Captain Fabricio Marius Catalanus Waberis Antilianno
In the realm of the boundless waves and vast stretches of sea, where the tides crash and the currents dance, there exists no nation that can boast of more exceptional seamanship than Surenia. In this maritime realm, young boys dare to dream of two distinct forms of riding — the exhilarating galloping of horses upon Jor-Karroc's firm ground, or the fearless riding of the mighty waves that grace the endless expanse of the ocean. Legends whispered among Surenians tell of a mystical bond between a man and the sea, forged when his ears catch the call of the white gulls soaring on the ocean breeze; from that moment on, his heart forever yearns for the embrace of the sea's foamy embrace, finding no solace when kept far from its shimmering depths.
The waves that roll and crash along the shorelines of Surenia are seen as a gateway to unsteady adventure, and it is on these treacherous tempests that the nation has paved its fortunes in trade for well over a century. Their maritime dominion is guarded by formidable naval vessels that escort valuable convoys, and the esteemed Captains and Admirals who command these majestic ships hold a place of pride and distinction within Surenian society. Amongst the many skilled seafarers who have etched their names into the annals of history, none shine brighter than the illustrious Captain Fabricio Marius Catalanus Waberis Antilianno.
Captain Antilianno's grand adventures have transcended the realm of reality, weaving themselves into the fabric of fables cherished by children in all corners of the land. Tales of his daring voyages have been etched upon countless pages, enchanting readers with accounts of his fearless exploits upon the high seas. One such epic, "Captain Antilianno and the Sea Drakes of Phobo," is believed to be fashioned after his perilous journey across the unfathomable ocean, a voyage that saw him return with one less vessel, yet laden with bountiful treasure filling his holds to the brim.
Time and again, Captain Antilianno embarks on audacious escapades, venturing into uncharted reaches that no other sailor would dare approach. Against the odds, he persistently returns, unscathed by the perils that lay in wait. Although he lays claim to ample lands in Vemice and Catanzaro, a devoted wife, and two cherished sons, his presence within their lives is purportedly rare, as the majority of his time ashore is dedicated to preparing for his next epic passage upon the tempestuous seas.
But it is the Captain's most recent voyage that has surpassed all in terms of intrigue. Inspired by a remarkable invention, a magical engine capable of propelling a ship through the waves without the reliance on traditional sails or oarsmen, Captain Antilianno conceived a daring plan to test its validity. These mystical contrivances, crafted by the skilled hands of mages, have long been condemned by Surenian law, deemed forbidden for many an age. Yet, owing to the Captain's esteemed reputation and renowned prowess, he was granted a rare permission to undertake this audacious endeavor.
On this perilous voyage of exploration, a destiny awaited him, marking the end of his illustrious career. In the sudden onslaught of a fierce tempest, his majestic vessel, the Pegasys, was relentlessly propelled towards the gaping maw of a colossal whirlpool in the vast seas. Driven by an overwhelming desperation, he and the magister assigned to operate the arcane apparatus he sought to test toiled with great fervor to activate the enigmatic contraption. And in that fateful instant, they discovered the cause of its malfunction, uncovering a means to rescue the ship from its impending ruin. Yet, were they willing to embrace such sacrilegious deeds?
"Captain," Magister Callun raised his eyes from the intricate assemblage of brass and glass he had toiled upon for countless hours, his voice filled with trepidation. "It can indeed be set into motion. But it shall devour the very souls of all aboard! It is sheer folly!"
Antillianno surveyed his cracking and groaning vessel, the gravity of their predicament weighing heavily upon him. "We have naught but a single choice!"
"Nay, Captain! This is no choice! There lies no honor in saving a vessel of the deceased! Abandon this nefarious path and accept the fate the Gods have bestowed upon thee!"
Antillianno nodded solemnly, acknowledging the wisdom in his words. "Aye. Thou dost speak true." The magister nodded, readying himself to embrace his destined demise on the open deck, when Captain Antillianno struck him with a heavy blow from behind, relinquishing his soul to the insatiable machine.
The ship hovered in an eerie tranquility, teetering at the precipice of oblivion for years on end. Captain Antillianno found himself surrounded by the lumbering remnants of his once vibrant crew, reduced to mere husks of their former selves.
Alone with his regret and his recrimination, he fixated on redemption, a path he saw forward, a way to justify the great cost of his own survival. That, he fixated on, a justification for his evil deed. A mighty weapon he would return to his people.
While the years passed, the Dark God surrounded the vessel in storms, pressing in on the aura of calm the magical engine generated, bearing in intending to destroy it. When, in the city of Tal Valen, he spied a chance to bring about an end to the vessel. And so he called forth a storm, even for he a mighty task. A storm which would last five days, and force the boat containing the Party of the Rat Paladin north into the Whirlpool, for the Dark God knew Cephiro would not contenance this evil to pass, and in doing so, open a window through which he may reach.
Wrapped in his conviction he greeted the drowning party of the Rat Paladin as they struggled aboard, at last he would have others, others who would understand. Who may help.
But the Party of the Rat Paladin saw through his mask of geniality, and sought to uncover the evil they suspects was hidden below the decks of the stranded ship. Thanks to Sulin and Jorrak the Captain’s logbook was obtained and his deeds uncovered. Cephiro sought to call upon his Gods power and reveal the souls of those damned by their Captain. But the Dark God, having goaded Cephiro into acknowledging him, and fearing him, drew power from the noble man and corrupted his spell, drawing the trapped souls free of the Magical Engine, and so the ship was sundered and sank. It was the end for the stranded ship of death and betrayal.
Satoru deShade
In the deep recesses of the Underdark, where the light of the sun dare not tread and shadows whispered secrets in the darkness, there lay the illustrious city of Vuxallizax. It was a place steeped in ancient lore and shrouded in an ethereal mist, where the dark elves, banished from the surface world long ago, found solace and refuge. Within the city's veiled embrace, unyielding rival houses waged a clandestine battle, each vying for power, dominance, and control over the intricate web of conspiracies that threaded through the city's heart.
In this enigmatic landscape, amid the labyrinthine streets of Vuxallizax, there dwelled a particularly remarkable Drow, Satoru of house deShade. From her earliest days, Satoru was known to dance upon the treacherous thread of mischief, a mischievous spirit that ignited the imaginations of miscreants and unsettled even the elders of her house. Her nimble feet traversed the darkened alleyways, and her laughter echoed like a disquieting symphony across the shadow-drenched walls.
However, as Satoru ventured into her early adolescence, an ember of determination ignited within her being. Gone were the carefree days of sheer prankishness, as she embraced the call of her noble lineage and the weighty responsibilities that awaited her. Beneath her pale tresses flickered an unwavering resolve to claim her place among the esteemed ranks of her forebears.
With the celestial blessings of her innate talents and the interwoven webs of alliances her family's political might had crafted, Satoru ascended the perilous ladder of power with remarkable swiftness. She possessed an instinctive prowess for the art of warfare, a strategic genius that induced awe even in the most esteemed tacticians. Her every move spoke volumes of calculated brilliance, and her heart pumped with the fire of ambition, the flame of ambition that threatened to consume all in its voracious path.
The dominion of house deShade soon recognized her remarkable abilities, and Satoru, as if anointed by the divine hand of destiny itself, was bestowed with the rank of General. With her loyal legions marching under her command, she led numerous raiding parties through the uncharted abyss, her name whispered in hushed tones that carried both admiration and terror. She became a living legend, her victories echoing through the cavernous corridors of the Underdark like battle cries of triumph.
But with every stride Satoru took towards the summit of her ascendancy, her demeanor transformed into something dark and insidious. A tempest brewed within her depths, and a malevolence took root, reflecting in her burning eyes. The line that demarcated justice from cruelty began to blur, and she found savage delight in meting out punishment, leaving a trail of death and destruction in her wake. Her heart of ebony obsidian was consumed by the thirst for order and control, an insatiable hunger that gnawed at her soul.
Yet, amidst her enigmatic persona, Satoru remained sworn to a solemn oath, an unspoken covenant that bound her to the guardianship of her fellow Drow. She guarded the security of her kin with fierce devotion, ensuring that the fragile threads stitching together the tapestry of Drow existence did not unravel. But beneath the surface of her allegiance to her race, there lay the shadowy tendrils of her true allegiance - her beloved house, house deShade. Its position atop the intricate social ladder of Vuxallizax was a privilege she fiercely safeguarded, for any slight, however minute, risked the crumbling of her family's dominion and the shattering of her own tenuous hold on power.
And so, in the weaving tapestry of Vuxallizax's dark city streets, Satoru the Drow, with her unquenchable thirst for authority, journeyed towards an uncertain future. Her every step echoed with the weight of her ancestors' legacy, each movement marred by the indomitable rage that slumbered within her. The dance of power and conquest entwined with the sorrows of her twisted soul, casting an ominous shadow across the Underdark, for Satoru was a force to be reckoned with, a figure both feared and revered.
Brigette Fa’ria
In the vast and mysterious underdark, where darkness weaves its intricate tapestry, lies the ancient city of Vuxallizax, home to the exiled Drow, the dark elves who were banished from the surface realms so many eons ago. Within the depths of this clandestine metropolis, hidden beneath the weight of ebon stone, rival houses clash in an eternal struggle for control and power.
Amongst these enigmatic dwellers, there exists a house known as Fa'ria, a rising force whose ascent has been slow and deliberate. Unlike their counterparts, they are recognized not for their prowess in combat or their martial virtuosity but rather for their expertise in the arts of craftsmanship and trade. It is amidst the swirling currents of ambition and intrigue within this house that one young lady, Brigette Fa'ria, emerges as a beacon of both beauty and devotion.
Brigette, blessed with ethereal allure, captivates the hearts and minds of both men and women who find themselves languishing in the dark embrace of Vuxallizax. Her physical form, slender and delicate, is adorned with unusually ample bosom and her gaze, as cool as the moon's kiss upon a tranquil lake, is adorned with piercing pale blue eyes that hold secrets unknown to all but herself. Cascading like tendrils of winter's first frost, her long locks of purest white hair frame a countenance that reflects both cold desire and resilience.
Yet, it is not only her captivating visage that sets her apart from her contemporaries. Brigette, in her unwavering commitment to the ancient faith of her people, has dedicated her life and priestly service to the veneration of the Drow Goddess Tothra. Tothra, the deity of both destruction and creation, sex and renewal, channels her potent energies through Brigette, endowing her with formidable powers unseen amongst her peers. With her enigmatic abilities, she has left a trail of awe in her wake and has become a figure of both reverence and trepidation within the shadowed streets of Vuxallizax.
With a mind as sharp as a shard of obsidian, Brigette possesses a vast reservoir of knowledge and wisdom that rivals the most erudite of scholars. Her keen intellect allows her to engage in intellectual sparring with the masters of academia, leaving them astounded and humbled. Such is her mastery of rhetoric that she strides upon the stage of debate as a titan among mortals, always poised to challenge and provoke the very foundations of established truths.
Power, the elixir of ambition, surges through Brigette's veins, and it is her desire to elevate her noble house to unrivaled greatness that fuels her every action. She harbors an unquenchable thirst for change, seeking to cast down the long-standing dominion of House deShade, which she deems to have held its grip upon Vuxallizax for far too long. Amongst the Drow, she is regarded as an ambitious and cunning woman, her name whispered with both awe and trepidation in the hidden nooks and labyrinthine corridors of the city.
Amidst the dark waters of rivalry, one figure stands as her constant adversary: General Satoru deShade. It is said that whenever General Satoru becomes embroiled in a matter, Brigette, with her unwavering determination, emerges to gainsay her every move. A dance of wills, a duel of power, unfolds whenever these formidable women cross paths. Sparks of conflicting ideologies and unmatched resolve ignite, casting vibrant hues upon the ever-present shadows that cloak the underdark realm.
Verily, the passage passes overlong, and I can not countenance the need for perusing it:-
In the depths of Vuxallizax, where houses vie for authority and betrayal prowls in whispered secrets, Brigette Fa'ria stands as an embodiment of ambition, beauty, and divine power. With her striking appearance, profound knowledge, and indomitable will, she stands on the precipice of destiny, yearning to reshape the very fabric of the underdark and script a new narrative for her cherished house.
Zirakth Ilindith
Gabriche Ilindith
In the ancient and shadowed city of Vuxallizax, where the whispered intrigues of the Drow weave a tapestry of deception, Gabriche, an alchemist of renowned talent, has long been entwined in a bitter rivalry with Kynor deZynder. A feud fueled by the perceived injustice of deZynder's ascension to preeminence as the foremost alchemist, courtesy of a business alliance with the influential house deShade. In Gabriche's embittered heart, this political arrangement is the sole reason for his rival's triumph.
As fate would have it, Gabriche's own kin, his son named Zirakth, entered the world marked by affliction, a condition in Drow tradition that mandates surrender to Toothra, the goddess of destruction and renewal. A dilemma that Gabriche, in a rare display of paternal sentiment, refused to accept. Driven by his alchemical prowess, he embarked upon a quest to restore his son, intending to not only redeem Zirakth but also revolutionize the fate of similarly afflicted Drow offspring.
Yet, the relentless march of time and the sting of repeated failure distorted Gabriche's noble aspirations. What began as a quest for salvation twisted into cruel experiments, fueled by stolen knowledge from his rival deZynder. The Mamon of house Ilindith, observing Gabriche's descent into obsession, reprimanded him, mandating the cessation of such perilous pursuits. In the shadows, however, Gabriche continued his clandestine endeavors, driven by an unrelenting desire to wield the alchemical arts with impunity.
After two clandestine years, Gabriche succeeded. Zirakth emerged from the crucible, a towering figure of power, his Drow form imbued with impossible might and twisted magic. Yet, the alchemical transformation had left Zirakth's mind fractured, a tempest of fury and madness. To mitigate this destructive force, Gabriche devised a magic stone, split in two—one half worn by Zirakth, the other by himself. Through this enchanted conduit, Gabriche sought to temper his son's wrath and restore equilibrium to his fractured psyche.
However, Zirakth, fueled by a dark ambition, craved more power, a hunger that could only be sated by stealing other compounds created by the mad genius deZynder. House Ilindith, aware of Gabriche's deeds, chose silence. Zirakth became an unwitting weapon, an unstoppable force capable of godlike feats, and Gabriche, a father who birthed not a healed son but an uncontrollable deity. In the secret corridors of Vuxallizax, a demented deity walks among shadows, a creation of alchemy and ambition, sired by a father's desperate pursuit of power, driven to unspeakable bouts of unrestrained brutality.
Heidna
In the shadowed realm of Vuxallizax, where the Drow reign under the sable cloak of night, Heidna of house Fa'ria held her enduring dominion. A devoted servant of the Goddess Thulth, her name whispered in reverence, and her presence invoked fear and respect alike. It was said that the aging Drow woman, though weathered by the passage of countless years, retained her beauty, akin to the evergreen allure known to her kind. Her gaze, sharpened by wisdom and emboldened by tribulation, held a formidable strength that bespake her fierce character.
Heidna's manner, as the whispering winds tell, was curt and abrupt, her will steadfast and her tolerance for folly worn thin as the brittle webs that span the cavernous halls of her abode. In the grandeur of Vuxallizax, she was bestowed with power surpassing distinction, holding sway over the hearts and minds of her kin. Despite not donning the mantle of Domina, the sovereign ruler of her people, she eclipsed the ephemeral reign of the titled with her unyielding influence. Yet, amidst her formidable rule, she mourned in solitude for the deaf ears that turned away from the wisdom she offered, a lamentation echoed by the flickering torches adorning the darkened crevices of her domicile.
Many moons had waxed and waned since Heidna, devoted to the Goddess of war and rapine, had counseled for the diminution of raids that besmirched the lands beyond the veil of the encroaching dusk. Ages past saw her as the inscrutable proponent of restraint, cloaking her counsel in veils of silence and fostering a belief that enlightenment must be sought through individual revelation. A paradox within a shadow, she stood resolute in her enigmatic ways, wherein the reasons that she guarded with silent vigil remained elusive to the inquisitive minds that dared stray amidst her sovereignty.
In recent turns of the world's wheel, whispers bore tidings of unrest within the heart of Vuxallizax, as Heidna's once restrained voice surged forth with tempestuous fervor. With each passing moment, her furrowed countenance grew irate, and her demeanor grew short with the very fabric of her kin, a venomous tempest brewing amidst the haven of her dominion. Dark was the hour when venomous fangs sought to sever the silken thread of Heidna's existence, yet every attempt upon her life vanished akin to fleeting phantoms, leaving the aura of her invincibility to ripple through the fathomless gloom surrounding her.
Despite the reverence held for her unmatched prowess, Heidna found herself at odds with those who dared traverse the labyrinthine expanse of her will. To her, there existed but one path—her path—wherein the echoes of dissent were swiftly hushed beneath the weight of her unyielding resolve. Whether by steel or subtlety, she compelled those who dared tread upon her domain to align with her edicts or face the inexorable fate of being trampled beneath the indomitable fervor that defined her essence.
Thus, in the twilight realm of Vuxallizax, Heidna of house Fa'ria enduringly cast her shadow upon the tapestry of her people's existence, her enigma ensconced within the annals of time. Her legacy bore testament to the unwavering strength she wielded, transcending the bounds of mortal mortality, leaving the Drow to navigate the perilous dance betwixt wisdom and folly, beneath the watchful gaze of their indomitable master.
Pierre Fa’ria
In the grand arena, where the tumultuous roar of the crowd mingled with the clashing of swords and the exuberant cries of fierce combat, Pierre Fa’ria stood as a figure of awe and admiration. "Are you Not Entertained?" he called to the fervent crowd, who responded with a wordless cheer, echoing their boundless joy and wonderment. Indeed, he was their hero, their champion, the highest ranked Drow male in the annals of memory.
At a mere two hundred years, he had ascended to the esteemed position of a four-band General, a feat that held a rare distinction in the annals of his kind. Eschewing the allure of magical accoutrements deemed superfluous to his prowess, he bestowed them upon those he deemed worthy, devoid of personal covetousness for wealth as long as he could pursue his desires. Despite the omnipresent hardships of his station in a matriarchal society, he garnered no disregard from those who hailed him but fools, a testament to his mettle and prowess.
His demeanor, adorned with a boyish mischief and endearing charm, belied his unparalleled skill with the blade, rendering him an indomitable force on the battlefield. Even in defeat, he retained a gallant spirit, for his extraordinary ability to assimilate newfound techniques after a single sight delighted him endlessly. The pursuit of evermore ways to achieve triumph engrossed him, an insatiable thirst for knowledge that lingered at the cusp of his being.
An accomplished general and a leader of resolute soldiers, Pierre Fa’ria enshrouded a fervent longing within the caverns of his chest. His love for an unattainable woman, whose social standing transcended his despite the preeminence of his military rank, burdened him with an unassuageable yearning. Nevertheless, he approached this disheartening reality with a pragmatic resolve, an unyielding ethos borne of his profound immersion in the rigors of warfare.
Amidst the labyrinthine intricacies of his personal tumult, he grappled with the burden of fealty to his sister, Brigette—an ardent political agitator and cleric. Treading the precarious tides of conflicting loyalties, he bore the weight of this dual allegiance, a task that demanded the utmost finesse amidst the turbulent machinations of their world.
Julian deShade
In the Nation of the Drow, when the streets echoed with the distant memories of an ancient past, there lived a warrior (lower case w) by the name of Julian. He was a dedicated soldier, a peerless fighter with mostly unrivaled skill, possessing a visage fair to behold, and endowed with talents that knew no bounds. Many a tome sung the praises of Julian and his valor, for he could have been deemed the greatest male Drow in the city, had it not been for Pierre.
Pierre, born of a rival house, stood as Julian's rival, a thorn in his side ceaselessly pricking at his pride. It was a truth that Julian, reluctant though he was to admit, toiled beneath the shadow of this younger male. While many whispered tales of Julian's unparalleled prowess, a voice within him wondered if it were mere falsehood, a fleeting wisp of fancy. Try as he might, Julian found himself laboring each passing day to prove his worth, yearning for recognition that eluded him as if it were but a wisp of morning mist. Alas, Pierre remained an insurmountable keep, a mountain that Julian could not ascend, try as he might.
Within this dance of honor and splendor, Julian held another bond that shaped the fabric of his existence. His sister, Satoru deShade, bore the mantle of political influence as a General, commanding the fortifications that defended the city. Her actions rippled through the annals of time, shaping the fortunes of their kind. And his mother, Domina, wielded a power that extended far and wide, as the very ruler of the Drow, holding sway over destinies and determining the paths that they trod.
With battles to be waged and alliances to be hewn, the tale of Julian, as yet unfinished, lingered on the precipice of fate, awaiting the turn of the page that would decide his legacy in the annals of the Drow.
Poe
In the subterranean city of Vuxallizax, shrouded in the depths of the Underdark, there lay the ancient realm of the dark elves, the Drow. Among their storied houses and lofty lineages, none cast a greater shadow than the formidable House Vul, whose dominion extended far and wide, bolstered by unmatched martial prowess and unyielding focus.
It was within the hallowed halls of House Vul that Poe, of uncertain origins and enigmatic demeanor, took his first breath, a child of mystery destined for a fate woven in the eldritch threads of his own making. To stray from the predetermined course set by the noble lineage of House Vul was to invite hardship and scorn, yet Poe, unyielding and defiant, wove his own path through the tapestry of destiny.
Through caverns and chasms, Poe's name spread like whispered tendrils of shadow, and he became known as the "Sorcerer" of the Arena, a master of arcane manipulation whose veiled past spun tales as elusive as the shifting currents of the Underdark itself. His journey, wrought with enigma and shrouded in ever-changing hues, bore witness to countless unverifiable chronicles—a spectral presence amidst exploration parties traversing far-flung reaches, a spectral wraith aboard the sleek vessels that sailed the obsidian depths of the underground sea.
As a realm steeped in the sovereignty of women, Poe, the untethered Bard of his own fable, strode through the tapestry of fate with an indifference bordering on defiance, eschewing the ancient customs that bound the hearts of his brethren. Within the hallowed arena, his artistry extended beyond harmonious verse and lilting melody; he wielded an unseen hand that guided the ebb and flow of savage combat with mesmerizing finesse, a bard of battle whose symphony resonated with the clash of spear on shield and the thunderous chorus of triumph and despair.
Thus, in the shadowed annals of the Underdark, the name of Poe lingered as a haunting melody, an enigma cloaked in silken chiaroscuro, weaving his own legend, daring the world to unravel the threads of truth that he had cast adrift in the endless labyrinthine expanse.
Monroeaux
Beware the void, young denizens of the realms, for the gap between your consciousness and that of others is not to be taken lightly. The boundaries that separate us are there for a reason, and to breech them recklessly is to court grave danger.
Monroeaux, a Drow of no tender years, dared to tread where few would. In doing so, she became something altogether different. A being that now inhabits the mortal shell of one who sought to expand her consciousness beyond its limits. A being both fascinating and fearsome, who now whiles away the hours in the Arena, accompanied by an equally mecurial companion named Poe.
A facade of frivolity masks the true nature of this creature. She plays with the lives of others as if they were mere toys, all the while concealing the monstrous essence that lies within. A being so comfortable in her predacious nature, she appears content to amuse the masses with her macabre performances.
Beware, dear reader, for Monroeaux is a creature of unfathomable depths, lurking behind a visage of beguiling playfulness as she revels in the spectacle of the Arena.
Garene Vul
In the subterranean city of Vuxallizax, shrouded in the fathomless depths of the Underdark, there lay the ancient realm of the dark elves, the Drow. Among their storied houses and lofty lineages, none cast a greater shadow than the formidable House Vul, whose dominion extended far and wide, bolstered by unmatched martial prowess and unyielding focus.
Garene, third son of Mamon Eleen and one band general of the Drow armed forces, dwells within the ancient manor house of Vul, ensconced within the ancient and age-worn walls of the city of Vuxallizax. His role, woven into the intricate tapestry of House Vul, is to deal with contractors and mercenaries hired by Vul to perform tasks for them. Marshalling the Cross Guard, House Vul’s own retinue of investigators, Garene maintains a vigilant distance between outsiders and the leaders of the house.
Amidst the twilight of the cavernous dwellings, he passes his time with fervent dedication, meticulously maintaining and updating an incredible and precise clay model of the city and its environs. With masterful skill, he shapes each intricate detail, rendering significant changes as swiftly as nimble fingers allow. It is this deeply intricate map that Vul employs to strategize movements and operations within the city, for changes to it often divulge the convoluted movements of others.
Luis Garanc
I tell ya, I just found out about this other continent on Jor-Karroc, and let me tell ya, it's a real mystery! Nobody knows about it except for the idea that the Zhugonese might've come from there, but they ain’t tellin’. But guess what, pal? They've got their own version of the Underdark! I mean, what's up with that? You got the Underdark on one continent, and then a whole other continent's got its own dark and spooky version. It's like a twisted global franchise, I'm telling ya.
Now, let me get to this fella Luis. This guy's a real character—driven by the almighty Gold Mark, he's gone and betrayed his own family and his new bosses, House Vul. I mean, who does that? This guy is like the Judas of the craft world, selling out left and right for a quick buck, First his family, then the guy who sailed him here, so he then goes straight and gets a real job, one with a lotta respect. Guess what? HE sold ‘em out too! It’s like a career path with this guy! And you know where that got him? Yup, you guessed it, straight into the arms of the followers of the Dark God. Talk about a bad career move! Betrayal might get you some cash, but it sure doesn't buy you a ticket to the good afterlife.
So, long story short, this Luis guy thought he could cash in on some dirty deeds, but all he got was a one-way ticket to the great beyond. And let that be a lesson, folks: don't mess with dark gods for a few extra coins. It's just not worth it!
Claire Chancelisse
In the timeless depths of the world, within the labyrinthine city of Vuxallizax, there abides a stalwart soul by the name of Claire Chancelisse. A merchant of distinction, she holds sway over a market store that trades in the esteemed wares of House Vul. Her trade demands a profound mastery of their products, particularly arms and armor, as well as an intimate understanding of their prices and services.
Born of humble lineage, Claire emerged from a lineage unclaimed by any noble house, laboring from her tender years upon the bustling docks of the Drowned Quarter. Her existence was steeped in toil and turmoil, and she, like all denizens of the Drowned Quarter, learned swiftly to defend herself amidst the harsh realities of life.
In the fifteenth cycle of her years, a keen-eyed scout for the Arena beheld her valiantly repelling dubious assailants and proffered her an opportunity that seemed a veritable fortune - to partake in the gladiatorial contests that captivated the masses. Embracing this fateful offer, her destiny shifted irreversibly. Amidst the company of peers, she honed her skills and tested her mettle in the arena, becoming a participant in the grand pageantry that enthralled the populace. Victories commingled with defeats, and she dutifully channeled the fruits of her labor to sustain her kin until tragedy befell them in her hundredth year, snatching them away in a cruel dockside mishap.
Consumed by a desolate mire of purposelessness, Claire's life dissolved into a haze of grief. However, her coffers burgeoned with wealth, and upon emerging from her doldrums, she glimpsed a nascent chapter awaiting her. Yet, while many a suitor sought dalliance with a valiant gladiatrix, few sought enduring kinship, deeming her perilous path too daunting for nascent families. Ultimately, she relinquished her place in the arena, enlisting under the banners of the military. Nevertheless, an arid emptiness pervaded her as the Domina decreed a cessation to surface sorties. Her life, steeped in martial prowess, found itself inexplicably thwarted.
Finally, fate smiled upon her, guiding her to a station within House Vul, where she plied her trade as an ardent proponent of their opulent wares - adamantine-forged armors and weapons predominating among them. She adeptly expounded upon their virtues, bearing witness to their efficacious use with unassailable credibility. Yet, an ineffable melancholy lingered within her, and the specter of solitude loomed unyielding.
Urgwailath
In the depths of the Night Below, where darkness and treachery reign, there dwells a being of immense power and terror, known as Urgwailath, the Great Spider. Born of ancient lineage and dark sorcery, Urgwailath is a creature of formidable strength and cunning.
Urgwailath's origins are shrouded in mystery, her lineage dating back to the earliest days of Jor-Karroc. She is a descendant of Ulnejjaxa, the primordial being who spun the great web that held the sun in place in the Elder Days. From such dark and ancient stock, Urgwailath inherited a thirst for power and a voracious appetite that drove her to seek dominion over the dark corners of the world.
With her sprawling web and dark lair hidden deep within the Dúnil Umdowier, Urgwailath became a legend, a terror whispered of in hushed tones by the inhabitants of the Underdark near her dwelling. Her cunning and malevolence were feared by all who ventured too close to her domain, for she delighted in ensnaring unwary trespassers in her webs and feasting upon them at her leisure.
Urgwailath's influence extended beyond her physical prowess, for she possessed a keen intellect and a dark cunning that surpassed that of any lesser creature. She wove intricate schemes and plots, using her webs not only to ensnare prey, but also to ensnare the hearts and minds of those who fell under her shadow. Amidst her cruelty and malice, there are whispers of a deeper complexity to Urgwailath's nature. Some tales speak of a strange kinship between her and the ancient spirit of the land, a connection to the natural world that belied her monstrous form. There are even those who claim that she once harbored a secret longing for something beyond her dark and desolate realm, though such rumors are as elusive as the shadows that cloak her lair.
Eldene
In the annals of Jor-Karroc, there exists a harrowing epoch known as The Dark Times, when malevolence reigned supreme and tyranny enveloped the land in its cold embrace. This era bore witness to a relentless cycle of suffering, cruelty, and deceit, shrouded in an atmosphere thick with suspicion and treachery. The origins of this tumultuous period have long been veiled in mystery, compelling scholars to grapple with scant fragments of knowledge. Yet, it is widely held that the corrupting touch of The Dark God festered within the hearts of rulers, goading them into waging war upon one another.
As the shadows deepened and despair spread, a glimmer of hope flickered upon the horizon, bound by the name of the Imperium. Nonetheless, the question lingers - how did it all commence, plunging the realm into the depths of despair and desolation? The tenebrous tapestry of this time unravels to reveal a pivotal figure, the Silver Dragon Eldene, whose fateful actions would shape the course of history.
Eldene, a mere stripling of a dragon, scarcely twelve years of age, bore the weighty responsibility of safeguarding the southern fortress of Feldrenisaad, a bastion standing sentinel over the lands, poised closest to the obscure and foreboding domain of Darkfall, which was not yet titled so. It was amidst her watch that she chanced upon a bedraggled caravan traversing northward. "Halt! You have ventured hither, but beyond this point shalt thou not pass!" she declared.
In response, a weary figure, swathed in tattered raiments and wearied by the toil of travel, beseeched Eldene, "Hearken unto our plea! We flee the dire straits of the south, for the lords there have succumbed to a festering madness, inflicting unbearable agony upon the populace."
"Does the Lord of Darkness stir amidst them?" she urgently inquired.
"Nay, 'tis a madness begotten of avarice, it appears. I implore thee, unbar thy gates and admit the suffering souls within. We languish in hunger and sorrow, burdened by the scant remnants of our former lives," entreated the desperate peasant.
Moved by compassion at the sight of the bedraggled train, Eldene ascended into the heavens and commanded the gates asunder. Yet, her curiosity - piqued by the tales of the afflicted lords' madness - propelled her southward in flight. There, she beheld a noxious shroud billowing forth from a gaping chasm in the earth, and a sinister citadel thrusting skyward, its battlements crowned by the imposing figure soon to be known to all as The Dark God.
A gripping fear seized her heart, compelling her to wheel swiftly in the sky and hasten her return northward. There to see the “Peasant” caravan, had thrown aside their cloaks and sacked and murdered the host within the keep. The monument of her failure consumed her and she fled, wailing deep underground, far from the site of her loss. Blaming herself anon for the coming of the dark, for in her mind, had she seen through that dark deception, the darkenss would not have come. Within that dark hollow she worked, desperate to prevent another such folly, all the while lashing herself with blame and regret. And as ages past, there came before her a grand presence, who tasked her with safeguarding a simple egg, for if she can prevent harm to the egg, said the presence, then a redemption would come.
Thordinak
In the deepest shadows of the realm, broods the sinister spirit of Thordinak, the red wyrm of unparalleled malevolence. Though not the eldest wyrm to darken the skies nor the largest to draw terror from the hearts of beings, his presence among the marshals of the Dark army stands unchallenged, whispering ancient horrors and weaving malice into every stratagem with a mastery unrivaled by his kin.
With eyes that pierce through time itself and a mind that churns with the relentless grind of dark machinery, Thordinak rises above his brethren as a manipulative maestro of strategic cruelty. In the days of yore, his fell designs swept across the lands like a storm of doom, leading hordes of Drow and Orcs in a merciless conquest that left naught but ash and despair in its wake. Villages fell, kingdoms crumbled, and the free peoples trembled as they faced the harbingers of their own downfall.
Armies clashed and nations burned at his command, for Thordinak's tactics were as ruthless as they were effective. Organized resistance shattered beneath his iron will, forcing the forces of light into desperate guerrilla warfare while they plotted in shadows, biding their time and gathering strength in defiance of the encroaching darkness.
Yet, not content with mere conquest, Thordinak reveled in the twisted pleasures of dominion. Daughters of nobility and the prominent were offered up to sate his insatiable hunger, their fates entwined in malevolent rituals that bound them to his will, whether by choice or by force. His grasp extended beyond the battlefield, delving into the very hearts of those who dared oppose him, ensnaring their spirits in a web of fear and despair.
The source of his insight, reveal;ed only in casual passing, and indeed, perhaps in jest in addition, as the Lady Lorandil came across him in the Black Fortress,
“Thordinak.” She spake in surprise, as she had not thought to find the wyrm in a humanoid form, “I had not thought to find thee within this forest of canvas.” She gestured about her at the many paintings arranged in a horseshoe shape.
“Indeed no.” Thordinak rumbled in pleasure, “Few expect such, for they deem warfare an act of brutes.”
“But thou hath a competing thought?” She plied him sweetly.
“Aye.” He eyed her smugly, as though he perceived her thought, “Warfare is in itself a form of art, not alchemy, art. If one has the ken of art, then one understands warfare, and ones foes.”
Lorandil was surprised, “Thou jest! Thou would claim thy success come from the study of paintings?”
“Indeed ‘tis no jest.” Thordinak admonished her gently, as one would a dim student, “This,” he gestured at a landscape of hills and trees, backed by a castle in Southern style, “Is an example of Normere painter Gertram Burfaunt. It hung in the Kings castle until his death.” He moved on, “These paintings all were once property, indeed personal property of our enemies. They speak to their nature, they speak to me of their weaknesses.”
Lorandil stopped by one on the end, a modest portrait in simple style, “Thordinak, thou didst say these belonged to enemies, but this doth belong to me, twas in mine quarters here this morn’”
Thordinak smiled, “Indeed.”
“But I am no enemy!”
“No? I discern thou wilt betray our master, and flee from here. I perceive thou hath no love left for that which thou couldst not alter.” Lorandil was chilled, how had the wyrm known her doubting thoughts? How had he known?
As the tides of war shifted and the echoes of resistance grew louder, Thordinak's foresight led him to a fateful decision. Retreating into the black depths of a hidden lair beneath the earth, he embraced a slumbering hibernation, a dark revenant awaiting the fateful hour of his resurrection. There, in the heart of shadows beneath the world, he lies coiled in patient malevolence, his dreams woven with visions of conquest and dominion, poised to rise once more when the time is ripe for his rule of darkness to be reborn.
“Sunshine”
Kari leDesma
In the annals of the ancient lore, whispered beneath the stars that have witnessed the passing of ages, the tale unfurls of the Drow, kin of the fair Elves, lithe and swift in their being. Rarely do they stride in the likeness of Men, built sturdy and brawny with visible might. Yet, amidst the shadowed arts of Chimestry, there arises the specter of hybrid beings, such as the enigmatic figure known as Sunshine.
She, a daughter of the Drow, stood out amongst her kind with a physical prowess unmistakable, wielding skills that set her apart from her brethren... and struck fear into their hearts. From her youth in the house of leDesma, she defied norms, scaling cascading waterfalls, eluding the gaze of the Dwarven citadel, ascending to the surface world where the sun’s radiance embraced her form, and she, in return, captured its luminous gaze.
Upon her return from the forbidden above, tales of her audacious journey spread like wildfire, birthing both admiration and dread. To House Fa’ria she was consigned, veiled behind a mask to shroud the countenance that dared to stare into the golden orb of day. An isolated and melancholic soul was she, cultivated in the arts of combat by a foreign hand who should have known better.
Those who sought to subdue her soon learned the error of their ways, for within her grasp lay concealed blades, and her very touch was said to gleam with the essence of sunbeams that once caressed her skin. Sunshine, the one who dared to trespass sacred sanctums in the name of justice, faces the looming shadow of exile, a fate embraced willingly for within its confines, the shadows of her home only echo her sorrow.