The Path of Burning Vines

Cade'Ra, who now stalks the jungle, was born among brick and bronze, not vines and fangs. Wave’s End was the first home he knew. He was dropped half-dead on temple steps, a newborn with golden eyes and scaled arms. His survival was a miracle, contrast to its stone halls echoing with sermons to absent gods.

 
While raised in quiet comfort it became clear Cade’Ra desired a more active life. He made fast friends of other children - low and high born alike - and excelled in all his studies. As a boy with a sharp, curious mind, Cade’Ra read constantly. His deep interest in the true pantheon, magic, and history of the world further north kept his nose in books, while his desire to serve well kept him in daily martial lessons. As the years passed, Cade’Ra and his childhood friends - Olene and Garlin - spent their days working and planning, their greatest desire to explore the world outside Wave's End. And so, at twenty, they all took work guarding caravans heading into the jungle reaches of the Soulcleft Marches. The pay was decent. The life a bit routine. But the path was known, safe - until it wasn’t.

 
Four years later his caravan was ambushed deep in vine-choked ruins. Blood soaked the moss. Screams echoed through the trees. The last thing Cade'Ra remembers is the slow, wet sound of something too large to be human moving through the greenery.

 
He should have died.
Instead, he dreamed.

 
“The gods are not silent, only listening,” whispered the figure—an ephemeral being in a long, white, flowing dress. “You were not made for marble and prayer. You were born to walk the untamed border where shadow bleeds into soul. Rise, golden warrior, and follow the path of burning vines.”

 
When Cade'Ra awoke, he was beneath a canopy of stars, half-wrapped in poultice and herbs, cared for by some tribe deep in the jungle. They had found him clinging to life, the dead littered around him. They called themselves the Virrathi, and the elder—Ha’Loq, a weathered, ancient saurian with eyes like smoke—knew what he was. “You are one of us,” the elder rasped. “Just not yet.”

 
From them, Cade'Ra learned the old ways—how to read the stars through the jungle mist, how to channel the blood memory of his people to enhance his body, shift his form, grow claws as hard as stone or teeth as sharp as blades. The jungle tested him. The Virrathi honed him. And occasionally, in the night, the celestial voice returned.

 
“What was left behind must be remembered. What was broken must be reforged.”

 
“You will not save the jungle. But you will become its fire, its blade, its peace.”

 
For the next 13 years, Cade'Ra’s continual vision quest led him to cursed ruins, blighted rivers, and villages terrorized by twisted beasts of fell shadow and ill intent - outsiders, undead, and all manner of evil. And so, where he could, he became a guardian, the claws of calm fury. His back bore the marks of fire and blood. His claws had torn through horrors not found in any book. His name was whispered by villagers who never saw him, but found themselves saved by his grit and steel.
And all the while, the dreams grew more vivid.

 
“You are not only a weapon,” the angel whispered. “You are a window. Through you, the land remembers itself.”

 
Now Cade'Ra walks both worlds. He wears the bones of the jungle and carries the history of the north. He is called to cleanse, not with fire alone, but with remembrance—of what was lost, what must return, and what must be protected at all costs.