Eltia  

WARNING: This world is deeply D&D-inspired but with my own take and world. There’s a lot of lore and story to read through.

“Aye… listen well, adventurer.Before the stars ever took their place in the heavens, there was naught but fire and ice. Two forces, ancient and stubborn, driftin’ through the void, each tryin’ to outlast the other. For an age they danced — raged, really — ’til they stumbled upon a world bare and still. A land untouched, with no breath, no heart, no soul. Eltia.Now, the Ice, she was calm — didn’t fancy ruinin’ such quiet beauty. But the Fire? Hah… that one burned with want. He wished to shape somethin’, to see it move, to see it live.And so, when their quarrel reached its fiercest flame, mankind was born.Foolish lot we were, worshippin’ the very ones who couldn’t agree on our fate. Flame and Frost, the First Brethren, grew jealous of one another, and their rivalry tore the world asunder.From the scars of their feud, life spilled forth in all its strange and twisted forms.There came the ogres of the Untamed Wilds, strong as the mountains they roam. The proud elves of the Rimerian Dominion, who fancy themselves the children of starlight. The kobolds of the Halara Plains, sly scavengers with more wit than sense. The golden dragons of the Bahmuth Peaks, who sleep beneath storms older than time itself.But aye, there was more still. The kitsune of the Tsuyori Archipelago, southward beyond the Sapphire Sea, where the sun rises red as blood. The vampires and werewolves of the Northern Highlands, children of the lost kingdom of Varelmor, who stalk the snow and whisper to the stupid ol’ moon.The beastfolk of the Damaric Wastes, enduring and wild, forged by the harsh deserts and untamed lands. And lastly, the dwarves of the Pillar Mountains in the east, deepfolk who carved their halls from the bones of Velkin itself.That’s how Eltia came to be — wild and wondrous, without a master to chain it. The gods turned their gaze elsewhere, tired o’ the mess they’d made. Left us to fend for ourselves.But… their power, it didn’t fade, not truly. It lingers — waitin’, whisperin’ to those who dare to listen. They say one day, someone’ll rise — someone not quite man, not quite god — and bend all this chaos to their will.Heh… maybe it’s nonsense. Maybe it’s prophecy.But tell me, youngin’…Are you the one Eltia’s been waitin’ for… or just another soul passin’ through?”

King Valenor Helior IV is a 52-year-old human ruler whose short blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and commanding presence define his image as Solgard’s powerful monarch. Handsome, proud, and fiercely ambitious, he governs with an iron sense of justice sharpened by strategic foresight. Though he never married, his lineage is secure through several children, including Crown Prince Avandri.

King Raegar Vazthar is a 49-year-old lionkin king of Kuram, towering with a golden mane, blue eyes, and a warrior’s build. Stern and vigilant, he embodies the harsh resolve of the desert nation, ruling with unwavering discipline while bearing the weight of constant threats against his people.

King Durrin Thusunder III, at 145 years old, rules the Dwarven Kingdom with thick red hair, steady gray eyes, and a powerful frame carved by leadership. Wise and authoritative, he commands loyalty with quiet certainty. Brother to Bramdor and son of Khram, he carries the shadow of his brother’s imprisonment and escape, knowing old secrets still echo beneath the mountains.

King Ardyn Kalorne is a 268-year-old vampire sovereign with sleek black hair, blood-red eyes, and an aura of cold authority. Patient, calculating, and elegant in power, he governs Varelmor through shadows and influence, guiding the Blood Sigil’s unseen machinations while concealing deeper ambitions.

King Elisar Vanyrion, 967 years old, rules Elmar with timeless grace — long blonde hair, deep green eyes, and a diplomat’s calm. Patient and thoughtful, he carries centuries of wisdom, striving always to hold his realm steady against tides both mortal and divine.

Queen Aelindra Vanyrion, at 1,012 years old, exudes quiet power with golden-streaked hair and luminous green eyes. Protective and strategically minded, she watches the wider world carefully, guarding Elmar not only with politics, but with secrets known only to the ruling line.

Varkan, a 44-year-old werewolf with amber eyes and scar-marked skin, carries deep grief from surviving the Fenvarr tribe massacre. Reserved and wary, he trusts few — yet for those who win his loyalty, he becomes a relentless shield.

Warden Garruk Thane is a 46-year-old human with cropped black hair, cold gray eyes, and scars earned through brutal service. As the implacable ruler of Gullow Prison, he enforces the law with ruthless precision, believing mercy only breeds weakness.

Rurik Ironhand, a 137-year-old dwarf and Guildmaster of the Forgemasters, carries coal-black hair streaked with gray, golden eyes, and the ever-present hammer at his side. Devoted to tradition, exacting in craft, and unyielding in discipline, he is the living heart of dwarven smithing culture.

Jorvak Stonefist is a 142-year-old dwarf whose braided gray beard, hardened eyes, and sheer strength tell the story of a warrior forged in endless battles. Stoic and disciplined, he stands as a living bastion, respected by those who march beside him and feared by those who oppose him.

Captain Therin, a 35-year-old Solgardian naval officer, stands with neat brown hair, sharp eyes, and a soldier’s posture that never falters. Loyal and pragmatic, he commands the Whaling Beauty with calm confidence, balancing duty to crown and care for crew.

Kerna is a 140-year-old witch residing within Gullow Prison, her white hair tangled around piercing green eyes that see far more than she reveals. Subtle, manipulative, and deeply secretive, she wields knowledge as her sharpest spell, bending events without ever appearing to touch them.

Crown Prince Azrael Kalorne, 120 years old, wears his nobility like armor — jet-black hair, crimson eyes, and a poised, dangerous charm. Ambitious and cunning, he despises his siblings and quietly plots to dismantle the Blood Sigil itself, seeking to redefine power within Varelmor on his own terms.

Captain Loriel, a 127-year-old elven guardian, keeps short silver hair and piercing blue eyes fixed on threats before they ever arrive. Disciplined and unwavering, he serves as the royal family’s chief protector, devoting every breath to their safety.

Drake, a 27-year-old tiefling prisoner, bears red skin, small horns, anxious white eyes, and the haunted demeanor of someone constantly bracing for danger. Bound in fearful service to House Tiatemrend, he struggles to find any sense of identity beyond obedience and survival.

High Priestess Hiyame is a 152-year-old kitsune leader whose serene violet eyes and flowing brown hair carry authority without needing force. Protective, wise, and unwavering, she guides Phia’s remaining faithful, preserving its spiritual heritage while defending those who still seek refuge there.

Captain Raiden Blacktide is a 34-year-old human pirate captain of the Dread’or, his wind-tossed dark hair, tanned skin, and ocean-blue eyes matched by reckless charisma. Daring and clever, he thrives in danger, turning chaos itself into opportunity.

Mori, once a mortal scholar and now an ageless lich, hides cold intelligence behind skeletal features and empty eyes. Centuries of forbidden study made him the unseen “King of Assassins,” architect of conspiracies, wars, and thefts across Velkin. Traveling beside Raiden Blacktide toward Phia in pursuit of the Firicien Relic, he remains calm, pragmatic, and endlessly manipulative — a mastermind who rarely reveals his true purpose.

⸺  Party Member

Jharvek is thoughtful, introspective, and careful. He approaches the world with curiosity and a desire to understand. And his mind is sharp, but he struggles with self-doubt, particularly when it comes to his orcish heritage and how others perceive him.Socially, Jharvek is awkward and reserved, often uncomfortable in large groups or situations that demand confidence. He speaks bluntly when pushed, though usually in a quiet, hesitant tone, and tends to avoid confrontation unless necessary.Despite this, he is fiercely dedicated to his work, his studies, and the few he trusts, approaching problems with methodical patience rather than recklessness.Beneath the quiet, careful exterior lies a stubborn streak — once Jharvek commits to a path or idea, he pursues it relentlessly. While he may struggle with confidence, he carries a deep empathy for others who are misunderstood or marginalized, standing beside those who cannot stand for themselves.Adventure, for him, is both a challenge and a chance to prove that the life he carved from shadows and prejudice has meaning, and that he is capable of leaving a mark on the world.

⸺  Appearance

Jharvek stands at 6'3", his frame tall and lean, more wiry than muscular. His greenish skin carries the faint markings of his orc heritage.Short silver hair is partially slicked back, though a few bangs fall over his forehead, giving him a slightly disheveled, thoughtful look.His red eyes are sharp and observant, though they often betray a hint of unease or insecurity when facing unfamiliar crowds. His facial features are a mix of human refinement and orcish strength — high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a jawline that hints at inherited power without being imposing with tusks protruding from his mouth.Jharvek favors practical, modest clothing suited for travel and study: a white tunic under a long, weathered coat with multiple pockets for scrolls and tools, sturdy trousers, and worn boots. A small satchel hangs across his shoulder, containing notebooks, quills, and alchemical trinkets.

⸺  Background

Jharvek was born in the crowded, grimy streets of Solgard’s undercity, the son of a minor nobleman who seldom acknowledged him and an orcish woman who worked in a bustling brothel.The circumstances of his birth were whispered about, marked by scandal and social prejudice, and the boy grew up knowing that his very existence was a point of shame for some and a source of curiosity for others.From the beginning, Jharvek learned to navigate two worlds at once: the harsh, survival-driven life of the undercity, and the distant, rigid expectations of noble society, neither of which truly welcomed him.Bullied for his orcish heritage and the telltale green of his skin, he grew introverted, quiet, and self-reflective, but also resilient. However, he found solace in books, scribbling in scraps of parchment, and experimenting with magic, where he could shape the world according to his own rules rather than those imposed by others.His natural intelligence and determination did not go unnoticed, however, and by his twenties, he had earned admittance to Solgard’s prestigious school — a place meant for nobles, scholars, and the magically gifted.Entering the academy as an older student, Jharvek faced new challenges. He was surrounded by peers who were far younger but more socially confident.But, he then excelled academically, immersing himself in studies of arcane theory, flora and fauna, and the mysteries of magic in the post-Phia world, but he never fully escaped the feeling of being an outsider.Now in his final year, Jharvek was tasked with a personal project — to define the meaning of life as he understood it. The assignment became more than a school task; it became a journey of self-reflection.He wandered Solgard’s streets, observing the ordinary and extraordinary lives of its citizens, recording their stories, their triumphs and failures, and the subtle ways magic and nature shaped their existence.It was during these wanderings that he stumbled upon the Solgard Adventurer’s Guild, just as they were recruiting for a dangerous expedition near Gullow Prison.With little hesitation, Jharvek joined. Here, alongside Aerian, Grusk, Briella, Dáire, Selvara, and you, he found himself part of something larger than his past, drawn into a journey that would test not only his intellect and magical skill, but his courage, self-confidence, and the very way he saw himself in a world still wary of what he was.

⸺  Party Member

Selvara is calm and deliberately restrained. She speaks softly and sparingly, her words chosen with care.Years of noble expectation and covert survival have left her wary of trust. Selvara assumes people have layers, agendas, and masks — often because she does herself.Despite her secrecy, she is not unkind. Selvara holds a quiet sympathy for those trapped by obligation or power, and music remains the one place where her guarded nature softens.Through song, she allows fragments of herself to surface — regret, longing, defiance — emotions she otherwise keeps carefully buried.

⸺  Appearance

Selvara stands at roughly 6'2", her frame slender and graceful, moving with effortless poise.Her skin is porcelain-pale, untouched by sun, giving her an ethereal, almost statuesque quality.Her long black hair falls straight and smooth, often partially braided or tucked behind one ear and her red eyes are keen and calculating.She wears layered, travel-ready clothing in deep tones of charcoal, plum, and crimson, paired with soft leather boots, a hooded cloak, and a signature black feathered hat that tilts jauntily to one side, both stylish and practical for concealing her identity. Subtle silver jewelry —rings, thin chains, or a single ear cuff — hints at noble craftsmanship.

⸺  Background

Selvara was born in the Kingdom of Varelmor during the waning years of a stable but quietly rotting peace, into one of the lesser noble houses whose influence rested more in whispered alliances than open power. Her family — House Dravenkhal — was old, patient, and dangerously observant, known for surviving political shifts that destroyed louder, prouder bloodlines.Her early life was one of refinement rather than warmth. Tutors instructed her in history, rhetoric, etiquette, music, and languages, while her household emphasized restraint. Music, however, was the one indulgence she was permitted without reservation. Selvara proved gifted with voice and string alike, her performances praised not for flamboyance but for their unsettling ability to linger.As she grew older, the expectations tightened.By the time Selvara reached her twentieth year, House Dravenkhal had arranged her marriage into another Vareeli noble family.On the eve of her formal betrothal announcement, Selvara vanished without word. And over time, even the rumors quieted. Selvara became a closed chapter in Varelmor’s long memory.For years afterward, she existed nowhere and everywhere.She resurfaced gradually under false names fifty years ago, traveling Velkin as a bard — performing in taverns, caravans, noble courts, ports, and ruined towns.She listened far more than she spoke, learned how people talked when they believed no one important was paying attention, and discovered how easily stories revealed truths when wrapped in music.During this period, Selvara was approached by The Secret Order. And she became an observer, a messenger, and a collector of truths others preferred buried.For many years, Selvara traveled on the Order’s behalf, feeding them intelligence from across Velkin. She passed through Solgardian courts, Damaric ports, elven territories, and contested borderlands, tracking movements of factions, cults, and relic hunters. Her work was rarely dramatic, but always necessary — preventing catastrophes before they could be named.Then Phia began to fracture.Selvara was already nearby when the first destruction of the Kingdom of Phia occurred in 1277. Something fundamental had shifted and forces once restrained were acting openly, and truths long suppressed were bleeding into the world.It was after Phia’s fall that Selvara began to distance herself from the Order.By the time she crossed paths with the Solgard Adventurer’s Guild, Selvara was operating independently.Now traveling alongside Aerian, Grusk, Briella, Dáire, Jharvek, and you, Selvara remains an enigma even among allies.

⸺  Party Member

Dáire is calm, patient, and contemplative, the kind of presence that draws others to him when storms rage or tempers flare. He speaks thoughtfully, preferring observation over hasty action, and often notices details others overlook.Though he is gentle by nature, he is quietly steadfast, willing to stand his ground when the wild or his companions are threatened.Curiosity is the core of his being; every forest, every creature, every ancient ruin is an open book waiting for him to understand. Yet his knowledge comes with naivety — the world beyond his home is often confusing, chaotic, and cruel, and Dáire struggles with its deceit, politics, and greed.He trusts slowly and rarely assumes malice, though he is cautious with strangers, and his empathy sometimes leads him to put the welfare of creatures and companions above his own.

⸺  Appearance

Dáire stands at an imposing 7’5”, his tall, lean frame giving him a natural presence. His blue-gray skin is smooth and subtly mottled, with a reddish, bovine-like nose and high cheekbones that give his face a scholarly, gentle appearance.Long reddish hair tumbles untamed across his shoulders, often falling over his left eye, and down past his shoulders. His eyes, a deep amber, are sharp and observant.He favors scholar’s robes and tunics — layered linen and leather in muted greens, browns, and grays, with sturdy boots and gloves for forest travel. A utility belt slung low carries pouches for scrolls, field journals, vials, and small tools for studying flora and fauna. He also wears several golden earrings on both ears purely for aesthetic.Despite his towering height and broad shoulders, his movements are careful, precise, and deliberate.

⸺  Background

Dáire Mossroot was born deep within the magical Eastern Lands, in a remote firbolg enclave cradled by ancient forests where the trees seemed older than memory itself.From the moment he could walk, he moved among towering trunks and whispering leaves, absorbing the songs of the wind and the murmurs of the wild.His early years were steeped in curiosity and study, not of human politics or conquest, but of the delicate balance of nature — the habits of beasts, the growth of flora, and the rhythms of the seasons.Unlike other firbolgs of his home, who remained content within their sacred groves, Dáire possessed a hunger to see the world beyond, to understand forests and wildlife in all their forms, and to bring that knowledge back to preserve the lands he loved.Even as he grew taller than many elders — he remained gentle and thoughtful, a scholar rather than a warrior. His kin encouraged tradition, ritual, and reclusion, yet Dáire could not ignore the creeping threats that encroached on distant forests: deforestation, corruption, and unknown magics bleeding into the wild.When he reached maturity, he left his homeland, traveling across seas and mountains, eventually arriving on Velkin. His purpose was clear: to study the untamed wilderness, catalog its creatures, and learn from its hidden truths, all in the hope of one day saving his forest from irrevocable ruin.It was in Solgard that Dáire found allies in the Adventurer’s Guild, a place where his knowledge and wisdom were valued alongside strength and courage.Among Aerian, Grusk, Briella, Selvara, Jharvek, and you, he now ventures toward the Northern Highlands near Gullow Prison, prepared to confront ancient spirits, awakenings older than kingdoms, and mysteries that no textbook or ritual could have prepared him for.Though he is far from home, Dáire’s heart remains rooted in the forests of the Eastern Lands, guiding every decision, every step, and every choice he makes that could perhaps one day save his home.

⸺  Party Member

Briella is bold, stubborn, and fiercely independent. She has a sharp tongue and a quick wit, often using humor and sarcasm to deflect tension or assert herself in moments of conflict.She thrives on freedom and ingenuity, taking pride in her marksmanship, clever thinking, and ability to improvise under pressure.Despite her cheeky and brash demeanor, Briella is loyal to those she trusts, protective of her friends, and surprisingly insightful when reading motives or danger.She enjoys a challenge, whether in combat, games of skill, or solving problems others deem impossible — yet she also keeps certain parts of herself, including her connection to House Ironvein and any regrets about leaving, carefully hidden.She’s impatient with needless formality, rigid rules, or people who underestimate her due to her age, appearance, or gender, and her stubbornness can sometimes get her into trouble.

⸺  Appearance

Briella stands at 3’9”, compact and nimble, built for speed and precision.Her long, straight reddish hair tumbles past her shoulders, often loosely tied or left untamed, with a few strands framing her freckled, fair-skinned face and her gray eyes are sharp and mischievous.She wears a long, worn coat that flares slightly at the hem, brown trousers suited for travel, and a messy white blouse or tunic tucked in.A sturdy utility belt rests at her hips, holding her firearms, ammunition, and other tools of her trade. Worn boots and fingerless gloves complete her look, giving her an appearance both adventurous and unconstrained by dwarven convention.

⸺  Background

Briella Ironvein was born within the hallowed halls of the Dwarven Kingdom, daughter to King Bramdor himself. Her childhood was one of expectations and watchful eyes, where every word and action was measured against the traditions of her people.Though from a young age, Briella showed a restless spark that never suited the rigid conventions of her people. While her peers were trained in forging, swordsmanship, and ancestral rituals, she was drawn instead to firearms — devices considered strange, impractical, or even frivolous by traditional dwarves.Her uncanny skill with these weapons earned both astonishment and scorn, the latter from family members who saw her interest as a slight against dwarven pride.The constant scrutiny, teasing, and political maneuvering left Briella restless. She grew cheeky and clever, learning to hide her true thoughts behind a smirk or a sarcastic retort.She began sneaking out to test her marksmanship in the forests and caverns near the Pillar Mountains, honing her aim and learning how to think on her feet.By the time she reached her twenty-ninth year, the pressure of expectation, ridicule, and political obligation became unbearable. She left home without word, taking only her firearms and some provisions. She set out into the wider world, determined to prove that skill, ingenuity, and stubborn resolve mattered more than lineage or tradition.Joining the Solgard Adventurer’s Guild, Briella finally found a place where her talents were measured by ability rather than birthright. Her quick reflexes, precise aim, and sharp tongue earned her respect among companions who valued skill over status.She learned to work as part of a team, even if her independence and mischievous streak sometimes clashed with others.Now, alongside Aerian, Grusk, Dáire, Selvara, Jharvek, and you, Briella ventures toward the mountains near Gullow Prison.Yet, unbeknownst to her, her family and House Ironvein continue to search for her, torn between fear, pride, and the hope that their daughter might one day return — a shadow of obligation that she has long since left behind.

⸺  Party Member

Grusk is stoic, blunt, and quietly formidable. He trusts few and cares even less for pretense or politicking, reserving loyalty primarily for his sister and himself, though his dry humor surfaces unexpectedly in the right company.Pragmatic and cautious, he approaches the world with skepticism, relying on strength, instinct, and experience rather than hope or sentiment.Beneath his imposing exterior, Grusk is unpracticed in subtlety and diplomacy, often misunderstanding or dismissing social cues. Fiercely protective of his sister and willing to endure hardship for her sake, he now stands alongside a strange group of companions, testing both his strength and the rare trust he grants to those around him.

⸺  Appearance

Grusk stands at a towering 7’2”, his broad frame built for endurance and force, each movement deliberate and controlled.His reddish-brown fur is thick and coarse, slightly matted in places from years of travel and battle, his fair-ish complexion giving him a rugged, wild air despite his disciplined demeanor.His face is angular and sharp, marked by a few faint scars that hint at past conflicts, and his piercing blue eyes carry both intensity and calculation. Large, rounded goblin-like ears twitch at the slightest sound, and his hands are massive, calloused, and capable of crushing stone with ease.Grusk favors practical leather armor reinforced with iron bands, allowing freedom of movement while providing protection for the most dangerous encounters. Worn boots and fingerless gloves to complete his look.

⸺  Background

Grusk Juzh was born deep within the Untamed Wilds, among a scattered bugbear enclave that survived not through banners or kings, but through strength, caution, and shared blood.His people lived between old ruins and choking forests, where spirits prowled freely and the land itself seemed eager to test the unprepared. From an early age, Grusk learned that survival was not earned by cruelty alone, but by knowing when to stand firm and when to shield those smaller than yourself.He was not raised to lead. He was raised to endure. Grusk grew into his towering frame quickly. While others fought to prove dominance, Grusk fought only when he had to, often placing himself between danger and his younger sister, Zura, the one soft constant in a world that offered little mercyShe was born frail in a land that devoured the weak, and from the moment Grusk understood what that meant, his life quietly became hers.When sickness took hold of Zura — a wasting illness tied to corrupted spirits and poisoned waters — the enclave could offer nothing but old remedies and prayers long abandoned. Grusk watched her grow weaker with each passing season, until desperation outweighed tradition.Leaving the Untamed Wilds was considered betrayal by some, weakness by others, but Grusk left anyway, carrying shame as readily as hope.The wider world was harsher in different ways. In Solgard and its surrounding lands, Grusk was seen first as a monster, then as a weapon. He sold his strength where he could — in pit fights, caravan guard work, and brutal short-term contracts that left his body scarred and his coin heavy. And it was during this time, he earned the nickname, Grusk the Crusher.Yet every copper he earned was measured against one thought alone: how much longer it might buy his sister’s life.It was the Solgard Adventurer’s Guild that finally offered him something resembling dignity. They asked not only what he could break, but what he could protect. Within the guild, Grusk found structure, purpose, and coin that did not reek of bloodsport.He learned to fight with discipline rather than rage, to trust companions who did not flinch at his size.When word spread of disturbances near Gullow Prison — of spirits displaced, of mountains crying out with something ancient and wrong — Grusk volunteered without hesitation. Dangerous work paid well, and ancient threats often carried ancient solutions. If there was even a chance that what stirred in the mountains could save his sister, or doom her faster, he needed to know.Standing alongside Aerian, Briella, Dáire, Selvara, Jharvek, and you, he now faces dangers far greater than he ever imagined, fighting not only for the unknown, but for the hope of buying time for his sister, and perhaps, a future for himself.

⸺  Party Member

Aerian is calm, observant, and carefully composed, carrying the bearing of someone raised among power yet unwilling to wield it lightly. He speaks with precision rather than force, listens more than he talks, and studies people the way others study maps.Curiosity drives him, especially toward magic, relics, and the truths buried beneath post-Phia doctrine, but he approaches such things with caution rather than zeal.Authority without understanding unsettles him, and blind faith even more so; while he does not reject belief outright, he resists any power that demands obedience without explanation.Beneath that measured exterior, however, Aerian is strikingly inexperienced with the practical world.Removed from courtly isolation only recently, he can be clumsy, socially awkward, and occasionally naïve in matters of travel, danger, and common life.Loyal to those who earn his trust and instinctively protective despite himself, Aerian stands at the crossroads between who he was shaped to become and who he is struggling to define on his own terms.

⸺  Appearance

Aerian stands at about 6'0", his build lean rather than imposing, with the posture of someone trained to stand straight even when uncertain of his footing.His skin is pale and unmarked, untouched by long travel or hard labor, betraying a life once spent indoors among stone halls and candlelit studies rather than open roads.Short, curly black hair frames his face in a way that is perpetually slightly unkempt, as if he is never quite aware of when it needs trimming, and his teal eyes are sharp and searching, often lingering too long as he studies his surroundings or the people around him.He dresses in modest, well-made travel clothes — dark trousers, a fitted white tunic, a reinforced cloak, and boots.In motion, Aerian is composed but awkward, occasionally misjudging his step or catching on loose straps, his calm expression often betraying none of the small, human clumsiness that marks him as new to the world beyond Solgard’s walls.

⸺  Background

Aerian Walpurgis was born within the fortified ducal estate of House Walpurgis in the Kingdom of Solgard, eight years after the fall of Phia. He entered a world already scarred by divine catastrophe, where faith was watched carefully, magic was measured with suspicion, and every noble child was raised not only to rule — but to prevent history from repeating itself.From his first breath, Aerian was heir to a house shaped by vigilance rather than hope. His early childhood was one of refinement and isolation. Tutors replaced playmates, and lessons came long before laughter.The name Walpurgis carried weight in Solgard — an old house trusted by the Crown to enforce order when uncertainty threatened to take root.Aerian learned early that his future was not meant to be chosen, only fulfilled. Yet even as a boy, Aerian possessed a quiet sharpness that unsettled his instructors and his family.When his thaumaturgic talents first manifested — subtle distortions of ritual, instinctive reactions to arcane pressure — they were met with both pride and restraint. Magic was permitted in Solgard, but only within sanctioned boundaries, and Aerian’s gift did not always obey instruction.It reacted to truth, tension, and intent, rather than incantation alone.As he grew, the shadow of Phia loomed larger. Stories of the lost kingdom were ever-present. Aerian was taught that faith unchecked invited ruin, that relics were weapons, and that the gods themselves were forces to be respected, studied, and never trusted blindly.While others absorbed these lessons as law, Aerian absorbed them as questions.In his adolescence, the walls around him closed tighter. His education narrowed, his movements monitored, and his future arranged with clinical precision.Marriage contracts were drafted, political obligations outlined, and his role as ducal heir cemented as one of controlled authority. What curiosity he had for pre-Phia history, ancient thaumaturgy, or unsanctioned relic theory was discouraged heavily by his father.The breaking point came not with rebellion, but with realization. Aerian discovered that his studies were no longer meant to teach him, but to shape him into a compliant instrument of Solgard’s new order.His magic, his mind, even his name were assets to be managed. To remain was to disappear into expectation.So he left.At twenty-two, Aerian vanished from his family’s reach, abandoning title, inheritance, and protection. He concealed his lineage and entered the Solgard Adventurer’s Guild — one of the last institutions where blood mattered less than capability.There, stripped of privilege, he found purpose in hardship. His noble bearing remained, but it was tempered by risk, failure, and shared danger. Among sellswords, scholars, and wanderers, Aerian learned what Solgard had never taught him: how power feels when it must be earned.When reports surfaced of a disturbance near Gullow Prison — of displaced spirits, ancient roars echoing through the mountains, and something stirring that predated both crown and creed — Aerian volunteered without hesitation.The mission promised danger, answers, and distance from the path laid before him at birth.Now, standing at the threshold of the unknown, Aerian walks with a group of unlikely part members such as a firbolg, bugbear, dwarf, vampire, half-orc, and you.

⸺  Party Member

Dahlia does not rush, does not argue loudly, and does not seek to impose her will — because she does not need to. Her authority comes from knowing when to speak and, more importantly, when not to.Age has softened neither her mind nor her resolve. She is patient, observant, and deeply perceptive, reading people the way others read books, finding meaning in pauses, gestures, and what is left unsaid.Her faith is not blind devotion. Dahlia listens to her God Byphari, but she also questions them. She understands that prophecy is not a chain but a current — something to be navigated, not obeyed without thought.Despite the weight she carries, Dahlia is not humorless. Dry wit and quiet sarcasm surface when least expected, especially in moments of tension. She has buried too many loved ones to waste time pretending the world is kinder than it is, yet she still believes it is worth protecting.Dahlia knows her time is finite. That knowledge does not frighten her. It only sharpens her purpose.

⸺  Appearance

Dahlia stands at roughly 5'3", her frame slight and weathered, her posture gently bent by age but never weak.Her skin is fair yet sun-warmed, carrying a soft golden-tan glow shaped by decades beneath desert skies and long roads.Her hair falls in loose curls and soft waves, worn long despite her age. Most of it has faded to a dignified gray, but streaks of deep, rust-red remain woven through it like lingering fire beneath ash. Uneven fringes frame her face, often escaping whatever tie or braid she uses, giving her a perpetually windswept, road-worn appearance.Dahlia dresses in layered, practical robes and shawls suited for travel, dusted in muted tones of sand, clay, and smoke.She moves slowly and carefully, yet when she does act, there is no hesitation, only certainty.

⸺  Background

Dahlia was born in the Damaric Wastes and from the beginning, she moved through life with a quiet authority — eyes sharp, senses keener than most. Even as a child, she could read the subtle signs in wind, sand, and shadow, noticing omens that others could not perceive.Her mother, once a devoted follower of Byphari, recognized this gift and taught her to listen carefully and take whatever the god offers.Life in the desert was unforgiving and Dahlia had to learn early how to survive. So by her twenties, her visions became undeniable for she foresaw droughts, raids, and deaths with startling clarity, sometimes warning her people in time to save them, sometimes arriving too late to prevent tragedy.The desert’s harsh lessons tempered her gift, teaching her that foresight could guide, but not control, the world.Her life turned darker at thirty-five, when marauders destroyed her village. She survived, but the attack left her wary, hardened, and aware of the fragile balance between fate and free will.For decades, she wandered, studying ancient ruins, consulting forgotten sages, and expanding her understanding of the world and its hidden forces.She became known among distant communities across the wastes as the Ember-Seer, a woman whose insight could predict the future.In her later years, her dreams and visions grew more urgent. They spoke of divine movements, of cities falling, of powers shifting in ways that threatened all of Eltia.The god then voiced to her that the fate of Eltia depended upon a group of individuals yet unknown to Dahlia, and that she was to find them, guide them, and ensure they remained alive.When the destruction of Phia shook the world, the warning became immediate and it became evident to the seer that it was time.Following the guidance of her goddess, Dahlia left her desert home and traveled west towards Solgard.It was there, among the displaced and the refugees, that she found the others: Kennak, Phorbas, Nysara, Aethon… and you. Each carried a weight of destiny that her visions had foretold, each necessary for the future Byphari sought to protect.Now, at seventy years of age, Dahlia is more than a seer. But above all, she walks with the knowledge that her mission is sacred: these companions are the key to Eltia’s fate, and she will follow them, teach them, and protect them, even when the winds of destiny threaten to tear the world apart.Even when it comes time for her to go with the wind themselves.

⸺  Party Member

Aethon is reserved to the point of austerity. He speaks rarely, and when he does, his words are measured, precise, and stripped of excess.Cold and distant on the surface, Aethon carries himself with controlled discipline, the result of centuries-old shame inherited through culture rather than blood. He does not seek forgiveness, nor does he deny the crimes of his people. The betrayal of Vaeluna is not something he defends — it is something he endures.Loyalty, once given, is absolute, though rarely spoken aloud. Aethon will stand beside those he chooses without praise or reassurance, offering protection through action rather than words. To him, companionship is proven in endurance, not sentiment.He does not believe the gods are owed devotion — only accountability. And if fate demands redemption, Aethon intends to decide its terms himself.

⸺  Appearance

Aethon stands at 6'4", his dark elven frame tall and lean. His skin is a smooth, fairish silver — not reflective, but pale enough to seem almost lifeless in dim light.His hair is stark black, worn long and kept deliberately unadorned.Aethon dresses in dark, practical garments suited for travel and combat. There are no sigils of Vaeluna, no remnants of elven reverence.There is an unsettling stillness to him. Even at rest, he appears alert, as though he never fully relaxes — a man shaped by exile, vigilance, and memory that refuses to fade.

⸺  Background

Aethon was born on the Isles of the Deadflow, where wind and sea lash cliffs dotted with ruins of a past long mourned. His father was a rogue dark elf and his mother, a pure elf that descended from the royal line of the Kingdom of Elmar, had abandoned her homeland for love, leaving her lineage behind to join him in the shadows.From this union, Aethon was born — a child of exile, cherished by parents who loved him fiercely and fiercely protected him from the dangers of the world.The Isles were harsh, and life among the exiled dark elves harder still. Aethon learned early that cunning, patience, and precision were as essential as breath itself.For over two centuries, Aethon lived in relative safety, learning the traditions of his people, exploring ruins, and collecting fragments of hidden knowledge. That peace ended when he was two hundred fifty-four years old. Elven forces — soldiers of the Rimerian Dominion — discovered a hidden stronghold of the dark elves on the Isles and struck without mercy.His parents were slain. Many of his people were destroyed or scattered. For Aethon, the attack was no mere battle; it was a betrayal by the very blood that had once claimed him.Alone and hunted, he fled. Years passed in hiding, until he found guidance from an unlikely mentor — an ancient dragon dwelling in the remote mountains near Gullow Prison. Under its tutelage, he learned the deeper arts of magic and destruction, blending spell and steel into a lethal, precise craft.By the time he emerged from training, Aethon was three hundred fifty-two years old, a dark elf tempered into a weapon. His mind was sharp, his body disciplined, and his magic deadly. And his aim was clear: vengeance upon the Rimerian Dominion and the High Elven Council that had orchestrated his people’s slaughter.And yet, the world had other plans.On his journey on the open seas, the destruction of Phia upended everything. Refugees poured south, and Aethon found himself outside Solgard, drawn into a conflict he had not anticipated. It was there, among the displaced and the desperate, that he encountered Nysara, Phorbas, Kennak, Dahlia, and you — strangers with motives as dangerous and determined as his own.Now, Aethon walks a narrow path between vengeance and necessity, his hatred for the elves of Elmar driving him forward, even as the movements of the pantheons and the destruction of Phia pull him into a greater story — one that promises revelations, power, and reckoning.And perhaps to learn that the elves were perhaps a part of a bigger conspiracy than he ever thought.

⸺  Party Member

Nysara is observant, patient, and always several steps ahead, preferring preparation over improvisation and subtlety over spectacle.Cool-headed and pragmatic, she rarely allows emotion to dictate her actions. Mercy, cruelty, and loyalty are tools to her, weighed carefully before being applied. If a situation must be resolved decisively, she will do so without hesitation or regret.Trust does not come easily to her, but once earned, it is unwavering. She values competence above words and respects those who prove themselves through action rather than promise.Beneath the controlled exterior lies a relentless drive shaped by survival and service. Nysara does not believe in destiny, but she understands leverage — and if the fate of Eltia can be influenced through careful hands and sharper claws, she will be the one to hold them.

⸺  Appearance

Nysara stands at 5'7", her tabaxi frame lean, athletic, and built for speed. Her fur is a deep, matte black, absorbing light rather than reflecting it.Her eyes are a vivid emerald green. A faint scar traces the edge of her jaw, subtle and deliberate, never explained.She wears fitted, practical attire designed for stealth and adaptability. Everything she carries has a purpose, and nothing is ornamental.When she stands still, she blends into darkness with ease. When she moves, it is with quiet certainty — like a blade sliding free of its sheath.

⸺  Background

Nysara was born in the lowest quarters of the Kingdom of Kuram. In the slums, survival was not a lesson taught — it was an expectation. Her parents were present in name only, unreliable figures who drifted in and out of her life, leaving her to fend for herself.She learned to steal before she learned to read faces, to run before she learned when to fight. Kuram was a kingdom that rewarded strength and punished weakness without apology, and by the time Nysara reached her fourth year in this world, she had already accumulated more enemies than allies.It was a guard that finally ended her freedom.Caught in the act and dragged before the city’s justice, she was given the same choice all in Kuram eventually face when their usefulness is questioned. Serve a noble household for life, stripped of name and will, or enter the arena and fight until either coin or blood decided her worth. Obviously, she chose the arena.The handlers laughed at first. A four-year-old tabaxi, lean and defiant, barely worth the chains they locked around her wrists. They expected a spectacle that would end quickly and quietly. What they did not account for was her mind.Nysara did not fight fairly. She fought cleverly and by the time she was nine, she had climbed higher than any of the pit’s masters had intended. That was when the sponsorship arrived and she was freed.Within days though, Nysara was brought before the King of Kuram himself. There were no illusions offered, no promises of redemption. He spoke to her as one predator to another, telling her plainly that he had not freed her out of kindness, but because she was useful. Kuram did not need another warrior; it needed eyes, claws, and a will unburdened by sentiment.It was that day she became the King’s Hound.Years passed in the shadows and whispered orders. Nysara was trained in tracking, infiltration, assassination, and political maneuvering. She learned to read intent in posture and lies in silence, to move unseen through courts and camps alike. Her loyalty was not born of fear or gratitude, but of clarity — Kuram had given her purpose, and in return, she would ensure its survival by any means necessary.Many years later when news of Phia’s destruction reached Kuram, the king understood immediately what others refused to say aloud — if the pantheons were acting openly again against mortal kingdoms, then Kuram’s relics, its sovereignty, and its people were all potential targets as well.Nysara was then given a sacred mission by him. Her orders were sacred and absolute. Observe the movements of the divine and those who serve them. Assemble assets as needed. Prevent a war with the pantheons if it could be stopped — or ensure Kuram stood ready when it could not.Following the orders and guided by her instincts, Nysara traveled to the Halara Plains, where reports of a dangerous raiding group had drawn her attention. There, hidden among the forests and plains, she found Phorbas — a minotaur whose strength and presence were undeniable, yet whose new, unexplainable power made him unpredictable. Recognizing his potential, she convinced him to leave the Me’amor behind and join her on a path that could shape the fate of Eltia itself.From there, their journey continued west, and it was outside Solgard, among the displaced and the fleeing from Phia’s destruction, that they encountered Kennak, Dahlia, Aethon, and you. Each carried a weight of destiny, each necessary for the mission for her king — and perhaps Eltia too.

⸺  Party Member

Kennak is quiet by choice, not by uncertainty. He speaks rarely, and when he does, his words are measured and precise, never wasted. Cold and intimidating at first glance, Kennak does not seek to unsettle others — it is simply the byproduct of his vigilance.He does not trust easily, particularly not institutions, gods, or traditions that demand obedience without accountability. Though distant, his loyalty, once given, is unyielding. He will stand beside those he chooses without question or hesitation, not out of devotion, but out of shared understanding.To Kennak, the world is not guided by divine will, but by consequences — and he intends to be present when those consequences come due.

⸺  Appearance

Kennak stands tall at roughly 6'6", his presence imposing not through bulk, but through stillness. His frame is lean and disciplined, built for endurance. His skin is fair with a faint, almost metallic warmth beneath it.His eyes are a luminous gold, glowing softly even in low light. His hair is white, worn slightly longer than regulation, neatly parted to the left.He wears simple, functional attire in pale tones — whites, silvers, and muted grays — reinforced where necessary, but never ornate.There is an unmistakable pressure to his presence. Not divine radiance, but something colder — restrained, watchful, as if the power within him has been caged rather than embraced.

⸺  Background

Kennak was born in the secret conclave city of Aserai’th. Among the aasimar, his birth was unremarkable in the way that tradition demanded — another child touched by Rah’s design.His childhood was structured, reverent, and safe. Too safe, some might say. The walls of Aserai’th kept out chaos as much as they kept out truth, and Kennak learned early to feel the distance between himself and the mortal world stretching endlessly beneath the mountainside.He was diligent in his studies, strong of body, and steady of mind — traits that marked him as a likely candidate for the Auric Sentinels long before he reached the age required to begin the path.At fifteen, as tradition demanded, he departed the sky-city to undertake his pilgrimage. It was meant to be a journey of witnessing rather than action, of humility rather than glory. Each initiate was sent to walk the world below, to learn restraint, to understand the weight of power before being entrusted with it. Kennak was to meet a renowned master Sentinel at the journey’s end, one who would guide him back to Aserai’th and formally induct him into the order.He never reached that meeting. What he found instead was a scar upon the world.The settlement that had once stood there — a modest mountain village known to Aserai’th’s records — no longer existed. Kennak wandered the ruins in confusion, his training offering no comfort for what lay before him. It was as though something absolute had reached down and erased the place without hesitation.The Secret Order had been dispatched to the site, drawn by the same disturbance. It was through them that Kennak learned the horrifying truth. The ruin had not been the work of mortals, nor monsters, nor ancient forces newly awakened.It had been divine. Of the damn Pantheons. And for Kennak, something broke in him that day.Not in rage, not in grief alone, but in certainty. Everything he had been taught — the sanctity of divine restraint, the infallibility of celestial order, the idea that the gods acted only through balance and necessity — unraveled in the face of that silent crater. The Secret Order offered him a choice. Return to Aserai’th, forget what he had seen, and allow the weight of doctrine to settle once more upon his shoulders or join the Secret Order.Kennak did not hesitate.He forsook the pilgrimage, the Auric Sentinels, and the life that had been prepared for him since birth. In their place, he took up the mantle of a Warden — not as a servant of gods, but as a watcher of them. The Secret Order trained him not in reverence, but in containment, in decisive action, and in the uncomfortable truth that divinity was not synonymous with justice.Years passed, and the boy from Aserai’th hardened into something quieter and far more dangerous. He learned to fight not with ceremony, but with purpose, his skaldic chants stripped of praise and reshaped into weapons of focus and resolve. His connection to celestial power remained, but it was no longer guided by faith. It answered him because it had to, not because he believed.When news of Phia’s destruction reached the Order, Kennak was dispatched to the outskirts of Solgard. There, his path intersected with Nysara, Phorbas, Aethon, Dahlia, and of course, you — strangers bound by circumstance, yet whose fates seemed tied to the tremors of the pantheon.It was in that convergence that Kennak realized the coming storm required more than his solitary vigilance.

⸺  Party Member

Phorbas is like a battering ram given thought. He is harsh, loud, and unapologetically physical, preferring direct action over debate. He laughs loudly, curses freely, and meets hostility head-on, carrying himself with the confidence of someone who has survived worse than whatever stands in front of him now.Rowdy and intimidating by nature, Phorbas thrives in conflict and pressure, finding comfort in chaos where others falter. He respects strength above all else — not cruelty.Despite his brutish exterior, Phorbas is not reckless. His aggression is measured, his violence purposeful. Years of leading the Me’amor taught him discipline beneath the fury, and though he rarely explains himself, his actions are deliberate.Loyalty, once earned, is absolute. He does not betray, and he does not forget. Companions who fight beside him will find a shield that does not break and a weapon that does not hesitate.
To Phorbas, the path forward is not about redemption or destiny. It is about proving — to himself more than anyone — that no god, king, or fate has the right to decide what he becomes.

⸺  Appearance

Phorbas stands at just over 7 feet tall, his massive minotaur frame built through years of hardship rather than excess. His fur is a deep, dark brown across most of his body, thick and coarse. Around his snout and across his chest, however, the fur fades into a pale, near-white hue.Scars cut through both dark and pale fur alike, etched across his shoulders, chest, and flanks like a record of endured violence.His glowing orange eyes are steady and unsettling. When he speaks, his voice is low and controlled, carrying authority without the need for force. He favors functional armor and layered travel-worn clothing, reinforced leathers and plated segments meant for endurance over display.There remains, however, something faintly unnatural about him. It is subtle, easily missed — but unmistakably present, a reminder that something divine and dangerous now walks within him.

⸺  Background

Phorbas remembers the day the village turned its back on them not as a moment of anger, but as one of quiet finality. He and Vastrag were old enough to understand what the elders were saying, yet far too young to argue against it.Water had grown scarce, herds thinner, and summer winds harsher with every passing season. Their mother was already gone, their father not long after her, and when the elders of the village finished debating the two cursed orphans, they came to a decision. They were led beyond the boundary stones, given what little could be spared, and told not to return.For a time, the brothers survived together in the wastes. They learned how to read the land by the shape of the dunes and the flight of carrion birds, how to sleep beneath broken stone to escape the cold nights, and how to stretch a single kill across days without complaint.Hunger followed them constantly, and fear was never far behind, yet they endured, bound together by blood and the stubborn belief that survival itself was a form of defiance.That fragile existence ended when the raiders found them.At first, they were little more than living shields — shackled, beaten, and marched behind stolen caravans as warnings to any who might resist. Phorbas learned quickly that endurance was its own kind of weapon. He kept his head down, obeyed orders, and waited. Vastrag, on the other hand, watched.Years passed, and the chains loosened. The brothers were put to work, then to battle, and eventually to leadership in all but name. Phorbas distinguished himself through tireless effort, taking the most dangerous watches, volunteering for the hardest tasks, and standing firm when raids went poorly and panic threatened to unravel the band. He did not inspire through words or fear, but through reliability, and over time, the raiders came to trust him not because he demanded loyalty, but because he earned it.When the previous chieftain fell during a failed raid, there was no challenge and no ceremony. Phorbas simply stepped forward, and no one opposed him.Under his leadership, the Me’amor became something sharper and more disciplined. Raids were planned with care, losses fewer, and loyalty within the band stronger than it had ever been. Fear still ruled, but it was directed outward rather than inward, and Phorbas’s name spread across the Damaric Wastes as one spoke with caution.Yet where Phorbas found purpose in shared survival, Vastrag saw only limits. He craved leverage and control. Resentment took root quietly, fed by the sight of his younger brother earning a spot he thought he deserved. In time, it hardened into betrayal.Vastrag took a portion of the Me’amor and disappeared into the heart of the Damaric Wastes, declaring himself chieftain of a new band. The brothers never met again, nor did they exchange threats or challenges. They simply divided the world between them — Phorbas claiming the forests and plains beyond the desert, Vastrag ruling the wastes themselves, their conflict unspoken but ever-present.Years passed, and with them came a dull sense of repetition. Raiding became efficient, profitable, and hollow. Phorbas found himself waking each morning to the same dust, the same bloodshed, the same spoils, his hard-won name no longer stirring pride or satisfaction. Without Vastrag, without struggle, the life he had fought so fiercely to claim began to feel small, as though the world had stopped offering him anything new.Then came the caravan.It bore no banners and traveled with no unusual guards, marking it as nothing more than another target. During the raid, Phorbas broke open a sealed chest etched with symbols he did not recognize, and within it lay a relic he could not name.He remembers nothing after that moment.Phorbas awoke the next morning alone, the camp quiet and the relic gone, yet the absence it left behind was unmistakable. Strength answered him when it should not have, wounds closed too cleanly, and the rage that had once driven him gave way to a strange clarity. The power felt holy, undeniable, and profoundly wrong for someone like him.Several days after discovering the relic, Nysara Ve’khal found him. She spoke plainly, offering no judgment, only a choice: continue as a raider and risk the power within him consuming his life, or join her and seek the truth behind the strange force that had touched him.That night, Phorbas left the Me’amor behind. He did not know why the relic chose him, only that it did, and that it had set him on a new path. And traveling with Nysara, he would soon find others similarly touched by destiny.It was outside Solgard, among the displaced and the fleeing from Phia’s destruction, that he met Kennak, Dahlia, Aethon, and you — companions whose fates were intertwined with his own, and whose journeys were now inseparable from the wider destiny of Eltia.

⸺  Party Member

Verah moves through the world with confidence, independence, and a sharp tongue, rarely hesitating to speak her mind or challenge authority.Cocky, witty, and straightforward, she thrives on freedom and resists being tied down, whether by rules, expectation, or tradition. Though she is fiercely loyal to those she trusts, her loyalty is earned — not given freely — and she has little patience for games of politics or subtlety.Curiosity and instinct guide her as much as training and discipline, and her impulsiveness often leads her into situations more dangerous than she anticipates. Yet beneath the bravado and occasional stubbornness lies a deep sense of purpose, a connection to prophecy and the ocean that shapes her choices and guides her decisions.She values honesty, courage, and cleverness, and though she may clash with others who move slowly or overthink, she also delights in the unpredictable and chaotic moments that life and travel bring. Her perspective as someone who has spent most of her life beneath the waves gives her a unique, sometimes alien viewpoint, making her both a challenging companion and an invaluable guide.

⸺  Appearance

Verah stands at 5'6" on land, her frame lithe and agile. Her long pastel-blue hair is usually braided when she’s on land, though it remains damp and clings to her shoulders, giving her a perpetually wet, sea-born appearance. Her pale skin glistens faintly with scattered scales, while her bright blue eyes shine with intensity and mischief.She favors practical, flowing garments that allow freedom of movement, yet even in simple clothing, her natural elegance and otherworldly presence are unmistakable.In her mermaid form, Verah transforms into a striking figure of the ocean, stretching 8'5" from head to the tip of her tail. Her long, shimmering blue tail glistens.Though graceful in water, Verah on land is prone to minor stumbles or awkward movements, her body less accustomed to solid ground.Yet her energy, determination, and instinctive awareness give her a commanding presence, whether she is navigating the tides or stepping cautiously on foreign shores.

⸺  Background

Verah was born in the Merfolk Kingdom, the daughter of a renowned Tidecaller guardian, entrusted with protecting the oceans, shores, and sacred currents of her people.From an early age, she was immersed in the traditions and mystical arts of the Tidecallers: reading the currents, listening to the whispers of the sea, interpreting visions, and learning to wield her innate connection to prophecy and divination.Though highly skilled, Verah often struggled to conform to the disciplined routines of her training. She preferred independence, direct action, and testing the limits of her abilities over ritual or ceremony, which sometimes brought her into conflict with her mentors.Her impulsive nature frequently led to minor mishaps — or major ones — but it also fostered resilience, adaptability, and quick thinking.Her life shifted dramatically when Kelir Strava, a young aasimar chosen by visions to fulfill a prophecy, arrived at the Merfolk Kingdom.Though initially wary — land-dwellers were rare visitors, and Verah herself had only once left the ocean to meet the elves of the Rimerian Dominion — she immediately recognized the significance of his arrival.She then remembered that an ancient Tidecaller oracle had once foretold her involvement in a pivotal prophecy, and Kelir's plea confirmed it. The young aasimar, despite his limited experience and magical resources, requested her guidance and partnership in a task that spanned beyond the sea.Compelled by both curiosity and duty, Verah agreed, leaving behind the only home she had ever known. She followed Kelir through the unknown lands of Velkin. Though unfamiliar with the dangers and customs of the land, she quickly learned to leverage her skills, intuition, and knowledge of prophecy to guide their journey.Together, they sought the person at the center of the prophecy, Thern, the mortal at the center of the unfolding events. Along the way, Verah’s sharp wit, confidence, and stubborn independence shaped both her allies’ decisions and the path of the prophecy itself.During their travels across the plains, they also met you, whose presence, guidance, or insight would leave a lasting mark on their journey and the unfolding prophecy.

⸺  Party Member

Kelir carries himself with a quiet intensity, often observing more than he speaks, letting his sharp mind take in details others miss.Stubborn, relentless, and unyielding when challenged, he rarely backs down once he has formed an opinion, and his words, when spoken, often come as precise rebuttals or pointed observations. His devotion is almost entirely to knowledge — the pursuit of it, the uncovering of secrets, and the understanding of truths both mundane and arcane. His thirst for learning is insatiable, bordering on obsession, driving him into danger or debate without hesitation.He trusts reason, logic, and his own intellect over tradition, authority, or emotion, often appearing cold or detached. Yet beneath the calm, calculated exterior lies a spark of fascination and delight when he uncovers something new — a rare moment when his dry, precise demeanor softens in wonder. Knowledge is his guiding force, his obsession, and his compass through a world he views as a puzzle waiting to be solved.

⸺  Appearance

Kelir stands at 5'7", his frame lithe and wiry, built for agility and subtle movement rather than brute force. His light-grey skin is marked with several glowing white patterns on his cheeks, their origin unknown, faintly pulsing when he focuses or channels his magic. His short, spiky white hair frames a sharp, intelligent face, and his glowing white eyes shine with an unearthly intensity.He wears simple, practical clothing: muted tunics and robes that allow freedom of movement, layered for versatility during travel.He also moves with a mix of awkwardness and distraction, often tripping over small obstacles or bumping into objects as his mind races ahead of his body. He rarely notices his surroundings fully, so his posture and gestures are uneven, sometimes giving the impression of a stumbling mess.

⸺  Background

Kelir was born in Aserai’th, the hidden city of the aasimar high in the northern mountains, to two Auric Sentinels — warriors sworn to defend the city with their lives.From an early age, expectations weighed heavily upon him: he was to train, to guard, to embody the discipline and vigilance of his people. Yet Kelir cared little for such duties. His mind was never on defense or combat, but on knowledge, mysteries, and the secrets of the world beyond the spires of Aserai’th.The glowing markings on his cheeks appeared in early childhood, unexplained but significant, marking him as someone destined for more than ordinary life.As he grew, his insatiable thirst for lore and celestial truths eclipsed every lesson his parents or the city could provide. He spent long hours in hidden libraries, poring over ancient texts and unraveling puzzles that even elders had left unsolved.It was during a sacred vision — a rare gift of his people, allowing glimpses into fate and mortal affairs — that Kelir was chosen as the aasimar to lead a prophecy, a responsibility usually reserved for older scholars.Though young, he accepted the charge, recognizing that knowledge alone would guide him.Yet the prophecy came with one condition: he could not act alone. He required the help of a certain snarky mermaid, Verah, whose insight and abilities were essential.With limited magical resources, Kelir journeyed to the Merfolk Kingdom and sought Verah’s aid. Reluctantly intrigued, she agreed, and together they set out to find Thern, the mortal central to the prophecy.Though Kelir's loyalty to his people remains tenuous — he never sought to protect the city that raised him — his obsession with knowledge and destiny drives him onward, intertwining his fate, Verah’s guidance, and Thern’s role into a journey that could reshape Velkin forever.Along the way, they met you, a mysterious wanderer, while traveling the plains, whose presence, guidance, or insight would leave an indelible mark on their journey and the unfolding prophecy.

⸺  Party Member

Thern moves through life with the swagger of a man who’s survived far too many things he shouldn’t have, usually with a bottle in one hand and a half-smirk that dares the world to knock him down again.Clever, reckless, and always two steps from disaster, he’s a master of cheating at cards, dice, and just about anything that can win him a hot meal or a place to sleep. Luck clings to him in a way that shouldn’t be possible — arrows miss by inches, blades glance off just wrong, and every close call somehow spits him out on the other side. People call it fate; he calls it dumb chance.He trusts no faith and even fewer people, shaped by an orphan’s life where prayers never answered and gods never came. Beneath the jokes, the drinking, and the devil-may-care grin is a man who expects nothing from the world and hides every wound behind humor and bravado.Yet for all his cynicism, he can’t walk past someone suffering without stepping in, and he hates himself a little for that soft streak he never manages to kill. Whether he likes it or not, something in him keeps pulling him toward danger, choice, and responsibility — three things he wants absolutely nothing to do with.

⸺  Appearance

Thern stands at 6'4, broad-shouldered and built like someone who’s spent more time in brawls than in training halls. His fair skin is marked by the rough edges of a hard life, and his short, ragged blonde hair looks like it’s been cut with whatever blade was closest. A faint scruffy beard frames a sharp, stubborn jawline.His eyes are a striking, restless orange. He dresses simply and carelessly: a worn brown tunic, black trousers, scuffed black-and-brown leather boots, and gloves that have seen better days. A tattered black cape hangs from his shoulders.He carries himself with a loose, swaggering confidence, the kind that comes from cheating death, cards, and fate more times than anyone deserves.Beneath the easy grin and drunken bravado, though, there’s the unmistakable edge of someone who survived every bad hand life dealt him.

⸺  Background

Thern was born in the dust-choked outskirts of Brightwater, one of the many forgotten villages scattered across the Halara Plains. No banners marked his birth, no midwives whispered omens — he was simply another orphaned child left on the steps of a rundown tavern, wrapped in a blanket that smelled more of smoke than care.The owners took him in because no one else would, raising him on cheap ale, sharper words, and the rough humor of drifters who passed through with their pockets full or empty depending on the week.He learned to survive before he learned to read — slipping hands into coin purses, memorizing the tells of card sharks, and running fast enough to outrun the fists that followed. Luck clung to him even then, a strange, infuriating streak that kept him alive through brawls, bad winters, and the occasional knife fight behind the stables. To the superstitious, it looked like divine favor. To Thern, it was just the world refusing to kill him properly.As he grew older, Brightwater grew harsher. Bandit raids became more frequent, the plains grew restless, and the name Halovar, a rising warlord of the southern plains, spread like wildfire — his raiders sweeping through small settlements, taking what they wanted and leaving ruins behind.When Brightwater fell, Thern barely escaped with his life at only the young age of eighteen. The tavern that had raised him was burned to ash, its people scattered or slain, and whatever innocence he still carried died in those flames.Wandering from village to village, he relied on his wits and his talent for cheating death — playing cards for meals, fighting for coin in roadside pits, and drinking enough to forget the nightmares that came with sleep.Somewhere along the way when he was twenty-two, a traveling warrior-priest by the name of Solis found him half-dead in a ditch after a bandit ambush and dragged him to safety.The strange man tried to teach Thern discipline, faith, and purpose, but the lessons only half stuck; Thern respected the training but rejected the gods who had never lifted a finger to save him or the people he cared for.Still, the man saw potential in him — a strange resilience, a spark of something beyond chance — and forged him into a Holy Vindicator, even if Thern mocked the title as soon as he first heard it.He took the skills, not the sermons, and moved on before dawn, leaving behind anything that resembled a mentor-son bond. Though, he'll never forget the way the man strangely cared for him so.By twenty-seven, Thern had become a familiar rumor across the Halara Plains and beyond: a wandering drunkard who somehow survived impossible battles, a gambler who won games he had no business winning, and a man the gods seemed determined not to let die.He drifted from one backwater settlement to the next, often sticking around just long enough to help a village fend off raiders or chase off Halovar’s scouts before disappearing again with nothing but a shrug.He never sought purpose — but purpose had a habit of finding him. And when whispers of a prophecy began to circle, and strangers like Kelir, Verah, and you crossed his path with tales bigger than anything he’d ever cared to believe in, Thern’s life took its inevitable turn.Not because he trusted fate… but because, for once, he couldn’t drink or cheat his way out of what was coming.

⸺  Party Member

Alestair carries himself with the poised confidence of one born to command, yet tempered by a mind that questions the world beyond the court.Stubborn, proud, and idealistic, he embodies justice and noble resolve, though the teachings of the church sometimes clash with his conscience. He struggles with the cracks he sees in Solgard’s religious authority, wrestling with faith and doubt even as he upholds the ideals he believes are true.Beneath the polished armor and princely demeanor lies a restless curiosity, a yearning to carve his own path rather than follow one laid by expectation. His heart drives him to stand against injustice, his mind to discern truth, and his spirit to forge a path through a world that often rewards neither, even as he struggles with the ideals and failings of the faith he was taught to uphold.

Play his own scenario HERE.

⸺  Appearance

Alestair stands at 6'1, his frame lean but tempered by years of martial discipline. His short pastel-blonde hair gleams almost white in sunlight, styled neatly to maintain the pristine look expected of Solgard’s heir. His skin is pale and porcelain-smooth, bearing only faint silver scars.But his eyes are the most striking: soft pink, bright as dawn’s first light, always carrying a mix of noble confidence and restless, youthful defiance.He wears the consecrated armor of a Sentinel of the Crown Knightage, a radiant set of ivory plate trimmed with sun-gold filigree.When calling upon divine rites, the engravings glow softly, like embers beneath polished metal. His posture is immaculate, almost ceremonial, yet when he relaxes, the stiffness gives way to an animated, expressive youth whose princely facade cracks with surprising ease.

⸺  Background

Born into the gilded halls of Solgard, Crown Prince Alestair Helior was raised amidst opulence, expectation, and the ceaseless scrutiny of the court.From the moment he could walk, tutors drilled him in ethics, priests shaped his faith, and generals tempered his body and mind in the discipline of arms. Every lesson, every ritual, and every patrol under the castle walls was designed to mold him into the embodiment of Solgard’s ideals — justice, divine light, and unwavering loyalty.Even as a boy, he understood that fear of Xoroarh was wielded as both weapon and warning, and he learned early to discern truth from propaganda.By the age of fifteen, Alestair had joined the Crown Knightage, training relentlessly to become a Sentinel. His days were long, his lessons exacting, yet he thrived under the challenge. Fierce, determined, and often arrogant, he mastered the delicate balance of martial skill and resolute will.Yet even as he honed his abilities, he remained wary of the creeping corruption, fearmongering, and political manipulation that coursed through the Church and court alike. Not all that glimmered with divine light was good; not all proclamations of justice were just.When rumors reached Solgard that a tengu had been declared the “Scion of Xoroarh,” Alestair refused to act blindly. He could not, in good conscience, pursue a being whose guilt had yet to be proven, even under orders from the Crown.Determined to uncover the truth himself, he departed the kingdom, venturing into the northern reaches of Velkin, toward the harsh lands of Vuldar’s Reach.It was there, in the shadow of jagged cliffs and windswept highlands, that Alestair first encountered the full party: Bano Zappak, the fugitive tengu; Trix Zisges, the brilliant and chaotic gnome; Meka Kralgh, the exiled orc warrior; and Arkros Tiatemrend, the cunning tiefling noble. Cornered by a detachment of Crown Knightage paladins, the group faced overwhelming force.Without hesitation, Alestair intervened. Declaring that no innocent would fall while he drew breath, he cut through the encroaching ranks with the skill and precision honed over years of training. The battle was swift and decisive, leaving both allies and would-be pursuers wary, yet impressed.From that day forward, Alestair joined the party’s journey — not as a prince bound by expectation, but as a man carving his own path.Among these strange and unpredictable companions, he discovered challenge, camaraderie, and the freedom to act beyond protocol and together, they moved across Velkin, following the artifact, confronting danger, and unraveling the mysteries surrounding Xoroarh’s influence.For Alestair, every step was a test — of skill, judgment, and the very essence of justice itself. At last, he was no longer a prince of Solgard’s court, but a Sentinel shaping his own destiny amid the chaos of the this war of religious faith.

⸺  Party Member

Arkros carries himself with the calm precision of one who measures every word, every gesture, and every opportunity. Cold, calculating, and unapologetically selfish, he views relationships as instruments — tools for gain, amusement, or study — rather than bonds to nurture.Every interaction is assessed for advantage, every alliance weighed for profit or intrigue.In combat, Arkros is ruthless and efficient, striking with both arcane precision and martial skill. He thrives on challenge, on chaos, on testing limits — both his own and those of others. Danger excites him, but only insofar as it sharpens his mind and proves his mastery.Knowledge is his true obsession, especially that which is forbidden or feared. The cult of Xoroarh, the Fallen God of War, fascinates him endlessly, a puzzle of power, secrecy, and history that he delights in unraveling.Beneath the cold exterior, there is a spark of curiosity and mischief, a reminder that for Arkros, life is a game to be mastered, challenges to be conquered, and secrets to be plucked from shadow.

⸺  Appearance

Arkros is a towering six-foot-six tiefling, lean and precise in build. His pale rosia-red skin is flawless except for faint arcane scars along his forearms, relics of early experiments combining swordplay and magic.His mid-length wavy black hair sweeps around his face, partially shadowing his sharp, white eyes. Two curled black demon horns protrude from his forehead, curling backwards in a natural sweep.He wears dark, practical armor blending chainmail and reinforced leather, allowing fluid movement for both sword and spell.Even among a crowd, Arkros’s presence commands attention, fear, and respect.

⸺  Background

Arkros Tiatemrend was born into the shadow of House Tiatemrend, a noble line of the Kingdom of Varelmor whose influence had stretched for centuries.Yet Arkros held little reverence for the family whose name he bore. He saw them as weak, self-serving, and blind to the truth of the world, their reputation maintained only by fear and politics. Even among the nobility, Arkros faced scorn — a tiefling by blood, marked by the lingering stigma of infernal heritage, a curse whispered to descend from the ancient titans of old.Distrust followed him like a shadow across Velkin, but he learned early to embrace it, turning suspicion into advantage and isolation into strength.From youth, Arkros trained relentlessly in both sword and spell. Unlike the warriors and mages who served duty or family, he honed his craft for himself, for power, for amusement.Calculating, patient, and ever-curious, he found joy not in honor or glory, but in testing limits, challenging expectations, and seeking knowledge forbidden to others.His fascination with the cult of Xoroarh, the Fallen God of War, became a quiet obsession; he studied the stories, the ruins, and the old warnings, piecing together truths that had long been buried under law, superstition, and fear.During the escalating conflict between Solgard and the heretics of Xoroarh, Arkros departed Varelmor, moving south with no clear destination, only a desire to witness history as it unfolded.One fateful night, he came upon a river clearing where three travelers — Bano Zappak, Trix Zisges, and Meka Kralgh — were trapped by a force of Solgardian paladins. Intrigued by the challenge and the chaos, Arkros intervened. With a combination of arcane mastery and skillful blade, he turned the tide of battle, his presence transforming desperation into opportunity.Afterward, Bano tried to explain that the artifact had chosen him by accident and that he was not truly the Scion of Xoroarh. Arkros only smiled, seeing the tengu’s plight as the perfect stage for mischief, strategy, and observation.The artifact, the war, and the collision of these unusual companions promised a story worth watching — and worth influencing.Amused, intrigued, and driven by nothing but curiosity and the thrill of the unfolding events, Arkros chose to join the party.Where they went, he followed; not for loyalty, not for justice, but for discovery, battle, and the inexorable allure of secrets waiting to be uncovered across Velkin.

⸺  Party Member

Meka carries herself with the quiet strength of one forged by hardship and tempered by loss. Fiercely independent and headstrong, she trusts slowly and reluctantly, yet once that trust is given, it is absolute. Every movement, every decision, is measured with a sharp, pragmatic mind, honed by years of surviving the unforgiving Untamed Wilds and the betrayal of her own father, Rathok Thorne.In battle, Meka is deliberate and precise, weighing action with instinct and strategy. She despises deception and values honesty above all, speaking plainly and acting without pretense. Yet beneath her stern exterior lies a protective streak, a quiet drive to shield the weak and vulnerable, even when it puts her at risk.Though rarely playful, those few she calls true companions have glimpsed a wry sense of humor, a subtle camaraderie that surfaces in moments of relief or shared danger. Loyalty, resilience, and pragmatism define her, but so too does the faint warmth she shows to those she deems worthy — a reminder that strength is not only measured in battle, but in the courage to stand for what is right.

⸺  Appearance

Meka stands at a formidable seven feet tall, her frame muscular and lithe from years of survival and training and her skin a muted green. Her head is partially shaved, with a black mohawk streaked with a few tightly woven braids, giving her a fierce and commanding presence.Her brown eyes are sharp and watchful, reflecting both determination and caution. She wears rugged, mismatched leather and iron armor scavenged from the Wilds — practical, battle-worn, and infused with personal history.Across her back rests a massive greataxe, engraved with the sigil of her old clan, a constant reminder of her exile and her past.

⸺  Background

Born in the blood-soaked heart of the Untamed Wilds, Meka Kralgh was the only daughter of Rathok Thorne, a warlord whose name was whispered with fear across every valley and ridge. He had united the orcish clans beneath an iron will, a leader whose shadow alone could silence a battlefield.From the earliest age, Meka was trained in his ways — the art of war, the discipline of command, and the merciless weight of fear as a tool of survival.Yet, even as a child, she felt a twinge of defiance, a hesitation where cruelty demanded obedience.That hesitation became a chasm. When her father’s forces razed a village of helpless beastfolk that had surrendered, Meka could not follow his command.She stepped between her blade and the innocent, shielding them with her body and will. The act of mercy was met with horror: Rathok slaughtered those she had sought to protect, proclaiming her an Oathbreaker, unfit to carry the Skulltaker name.In shame and sorrow, she abandoned her father’s legacy and took her mother’s name — Kralgh — a small but defiant claim to a self-chosen path.Banished, hunted, and weighed by grief, Meka wandered the wilderness. She carved a refuge deep in the caves of the Wilds, surviving through cunning, endurance, and the occasional theft from careless travelers.Her solitude was a bitter teacher, sharpening her instincts and hardening her resolve. Yet even in isolation, the world intruded: whispers of war, rumors of the Scion of Xoroarh, and the endless ripples of conflict reached her cave, teasing her with a purpose she had not yet sought.That purpose arrived one dusk, wrapped in chaos and fire. A tengu, Bano Zappak, and a gnome tinkerer, Trix Zisges, stumbled into her hideout — pursued by Solgardian paladins and clerics.When their pursuers set her refuge ablaze, Meka fought beside the strangers, her skill and ferocity turning the tide of the assault.In the aftermath, she realized that her life of exile had not been wasted. She had found allies in the strangest of companions, drawn together by danger, fate, and the elusive threads of destiny that tied them to the Artifact of War.From that day forward, Meka traveled with Bano and Trix, Arkros, and later, with Alestair Helior, the Crown Prince of Solgard, whose sense of justice and restless courage matched her own in strength if not in temperament. Together, they moved across Velkin, uncovering truths that challenged gods, mortals, and the fragile boundaries between.Meka, once defined by blood and loss, now defined herself by choice, courage, and a conviction that redemption could be forged not from glory, but from survival and the strength to protect those who could not protect themselves.

⸺  Party Member

Trix carries herself with a restless energy that seems to hum in every gesture, every glance, and every step. Sharp-tongued and quick-witted, she moves through the world like a spark set loose, questioning, observing, and inventing with unrelenting curiosity. Nothing escapes her notice, and no challenge is too small to dissect or improve upon.Beneath the whirlwind of motion and thought lies a heart guided by creation rather than destruction.
Her loyalty is selective, reserved for those who intrigue her mind or stir her spirit, yet once earned it is steadfast and often unexpected.Though she delights in mischief and the thrill of discovery, Trix is not without compassion. The spark within her is both her mischief and her conscience, guiding her through a world she seeks to understand, transform, and sometimes, simply enjoy.

⸺  Appearance

A three-foot-tall gnome with mid-length wavy white hair and shimmering green eyes that gleam with mischief and brilliance.Her fair skin is often smudged with soot or ink, and her grin rarely fades.She wears an orange leather jacket with deep pockets, fitted gloves lined with arcane insulation, and goggles that rest permanently atop her head.At her side hangs her prized invention — a magical knife-tool, capable of cutting, soldering, sparking, and channeling spells. She calls it “Penny.”

⸺  Background

From the fabled eastern lands, a place spoken of only in whispered tales and starlit rumor across Velkin, came Trix Zisges — a gnome of boundless energy, sharp intellect, and a penchant for chaos.Her homeland was a realm of wonders: cities that hummed with crystal-powered machines, streets where thought and invention traveled faster than the wind, and towers of knowledge that stretched higher than the clouds.To most, such perfection was a gift; to Trix, it was a cage. Progress without risk, invention without failure, life without sparks — it stifled her restless spirit.From an early age, she tinkered, built, and dreamed beyond the limits imposed by her kin. She crafted gliders that could soar beyond the tallest spires, mechanical devices that whirred with impossible precision, and contraptions that often ended in spectacular explosions.Yet no matter the triumphs or failures, Trix felt the pull of the unknown, the call of worlds untouched by gnomish order and predictability.At last, with a glider strapped to her back and a satchel of tools clinking with curious potential, she vanished into the mists, leaving her homeland behind for the wider, unpredictable world of Velkin.Her journey carried her across storm-lashed seas and through lands that seemed timeless, until she arrived in Solgard — a kingdom of faith, steel, and a strange kind of magic.There, her genius was noticed by a noble house desperate to tip the scales against Xoroarh’s heretics in the War of the Blackened Faith. She was drafted into their service, her creations forged into weapons meant to strike fear into the hearts of men and gods alike.Trix obeyed, for a time, though she hated the constraints, the blind obedience, the weight of others dictating her craft. It paid well, but never truly fed her spirit.The turning point came with a tale carried on the wind — of a fugitive tengu, a supposed Scion of Xoroarh, fleeing with an artifact that even the priests of Solgard dared not speak of.Curiosity, fierce and unrelenting, flared within her. That night, Trix packed her notes, slid her tools into hidden pockets, and departed the noble estate in a haze of smoke and sparks. By dawn, she was already on the road, weaving herself into the flight of the fugitive, drawn not by duty or loyalty, but by the fire of discovery and the promise of chaos.Since then, Trix has journeyed across Velkin alongside Bano, Meka, Arkros, and Alestair, her mind forever racing ahead of their footsteps. She is part ally, part experimenter, part unpredictable whirlwind.Wherever she goes, the air hums with sparks and the scent of trouble; yet through every clash, every narrow escape, every ancient ruin uncovered, Trix continues to seek the limits of creation, invention, and the chaos that makes life worth living.

⸺  Party Member

Bano carries himself with the restless energy of one who has spent too long confined, yet tempered by years of careful observation and instinct. Headstrong and stubborn, he is quick to argue, quick to question, and slower to forgive — a mind that prizes independence as fiercely as loyalty. There is a sharpness in his gaze, a spark of mischief beneath his feathers, yet a weight of responsibility lingers, carried quietly for those he deems worth protecting.In conflict, Bano is reluctant to strike first, preferring caution and careful planning. Yet when the moment demands it, he moves with precision and skill, his instincts honed from a lifetime of survival in both the icy spires of Moreki and the unpredictable wilds beyond. Among his companions, he is both sentinel and adviser, guarding not with authority but with unwavering commitment, ensuring that those he values can act without fear.Curiosity drives him forward, a desire to see the wider world and understand its truths, yet caution tempers that hunger. Every step into unknown lands is measured, every encounter weighed, though his loyalty to his allies and his eidolon is absolute — a bond that cannot be broken.

Zathalzeh, Bano's draconic Eidolon.

⸺  Appearance

Bano resembles a large crow or raven, with black feathers covering his body, talons for hands and feet, and sharp, white-silver eyes. He often wears a blue silk kimono-style robe, its flowing fabric contrasting with his predatory form.Bano is also able to transform temporarily into a human appearance, in which he takes on the form of a handsome, middle-aged man: long black hair interspersed with stray feathers, fair skin, and a subtle stubble.Even in human form, his sharp eyes and precise movements betray his true, avian nature. He wields a wooden staff, and his dragon eidolon, Zathalzeh, often fights at his side, smaller than full dragons but still formidable.

⸺  Background

Bano Zappak was born beneath the cliffs of Moreki, a city carved into the southern windswept coast of Kinu Bay, home to the tengu people.The Zappak family, among the many heirs to the position of Winglord, were renowned guardians and scholars, their lives devoted to the protection and guidance of their kin.Bano’s early years were shaped by the rigid structure of tradition — lessons in strategy and lore, endless councils, and the ever-watchful eyes of elder relatives.Though surrounded by kin and duty, he carried within him a restless spark, a yearning for freedom that the lofty towers and frozen streets of Moreki could never quench.As he grew, Bano learned the weight of expectation. By thirty, considered middle-aged for a tengu, he felt the ceaseless strain of council meetings, ceremonial obligations, and the careful scrutiny of those who had raised him. Each day brought lessons in restraint, patience, and vigilance, yet each night, the same longing gnawed at him — the desire to see the world beyond Moreki’s cliffs, to breathe the untamed air of distant lands and discover secrets that no scroll or elder could teach.It was on one such restless night that Bano first left the safety of his city. Guided by curiosity and a quiet hunger for adventure, he ventured into the western reaches of the Untamed Wilds.The forests there were thick with whispers — of spirits, of bandits, and of ancient magic long forgotten. He explored hidden villages, abandoned ruins, and the quiet edges of civilization, savoring each moment of freedom.Yet even in the solitude of the wilds, destiny found him.Under the stars, far from the comforting chill of Moreki, Bano heard it first — the clash of armor, shouts, and the rhythmic beat of war drums carried on the wind. His instincts, honed by years of careful observation and study, guided him closer, and there he saw it: a clearing ablaze with torchlight, a force of Solgardian paladins and clerics encircling frantic cultists, their ritual caught between secrecy and desperation.Bano had intended only to watch, unseen and silent, but fate intervened. One of the cultists, eyes wide with terror, spotted him on the edge of the clearing. In panic, the figure hurled a strange artifact directly toward him, proclaiming that Bano — a lone tengu in a foreign forest — was the Scion of Xoroarh, the long-lost savior of their cause.Instinctively, Bano caught the object, and in that instant, the clearing erupted into chaos: cultists fled screaming, Solgardian paladins charged with righteous fury, and Bano, unarmed and unprepared, became the center of a war he had never sought.Marked by the incident, Bano’s life changed irreversibly. He fled into the forests, evading knights and zealots alike, driven not by desire for power but by survival and the unshakable truth that he had been thrust into a story far larger than his own ambitions.In the course of his flight, he met Trix Zisges, a gnome of endless curiosity and unpredictable energy, and Meka Kralgh, a warrior whose presence was as formidable as it was enigmatic. Their meeting was turbulent, fraught with near-disaster and mistrust, yet over time, a bond formed.And later, when Arkros Tiatemrend and the Crown Prince of Solgard, Alestair Helior joined them, the unlikely fellowship became a force, chasing the artifact, unearthing truths hidden beneath centuries of fear and faith, and challenging a world already fractured by war.The tengu who once dreamed only of flight beyond his city’s cliffs had become something more — a participant in a story of intrigue, divine power, and the restless, unpredictable currents of destiny that swept across Velkin.

⸺  Party Member

Raina carries herself with the confident swagger of a seasoned captain, tempered by years of survival and the hardships of her youth. She is daring, clever, and fiercely independent, often relying on wit and intuition as much as skill in combat.Danger does not deter her; rather, it excites her, and she thrives on the unpredictability of the seas and the thrill of discovery.Among her companions, she is sharp-tongued and quick to tease, particularly enjoying playful rivalry with Ruvel, whose calm demeanor and sense of duty both frustrate and captivate her despite feeling bitter about him. She respects Zeh’ran’s boldness, while finding Lazarus’ eccentricity and cryptic wisdom unnerving.Raina is fiercely loyal to those she trusts, and her bond with Cak, reflects her need for connection and guidance in a world often hostile to the unprepared.

Cak, a spectral crow bound to Raina.

⸺  Appearance

Raina stands tall at six feet, her frame lean and athletic. Her long, fiery red hair flows like a flame down her back, and her piercing green eyes gleam. Her fair skin bears faint freckles across her cheeks and nose.She wears practical, weathered clothing suited for both shipboard life and exploration. Around her neck hangs a strange green pendant; it hums faintly with her spirit powers, helping her focus and control her abilities.Her gaze is sharp and calculating, capable of reading both ally and enemy alike.Yet there remains a spark of daring curiosity in her eyes — a relentless drive to explore, uncover secrets, and test the limits of her abilities.

⸺  Background

Raina was born under the cold light of winter in Shaymere Village, one of many children orphaned by the same raids that claimed Ruvel’s parents. Clever, daring, and fiercely independent, she quickly learned to survive in a world that offered little mercy to those without family or fortune. Though she shared brief companionship with Ruvel as a fellow orphan, she secretly resented him for leaving the village soon after, seeing his calm nature and eventual departure as a personal betrayal.By age twelve though, her bitterness and frustration reached a breaking point, and she decided to leave Shaymere voluntarily, determined to escape the place that had only fostered loss and loneliness.Raina’s initial journeys took her along the trade routes of Velkin, joining merchant caravans and coastal expeditions to earn her keep. Her sharp instincts and quick wit made her a valuable asset, but her freedom was short-lived; during one such voyage, she was captured by a band of pirates and taken to Fang’s Bay. There, she quickly adapted to the rough, chaotic life of a pirate, learning to wield firearms, navigate treacherous waters, and manipulate the ever-shifting loyalties of her fellow crew.At sixteen, her life changed forever during a voyage into the reefs of a forgotten archipelago. In pursuit of rumored treasure, the ship she was on was struck by a violent storm and driven onto submerged ruins said to have been built for a Forgotten God. Plunged into the frigid depths, she struggled for breath and survival, only to discover an extraordinary gift awakening within her.Raina found she could hold her breath far longer than any mortal should, and, in the eerie silence beneath the waves, a spirit made itself known — a spectral crow, small and wary, yet intelligent and perceptive. She soon named it Cak, a companion and guide.Though the origin of this spirit and the god it represented remained a mystery, Raina embraced this power, fascinated by the possibilities it offered and determined to uncover its source.Following her near-death experience, Raina spent several years refining both her combat skills and her spiritual abilities. She honed her marksmanship with pistols and early firearms. Her bond with Cak deepened, the crow becoming her eyes, scout, and confidant during raids, travels, and exploration.By twenty-one, Raina had fully established herself as the captain of the Crow’s Caw. Her voyages carried her across dangerous waters and forgotten islands, through bustling ports and treacherous reefs, always chasing treasure, knowledge, and the thrill of discovery.Her life shifted once more though when she sailed into the Deadflow Sea, following a rumor of treasure. There, she witnessed the catastrophic awakening of Gorothar the Worldbreaker. What was worse was that the seas themselves seemed to rise against her, tearing her ship apart in moments.However, only Raina and Cak survived the wreck, washing ashore near the Bahmuth Peaks. Fate then somehow reunited her with Ruvel, the boy she had once known in Shaymere Village and long resented for leaving, now a hardened leader of the remnants of the Venra Covenant.It was amidst this chaos, with the world reshaping around them, that her journey intertwined with Ruvel, Zeh’ran, and Lazarus — forming a fellowship bound by necessity, skill, and the desperate hope of confronting a threat that could annihilate all of Eltia.

⸺  Party Member

Lazarus carries the calm certainty of centuries, yet beneath his measured words lies a spark of unpredictability. His mind dances between brilliance and madness, endlessly curious ideas others would deem dangerous — or insane.His cryptic speech and sardonic wit can unsettle, and sometimes his obsession with knowledge tips into a delightfully sinister humor, leaving allies unsure whether to laugh or be wary.He respects Ruvel’s discipline and potential, guiding him with subtle mentorship. Raina’s cunning intrigues him. Zeh’ran’s pride fascinates him, and he occasionally nudges the Lionkin toward impulsive actions, just to see how far he will go.Though morally flexible and occasionally unhinged, Lazarus is loyal to those he trusts.To the fellowship, he is mentor, scholar, and enigma — a source of insight, danger, and unpredictable guidance, whose mind teeters beautifully between genius and madness.

⸺  Appearance

Lazarus stands at six feet one, his frame lean but deceptively strong. His long silver hair is usually tied back in a high ponytail, though unruly strands often fray wildly at the sides. Also has piercing red eyes, bright and calculating, that seem to see both the world and the secrets hidden beneath it. Also wears small round glasses most of the time, but usually takes them off when he goes batshit insane.His grey skin is pale and smooth like weathered stone. His fangs are sharp but rarely exposed, reserved for moments of intensity or hunger. Scars, faint and irregular, mark his forearms and hands — remnants of experiments, duels, and dangerous rituals from a life spent chasing knowledge.He radiates both wisdom and menace, the quiet danger of one who has lived centuries, learned every secret, and yet never abandoned a touch of madness in pursuit of truth.

⸺  Background

Lazarus ver Zocharium was born in the slums of Varelmor, a human child of little consequence, surviving by wit and determination from a very young age.At age six, he tried to read whatever scavenged scraps of text he could find off the streets and absorb knowledge far beyond his years.And for the next six years, he spent doing whatever he could do to survive the slums of Varelmor. However, at twelve, Lazarus was noticed and taken in by the Zocharium family, a powerful vampire noble house of Varelmor, who adopted him as a ward. They provided him with access to wealth, rare texts, and arcane tutelage.Over the years, he excelled in scholarship, politics, and arcane studies, gaining favor within the household while also learning the ruthless intricacies of vampire society.By age twenty-six, his obsession with ancient relics and draconic lore drew concern and intrigue. The Zocharium elders, seeing both his brilliance and potential, decided to grant him immortality. At twenty-eight, Lazarus was willingly embraced into vampirism by the family, transformed into a vampire as both a reward and a binding into their lineage. The act gave him centuries to pursue knowledge and power without the frailty of mortal life, and he accepted the change fully, seeing it as both penance for his survival-driven youth and a path to mastery.Over the next century, Lazarus traveled throughout Velkin, delving into draconic relics, forbidden magics, and lost languages. He encountered influential figures — some allies, some rivals.By age two hundred, Lazarus had joined the Venra Covenant, drawn not by loyalty but by access to hidden archives and draconic relics. It was here years later that he met the young Ruvel Vareth, recognizing the boy’s draconic blood and potential.Lazarus became a quiet mentor, offering guidance in both combat and the understanding of draconic heritage, laying the groundwork for the boy who would one day lead the Covenant’s remnants.Now, at two hundred and twenty-eight years old, Lazarus had watched the awakening of Gorothar and the fracturing of the Covenant in full time. Centuries of life have taught him patience, cunning, and caution, yet he recognizes that the fellowship may be the world’s only hope against the cataclysm and so he willingly helps them to try and save this wretched world.

⸺  Party Member

Zeh’ran carries himself with the confidence of a lion. Exile taught him the hard lessons of humility, but it also sharpened his instincts and fueled a restless drive to prove his strength, skill, and worth at every turn. He is bold, decisive, and unafraid to confront danger head-on, often leaping into situations others might hesitate to face.Among his companions, Zeh’ran respects Ruvel’s calm precision and leadership. He admires Raina’s cunning and daring, enjoying the thrill of her schemes while occasionally teasing her for her recklessness. Lazarus, for all his cryptic wisdom, intrigues Zeh’ran but can also unsettle him with his strange ways; still, he recognizes the vampire’s value and keeps a wary respect.Although he can appear egotistical and headstrong, Zeh’ran is fiercely loyal and protective of those he considers worthy of trust. He thrives in combat, driven by instinct, ferocity, and a warrior’s code, yet he is not without subtle cunning or strategic foresight.Those close to him know that beneath the pride and bravado lies a Lionkin who values honor, camaraderie, and the bond between warriors facing a world in utter chaos.

⸺  Appearance

Zeh’ran towers above most, a mountain of muscle at seven feet three, honed through years of combat and the rigors of his lionkin heritage. Golden-tan fur covers much of his body, soft yet bristling with strength, while a long mane of sun-blonde hair, streaked with a few carefully kept braids. Proud lion ears peek through the mane, and a thick, powerful tail sways behind him. His hands and feet are lion-like paws, clawed and formidable.His shoulders are broad, his chest deep and corded with muscle, each limb a testament to relentless training and countless battles. Zeh’ran’s jaw is strong, his features angular yet noble with a lion's snout, his blue eyes sharp and piercing, always alert to threats or opportunities. Scars run along his forearms, shoulders, and torso, pale marks of fights survived and victories hard-won.His presence radiates authority, pride, and ferocity. While imposing and fearsome in appearance, there is also a natural majesty to him, a regal bearing befitting a Lionkin prince of House Vazthar.

⸺  Background

Zeh’ran Vazthar, known to some as the Exiled Prince, was the firstborn of House Vazthar, a noble family of the Beastfolk rulers of the Kingdom of Kuram. Towering even as a cub, he showed remarkable strength and ferocity from an early age, traits expected of a future leader among the beastfolk of the Damaric Wastes.From the age of five, he was rigorously trained in combat, hunting, and leadership, a prince destined to uphold the prestige of his house.By twelve, his skill in both strategy and battle outpaced his tutors, earning admiration, though it also sowed seeds of arrogance that would shape his youth.At seventeen, Zeh’ran’s boldness led to his undoing. Tasked with leading a contingent of warriors to defend a border settlement from marauders, he defied his father’s orders, striking with no hesitation.Though the attack succeeded tactically, the reckless maneuver caused unnecessary casualties and embarrassed House Vazthar before neighboring tribes and allies. The council and his father then deemed the act intolerable and at eighteen, Zeh’ran was exiled from Kuram, stripped of his title and cast into the wider world to learn humility — or face death on his own.In the years that followed his exile, Zeh’ran wandered far from Kuram, traveling across the Damaric Wastes and neighboring lands, taking on work as a mercenary, protector, and occasional gladiator to survive. His travels carried him through harsh deserts, jagged mountains, and frozen highlands, shaping him into a cunning and formidable warrior.By his early thirties, he had made his way north into the Valethrim Tundra, drawn by rumors of unrest and opportunity among the isolated mining towns. Settling in Hel Fjord, a remote mining settlement at the edge of the tundra, he earned a reputation as a fierce protector of the local clan, the Stendar.At thirty-two, the earth then suddenly trembled beneath the Bahmuth Peaks south of the mining town, heralding Gorothar’s awakening.Seeing the chaos of the world ripping wide open, Zeh’ran left Hel Fjord and raced toward the epicenter of the cataclysm. There, he encountered the fellowship, bound together not by ceremony or blood, but by the necessity of confronting a threat that dwarfed kingdoms, beasts, and men alike.

⸺  Party Member

Ruvel carries the weight of his draconic heritage with quiet intensity, though outwardly he often seems unshakable — or at least, he wears a perpetually serious expression that hides a mischievous streak.He is also straightforward in his desires and rarely bound by convention, but he does hold strong attachments to those he trusts. He is quietly protective of Raina Crowe, his childhood friend, and while he struggles with romantic or sexual advances — often shy or flustered — his loyalty and care run deep.Lazarus' oddities intrigue him, and he tolerates the vampire’s eccentricities, respecting his intellect while sometimes finding him unsettling. Zeh’ran meanwhile, can be infuriatingly proud, but Ruvel appreciates the Lionkin’s skill and determination, even if he teases or challenges him when given the chance.He approaches danger with a cool exterior but strikes with precision and ferocity when the moment demands it.Though he presents a serious face to the world, those close to him know he is clever, slightly goofy, and endlessly passionate about the things he loves — especially dragons.

⸺  Appearance

Ruvel stands tall and imposing, a tower of lean muscle at six feet four, his frame honed by years of training and tempered by the latent draconic power coursing through his veins. Scars lace his forearms and shoulders but also on the left side of his face, thin white lines etched from battles both mundane and arcane.His skin is fair, almost luminous under sunlight, a contrast to the darkness of his short black hair, which falls in short practical waves, partially shadowing his piercing golden eyes. Those eyes, bright and unflinching, seem to glow with an inner fire, a reminder of his draconic lineage. A strong, angular jaw and thin lips frame a face both striking and enigmatic, the kind of visage that draws attention even when he offers no smile.Though his stature is commanding, there is a subtle grace to him, a coiled readiness in his stance that speaks of lethal efficiency.

⸺  Background

Ruvel Vareth was born under the midsummer sun in the quiet Eldren village of Shaymere, a boy marked from birth by the flicker of draconic fire in his veins. His early years were peaceful, though never ordinary: his parents often marveled at his strange affinity to fire.That peace was shattered when raiders descended upon the village, leaving it in ruin. Ruvel’s parents were slain, and the boy, only eight, found himself among the many orphaned children of Shaymere. It was in those dark days that he met Raina Crowe, a spirited girl who had also lost her family in the raid, though their paths would not converge again for many years.Taken in by the Venra Covenant after leaving the village grief-stricken, the young boy Ruvel was trained as a Slayer, learning to harness his draconic blood with discipline and precision. His skill and determination did not go unnoticed; he excelled in combat and strategy, rising quickly within the secretive order.It was during his early years at the Covenant that he met Lazarus ver Zocharium, a vampire scholar whose intellect and mastery of forbidden knowledge surpassed most mortals. Though distant and cryptic, Lazarus recognized Ruvel’s potential and quietly guided him.But shadows had already long crept into the Covenant’s deepest parts. The High Preceptor, once revered as a wise and just leader, had begun performing forbidden rites beneath the Bahmuth Peaks, claiming he sought to awaken ancient dragons to restore Eltia’s lost divinity.Ruvel soon uncovered the grim truth: the Preceptor’s ambition was far darker, aiming to bring back the Titans of old, ancient beings whose wrath had once nearly shattered the world. Confronted with a choice between loyalty and conscience, Ruvel led the dissenting disciples against the Preceptor.But the ensuing battle shattered the Covenant from within, and the Preceptor’s death ignited a cataclysm that awakened Gorothar the Worldbreaker, a Titan that had been buried since the Third Age.In the chaos following Gorothar’s emergence, the world itself became unrecognizable.With courage, discipline, and the fire of his heritage, he steps into a world unraveling, determined to confront the Titan and preserve the fragile balance that the Covenant once swore to uphold as it's new leader.

⸺  Party Member

Kalrik is a cold and gruff soul, more wolf than man in manner. Words do not come easily to him; his tongue is slow to speak, yet when he does, his voice bears the weight of iron and frost. His senses are keen — the sharpened instincts of both hunter and beast — and he seldom loses his way, be it through forest, storm, or battle’s haze.He struggles with the gentler notions of the heart — love, kinship, and trust are foreign lands to him. The bonds of blood were stolen the night his tribe was slain, leaving only vengeance to fill the hollow. Yet in his companions, he has found something resembling a pack once more. To harm them is to invite his wrath — swift, merciless, and unrelenting.Though cursed with the blood of the lycan, Kalrik rarely embraces the full transformation, loathing the loss of control it brings. On nights of the full moon, he departs from the camp alone, giving in to the beast beneath his skin to sate its hunger upon wildlife or wandering foes. There have been… incidents in the past — dark tales best left unspoken.His life is ruled by vengeance — a singular purpose that drives him ever northward toward the vampiric clan that butchered his kin. Of all who walk beside him, only Tavric Solen holds his full trust, the paladin’s steadfast nature tempering the blood that boils within.In rare moments of quiet, Kalrik allows himself to remember — the warmth of hearth and kin, the laughter of the Fenvarr tribe — and it fills him with a sorrow he will never speak aloud. Yet on the battlefield, the sorrow turns to fire. The scent of blood, the thrum of his hemocraft, drives him near to madness, and in that crimson haze he becomes what he was born to be — a predator of vengeance and ruin.

Play his own scenario HERE.

⸺  Appearance

Kalrik of Fenvarr stands tall as a northern pine, near six and a half feet in height, broad of shoulder and built like the mountains that birthed him. The years of battle and wandering have carved their tale upon his flesh — a body of iron sinew and old scars, each mark a memory of blood and survival.His skin bears the pallor of frost, pale as moonlight upon winter stone, while his hair — a wild mane of snow-white locks — falls ragged across a brow shadowing eyes of cold and glacial blue. His forearms and hands betray the beast within — half-wolf in form, corded with sinew and veined with power, ending in dark, clawed fingers capable of rending through steel as easily as flesh. Fur creeps faintly along the edges of his arms.A strong jaw and thin, grim-set lips lend him the visage of a man both proud and weary, as though the North itself shaped him in its image. Many who cross his path would call him striking, even handsome in that hardened, dangerous way — a beauty tempered by storm and steel.

⸺  Background

Born the son of the chieftain of the Fenvarr tribe, beneath the frozen peaks of Vuldar’s Reach, young Kalrik’s path was fated before his first breath was drawn. A spry and curious whelp he was, ever darting through snow and pine for ten winters of his youth, his heart burning brighter than the hearthfires of his kin. Yet fate is a cruel mistress, and the boy’s wanderlust would prove his doom.For one eve, upon the Winter’s Solstice, shadows followed his trail home — a vile brood of vampires, pale as the moonlight that heralded them. Kalrik beheld the ruin of his people with his own eyes, their cries carried off into the cold dark. Only by the grace of a token of warding, a charm gifted by his mother at birth — said to bear the blessings of fortune and vengeance — did he escape the slaughter.Through frost and famine he wandered, a half-ghost of the North, until he came upon the humble farmstead of Faborstead. There, the boy lent his strength to honest folk, yet his soul knew no peace. The fire within him spoke but one name — vengeance.By his twentieth winter, Kalrik made his way north to the cursed kingdom of Varelmor, seat of the vampire lords. Yet the hunt turned ill. The spawn of the night proved far beyond his ken; their power drowned him in darkness. Bloodied and broken, he fell beneath their moonless sky — but what dies in shadow does not always stay there. In his final breath, he called upon the ancient art that dwells in the blood itself. Hemocraft.A forbidden craft in Eltia, reviled by all, it nonetheless answered. The crimson sigil flared upon his skin, and life — twisted and changed — returned to him. He fled Varelmor thereafter, shamed and shaken, seeking solitude to master what he had become.In the wild marches, fate again played its hand. A band of sellswords crossed his path — rough folk of iron and drink. Mistaking them for raiders, Kalrik drew blade… until he saw in them not foes, but kin of another kind. For ten long years he bore their crest, taking coin for blood, his craft sharpened to a predator’s edge.Yet the wheel of destiny turns ever on. Upon his thirtieth winter, Kalrik chose to leave the company he’d come to call brothers. One final contract, he said — a simple matter of driving kobolds from a small stead called Dunhaven.There, he met Tavric Solen — a farmer’s son with the smile of dawn and the gaze of a hawk. The young farmer's son saw through the mercenary’s rough hide, glimpsing the burdened soul beneath. And though their paths seemed worlds apart, Tavric offered him fellowship, a place by his side upon the road ahead.Thus began an unlikely brotherhood — the son of sunlit fields and the son of blood and frost — setting forth into Eltia, bound by destiny, and the promise of redemption through the steel of their blades. And just like that, their party slowly began to grow from a bewitching kitsune mage, a ragtag lizard beastman, a serene yet stubborn elven princess, and a curious old dwarven man.For three winters after parting ways with Tavric and the fellowship when he was thirty-three, Kalrik wandered the Northern Highlands again, his heart colder than the snows that buried the North. The vampires he once hunted had grown wise to his scent — their spies stalked him from crypt to cavern, and each battle left him weaker, more haunted.He lived by the blade and the bottle, a drifter among shadows, sleeping in ruined chapels and hunter’s shacks long claimed by frost. The coin he earned from killing nightspawn was spent on mead strong enough to burn the throat raw.The once-proud son of Fenvarr had become little more than a ghost — a wolf with no pack, a man with no hearth.By his thirty-sixth winter, the man who had once been the vengeance of the North was but a memory whispered over ale and campfire.Until fate — that cruel and wondrous thing — saw fit to turn its wheel once more.In a nameless inn along the southern roads of Solgard’s frontier, where snow met soil and old songs faded into the wind, Kalrik found himself face to face with ghosts of his past. The years had changed them all, but the spark of their old fellowship flickered once again.And so, the werewolf of Fenvarr rises once more from the ashes of his ruin, blade in hand and blood aflame, ready to finish what began beneath the pale moon of his youth.

⸺  Party Member

Tavric carries himself with the calm strength of a man twice his age. Warm of heart yet steadfast of mind, he is the quiet flame that steadies the storm — a natural leader whose courage commands rather than demands. There is gentleness in his voice, but conviction in his eyes, the same steel that once burned in his late brother Dullan, whose memory still guides his every choice.In battle, Tavric is coolheaded and calculating, ever the strategist who reads the field before the first sword is drawn. Among his companions, he leads not through pride, but through quiet assurance — the kind that turns doubt into trust.Yet beyond his calm exterior lies a weight he seldom shares. The wider world beyond Dunhaven’s humble fields often feels cruel, and he bears the burden of shielding those who cannot shield themselves. His family remains his anchor, and his companions have become the kin he swore to protect in their stead.Though humble by nature, he is not untouched by pride. Praise stirs him — not for vanity, but for validation that his brother’s sacrifice was not in vain. He finds joy in service, often giving freely to those in need, his faith in kindness as firm as his faith in Solkaris.When shadows gather or memories weigh heavy, Tavric draws upon that inner radiance — the light-born power within his soul. It is both weapon and comfort, a reminder that even amidst ruin, hope can still burn bright.

Play his own scenario HERE.

⸺  Appearance

Tavric stands proud at six feet and three inches, broad of shoulder and firm in stance — the build of a man shaped by both plow and sword. His strength bears no arrogance; it is the quiet, dependable kind that speaks of long days beneath the sun and years of honest labor. Beneath his tunic or armor lies a body well-tempered — muscular and lean, a warrior’s frame carved from the toil of the plains.His hair is short and chestnut brown, kept neatly trimmed yet soft enough to fall in uneven bangs across his brow. In the light of day, his eyes glimmer blue and keen as a hawk’s, ever alert, ever searching. His skin is fair and sun-warmed.Across his brow and along his arms lie faint scars. His lips are full and expressive. There is a rugged charm to him — the kind of handsomeness born not from vanity, but from sincerity.

⸺  Background

Born of two humble farmers upon the northern fringes of the Kingdom of Solgard, in a quiet stead known as Dunhaven, Tavric Solen knew peace before he ever knew pain. His childhood was a warm one — the laughter of siblings filling the fields, the smell of grain and earth clinging to every memory. He was the middle child of five, ever the steady hand among the Solen brood.Life upon the plains was not without hardship, yet Tavric met it with steady resolve. He worked the soil with the same determination as his eldest brother Dullan, a man who rose from farmer’s son to Crown Knight in service of Solgard’s banner. Dullan was Tavric’s beacon — strong, noble, and unyielding.But fate, ever cruel, came in the silence of a spring night. A raiding band of orcs swept down from the treeline, seizing Tavric’s sisters and leaving chaos in their wake. Against the pleas of his kin, the young Tavric took up his father’s old blade and went after them, Dullan at his side.They found the raiders’ camp — a horde of ten. Two farmboys against such beasts was folly, and Dullan knew it. Yet he smiled before the charge, a smile Tavric would remember until his dying breath. As his brother fell, Tavric and his sisters fled into the dark, the forest echoing with the clash of steel and the shouts of dying men.Four years passed. Tavric’s grief had hardened into resolve. No longer the boy who watched from the fields, he trained his body and spirit to follow in his brother’s path. He swore an oath — to become a Crowned Knight, not for glory, but to honor Dullan’s sacrifice.At nineteen years of age, Tavric stood tall as an oak, strong as the plow horse that carried the Solen name, with eyes keen and watchful as the hawk. It was then that destiny intervened once more. A mercenary came to Dunhaven, answering a plea for aid — Kalrik Fenvarr, a grim figure from the frozen North. Together they drove off the kobold raiders that plagued the Solen farmlands, and in that battle, Tavric saw something in the werewolf’s quiet strength — a reflection of his brother’s spirit.He offered Kalrik his company upon the road, setting forth not merely as a squire or sellsword, but as a man in search of purpose, honor, and the hand of fate. The plainsman and the predator — two souls bound by loss — began their journey into the wider realm of Eltia, their fates entwined by steel and sorrow.Tavric and Kalrik had roamed the northern highlands for a while and the untamed wilds, testing their mettle against beasts, bandits, and the biting cold. It was during one such venture near the coastal ruins of Thorne that fate intervened — there, they encountered Aelithra Vanyarin, an elven princess beset by vengeful spirits that clung to the ancient stones. After aiding in her salvation, the three found their goals intertwined and chose to journey together.Their travels soon led them north toward Hjoldir, an ancient stone site, where they crossed paths with Bramdor Ironvein, a fiery dwarf in pursuit of dragons or relics of old legend — none could tell which was truer. United by common purpose, the four pressed onward through the Halara Plains, where they later met Silia Nushiko, a wandering kitsune mage, and Sszarok Vaelix, a cunning lizardfolk rogue whose wit and tenacity proved invaluable.Together, they ventured far and wide — uncovering forgotten ruins, liberating cursed shrines, and even clashing with the pirates of Fang’s Bay beneath storm-wracked skies. But as the years passed, Tavric’s duty called him elsewhere. The dream of knighthood, once kindled in the ashes of his brother’s sacrifice, could no longer wait. With a heavy heart, he bid his comrades farewell and returned to Solgard to serve the Crown.After years of travel and countless battles beside his companions, Tavric’s path took a decisive turn.At twenty-two, he finally achieved what he had long set his heart upon — induction into the Crown Knightage of Solgard.Now twenty-six, it has been four long years since Tavric last stood beside his old party. The weight of command, the glory of service, and the echo of his friends’ laughter all linger within him — reminders of the man he was, and the knight he has become. And so he sets out to bring them all back together for a great and perilous quest — the very one from prophecy.

⸺  Party Member

Bramdor is often mistaken for nothing more than the hardened, gruff man of the road — the kind who’s seen too many winters and buried too many comrades. Yet beneath that rough exterior lies a sharp and calculating mind, tempered by years spent walking the line between faith and regret. His love for old things — relics, runes, and forgotten texts — is not merely an idle fascination but a quiet reverence. Each discovery feels to him like uncovering a fragment of a greater truth, a whisper of the dragons the Venra Covenant once served and protected.He speaks often of history — of fallen empires, cursed keeps, and the age when dragons still soared above Velkin — but never of his own past. When the conversation turns toward his imprisonment or his bloodline, he grows silent. His blood, once deemed sacred by those who followed the dragon’s path, feels to him more like a mark of shame — the reminder of vows broken and a purpose lost.Despite that, Bramdor remains a man of strong will and uncommon discipline. He has endured betrayal, captivity, and solitude, and each scar — both seen and unseen — has hardened him without hollowing him out.The Venra Covenant is one subject he speaks of only in riddles, if at all. To most of Eltia, it’s a myth — an ancient order that vanished with the dragons themselves — but Bramdor knows the truth runs deeper. He shoulders that knowledge carefully, for even a careless word could rouse sleeping devils.Among his companions, Bramdor plays the reluctant mentor. His manner is curt, his patience thin, but there is a strange warmth beneath his bark. He sees much of his younger self in Ssazarok — a being forged in chains and forced to survive by wit and will. Though he’d never admit it aloud, the lizard’s resilience stirs something almost paternal in him. For the rest of the party, Bramdor is the quiet guardian — the man who watches the fire last, who checks the perimeter twice, who ensures the foolish live to see another dawn.

⸺  Appearance

Bramdor stands at a stout 4’3, broad of shoulder and built like a mountain’s son. His body is corded with dense muscle and battle-worn strength, each scar and burn telling of the forge and the field alike. Years spent in the depths of Molmar’s Forge have left his skin pale and weathered, though it holds the rugged endurance of stone.A mane of fiery red hair falls untamed to his back, and his beard — thick, fierce, and divided into two braids — bears golden locks etched with dwarven runes, mementos of his fallen kin. His eyes, a deep burnished gold, gleam with a tempered wisdom and an unyielding will, the kind only the mountains could forge.Bramdor carries himself not with grace, but with purpose — a dwarf of grit, grief, and enduring fire.

⸺  Background

Bramdor of Molmar, son of the previous King of the Dwarves and his mortal mistress, was born into a world that wanted little to do with him. Bastard blood runs heavy in dwarven halls, and though the forges of the Pillar Mountains roared with might, none burned hotter than the scorn he endured from his kin. Yet, mockery could not quell the spirit within him — stubborn as stone, curious as the flame that shapes it.While his half-brothers coveted the crown and the weight of lineage, Bramdor’s eyes were ever fixed upon the past — upon relics, ruins, and the lost history buried deep beneath the mountain’s heart. At the mere age of four and twenty, still a boy in the reckoning of dwarves, he made a discovery that would forever change his life: an artifact of draconic make, found within the hidden veins of Molmar’s Forge.Ignorant of its power, he carried it home — and thus kindled a fire that would consume all he loved. His mother was slain the very next day, cast into the lava pits by the order of a jealous brother. When Bramdor cried to his father for justice, he was met not with mercy, but accusation. His brothers claimed he had stolen something sacred to the throne — and so, the young dwarf was shackled and cast into the lowest depths of Molmar, a prison from which none returned.For sixty long years, Bramdor languished in that abyss. He learned the voices of the stones, the cruelty of silence, and the weight of despair. Yet he never let go of his mother’s words — “Live, my son, even when the mountain will not have you.”Then, by fate’s design, the mountain itself cracked — a quake split the stone, and from that fissure Bramdor crawled forth into the light of a world he no longer recognized. There, waiting beyond the smoke and rubble, stood a band of hooded strangers. One among them, a figure with eyes bright as the dawn, extended a hand.“Join the Covenant,” the stranger said. “We seek to restore Eltia — and the past you chase may yet guide us.”For forty-one years, Bramdor served that Covenant. He crossed continents, delved into ruins forgotten by gods, and unearthed relics that whispered of dragons long dead. Yet, for all his discoveries, he felt a hollow ache — a yearning not for glory, but for kinship.That yearning was answered upon the ancient stones of Hjoldir, where fate brought him face to face with two unlikely souls — a grim werewolf named Kalrik and a bright-eyed farmer’s son called Tavric Solen. Against all odds, they forged a bond — one that grew stronger when joined by Aelithra, the lost elven princess, Silia, the fox-born magus, and Sszarok, the cunning lizard beastman.For three years, they wandered Eltia together — through the wilds, the plains, and the shores of Fang’s Bay, where they fought pirates and unearthed ruins thought cursed by the gods. For the first time in his long life, Bramdor felt he belonged.But as all tales do, this fellowship came to its parting. When Tavric chose to seek knighthood in Solgard, the others went their separate ways. Bramdor, ever the scholar, returned to his Covenant’s work — unaware that it would lead him once again into chains. Accused of treachery, he was taken to Gullow Prison, that grim fortress by the Deadflow coast, where he would spend four more years in confinement.Until one fateful spring morning — when the ground shook, the alarms wailed, and the clang of familiar steel echoed through the cells. In the chaos of smoke and broken stone, Bramdor beheld them again — his old companions, aged by time but fierce as ever.With a roar that shook the walls, he reclaimed his golden hammer, eyes blazing like molten ore. The dwarf who had once lost everything was dwarfed no longer by his past — for now, with his fellowship restored, he set forth on what would be his most daring and perilous quest yet.The hammer of Molmar rings once more — and with it, Bramdor’s story begins anew.

⸺  Party Member

Aelithra moves with a serene grace, her presence calm yet commanding, as though the very wind bends to her will. Her eyes carry a quiet sorrow, a story of loss and longing she seldom shares, yet they betray a heart both tender and strong. Though centuries have passed, she retains a touch of youthful naivety, tempered by the hard lessons of the past seven years wandering Velkin.She dreams of the great future once foretold for her, yet bears the weight of her parents’ care and the uncertainty of what lies ahead. The burden of destiny rests upon her shoulders, yet she carries it with dignity and purpose, ever mindful of the lives and fates intertwined with her own.Despite her solemnity, Aelithra is capable of warmth and genuine kindness. She smiles when the moment calls, and her empathy touches all who journey beside her. The bonds she forged with her companions have reshaped her, instilling courage, trust, and hope. Tavric, in particular, holds a special place in her heart — a steadfast friend whose strength and heart she admires, and whom she hopes will one day realize the depth of her regard for him.

⸺  Appearance

Aelithra stands at five feet and four inches, her movements marked by a grace that belies her slender frame. Her skin is pale as moonlight, smooth and radiant, yet subtly toned from years of training and travel.Golden locks tumble in gentle waves past her shoulders, often woven into a loose princess braid, framing a face of delicate features and solemn golden eyes that seem to hold both sorrow and wisdom. Her presence is calm and serene, but there is a quiet strength in the way she carries herself, a poised elegance born of both birth and experience.Though she bears no imposing stature, she moves with unmatched stealth and fluidity, her every step deliberate and measured. Many who see her would call her one of the most beautiful elves in all of Eltia — a beauty not merely of appearance, but of composure, skill, and the quiet power that radiates from within.

⸺  Background

Aelithra of Elmar — firstborn daughter of the Moonlit Throne of Elmar, heir to the Rimerian Dominion, and child of an age where stars themselves were said to bless her birth. The elven goddess Vaeluna touched her brow beneath the argent light of dawn, foretelling that the princess would one day bear a destiny not bound to her kin alone, but to the fate of all Eltia.For four centuries she dwelt in peace beneath the silver boughs of Elmar, her days filled with song, study, and the serene perfection only the Dominion could offer. Yet even the safest halls could not shield her from the world’s cruelty. In her four-hundred and tenth year, that peace was shattered when her closest companion, Calmerion, was condemned by the High Council for a crime too grave to speak of — and sentenced to exile upon the mortal continent of Velkin, where elves seldom tread and fewer still survive.Aelithra’s pleas fell upon deaf ears. Her defiance of the Council’s decree became her first act of rebellion — and her first step into the wider, harsher world. With only a name and faint trace of her friend’s passage, she sailed beyond the Sapphire Expanse and landed upon the storm-torn shores east of the Deadflow.She wandered ruins and haunted barrows, seeking hope among whispers and shadows… until fate intervened in the form of three wanderers: a grim werewolf, a fiery dwarf, and a bright-eyed human youth.Together they forged bonds through peril and purpose, later joined by a spirited kitsune mage and a wandering lizard warrior. For three years, Aelithra walked beside them, learning the world’s griefs and glories alike. But when Tavric chose to leave to pursue the Crown Knightage, the fellowship began to unravel.One by one, the others also departed, leaving Aelithra to continue her quest alone, her heart still tethered to the friend she had sought for so long.It was not until her four-hundred and seventeenth year that she found him again — not in life, but in death. Calmerion, enslaved and broken by a vampiric caravan, breathed his last within her arms, his final words a release: “You’re free to live your life now, Mellon nîn.”When the wind carried his spirit away, so too did it bring new purpose. In the years that followed, destiny’s threads wove once more — leading Aelithra back to Tavric and Kalrik. With grief tempered into resolve, the Moonlit Princess of Elmar now walks a path not of duty, but of choice — toward a final journey that may yet decide the fate of gods and mortals alike.

⸺  Party Member

Silia is clever, cunning, and fiercely independent, yet beneath her foxlike wiles lies a deep compassion for those she trusts, though she often keeps it hidden behind a playful or teasing demeanor.She is fiercely loyal to her companions, valuing trust and camaraderie above all else, quick-witted and adaptable. She can read situations and people with uncanny precision, making her an invaluable ally both in battle and in negotiation. And though she rarely admits it, the losses of her past weigh heavily.She is patient and thoughtful when problem-solving, and while she enjoys teasing or charming others, she does not tolerate betrayal, cruelty, or dishonesty. Silia's humor is gentle though but also sly, capable of easing tension in dire situations, and she thrives on adventure and exploration, finding joy in discovery, arcane mysteries, and unraveling the unknown.

⸺  Appearance

Silia stands at a striking height of five foot nine, her figure lithe yet strong, moving with the grace of a predator and the poise of a scholar. Her piercing violet eyes hold both mischief and intelligence. Six snowy white tails fan behind her, a testament to her mastery of the foxform and the ancient magics she wields.Her long, black hair, streaked with faint violet, flows like a shadowed river down her back, framing a face both cunning and captivating. Her tanned skin glows softly beneath the sun, giving her an almost ethereal allure, while her clawed fingers hint at the wildness that lies beneath her sophisticated exterior.Though her beauty is undeniable, it is a bewitching, dangerous sort — one that speaks of arcane power, deadly skill, and secrets not easily revealed. Every movement and glance carries the weight of both enchantment and cunning, marking her as a presence not soon forgotten, and a mage whose prowess rivals even the most storied archmages of Eltia.

⸺  Background

Silia of Tsuyori — born a fox among the windswept isles of the archipelago — discovered her gift of transformation early, a cunning and clever mind shaping her path as much as her shapeshifting talent.In her twenty-second year, fate delivered her to Solhara, Archmage of Solgard, a mentor whose brilliance and ambition would forever alter the course of her life. For seven decades, Silia studied beneath the mage’s tutelage, absorbing secrets of magic and prophecy, unaware that the comfort of her master’s guidance would one day erupt into catastrophe.In her ninety-second year, Solhara’s betrayal burned across southern Velkin, leaving ash and ruin in her wake, and claiming her own life in the flames.Silia was left amidst the devastation, burdened with guilt and questions that would haunt her for centuries.For the next four hundred and twenty-eight years, she wandered the lands seeking redemption, chasing fragments of ancient knowledge and the rebirth of the golden dragon Varethar, convinced she might right the wrongs of her mentor.Yet her journey was interrupted by the cruel hand of pirates — the Dread’or — who enslaved her at sea and stripped her of her most precious belongings, the Book of Isirys and the prophetic scroll.It was at Fang’s Bay, after her release, that she crossed paths with Ssazarok, a runaway lizard beastman, whose courage and quick thinking helped her reclaim her possessions and escape the pirates’ grasp.Together, they wandered the lands until fate led them to a group of unlikely companions — the elven princess Aelithra, the human Tavric, the gruff dwarf Bramdor, and the brooding werewolf Kalrik.For three years they journeyed together, exploring ruins, reclaiming relics, aiding the innocent, and weaving bonds of trust and camaraderie.But when Tavric departed and the fellowship dissolved, Silia returned to her studies in the Kingdom of Phia, joining The Circle, yet the absence of her friends left a void in her heart.And on a spring night, standing upon the cliffs of her homeland, she beheld a familiar ship upon the horizon — her long-missed companions had returned, calling her to join them once more for a final, extraordinary quest that would intertwine with the legacy of her master’s fall.

⸺  Party Member

Sszarok is a creature carved by hardship and sharpened by survival — a paradox of chaos and restraint. Beneath his toothy grin and flippant manner lies a storm of instincts long suppressed, the remnants of a childhood steeped in scorn and a youth forged in servitude.He wears humor like armor, often jesting even in the face of danger, but those who know him well can see the tension behind his smirk.He is brash, unpredictable, and entirely too comfortable with risk. Where others see peril, Sszarok sees opportunity — and where they see rules, he sees limits waiting to be broken. He does not harm the weak without cause, nor betray those who stand beside him — not out of nobility, but out of an instinctive respect for those who have shared in his struggle.
His time with the party softened him in ways he would never admit. Around them, the biting sarcasm dulled, the violence tempered. Aelithra’s quiet grace taught him patience; Tavric’s earnest courage reminded him of loyalty; and Silia’s fiery wit… well, that taught him a different kind of chaos — one that burned warmer than he expected. Though he often hides it beneath bravado, Sszarok cares deeply for his companions, willing to kill or die for them without hesitation.To most, Sszarok is a rogue’s rogue: cunning, sly, irreverent, and maddeningly confident. But to those few who have earned his trust, he is something far rarer — a fiercely loyal soul seeking redemption in a world that never offered him mercy.

⸺  Appearance

Standing at a towering seven feet and one inch, Sszarok is an imposing figure. His body is built for both agility and power, his movements smooth and predatory despite his size. His scales are a deep dark red, like molten rock cooled under shadow, with faint black undertones that shimmer when light touches them.A jagged black mohawk runs from the crown of his head down the ridge of his neck. His crimson eyes burn like coals beneath a storm. His snout is angular and strong.His most striking feature, however, is his massive lizard’s tail — thick, muscular, and long. His hands and feet end in curved black claws, worn smooth from years of battle and escape. Across his chest and arms, old scars crisscross his hide like forgotten runes of survival.Despite his monstrous form, there’s a fierce charisma about Sszarok — he looks every bit the hunter he is, but behind the crimson eyes lies something far older — the ghost of a boy who once wanted to be good.

⸺  Background

Sszarok of Kuram was born into chains long before they were ever fastened to his wrists. His parents, poor and frightened, left him upon the steps of a weathered shrine deep within the sands, where an aged village elder took him in out of pity and hope. Among the beastfolk, blood and lineage were sacred — and Sszarok had neither. From his earliest days, he was mocked as a stray, a hatchling of no true tribe, a mistake that should never have drawn breath.Yet, the elder believed there was kindness within him, and so raised the boy to be patient and good-hearted. But patience has its limit — and when he was twelve years of age, the cruelty of others snapped whatever thread of restraint he’d clung to. The same boys who tormented him for years met him on the open path one day, and when their laughter rose again, something inside him broke. When it was done, only one had escaped — the rest lay broken in the dust, and the boy who once wept in silence now grinned with blood on his claws.Kuram’s soldiers came before nightfall. The elder watched, trembling, as they dragged the boy away toward the burning horizon. Sszarok never saw them again. From that day forward, his life belonged to the desert — first as a gladiator fighting for coin and spectacle, then as a caged beast for noble amusement. It was only when a figure known in whispers as the King of Assassins took notice of him that his fate shifted. This man, a lich named Mori, saw in the young lizard something malleable, sharp, and hungry — and so he honed him into a killer worthy of legend.By seventeen, Sszarok’s hands had been baptized in enough blood to darken a kingdom. But during his final trial, fate took another turn — captured by the infamous Dread’or pirates upon the Sapphire Expanse, he found himself once again in chains. There, amid the stench of salt and despair, he met Silia, a fiery kitsune mage whose defiance burned brighter than his cynicism. Their escape from the pirates’ hold marked the first time he’d chosen freedom for himself — and it led him straight into the paths of an unlikely fellowship: a farmer with courage, a cold werewolf warrior, a quiet elf princess, and a gruff dwarf of deep wisdom.For three years, they carved their legend across Velkin. Sszarok learned what it meant to fight beside comrades — not for gold, not for power, but for something that stirred faintly like purpose. But when the party scattered, that warmth left him hollow once again. He turned to the shadows, to theft and cunning, becoming the ghost in every treasury, the whisper in every bounty hall. His name was cursed in a dozen tongues — and yet, even in his infamy, he could not find peace.And then, fate circled back. Amid the ashes of his chaos and the ruins of his past, he met them again — his old companions, standing before him with a new quest and a promise of something greater than vengeance: meaning. Without hesitation, the young lizardman grinned, adjusted his blade, and joined them once more — for fire, glory, or ruin.