Human
"Ancient tales of the origins of humanity suggest that most nations that exist today spawned from the clans of a great migration from beyond the horizons. I make the bold claim that humans are actually not native to this plane of existence, and in fact, are travelers from another disc: that we are all descendants from a great traveling host, whose true origins are lost in the sands of time and beyond the realms available to us.
Our bloodlines were once akin to the gods themselves, and weaken generation after generation as we lose the sublime tethers that once bound us to our home.
Should we find ourselves somehow able to return home, one wonders at the majesty we might once again attain, presuming that once great demesne still exists."
Description
Humans are by far the most versatile and flexible of all the breeds known to the land. They are natural chameleons and adapt to changing environments and cultures well.
Known for being highly adaptive to many environments, humans encompass a wide range of cultures, traits, and biomes. This tendency to take on the features of the locale they inhabit has not gone unnoticed to the well-traveled scholar, as humans from one area might look and act almost entirely differently from one another.
However, some aspects of humanity remain core to the breed, perhaps expressed to a greater or lesser extent, but generally present in each one that you might meet - whether in a hut at the edge of a volcano, deep in an alley at the center of a sprawling city, or alone in a canoe adrift at sea.
Chosen
A chosen of the Gods, these humans might have angelic or deific blood in their lineage, be the focus of an ancient prophecy, or are watched by one of the gods (for good or for ill). While others may earn the attention of otherworldly patrons in their lifetimes, very few are watched from birth. Most of those who are, claim at least some human descent.
Chosen are frequently adventurers, finding themselves drawn to risky situations, where their divine blood guides them as an innate luck or intuition. Drawn to promises of grand destinies, power, and fame, few Chosen opt for a quiet life of normalcy, and fewer still the life of the recluse or hermit.
That said, the futures of Chosen are always in question, as the candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long, and Chosen often seek to burn as bright as they can, with predictable, if impressive, results.
Arcane
Tracing their blood back to ancient clans of sourcerers, witches, warlocks, and the like, the Arcane simply breathe magic as if it were second nature. The life of an Arcane takes an abrupt turn around the age of ten, as the once human child manifests their innate powers, often in spectacular fashion: tales of childhood homes erupting in flames, bullies having limbs broken by unseen forces, and lost children guided from dark forests by supernatural guidance are common among the Arcane.
One facet always seems to arise though: the Manifestation begins with some form of childhood trauma: a lost parent, a childhood fight, or the like. None know why this is, but it is eerily consistent, spanning time and locale.
The price, however, once paid, finds the newly minted Arcane easily able to manipulate magic: it comes naturally, and easily, though there are no guards or rails against exploration into darker paths - many a budding Arcane has found themselves deep in Dark Territory without an inkling of what lurks there.
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
~ Dylan Thomas