Here within are such telling as can be found of the peoples encountered by the Champions, collected for thy perusal by Antal Hanalen, Scribe for the Court of King Hathnel Skyrider of the Kingdom of Dargotha, 4th age.
Baron Aldforth
In the land of Voldaryn, in the reign of Baron Aldthird, who was a proxy for the unhearkened to figure of Diovolo there did live a man. For his father he was named Patrig, and later in life he did take the name Aldforth. Little is remarked upon of his early life, and in the fullness of his manhood he stood as to the height of a man, dark of hair, and took the house colours of Orange and pale green, with a cane did he walk and upon his back the burdensome greatsword. For as a revolutionary opposing the wickedness of Voldaryns ruling Baron did he rise to power, and is the way with all such men, when in power all too quickly did he resort to the very cruelty and iniquity he stove against in youth, worse even didst the people account him.
Of great loves he had ever only one, a vampire, the Lady Alcina whom he did ensconce in a manor to the north as warden there, and distant did he become. And never again did they meet in person. And as a ward he took a woman, and the people called her the Killer Queen, and it is written that should any man touch her they would be riven to the core and die.
As ruler did he cause suffering, and from his pen restrictions and laws flowed, some just, some unjust, some gainsaying others. It came to pass the Party of the Rat Paladin did come unto him, and they didst spake thusly;
“Ho! Baron, thou hast imprisoned us within thy borders, and poisoned us too, thou shoulds’t remedy this as thou promised!”
“Indeed.” He said unto then, “Come to my manor and sup, I shall give thee thy reward!” But instead he took them from the dining table, and cast them into Jaochim’s Pit, as punishment ofr their “crimes” But they o’ercome it. And before long did they meet him again across blades.
“Ah, Cephiro the Rat Paladin, thou hath come forth against me at last. I knew this day should pass.”
“Defend thy self Baron, for thou art no ruler! A queen I should put upon the throne as ruler by my hand” And so the Baron didst become swollen with muscle, and his clothing did rip and tear apart. And Cephiro didst cower in sudden fear. But they did battle, and Cephiro didst smite him unto death, which pleased him at the end of things.
And song records his legacy as a small man grasping to the throne which o’re awed him, saying of him;
Aldforth the small, piteous he,
A puppet of Vampires,
No honour hath he.
Anticoeur
In the depths of the ancient Weald, where the verdant whispers of the trees echo with tales of yore, in the land of Voldaryn, the centaurs reside, a dwindling kin haunted by sorrow and strife. Once a proud nation, their numbers now scarce, ravaged by a relentless persecution driven by insatiable desires for their mystical essence and avarice for their servitude.
As the remnant of this once great people, a soul endures, defiant and indomitable. Anticoeur, daughter of the Weald, embodies the steadfast spirit of her kin, forged in the crucible of constant flight and perpetual vigilance. From her very birth, her hooves have thundered across shadowed glens, her senses ever wary of the treacherous scent of Mankind.
A fierce warrior, few can match the prowess that courses through Anticoeur's veins. Her muscles ripple beneath the chestnut-streaked coat that cloaks her equine frame, hinting at the eons of survival instinct that have been passed down through her lineage. Each sinew, each tendon, honed to perfection through tireless pursuit of physical and intellectual freedom.
Yet, despite her undaunted resilience, the walls of captivity draw ever closer, pressing upon her sanctuary in the Weald. The very ground that once trembled beneath her majestic gallop now shrinks, devoured by the ever-encroaching tide of man’s preation. No longer can she roam the vast expanse of her ancestral domain with impunity.
Her heart bears the burden of witnessing the cruel fate of kin, her family torn asunder, languishing in chains or slaughtered for the sake of tawdry enchantments. Anticoeur weaves a tapestry of bitterness and grief, her eyes reflecting the sorrows she has endured, a bitterness that melds with an unwavering determination to defy the inglorious fate that seeks to swallow her whole.
Keenly aware of her perilous situation, Anticoeur has honed her mind onto the art of war. Hallowed lessons flow through her consciousness, a symphony of strategy and technique, born out of necessity rather than desire. Her expertise in the field of cavalry tactics dances with the grace of a woodland sprite, her hunting methods a finely-honed ballet of instinct and intelligence.
The encircling jaws of destiny grip ever tighter, tightening the noose around the neck of her freedom. Anticoeur can sense the desperation clawing at her heart like a wild beast desperate for release, her determination growing ever fiercer as her world shrinks. She dares not surrender, for in the heart of the Weald, she remains an echo of a forgotten era, the embodiment of resilience and longing amidst a world that seeks to bind her.
Anticoeur, the centaur of the Weald, bears witness to the fading splendor of her kin, a sentry in a realm teetering at the precipice of oblivion. Yet, the fire in her eyes, the defiant beat of her heart, refuse surrender. With every step she takes, every arrow she dodges, the legacy of her people burns brightly within her, a testament to the enduring spirit that refuses to be extinguished.
Black Xantus
In the realm of Algreer which would fall to the invaders from across the Phobo Sea and become Zhugon, one may come across a figure known as Cyrus, although this appellation serves merely as a deceptive facade for his true self, for in reality, he goes by the name of Xantus. This enigmatic individual, at first glance, assumes the guise of a lackluster minstrel, an unimpressive performer of melodies. Yet, one must not be fooled, for within lies a tale that weaves a fateful pact with a dark god, bestowing upon him unparalleled mastery of the sword.
Xantus' destiny was irrevocably shaped by a careless utterance from his beloved Jolyene Manaster. In a moment of jest, she proclaimed, "My love is the greatest swordsman of all time!" Consumed by anxiety that she could only pledge her love to the one who claimed this honor, Xantus embarked on a quest to attain unmatched martial prowess. And so, he struck a bargain with the malevolence that lurked in shadow, unwittingly sealing his fate.
The dark god acquiesced to his plea, rendering Xantus as the pinnacle of swordsmanship and cursing him with eternal existence. Though the gift seemed bountiful at first, the weight of endless life began to wear upon his weary soul, for he believed Jolyene to have been slain when her nation fell. Thus, he sought release from his cursed existence, yearning for respite. Yet, the Dark One, in his capriciousness, denied him freedom.
Only through the intervention of Kaos, an unanticipated force of chaos, did Xantus find a glimmer of hope for liberation. The god, however, used deceit as his tool, enticing Xantus with the promise of death and the reclamation of his own soul. But there was a heavy price to pay, an exorbitant sum of gold demanded in its entirety. As if this were not enough, the dark god ensured that Xantus would be rendered impotent without proper remuneration.
Clad in garments of somber black, Xantus stands as a lean figure with dark brown eyes that bear witness to the secrets they have beheld. A neatly trimmed van Dyke beard graces his countenance, adding an enigmatic touch to his presence. But it is his legendary weapon, the Katana Zanmato, that holds the essence of his tumultuous journey. This blade, infused with a poison born from the anguish and torment it has inflicted upon others, exudes an aura of malevolence and remorse.
Thus, to encounter Cyrus, who conceals the true nature of Xantus, is to behold a tormented soul bound by an immortal existence, a wanderer cursed by his own longing for love and the pursuit of ultimate mastery. It is thanks only to the intervention of Cephiro, who did not slay Jolyene, who had become a werewolf and called herself Lupa, but instead took her to his bed, and thus they bargained a truce. When later she was cured by the hand of Jamie of Eatonham, who had claimed for herself a cure, and in mercy and kindness slipped the draught into Jolyene’s drink, and released the curse from that woman, who would become queen. And so Xantus and Jolyene were reunited, and he became her warden, and later, they were married.
Diovolo
Diovolo, the Immortal Vampire
In the shadowed realms of darkness, amidst the sprawling chaos, dwells Diovolo, a powerful vampire deeply entwined with the enigmatic entity whispered of by those who know as Kayn. A creature of the night, he wields impressive might, his enigmatic essence manifested in a single bone wing adorning his right side. A twist of fate has rendered him left-handed, making his every strike a sinister dance of death. With a long, curved blade of unmatched elegance clasped in his grasp, he mesmerizes all who dare to oppose him.
One cannot deny the commanding presence of Diovolo, for his beguiling allure is matched only by his ethereal beauty. Buoyant locks of platinum cascade around his perfectly chiseled features, a stark contrast to the fiery depths of his crimson gaze. Beyond his piercing stare, his pointed ears lay bare his true essence, betraying his otherworldly origins.
Regally attired in garments that dance between the line of splendor and flamboyance, his attire mirrors his extravagant proclivities. Each carefully chosen garment adorns his lithe frame, enhancing his magnetic allure. Adorned in intricate designs and embellishments, his appearance is a tantalizing feast for the eyes.
Yet it is not solely his appearance and physical prowess that sets Diovolo apart from mortals and immortals alike. His mastery over the arcane arts of persuasion bestows upon him a potent magic, capable of bending the will of even the most steadfast minds. Such power lies at the core of his ambitions, entwining his desires and granting him dominion over reluctant souls.
A peculiar facet of his existence is his invulnerability, a trait that transcends the limits of mere mortality. Even when destruction befalls him, his essence slowly reassembles itself, defying the grasp of death. This relentless cycle ensures his longevity through countless epochs, cementing his status as an immortal force.
Among the many talents Diovolo possesses, his ability to imbue others with awe-inspiring abilities is both a blessing and a curse. He has graced individuals, such as the enigmatic Queen and the steadfast Wardo, with extraordinary powers beyond mortal comprehension. Yet, these bestowed abilities lie beyond his control, and their consequences are scattered like the wind, unpredictable and immeasurable.
From his towering stronghold, nestled within the heart of the manafont, Diovolo commands his extensive network of servitude. His empowered acolytes, devoid of monstrous visages, silently weave their way through the mortal realm. They gather information, influencing the tides of fate to serve the inscrutable desires of their master.
Driven by a sadistic nature and an insatiable hedonistic appetite, Diovolo revels in the splendors of existence. The beauty of art, the intricate mastery of performers, all captivate his discerning eye. However, his perfectionist temperament is a double-edged sword, for any hint of inconsistency or flaw is met with irritable disdain.
Thus, Diovolo, the immortal vampire, remains a figure of both allure and trepidation. His enchanting presence and boundless power shape the world around him, leaving an indelible mark on the tapestry of existence. As his intricate machinations unfold, the ethereal dance of light and shadow continues, forever under his watchful, red gaze.
In the many moments, unmarked and recorded as there was not even man as we know him, as the land reformed and shaped under the hands of the Gods, even afore he who must not be named bound himself to the world there was the race of Vrl'kolakasa as they are called now, but then by another name unknown to us. And they were lithe and beautiful of male and female, and bore lusterous feathered wings, and could take into the air as a bird might. And they were the messengers of the Gods, to speak and give tell to the peoples who had been put upon the world, and had arrived there. And in happiness did they live, as they had a purpose they deemed good, and found delight in one another, and in the lesser peoples, as they deemed them. But the peoples held them in awe, and could not like them as too imperious and great they seemed. As man came to the world, and the Gods drew their attention to them, the Vrl'kolakasa saw this sand said, in their own tongue, “How do the Divine lavish their love upon these new childer, how they turn their backs to us, those they made to be their messengers.” And there was among them two, Kayn named after Kyr meaning ending and ayno meaning the stretch of time alloted to one. and Diovolo, named after Dio, meaning God, and volo meaning the telling of. And in this time nothing remarked these two apart from the others, Kayn dark haired and beautiful, and Diovolo being fair and likewise handsome. And as all their kind they lived spare lives of dedication, eschewing all but duty to their masters who they loved.
But as things have proceeded, man invented the marking of the passage of time, and darkness became a part of the world, and afore long the Gods made to go hence from the world, and behind them were left their messengers, with no purpose but what they would make from themselves. They wailed and cried, “Lords, ladies, take us with thee! We needeth thee to give us purpose!”
And the Gods turned and one of them spake, “Nay. For wither we go, thou cannot abide, and would perish on the instant.” and another spake, “No purpose have we of you there either, so were you to last, however brief, thou wouldst find no happiness nor joy.” A third of their number did bid them go forth onto Eanutellar, as that was the name which they had given to Jor-Karroc’t’klhan when it was first made, “And find a purpose of thine own, as I release thee from that which thou hath labored under so long. Be free and seek a fate as wouldst thy brother beings.”
And the Messengers wept and gnashed their teeth, “Oh woe is us! Shall we live in the mud as man does? Or the tree as the elf? Or under the heavy stone as the stumpy dwarf? Oh woe! No fate is worse! Let us instead remain as lords over them, to keep the ways of the Gods as kingly priests, and have them give us purpose with their service.” And man heard this and grew wrothful, and their leaders did say,
“Oh how proud and arrogant, thou art even in thy fall! How lordly you would be, and keep us ‘neath thy sandal? Fie! Let there be an end to thy tyrrany!” And so the men of the world rose and began to slay the Vrl'kolakasa and soon there were none extant upon the world.
Save two, calling themselves brothers, Kayn and Diovolo, bitterly weeping fled and hit in a dark cave atop a mount, called by them Binhunpyr, meaning the haven of the wretched. And there they lay, until forgotten. And they stewed in their despair, and it became wrath. And they cried out, “A pox upon thoise divine, for kind they are not!” And they both reached up and tore off one wing, crying “Ever anon we oppose thee, cruel masters!”
And they set about forbidden arts, and invented more, for one God who remained did speak, though they heard it not, “Change, and become wicked and immortal, to gainsay the Gods design, feed upon that which they favoured o’er thee.” And they worked and toiled, and indeed they did bring forth a change to themselves, and became immortal and powerful. And as they gazed out over the world they would now rule, as terrible kings, the light of Ifrit, or Illunater as he was called then struck them, and their glorious wings shed their feather, and became as bone. And the sun hurt and they retreated ‘lest they be burnt to ash. And they became Vampire. The first.
Geldrin
In the land of Voldaryn, amidst the shadowed realms where darkness weaves its enigmatic web, there resides a figure whose countenance speaks of nefarious secrets and tarnished nobility. This character, forsaken by his once noble intentions, is known as Geldrin of Derewood.
Dark lank brown locks cascade down his stout shoulders, whispered tendrils mingling with a drooping mustache that hints at a hidden smile, a secretive smirk beneath a facade of decorum. His attire is comprised of fine garments skillfully crafted, garments that speak of an indulgent wealth and status. Adorned in the regal hues of blue and yellow, Geldrin moves amidst the tumultuous world with undeniable elegance.
Yet, it is his towering buckled hat, an unmistakable symbol of authority and his signature possession, that truly sets him apart. To disturb this bequest would be deemed nothing short of a crime worthy of punishment, for it is a testament to his current stature, drenched in privilege and entitlement.
The rapier he wields, a blade honed through countless battles, is an extension of his vindictive hand. Geldrin is no ordinary swordsman; for he is equally skileld when fighting from a horse, or lying upon the ground, or even in the water. His prowess in the art of swordplay is a lethal dance, a dance that has fueled his ascent in the twisted hierarchy of power.
Beneath the veneer of his polished facade lies a darkness that consumes him, a greed that knows no bounds. The allure of power and material wealth has wickedly ensnared his heart, rendering him an unwavering servant to the orders of his insidious master, Baron Aldforth. Geldrin cannot be swayed to oppose the tyrant's bidding, for it is the allure of status and opulence that fuels his very existence.
Yet, in the bygone years of his youth, Geldrin harbored aspirations far nobler. He yearned to overthrow the tyrannical Baron Aldthrid, his intentions rooted in a desire for justice and liberation. But alas, the intoxicating elixir of power has corrupted him beyond redemption. He is complicit in the baron's malevolent games, twisted spectacles known as the brutal battle royale that span across all corners of Voldaryn.
A web of treachery entangles the land, and Geldrin, seduced by the promises of influence and rewards, bends the very laws he once held sacred to accommodate his master's dark indulgence. Loyalty to the baron has eroded his sense of right and wrong, rendering him an agent of chaos within the realm he once sought to save.
In the end, he was slain as the land of Voldaryn gathered behind a new ruler, the queen Jolyene Manaster.
Hoderol
Hoderol, a solitary survivor of his peaceful Leporidae race, possesses a delicate yet striking visage. His lithe form is covered in a coat of short purple fuzz, which grants him an ethereal aura as it gently sways with his every move. Towering above his brethren, Hoderol's long ears stand erect, providing him with remarkable sensitivity to even the faintest of sounds. His eyes, enlarged and captivating, gleam with an otherworldly depth, hinting at the magic that lies within him. Though his countenance harbors an air of melancholy, a glimmer of determination flickers within his gaze.
Hoderol is gifted with a multitude of extraordinary abilities, courtesy of his magical lineage. Possessing the quicksilver talents of Quickcast, he is able to effortlessly channel his formidable spells with unparalleled swiftness. Within him lies an inherent mastery of the destruction school of sorcery, allowing him to wield raw elemental power with devastating precision. Moreover, Hoderol possesses the gift of regeneration, granting him the remarkable ability to heal his wounds and endure even the most dire of circumstances. Augmenting his formidable intellect and cruelty, his mind has been honed to a razor's edge, enabling him to strategize and outmaneuver his adversaries with cunning precision. However, a quick temper and mercurial nature threaten to hinder him in his pursuit of justice, as his emotions have become a double-edged sword, capable of clouding his judgment and pushing him towards the depths of vengeance.
Hoderol's tranquil life was shattered when the men of Surenia, driven by their insatiable greed, unleashed their destructive might upon his fellow Leporidae. By some quirk of fate, Hoderol had been absent from his homeland, relishing the warmth of the sun and crafting melodies with his voice. Upon his return, a scene of utter devastation met his tear-filled eyes, and a primal rage ignited within his heart. Vowing to bring the dark deeds of men to light and secure justice for his fallen kin, Hoderol embarked on a treacherous journey.
However, his noble intentions were met with scorn and disdain by the callous local lord. Mockery and violence were Hoderol's rewards for his anguish, as he was ruthlessly beaten, evicted from the lord's castle, and cast aside onto the unforgiving streets. Seeking refuge from the cruelty of his fellow beings, he found solace in the realm of Voldaryn.
It was within this dark enclave that Hoderol's thirst for revenge consumed him. The twisted currents of anger and despair corrupted his once-pure heart, transforming him into an instrument of malevolence. Drawn towards the sinister forces that permeated Voldaryn, he harnessed their power, training tirelessly to bend magic to his will. With each passing day, his heart grew darker, and his plans for retribution swelled to match the depths of his wrath.
As Hoderol ventured further down this treacherous path, his once-noble purpose threatened to be ensnared by the very darkness he sought to vanquish. Now, fueled by rage and wielding magic as his weapon, Hoderol sets his sights on vengeance, ready to unleash his arcane fury upon those who wronged his peaceful kin.
Isao
In the annals of the Jade Falcon Ninja Clan, there strode a figure both tragic and foreboding, known as Isao. In his youthful days as a Genin, he embarked upon a perilous journey into the unknown, venturing forth on his arduous trial, only to be lost forever to the world he once knew. His heart, once pure, became ensnared by the tendrils of jealousy, entwining his fate with that of Kensuke, a comrade who shared in his twisted desires.
Driven by their nefarious motives, Isao and Kensuke tirelessly conspired to bring about the demise of a maiden named Kasumi. The weight of their malevolence led them to a mysterious land shrouded in darkness, a place known as Voldaryn. It was within those cursed borders that the two desecrated their own souls by delving into the forbidden arts of dark magic.
As the eldritch forces enveloped Isao's very being, his true essence emerged, morphing him into an enigmatic specter, a faceless shadow. Cloaked in the pitch-black veil of despair, he ventured forth, wielding undying mastery over the adamant chains of iron. His once-rational mind now lost, he discovered the dreadful art of forging these very chains into lethal weapons.
Yet, even in the depths of his newfound power, Isao found no solace, no respite from his tormenting existence. Seized by an unyielding and insatiable craving for vengeance, his path grew ever darker, leading him to a tragic and remorseful realization. In the twilight of his cursed existence, he resolved to meet his ultimate fate at the hands of the very woman he had sought to annihilate.
Thus, dear readers, let it be known that Isao, forever bound by his twisted aspirations, surrendered to a fate befitting his tortured soul. Twisted and discontented, he embraced his final moments, forever etching his name onto the tapestry of lamentation and woe. May his tale serve as a cautionary testament to the immeasurable consequences of succumbing to the shadows that lurk within the hearts of pernicious men.
Jolyene Manaster
In the days of yore, ere the shadows draped the world of Jor-Karroc in their somber embrace, there existed a realm known as Algreer. A realm steeped in magic, governed by a sagacious council of elders. Within this epoch, dwelt a fledgling mage named Jolyene. Born into a lineage of esteem, she grappled with towering expectations that fate seemed intent on defying. While her kin anticipated the rise of a worthy scion, Jolyene's talents lagged behind, particularly excelling in the rudimentary arts of destruction, a discipline deemed unsophisticated by many. In her youthful indignation, she resorted to lethal retribution against those who taunted her, employing dark magic to revive her victims, oblivious to her murderous acts. Amidst this darkened phase, she found a lover in Xantus, a tale fraught with sorrow best left untold.
Her existence unraveled when the Zhugonese, shadowy assassins from an unknown land, descended upon Algreer. Ninjas, harbinger of doom, poisoned the land, rendering mages powerless and leaders lifeless. Jolyene, untouched by the crafty venom due to her isolation, witnessed the annihilation of her kin. Responding with ferocious spells, she repelled the assassins but was eventually overwhelmed. In the twilight of Algreer, she faded from the annals of men.
Her reemergence occurred in Voldaryn, a veiled land guarded by ancient enchantments that had dwindled since Algreer's fall. Ruled by the malevolent Baron Aldforth, the land entwined in mysterious and malefic intrigues, was a battleground for a grand game orchestrated by Aldforth's unseen master. It was here that The Party of the Rat Paladin stumbled upon Jolyene, and she, manipulating their altruistic desires, set them on a path to serve her will.
Voldaryn, a realm disputed by scholars, unfolded before the unsuspecting heroes. Whispered tales painted Aldforth as a puppet, dancing to the whims of hidden malevolence. The Party, ensnared in the game, unwittingly became pawns in Jolyene's quest for dominion. Varying accounts described her as a pitiful figure yearning for vengeance, while others, ascribed to Cephiro, portrayed her as a reluctant ruler driven by a genuine desire to benefit her people. For the Party of the Rat Paladin worked hard to place her upon the throne, Kingmakers they thought themselves.
“With all thy enemies slain, and thy people behind thee, Take you the throne deemed yours by fate!” Proclaimed Cephiro, his chest swelled with pride, and his head swelled with importance.
"Curse thee!” The queen replied with venom, “Thou would have me be thy puppet! Thou hath placed into power a Tyrant! And Tyrant I shall be! And for my pain and suffering, thou shalt pay! Guards! Seize this man and place him within the Dungeon!” And lo, he was taken from the manor, and placed within the cells below, until the Tyrant Queen had calmed her fury.
Killer Queen
In the days of the Baron Aldforth, when the shadow of Diovolo still cast his black rays upon the land, there dwelled a silver-haired maiden, known to all as Killer Queen, or simply Queen. Clad in armor of a formidable nature, her right arm bared to the world, she stood like a sentinel of ancient legends. Hailing from the distant Matchland Barbarians of the northern realms, she possessed the stature and strength that echoed their ilk, a force to be reckoned with.
But alas, Queen's story took a cruel and twisted turn when Diovolo, a purveyor of unknown and wicked arts, bestowed upon her a great power beyond comprehension. For with the mere touch of her bare skin, she forever marked those unfortunate souls who crossed her path, leaving them eternally bound to her will, should she choose to unleash her lethal might upon them.
In her heart, she bore not a speck of love nor compassion for her fellow beings, seemingly harboring hostility towards all who dared approach. Her demeanor exuded imperiousness and authority, commanding the attention of those who dared to meet her gaze. Many a soul, deemed displeasing in her eyes, met a grisly fate at her ruthless hands, for she had known no other means to navigate these lands. Such was the grim reality of her existence, shaped by the dark magics and sinister machinations of Diovolo.
The memories of her past, before she was cloaked in the wicked cloak of transformation, were mere whispers, lost amidst the annals of time. And those few who possessed such knowledge remained silent, their lips sealed tight, perhaps aware of the tragedy that had befallen her. Now she stood alone and secluded, an embodiment of unparalleled power, a power that struck fear into the hearts of those who dared to perceive it.
Yet, it was not her own being that Queen sought to shield with her armor, no. It was the unwitting souls who unwittingly stood within her presence, oblivious to the threat that lingered beneath her metallic facade. The armor served not to safeguard her from the slings and arrows of adversaries, but rather to protect them, as even the lightest touch of her unencumbered flesh could seal their fate.
Thus, Queen wandered the lands, a figure of dread and awe, her isolation a tangible shroud that veiled her from the rest of humanity. With every step, she carried the weight of her terrifying power, a devastating gift that could only be employed to bring about death.
Malakar
Nay. Thou wouldst glean insight herein? I deny thee. Get thee hence, unworthy mind. Better thou read on than come begging for wisdom, hands outstretched and grasping as a child’s!
Muscle Chicken
Kensuke Harigana, once known as a man of shadows and secrets, was a figure shrouded in mystery. Born and raised in the lofty treetop village of Clan Jade Falcon, he found himself consumed by a relentless fascination with the forbidden arts. Even in his youth, a dangerous ambition thrived within his heart, leading him down a treacherous path.
Driven by an insatiable thirst for knowledge, Kensuke embarked on a perilous endeavor. He stealthily infiltrated the very chambers that safeguarded the ancient wisdom of the masters, yearning to glimpse the technique scrolls that recounted their magnificent arts. However, his young mind was ill-prepared for the darkness that lay within those sacred pages.
Misfortune befell Kensuke as the malevolent essence of flame, unleashed from its parchment prison, seized him in a vengeful embrace. Its searing embrace left him scarred and broken, his anguished cries echoing through the hallowed halls. The Master of Lore, alerted by the boy's torments, hastened to intervene, forcibly returning the unleashed power to its confines.
In the aftermath of this calamity, Kensuke departed from the village alongside his loyal comrades, Kazuya and Isao. Driven by a newfound purpose, he vowed to elevate Kazuya, recognizing his unwavering dedication and skill. Their collective aspiration was to ensure Kazuya's surpassing success, for they perceived a gross inequality in the recognition bestowed upon the flawed Kasumi.
Whispered words, existing barely above a breath, passed between Kensuke and Isao under the shroud of night. United in their convictions, they conspired to undermine Kasumi's achievements. Yet, relentless in their efforts, their endeavors yielded naught but bitter disappointment. Kensuke, however, was not disheartened by their fruitless endeavors. Instead, his gaze fell upon a glimmer of hope, a place where true power awaited them, capable of shaping their destinies to their desires.
Thus, their journey commenced, guiding them towards the enigmatic realm of Voldaryn. It was there that their fates would be sealed, and their very beings transformed into distorted reflections of their former selves. Kensuke, a fusion of man and buzzard, discovered an extraordinary dominion over raging flames that surpassed the capabilities of any other. With elation in his heart, he spread his fiery wings and took flight, reveling in the destructive power that he had so desperately craved.
Yet, despite his newfound prowess and commanding authority over the elements, greatness and triumph eluded Kensuke's grasp. In the hands of Cephiro, he met his ultimate downfall, his dark powers proving insufficient in the face of formidable adversaries. Thus, his ambitions were extinguished, leaving only a legacy of unfulfilled desires and a glimpse into the tragic consequences of his longing for strength.
Kazuchika Raoh
In the days of yore, there was a General known as Kazuchika Raoh, hailing from a distant land beyond the seas which border the world. With his people, he traversed the treacherous seas to set foot upon the illustrious mainlands. Among the six eminent generals, he stood tall, bestowed with the daunting responsibility of overseeing the conquest of foreign territories.
With an unrelenting spirit, Kazuchika Raoh surged forth, displaying a merciless brutality that shook the very foundations of central Alrgeer. Through his audacious exploits, he seized control of the cauldron, the prized wellspring of mana, the essence of magic said to be used by the Gods when they yet strode upon the world. However, his reign of terror came to a swift end at the hands of a noble warrior named Xantus, who valiantly toppled the fearsome General.
Yet, fate had an unusual path prepared for Kazuchika Raoh. A Ninja sorceress from the enigmatic Ghost Jaguar clan, in her arcane wisdom, bestirred the flame of life within the fallen General's body. Over the course of two long decades, she tended to his wounds, breathing vitality back into his weary frame. In gratitude, an act perceived as twisted by many, Kazuchika Raoh repaid her kindness with vile betrayal, slaying her husband and claiming her as his bride.
As the Hassassin Wars raged, another Ninja, this time emerging from the Jade Falcon clan, sought to eliminate him, and he was called Michinoku, the bane of Kazuchika Raoh's existence. Driven by an insatiable thirst for knowledge and power, the General embarked upon a perilous journey, tracing and besting Michinoku. In his triumph, he seized the sacred clan scroll and studied its mystical words, igniting within him an unquenchable thirst for the secrets shielded by the clans.
Yet, the all-consuming quest for enlightenment proved to be an arduous pilgrimage. Kazuchika Raoh, abandoning the factional ways of Zhugon, ventured into the realm of Voldaryn. Guided by an ethereal force, he discovered the reigning master of the land, who, recognizing the General's potential, granted him unimaginable power. Temporarily relinquishing his existence to a prolonged slumber, he underwent transformative alterations, his essence melding with the very essence of the land.
Awakening from his timeless repose long after the Dark Times, Kazuchika Raoh harbored a tumultuous wrath, determined to exact vengeance upon the Master who had toyed with his destiny. Yet, the Master's might was insurmountable, eluding the General's furious blows. In an unexpected twist of fate, Kazuchika Raoh found himself drawn into the arena of the games, where victory bequeathed him increasingly immense power, knowledge, and proficiency.
As the cycles of triumph continued, Kazuchika Raoh underwent a metamorphosis. His once average stature transcended boundaries, taking on an imposing magnitude. His thoughts, once fleeting and carefree, succumbed to the depths of profound introspection, veiled in a shroud of melancholy. Building an army through a peculiar amalgamation of dread and reverence, Raoh stood as their revered leader, his name echoing across the realms.
It is whispered among the weary souls that Kazuchika Raoh is blessed with an inexplicable immortality. Moreover, his mastery of a peculiar martial art, an art that targets the very essence of spiritual energy known as chakra points, evokes horror and despair in all who stand against him. With chakra unleashed in his deadly strikes, no foe is safe from the trepidation that ensues.
Thus, the saga of Kazuchika Raoh unravels, with each chapter more twisted and captivating than the last. The world trembles beneath his indomitable spirit, for he wields not only strength but also the knowledge of ancient secrets. The shadows whisper in fear of his name, a name destined to be etched into the annals of time as a harbinger of ruin or redemption.
Treyins
It would be unwise to reveal overmuch here, yet.
Verithil
Lórindil
Clearwater
Clad in the ever-shifting hues of autumn, her presence a melding with the grove nestled near the lofty peaks of Aridale, there stood Clearwater. An elven woman of unparalleled insight and a will that stood as adamant as the mountains themselves. Whispers of "druid" lingered in the air, a term that, like a fleeting breeze, barely encapsulated the profound breadth of her power. In the bygone ages, she bore the name Verithil, a maiden of the Nerisar, or, as men named them, the Aquanethil. The second daughter of King Esandil, known as Meldinar among men, Clearwater—then Verithil, which in the mortal tongues was transformed to Credence—held within her the tenacity of firm belief and the flame of unwavering conviction.
Her elder sister, a figure of strength and stature surpassing all kin, ascended to the throne as their father relinquished the scepter, ruling with wisdom. As Heselanasan Deepwater reigned, Verithil found herself liberated to explore her own studies. She delved into the deep lore that persisted despite the Dark God's final counterstroke, a stroke that veiled memories but spared the Nerisar beneath the undulating waves. Submerged in the profound depths of the seas, she sought the venerable lore masters, learning at their feet. When her insatiable thirst for knowledge exceeded their teachings, she stood before her sister, the queen, and declared her departure. "For I have seen in the water that there is much amiss, and I would learn more of it." Her queen granted leave, saying, "I too am leaving, sister. I feel unnatural here." With those words, Deepwater departed before Verithil.
As Verithil's wisdom and intellect burgeoned into formidable realms, her countenance assumed a fearsome aspect. None could withstand her gaze. Emerging onto the surface of the world, she found it dramatically transformed. Where once stood a grand imperium against the dark, now lay a fragmented realm with squabbling kingdoms. Orcs and goblins swarmed across the land, creating chaos. She journeyed to the seat of the Imperium among men, Pax Imperia, where she met Ashen Shuruga, the great advisor.
“I willen I hath felt thy presence approach for three weeks, lady.” Spake that great sage,
“Aye. Thou see true, and I perceive thou art making to leave this land.” She observed of him.
“Indeed, My time is over passed, and this land hath no want of my council, anon.”
“Thou wouldst leave these people to squabble amongst themselves?”
Ashen Shuruga looked upon her, and saw her mind, “I see thy mind, and If thou travel this path I lay this doom upon thee; All that thy will bend to thy will shall fall to ash. All who thou command shall become weakened in their dependance, and thou shalt retire as I have and lament thy own folly.” For he possessed an understanding of the people of the world which had not yet come to her.
After their meeting, she entered the palace's throne room, issuing commands that none dared to question. From Pax Imperia to Bermany, to Mereland, she set crowns upon heads and dictated the destinies of nations. With a single meeting she set a course of bloody wars which would join Surenia together as a single nation. Even in Zice, she went, where the Witch King Hishada could not resist her commanding presence. In these times she was called Lórindil, for she was the golden walker.
“Uhhhh, I would have thee come into the light, that I may look upon thee, uhhhh.” Hishada’s voice echoed through the darkened throne room. And Verithil came forward, making no sound upon the polished floor.
“As thou command, great King.” She did say serenely. “Many now fear thee, Great King, for the army of darkness thou hath wrought seems to defy the laws of magic and Gods.”
“Uhhhh, My sercets are my own. And I shall not reveal them unto thee.”
“I seek them not, Great King. But offer wise counsel, afore thou art plunged into wars that shall not stop. For much do the other Lords and rulers fear thee, and thy armies.”
“Well they should.”
“I offer thee, Great King, a chance to look into my waters, I hath brought hence some that thou might look within, if thou dare.” And so she poured her ewer into a bowl and passed her hand above it, stilling it. Hishada rose from his throne and approached.
“Uhhhh. I would gaze within and see thy prophetic vision, but yet I hesitate. Why?”
“In these waters thou may see prophecy, thou may see thy own past and as things stand yet. But thou may not like what thou behold. And madness may follow should thou dwell overmuch upon what thou see,”
“Uhh, and what wouldst thou show me?”
“Nay. I show thee nothing, thou will see what the water showeth thee. I guide it not, thou do.”
And so he looked.
Her commands shaped the world's course. However, too late she realized the consequences. By bending many to her will, she had replaced a dark god with a queen, as terrible and enslaving as the Dark God had been. She saw this as she traversed from one nation to another, realizing that without her, those she had commanded could no longer exercise their own will, fearing her displeasure.
Dismayed by what she had become, she fled the world and sought refuge in a hidden grove, far from all things. Alone amongst nature, she attained true wisdom. In the lands of Voldaryn, amid the fires of the Manafont, she encountered the Lord of Decay, then not named so, and he appeared fair. Though she perceived past his deceptions, she thought to alter his thinking. In doing so, she exposed herself to attack and was killed.
“Late is the hour of thy coming, Lórindil.”
“I would have thee know, Calvaria, that nature keeps not to the sands of thy glass.”
“And how should it be driven to do so?”
“It may not. Nor should it.”
“Thou halteth at a great distance. Wilst thou approach?” <aside> “Ah, now I shall drive home this blade, as it has long thirsted for her blood, and in doing so the blade, and I shall be satisfied for the moment. I, unopposed shall reduce this land and all others to a barren waste, and bring an end to all divine power. Hahaha! Me have bad plan; destroy all nature!”
“Indeed I halted early, Calvaria, for I hath forseen thy plan, thou wouldst strike home, and bring about my end.”
“Then why doth thou come hither? Why wouldst thou not remain yonder? Art thou tired of living, or dost thou seek to defeat me?”
“Neither, I counsel that should thee proceed, which thou will despite my wisdom, then thy doom is sealed, not by mine hand, but by the inevitable path of thy own choice. So strike home, Lord of Decay, the world needs thee to be evil, that weak nerves may be steeled. But heed me, should thee have thy wish, then thy end shall come about from the most unlikely Champion.”
An event foreseen, as the great seer she was, she had taken steps to ensure her return. Reborn from a seed she had planted, she appeared as a simple elf when she met Cephiro and Jorrak, concealing the greater part of what she was. Telling them what they needed to hear, for she saw within the orc something of herself in her youth. She bestowed upon him half of a blade, she called it the Blade of the Nastrassa. Thus, in the ebb and flow of time, Clearwater, once Verithil, stood as a tapestry woven with the threads of her own complex destiny.
The Orc, Jorrak she set upon his path, determining that he would oppose Calvaria the Lord of Decay, an enemy who would nurture Jorrak’s Growth, three times she allowed him to find her grove and taught him what he thought he needed. Three times she counseled him, hoping he had the wit to see the lesson hidden in her words. And he parted from her on his journey. She cleared her mists and looked into the waters of the grove again, seeing the doom of the Champions she had sent forth. She watched and understood the path they had chosen, forsaking her advice as free people may.
Warrior
Once renowned as Queen Heselanasan Deepwater, this enigmatic figure now finds solace and purpose as a Warrior, shedding her regal title and embracing a path strewn with tumultuous battles and arcane beliefs. Bygone is her name, only echoing in the fading whispers of history. Forged anew, she responds now to the simple yet commanding title of Warrior.
Warriors, an exclusive faction of fighters, stand as a peculiar breed tethered to an enigmatic ideology known as Destrucity. To the perplexity of outsiders, this clandestine code requires them to strike a delicate truce between their fated Destiny and the harsh reality that engulfs their present. Each steadfastly holds the unshakable belief that they alone will emerge as the Warrior, shattering their limits with prowess and purpose.
Blessed with a peculiar mutation, Warrior Heselanasan boasts a physique marked by unelf-like muscular development. Towering with grace above her brethren, she eclipses the height of most of her elven lineage. Though she does not bear the prestigious mantle of an Elf Lord, her stature places her on equal footing with those hallowed beings.
Unlike her fellow Warriors, Heselanasan exudes an air of tranquility and reason, concealing the tempest beneath her serene facade. When pressed upon this seeming anomaly, she dismisses the notion, for she perceives no value in attempting to enlighten those she deems "knowlessmen." Their futile comprehension rendered impossible, she reserves her wisdom for likeminded warriors who share her tumultuous journey.
As a masterful combatant, Warrior Heselanasan wields a prowess that rivals the legends of elven lore. Gifted with an unparalleled capacity for learning fighting techniques with extraordinary rapidity, she stands at the apex of her martial prowess. Her lithe form intermingles with deadly grace, eclipsing the veiled artistry of her every movement.
Endowed by her lineage, Heselanasan possesses innate abilities to traverse the watery realms and communicate with the denizens beneath the waves. Her lungs, attuned to the rhythm of the tides, allow her to breathe freely beneath the surface, evoking a true union with the aqueous domain. Furthermore, her elven heritage grants her infra-vision, albeit halved in comparison to her terrestrial kin, while illuminating the deep recesses of the watery tapestry twice as brightly.
In dissimilar fashion to her elven counterparts, Heselanasan's gustatory desires veer from the mundane sustenance found in nature's humble offerings. Her palate yearns for the decadence of meat, relishing its savor upon her tongue with fervor and delight. A connoisseur of the carnal, she unabashedly indulges in her affinity for the culinary delights that lie beyond the boundaries imposed by her kind's vegetative predilections.
In the realm where destiny intertwines with reality, Warrior Heselanasan Deepwater conquers adversity and embraces her profound purpose. Her past as a queen fades to obscurity, replaced by the resounding echoes of her enigmatic evolution. With every step, her presence looms larger, her martial prowess unmatched, and her allegiance to the Warriors resolute, as she embarks upon the path destined for her - the path of the Warrior.
Veniana
In the southern reaches of the vast continent, to the east of Surenia and alongside the flowing waters of the Deepwater River, nestled amidst the lofty boughs of ancient trees, lay a modest hamlet known as Deepwater. This elven community extended gracefully across the river, connected by bridges that blended seamlessly with the natural beauty of the surroundings. These bridges, crafted from sturdy trees, swayed gently in the breeze, creating a harmonious dance with the murmuring waters below. Here, in the south, far from the well-trodden paths, the Moradin Mountains loomed as a colossal barrier, deterring all but the most intrepid travelers.
Sureneans, favoring the azure embrace of the southern coast, seldom ventured beyond Beacon in South Surenia. Their ships charted a course from tranquil Tranquility Vale to Pax Imperia. Yet, tales of the village of Deepwater spoke of a different allure, drawing wanderers to the secrets hidden within the verdant embrace of its treetop abode.
Within the confines of this sylvan haven, a young elf maiden blossomed, known initially as Dwemwil, a name echoing the depth and swiftness of her spirit. Dwemwil, however, sensed a disconnection, a subtle dissatisfaction with the conventional ways of her kin. A suggestion arose for her to join the occasional travelers passing through the village, a customary rite of passage for the youth. Embracing this counsel, she embarked on a journey with a band of wandering minstrels bound for Pax Imperia.
The troupe, led by the seasoned storyteller Jorn, boasted the talents of the enchanting Raya, skilled in the arts of harp, bittern, and dulcimer. The brooding youth Ciampa, well-versed in the arcane, complemented them. Dwemwil, proficient with bow and harp, and fluent in three languages, seamlessly integrated into the ensemble. Nights were filled with Jorn's tales, accompanied by Raya's melodic tapestry, while Ciampa, wrapped in his own thoughts, conjured flames and sparks.
Their journey led them to Pax Imperia, where they found lodgings in the Longfellow, a tavern favored by merchants and guards. Jorn's bartering secured their rooms in exchange for nightly performances. Meanwhile, Ciampa sought out a magister within the High Halls, a grand structure intertwined with the city's mercantile dealings and overseen by the wizard Fauthimas the Red.
Ascending the spiral stairs of the High Halls, Dwemwil marveled at the historical echoes within. Ciampa led her to Fauthimas, whose spartan chamber defied the stereotypical clutter of arcane knowledge. The wizard watched Ciampa's magic with stoic interest, granting a simple acknowledgment in the end.
Pax Imperia unfolded before Dwemwil as a city of wonders, guided by the Temple of Tohr, the god of Justice. The clerics beckoned her, sparking a kinship she had not found among her own kind. Yet, an unexplained wrongness persisted. As an elf, attuned to balance, she found herself drawn to the unbalanced path of the clerics.
After years of contemplation, Dwemwil parted ways with her companions, embarking on a journey northward to seek wisdom from other elven enclaves. There, she immersed herself in the teachings of loremasters, seeking clarity on the world's inherent imbalance.
The revelation struck her – the world needed darkness to counterbalance the prolonged era of goodness and order. With a heavy heart, Dwemwil chose to dedicate herself to the Dark God. However, realizing the lack of a clear path, she sought out her former companion, Ciampa, now a dark wizard in Tarwyn's Gate.
Ciampa, now powerful and reserved, reluctantly guided her to a place beyond Tarwyn's Gate, to the Gap, where she bound herself to her new dark master. Traveling northward once again, she aided and manipulated at the behest of her new church, remaining true neutral despite her allegiance to the dark. In doing so she took a new name, Veniana.
Decades passed, and Veniana encountered the Cleric of Tohr Belloq in Mereland. Their fates intertwined, and in Bermania, she reunited with Ciampa and met the Drow Claude. The passage of time had left its mark on Ciampa, now aged and seeking a way to revive his lost daughter. Their journey led them to the elusive land of Voldaryn, where Dwemwil found love in the embrace of Belloq. Yet, it was in this mystical land that her journey met its end, leading the once-neutral cleric to fall into the embrace of the Dark.