History of the Universe

Medina was worshipped across Midora among the the first tribes. Eventually the Titan Gogara appeared on Midora, causing tribal folk to become divided on who do worship. The Titans Gogara and Medina became infatuated with each other and togheter they created the God known as Diion.

In the earliest years of the First Age, as the Titanic influence faded from the world, the first elves emerged—born from the lingering magic left behind by the departed Titans. They appeared within the heart of Lunora, amidst the primal chaos of the Great Weald. This tropical wilderness, vast and ancient, harbored life in its most fierce and unyielding forms. Predatory plants hungered for any touch, venomous creatures stalked the underbrush, and immense dinosaurs thundered through the dense foliage. It was a land that rejected all weakness and consumed all that lacked strength.

Yet, from this unforgiving place, the elves rose, graced with an intrinsic mastery over arcane forces. While other mortal races struggled to survive the wilderness, the elves thrived, effortlessly bending magic to their will. They did not just endure—they shaped the world around them. Their cities were unparalleled marvels of magical architecture: towering citadels suspended in shafts of sunlight, marble palaces hovering atop floating mountains, and sprawling forest sanctuaries where trees whispered and sang with sentient enchantment. Where the wild resisted, the elves did not fight with blade or spear—they whispered to the elements, coaxing them into harmony.

The Valaer, the warrior-caste of these first elves, stood as the personification of their supremacy. Clad not in armor, but in shimmering veils of arcane light, they guarded the elven domains with a power both graceful and terrifying. A single gesture could conjure blazing orbs of energy, reducing threats to ashes without the stain of blood on their hands. To the elves, primitive weapons were remnants of a less enlightened past—a past they had transcended. Their magic was both tool and weapon, suffusing every aspect of their lives and achievements.

Amidst the splendor, the elves established a grand balance between civilization and wilderness. Their magic created protective boundaries that left the wild undisturbed while maintaining the integrity of their shimmering cities. To them, this was an expression of their divine purpose—a harmonious order inspired by the teachings of Diion, the god of nature and balance. They saw themselves as chosen custodians, the ones meant to weave magic into the fabric of the world itself.

In their eyes, there was no equal. They believed themselves to be the apex of mortal evolution—a race that had inherited the very essence of the Titans. As their culture flourished, so too did their hubris. They knew only triumph over the wild and mastery over magic, unaware that their pride would one day cast the seeds of their own undoing.

For now, however, Lunora thrived under elven dominion, its skies alight with floating palaces and its forests brimming with magic. The elves believed their reign would endure forever, unchallenged and unbroken. In their hearts, they felt destined to shape the world, but they could not see the storm that would one day shatter their golden age.

As the elves solidified their dominance over Lunora, their civilization flourished with unmatched grace and arcane mastery. Yet, beneath the veneer of unity, philosophical rifts began to take root, growing wider with each passing decade. The elven kind, once bound by shared purpose and divine favor, splintered into three distinct factions, each pursuing its own vision of arcane mastery and communion with the divine.

The High Elves, known as the Valarith, remained steadfast in their belief of unyielding arcane purity and divine order. They saw themselves as the rightful custodians of Lunora, guardians of the Great Weald, and interpreters of Diion's will. Their cities, suspended in sunlight and sculpted from marble, were centers of learning and magical discipline. However, the Valarith’s adherence to structure bred stagnation; their councils were known to debate divine signs and omens for decades before action was taken, paralyzed by their own insistence on absolute certainty. To them, the world was a tapestry of perfection, and magic was the thread that held it together. Any deviation from this order was seen as a taint, a corruption that needed purging.

Not all elves shared this vision. Drawn to the shadows beneath Lunora’s vast forests and the hidden caverns that ran like veins beneath the land, the Umbraith, or Shadow Elves, pursued forbidden knowledge. They believed the true essence of magic lay not just in light and creation but also in darkness and entropy. Necromancy, shadowcraft, and soul-binding became their arts of choice, practices deemed heretical by the Valarith. The Umbraith delved deep into the underworld of Lunora, carving out secret enclaves where light was scarce, and whispers of old magic lingered. Despite their divergence, they still revered Diion, albeit in a more secretive and personal way, seeing his influence in the decay and rebirth of the natural order. To the Valarith, this splintering was a betrayal; to the Umbraith, it was liberation.

Lastly, there were those who turned their gaze away from cities and caverns alike—the Therannis, the Wild Elves. Rejecting rigid hierarchies and the constant political strife of their kin, the Therannis embraced the untamed wilderness of Lunora. They communed with the primal spirits of the land, practicing druidic rites and living in harmony with the flora and fauna that other elves saw only as resources. To the Therannis, the magic of Lunora was best experienced in its rawest form: wild, unbound, and pure. They held an almost zealous reverence for Diion, seeing him in every tree, river, and whispering wind. Unlike the Valarith’s obsession with purity or the Umbraith’s pursuit of darker arts, the Therannis sought balance and coexistence, even as tensions rose between their kin.

Thus, the elves fractured—not with war or rebellion, but with purpose. Their philosophies became their boundaries, their beliefs their nations. Yet, despite their division, all three would face the fires of conflict soon enough, as powers beyond their borders stirred with ambition and envy.

Long after the elves had woven their cities of light and shadow across Lunora, another race stirred to life on the distant continent of Agera—humanity. Unlike the elves, whose mastery over magic granted them effortless dominion over the land, humankind emerged from harsher crucibles. From the sun-scorched deserts of the south to the frostbitten coasts of the north, humans carved out survival through grit and blood. They were tribal and warlike, driven by the necessity to conquer or be conquered. Their settlements spread across Agera's vast and varied landscapes, where alliances were fleeting, and warlords rose and fell like the changing seasons. The divine held little sway over their chaos; the gods were stories told over firelight—fables, not truths. In their wars, the land itself suffered, scarred by flames and salted with blood.

As centuries passed, ambition kindled in their hearts, and whispers of unity began to echo across the clans. Driven by curiosity and a hunger for new lands, human chieftains looked to the endless seas. Their vessels, crude and weathered, braved the waves with desperation and hope. Most were swallowed by the ocean’s depths, but some—a rare few—made landfall upon the untouched shores of Lunora. These first encounters were little more than skirmishes. To the elves, they were but insects wandering into forbidden groves, wielding iron and wood like primitive tools. The Great Weald and Lunora's wild frontiers did what the elves would not—its predators and harsh landscape devoured most who set foot upon its soil. To the long-lived elves, humanity seemed nothing more than a fleeting nuisance, a race destined to vanish like morning mist.

Yet humanity endured. On Agera, their numbers swelled, and with them, a growing sense of purpose. Warlords and chiefs, once fractured, began to band together, driven by common cause and shared ambition. This unity did not go unnoticed. Beneath the Silver Peaks, the dwarves watched with growing interest. Reclusive and secretive, the dwarves had long been masters of metallurgy and stonework, hoarding secrets of steelcraft that even the elves had not perfected. It was not war that brought them to the surface, but prophecy. The dwarves, whose runecasters had glimpsed shadows of a coming storm, saw in humanity the seeds of a mortal uprising—an uprising that would shake the very gods themselves.

The "Dwarven Bargain" was struck in secret. Chieftains from Agera approached the great stone gates of Karad Kalarim and Stonehall, offering treasures plundered from fallen warlords in exchange for the dwarves' greatest gift: steel. It was unlike anything humanity had wielded before—sharp, unyielding, and deadly. The dwarves, for their part, saw this as a means to an end—a whisper of destiny written in iron and blood. Humanity, now armed and armored in dwarven steel, began to march with a singular purpose: conquest.

In Year 211, this newfound alliance culminated in the first great siege. Ships bearing banners of united tribes crossed the treacherous seas to Lunora’s shores in numbers the elves had never imagined. Their target was Elen’Vara, the floating capital of the High Elves. The sky shimmered with arcane barriers as elven magisters summoned defenses of light and fire, but the humans did not falter. They struck with iron and will, battering against marble and magic. Though the elves eventually repelled the siege, it marked the beginning of an era of war—one where magic alone would no longer be enough to secure dominion.

Humanity had arrived upon Lunora, not as fleeting shadows, but as conquerors armed with dwarven fire and boundless ambition. The age of unchallenged elven supremacy had come to an end, and the fires of conflict would burn for centuries to come.

The dawn of humanity’s unyielding conquest saw the once-unshakable dominion of the elves brought to its knees. What began as scattered skirmishes evolved into a war of annihilation that engulfed the continent of Lunora. United under banners of warlords, kings, and tribal chieftains, humanity marched forth with steel forged by dwarven hands and driven by an unrelenting thirst for expansion. The elves, whose mastery of magic had long rendered them unchallenged, found themselves unprepared for the raw brutality and endless persistence of humankind.

Elven magic, once thought to be impenetrable, began to falter. Dwarven siege engines, wrought from stone and iron and powered by mechanisms unknown to the elves, shattered arcane barriers that had once seemed eternal. Human warbands swarmed through the cracks, sowing chaos and devastation. Elven strongholds, suspended in sunlight and bound by ancient sorcery, were torn from the skies one by one. Entire marble cities crumbled under the ceaseless tide of human aggression. The legendary Valaer, guardians of elvenkind and masters of destructive magic, fought valiantly, their arcane mastery disintegrating entire battalions with mere gestures. But their numbers dwindled, and soon their name became little more than whispers of a forgotten age.

Nowhere was this devastation more evident than in the fall of Elen’Vara, the floating capital of the High Elves. For centuries, it had hovered above the Great Weald like a beacon of untouchable elegance. But in Year 278, under the relentless siege of human forces, its barriers cracked, and its enchantments unraveled. The city fell from the heavens, crashing into the heart of Lunora with a cataclysmic force. The impact reshaped the very land, birthing a jagged mountain range where once there had been smooth plains. Elen’Vara, the symbol of elven supremacy, was buried beneath stone and myth, marking the turning point of the war.

Yet, humanity's victories were bittersweet. Despite their military success, they struggled to claim the land they had conquered. Lunora itself seemed to reject their presence. Settlements were swallowed by creeping vines and reclaimed by towering forests. Rivers changed course as if guided by unseen hands, flooding encampments and dismantling roads. Entire villages vanished within weeks, overtaken by the wilds. It was as if Lunora itself sought to purge the intruders from its soil, whispering reminders of its ancient guardians in the rustling of leaves and the roar of distant waterfalls.

By Year 447, the last great elven bastion, Lythanor, fell to the blades of the self-proclaimed King Thorwin, the warlord who had unified the tribes of Agera. His victory marked the official end of elven dominion over Lunora. The elves fled to the shadows—some to the depths of forgotten underground cities, others to the hidden groves of Lunora’s wild forests, where the spirit of Diion still lingered, protecting those who embraced his will.

But humanity’s conquest was not absolute. Lunora's wilds remained impenetrable, vast swathes of land that refused to be tamed. Many human settlers vanished into its depths, never to be seen again. Some returned to Agera, speaking of haunted woods and unending storms, while others simply disappeared—consumed by the living wilderness.

When the fires of war finally burned out, it was nature that stood victorious. The continent remained wild and untamed, resisting the hands of men as it had since the dawn of the Titans. The elves were broken, the humans diminished, and Lunora itself remained a place where civilization grasped at the edges but never truly claimed its heart.

In the midst of Bjorr's eternal slumber, an unusual dream of his was made manifest in the form of a serpentine goddess. Being the sole being within the Realm she began to create and manifest her own horrors across Jormin. It eventually caught the attention of Bjorr himself and who became furious over her actions. She was banished from the realm and found herself on Midora where she discovered the mortal races.

With the fall of elven supremacy and the end of the long war, the landscape of Midora transformed. The once unassailable dominion of the elves now lay fragmented, their grand cities reduced to crumbling ruins veiled by the reclaiming wilds. In the aftermath, humanity and the remaining elves forged a tenuous peace, recognizing the futility of continued conflict. They sought instead to build anew, blending remnants of ancient arcane knowledge with the practicality of human resilience.

While most of Agera became a patchwork of human settlements, one region remained steadfastly beyond their grasp: Vikholm. A land of rolling plains, dense forests, and snow-capped mountains, Vikholm was a realm fiercely guarded by its native peoples—diverse clans of demi-humans and animal folk. For nearly eight centuries, these tribes thrived under the benevolent and ever-present influence of their ancient pantheon, the Old Gods.

Each deity held a distinct domain, intertwining divine presence with the rhythms of nature. Korrak, the Great Bear, stood as the embodiment of strength and authority, guiding the Bearkin with wisdom and power, keeping their communities stable and unified. Morgarl, the Starwing Owl, watched over the night, guiding hunters and seers through darkness, while Lyria, the Moon Wolf, nurtured the Wolves and Werewolves, fostering unity through her gentle but firm influence.

Nature’s wrath was embodied in Fenrarn, the Frost Wolf, whose fierce storms and punishing winters tested the resilience of all who dwelled within Vikholm, reminding them that the land’s blessings came with a price. Elarra, the Celestial Stag, brought light and serenity, her presence marking safe paths through the wilderness, and Pyrix, the Dawn Fox, taught cunning and survival through change, helping the people adapt to shifting seasons and dangers. These gods were not distant or aloof; they were revered as both guides and guardians. Seasonal festivals celebrated their gifts—The Festival of the Great Hunt to honor Korrak, and The Moonlit Gathering for Lyria’s blessing of the packs. Even the harshest winters, brought by Fenrarn, were met with resilience through the Winter Trials, where tribes proved their endurance. To live in Vikholm was to walk in harmony with the divine.

In Year 460, human settlers, emboldened by their victories elsewhere, attempted to claim the plains of Vikholm. Yet the land itself, bound by divine presence, resisted. The clans, led by chieftains marked by the blessings of their gods, united to repel the intruders. Only a handful of humans, those who chose to live in accordance with Vikholm’s sacred balance—farming humbly, foraging wisely—were permitted to stay. They became part of the land’s fabric, embracing the old ways and proving themselves worthy.

Meanwhile, the human tribes of Agera, now tempered by centuries of warfare and fortified by dwarven ingenuity, began establishing their own domains across Midora. In the absence of elven rule, they sought stability not through conflict but through faith and local tradition. The surviving elves, scattered and weary from the wars, withdrew to hidden enclaves, where they rekindled their reverence for Diion, hoping to restore the balance they had once taken for granted.

In Lunora, a cautious coexistence emerged. The remaining elves and those humans who had survived the wilds made peace, founding small, resilient communities where both cultures intertwined. These new settlements respected the will of the land, guided by the shared understanding that nature, not mortals, would always hold dominion. The Treaty of the Weald marked this alliance, where former foes vowed to protect Lunora from further devastation.

Across the continent, new human kingdoms rose—each shaped by the character of their founders and the lessons learned from the long, brutal conflict. Some embraced the Old Gods, blending their traditions with those of the animal folk in Vikholm, while others looked to local spirits and ancestral worship. In Lunora, the fledgling kingdoms remained small and cautious, careful not to awaken the wrath of the land once more.

The age of elven dominion had passed, but from the ashes of war and the reconciliation of old enemies, the first great mortal kingdoms of Midora began to take shape—built not solely on conquest but on fragile alliances, shared struggles, and the recognition of nature’s unyielding power.

The dawn of the Shadowfall began with a whisper carried on the desert winds—a whisper of power, fear, and eternal night. It heralded the arrival of Rhaaga, the Abyssal Goddess of Darkness and the Void. Her coming was not marked by grand proclamations or celestial signs but by the slow, creeping influence that spread through the hearts of the desperate and the downtrodden. Rhagga did not emerge from the heavens or crawl from the depths; she simply was—a presence that had always been lurking in the forgotten places of the world.

Rhagga's influence found fertile ground in the barren desertlands of Agera, where ancient rivalries and fractured settlements warred endlessly over resources and survival. These harsh lands, starved of mercy and rich in conflict, were ripe for her dark whispers. She promised strength, unity, and power to those who would kneel—an end to the ceaseless bloodshed that plagued their sands. Her followers grew swiftly, adopting her titles for her: The Matriarch of the Night, The Night Serpent, symbols of unyielding authority and shadowed grace.

Rhagga did not merely gather worshippers; she reshaped entire tribes and clans. Where there had been scattered warbands, she forged armies. Blood oaths were sworn under moonless skies, and rites of darkness were performed in hidden sanctuaries. Her high priestesses, known as the Daughters of the Abyss, governed with ruthless efficiency, executing her will with unwavering devotion. Under her influence, cities that had long been divided by blood feuds unified under her banner. Khar’Azar, a once-feuding collection of desert clans, became the First City of the Abyss, its walls draped in banners of midnight black and its streets patrolled by soldiers who fought with the ferocity of those who feared the wrath of the Matriarch.

In Agera, the nature of warfare changed. No longer were battles waged solely for land or resources—now, faith itself became the currency of war. Those who would not submit to Rhagga’s doctrine were branded heretics, hunted by her legions, and sacrificed in rites meant to deepen her hold over the mortal realm. Entire oases were turned into places of ritual, their waters tainted black with the ichor of shadow magic. Where once there had been scattered chiefs and warlords, now there were Shadowlords, handpicked by Rhagga’s priestesses to enforce her will.

Her influence, however, was not universal. The people of Vikholm remained untouched by her shadow. Their ancient pantheon, the Old Gods, held firm sway over the hearts of its denizens. Korrak’s strength, Lyria’s nurturing light, and Elarra’s protection repelled the whispers of the Matriarch. Rhagga's attempts to seed corruption in Vikholm's fertile plains and mist-laden forests were thwarted by divine resistance. The druids and shamans of the north stood vigilant, purging any trace of abyssal corruption with fire and iron.

Rhagga’s sudden rise to power drew the ire of Diion, the God of Nature and the Seasons, whose influence was deeply woven into the lands of Lunora. What began as subtle tension escalated into open conflict as Diion’s followers clashed with Rhagga’s cultists in brutal skirmishes. Diion’s faithful sought to protect the natural balance, while Rhagga’s followers pursued domination and darkness. Entire regions became battlegrounds of ideology and divine influence, with nature itself recoiling from the corruption of abyssal magic.

The Elven remnants in Lunora—particularly the Valarith and Therannis—joined Diion's cause, forming magical barriers and sacred groves where Rhagga’s influence could not penetrate. The Umbraith, however, remained silent and hidden, observing from the shadows, neither aiding nor hindering. Some whispered that Rhagga had dealings with them, but none could prove it.

As the years drew on, Rhagga's presence grew bolder. Her black-clad priests began spreading further into Midora, seeking to bring her shadow to even the furthest reaches. Yet resistance persisted, and the war for the soul of the continent raged on. Faith, not mere steel, had become the weapon of conquest, and the land of Midora found itself caught between the light of Diion and the consuming darkness of the Night Serpent.

Throughout this time on Tamahirii, the fire Titan Azera had been tricked by Azorodox. Whispering to her in visions within her hellfires that she was in danger of losing her realm. She was told to harness the winds of Kiron and give immortality to her flames. Her paranoia got the better of her as she did what she was told in hope of preserving her reign over the realm. She gave birth to three gods of immense powers who were raised to rule in her name. Their names were Pharados, Horus and Malagore.

Little did she know, they eventually all rebelled and overthrew her. She was imprisoned within the core of the realm. However each of the three had their own goals, Malagore shared Azera's hunger for power and launched a conquest to conquer the entire realm for himself. The other brothers fought for their place in the realm but eventually Malagore forced the other two to flee and leave the realm in the hands of Malagore who continued his conquest onto the realm of Roahirii. Which he conquered with ease.

As the shadow of Rhaaga spread across the desertlands of Agera, the northern tribes remained fractured, locked in endless cycles of blood feuds and territorial skirmishes. The landscape itself seemed to mirror their discord—vast, frostbitten expanses where only the hardiest survived. These northern tribes were a stark contrast to the unified and iron-fisted rule Rhagga established in the southern deserts. Chiefs and warlords held sway over isolated fortresses and frozen valleys, their power limited by harsh winters and rival claims.

The year 840 marked the beginning of a winter unlike any seen in living memory. Frost clung to the land long past its welcome, rivers turned to ice, and game grew scarce. Camps that once thrived with trade and raiding grew hollow and starved. In this dire season, whispers of unity began to spread—a desperate hope that cooperation might be the only salvation. For weeks, emissaries traveled between war camps and tribal holds, dodging bandits and frost wolves to spread the word: a gathering of all the tribes.

In the heart of the frozen north, beneath the frost of the Falla Plains, a great meeting was held. Hundreds of fires burned in concentric circles, and chiefs, warlords, and clan leaders convened in a gathering that was both tense and monumental. Accusations were thrown, blades were drawn, but the fires of desperation burned brighter than old hatreds. Yet, a single question hung heavy in the frigid air—who would lead?

Among the tribes, tradition dictated that only through The Trial of the Iron Blood could a leader be chosen. It was an ancient ritual, brutal and uncompromising. The strongest chiefs and warlords clashed in ritualistic combat, fighting not for survival alone but for dominion over the scattered tribes. The trial was a test of strength, endurance, and sheer willpower, conducted over three relentless days. Blood soaked the snow, and the wind howled with the fury of combat. One by one, contenders fell—some dead, others maimed, until only a single warrior remained.

That warrior was Ivor Grimfar, a warlord whose name had already become legend in the northern coasts for his iron-willed leadership and unyielding ferocity in battle. Towering over his challengers and wielding a frost-forged blade, Ivor stood victorious amid the crimson snow, his breath rising in frozen clouds as the tribes watched in reverent silence. With no challengers left to oppose him, the chieftains knelt before him, not out of fear but respect. In that moment, Ivor was crowned the first King of Kalamar, and the northern tribes were united under a single banner for the first time in their history.

Under King Ivor's rule, the Kingdom of Kalamar was forged from the blood and frost of its people. His reign marked the end of petty feuds and the beginning of structured society—villages grew into fortified towns, warriors became soldiers, and warbands evolved into armies. A code of honor was established, demanding loyalty and strength from all who swore fealty to the crown.

Though life remained harsh in the unforgiving climate of Agera, the unity brought forth trade, stability, and—most importantly—preparation. Ivor looked beyond his borders, eyeing the lands of Lunora and the dominion of Rhagga in the south. He spoke of destiny and conquest, of claiming lands where the frost did not touch and the soil could be sown without struggle.

King Ivor's rise would mark the beginning of a new age for Agera, one where the unified tribes of Kalamar would soon step out from their frozen exile and stake their claim on the world stage. The unification of Agera was not just the birth of a kingdom—it was the forging of a war machine that would soon bring fire and iron to the heartlands of Agera.

For centuries, Vikholm stood as a sanctuary of peace and prosperity—a bastion untouched by the chaos that gripped the rest of Midora. Its vast farmlands stretched across emerald plains, dense forests thrived with ancient life, and towering oaks stood like guardians over communities of non-human and humanoid races. Refugees from wars and conflicts across the continent found solace in Vikholm’s embrace, living under the watchful eyes of the Old Gods—deities who had long protected the land. Yet, as generations passed and peace endured, reverence for the Old Gods faded into myth, their shrines left untended, their names whispered only by the oldest of elders.

Despite this calm, whispers of turmoil from neighboring lands began to spread. To the north, the unified might of Kalamar loomed, its warlords solidifying their strength under banners of iron and frost. To the south, the creeping influence of Rhaaga, the Night Serpent, threatened to spill over into the untouched woods of Vikholm. Fear began to fester, but for many, it was only distant thunder—something far off and unlikely to touch their tranquil lives.

That is, until the Year 856. It began as any other year—harvests were bountiful, festivals celebrated the turning of the seasons, and life continued in serene ignorance of the rising storms. Then came the whispers of something strange in the forests: a woman of ethereal light, crowned in shades of white and emerald, moving silently through the woods. Her presence brought with it a soft glow, and the trees themselves seemed to lean towards her in reverence. Those who witnessed her spoke of her beauty and her sorrowful eyes—eyes that carried the weight of ages. She spoke to the people of Vikholm, warning of bloodshed and fire that would rain from the north.

Some dismissed her as a forest spirit or a wandering enchantress, but others—those with old blood and long memories—heeded her warning. They saw her for what she truly was: an avatar of nature's will, a manifestation of the Old Gods' lingering power. Those who believed her words rallied their kin and fortified Vikstorm, the capital of Vikholm, preparing for the worst. Makeshift walls were reinforced, watchtowers were raised, and old druidic magics were rekindled, binding nature to their defense.

When the raiders came—savage bands of Kalamar outcasts emboldened by promises of plunder—the people of Vikholm were ready. The battle was fierce and unyielding; steel met wood and stone, and the cries of warriors filled the sky. But as the raiders pushed towards the heart of Vikstorm, they were met with a force unlike any they had known. The very forests turned against them: roots erupted from the ground, branches lashed out like whips, and vines coiled around throats with unyielding strength. Those who survived spoke of the Evergreen Queen, standing at the gates of Vikstorm, her presence a beacon of hope and defiance.

With the raiders driven back and Vikholm preserved, the ethereal woman vanished into the forest as silently as she had arrived. The people of Vikholm, now fully aware of the divine intervention that had saved them, took to calling her the Evergreen Queen. Her likeness was immortalized in statues and banners, and she became the eternal monarch of Vikholm—a divine protector who would return in times of need. Her name was etched into the very soul of the land, a promise that Vikholm would endure, even as the world around it burned.

Thus, the title of Evergreen Queen was born, passed down as a symbol of divine guardianship and the enduring strength of nature itself. Vikholm would not forget, and its people would stand ready for whatever darkness approached from the edges of the world.

In the fertile and mineral-rich lands of southwestern Agera, a unique societal structure emerged—The Houses of Silver. These were not merely noble families, but powerful clans whose wealth and influence stemmed from the region's bountiful mines and expansive farmlands. Unlike the fragmented warlords of the north or the cult-like dominion of Rhagga in the southern deserts, the Houses of Silver flourished through cooperation and mutual defense. Bound by blood and tradition, they established grand estates and sprawling fortresses, watching over their territories with vigilance and pride.

Their unity was further solidified by a shared disdain for the creeping influence of Rhaaga, whose darkness they deemed corruptive and unnatural. While Rhagga's cultists whispered in shadowed corners and attempted to spread her influence across Agera, the Houses of Silver remained resolute, refusing her entreaties and standing firm against the abyssal faith. Their lands became a sanctuary for those fleeing Rhagga's tyranny—a haven of prosperity and relative peace amidst the turmoil of Agera.

This prosperity, however, would soon be tested. In the year 860, rumors spread of bands of raiders descending from the north—brutal, organized, and driven by conquest. At first, these tales were dismissed as mere border squabbles, but when entire villages were razed and fortified estates sacked, the Houses of Silver could no longer ignore the threat. The raiders, bearing the harsh accents and wolf-pelt garb of Kalamar, struck swiftly and without warning, leaving smoldering ruins in their wake.

Faced with this unprovoked assault, the Houses of Silver did something unprecedented: they unified. Lords and Ladies of the great Houses—House Silver, House Argath, and House Voss—called their banners, mustering knights and militias under a single banner. Fields once tilled for grain now became camps for soldiers, and the ringing of blacksmiths’ hammers filled the air as weapons and armor were forged en masse. The grand estates that had symbolized wealth now symbolized defiance.

In the spring of 861, the combined might of the Houses met the Kalamar raiders on the outskirts of Silverfields, a stretch of fertile plains that bordered the northern expanse. The battle was brutal; Kalamar raiders fought with berserker ferocity, while the knights of the Houses countered with discipline and strategy. The clash lasted for three days, and the ground ran red with blood. But in the end, the Houses stood victorious, driving the raiders back to the north and securing their borders with new fortifications and watchtowers.

Emboldened by their victory, the Houses of Silver sent emissaries to King Ivor Grimfar of Kalamar, demanding answers for the unprovoked aggression. They were met not with hostility, but with confusion. Ivor and his jarls denied any involvement, proclaiming that the raiders were not sanctioned soldiers of Kalamar but outcasts and vagabonds, exiled from their homeland for dishonor and lawlessness. This revelation, however, did little to soothe tensions. Suspicion and distrust lingered, and the Houses of Silver began to view Kalamar as a looming threat—a frostbitten empire with ambitions that stretched far beyond its icy borders.

In response, the Houses of Silver established the Council of Ironvale, a governing body dedicated to the defense and prosperity of their lands. Fortresses were reinforced, trade routes were safeguarded, and alliances were solidified. The Houses also began experimenting with new forms of warfare—mining not just for wealth but for crafting more resilient steel and defensive constructs.

The Silver Accord, signed in 863, bound the Houses to mutual defense and collective decision-making in matters of war. It marked the beginning of a new era for southwestern Agera—an era of guarded vigilance, unyielding prosperity, and a simmering rivalry with the north that threatened to spill over into open war.

As the tides of conflict shifted across Midora, the Nagan Empire stood as a bastion of stability and elegance in the far east of Lunora. Its culture flourished, driven by scholars, artisans, and sorcerers who crafted grand cities of jade and marble, towering pagodas, and serene gardens where cherry blossoms fell like rain. For generations, the Empire had known prosperity, its borders secure and its people largely untroubled by the chaos spreading in the west. Yet, this peace was not to last.

In the year 872, the serene valleys and guarded cities of the Nagan Empire felt the tremors of war as seafaring warlords from the Kingdom of Kalamar began their raids. Hardened by the cold northern winds and tempered by endless conflict, the warlords of Kalamar were brutal and unyielding. Their longships, adorned with dragon-headed prows, crept up the coastlines and struck at villages with ruthless efficiency—raiding, pillaging, and enslaving those caught unprepared.

The Nagan nobility, unaccustomed to such brazen aggression, attempted to resist, but their forces—designed for ceremonial honor and defense against calculated threats—were ill-prepared for the savagery of Kalamar's raiders. Time and time again, villages were razed, and defenses crumbled, leaving the Empire with two choices: suffer endlessly under northern steel or adapt.

It was then that the Emperor of the Nagan Empire, Dao Nagarax Min, sought an unorthodox solution. Through emissaries and whispers carried on the wind, he made contact with the very warlords that plagued his shores. Six of the most feared Kalamar warlords were summoned to a secret council. Suspicion and hostility thickened the air as these hardened men entered the imperial court, their hands never straying far from their blades. Yet, what awaited them was not war—but opportunity.

Dao Nagarax Min, flanked by two mysterious figures cloaked in shadow, presented a proposal: land, titles, and lordship within the Empire's borders—an offer to become part of Nagan society in exchange for loyalty and defense against future threats. It was a gesture that spoke of both desperation and cunning, a chance to end the bloodshed without a drawn sword. But there was a condition: only two of the six could accept. The Emperor left the room, locking its ironwood doors behind him, and left the warlords to decide.

What happened next would be remembered as the Night of the Broken Blades. The six warlords turned upon each other with ruthless efficiency. Old grudges and ambitions ignited into violence, and steel clashed against steel as the council chamber erupted into a battle of dominance. When the doors were finally opened the next morning, two warlords remained standing—Bjorne Jagard the Iron Wolf and Grim Yuri the Ghost Blade. The blood of their rivals stained their axes, and their eyes gleamed with victory.

Dao Nagarax Min, true to his word, welcomed the two survivors as Nagan Warlords of the Nagan Empire. Their people settled along the Empire's borders, and Yaggard and Yurami were granted titles and land. However, integration was not immediate; they were tested, molded, and refined by the Empire's strict martial and spiritual codes. Over time, their raw savagery transformed into disciplined mastery.

The warlords of Kalamar became the first of the Samurai, a new order of warriors that embodied both the primal strength of the north and the disciplined elegance of Nagan tradition. They were taught the ways of the blade, the bow, and the spirit, mastering both martial prowess and spiritual attunement. Their armor became a symbol of fear and respect—ornate, yet practical; elegant, yet unyielding.

Under their watch, the borders of the Nagan Empire were secured, and future raiders were met not with disorganized resistance, but with the cold precision of steel and the unbreakable will of iron. The Samurai became legends, their code of honor and loyalty a testament to the Empire's adaptability and strength.

From that day forward, the Samurai served as both sword and shield of the Nagan Empire, a living symbol of unity between conqueror and conquered. What began as bloodshed in the night became an unbreakable bond, sealed by steel and honor.

The Second Age began shortly before the arrival of Horus on Midora. In the far east, deep within the vast deserts the few mortals who endured the harsh enviroment was visited by Horus. To them he appeard as a giant engulfed in radiant fire, to the mortals he was the sun made manifest. The very thing the natives had prayed and shaped many of their customs around. Horus brought salvation to many native groups and was not long after proclaimed as the God King.

The founding of the Khein Dynasty in the early days of the Second Age is forever marked by the rise of Anubis Khein, the first to be elevated to the ranks of royalty by the God King Horus Khein. Born into poverty in the eastern heartlands — lands that would soon form the backbone of the Dynasty — Anubis was a figure of uncommon wisdom, compassion, and fairness. From a young age, he earned renown as a mediator, resolving disputes and forging alliances, his sense of justice setting him apart from others in his troubled land.

When Horus Khein descended with divine light upon the fractured city-states and tribes, seeking to unify them under his banner, Anubis was one of the first to pledge loyalty. The God King, recognizing his wisdom and deep commitment to balance, adopted Anubis as his first child, bestowing upon him immortality through a sacred rite. Anubis became the Prince of Justice and Balance — the first of the Khein Princes — a title that would forever cement his place in history.

As Prince, Anubis embodied the ideals of mercy and fairness. He established the first laws of the Khein Dynasty, ensuring justice for both the nobility and commonfolk. His chambers were open to all, and he personally mediated conflicts, always striving to maintain peace without bloodshed. In times of war, Anubis wielded a staff infused with celestial power, bringing swift judgment to those who threatened the innocent. His legacy, as "Anubis the Fair," would echo across the ages, his name a symbol of wisdom and the unyielding pursuit of balance, shaping the very foundation of the Khein Dynasty.

Not long after Horus arrival did Pharados arrive on Midora. On a world with green life and snow covered mountains Pharados had found his paradise. Something he had never seen before. He encountered villages and cities that held little faith, until he revealed his abilties when he helped the people who asked. He became a savior in the area. Word quickly spread across the land about a godlike man with radiant wings.  

People built shrines and temples in his image. Shamans and Priests began to worship him, writing down his actions in scriptures. Eventually Pharados realized the impact he had made and built the city of Enghilm which became his seat of power. The Silver Dominion had been established and his followers quickly grew in numbers.

In the fiftieth year of the Second Age, the Khein Dynasty took a monumental step toward expansion with the establishment of the first trade route across the Dormond Sea. This route connected the Dynasty's mainland to the distant and mysterious Emya Isle, located in the far east. There, the Khein discovered numerous tribes, establishing trade relationships and introducing the practice of slave markets to further cement their influence in the region.

The architect of this bold venture was Alikhan, a cunning and ambitious figure who quickly caught the eye of the God King. His relentless pursuit of profit and his sharp business acumen earned him the title "Lover of Coins" among both allies and rivals. Alikhan’s successes in Emya would eventually lay the groundwork for the Khein Dynasty’s trade with the mighty Nagan Empire, further expanding their economic reach.

It wasn’t until thirty years later, in the year 80, that Alikhan’s extraordinary contributions were officially recognized. The King, acknowledging his unrivaled influence, had him ascend to the position of Khein Prince, making him the fourth to join the ranks of the dynasty’s immortal rulers.

Following the ascension of Anubis Khein, the Dynasty saw two decades pass without a new heir to the eternal bloodline. That changed in the year 74 of the Second Age, when Ahriman, a warlord of savage renown from the eastern frontiers, rose to prominence. Seeking to test the warlord's strength and spirit, the God King Horus Khein summoned forth a demon of infernal fire, tasking Ahriman alone with its defeat. For three days and three nights, Ahriman battled the beast with nothing but his crude weapons and an unbreakable will.

When he returned, bearing the smoldering head of the demon strapped to his burned and battered back, the God King recognized him as a mortal worthy of divine blood. Ahriman was summoned to Kheinopolis, where he was baptized into the sacred rites of the Dynasty, granted immortality, and named Prince Ahriman Khein, the Dreadful.

His ascension marked a new era of militant expansion and brutal order for the Khein Dynasty. Celebrated by soldiers and feared by rebels, Ahriman's name became a byword for relentless conquest and unflinching loyalty to the God King's will.

By the eightieth year of the Second Age, Alikhan had transformed the Khein Dynasty’s ambitions from regional dominion into a true empire of wealth. His trade routes had not only brought spices, rare woods, and precious stones from Emya Isle, but had also unlocked the gates of the Nagan Empire — a realm long considered impenetrable to outsiders. Through careful diplomacy, ruthlessness when necessary, and an unerring nose for opportunity, Alikhan accumulated vast riches for the Dynasty. His name became synonymous with gold itself; in the streets of Khein cities, merchants often joked that "the rain falls for Alikhan first."

Recognizing his unmatched service, the God King, the dynasty’s divine patron — summoned Alikhan to the Eternal Court. There, before the assembled nobility, priesthood, and emissaries from distant lands, the King proclaimed Alikhan to be the Fourth Prince of the Khein Dynasty.

As part of his ascension, Alikhan underwent a sacred Rite of Gilded Flesh. The court's sorcerer-priests bathed him in molten gold mixed with rare alchemical oils, while the High Oracle invoked the God King’s eternal favor. Alikhan’s body survived the rite — a feat many believed only possible through divine approval — and his flesh took on a subtle, ever-shifting gleam, as if veins of gold ran beneath his skin. His heart no longer aged, his body resisted decay: Alikhan had been made immortal, bound to the Khein bloodline by pact and divine right.

The title "Lover of Coins" evolved into a formal style: "Alikhan, Prince of Gilded Roads, Lover of Coins, Immortal Merchant." Statues of him were raised at major ports, his face adorning the newly minted Gold Dinars of the Khein Dynasty. Not all celebrated his elevation. Rumors whispered that Alikhan had trafficked in dark bargains, not merely mortal trade, and that he paid a secret price for his immortality — a price not in coin but in souls.

In the year 125 of the Second Age, a brief but bloody revolt erupted in the northern reaches of the Khein Dynasty. The insurgents, spurred by discontent and a desire for autonomy, posed a significant threat to the stability of the region. However, the rebellion was quelled not through traditional military force, but through the will of a single man — Kharn, the so-called Noble Enslaver.

Kharn, a man of extraordinary charisma and unyielding ruthlessness, saw the rebellion as an opportunity rather than a threat. Using promises of indulgence and manipulation, he turned the insurgents’ determination into obedience, ultimately enslaving the entire northern force. His brutal tactics, though harsh, were viewed as a swift and effective solution to a costly and drawn-out conflict.

Kharn’s feat caught the attention of God King Horus Khein, who, intrigued by the man’s power to bend others to his will, summoned him to Kheinopolis. There, Kharn pledged his loyalty to Horus in exchange for unimaginable power. In recognition of his unique abilities, Horus granted Kharn immortality and elevated him to the rank of Prince, bestowing upon him the title of Prince of Lust, Excess, and Pleasure. Thus, Kharn became the third Khein Prince, securing his place among the ruling family.

In the year 130 of the Second Age, the forces of the Khein Dynasty made their first significant incursion into the territories of the Silver Dominion. The Dominion, long prepared for northern invasions, now found themselves facing a new threat from the east.

A series of brutal battles ensued across the Southern Hills within the Dominion's lands, which would later become known as the Southern Skull Hills due to the countless fallen soldiers left behind. The Dominion forces, bolstered by their divine ruler, Pharados, managed to push back the invading Dynasty army to a nearby forest, where a decisive confrontation took place.

In that forest, Pharados struck a bargain with Ahriman Khein, the leader of the Dynasty's invasion. Ahriman, refusing to yield, attempted to strike down the divine ruler but was met with a swift, merciful unarmed strike from Pharados, sending him sprawling across the continent and back into the deserts of the Khein Dynasty. His forces, now leaderless and demoralized, dropped their weapons and fled into the Dynasty's lands, marking a humiliating retreat.

This victory, the Dominion's first grand triumph over the Khein Dynasty, solidified the strength of the Silver Dominion and gave rise to the legendary Silverin Guard, whose valor would echo throughout the world.

The Khein Dynasty endured nearly five centuries of relentless Crusades launched by the Silver Dominion, starting in the year 140 and continuing through to the year 600. The Silverin Guard, a fearsome force of holy paladins and war clerics, proved to be a constant threat, putting immense pressure on the Khein Princes. Over time, the Khein Dynasty’s leadership was strained by the unyielding onslaught.

The first waves of the Silverin Guard’s Crusades were marked by relentless invasions that slowly chipped away at Khein territories. Each Prince struggled to maintain control — Ahriman Khein’s brutal tactics met their limits as his forces were worn thin, Alikhan Khein’s treasury was drained by the rising cost of war, and Kharn Khein found his slave workforce unable to replenish the numbers lost on the battlefield. Despite these challenges, the Khein Dynasty held on, relying on the strength of its Princes but feeling the pressure mounting with each passing year.

For over a century, the two powers remained locked in a grim stalemate. The Silver Dominion’s forces, led by their powerful mortals, continued their Crusades but were unable to break the Khein defenses. During this period, the God King Horus Khein remained absent from the battlefield, never intervening directly. Scholars debate the reasons for this, some suggesting it was a test of his Princes’ strength, others believing it was a political move to allow the Dominion to prove their strength. Meanwhile, Pharados, the divine ruler of the Silver Dominion, was similarly absent from the field, watching from afar as his forces clashed with the Khein Dynasty.

In the years leading up to 500, the Khein Dynasty began to push back, reclaiming some of the lost territory in the Silver Dominion. The Silverin Guard, seeing their foothold slip, brought forth a new weapon: Archangels, celestial beings of immense power who appeared in the most dire of battles. This new force turned the tide once more, forcing the Khein Dynasty to retreat. It was during this critical moment that the God King Horus Khein, observing the battlefield from afar, finally chose to intervene.

For the first time in five centuries, the God King descended to the battlefield, ready to confront the Archangels of the Silver Dominion. In a moment of divine tension, Horus clashed with the two Archangels who had come to the aid of the Silverin Guard. Their battle was fierce and unfair, but Horus emerged victorious, brutalizing the Archangels.

As Horus prepared to slay one of the angels, a flank attack from the second Arch-angel nearly struck him down — only to be prevented by an unknown mortal soldier, who parried the blow and saved the God King’s life. Moved by this act of courage, Horus spared the wounded angels and carried the mortal from the battlefield. This moment, witnessed by many, became a defining legend of the Crusades.

For over a millennium, the Silver Dominion had kept a tight grip over its lands through the power of the Church and the influence of the Great Houses. Yet beneath the surface, tensions between the noble Houses and the Church grew, threatening to fracture the Dominion from within. Seeking to unify the realm and strengthen its position, House Silver — one of the Dominion’s oldest and most powerful Houses — proposed a grand crusade. In 576, with the blessing of the Silver Prince, the Northern Crusade was launched.

Its target: the rugged lands held by the Kalamar clans, raiders who had evolved into fierce warrior kingdoms. The Church declared a holy claim over the north, framing the war as a righteous expansion of divine order. However, the Kingdom of Kalamar, under King Dagmar Karaheim, stood defiant. The crusade dragged into a brutal 24-year conflict, marked by hard-fought battles and devastating losses on both sides.

In the aftermath of the final crusade, the God King Horus Khein elevated the mortal who had saved him, naming him Amiir Khein, the Defender. Granted immortality and a place among the divine Princes, Amiir’s rise marked the closing chapter of the Silver Dominion’s crusades. With Amiir leading the defenses, the Khein Dynasty secured its borders at last, and the relentless assaults from the east came to an end.

As the winter of 600 approached — one of the harshest in memory — the Silver Dominion recognized that a total conquest would cost more than they could afford. Seeking a political solution, Dominion envoys proposed a ceasefire. King Dagmar, aged and weary, accepted their terms: Kalamar would retain its royal title but submit as a vassal to the Silver Dominion. In exchange, the Dominion promised critical supplies to see the Kalamar people through the brutal winter.

Thus ended the Northern Crusade. Kalamar became part of the Silver Dominion's growing realm, its autonomy reduced to a mere formality. Though the warriors of Kalamar had fought with honor and ferocity, it was political calculation — not bloodshed — that ultimately decided their fate.

Shido Nagamotto Min, also known as the Mad Emperor, was the third ruler of the Nagan Empire. He was born into the imperial family as the son of Kenshii Nagamara Min, the Second Emperor. Shido's childhood was marked by a series of traumatic events, including the death of his mother and a failed assassination attempt on his life. These experiences left him with a deep-seated paranoia and a sense of superiority over others. Upon ascending to the throne, Shido's erratic behavior quickly became apparent. He spent vast amounts of the empire's wealth on lavish personal projects and neglected important state affairs. His courtiers and advisors struggled to manage his increasingly unpredictable behavior, as he would fly into sudden rages and make arbitrary decisions.

One of the most notable aspects of Shido's reign was his belief that he was a greater authority than the Empire's patron god, Diion. He claimed that Diion was a weak deity and that he himself was the only true ruler of the Empire. This caused great consternation among the imperial court and the general population, many of whom remained deeply devoted to Diion. This was a turning point in the history of the Nagan Empire. Shido was consumed by his own ambition and desire for power, and he believed that he could wield the god's power to control the Empire as he saw fit. His action eventually led to him being overthrown by a rebellion led by his own lords.

The year was 600 of the Third Age. The infernal god Malagore raged across Medina with both conquest and hunt for his celestial brothers on his mind. Four grand armies; Silverin Guard of the Dominion, led by Pharados, Sun Lords of the Nagan Empire, the Executioners of Light of the Dynasty, led by Horus Khein and Blackmanes who were led by the King of Kalamar,. Together they rallied under Diion, Pharados and Horus to bring and end to Malagore's destructive path. The last stand took place south of the Empire, on the continent of Eros which had been scorthed by the forces of Malagore. The armies reached the burning shores and fell into Malagore deceptive grasp when they moved inlands. The Silverin Guard were the first to fall and break under the intense fighting across the lava fields. Only their name survived the battle of Eros. The Sun Lords were wiped out as the continent was torn apart. With the continent split, leaving the Executioners of Light separated from their God King Horus, they quickly became overwhelmed by Malagore’s forces.

The Kalamar King with his last breath called out for aid by saying a long forgotten name.. Rhaaga. With that one last breath the Kalamar King turned the tide of the battle. Thousands of creatures came pouring out as the ground erupted, slaughtering everything in their wake. It was then the slithering form of Rhaaga appeared before the world once more. The world shook as Malagore lost his power and was shattered into shards. His demons were thrown back to where they came from and his followers were put to the sword. Each and every shard was safely taken by the survivors of the battle and sealed away in tombs such as this. Each holding a piece of history that must not repeat itself.  

At the beginning of the 4th age a group of zealots within the Dominion Church made a discovery of a forgotten and hidden truth. The fact that Pharados, their God was part fiend due to his infernal origin and thus was able to become subject to an archaic ritual. This group organized a handful of secret rituals within the Capital City Enghilm of the Dominion. It took years to prepare and they kept it well within their own circle of people. About a decade later the rituals were all materialized into a magical dome over the Capital. Simultaneously a group of zealots surrounded the chamber of Pharados and restrained him with powerful arcane chains and imprisoned him within his chamber. As Pharados was silenced the group of Zealots claimed authority over the Church. Maintaining the general faith of the people but became the voice of their God now simply known as the Silver Prince. The Church shortly thereafter founded their own military known as the Dominus Chain which enforced the edicts of the Church.

The Deathmarch Massacre, an event shrouded in sorrow and controversy, left an indelible mark on the history of the northern land of Kalamar. In a year marked by fear and uncertainty, the valiant response of Kalamar's people to the threat of black dragons culminated in a cataclysmic clash in the Traxton Highlands. Four thousand souls marched, united by a shared purpose, to confront the terror that loomed over their homeland.

The story unfolds as a tragic symphony, with the unsuspecting army venturing into the highlands, hoping to outsmart the dragons under the guise of the midday sun. However, the very elements seemed to conspire against them. Dark clouds gathered, shrouding the sun and plunging the landscape into darkness. Torrential rain turned to acid, corroding all in its path, and heralding the onslaught of the fearsome dragons.

The ferocity of the dragons' assault unleashed chaos and carnage, their acid-laden breath weaving a tapestry of agony. Amid this maelstrom, brave souls stood firm, letting fly arrows and bolts that defied the very jaws of death. It is believed that four black dragons were ultimately vanquished that day, but the cost was staggering. Only thirteen survivors emerged from the cataclysm, their names fading into the annals of history.

Whispers and suspicions have lingered, casting shadows of doubt upon the intentions of the Church of the Silver Dominion. Did they orchestrate this bloodshed to weaken the Kalamar populace? The Church's resolute silence regarding the massacre fuels such conjecture.

The Dominion's claim on Rivermond reached an all time high during the the year 600. They wanted the Church to be the one and only faith in Rivermond where faith was free for any man. One by one the Barons opened their arms to the Church and the people began to suffer for it, It was then a Knightly Order rose up in defense for the people and their country. The Order of the Grail Knights, they stood firm against the Church and became a symbol of hope for the commonfolk. The fighting between the Order and the Dominion lasted nearly half a decade. The Dominion moved a large force across the border in attempt to put an end to all the revolts, it was then the Order met its end when they led a charge against the Dominion army led by the Dominus Chain themselves.  

The fall of Vindrik, once a flourishing city of arcane knowledge and noble heritage, remains a haunting chapter in Rivermond's history. In the year 620 of the fourth age, tensions between the Arcane Collegium and the Dominion Church erupted into a cataclysmic conflict. Led by the formidable necromancer Xandrik, who fiercely defended his home against the Church's encroachment, Vindrik became a battleground of arcane might and religious zeal. Whether through unleashed magics or orchestrated calamities, the city was devastated, its proud towers reduced to rubble. What remained was Highmarsh, a cursed expanse of haunted swamps and crumbling ruins, where ghouls, spirits, and darker entities now reign. The Dominion Church, fearing the malevolent presence, declared the area forbidden, leaving Vindrik's legacy to fade into fearful folklore—a stark reminder of the perils of power unchecked and the enduring shadows cast by a city lost to darkness.

Orders from the Rivermond Capital urged the Barons to assemble their Knights and troops to fortify the border along the Khein Dynasty. Word from the Church told them about a possible invasion. The Knights of Bellmond charged across the border in hope of demoralize the enemy forces however they charged straight into a well defended war camp, the charge was stopped in an instant and the fighting continued on foot. The losses were heavy on both sides however only a handful of Knights managed to return home. It was a major blow to the Baron of Bellmond, It has since split the relation between the Baron and his son.