicot turned towards the door. “Except you can’t,” she said as she left. “That's for the real knights.”

Lucille woke up the next morning and decided that she was crazy.
She was a staunch advocate of using logic; and her actions the previous day truly had no logical explanation. She’d left dozens of villages to burn in dragonfire. That made sense; it was easy to defend her decision from a tactical viewpoint. It was even easier to blame her father: the King had never taught her any sort of ethical code. It was, and had always been, victory at any cost.
Still, Lucille knew that by almost anyone's standards what she had done was evil. Indefensible, even. How would her soldiers think of her when they learned what she had done? Coupled with the heavy losses they’d sustained in battle, Lucille doubted she’d be their favorite commander for long.
Clarent despised her. Clarent, who had taught her everything her father hadn't. Clarent had done everything the Princess Lucille wanted and more, but apparently Clarent no longer wanted a Queen to serve. Lucille wondered what Clarent did want, if not her.
To run away to his temple, and train those acolytes. A Knight Commander, the head of his own personal Order.
Still, he had threatened to kill her once. In hindsight, his actions weren’t so surprising. It had been a stressful day. Clarent had cracked.
But now she was left to pick up the pieces. He would need an apology. Displaying humility would almost definitely win him back over to her side; it would bring her more in line with the Queen he wished her to be. It would mean they were winning. No doubt after she had taunted him he had gone off to sulk someplace within the camp.
She tried not to think about the baby as she got out of bed. Above all other things, it bothered her the most that she had been willing to give marry so easily. What would Princess Lucille have thought, to see her so willingly grasp for straws? Something along the lines of a coward, to be sure.
Lucille was a monster; there were nine thousand people dead in the Tear to attest to that. But without her father, that was all that she was. A masterless monster. What was the point anymore?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at her door. A glance at the sun told Lucille that she had slept in almost two hours. She didn’t mind; she’d earned it. “Enter,” she said, swinging open.
“Ma’am!” the runner said, standing at attention. “Sir Clarent has returned to the army. He has requested your presence outside.”
Lucille began to dress. “Clarent left the army?”
The runner raised his eyebrows. “Yes, ma’am. He said he was carrying out your orders. We did not think to question a Knight Commander of Coquelicot.”
“My orders,” Astor said. Prove yourself. Slay some of my enemies and call it a quest.
Lucille ran out to the center of the camp in her night clothes and began to look around frantically for Clarent. A large group of soliders was crowded around something, and she reasoned that was her best bet. “Clarent!” she shouted as tried to push her way through the crowd. “Clarent!” The soldiers around her weren’t budging.
The let out an exasperated sigh. “I am Queen Lucille Coquelicot!” she shouted.
Every one close by immediately turned to face her, then backed away. Silence descended over the crowd as Lucille slowly strode to their center. The crowd broke to reveal her knight.
He was covered in blood. Burns ran along one side of his face and down his neck. He had removed his cloak and turned it into a rope, which he was using to drag a massive red dragon’s head.
He’d slain the dragon Grael. Alone.
Lucille shook her head. “Not possible,” she said. “You told me only Morgant could fight Grael or Fafnir.”
The knight nodded. “When two beings come into conflict, Princess,” he said. “It is more than power that determines who lives and who dies.”
“How?” Lucille said.
The knight shrugged. “It’s a secret. One you wouldn’t want to hear anyway. Now,” he said. “You know the old language. What is the word for ‘king?’”
Lucille stared at him. “Regent,” she whispered at last. “Sir Clarent Regent.”
Twenty shard of what she could only assume were diamonds by the way they shone tore their way from Grael’s severed head and assembled before Clarent. “Regent can be the name of my blade,” he said. “I would rather be Clarent Coquelicot.” He fell to a knee.
Lucille could scarcely understand what was happening. Clarent was supposed to be weak. He was suppose to be her knife. Yet he’d slain a dragon that even Morgant hesitated to meet in combat. And now...
Held aloft by Clarent’s magic, a single red garnet floated towards her. When it was halfway between them, several shards of Regent shot through the air, and pieces of the gem fell away to reveal a five-petaled poppy. The sigil of Coquelicot.
Clarent looked past the gem and into Lucille’s eyes. “Marry me.”

A P P E A R A N C E

"The theme of the Clarent myths has always been a subject shrouded in mystery and conflict. In most children's stories, he plays the archetype of the "Magician Hero", valiant in all knightly endeavors. He is both trickster and hero, lover and sage, usually guiding his charge through the many perils her quest takes her through. Some historical texts, however, paint a different picture; that the daughter of a murdered king ascended the throne up a mountain of corpses, carried by an assassin named Clarent. A man who fought with monsters because his fellow man could pose no such challenge. While our Order has many recorded instances of our mythical founder, especially during the later years of the Red Queen's reign, to date we have discovered only possible illumination from that time period that could be attributed to him. Knight Scribe Calles, a brother of our Order's predecessor who lived during the days of the Red Queen, was one of the authors of the "Morte D' Roi," which chronicled the life of the Black King Solom. The illustrations and ornamentation of the book surpass that of other insular books in extravagance and complexity. The decoration combines traditional Bevalian iconography with the ornate swirling motifs typical of insular art. Figures of humans, animals and mythical beasts, together with poppies and interlacing patterns in vibrant colors, enliven the manuscript's pages. No mention of the Knight Commander is specifically mentioned within the book, but he can still be found. One of the illumination depicts a day in the court of King Solom. At the right hand of the throne stands a young maiden in crimson. Behind her, her shadow; a tall fresh faced youth garbed in a black robe. A shock of unruly black hair crowns his face, and to credit Brother Calles's skill, particular detail gifted for those closest to the throne. To date, one can still see the blue ink vibrant against the pages of the vellum, peeking out from beneath the shade of the black robe of our Order."

Brother Regulus, Hierophant of the Knightly Harmonic Order of Coquelicot

“Knight in Black. Went to the Spaid.
Burned all the homes that the farmers made.
First came the sword. Then came the flame.
Then he cursed the Red Queen's name.”

A children's rhyme still sung today in the Tear

A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T

"A lot of those stories, the ones they tell to children... we all know they aren't real. Ansur never wrestled three dragons, Norco Khan was most likely a group of barbarian warriors whose collective name became grouped under one identity, and Volkimir is simply a story to tell naughty children at bed time. So no, Clarent never singely handedly fought off an army of trolls, plucked a star out of the sky to give to the Red Queen, or is spending all eternity protecting some magical cup.

That doesn't mean the myth is greater than the man.

The art of bladecasting has been the heart of our Order since its founding. We know that its origins predate Clarent, but it was he who perfected many of the techniques we now use. At its core, bladecasting is all about the blade - or more specifically, blade shards. Having more components or shards than an opponent gives you a major edge. Most blades are made of steel, but a few, like the Knight Commander's, use gems. Every one of these pieces respond individually to a Knight's magic. Together, encapsulated by a single moment field, they form a whole blade. They can split the blade apart into projectiles, lock together, make them deflect other projectiles, or just flail it around and use it to cut through things. At its core, bladecasting is all about versatility.

Well, and I guess not getting hit.

We train our knights must be as swift as the wind, and as flexible as a reed. Our draw must be faster than our opponents, for our speed, reflexes, and dexterity are the only things that will protect us. While the cloaks we wear posses some degree of enchantments such as to keep us warm or dry, the only thing we have is ourselves. Thick heavy armor just guarantees death when your opponent can fling metal piercing gemstones into.

The average knight can handle nine shards. Hierophant can do ten, but that bastard has been at it his entire life. The Knight Commander Arcon can do about thirteen, but he's Knight Commander for a reason.

Knight Commander Clarent lived during one of the most violent times in history. He was present at three sieges, twenty-seven field battles, commander of nine and led the vanguard in at least four of those. He was the personal teacher in martial arts to the Red Queen herself, whose savagery cemented her in the annals of history. Strategic geniuses, the both of them. They changed almost everything we know about warfare today. He survived all of those, and lived to found our Order. And I trust you've heard 'The Song of Clarent'?

I believe every word of it. When you've lived through all that, just how else are you suppose to die?

What I can tell, without a doubt, is that Grand Knight Commander Clarent Coquelicot was the greatest blade caster who ever lived. How do we know this? Just look at his sword, Regent. The Order still keeps it at Clarent's shrine, near the lake where he fell.

Twenty shards of diamond. That's how you know Clarent was real.

Dame Nightshade, martial trainer of the Knightly Harmonic Order of Coquelicot

A G E O F L E G E N D

2523 YEARS

[Free Faller]

زهرا - Zahra

N A M E / A L I A S

زهرا از آزادییان
(Zahra az Azadeyan)
Zahra of the Free

شیر آهن دندانه دار
(Sheer-e A’han-e Dandaneh-dar)
The Iron-Toothed Lioness

A G E O F L E G E N D

Nearly 7 millennia have passed

M Y T H O L O G Y

“So, travelers, you want to hear a story? Of the deserts, you say? Well then, come sit. Sit around this old woman’s fire and let me tell you the greatest tale of them all. Of the woman who saved the tribes of these deserts more than six thousand years past, the greatest warrior of our people and the last of the allomancers: Zahra, The Iron-Toothed Lioness.

When the lands of Ansus were wreathed in chaos, and nations and empires would rise and fall with the desert suns, the tribes of the Dust laid scattered and broken. For centuries we nomads suffered from internal warring and power struggles between clans, fueled by generations of mistrust, hate, and our own fierce warrior culture. Slowly we were killing off our own kin, picking at them like vultures for scraps of food and honor. But as is almost always the way of things, salvation for our people came from the most unlikely of places; the banners of southern conquerors and the will of one tribeswoman.

Panic spread quickly when the boots of the Pakryn Empire began churning the sands of our forefathers’ deserts. They swept through our lands like the worst of plagues, pillaging and burning what little the tribes owned and leaving red sand in their wake. The scattered tribes offered little resistance to such a large, well armed force and more often than not broke before their enemies. It was a far worse slaughter than any of those the tribes had committed amongst themselves. Separated they could not stand against such foes and hope to survive.

It was then that the legend of Zahra began. A simple woman of the tribes, her life had been torn asunder when the invaders found her people. They were not kind. Her husband, the tribe’s headman, had been killed in the skirmish and her daughters, though they survived, were subjected to a far worse fate. It was then, lying in the sands with an arrow protruding from her shoulder and watching her family suffer that Zahra snapped. Unbeknownst to her, Zahra was a desert allomancer, the first one seen in generations. And they had just awakened her latent abilities.

A fire burned so hot in her center that she thought she’d alight any moment, the pain unbearable, until the power growing inside her finally burst in an audible pop. Every piece of metal, to include the metal-clad Empire soldiers, within their camp exploded back from Zahra. There was so much power behind the blow that the men were shot hundreds of feet into the air and were crushed by the fall. Zahra had fainted from the exertion, but awoke to find the remnants of her people staring at her in awe.

This was the start of our people's hope, and of our rebellion against the forces threatening our lands. With Zahra at their head, she vowed to avenge every wrong wrought by the foreigners and eject them from their lands even if it meant killing every single one by herself. She went to each tribe one by one, merging them into her own with either words or the force of her new power. Others flocked to her as news spread of her swelling army and the guerilla war they were successfully waging against the Pakrynian forces. Now that the gap in numbers had lessoned and the tribes could attack the small armies throughout the desert, the clans could take full advantage of their superior knowledge of the plains and their ferocious warriors.

She unified us, our Zahra. A queen of battle without the title, she ripped through enemy lines like the strongest of sandstorms, stripping them of skin and blood. It’s said that she could kill a hundred men in just one battle. Our beautiful Zahra, with the strength and tenacity of her animal namesake. Never before had the invaders seen a magic such as hers; a true allomancer. She was no mere manipulator of metals, she used them. Consumed them and burned them within to fuel her strength, her senses, her power.

Finally, after four years of warfare with the forces of Pakryn Zahra had decided that she would gather all of her forces to her at the edge of the desert and push out into their enemy’s land to destroy the base of operations for their war effort. Small contingents of her armies that had been spread throughout the desert made haste to muster to their leader. Little did she know, the Emperor of the Pakryn’s had much the same idea, only sooner. The most elite of his forces already occupied the post and were preparing to begin their campaign. Nobody could have foreseen the outcome of the two forces clashing, though.

You’ve heard of the Battle of Red Sands, yes? Of course you have. Everyone has. The sands there are still red to this day, you know. The Gods made the sands permanently stained with their blood as a dirge to the fallen. Well, anyway, this was the start of that famous battle and the end of Zahra’s legacy. So pay close attention.

It was pre-dawn at the edge of deserts, the air was still cold enough to cling to your breath and the cooking fires burned low in their pits where Zahra’s forces had made their encampments. Most of warriors were asleep, having traveled at an unrelenting pace for days to join the main force of their army. That’s when the call throughout the camps came. A perimeter guard had spotted the encroaching Pakryn army as the the first rays of sunlight glinted off their breastplates.

They were not prepared, our army. They were travel-worn and the encampments were too far from one another to spread news quickly, to rouse them all quickly. But the Empire was already almost upon them.

Zahra knew her warriors would be slaughtered if they couldn’t muster into a sensible formation. The wall of shields and spears now making their way towards them guaranteed as much. She knew she could not be the shepherd that led the sheep to slaughter, her people, to slaughter. She would bide them time to mass. It would only take five to ten minutes, surely the strongest allomancer in the history of the Dusts could hold them off long enough. And so our brave Zahra consumed what metals she had on her person, drew her twin daggers, and went to meet the army by herself. One against hundreds.

She shot across the space separating the two armies like and arrow, pulling herself towards her armor-plated foes by their own armor. She landed in their midst and began ghosting through their ranks like a Daeva -demon, your people call them- of vengeance and death. In desperate fear of stopping her people's’ impending plight should this army reach them before they were ready Zahra began to burn all her metals at once. A dangerous thing, that. And she knew full well that the power would consume her, but her own life was no longer of importance, only that her warriors be allowed to fight on fair ground and defeat this enemy to protect their lands.

When Zahra’s metals finally ran out she collapsed amongst over a hundred men gushing their life-blood into the sands. With no metals, all of the pain from injuries she’d received during the battle was no longer masked, and she had no energy in which to fight. But the tribes were coming, she could feel the vibrations of it within the shifting of sands. She’d held off the enemy long enough. A hand grasped her by the throat, not content with letting her die where she’d fallen, and dragged her through the ranks until she emerged through the reforming shield wall. The man gripping her neck, the leader of this army of plague, thundered a warcry as he lifted her off her feet like a trophy and brandished his sword.

He thought to kill her in front of her charging men, like it would break them, but our Zahra only smiled and met his eyes in pained-defiance as he slipped his blade into her stomach. Her eyes flashed as soon as the iron blade touched her core where her inner fire lay, and the first several ranks of empire soldiers, including the man who’d run her through, scattered like leaves behind her. The melted end of half a sword fell from her gut and she followed; her last act. Zahra died in the bloody sands of that battle, carried to our forefathers by the sound of her people winning their freedom.”

A P P E A R A N C E

The oldest descriptions of Zahra come from ancient songs, poetry, and stories from her own people. Due to their culture of being orators, it’s difficult to say what has stayed true through the millennia and what has evolved through retelling. Regardless, many an artist throughout the ages has attempted to create their own interpretations through visual means and have created a generally accepted visage for her. She is normally depicted as a tall, stunningly beautiful dark desert woman swathed in silks and leathers with long raven hair, startling green eyes that are lined in copious amounts of kohl, and plumb lips set into delicate features. Rarely can one find a painting or drawing of the woman without her two trademark daggers, which is probably the thing most true to the actual woman than anything else.

Most of these attributes, however, if not completely false, have been exaggerated. In life Zahra was indeed a pretty thing, and perhaps exotic in that her tones were darker than was the norm for non-desert dwellers, but never had she been accused of having some kind of unrelenting beauty that would cause men to fall at her feet like she is so often portrayed. She bore the common dark brown hair and eyes of her people, and a face of harsh, sharp angles that in life usually found itself pulled into a stern look of indomitability. Corded, lithe muscle and the stark living of the desert warriors also lent a harshness to her, and it may have been more apt to say that instead of stunning beauty, she possessed a predatory-like grace and countrance. The “Lioness” indeed.

A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T

Zahra was the last known desert allomancer, as well as the most powerful recorded. This type of magic is odd in that the user physically consumes different types of metals and then burns them with inner magical fire to gain different abilities. Zahra herself was known to have been able to burn three metals with extreme efficiency: Iron, copper, and pewter. Burning iron allowed Zahra to pull metals towards herself or push them away, copper was used for increasing the six senses, and pewter increases her muscular and skeletal strength, stamina, and allowed her withstand much more pain and injuries than a normal person. There were drawbacks to this type of magic, however: No metal to burn means no power, keeping metals in the body for too long could begin to poison or cause odd side effects, and burning too much at once weakened or even kill the allomancer.

Zahra was also known to carry two long daggers as her weapons of choice, often referred to as her “fangs” by comrades and enemies alike. While there is nothing too spectacular about the pair, they were well made and maintained, and they were weighed to be able to fly well through the air should Zahra use her magic on them.

[lydyn]

T H E W H I T E K N I G H T | T H E S T A R S W O R D

A G E O F L E G E N D

26,750 years past

M Y T H O L O G Y

"Light seemed to charge into the very steel of her sword..."

Elowen is the name whispered when one is praying for strength of heart. When one is looking up to the skies, hoping that Arete, goddess of virtue is watching, and wishing to have even an ounce of courage that Elowen had. The 'White Knight' is often viewed as a saint of Arete, a symbol of how good can overcome the evil in even the darkest hours, and how determination and compassion can radiate out and heal. It is a tale of sadness and hope.

Myths tell of a young girl that wandered from village to village, alone, hungry, and spat on. Seen as a useless beggar, she tried to find a family among the spotted villagers, a place to call home and spent her life as a child feeling ignored and abandoned. However one day, a priest of Arete saw her on the streets and something struck a cord within him, something that everyone else failed to see - no matter how much it seemed to rain and pour, this young girl was resilient beyond belief. She still tried to smile, still tried to be kind, and refused to let the world keep her down. He could not let such a rare gift go unloved in a world full of cruel men and jealous women. So the priest went over to her and offered her the home she had been so desperately seeking and for a time, things were looking up.

Fate, it seemed, had different plans for her. It was only a year spent with the man, when she had finally started to heal from all the scars on her heart, that a bandit raid swept through the town with surprising ease. The priest hid her away into a secret shrine room and stood tall as they cut him down, beginning to burn the village down for it's mundane riches. Elowen could only slump against the statue of Arete and begin to cry, for her loss, for the loss of the villagers, for the deaths, and for her lack of power. If only she could stop them and send them away, to save the others and rebuild the once peaceful village... if only...

In that moment, Elowen gasped in shock, feeling a warm glow on her hand. Upon looking down, she saw that a rune had been suddenly inscribed onto the back of her hand. Some say that she felt the knowledge of it's power pour into her mind while other myths claim that Arete herself whispered in her ear, but both agree that she came out of the burning temple with a blade, steeling her gaze right into the group of bandits. With a trembling wave of magical energy, Elowen swung her sword and cut many of them aside from a distance, not even having to risk close quarters. She battled with the men with frightening efficiency, however she turned her blade and twisted it so as to spare many of their lives before gathering the villagers still alive and hiding them safely in the forest. Eventually, myths tell us that she was able to give the villagers food and water, guided by her goddess, until they could rebuild once more.

This was only the beginning for the young woman however. Other tales speak of her defiant defense for the innocent, even risking her own life to make sure that others could be happy, and many times staying behind to help them pick up pieces of their almost broken lives. Named the 'White Knight' by the people, she had never formally accepted knighthood from any kingdom and instead opted to travel across all lands to assist those in need. She was not the traditional sort, but for many in those days, she was their knight in shining armor - the one to stand up to evil, plant her blade into the ground and yell, "no more!"

Her last tale speaks of a small kingdom on what is now the northern plains. A peaceful, kind sort of king ruling over them as they worked together to make everyone happy, with no slaves and even treating women with dignity and respect. Their ideals though, seemed far too progressed for the other kingdoms surrounding them and they grew jealous. After many meetings, three of the other lands declared war on the kind-hearted king, not being able to stand that their own subjects were questioning the traditions ways. So at the day of battle, there sat the small kingdom's army, surrounded on all three sides. The king took a knee upon the grass and prayed for aid and the strength of virtue to see this through - when suddenly Elowen appeared and patted his shoulder. As the other armies charged, Elowen stood alone before all three of them and raised her sword aloft. Light seemed to charge into the very steel of her sword and with a mighty swing, the flames of a star nearly blew away all of the men, leaving but a small portion for the king to fend off himself. This is where she got the title 'Star Sword.'

As with any good story though, there is always an end, and hers was met with tragedy. A stray arrow made it's mark into her heart and she slipped away from the world before any healers could make it to her side. The saddest part isn't her death though, but rather that she had been alone the whole time. In all of her travels and quests to help everyone else, she never once found a true friend, or a lover. She always turned the men away and those she truly wanted to be with could not follow her on her journey. A life of sacrifice and a death of loneliness.

A P P E A R A N C E

"Named the 'White Knight' by the people..."

Elowen is often pictured wearing light plate mail of some sort, a buckler, and her legendary blade - Ilfirin. At times she is also drawn with red fiery hair, but most times she is given blonde hair that is shoulder length, while sometimes either short or down her back. Other than this she is given toned muscles that reflect a lifetime of swordsmanship, but also of feminine beauty.

In truth, this isn't far from her actual appearance. She has shoulder-length blonde hair, toned but lean muscles, and often wears light plate mail as protection. Elowen does favor the buckler as well, however her causal dress is not something that is often discussed or thought upon. On her revival, she is wearing a short dress, ending just below her knees that is both elegant and simple in it's design. This type of wear is normal for her, mixing a feminine fashion with function if she were to find herself with blade in hand. On her hand still rests the engraved rune for 'Sword.'

A B I L I T I E S & E Q U I P M E N T

"With a trembling wave of magical energy..."

On her right hand sits the 'Sword' rune, an engraved symbol of divine might and magic. This powerful rune does many things, such as give her mastery over swordsmanship. Being from the goddess of virtue, it also imbues her with immunity to diseases and poisons and some amount of superhuman agility and reflexes. Though these attributes make her a formidable opponent, it's her instant access to many powerful sword spells that are normally beyond the reach of mortal spellblades, that really make this gift so incredible. These include being able to produce waves of magical force, drawing elements onto the blade, and her most famous ability; to draw upon pure magical force that can take out battalions. There are also such defensive abilities as magical shields to parry away other magics & weapons and a moderate ability to heal others. However with her reawakening, the rune has been dormant, so while her talent and knowledge of it's powers is of a master she cannot access everything upon her rebirth.

A requirement of the 'Sword' rune however is that she need to be holding a blade. Any blade will do, from daggers to greatswords, however she does normally prefer long swords or short swords if she has her pick. Some of her defensive abilities will function without a blade however, they are just much weaker without the presence of a blade, forcing her to rethink her tactics.

She holds nothing of value either upon her re-entry into the world, however she had been buried with her legendary blade, Ilfirin. It's presumed stolen, but rumors said that it could never chip nor rust and that with a beckon, would return to it's owner's hand. While not entirely powerful in it's own right, combined with the existence of the 'Sword' rune, it made her a difficult opponent.

Theme

[Dextkiller]

D A E N / T H E U N R A V E L L E R / T R U T H S E E K E R

M Y T H O L O G Y

The Stuff of Legend: Lost Excerpt

Lost Exerpt from "The Stuff Of Legend: Volume 2"
This exerpt was recovered by an expedition of students from Modal's School of Scholarly pursuits who were traveling up the eastern mountains to study the stout plant life that clings there.
Originally scribed by the Renowned scholar Amadaeus Brigs, this excerpt is thought to be the last piece Brigs ever wrote.

The Truthseeker:
Perhaps one of, if not the least well known legend of Ansus, The Truthseeker was a particularly difficult topic of study. Recommended to me by a strange man at a pub with a tall hat and brown-grey gloves of odd material, The Truthseeker was alluded to in a variety of placed. He was often described as a force of nature rather than a man. Direct information, however, was impossible to find. After spending countless nights awake with my nose firmly planted in between the pages of some journal or yet another volume of "Notable Names of History" (of which there were forty-two, upon the publishing of this informative piece. Although I have no doubt the number reaches somewhere in the hundreds at the time of your reading this) I find that The Truthseeker appears a total of zero times.

So then, my dear reader, you may be wondering how it is that I came about this information at all. Well, I am firmly under the impression that the author of "Notable Names of History" (one Arthur Samine) is biased rapscallion who frankly smells of week old cheese. He finds it more scholarly to only pursue the most readily available information, and therefore I declare him to be not a scholar, but rather a mummer. I expect this informative piece to relegated to the back room of some dusty storehouse for such direct insult, and commend you highly for digging it out again! You shant be sorry for your search, however. Because as I have told you, I possess knowledge the general public does not! So then, on to the actual information!

Once again introduced: The Truthseeker. Known by both this name and also as "The Unraveller" (for good reason, as you will come to see) was a marvel which none other in my searches has been able to match. While there are indeed others with greater physical strength or spiritual prowess. The power of The Truthseeker was absolutely unique. For he was, at the time, the one and only disciple of the Minor Deity, Seavus, The god of truth.

Packing my sizeable collection of written knowledge for a trip into the far eastern mountains was quite the task in itself. So when I saw the sheer climb that awaited me, a gracious innkeeper charged me nearly all my limbs (a figure of speech, dear reader) to store my collections. Three days hike later, and twice nearly falling to my untimely doom at the hands of none other than the infamous gravity, I was presented with a small shrine nestled into the high reaches of a lone peak. There, bound to the raised dais by incomprehensible magics, sat a tattered book. Try as I might, I could not remove the tome (it was quite cold upon the peak, and I had no intention of setting up for a study, but that was what I was driven too). And now my dearest and most avid reader, I recount to you the words I extracted from the tome that nearly had my fingers frozen to my charcoal on half a dozen occasions.

Page 1 of the Book of Truth:

Three pages thee, o' seeker, from this book you may choose.

What truths you seek shall not be found unless you have sought before.

Choose wisely o' seeker.

Three pages? Surely there must have been hundreds, but I could choose only three. I was not prepared for the stress this brought upon me. Being such a avid seeker of knowledge, I spent days decoding what I could of this book. Trying to determine what would be stored where before I made my choice. My success was extremely limited. I decided to forge on, the first page I would choose would be twenty-five. I had no particular reason for this, but without a reference of how the knowledge might be ordered, I had to start somewhere.

Page 25 of The Book of Truth:

My dearest Disciple:
By black will you fall.
By white will you rise.
Four times of four, you shall be your own guide.

Upon your return, I shall grant you this
In order to strike, at first must you miss.

And perhaps one more, for loyalty's sake.
To reclaim what you've found, you first must unmake.

This page was, I soon found, a message to The Truthseeker, or, for the sake of not mixing up the "seeker" as the reader is called in The Book of Truth, I shall call the Truthseeker by the name I found on the next page I opened. Daen. I must say that I considered myself rather luck-struck to come across a second page referring to that which I was seeking. But then I thought of the riddle on the first page once more:
What truths you seek shall not be found unless you have sought before.
Well, I had indeed sought knowledge of Daen before, when I searched the libraries of the east and west alike. So perhaps it was not luck, but rather the intervention of divinity. I thought briefly if I could perhaps trick this being, or magic, or whatever it was that was guiding my choices. But thought better of it rather quickly. After all, I was getting what I had come for, so why try my hand and throwing that askew?
My next choice was fifty-eight.

Page 58 of The Book of Truth

O' seeker you fall with droplets of rain
I now for thee, the tales of Daen:

For the convenience of my dear readers, I have deciphered the rather long winded rhyming tales that were then perilously crammed onto this single page.

The miasma of Oaxum: Any reader of the aforementioned "Notable Names of History" knows of the famous battle between the (now fragmented) western nation of Roania and the (now extinct) Peoples of Neamia, who lived in villages that bordered the northern deserts nearly forty-thousand years ago. In an attempt to bring the Neamian peoples under the rule of the king of Roania (who's name has been lost to history) a culling was to be performed. The Roanian military was to scatter twelve villages to the wind as a threat of extinction to the Neamians. The culling was carried out with both swiftness and brutality. But instead of falling in line as the Roanian king had hoped, the Neamians retaliated fiercely. They were hunted and systematically slaughtered for their rebelliousness. But not before taking a sizeable chunk of the Roanian empire out with what was, for the next ten thousand years, referred to as the Miasma of Oaxum. The miasma was nearly fifty kilometers across, and how this plague of toxicity was created is unknown. But within the rhymes of The Book of Truth, I found how it was eventually dispersed. Daen, holding what is referred to in the book as the "seed of truth" dispersed the miasma to the winds of time. Dispelling the toxic wastelands that had been impassable for ten millenia in a matter of hours.

The book does not mention what exaclty the "seed of truth" is. But it does refer to it as shiny and reflective. With this in mind I can make an assumption that it was some sort of gem.

The Strait of Imenis: It was quite surprising to me that I had never heard this tale before. It was always rumored that a great evil once blocked the strait of Imenis, preventing trade and information being passed across the sliver of land that separates the Gray Lake north of Kolantis. It was thought that the magic binding the creature there had eroded over time (the same was thought of the Miasma of Oaxum). The evil is described in the book as blacker than any starless night. Formless and thoughtless except for a veil of killing fury. None who attempted to ever cross the Strait survived. It is said that, using his great mind and guided personally by an aspect of Seavus (which, I might mention, is said by the book later as "my aspect". This leads me to the magnificent yet somehow troubling revelation that this book was created directly by the will of the lesser deity Seavus.) Daen outsmarted the creature, tricking it into revealing it's true nature as a magical construct formed by a blood magic ritual. He then pulled the threads of this exposed magic, guided by both the Seed of Truth and the Aspect of Saevus. The outpouring of malevolent energy that appearently escaped from the construct once it was destroyed nearly flayed Daen's mind, but he was saved by the Aspect of Saevus. Who, in order to save him, removed one of Daen's eyes and replaced it with the Seed of truth.

The Mark of the Seeker: The third and final tale squeezed onto the page was by far the most interesting. While the others had shown Daen's prowess at defensive and cognitive abilities, they had not mentioned how he retaliated against offensive magicks. The mark of the seeker, as said by the book, was the tale of Daen's final hours. The writing here gets rather cryptic, but what I did manage to decrypt about the events was this. Daen, after communion with Saevus, was told a truth none other could bare. He was appearently told of a "starless night" as the book recalls it. What exactly this means, I cannot determine. His sanity was stretched to its limits by this truth. In order to regain control of his now fleeing mind, Saevus showed Daen how he could earn the "mark of the seeker".

This would restore all his faculties and protect his mind from ever being flayed by truth again. The only other to ever earn the Mark of the seeker, says the book, was Saevus itself. How exactly a god could "earn" anything is beyond me, but by this merrit it is shown that in his final hours, Daen recieved a piece of divinity. He was by no means turned into a god. But with his obtainment of the mark of the seeker, Saevus could impart all the godly knowledge upon daen without fear of destroying his only desciple. Saevus' communion with Daen here is rushed. The book suggests that no time could be sparred, and the potential destruction of Daen's sanity had to be risked so that Saevus could impart dire knowledge on him that could appearently "prevent a starless night".

Daen then traveled into the southern Sea, to an island that (as the books says it) "was wreathed in blackest night forevermore."
There are a variety of challenges that Daen faces there, several of which are more of the same magical constructs that nearly flayed his mind at the Strait of Imentis. He finds a temple of black stone perched atop the island's peak. There he manages to fight his way through the "robes of blackest night" and make it into the inner sanctum of the Black stone temple. Once within, he claims the Mark of the Seeker. Which apparently branded him with three connected circles under the seed of truth (his right eye). A trap was triggered once he claimed the mark, however, shutting him in darkness and sapping all life from him. The book ends the tales with this line.

In blackened black the seeker fell.
left cold and hardened as a shell.

But from my son the dark could not take
The breath of truth from his lips did escape.

I've spent most the day copying down these tales, and look forward to my third and final page on the morrow.

The excert ends here. The student expedition found his body at the base of a nearby cliff. Frozen and impaled on sharp rocks, several strange icicles emerging from his body that seemingly fell from the heavens like raindrops.

A P P E A R A N C E

Appearance summary

In history The Unraveller was often shown not as a man, but as a force of nature. He was often symbolized as time, as time was the greatest unraveller of all. In the very few items that describe his psysical appearance, he is tall with a lithe and athletic build. Raven black hair sits atop one striking emerald green eye, and one lightly pulsing amber gem. He wears layered robes and favors an asymmetric dress on most occasions.

Artwork

P E R S O N A L I T Y

WIP

Nothing yet, writing in BBCode is super annoying, so I'm writing elsewhere and importing, I'll keep you all updated.

A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T

Abilities / Equipment

Daen is the blessed disciple of the God of Truth, Saevus. As the Truthseeker, he has the ability to unravel the most complex magics given time. His tools allow him to do this much more quickly. In many cases he can unravel offensive magic that is used against him before it can even touch him. The unravelling process is a pitting of consciousness. And every time Daen unravels he unravels his mind slowly as well. The seed of truth mitigates the unraveling of his mind, and allows him to do the process much more quickly, but the Mark of the Seeker halts the process entirely.

The Seed of Truth

The Seed of Truth: Bestowed upon him by Saevus, the seed of truth allows Daen to unravel extremely complex magic very quickly. With the Seed he dispelled the Miasma of Oaxum (see mythology) in only a few hours. Similarily, he used the seed to unravel a very old and very powerful magical construct of malice created by a ring of blood mages hundreds of years ago.

Mark of the Seeker

The Mark of the Seeker: Daen earned The Mark of the Seeker when he infiltrated a temple of the black. He took back what was stolen from the God of Truth. Within the inner sanctum he payed for the retrieval with his life. The Mark of the Seeker reformed Daen's mind when it was nearly torn apart after Saevus imparted the knowledge of the starless night on him. The Mark's primary power is that it prevents Daen's mind from being flayed by magic ever again. His mind cannot be broken by hearing the knowledge of the gods, however since his patron god has died, he can no longer communicate with any gods. Therefore the primary purpose of the mark is protecting his sanity during the unraveling process. He can unravel even the highest forms of magic now given the time, as he no longer has to fear he'll be torn apart.

The Pendant

The Pendant: Known by no other name and not mentioned in any tales of Daen, the Pendant is Daen's primary force of offensive magic. Although paltry in comparison to other offensive magical artifacts, the Pendant allows Daen to quickly create rune traps. They can vary in usage from gravity traps to fireball traps etc, they take a few moments to set and must be used in conjunction with one another to be most effective.

A G E O F L E G E N D

Roughly 30000 ago from present day

[Darcness]

youtube.com/watch?v=Cgy7IbVRvek

N A M E / A L I A S
Arsanna Va Nri

The Final voice of Nridriel, The Martyr , but more often known as
Flamekeeper Arsanna

M Y T H O L O G Y
The tale weaved many years ago was of a small girl from the lost kingdom of Nri- it was a place of unparalleled beauty, sadly wrought into war. It was said that the landscape was covered in trees of white bark and black leaves, of flowers that bloomed in luminescent blue by moonlight. It was said that this land was touched by the gods so long ago that none can possibly trace the ages long passed by time. These people beckoned upon the goddess Nridriel, Mother Moon, or the Goddess of the night.

Although her tale has faded with the final memories of this now lost placed, it was told that Arsanna was a gifted priestess who quelled a storm of fire and brimstone that raged upon the city for 3 days and 3 nights- A fire brought in the fury of the Moon Mother driven mad. her rage sundered the land of Nri, destroying it's beautiful flowers and ashen trees. It's towering cities brought to it's knees, its people brought to their knees and begging for forgiveness for committing the ultimate sin upon their lands. These 3 days became known as "The Blood Moon"; as the meteors careened into the earth bellow- an unmoving moon held high, painted deep in red. Night did not pass into day and a black barrier cut off the country from the outside world. Within the Bastion of Lights, it was said the normally brilliant fire of Nridriel grew, scarring her alter and the began to burn black.

On the first night of the Blood moon, all of the blue flowers and ashen tree bloom red, withering away and leaving a barren landscape unsuitable for men. The moon ran red as blood and a black rain fell on the land.

On the second night of the Blood moon, the waters ran black, the stars in the sky began to glow a sinister shade. Moaning could be heard in the sky, black clouds began to form.

On the third night of the Blood moon, fire and stone fell from the sky, rampaging the cities of Nri. It was said that during the merciless slaughter of the people of Nri, Arsanna continued to dance and sing, protecting the many people who came to take refuge beneath her songs. The most beautiful and grand Radiance the people of this land had ever seen was protected them, eventually becoming powerful enough to create a shield over the center itself. It was at that time Arsanna told them all to flee- her parting words are said to be her final sacrifice, to repent for the sins of this once grand Kingdom:

"Spare them, take me instead"

Though the accounts of the end of Nri are fuzzy at best, many say that the few survivors fled in terror as they were shielded from the night's Wrath. The black barriers were shattered by the ribbons of music bound light that began cascading across the sky in every direction. The people did not turn back as the night screamed in pain and anguish. All the while, her songs lit the sky as clear as day, they did escape the city. As they crossed out of the lands, the lands began to burn and shatter, shredding the earth. the Moon eclipsed and was said to become the mouth that swallowed the cities of Nri. The paraselene became blinding and with a single chime, the clouds, the red stars and the cities of Nri were no more- so too were those still trapped within it. All that remained was an expanse of emptiness before them.

But this is how the story goes, but history never lies, historians however...

Arsanna in truth was born to a miller and his wife in the singular city of Nri- it was not a kingdom but a singular city state ruled by a council of mages that sought out young hopefuls to innovate and lead their city in war against a neighboring land of Izarem. the city of Nri was indeed covered in it's beautiful and exotic landscape but the effect of magic was slowly wearing on the land. Nridriel was considered the matron deity of this land and her influence was well noticed among it. It was learned that through the use of magically intoned refactors, the Radiant Songs could be amplified and was then that the discovery of Izarem's impeding invasion lead them to use this gift against them and annihilate the enemy forces.

It was this time that Arsanna was orphaned and taken to the palace barracks and was enlisted as a soldier at a young age and due to her natural ability at using the Radiant Songs, was trained to be a weapon of war. It was during the planned invasion of Izarem that Arsanna discovered that a weapon was going to be used from Nri to directly destroy the enemy land and did not march with the others. Upon confronting the council of their plans to destroy the city and effectively kill thousands of innocent people, she was imprisoned.

The weapon was a spark of the Nridriel Flame stolen from the Bastion Of Light and on the night of the weapon being used, the curse of the Blood Moon began... giant meteors rained over Nri as the waters became bubbled into oil. The land was burning as the moon was slowly eclipsing- gravity and sound began bending and slowly the city was being sucked into the sky into the dark hole that was once the moon. No barriers of black magic imprisoned the people in- but the city walls and gates were sealed by the council to essentially keep anyone from escaping and spreading word of such a sacrilegious act of taking a part of a flame.

Arsanna used the chaos to get free and sought to take back the Ember that was stolen. Upon entering the Council Chambers, she was greeted by the perpetrator, who planned on taking the artifact and fleeing with it- of which a battle began where both users were throwing out Radiant sonic blasts at each other, destroying the city. The identity of the thief was not direct identified but Arsanna did become victorious. With the ember in hand, she retreated to the shrine of Nridriel to try quelling her rage which in turn caused Arsanna to begin using her songs on a lunar refactor to amplify her music to shield the temple and once her power and strength began to dwindle- she began channeling her magic and using the ember in one of her chime bracelets to further amplify the effect. her shields and Radiant Sonic waves began knocking away r shielding the ruins of the city from more onslaught.

Her final words however were true as she began to realize that without clearing the way, these people could never escape... using a few ribbons of light, she cleared open the the southern gate. Encouraging them all to go, she told them they only had a little time- as the city was still raising into the sky, crumbling in bits. When they left the chamber, she was left alone. With all her heart and rage, she poured her soul into a song powered purely by the ember that passed over the rest of the city in thousands of ribbons streaming from from a glyph rounding under her feet. Her eyes echoed in gold light as the palace ruins exploded out. Arsanna was engulfed in the fires practically incinerated. In her place floated the Ember of Nridriel that began its slow ascent into the now fully eclipsed moon that began pulling everything into its dark grasp. To those who looked out, they saw a bright flash flow out of the moon followed by a blinding light. All three moons were now once again in view, not the solitary Blood Moon. All that remained was scarce ruins that can still be found today in the Plains of Dust. Branded text resembling the Radiant Loops can still be found scarred to buildings and stones occasionally found in the deserts.

An Oasis known as "Arsanna's Rest" can be found, where a formal travelers' marker stands as shrine to her sacrifice. It was here that Arsanna awakened. Head pounding, eyes blinded by the sun and dizzy, unable to walk straight. She wandered about for a good time, unsure what was going on. she continued her wandering until she slips beyond an embankment and falls face first into the waters bellow. Her long flowing hair madly twisting about in the waters edge, catching all forms of disgusting matters within it. Two men and an elderly woman trying hoisting her free but continued to yank at the resistance they gained- her hair was wrapped and knotted around a root intruding from beneath stone and earth. with a few quick cuts, she was free. She was quickly taken to a near by temple where she was nursed to health and provided clothing and food...

It was here that Arsanna discovered the painful truth- keeping it to herself. Nridriel was no longer called the Moon Mother of Night any longer as well. People at the shrine called her, "Nridriel, Mother of Night's Delusion"

A P P E A R A N C E


Arsanna was a very gifted musician who loved her craft, knowing as a child how to use her power in a lesser extent. Brands of the Radiant Language are burned onto her back via the use of the songs. Because of this, she never took to the more risque attire as many of Song-Trained Soldiers she knew had. she took to simple blue and white garbs. She did not, if ever, begin donning her armor that she was awarded. On the day of the Blood Moons, she wore a noble pearl blue dress; hair of these indiduals (man or woman) was left uncut, as it was seen as disrespectful to have short hair and be in the military in Nri.

the young woman's awakening in Arsanna's Rest was hazy at best; she laid in a small clearing beneath a petrified tree, long since dead, in a patch of black and blue flowers. Standing, groggy and confused, she walked about in a daze- and unknowingly walked off an embankment into the spring while onlookers watched in confusion as to why a woman in singed clothing had haphazardly fallen into a pool of water like the undead. After being rescued, she was dressed in her current attire and due to how she got her hair tangled in debris in the water, needed to have it cut.

A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
Arsanna's power was deemed a gift from the god's as young woman from her time who lived in the now fallen kingdom were selected for this gift and given the right to retain as "Radiance". "The Radiant" or an ancient song language known to those who communed with their Goddess. the power is activated upon simply singing this language and allowing resonance with light. These Sonic waves can have varying effects dependent on how they are used.

Upon release of the first note or beat, the user releases outward double banded loops of lights, or just a line of the double banded ribbons of light, that expands outward and fades. Between the two bands lay archaic texts and symbols where the knowledge of the exact meaning is lost in time and worn by history that not even the practitioners of this art cannot translate it any longer in this day and age. Arsanna is the soul retainer of this dead language.

Around her wrists and akles, she wore gold and silver bracelets made to imitate the look the the language with various bells attached to them- it was a normal practice to dance while singing these songs and use the sound waves made from the chimes to help generate extra Lines of light or sonic loops. the right hand was named Roth Ier or Hell's Winter and the left, Fio Brell or Summer's Gift. The anklets were Apple of Autumn; Ushir Lo Gri and Spring Remembrance; Jyu Likra. The Apple of Autumn was destroyed as it was the trinket the Ember was used within.

The only item still in her possession seems to be the crown of military service she wore the nights of the Blood Moon. It seems to be her only clue as to what is going on. The crown itself does not possess any magic properties, but it was a symbol of extreme status in her day and age. Any historian or archaeologist would undoubtedly know where that crown comes from. It bears the crest of Nri upon it.

The Lights' bandsand lines cause an internal resonance when they interact with an object, entirely based on the intent of the user. the purpose or use of this is no longer known, but it is possible to imprint or burn the band and the sigils within them onto objects effectively burning the meaning onto the object. If a single line of the Radiant is generated, it can be forced forward in a forceful manner which can knock one back or possibly stun them. The effects could include but not limited to branding the text onto a target, sending out sharp bursts that can cause powerful impacts or even slice clean through things or by generating the light and focusing in on the loop created, halting it's movement, can be used as a shield- creating a disc.

A G E O F L E G E N D
46,397

[Tuujaimaa]

_{"Beauty fades. That is why it is beautiful."}

Spoiler

N A M E / A L I A S

Dormeria – Herald of Quietus.

A G E O F L E G E N D

48,000.

M Y T H O L O G Y

Of the Triumvirate to which Dormeria's legend belongs, the aspect she was said to embody was that of the physical realm and the corporeal, of the flesh and blood. She has long been touted as the embodiment of mortal desire, of wealth and power, but also of its temporary nature and the price which must be paid to achieve temporary greatness. Just as history is written by the victor, legends are told by those who choose to espouse the subjects of legends as the heroes that history remembers them to be, and those wont to tell terrific tales of these individuals are also those prone to exaggerating the traits they saw or admired the most. Such is the fate that befalls all who fall into the annals of the legend, and Dormeria is no exception.

Born to a long gone family of minor nobility, Natalya de la Lune started her life as many in her situation did - affluent and irreverent to the world outside of her gilded cage in the bustling town of Tyral. Even at birth, Natalya was set apart from her kith and kin by the gift of magic that bled sorcery through her veins - weak and uncontrolled though it was, it set her apart and others aside. The clergy of Tyral thought her an abomination, her parents a resource, and the townsmen an object of awe - but Natalya felt something deeper. Life felt transitory to the young sorceress, and she felt her power lay in the uncharted realms beyond, in the throes of death.

Growing up, all attempted to indoctrinate Natalya with their faith, be that the Goddess of Virtue, Arete, be that the money that the de la Lune family worshipped, or be that any display of divine providence that the smallfolk longed for to give them direction and purpose in life. Natalya rejected each of their narrow-minded ways of thinking and focused only on the unfathomable sense of purpose she innately possessed - working it into its own faith, and that faith into the arcanery that simmered within her lifeblood. Years came and went, and Natalya de la Lune became withdrawn, focused so much on her own destiny and desires that everything else fell to the wayside.

When Natalya's perception became so inwardly focused that the outside world effectively ceased to be, her magic blossomed. She came into degrees of power she had only ever imagined, and whispers of that power echoed within the pious streets of Tyral. Very soon, the clergy's mistrust developed into incarceration of her by all accounts abominable magic. Seeing the perfect opportunity to test the limits of her power, Natalya unravelled the living flesh of the entire town in a burst of necromantic power and reformed it in the visage of the dead, a horde of corpses for her to command.

Though she had only intended to murder her would-be assailants, she had taken the lives of an entire town in a burst of magic that had been building for years, but left her drained of the potential she had once felt. Unable to stay where she was, Natalya de la Lune shed her very identity and moved on as Dormeria, to the lands extant of the heartlands she had called home.

~

"The inchoate stages of Dormeria's legend, her Restless March, began during her southbound travels, towards the set of islands south of the Heartlands where the Isle of Orthus was said to lie. Though Dormeria knew little of her patron god, her dreams led her to the temple dedicated to his worship and with nowhere else to go, she headed there. Much hearsay was generated by the hooded woman who was followed by rotting corpses, and the stories of her purpose and designs vary wherever one goes - we believe that she travelled south to meet the emissaries of Orthus to hone her gift and stop her Restless March.

What transpired on the isle is a mystery, even to those of us that dedicate our lives to understanding what Dormeria's motives and methods were - by far the school of thought with the most credence is that she travelled to the priests to learn of the demon that she later vanquished, Lazarus, but others think many things from her learning the intricacies of her magic and her artefacts, to simple boredom. It is well known that the Isle of Evaeryn was small but inhabited before the Restless March, and eerily vacant after she returned. None disagree that Dormeria took the lives of the entire isle, but few have any idea why. Many think she judged the isle and found it wanting, but I believe that she merely wished to test the limits of her power after her visit to the Isle of Orthus." - Historian Lachery Sissarin, Second Fate of the Order of the Skyward Eye

~

"Of the Triumvirate, it was the Herald of Quietus that took the most overt action. The Soul's Bastion is lesser known among the smallfolk, a popular tale to soothe frightened children, and the Beacon of the Lost had practically no real involvement amongst the gentry or the smallfolk, followed only by tragedy. Dormeria influenced the courts in many ways, setting a new standard for the law based on the judgement of worth by her example of deposing or killing those that she felt squandered their potential and their life and giving that very same essence to those who had potential quashed by circumstance. King Trinius Maximillian Atronan XI, Last of his Line, was the first to fall to the sorceress. While generally beloved in his small kingdom by the smallfolk, Dormeria judged him unworthy and installed a new ruler, who catapulted our society into an era of prosperity.

The gentry learned to fear her retribution and seek her patronage, and the smallfolk looked up to her as one who might deliver them from poverty and ill circumstance if she felt their cause worthy. Many villages were outright slaughtered by her, but those found worthy were often found gracing the Imperial Court. Some are reluctant to call the Herald a hero, despite her accomplishments in vanquishing Lazarus, but we inducted of the Order of the Skyward Eye firmly believe that Dormeria brought much good to the world and is worthy of the title "hero", even if she committed her fair share of acts that one would believe evil." - Sage Atroa Posarye, Third Fate of the Order of the Skyward Eye.

~

"When the Restless March was completed, the three Trials of Mind, Body, and Soul overcome, the time came for the Triumvirate of eld to set their sights upon the Elysian Plains and meet the destiny that the Prince of the Void laid out for them. Few records manage to recount precisely what it was that was fought, referring to it only as a great evil, but the true name of the scourge of the realm that they faced was Lazarus, the Undying.

As little literature survived Lazarus' various onslaughts, and history is written in the glory-emboldened eyes of those who did manage to drive the abomination into slumber, the truth of what Lazarus was or could do is lost, even to we Fates. Lazarus possessed unnatural durability, to the point that it simply could not be killed by normal means or normal men, and only with great sacrifices was it pushed to the brink of dormancy that it hovered upon before it set to consume all things. We believe that Lazarus corrupted and twisted the natural cycle of life to its own benefit, drawing strength from the untimely demise of those around it to extend its own time in this world. Perhaps, initially, it was no more than a nuisance but the continued reaping of helpless souls eventually rendered it beyond death until the Triumvirate arrived. Even now we do not know if this explanation is true, as none of the Triumvirate survived the encounter (with the exception of Lyr, whose mind was broken and thus was of no use)."

As only the three witnessed the battle, the stories that are told are all the world has to go by, with different cultures each celebrating a particular member of the Triumvirate and lording them above all others - some venerate Sarynia as an all-benevolent martyr betrayed by Dormeria, some laud Lyr as the hero who outsmarted an undying demon, and some idolise Dormeria as the very essence of power and sacrifice. The only thing these various legends have in common is that they speak of the total eradication of Lazarus - and naught has been heard of the demon since then. - Exemplar Clorissa Thossarian, First Fate of the Order of the Skyward Eye

A P P E A R A N C E

Though many legends tell of Dormeria's extravagant and ravishing looks, her appearance was far less beautiful than what was described in song and hymn. Blessed with high cheekbones and an angular face, Dormeria's features were exquisitely carved in her youth, though age was not particularly kind to her and she lost much of the beauty she possessed as her vitality was drained by Ukenagasu. Raven black hair adorned Dormeria's face until it was left white and ashen from her exertion in the final battle with Lazarus, and her iridescent violet eyes once shone with myriad colours but dulled in the wake of the horrors she saw. Never blessed with a particularly ample bosom nor any large sums of fat anywhere, Dormeria had the build typical of many mages - tall and elegant, but fragile and thin. While many would consider Dormeria to be beautiful, she was not the ravishing beauty that legends attributed to her. Striking, and noticeable, but certainly not the epitome of beauty.

E Q U I P M E N T

Legend states that Dormeria and Orthus met at a crossroads as she left Tyral to explore the world, and that he would ask her three questions. For each question answered correctly, Dormeria would receive a boon to aid her in her travels, but each question answered incorrectly would result in a boon being stripped from her. Orthus' first question pertained to the nature of life and death - "If all life leads to death, what is the purpose of life?". Orthus' second question pertained to the hearts of men - "What desire unites all mortals?". Orthus' final question pertained to power – “If life and death are yours to command, what more power could you require?”

Dormeria replied immediately:

“The purpose of life is to end. If it were not temporary, it would not have value.”

Orthus nodded.

“The desire to continue to live past their time, to accomplish all they think destined of them.”

Orthus smiled.

“To breathe life into that which has never lived, to imbue it with purpose and form.”

Orthus laughed.

The answers were not what Orthus had expected, but they were true to Dormeria’s heart and true to his teachings, and so he granted her three boons: Ukenagasu, Caller of the Dead; Silaxes, Plucked from the Void; Volayre, the Flesh Unbound. As Dormeria took the staff, the book, and the gem, she found herself alone in the crossroads and begun her march towards her destiny once more.

---

U K E N A G A S U , C A L L E R O F T H E D E A D
The staff Ukenagasu is the first and most important of Dormeria's legendary effects, the crux upon which tales regaling her exploits are built, and the first gift she received from Orthus in order to defeat Lazarus.

Ukenagasu is, at its core, a simple wooden staff that has been modified through careful placement of ebon-black metal plating and careful carving of the still-living wood. Approximately six feet in height, the staff was plucked from the core of an ash tree and carved into a perfect cylinder, with sigils and symbols etched just into the surface in a spiral ascending from the base to the very top. The areas not covered by the eldritch scrawling are covered with a plate of thin metal, completely matte and ebon-black, which is in turn carved with similar etchings in a reverse pattern downwards. Though plain in design, the duality of the staff represents the fluid nature of life and death, one leading to the other and back again, and showcases that all power has a price to be paid, in this life or in the next.

Once a veritable wellspring of arcane power, the staff's power has leached into its surroundings for the many thousands of years that it has been kept dormant. Blessed with a spark of Orthus, Prince of the Void's power, the staff both magnifies and restricts its bearer's innate power, affording them the capacity for great feats in areas of exceptional talent but introducing an expiry of this power far more quickly than traditional long-lasting magic would allow. The staff burns power far more brightly than it could ever reach on its own, but consumes its essence in a fraction of its potential. Imprinted originally onto Dormeria, the staff allows her innate necromancy to raise armies of corpses, to unravel and to knit the flesh, and to hasten or delay the inevitable expiry of all living things it encounters - though all of this commands a heavy toll on its owner's own inner flame, using their own potential lifespan as a fuel source. All things are temporary, and Ukenagasu is a constant mortal reminder of this singular truth.

S I L A X E S , P L U C K E D F R O M T H E V E I L
The gemstone Silaxes is the second of Dormeria's gifts, less integral to her legend than Ukenagasu, but still an example of Dormeria's lasting (if waning) influence in the hearts of men.

If not for its latent magical power, Silaxes would have found worth as a prized gemstone in a crown fit for the God-King himself. Lovingly carved from a deep violet crystal, Silaxes' facets reflect and refract light in such a fashion that each individual claims to see a different image within its crystalline folds, from images of vast wealth and riches to humble family lives. The size of a small child's fist, the gemstone is clearly exceptionally valuable, but this decadence belies a solemn aura of deep sorrow projected by the stone, as it interacts with desire but never meets or fulfills it.

Individuals that gaze upon the stone are showed a vision of whatever it is that their heart desires the most, and magical individuals who wear the gem close to their head are able to see these visions when looking at others. While the stone shows a single vision with utmost clarity, it may only read the desire of an individual once before they are unable to see anything in its myriad reflections but the constant, hungry void. Like all of Orthus' gifts to Dormeria, usage of Silaxes comes at a cost - for each desire they uncover, Dormeria loses a desire of her own corresponding to what it was that she revealed. Multiple desires of the same type can be revealed at no additional cost to the wielder, but Dormeria is incapable of finding love, having a family, or having wealth. After extended use, Silaxes can no longer pluck desires from Dormeria, however - she has paid her price, and the gem now offers its power to her freely.

V O L A Y R E , T H E F L E S H U N B O U N D
The rune-covered tome Volayre is the last of Dormeria's gifts, used only once, but was integral to defeating Lazarus, and represented the gift of life, temporary though it may have been. Volayre was the most sought-after of Dormeria's relics after her death, but was never found on her person or in the Elysian Plains after Lazarus had been defeated.

Simple and elegant in design, Volayre is an unadorned black leather grimoire that one could easily mistake for being an average book rather than a font of arcane power. The spine of the book is still uncracked, and the surfaces are matte and featureless. Even the aura of power the book innately has is smooth and nondescript, easy to pass by unless one knows what it is that they are looking for. The pages within the book crawl with runic markings that seem to shift and shy away from light, desperate not to be read, and even Dormeria does not understand the contents of the book.

Volayre acts as a veritable repository for unused flesh, bone, and blood - sustaining and nurturing it within the indecipherable scrawls of its pages. This flesh bears myriad purposes, allowing Dormeria to create corpses where none existed, to replace lost limbs, or even in the case of Lazarus to create an avatar whose life is bound to the book and to the wielder. Most often Volayre will create monstrosities of its own peculiar design, misshapen and mismatched amalgams of various body parts and functions and forms all with whatever particular intent that its bearer has at the time. Like all of Orthus' gifts, Volayre demands a price, a binding of one's own body to the book in order to lend life to its creation - and should its creation be killed, so too will the linked body part or individual. This cost was instrumental to defeating Lazarus, and following that event Dormeria is no longer subject to its thrall as she paid its price once before.

A B I L I T I E S

Dormeria's magical abilities were largely related to the manipulation of the body in various and myriad ways - most often as a necromancer raising soulless and mindless corpses to do her bidding, and in this regard she was exceptionally potent due to the power of her equipment. Dormeria's inherent magical abilities are strong, but without Ukenagasu her ability to raise the dead is severely limited. Less limited is Dormeria's power to weave and unravel the flesh of the living, to restore health or sap the last breath from those she comes across, but even this power was raised to the status of legendary by the artifacts given to her by Orthus. Dormeria is capable of transforming her appearance or the appearance of others, and is largely able to manipulate anything about the human form given time due to her broad purview of body - but the subtle intricacies of these arts are again linked to her artifacts and without their presence she does not have the power or fine control necessary to utilise these abilities.

Aesthetics