Here within are such telling as can be found of those peoples who were players in the great play of life, but who departed the stage, leaving only their shadow to stretch across the story of the Champions, collected for thy perusal by Antal Hanalen, Scribe for the Court of King Hathnel Skyrider of the Kingdom of Dargotha, 4th age.
Aedrin Folke
In the land of Winthilda, a dominion once under the realm of Bermania, a tale unfolds, wrought with the echoes of sorrow and the flickering hope of redemption. The Viscount, a man of both magnanimity and sagacity, ruled the land and commanded his subjects to be treated with kindness, despite the shackles of their laborious toil. As a gesture of enlightenment, he even provided opportunities for them to learn the art of letters, should they choose to grasp the gift.
Within the boundaries of this arboreal realm lay a humble hamlet, where the threads of fate would weave the story of a boy named Aedrin, son of Folke. Aedrin's father, a valiant soldier whose existence had been reshaped by a dire injury, had returned to the familiar hearth, accompanied by his wife and their newborn son. Greeting his spouse, Folke shared his sentiments of their modest abode, "Here, my beloved wife, is my home—a place of simplicity but honest toil. Such is the way I perceive it, for it seems to me as a beacon of goodness."
Responding, his wife, with unwavering loyalty, professed, "If thou sayeth it, my husband, then so it shall be. Thy wisdom guides me faithfully."
With a grateful gaze, Folke continued, expressing his fervent reflections, "My dearest, I have pondered deeply upon this matter, and I believe Aedrin is an apt name for our son."
Joy resonated within her eyes as she responded, "I am overjoyed that thou recognize the wisdom in my heart. Furthermore, I cherish the kindness thou hath exhibited, alongside the resoluteness of a soldier. Thou hath rescued this boy, snatched from the clutches of certain death, and have made him our own. This act endears thee to my soul even more."
Thus, they forged a sanctuary, simmering with familial love, as the years danced around them, whispering secrets only known by time itself. Aedrin, the boy tethered by the bond of unquestionable filial connection, grew to understand the authenticity of his parents' love. Driven by an innate desire to bring them pride and happiness, he embarked upon a quest to perform good deeds and embrace righteous actions, for he bore a silent tongue imbued with an unspoken eloquence. However, this elocutionary quirk became fodder for cruelty among his peers, mocking him relentlessly, subjecting him to their vicious torment of push and pull, accompanied by the sting of sticks.
When the ordeal reached its crescendo, a fateful blow struck Aedrin, loosening his entangled words. Little did those tormentors know, their deeds unleashed dormant powers within the young soul. In a moment of instinctive retaliation against the Viscount's son, Uranthel, known as Udan by his companions, Aedrin inadvertently cast a fierce enchantment, causing the flames of his spell to ravage the very essence of his tormentor. Sadly, the fires consumed the arrogant Udan, reducing him to naught but ash and shadows, forever silencing his haughty arrogance.
The consequences of that fateful day would weigh heavily upon Aedrin's heart, forever branding his conscience with the indelible mark of sorrow. In the wake of this tragic event, the boy would embark upon a perilous spiritual journey, a path strewn with thorns and darkness, as he sought solace, redemption, and the rekindling of hope amidst the ashes of a harrowing mistake.
Aedrin, driven by an urgency instilled by the perilous encounter, swiftly fled from that abhorrent place he found himself in. With courageous determination, he arrived at the dwelling where his parents resided, seeking solace in their comforting presence. And at this moment, Aedrin made his initial utterance to them, finally revealing the newfound language he had diligently concealed and masterfully honed, intending to astound them with his unexpected eloquence. Thus he spoke, "Dearest Mater, Pater, Lo and Behold, for I have acquired the gift of speech, although my words may be rudimentary, burdened by the limitations of time that constrained further study."
In awe and astonishment, his parents beheld him, overwhelmed with a stupefied wonder. They lavished their adulation upon him, for he had purloined time that rightfully belonged to himself, yet understanding that a portion of the blame ought to be placed upon Udan, known as Uranthel but to his father alone. Udan, the antagonist who had continuously afflicted Aedrin throughout his existence, had dared to strike him, forcefully laying his hands upon his person. In a moment of weakness, Aedrin’s composure waned, causing his lips to utter certain words. Unbeknownst to him, these words had transformed into a conflagration, a flame imperceptibly fueled by his mystical abilities, and it had engulfed Udan. In the wake of this blaze, Aedrin feared he might have inadvertently ended the life of his cruel persecutor.
Alas, his father's response was fraught with lamentation, for he imparted the grave consequences entailed by the revelation. "This is indeed disheartening news, my beloved son," his father solemnly voiced. "Udan, the son of the Viscount, he was. The Viscount, beholden to his lineage, may not perceive the justice within thy retaliatory action. Furthermore, the employment of such arcane forces transgresses the just laws set forth by the esteemed ArchDuke, and its penalty is none other than death!"
In vehement opposition to such impending tragedy, his mother cried out, her voice infused with anguish. "These words of despair shall not permeate our minds! I refuse to meekly surrender my son to the gallows for the unforgivable sin of ridding the world of that repugnant child!"
"And neither shall I," his father interjected resolutely, pushing his wife gently aside. "I shall arm him and provide him with sustenance as best I can, ensuring his swift departure from this abode for the sake of his safety!"
Therefore, propelled by a sense of urgency and guided by the devotion of his parents, Aedrin prepared to embark upon a treacherous journey, shrouded in uncertainty and fraught with peril, determined to forge his own path and defy the oppressors who sought to condemn him unjustly.
And so it came to pass that Aedrin embarked upon his journey, departing from the comforts of his abode and venturing into the vast world beyond. As fate would have it, he encountered a man named Fabian who extended his hospitality and offered solace to the weary traveler. Observing Aedrin's ability to wield magic, Fabian mistakenly believed him to be a weaver of spells, a kind of sorcerer who draws upon magic and expertly weaves its threads into intricate patterns of power.
Alas, Fabian's misperception hindered young Aedrin's growth, for there was much more to him than met the eye, hidden depths unbeknownst to any who beheld him at that time. Despite this setback, Aedrin found contentment in his newfound life, cherishing the companionship and security offered by Fabian's presence. But as life's twists and turns would have it, Aedrin returned to Fabian's dwelling one day to find it razed to the ground, a mere ruin of what was once a haven. The remnants of the Hand's banner marked the scene, evoking a fierce storm of vengeance within Aedrin's heart. Determined to avenge his friend and mentor, he set forth on the trail of those responsible.
Thus, he found himself upon the road to a place known as Anfang in the realms of Mereland, specifically within the domain of Normere. Here, though young in appearance and possessing an air of boyishness, he bore the visage of a grown man. Slender in frame, with flowing locks as white as snow, even in his tender years, he clothed himself in a robe of deep blue and leaned upon a staff for support as he walked. His eyes shone with an otherworldly radiance, resembling those of the fair elves. Unbeknownst to him, hidden within his lineage dwelled the blood of the Drow, albeit in a fraction so minute. Fate had weaved its intricate tapestry, for Aedrin possessed extraordinary potential as a sorcerer, yet this truth would remain dormant until he endured great trials and sorrow.
His speech, though accompanied by a stutter, belied a seriousness of mind, while his manner was forthright and unadorned. Aedrin possessed the propensity to express his thoughts openly and honestly, regardless of the social divide that separated him from others, even if they stood far above him in stature. Such candor would often lead him into trouble, yet it also forged connections of unlikely camaraderie. It was amidst this tumult that Aedrin found himself joining the ranks of the Party of the Rat Paladin, as fate intertwined their paths upon that very road which claimed the lives of the other ill-fated companions. Much like his fallen comrades, Aedrin too would meet his demise in a brutal fashion. However, true to the enigmatic workings of destiny, he would rise once more, triumphant, after three days, reborn amidst the miraculous dance of life and death.
In the annals of his exploits, amidst the tapestry of his grand adventures, there lies a tale of the Dreamslayer, who ventured into the captivating realm of dreams. This elusive art, veiled in mystery, was but a faint glimmer in his grasp, until in due course, a werewolf by the name of Jamie of Eatonham came forth, persuaded by fate's unseen hand to impart upon him the wisdom of the dream world. Wolves and their lupine brethren, it is said, possess an instinctual familiarity with this ethereal realm.
Thus it was upon the Tump, a hallowed mound encasing the remnants of ages past, that our valiant hero fell upon a most unexpected encounter. There, among the graves, a menacing skeleton emerged, striking him down and hurling him into the abyss of death's embrace. His loyal companions, bereft with grief, unleashed their anguish upon the winds, gnashing their teeth in bitter sorrow. Yet, marvelously, he emerged from the cold clutches of demise, defying the very essence of mortality.
Alas, his rebirth from the shadows of oblivion proved to be a divisive catalyst, for Mara, known as Hitan in the depths of her true nature, vehemently expressed her repulsion. In a voice as cold as ice, she decried, "Away! Unclean! Undead! Accursed! I shall not entertain thy presence, for thou art an abomination, a cruel aberration! Vanish from my sight, I beseech thee!" And with her scornful rejection, she turned her back on him, her resolve unwavering.
But the whims of destiny, woven by an enigmatic hand, would not allow the tale to end at this juncture. For Mara herself, the very embodiment of the beast he was mistakenly believed to be, underwent a transformation, succumbing to the form that she held him accountable for, though his essence remained untainted by such darkness.
During the freezing vigil of the Frostwatch in the distant reaches of the north, our hero deftly unraveled myriad perplexing riddles, traversing the treacherous path to the Heart of Winter. By virtue of his unparalleled intellect and the resolute strength of his noble spirit, he earned a name befitting his remarkable triumphs. "Elanmatar," they hailed him, a glyph of honor that encapsulated his profound insights and indomitable will. Unbeknownst to him, the weighty significance of this appellation would remain concealed for many years yet to come.
In the realm of enchantment, where the burdens of fate lay heavy upon his weary shoulders, did Elanmatar find solace in the presence of his mentor, Cephiro, the Rat Paladin, whose honor and justice eclipsed all others. Their path now led towards the fabled land of Bermania, the land Elanmatar believed to be his true home. Yet, aware of the tenuous nature of his magical abilities, Cephiro concealed his sorcery from the discerning eyes of Tohr, the God of Justice, who withheld his blessings until the Paladin had repented through countless prayers and trials.
Elanmatar, true to his spirit, once again proved his mettle as he deftly maneuvered through the treacherous terrain of the Parchstone, which would later be renowned as the Rock of Aegis. It was during this precarious journey that an unexpected bond formed between him and Sulin, a warrior of unparalleled valor whom he beheld as a resplendent Amazon, though she regarded him no differently. Yet, their connection came with an unfathomable consequence, as Elanmatar discovered a ring within the depths of the stone, a vessel of knowledge that contained the vast lore of the long-lost Library of the Stone. Its teachings seeped into his mind, whispering forbidden truths that drove him perilously close to the brink of madness.
As they departed from the hallowed land of Bermania, Elanmatar became a harbinger of triumph, contributing to the pivotal battle that brought the great spire of Ifrit's Finger to its knees. And they avenged it by smiting the evil doer reolutely upon the earth. Yet, Elanmatar's journey did not end with mere conquests and legendary feats, for he sought to provide solace to those who had nurtured him with unwavering love.
With his newfound wealth, Elanmatar procured a haven for his parents and brought them forth from the heart of Winthilda, ensuring a life free of toil and hardship. "Father, Mother," he spoke with unwavering determination. "Never shalt thou labor again, unless thy hearts so desire. All that thee should yearn for shall be provided, for the love thou have bestowed upon me." As his mother embraced him with heartfelt gratitude, his father's eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "Son, I am filled with boundless pride," he uttered, his voice tinged with admiration. "I perceive within you a wisdom and nobility that have blossomed through unwavering resolve and unyielding kindness. Go forth with our blessings, dear Aedrin, may your path be strewn with triumph and serenity."
In the wake of his parents' benedictions, Elanmatar embarked on his journey, his heart buoyed by their unwavering support and good wishes.
In the distant north, where the land of Zice unfurled its dark realm, a company of valiant Champions gathered amidst an unforeseen emergence - the abrupt arrival of the ancient witch, Ravenica Raptora Ritana Ravencroft, havocking their path. Swiftly, with a spell steeped in dark sorcery, she ensnared one amongst the Champions, imprisoning him within the constricting confines of a mystical amulet.
For ages uncounted, within the confines of that cursed trinket, he dwelled. His spirit battled the suffocating shadows, longing for the embrace of sunlight upon his face, yearning for the open fields that sang with life and freedom. Yet, imprisoned he remained, his voice unheard, his strength bound by the relentless power of the vile witch.
But amidst the bleakness and despair, unyielding hope flickered in the hearts of Cephiro and his loyal kin. Driven by indomitable courage, the brave warrior embarked upon a perilous quest to liberate his comrade from the clutches of Ravencroft's nefarious enchantment. With each step upon his treacherous journey, Cephiro endured great tribulations, his footsteps echoing the anguish that pierced his very being.
Mara
In the realm of Zhugon, amidst a land of enchantment and shadows, there dwelt a woman named Mara. Her visage, embraced by the rich hues of her Eastern heritage, allures those who lay eyes upon her. Yet, behind the veil of her true name, Hitan Hikaru, lies her clandestine existence. Born into the prestigious nation of Zhugon, Mara was the daughter of a legendary general, a heritage concealed to spare her family from shame. Driven by loyalty and an unwavering love for her father, she embarked on a treacherous path as a spy. Her purpose was to observe others, extracting crucial tidings and relaying them to her esteemed patriarch. However, behind her seemingly impenetrable facade, Mara bears the weight of numerous phobias and neuroses. These inner demons, lurking beneath her darkened armour, test the resilience of her spirit at every turn. Through darkness and uncertainty, Mara navigates a world fraught with danger, all while honoring the legacy of her storied lineage. Her tale unfolds like the grand tapestry cut short and ragged, for t’were not long ‘ere meeting the Rat Paladin that she fell into darkness and hunger. For whilst drawing close to a great foe, and entering with fen and fastness into the dwelling thus, aside her fellow Sulin of Clan Goshien of the Cosada Sept of the Far-dareis mai Amazons. Recalled thusly are the events which spelt her doom.
“Sulin, come hither,”
“I perceiveth thee, Mara.” replied Sulin, after the fashion of her true people, a lie on her tongue unregarded by those who knew not.
“Behold the catch of this window which looketh out upon the ostentatious garden of our unknowing host, I willen it may be opened and permit our passage.”
“Set ye about releasing it then!”
“Nay, ‘tis dirty, and I am loath to touch it.”
“Get hence and bend thee to thy task, lest I spit thee upon mine blade! And less of thy nonesense!” Sulin, wrathful at her reasonable dislike of dirt and filth.
Mara bent to her task, made harder as she drew forth a sash across her fingers, muttering low as not to be heard, “Fie, brazen slattern, flaunting thy body for all to see, barely more covered than the day thou were brought hence onto the world! Ever have I been covered in muck and filth ‘ere we met! Ill named is Sulin, for I perceive in that name an ill omen, and ill news, was it not coated in filth and stripped of my possessions that I met these churls? I should away fromthem, and visit upon them much injury for my hurts.”
“What did thou spake?”
“I didst say, ‘Thee latch I have freed!” And so the window didst open, and in thus they did proceed.
For such a great house as may have, so did this dwelling, though cold and inhospitable it seemed to the two women, Sulin pointed into the darkness, “Go hence, for thou canst see the clearer in this gloom, I say.”
Mara, displeased for she felt a horror awaiting her said, “Nay, I beg thee not ask that I go first into this evil manse. I fear a doom upon me should I go. Let thee precede me, that I may be spared.”
But Sulin refused, “I do not recant, thou shalt go hence, and should some doom befall you, of no concern is it of mine, for I have glimpsed thy comings and goings, ever a sneak art thou, and I have little trust of thee.” Mara, fearing a noise should betray them, went hence. And so it came to pass, that the evil werewolf which lay within, having spied their scent upon the air they had allowed inwards sprang forth upon Mara, crying;
“Behold your doom, lady spy! Your works are so repaid with a curse upon thee!” And he bit home, cursing Mara, and stripping her of her Chosen mark.
“Aie! Aie! I am undone, a curse attaints me now, and I am unclean! Fie on you Sulin! I lay this at thy feet, and shall bring this curse to bear upon thee at my last! Should I never draw another breath should It not be so! By Elmo, by The spirit of Death, by the Oni of the dark forests!” And she took flight from the house and fled the land of Mereland, which was Normere. And she passed from the knowing of the Rat Paladin and those he kept close. for many a month. But she did keep a close watch on them once they passed south, and following them did plan her revenge. For the fortitude of the werewolf was upon her now, and much could she withstand that mortal man can not. And into the heart of the great fortress of the Stone did she follow, and beneath the great bulk of that cursed place, did she finally confront them, “Long have I waited for this moment!”
“Aye long!” issued a second voice, older but alike hers. And she beheld herself as aged greatly, but her eyes were as filled with the fires of betrayal as her own, and she wondered how this could have come to pass. And so unheeding, did a graven image of a winged man approach her from behind, quickly and unseen, and did it touch her, and afore she knew it, she stood many centuries before these events had happened. Little is known of her time whence, but some scraps record such as her through the ages, dwelling in the Stone, then the Parched Stone, bringer of waste. And time twisted her further, and twisted her. Surely she knew that she would, aged and time worn, come upon them again, for she had beheld that to come to pass. So so did she, and as her older self saw that she had vanished. And Sulin stepped forward, and approached her, arms open.
“Mara, long hath I dwelt on that night, and I am grieved. Not that I bade the hence, but that thou did take flight, for Cephiro is a paladin, and could have taken the curse and uncleanness from thee afor the moons fullness.”
And Mara was overcome with grief, “Nay! ‘tis not true! Thou speak a lie unto me!”
“Nay. ‘tis in troth so.” Spake Cephiro, and she knew to to be nothing but whole cloth, for Cephiro the Rat paladin could not lie, and she fell to her knees and wailed,
“Oh foolish panic and pride! Oh woe! That salvation was so close at hand!” And as she was distracted ,and observed by none, but themselves Sulin did slip forth a card which would summon a Reaper, a dark assassins spirit. And so forth it came, and it spake so that Mara would hear,
“Another one off the list.” and it slew her. And she died, or so it seemed. For even a Reaper cannot slay a werewolf for long, lest that Reaper in life bore a weapon of silver or fire. and this one had not. So when the party of the Rat Paladin had gone, she came to awaken, and spake.
“I do perceive thee, Angel statues, thou knowest me, and thou know that should thou send me whence again, I shall smash thee with hammers, and grind the bits into powder and scatter tyhe powder in the middens, thou knowst I shall.” And she went hence from that place, filled with rage and murder. She would vist harm unto Sulin. And make her weep.
Serafine
Lo and behold, behold the enigmatic being of half-elven descent, shrouded in the depths of mystery. She possesses a slight frame, yet her arms bear the marks of a certain strength acquired through unknown means. Cascading tresses of dark hair gracefully cascade down to caress her shoulders, while her eyes shimmer in hues of vibrant green, reminiscent of a sunlit meadow. Bedecked in habiliments of verdant and earthen tones, she adorns herself with a slender elven blade, as graceful as her form. To those who encounter her, she has taken the name of Serafine, known by some as Half-Elven. However, her true moniker remains carefully guarded, concealed amidst the recesses of her being.
In the service of the esteemed Duke of Eastwatch she stands, her purpose veiled beneath the guise of a spy. In bygone days, she once traversed alongside the valiant Party of the Rat Paladin, although she did not venture alongside them to the northern reaches. Yet, it is recounted that she resurfaced once more within their chronicles, manifesting amidst the realms of Bermania, within the thriving city of Einweg. There, she rendered her aid to the esteemed wizard Aedrin, dutifully fulfilling her role in his endeavors.
Xiao Ling
In a land far from the bustling realms of Men, where snow and frost are kin, lived Láng Xuě. Known to common tongues as the Snow Wolves, they were hunters and warriors, embodying the spirit of wolves in the icy vastness of the northern tundra. Their nights were marked by a tribal gathering, a vigil from dusk till dawn, weaving stories, partaking in libations, and engaging in tests of skill.
At twenty-one nights old, Xiao Ling , or Young Spirit, as he was called, was but a youth in the measure of his people's lifespan. The customs of these nomads, unique and often misunderstood, drew labels of barbarism from outsiders. The intricate greeting of eyes and fingers, a communion of spirits, was dismissed as primitive. Nevertheless, this ritual bound the Snow Wolves together, especially after the long night.
The long night, a mystical passage, witnessed varied customs. To the Snow Wolves, departing into this realm of spirits meant the removal of their eyes. These orbs, rather than being cast away, were consumed by kin—mates, offspring, or parents. A symbiotic connection between the living and the departed allowed guidance and a spiritual perspective during the longest night.
Their faith was not in gods but in the longest night. The separation of spirit and flesh led to the belief that some spirits found their way back as Gǔrén or ancients. These revered spirits were embodied in flesh and held sacred titles—Tóumù or Móshù shī.
In matters of union, the Snow Wolves differed significantly. Mating and childbirth transpired with an air of utilitarian pragmatism. Women, regarded as property and confined to domestic roles, were considered something less than true Snow Wolves. Male offspring reached adulthood through a ritualistic hunt, crafting bone daggers from the spoils. Maturity granted them the privilege of choosing mates from unattached females.
Older males, retired from the rigors of hunting, dedicated their time to crafting tools and instructing the young. A magical figure, the Móshù shī, interpreted celestial signs, presided over celebrations, healed battle-worn warriors, and communed with spirits.
Semi-nomadic in essence, the Snow Wolves roamed the tundra, following the elusive prey. Their leader, the Tóumù, resided within a protective stone fortress, the heart of their semi-nomadic existence. It was said that other Tóumù lived in grand palaces adorned with opulence.
Yet, amidst the rhythms of their existence, darkness crept into the Snow Wolf's world. Tóumù Hēixīn's treachery nearly extinguished their flame. Xiao Ling , in a valiant stand, allowed his sister and her friend to escape. Captured and tormented, he faced a dire choice—to forsake his home or face burial with eyes intact. With his sister and her friend now his responsibility, he embarked on a journey across realms, tracking a figure with white hair and pointy ears, the target of a distant Tóumù's vendetta.
It came to pass that he would encounter and briefly join the Party of the Rat Paladin, and traveled with them for a time, his natural instinct to distrust women caused friction with Sulin, the Amazon. In time, he traveled south and died in the lands of the Eyrir.