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[CHAR] Starless - Unique Fantasy RP

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Hidden 9 yrs ago → 9 yrs ago Post by ravenDivinity
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ravenDivinity many signs and wonders

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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 otherworldly 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 unfazed 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 believe 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 renowned (So incredible was his skill, in fact, that three sword-fighting 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.
Hidden 9 yrs ago Post by ravenDivinity
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ravenDivinity many signs and wonders

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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
Hidden 9 yrs ago → 9 yrs ago Post by Corvidae
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T H E W I N D W I T C H


"Self-sacrifice makes me wanna puke."

THEME


N A M E / A L I A S


C R O W

Stormcaller | The Windwitch | Knightslayer


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 means through which to preserve her balance; 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, the Shieldbearer, the Beasthunter. 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.



A G E O F L E G E N D


Approximately 2,000 years ago, give or take a century.
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"Beauty fades. That is why it is beautiful."


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Luther the Pathfinder


M Y T H O L O G Y
Luther's conception was when a highly esteemed knight from the Nirlos Kingdom, nearly fifty thousand years ago, raped a young woman in one of its countless civil wars. The rape left the woman deeply shamed and damaged, and upon Luther's birth in a roadside tavern, she died. He was taken in by the tavern's owner, a rough and callous man who instead of parenting Luther, decided to beat him endlessly. For seventeen long years, Luther knew nothing but the pain of his father's fists and the constant reminder how nobody ever wanted him, and that he was nothing more than a waste of energy and space.

Yet, despite his ill fortune, Luther had a uniquely positive attitude towards life that he held tightly onto in his early years. He grew up as an underfed child, learning to sneak and steal food while his father was unaware, and it was in his early years that he learned the subtle tricks of slight of hand and distraction. It was in his father's beatings that he learned the art to block hits in ways that would only leave superficial damage. However, all that damage had left a mark on the young Luther. As he grew into a young adult, he saw himself inflicting the same damage that would befall him onto other youths his age, and in turn his father would beat him for beating them. The cycle continued circulating itself until at the age of seventeen, Luther killed his first individual.

The fact that he had killed another individual didn't sit well with him at all, and he found his nights were always haunted with images of the young man he slew, so much so, that he could barely sleep. Several months later, he decided he would take whatever little belongings he had and leave his father to his miserable, and when he stepped outside the tavern, he promised himself he wouldn't become like the man who raised him, that he would become a better man, and a better human. He decided he would start with a smile, as his father constantly wore a scowl, and traveled away from his home where he met people across all walks of life. He found that his smile would open people up to him almost instantly, and it wasn't uncommon for him to spend many hours with a stranger listening to their life tales, or helping them with their difficulties. Within a year, he left the kingdom of his birth and found himself in the city state of Boelor. The place, he found, was a city with a great divide among the rich and the poor, and since he had next to nothing himself, he found himself living in the poorest, dirtiest part of the city.

It wasn't for naught however. He found that the officers and guards of the city were similar to the man who raised him, and since the people were weaponless and had no way of defending themselves, he developed the seed of what would later become the Path of Heavenly Fists. He taught the crude fighting style to the people in an effort to help them defend themselves; little did he know of the severity of their suffering and their strong desire for vengeance. With their new strength the poor of Boelor rose in riots against the Grand Master and the Ruling Council, despite Luther's council against such a thing, and the streets of the city state flooded with the blood.

Ashamed of what he had caused, Luther left the city and in his grief for causing the murder of thousands, he became blind. He promised himself then that he would never teach others to fight in order to kill or harm others, but rather to defend themselves against their oppressors.

One morning, several years after the incident, Luther was found by a monk of Ivorine, the god of peace and tranquility, and was taken to the grand temple in the Hirrlow plains. Luther quickly adopted the methods of Ivorine's teachings, and soon became the Head of the Temple, where he would often help the dispossessed and the needy from nearby cities. It was also during this time that Luther fully developed his Path of Heavenly Fists and taught the fighting style to the younger monks. However, he was careful to teach them the Path was a method to get closer to Ivorine and should never be used to harm or for personal gain, except in defense. The students took to the lessons, and took the Seven Vows of Peace when they mastered the martial art.

For several more years, Luther knew true peace and tranquility. Teaching the younger monks, and honing his fighting skill, and living in the temple gave him a happiness that he had not felt before in his life. But that happiness would not last. A young boy from a nearby city came and warned him that the Nirlos Kingdom was coming towards their lands and as news spread that the monks were fighters, the city was requesting their aid. Luther refused to take part in the war and told the boy that their fight was their own problem. Over the next few days, Luther's mind was plagued with the boy's message of Nirlos's forces planning to besiege the nearby city, and although he wanted to take no part in it, he knew that his martial arts was for the protection and defense against those who couldn't defend themselves, and that he was required to do something about it.

When he decided that he would help the city, after a month of meditation, the city was in the middle of a siege and Luther decided that he would go out alone to spare the lives of the younger monks, knowing full well that he could handle the army Nirlos sent. He first went into the besieged city to talk the Governor to pull back his men so that none of them would be harmed, then left from the city's eastern gate where he came face-to-face with the army and asked for parley. He talked with the commander of the army, and asked for his surrender, but when he was met with hostility, Luther unleashed the full potential of the Path of Heavenly Fists and singlehandedly fought the entire army and defeated them. Luther became a hero to the city overnight and his victory over Nirlos spread to the kingdom itself, and although they didn't believe a single man defeated an entire army, the king sent a massive force of fifty thousand men to destroy the temple.

When the news reached Luther, he was overcome with grief. His actions would once again lead to the death of those he cared for and taught. Deciding to act against Nirlos, he took a dozen of the greatest fighters from the temple and he met the Nirlos's forces in battle. Although they were an incredibly small number, their skill in the martial arts and discipline in Heavenly Magic allowed them to decimate most of the fifty thousand that met them, but the number was still too great, and the challenge too grand. Luther was slain in the battle, but his death caused such a ripple effect.

Tales of his prowess spread like wildfire, how he defeated a single legion alone with only a dozen men behind him. The people of the Hirrlow plains were the most affected, and they gathered together to defeat Nirlos with the monks from the temple offering their help, and within several decades they became an autonomous Kingdom of itself with the Seven Vows of Peace as it's tenets and the monks acting as advisors to the kings. The Temple of Ivorine grew at an alarming rate afterwards and they began to indoctrinate the Path of Heavenly Fists and the strict discipline that followed the martial arts onto their monks; and as the centuries passed by, the legend of Luther grew with it. It has become common among the monks of Ivorine and the people who know of Luther to say that he was taught the Path by Ivorine himself. It was also a common legend that he was a man who sought to bring peace to the world after being commanded to do so by Ivorine and never truly died until he had completed the mission, going under different disguises after every "death". Some even claimed that he was Ivorine come into mortal form to bring peace to the world. Despite the different views of Luther's legend, all agree that it was his Seven Vows of Peace that laid the foundation to the peace that Ansus had experienced of late.

A P P E A R A N C E
Although records show Luther as a very tall, clean shaven man with shoulder-length brown hair, and green eyes, with a very well muscled body and little blemishes, the truth is that Luther was only average in height, and mostly bald with an incredibly large and thick ponytail that he wrapped around himself like a necklace in the common fashion of monks of that era and had a small beard rimming his face. He also had tattoos on the right side of his upper body that reached and covered his arms entirely along with faded scars on both his face and upper body. As clothing, he is depicted wearing common Ivorine monk robes, of black and orange tiered robes. However, he was mostly bare chested, seeing that the old-styled robes of his era were too constricting for the Path of Heavenly Fists, and only wore black pants with an orange sash going down the middle. One thing stands true about him above all the other assumptions: he is incredibly muscular. Years of life surviving on the road by himself and developing the Path of Heavenly Fists have left him lean with strong and very compact and thick muscles so much so that nearly every fiber could be seen on the skin.

A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
Many rightfully consider Luther to be a fighting genius. Although believed that it was taught to him by Ivorine, he has developed the very complex martial arts of the Path of Heavenly Fists by himself by observing nature and the way things moved throughout his many travels, and it was in these travels and development of the Path that he learned to unlock the inner magic within the body that he called Heavenly Magic, which allowed his strikes to be far stronger than they normally would be. Luther also found that the Heavenly Magic was a very aggressive sort of magic that sought to take control over his mind, and he would thus spend hours in meditation to control the power within him, and upon mastering it when he became the Grand Monk, he found that his strikes became only more powerful, strong enough to kill a fully armored knight with a well-placed blow. Because he's blind, he wears the Sash of Sight around his eyes, a red sash with a golden pendant in the center; and although they don't allow him to see, they give him incredibly heightened senses added to the compensation his body made for his blindness, allowing him to "see" with echolocation.

A G E O F L E G E N D
50,000.
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"For centuries my sacrifices brought peace to this land. Now only my shadow remains."

N A M E / A L I A S

Volkimir Sturmkirk

The Mortifier
Dark Angel
The Shadow King

M Y T H O L O G Y

As a nation both vast and ancient, Ansus has a history at once both lengthy and profound. Among its many colorful legends of triumphant heroes, there are just as many tales of misery and despair. Onesuch tale regards the tragedy of House Sturmkirk, one among the many royal bloodlines descended from the venerable Forefather and his compatriots. In times long past, when the land of Ansus was divided amongst petty kingdoms and fractious empires, there were few who could called themselves nobility that held true to the honor of their ancestors. Sturmkirk was one of these few noble households; reverent to the gods, benevolent to their vassals, and merciless to their enemies. Great fortresses and cathedrals were erected in the Eastern Reaches at their command: baroque towers of stone and iron rising among the mighty trees and mountain peaks as tributes to the achievements both mortal and divine. Their territory, the Stormlands, held fast against rival kingdoms and barbarian hordes alike, and the Sturmkirk name became synonymous with power and majesty.

It is said that the glory of Sturmkirk died with their last true king, a mighty warrior and crusader. Killed in battle against one of the many barbarian tribes so deeply entrenched in the Stormlands, the crown was passed onto his son, marking the beginning of a dark new era in the legacy of that ancient breed, and indeed for all of Ansus. The newly-crowned king was not a warrior as his father was; rather, he was a scholar and alchemist, as well as a wizard if rumors were to be believed. Rather than rule by the sword, he sought to uphold the strength of his nation through more enlightened legislation, and educating his subjects. A civilized man in uncivilized times, the king's thoughtfulness was seen as weakness by both neighboring kingdoms and the barbarians plaguing his kingdom. Conflicts erupted throughout the Stormlands, as well as widely across its borders. The might of their military was enough to keep the peace, but not without cost. The stability of his kingdom lessened, the peasantry grew fearful, and the king's court began to question him.

The decline of House Sturmkirk was slow, yet gradual, and felt more strongly year by year. Border engagements became mounting defeats, and territory was lost to the Stormlands' greedy neighbors. Barbarians won out against guards and soldiers, and raids on common villages became increasingly frequent. The king grew older, and dissent grew in his court. His bannermen mocked him in their cups, and rumors circulated of dark and disturbing experiments carried out in the laboratories carried out beneath Castle Sturmkirk. His perceived failings reached their peak as the royal keep itself was assaulted by a barbarian horde. The royal guard's numbers depleted by years of conflict, the king's sons took to the walls to bring courage and inspiration to those that remained. The castle was held, but at a dire cost; the king's only sons had been killed in battle. Those closest to the king knew then that the pressure of leadership had finally come to break him, and that he was not the same man since those days.

His territory shrinking, his homeland sacked and plundered by bandits and tribesmen, and his heirs dead, the king grew desperate to restore honor and glory to his household. At first he tried what he knew best, logic and science. Logistics and law were planned and written out to revitalize the kingdom, but to no avail. Propaganda next, to stir the common folk into fighting back against the despair that had settled in their country. As even this failed, the king turned to darker arts; sorcery and enchantment were delved into, to restore the fortune and power of the Stormlands. These forbidden forays seemed to drain what was left of the king's sanity, and so he resorted to the foulest heresy of all: he procured a deal with a demon.

The demon Shilgengar was summoned from the depths of the infinite hells, promises of power and prestige on its lips and malice in its heart. The immortality and might of the divine were offered to the mad king, and were eagerly accepted. In exchange, the demon demanded that he forsake the gods of his ancestors, and offer up the very life of his family's patron angel. Without a second thought, the king cast off the gods of old, and callously lured the sacred angel Marycz to a cruel and gruesome death. The demon took the holy blood of the slaughtered angel, and after mixing it with his own foul ichor, offered it to the king and his few remaining loyalists. They partook eagerly, but were all-too-predictably fooled by the malevolent beast. Rather than bless them with divine strength, they were cursed to endure their sins eternally; they had become immortal, half-living fiends of night, Vampires.

A curse though it was, power had been restored to Sturmkirk all the same. With their newfound strength of flesh and magic, their homeland was "purified," first quickly by removing all of those who had dissented against the king. Later was the long war against the barbarians that had been a curse upon the land for time immeasurable. However, they were a blessing in comparison to what had now befallen the Stormlands. Madness of the mind and sins of the soul twisted the nobility of the Stormlands into monsters, and the entire region devolved into a cesspit of debauchery and corruption. Commoners were slaughtered in droves, and they were the lucky ones. Others became human cattle to the vampiric nobility, or were subject to the king's depraved experiments. A miasma of darkness settled over the Stormlands, as though the gods themselves had forsaken this land and everyone within it. The kingdoms of the age no longer dared to venture within its borders, and monsters and heretics from lands far and wide sought asylum in this locus of evil. Generations passed, and the black forests and looming peaks eventually became known as the Shadowlands. In a way, the mad king succeeded in returning power to Sturmkirk, as no family became more fear or hated in all of Ansus.

However, as the ages passed and the powers of the land grew fewer and mightier, a man emerged from the Shadowlands' unholy depths, bearing a forsaken name. He was Volkimir Sturmkirk, and he had come to restore honor to his name. Filled to sickening of the depravity of the vampire courts of his homeland, his personal quest had been one to return the pride of House Sturmkirk. For years untold he wandered the length and breadth of the world. In distant lands, where men spoke strange tongues and had never heard the name Sturmkirk, he learned to be a sorcerer, a swordsman and a statesman. Across the myriad kingdoms of Ansus, he delved ancient tombs and ruins, uncovering secret arts and lost artifacts. He sought out the great masters of combat and the clever craft, and upon defeating them demanded that they remember his name. With treasure and triumph, he crafted his own legend, though one spoken of only in whispers. Despite his efforts, Sturmkirk was still a cursed name, and for all of his power and prestige, he was still the same unholy monster that had bespoiled a great noble house: a vampire.

A centuries wore on, Volkimir adjusted his goals and methods, taking on a subtler approach to restoring the pride of his ancestry. Where he saw useful allies, he lent his strength to create immortal dynasties. Where rivals or antagonist could emerge, he brought destruction and ruin. From the short-sighted perspectives of men, this mysterious figure seemed to be a capricious agent of fortune, more an unreadable omen than a man. However, as he grew older, Volkimir could feel himself growing cold and distant. He felt more detached from mortal men with each passing decade, and found their ephemeral ideas and motivations increasingly unconscionable.

However, darkness loomed elsewhere than the immortal heart of the Shadowlands' outcast prince. Having finally exhausted the lives of their cursed homeland, the vampires of Volkimir's former royal lineage turned their attentions outward for the first time in many centuries. With hordes of undead, immortal warriors, and the blackest sorceries imaginable, they took to the fields of battle against the kingdoms of the age. Like a plague they spread through the continent, bringing death and despair to Ansus like the land had never seen before. These were considered the end times by many, and became known as the Horror Wars. The defending empires were ill-prepared against this unholy onslaught, and it seemed that none could stand against them. However, there was one man who could fight such monsters, as he was one of their very blood.

Volkimir beseeched the nations that still had strength to stand against the powers of the Shadowlands. He brought them his power and expertise, his wisdom and experience. Many nations turned him away at first, thinking him to be an agent of corruption or insurrection, but some were desperate enough to trust in him, and they were enough at first. The few key victories he won against the dark hordes earned him the loyalty of the greater powers, and they were enough to turn the tide of the Horror Wars. The Shadowlands' forces were legion, their ranks filled with demons and other unspeakable monstrosities, but for every monster they wielded, Volkimir had a new trick or strategy. He turned their undead against them, lured them to their holy banes, or deceived demons into accepting self-defeating contracts, among many other unorthodox tactics.

The wars ended within a year, the monsters beaten back to their unholy hive, and peace had returned to Ansus. The vampires spurned Volkimir, calling him a betrayer of his kind, and branding him as "Mortifier." Some common folk and clergy saw him as a secret blessing of the gods, silently paying tribute to this "Dark Angel." Many of the nations who fought in the wars had united in face of a common enemy and become a single state, or merely absorbed lesser, defeated nations. In sight of this united Ansus, which he had commanded to victory, Volkimir saw his perfect opportunity to achieve ultimate honor and glory. He attempted to appoint himself as king over the united kingdoms of Ansus. However, this was far from a successful ploy; though he knew the minds of his enemy, he had grown too detached from men to know their minds. Commoners viewed him as yet another monster attempting to conquer them through underhanded means. The church saw him as demonspawn, utterly unfit to rule the lands the Forefather had conquered in the name of the gods. Indeed, the Grand Ecclesiarch himself claimed that his bronze cane would sooner blossom with flowers than the gods permit such a monstrosity to rule over their people. The myriad nations that had allowed Volkimir to save them and their people washed their hands of him, seeing him as a deniable asset not expended of use.

Rage and despair overcame Volkimir. He had given everything he had to these people, and yet they still spurned him. Only then, he realized, he had not truly given them everything. With a small host of loyal soldiers, Volkimir marched back into the Shadowlands, and was never seen again. It is said on that same day, the cane of the Ecclesiarch bloomed with beautiful, bronze flowers. In years after his disappearance, monsters ceased to emerge from the tainted forests, and the aura of darkness slowly faded from the land. Gradually the peasantry returned, and the land was resettled, its dark past was forgotten to the passage of time; merely a black page in the history of Ansus.

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 icy, 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.

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 skill as a statesman and general 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.

In his travels Volkimir acquired many other trappings and trinkets, relics of bygone eras. Remarkable is that the man left behind almost no artifacts of his own; having "borrowed" his material strength from more ancient heroes, his ancestors and forebears. Such "reappropriated" relics include the Helvault, a mysterious meteorite said to imprison 108 different demons, and the spear Encarmine, said to have been wielded by a dragon-slaying angel of ages past.

A G E O F L E G E N D

The Horror Wars were roughly 2,000 years ago, though Volkimir was born an indeterminate number of millennia before.
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N A M E / A L I A S
Jacaerys the Godseer

A G E O F L E G E N D
A mere 1,500 years.

M Y T H O L O G Y
Unlike many of the ancient tales of tens of thousands of years ago, the story of Jacaerys the Godseer is perhaps unique in that it was all reasonably well-documented at the time, and the effects of the man's existence continue to ripple into the modern day.

The precise details of the Godseer's early life are unknown, though it is generally hypothesized that the boy grew up as an acolyte in the temple of Oraum, God of Purity. In the time of a millennium and a half ago, you see, almost the entirety of the continent of Ansus -- from the great deserts of the northeast to the southern coast -- was infected with a vile combination of plague and pestilence that killed men, beasts and crops alike. The general ledgers mark that approximately one-third of the population of the continent was dead of sickness or starvation by the time that we now recount. As a direct result, the tale goes, Jacaerys found himself an acolyte in the service of Oraum. Some say that the Godseer's parents died of the plague when he was a boy, prompting him to be delivered to the temple, while the man's detractors claim that he served in it as penance after being caught stealing food from a granary.

Regardless of the truth on that matter, it is well-documented that Jacaerys held thirty-nine years to his name at the time that the plague reached its peak. In the streets of once-magnificent cities bodies piled along the roads, food for dogs and maggots. Only the great Temples were safe, and even then it was said that any priest who traveled out of eyesight of the great ever-burning Fire of Oraum was liable to contract the plague. In fear, the head priest gave the order that the Temple be closed off entirely so as to keep it pure.

This did not resonate well with the Godseer, who could not bring himself to sit and wait out the plague while thousands died outside its door. It is said that he sat perilously close to the great fire for seventy-seven hours, forgoing all contact in a fervent bout of fasting and prayer. Upon the end of the seventh minute of the seventy-seventh hour, the story goes, Jacaerys, blanketed in soot and singed all about, found the favor of the God of Purity. In a great vision and a blast of light, the Godseer was told of a great and dark tower far across the deserts, where a half-dozen mountain ranges came together in one great peak. There, Oraum intoned, a great cult of necromancers channeled dark energies to bring death to the people of the continent. When too many were dead to bury or even to burn the corpses, Jacaerys learned, they would rise up and kill those who remained cowering in their keeps and temples.

Overwhelmed by prophesy, it is said that the Godseer reached blindly into the great flames, and drew out the great war mace Lightwarden, aglow with holy flame. As Jacaerys walked out of the Temple, followed by a number of acolytes who had seen what transpired, it is said that he took on a hale and healthy glow, and the charred flesh of one hand had already recovered to its natural state. His eyes, however, marked by Oraum, had turned a milky-white -- though by all accoutns Jacaerys could see even more clearly than he had before the events that transpired.

Thus began the Great Pilgrimage. The Godseer traveled northeast towards the dark tower that he had seen in his visions, and found himself able to cure the sick -- and, it is said in a slightly more hushed tone, to sometimes return the dead to the land of the living. In the center of each hamlet and great city alike he built a towering flame, and on it burned the corpses of those who had already succumbed to the plague. And as he passed nutrients returned to the soil, crops grew to five times their natural size, and the size of the Godseer's party grew with admirers -- and, perhaps more unsettlingly, worshipers. Many of the people of the furthest villages had never seen any sort of miracle performed, and to them this stranger with his holy mace who healed their sicknesses was nothing less than an Avatar of God.

So it came to pass that the Pilgrims of Oraum found themselves on the edge of the great deserts. But they were not met with emptiness -- Jacaerys had traveled at a leisurely pace indeed, and all the strength that the necromancers could muster stood before them. Thousands of reanimated corpses stood in the sands, advancing southwards. But by that time the Godseer's host numbered just as many, and he led a valiant charge into the heart of the ranks. It is said that with each strike the undead erupted into holy flame, and their souls were reclaimed for hte God of Purity. Though the costs were great, by the time that the sun set a great and cleansing bonfire glowed on the scrubby grass of the desert, white-hot with holy flame.

It was at this point, knowing that the deserts could not support such a vast host as he had accumulated, that Jacaerys sent many of his Pilgrims back to their homelands, to tend their fires and lament the dead. Embarking off into the wastes with his remaining acolytes and a few of the most devout followers, the Godseer traveled for several months across white-hot sands. Whenever it seemed that they might succumb to heat or hunger, great Oraum sent a pillar of flame to guide them to the nearest oasis.

The events that transpired at the great Tower that they found at the end of the wastes are not entirely known, as several of the lettered acolytes wrote occasionally conflicting accounts of what occurred. All logs agree that the remaining holy warriors fought their way up the great twisting stairs of the Necromancer's Tower, smiting hordes of undead. At the top of the tower, however, they found a great and dark flame, surrounded by the remaining sorcerers who channeled its power. As they had driven the forces of darkness from Ansus it had become more and more concentrated in its place of origin, until only the great Lightwarden's glow could hold out against the shadow. Several of the weaker-willed acolytes, looking on the heart of the great darkness, were consumed or driven mad by it, but not the Godseer. With a great war cry, he charged towards the source of the evil that had corrupted the continent.

This is where the accounts given by those few survivors vary. Some say that, guided by the light of his weapon, Jacaerys pushed through the overwhelming darkness to find and slay the remaining necromancers, severing the bond that kept the vile demon they channeled tied to the mortal plane. In this tale the great Godseer, it is said, built a magnificent bonfire and burned the corpses of the necromancers within, bringing their souls back to the light. When the white-hot flames burned their brightest, the story goes, Jacaerys threw himself into the blaze that he might forever sanctify the once-vile tower.

Other stories dismiss this tale, instead claiming that Jacaerys instead fought through the darkness straight to the nameless demon he faced, and there vanished from the mortal plane. In this version of the events, the Godseer does endless victorious battle with the force of evil on another plane of existence, slowly driving back the hordes of darkness that they might never again return to the world.

Both accounts agree, however, that when the tower was finally cleaned of darkness their leader had vanished. Some time after the remaining pilgrims had returned to the wastes to seek out and defeat any remaining evils that lurked, it is recorded that the tower itself burst into inferno, and stood as a glowing beacon of light for seven years. In this time, other histories tell us, not a single necromancer or bloodmage was able to channel any dark magicks into the land of the living.

In the modern day the Temple of Oraum stands somewhat divided on the status of Jacaerys the Godseer. Some of the younger and more cynical declaim it as a mere tale, Jacaerys himself the imaginary figurehead of what was actually a large and leaderless movement to end the Plague. Others still commend the Godseer as a great holy warrior. But in every temple, and especially among the smaller nightfires that burn in the continent's forgotten hamlets, there exist some who declare Jacaerys himself to have been elevated to godhood, serving as the right hand of Oraum forever and always.

In truth, perhaps the actuality lies somewhere in-between.

A P P E A R A N C E

Accounts as to the Godseer's appearance vary greatly, with many of the known descriptions coming from common farmhands and elders who themselves have had the stories passed down and twisted throughout the ages. In the majority of tales he is clean-shaven, but some describe a great beard -- in truth, no doubt it depended on the time at which the person actually saw Jacaerys. In any case, 'official' frescoes and statues from the Temple of Oraum depict a man of slightly above-average height and hair of medium-length, wearing a tatter of armor and robes.

All depictions agree, however, that the Godseer's eyes were a milky white, and in many cases he seemed to glow with trails of holy light.

A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
Lightwarden
The only canonically-recognized piece of the Godseer's equipment is Lightwarden, the great glowing mace that he took from the fires of Oraum before setting of on his great pilgrimage. It is said that the weapon gave off a great glow at all times, and the mace's head was ringed with a dozen ornately-engraved steel blades. In many accounts foul mages and necromancers were rendered temporarily blind to look on it, and any blow delivered by the weapon to the undead would cause them -- and those nearby -- to erupt into white-hot flame.

Equipment aside, there are several known and documented supernatural abilities that Jacaerys seemed to possess without any special sort of equipment. It is said that he was immune to any sort of flame, and could walk across hot coals and into infernos alike without being singed. With a touch he could heal many wounds and diseases. Two times the Godseer is recorded to have raised the dead -- once at the first village he came upon, to bring a grieving mother's infant son back to life, and the second time upon finding his most trusted friend and ally, the acolye Aelar, dead following the Battle on the Sands. In both cases, eyewitnesses agree that it took significantly more effort than your average necromancer's ritual or incantation, and left the Godseer utterly drained for some time -- though unlike your average necromancer, the revived seemed to be reasonably healthy, if a bit frail, rather than walking corpses.
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M Y T H O L O G Y




A P P E A R A N C E






P E R S O N A L I T Y




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





A G E O F L E G E N D

Roughly 30000 ago from present day
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N A M E / A L I A S
Jaralia Xavfoukari Al-Yoreed Kamihaliuss

The Night Thirster



M Y T H O L O G Y
The Khamihaliuss line were a lineage of supposedly god-appointed desert kings and queens who ruled over the kingdom of Vasihelios; a domain of holy cities and vast barren wastes, situated in what is now the Plains of Dust.

Jaralia was the seventh born child of the thirteenth King of Vasihelios, and was brought up with her every need and whim being attended to by harmes of slaves and loyal followers. As was befitting a princess of Vasihelios, Jaralia was educated in one of the three schools of the desert people’s culture. Out of Economics, Faith, and Magic, Jaralia chose magic, and was trained in the ways of the sorceress. From a young age, it became evident that Jaralia’s magical capabilities were immense, with her area of expertise being the Law of Vicissitude.

Whilst the people of Vasihelios slaved away in the Plains of Dust, sweltering beneath the boiling rays of the twin suns, the royal Khamihalians remained tucked away, cool and pale-skinned, within the confines of their vast pyramid palaces, which was where Jaralia furthered her arcane education.

As time went by, Jaralia became drawn towards increasingly dark and twisted schools of magic, and began to conduct monstrous experiments from within the safety of her scared chambers.

It was whilst conducting a particularly dark ritual, that Jaralia had the misfortune of bringing Canistuju the Devourer, an otherworldly being with an insatiable thirst for flesh, into Ansus. Jaralia defeated the creature, but in doing so shackled a splinter of the demon’s soul to her own, and began to develop her own horrific appetite. In doing so, she developed her own school of magic: Taberyat (meaning hunger of a thousand souls in Vasihelian). By devouring the flesh of men and women alike, Jaralia became imbued with extremely potent dark magic. Over the years, Jaralia had slaves brought to her private chambers where she would dine on their quivering bodies, causing her magical abilities to grow and swelter in power.

One night, beneath the cover of a full moon, a sickly red mist swept through the Pyramid Palaces of the Khamihalians, snuffing out the other members of the royal family, until only Jaralia remained amongst the living. It would be many years before the historians of the future would discern that Jaralia’s horrific blood magics had been responsible for this mysterious plague.

Crowned as the God-Queen of Vasihelios, Jaralia now had all the resources she needed to further develop her mastery of the dark arts, with a piece of Canistuju perched on her shoulder the whole while.

Jaralia was a tyrant if ever there was one, pushing her people to breaking point in order to grant herself a deeper understanding of blood magics. She waged war on the surrounding kingdoms, stripping them of their magical artifacts, and turning their people into slaves, as her dark empire grew and grew, spreading out into the green lands beyond the desert.

By the time revolution swept through Vasihelios, Jaralia was ruling over an empire which stretched across the roof of the world.

Despite her unparalleled magical prowess, Jaralia could not compete with the sheer vastness of the mob which rose up against her. As the rebels drew closer and closer to the gates of her palaces, those few soldiers who still remained loyal to the crown threw down their banners and joined the masses.

Jaralia was dragged out into the sunlight, kicking and screaming, and cast down the side of her own pyramid, her body dashed against the rocks below

Jaralia lived on as a sort of dark superstition, her vast assortment of forbidden tomes becoming quite popular amongst the occult groups of Ansus. In the time leading up to her resurrection, Jaralia existed as a mythological figure amongst some of the land’s more sinister religions. .

A P P E A R A N C E


Jaralia is a huge, heavy young woman, who carries most of her weight in her stomach. Her plump face bares a double-chin, and she has soft arms. Her thick legs have an element of muscularity to them. She has dark lips which conceal glistening white teeth, and bright maroon eyes shimmer on either side of her stout nose. An explosion of fiery red hair cascades down her shoulders, falling in loose tangles.. Her cheeks are rosy and puffy, and she is reasonably large-breasted. She has a relaxed and casual stance, with slopped shoulders and a slightly curved spine.

Her teeth are one of her more noticeable features, as they take on a sharp, fang-like appearance. She has eerily pale skin, which is bewitched to a ghostly pale quality, glistening like water beneath the light of a full moon.

A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
Taberyat magic is Jaralia’s most devastating weapon. She consumes the flesh of her enemies, and uses their very essence to fuel her dark powers. Provided she has enough sustenance, Jaralia can bend people to her will, getting inside their heads and forcing them to do her bidding. She can conjure bolts of shadow magic, create arcane explosions, and unleash terrible conflagrations upon her enemies.

Equipment wise, Jaralia dresses in the royal garb of her people, with a few adjustments. A long purple silk veil covers her lower mouth, and an ornate headdress rests atop her fiery tresses. Her large form is wrapped up in a stunning robe-like dress, encrusted with all manner of rich gems and jewelry.

A G E O F L E G E N D
15,000 years.


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General Zhan the Peaceful


"You have light and peace inside of you. If you let it out, you can change the world around you"

M Y T HO L O G Y
General Zhan was a great war hero from the East. It is said that, heading the armies of the Kingdom of Kai in the name of his brother, King Izoh, he successfully led the sieges of dozens of cities, ultimately seeing the rise of the Empire of Kai. However, during the ultimate years of the expansion period, news reached Zhan of the death of his son, Tenlu. He returned to the capital and stayed there for years, renouncing his title and spending the next decades at rest, a hero, but a minor one.
It came to pass that when Zhan reached the age of 57, the son of the Emperor, Kuzon, was shamed by the Emperor and exiled. As Kuzon's uncle, Zhan felt that it was his duty to see that Kuzon would complete the now unknown quest that the Emperor sent him out to do as penance for his transgressions.

In the following years, Kuzon gained fame as a prominent rebel and claimant to the throne, his younger sibling now the crown prince. Zhan remained by his side, giving sagely advice, and would become recognised as much of the reason as to why Kuzon was able to pull off his coup and reclaim the throne that was rightfully his.

At the age of 61, Zhan led an army of rebels against the Empire, using powerful sorcery and a genius grasp of strategy to cut his way through droves of loyalist forces. Leading a three-year siege against the capital, he finally worked with a small team of agents to enter the city undetected and assassinate the Emperor and capture the crown prince. The city quickly fell and Kuzon was crowned Emperor. Zhan is said to have devoted the rest of his life to meditation, and finally died at the age of 106, ascending to the spirit world.
There, not truly dead, he has remained for millennia, practicing his sorceries and meditating, giving sagely advice to all those who would seek him out in his new home. His legend has only grown in this time, spread by those minor heroes who would use his advice to do great deeds. He is known in many places as a powerful spirit of wisdom, and some households in what was once the Empire of Kai still lay offerings of tea leaves at small shrines with statues of him, meditating.

It is said that if you would seek him out, you need only travel to the spirit world and call out for him. It is said that you will soon come across a plain blanket with a modest campfire, a cracked teapot and an old man, making tea for two people.

Zhan is not a global legend. He is not an all-powerful omnipotent demigod. He is a war hero, and a teacher, and a guide. His legend has grown through constant retelling, as heroes come back from their journeys and tell of a fat, tea-loving sage in the spirit forests who gave great advice and encouraged them to be the best that they could be.

A P P E A R A N C E
Zhan is an elderly man, who appears fat and out of shape. His beard is long well-kept, though his head has long since balded and only some of his white, thin hair remains. His teeth are stained a very pale brown from the constant ingestion of tea, and his hands are gnarled and tough where years of practice of martial arts have strengthened and calloused them.
His appearance has not been exaggerated in legend, but it taken for what it is. When heroes return and tell of his advice, they only speak of how calm and relaxed he seemed at all times, a paragon of serenity. Statues of him are as serene and calm as he is, exemplifying beauty on the interior, not on the exterior.

A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
Zhan has always been gifted with control over the elements. He can create gusts of wind to evade his enemies. He can move the ground beneath him to guard against their blows. He can raise walls of water to divert them from their course. He can generate gouts of fire to light the error in their path.
In addition to this, Zhan is a gifted martial artist, having had millennia to practice his art.
Zhan has spent millennia in meditation, turning his attentions inward. His soul has become like diamond, uncorruptable and unbreakable. His mind, similarly, has become like adamantium, his willpower infinite.
Zhan has retained his knowledge of strategy and tactics from his mortal life, long ago. He is a brilliant strategist.

A G E O F L E G E N D
Approximately five thousand years ago.
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"Hero? Villain? Nature's will is beyond your grasp."


"Good? Bad? I'm the guy with the bird."

Theme
Land of Confusion
"The sins of man have warped the earth. I shall bring it peace by any means."

N A M E / A L I A S
Markiel Harrir and his owl Boreas
Nature’s Arbiter



M Y T H O L O G Y



From here the myths began.

In the midst of night a stranger would walk into town a black falchion used as a walking stick. Above him soared a massive owl ever silent. He’d call out to the people that Nature had come for it’s kingdom, and that all who joined it would harvest it’s bounties. This is how the crusade started. Every King sought to expand his land into the wilds while Mark pushed them back. The forces of nature consuming cities in his wake. The lowly people that followed his teachings took to the land living in peace.

His acts did not go unnoticed. Kings sent legions after him knights and soldiers by the hundreds. All marched into the wilds never to return. After decades of campaigns to take territory back Mark decided that the Wilds were again at balance in the north. There was a short peace before Mark was needed again.

The kings always wanted to try and disturb the balance. Though the wilds were a kingdom for nature it was not the only place it’s power was great. Long ago when the earth was shaped gifts were given to the world for all men to use in times of need. Now corrupted by greed they sought to use them for selfish gains.

The legends are numerous. One of his first stories comes from the western coasts. A massive ironwood forest grew there the trees thousands of years old. When the kingdom began to chop them down to build an even larger navy Mark traveled there. Hundreds of men used steel axes to slowly chop away at the ancient woods. It had stood for ages to protect the land keeping it from falling into the sea. The fools didn’t even realize what they did, but for coin they didn’t care. Men began to vanish. When found again they were mauled and their axes gone. One morning all the axes were discovered piled up in the center of the lumber camp and a man standing before them in a long cloak.

“You have one chance to leave this land.” He warned, but none took head.

A flame fell from the sky and the pile exploded with fire. The man vanished into the smoke as the fire spread and consumed the men and their camp. The Ironwoods ever strong stood while everything else burned.

Mark would always return to the wilds. The people there needed him as much as the world did beyond. He was sage and sentinel. A guardian for the people always there to help. He would wander the wilds tending to all his people Boreas’ shadow a blessing rather than an omen. Stories tell of him carrying herbs for all ailments, hunting monsters that plagued the people, and how he was larger than life.

None could ever capture Nature’s Arbiter. He plagued kings foolish enough to cross him. In time some accepted his presence and lived in begrudging harmony. Not all accepted the peace though. A cruel warlord came up with a plan to take the wilds and their great bounty for himself. He began to clear forests and dam rivers throughout the lands he ruled and this gained Mark’s attention. The arbiter spent months fighting in the the warlord’s lands. All the while in the north the warlord marched troops into the wilds. When Mark returned he found a grand castle city. The people of the wild were enslaved to work the land around it. Mark refused to let the castle stand. He called to his people and the beasts of the wilds. All sieged the city, but could not break it. It fell to Mark and Boreas alone. The two took to the skies and infiltrated the palace at the center and massacred the warlord’s forces. Soon he came face to face with the bloodthirsty monarch. The two did battle, but neither could take the upper hands. It would not be long before Mark was overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of the warlord’s forces.

“You seek glory through blood. Then let me grant you the greatest memorial.”

Mark thrust his sword into the ground and summoned all the strength his god gave him. The hill upon which the castle was built shook violently. The stones began to crack and fire pour from them. The people of the wilds were safe outside of the city, but all who followed the warlord were trapped inside their impenetrable fort. The sky was black with smoke and all watched as fire poured out and filled the castle. Mark knelt before his sword knowing he had given his very life force to awaken the volcano. Boreas landed besides him and the two were sealed in ash their final vision that of the warlord burning with his empire. The volcano grew into a great mountain and is memorialized not to the warlord, but to Markiel. A man of nature and a man of the people. Hero to the humble, plague to the proud.

The wilds have never been the same life is dangerous up there and they find themselves pushed farther north to stay free from the other nations. None forget the arbiter. His presence is always seen in the open free lands, his voice heard in the calls of birds, and his hope in the hearts of all his kin.



A P P E A R A N C E

Mark stands at six foot three and maintains a posture like his trained owl leaning forward, but keeping his head up and scanning the area. Unlike his bird his amber eyes are kept as slits focused on one point rather than taking everything in. Mark’s face has particularly sharp features and a rather short bent down nose, possibly caused by a good punch to the face. Adorning his head is a mop of rich brown hair, which he puts into a ponytail when working and leaves be when not. Mark allows facial hair to grow around his chin, but does not maintain a mustache.

Mark is built decently well from his multiple career paths. Many a long day spent training his birds as a child gave a great endurance in running after them and an appreciation for being able to climb the trees they’d rest in. His right arm has a large number of scars and scratches on it from all the many birds who decided to test his arm guard’s thickness, as well as a few more from other incidents.

Mark wears rather plain clothes most of the time as he’s rarely ever the one to be in close quarters combat if any. Just a Dark brown tunic, pants, and boots. When he’s expecting combat to be involved he will don a simple set of studded leather with metal plates in key points. What you will almost always see Mark wearing is his falconry gear. Most obvious is the large leather glove on his right arm that extends past his elbow to supply enough area for Boreas’ talons. He keeps anything else he needs in either his satchel, or his bandoleer.

Boreas has a mostly white and gray plumage with his wing tips being the darkests and it fading to white as it gets closer to his center. Boreas is a semi-rare species of owl known as a White Rends Owl. They aren’t too uncommon, but live in the more remote areas of the north or atop mountains. They earned their name through their claws terrible ability to rend flesh of anything is pleases. Unlike normal owls who catch a lot of small prey the White Rend Owl is a big game hunter killing deer, caribou, and even moose. It will even take on wolves, cougars, and bears if it thinks it has a chance. With a ten foot wingspan and feet around the size of a human hand, not counting the four inch talons on each of its four toes per foot, the White Rends Owl is highly capable of surprising prey in the dark of night with eight deep incision to the back of the neck in an attempt to grab the spine and break it.

Another key evolution of the Rend owl is its ability to fly with wings only out half way. The massive wingspan allows much faster flight, but harms it’s maneuverability in tight quarters. To counter this the Owl has four joints in its wing instead of three. By holding the first section of its limb in it can use the other three like a normal bird would reducing its wingspan to about six foot. All of this is set on a body about the size of a three foot tall barrel. As strange as it seems though Boreas only weighs about twenty five pounds. A normal great horned is only about three for scale.

The Myths would have you believe Mark was a beast of a man able to push a tree over with a breath and breaking stones with one hand. Some even made him older and a sort of sage, but they couldn’t be farther from the truth. Boreas is sometimes exaggerated to be the size of a Roc, but again the owl is only about four feet tall. More often than not Mark is depicted as some mysterious man who would arrive from the woods and drive off the wicked before vanishing again.



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

Mark is a master of hunters. He has hunted some of the greatest beasts using only his skill and partner. With this comes a great knowledge of monsters: how to fight them and what can be done with them afterwards being the core of his insight. Many of his belongings are trophies of his hunts.

Mark's main weapon is his falchion, Omega, a long black blade with the elegance of a sword and brute power of an axe. On occasion he has even used it with only one hand, but prefers to use both for the five foot blade. The weapon is his physical mark of fealty to the old god. A totem itself the sword is the best way he can channel his power.

He is trained with many kinds of bows and crossbows as well as knives, but he has not retained any. (He’ll probably pick some up as soon as he can).

Receiving the old god’s blessing gave him two main gifts. First was an extended life so that he could not die to the passing of time. This vitality has locked Mark into his prime keeping him as an apex predator among men.

The second was to control nature. Through rituals he can commune with nature and command it to his will. Each act has a ritual to scale with it. He can commune with beasts, especially birds, with almost no effort. At the same time he could command a tidal wave, but would require special totems and signs to cause such a thing. The greater the act the harder it is to cause, the rarer the ingredients needed, and the more energy it saps from Mark. As the conduit of the old gods power Mark must channel all the energy needed to cause these events. He can only hold oh so much safely. At great cost to himself, either horrible injury and pain up to death, he can call forth the power without rituals, but the only time used this was at his end when he caused the tremor that awoke the volcano under him.



A G E O F L E G E N D

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CLARENT




The Kingmaker
Knight Commander Coquelicot




M Y T H O L O G Y







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

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Caecilia The Dancing Duelist


Her movements graced every battlefield and no foe could scratch her skin. She dazzled and scared her foes and led her troops like she had been doing it for years.
Historians




Mythology


Music sounds around the campfire. Men holler and laugh, women dance and sing. Spirits are high and morale surges. That is the power of music. Music isn't only used for entertainment. Music can calm the fiercest beast, empower the bravest warrior, and inspire crowds of thousands to march into battle.

Dancers aren't known for their battle prowess, but beauty can be a facade. Such is the way of Caecilia, the battle dancer. A vision of beauty, femininity, and softness, under the mask she is a fierce warrior and strong battlemaster.

She wasn't always the warrior she ended up becoming. Born to a family of warriors, she was the only girl after a line of 6 boys. Her father was a strong swordsman and her mother was a fierce archer. Her older brothers followed in their footsteps, each one becoming a fighter and joining the forces. Still too young, Caecilia stayed home when her family fought. She stayed with her grandmother and helped cook for the soldiers. This battle was hard and the casualties ran high, including her parents and four of her brothers. The two that returned were scarred and severely wounded. The clan lost many able fighters in that battle, and fear made them disperse.

With only her grandmother and two brothers with her, they ventured on their way to find a new home. Being the only one in the group, Caecilia took a sword and fended off attacks from creatures and raiders.

They finally found a traveling group that allowed them to stay and travel with them. Her brothers, once able, joined the combat forces. Her grandmother continued to help cook, but shortly after she passed on. It was here that Caecilia found her love of dancing and music when she stayed with the group's lead musician. Her name was Leywin and she inspired Caecilia to feel the rhythm and pursue her love of dancing.

Fates had a different idea in mind and a group of marauders attacked the camp while part of the soldiers were scouting. They started slaughtering the women and children first before her new home started fighting back. As the marauders attacked, Leywin took up a sword and fended off a few of them before getting stabbed. Caecilia, in a fit of anger, took up the sword and killed her attackers. She ventured out and joined the forces and pushed back the attackers. The marauders wounded them, but all was not lost. Fueled by vengeance, Caecilia took it upon herself to lead the charge against the marauders, detailing battle plans and coming up with tactics. In memory of Leywin, Caecilia used her dance background to gracefully dodge attacks and fight off her enemies, leading the clan to victory.

Caecilia soon led her own league of warrior women, all dancers and fighters. To this day, she is seen as the spirit of the dance and is valued for her bravery, determination, strong will, and loyalty to her cause.




Appearance


Caecilia appears as a young woman in her late twenties to early thirties. She has long, blonde hair that falls to her shoulders and stunning light blue eyes. Her legend would have you believe this as such, however Caecilia is true to legend at the age of 18. She still has her long, blonde hair and blue eyes. Her skin is pale. She stands at 5'7'' and weighs 120 lbs. She has a curvy frame to fit her dancing lifestyle. Normally, she will wear dancing garments like this. During battle, she will still wear dresses like this, daring any man to try and hit her.




Abilities & Equipmnet


Caecilia is known for her grace and beauty, using these to her advantage outside and inside of battle. Arete is her goddess of choice and is blessed with a jeweled necklace with her blessing on it for aid and protection for the dancing warrior. Caecillia's voice is said to be able to calm the angriest beast and charm the most corrupt man. Combined with her dancing, she is a force to be reckoned with when not in battle.

When the time to fight does come, Caecilia has a few tricks up her sleeve. Using her singing, she is able to grant boons and boosts to her allies and discourage and weaken her foes. For combat, she uses her dancing to gracefully move about the battlefield. She carries her chakrams in battle as throwable weapons as well as close combat. She also carries the sword she picked up in the marauder attack, but mainly only as a memorial to Leywin.




Age of Legend


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N A M E / A L I A S
Rthyin - The Elder Dragon



T H E E L D E R D R A G O N & F I R E H E A R T



A G E O F L E G E N D

50,000 Y E A R S A G O

M Y T H O L O G Y

Rthyin - The Elder Dragon. A legend that goes far beyond the living memory of man, a creature that has been both revered and hated more than any other in known history. The legend of The Elder Dragon is a throw back to a time before the heroes who are waking once again, back to a time when chaos stalked the lands and men hid for fear of the mighty beasts that might come upon their homes and lands. Many of the once mighty Wyrms have been hunted to extinction by glory seekers and heroes who sought to destroy them for the damage they wrought upon the realms of men. There is one however, a beast greater than all the others, whose legend eclipses all others.

The birth of Rthyin is reckoned to be be about the same time as the creation of the nine realms and the worlds within them. Legend has it that all other Drakes, Wyverns, and Dragons come from this one Elder Dragon, created from the very elements they thrived in, this is why all manner of armoured Wyrms could once be found in nearly every corner of the known world. Truth? That is impossible to tell for the Elder Dragon has not been seen in nearly 50,000 years. The last great story of the Elder Dragon is not a flattering one and tells of a great battle between this mighty creature and a hero named Ansur, or the Forefather, as humans call him. It is not known for certain what occurred but all can agree that the Elder Dragon has not been seen since the battle and the most recent story of the beast is now only a footnote in the victories of Ansur.

Despite such dour history, there is a small group of humans deep in the desert, the Burned Hammer Tribe, who worship the Elder Dragon and in return enjoy an almost neighbourly relationship with the scattered and ever dwindling Wyrm population. Their capital is built around the mouth of a defunct volcano, the site where legend says the Elder Dragon lay down and died following the battle. They have converted the inside to a great arena and they hold yearly feasts and games to honour the vanished creature in the hopes that one day it may yet rise again and reward their loyalty with wealth and power.

Much of legend speaks of the Elder Dragon as a great black beast, bigger than your average Wyrm by considerable size. The Burned Hammer Tribe believe that should the Elder Dragon return it will be larger and more powerful than before and wreck its vengeance upon the world. Interestingly, it is also believed that the Elder Dragon can assume the form of a beautiful female human and may already be walking the dunes of the Great Shifting Sea. This is why the Burned Hammer Tribe always welcomes lone female visitors with great courtesy and respect for it could be the Elder Dragon in mortal form.

There are many points in history where the Elder Dragon is featured before its battle with Ansur, but only a determined scholar with access to all the libraries of the world might be able to put together a comprehensive history of the creature.

A P P E A R A N C E





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

The Elder Dragon is gifted with many abilities, some of which you probably know of, the ability to read human thoughts, conjure magic, and of course, breath fire and fly. These are the most commonly thought of traits when a human ponders the legends of the great Wyrms. Various different species of Wyrm have their own touches or variations but most can command some aspect of the surroundings in which they live, the Elder Dragon more so than most.

When in human form the Elder Dragon is thought to resemble a human fire mage dressed in humble desert gear and carrying two long daggers that bear no specific name. No one knows if the Dragons power is dulled when in human form and most suspect that anyone who might know is dead. The human form is thought to have been taken in a search for companionship at a time when Wyrms were becoming rare in the world and Dragons were forced to seek out other races for company.


S O N G

Two Steps From Hell - Strength of a Thousand Men
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