Session #0: Character Introduction
General Summary
Mael Var
Character Concept
Mael is a young adult elf who has just recently completed his first century of life. Like all elves born in the capital city of Thandor, Mael grew up in the ghetto district of Edhellond. He is the only child of a family that holds significant influence among the elven community. His father, Vaerion, serves as the district’s adept and holds a position of authority among the marginalized elves in the kingdom. His mother, Elaris, is a simple woman, and her love for Mael is boundless.
Mael is an alchemist, though his path to this profession was not without its struggles. The road that led him to discover his passion for alchemy was filled with obstacles and hardships, shaping him into the person he is today.
Background Scenes
A Childhood Disease
One of the most impactful moments in Mael's life occurred when he was only 8 years old. He contracted a strange disease that brought him to the brink of death. The events surrounding the illness were explored as Mael slipped into a nightmarish fever. In his delirium, he experienced a bizarre vision, where shadowy claws gripped his psyche, tearing at something deep inside him. Just as he was about to succumb, a strange light- seemingly born of starlight- engulfed him, and Mael awoke once more.
His fever had disappeared, and beside him stood his parents, as well as Dr. Atherton, an elven healer and alchemist who had comforted him then and in the years that followed. The scene closed with young Mael overhearing his father and Dr. Atherton discussing the inexplicable nature of his illness. The healer claimed that Mael had been dead for at least ten minutes before mysteriously returning to life.
An Arcane Opportunity
Some years later, around the age of 15, a great opportunity arose for Mael. Since recovering from his illness, he had developed a unique ability to perceive magic in all things. However, this newfound power was beyond his control, hampering his vision and making daily life difficult.
Then, a half-elven mage named Aneril Oblidonia appeared in Thandor, having had a vision. He sought to create a magical academy with the goal of bridging the divide between the human and elven populations. Aneril approached Vaerion, the leader of the elven community, who supported him with all his power. Vaerion was thrilled when Aneril announced that Mael would make an excellent apprentice for his new school, and thus Mael's arcane journey began.
Mael excelled for a time. Theory came easily to him, and his ability to see magic gave him an edge over others. Yet, a hard truth soon became clear: Mael was inept at actually practicing magic. No matter how hard he tried, even the simplest spells failed, and not even a scroll could grant him its power. Despite this, he persisted. Generations of mages came and went from the academy, but Mael remained.
Eventually, Aneril passed away, and a new administration took over the school. They gave Mael one last chance to prove himself, but when he failed to perform, they asked him to leave. Once again, Dr. Atherton- now the alchemist professor at Oblidonia-intervened and took Mael on as his lab assistant.
Jealousy Is An Ugly Emotion
Things continued to turn against Mael in the following years. For a time, he had a relationship with a half-elven wizard named Corien. However, when she graduated and achieved many of her goals, she wanted more. She desired a family, stability, and a life with Mael. Yet, he wasn’t ready. The gap between elven and human maturity became more apparent, and the two of them separated. Two years later, Mael learned that Corien had married. Though they remained friends, second thoughts crept into his mind from time to time.
Around the same time, the academy began to stray from its founders' vision. It became home to a prideful elite, mostly consisting of human arcane casters, and Dr. Atherton retired. With his departure, Mael lost his position as well, though his mentor continued to support him. Dr. Atherton sent Mael to the Academy of Sciences, urging him to accept that magic was not meant for him. Instead, the healer convinced him to pursue alchemy, a field in which Mael had already shown great talent. Mael seized the opportunity but never gave up on his dream of magic. There was a reason for this. Despite what anyone else claimed, Mael knew that alchemy contained magic: he could see it.
After completing his studies, nearly 60 years since he first left, Mael returned home, but things had changed there as well. His father, Vaerion, was disappointed by his inability to become a mage, as he held their elven heritage and connection to the arcane in high regard. Mael returned to a cold environment, realizing he had been replaced by his cousin, Etrien Naeren. Etrien was a sorcerer, and he had become everything Mael couldn't be for Vaerion.
At the same time, Mael discovered that he was not like the other elves he had known all his life. Through his studies, he realized that he belonged to another race, one nearly extinct. Everything pointed to him being a shadow elf, though he had no idea what this meant for his family. However, he never asked, choosing instead to wait patiently for answers.
Mael set down roots back in Edhellond, finding a job next to the local mortuary, working with an elven woman named Morticia. At the same time, he helped the local guard with reports of undead sightings in the cemeteries. Gradually, Mael withdrew into himself, becoming silent, patient, and passive toward life; at least, that’s how most people saw him. That is, until something came along to stir that silence.
Zara
Character Concept
Zara is a young woman with a deep conviction in her purpose. Her mixed heritage has always fascinated and intrigued those around her- but for Zara, it was a source of silent torment from childhood. She is a Half-Eaglor, a rare and enigmatic lineage born from the union of an eaglor and a human or elf.
Zara was raised by her eaglor mother, Jara, in a small hamlet built by exiles on one of the remote islands of the Aerethia Archipelago. Her father was a mystery- someone she never met, never heard about, and whom no one in the village seemed to know or speak of. From the moment she could form questions, Zara asked about her mother's kind, longing to understand the half of her blood that remained cloaked in silence. But Jara would never speak of it.
This unanswered longing became a fire within her. Zara grew into someone shaped by isolation, fueled by a hunger for truth. She trained relentlessly, pushing the limits of what the meager resources of her village could offer. And when the time finally felt right, she left. Alone, determined, and with nothing but the wind and her will, Zara sailed away- convinced that the answers she sought lay beyond the horizon.
Background Scenes
A Birthday Gift
One of Zara's fondest memories from childhood was her birthdays. Every year, her mother would go above and beyond to make the day magical, turning it into a treasure hunt filled with riddles, surprises, and laughter. But one birthday stood out more than any other: her ninth. She awoke on a chilly winter morning, expecting to see her mother’s familiar face, but the house was quiet. Instead, a small letter waited on her nightstand. Her heart fluttered with excitement; the treasure hunt was about to begin.
After a set of three riddles, Zara’s eyes lit up as the answer of the final one clicked in her mind. She bolted toward the wardrobe. Heart pounding in her chest, she flung open the door of the old armoire she and her mother shared- and there it was. Nestled inside, a small pouch bearing her name awaited her.
With trembling fingers, she picked it up and untied the string. Her breath caught as she peeked inside and her jaw dropped. It was an amulet. A beautiful, handmade pendant, clearly crafted by her mother’s own hands. Delicate feathers from her mother’s wings adorned its edges, woven into the cord with care and love. Zara could hardly believe it. She understood in that moment that this was more than a gift. It was a piece of her mother’s heritage, a token of trust. Zara knew without question: this pendant would never leave her neck.
As Zara reached to close the wardrobe, still thrilled with her gift, something caught her eye. At the bottom, a plank looked loose and just beneath it, a scrap of cloth peeked through. Curiosity flared.
She knelt down, pulled at the plank, and retrieved the cloth bundle. As she unwrapped it, a handful of smooth stones spilled out onto her feet, each engraved with strange, unfamiliar symbols. Nestled among them was a small parchment bearing three concentric circles surrounded by intricate runes. Zara stared, puzzled. What was this?
Before she could piece together a thought, the front door slammed open.
Her mother’s voice cracked through the house, sharp with fury. Jara stormed in, eyes blazing. She caught sight of the stones and froze for only a heartbeat, then rushed forward, scooping them up with trembling hands, wrapping them quickly back in the cloth. Zara barely had time to speak before her mother stormed out of the room, the bundle clutched tightly to her chest.
But in the chaos, she hadn’t noticed Zara quietly slip the parchment into her pocket.
A Fist Fight
As Zara grew older, so did her restlessness. Her mother continued to shut down every conversation about her old tribe. The only thing she would ever admit was that she had been exiled while pregnant with Zara and that this was simply the way things were. Jara had made peace with it. There was no bitterness in her voice, no resentment in her eyes. She accepted her exile as just.
But Zara couldn’t.
She came to realize that Thornwatch, her quiet village, was not where she belonged. She needed to go. To travel. To find her own answers. She longed to meet the eaglor tribe, to face them, and to make them see the error of their ways. Being a Half-Eaglor didn’t make her lesser. It made her different and she would make the world understand that.
That was how she got her first job at the Broken Mast.
Her childhood friend, Marcia, already worked there, but Zara didn’t want to follow in her footsteps. The Mast wasn’t just a tavern or an inn. It was also a pleasure house, a place where sailors, pirates, and drifters sought comfort in the arms of local boys and girls. Zara flatly refused that path. Instead, she struck a deal with Captain Ivo, the owner: she would work behind the bar. She thought it would be easy.
But the job proved more difficult than expected, for behind the bar, she heard everything. The whispers. The sneers. The slurred comments about her feathers, her mixed blood, the way she looked. She endured it, until one night, the insults turned toward her mother.
They called Jara a chicken. A freak. A hen.
Zara snapped and the fight began.
The Journey Begins
Years passed, and Zara came into adulthood.
The arrangement at the Mast changed since Captain Ivo saw the value in that first fight. Sailors needed to blow off steam, and after sex, nothing did it quite like a brawl. Ivo knew this well. So, for a while, Zara played the bait. She took the jeers, endured the slurs, and let the tension build. Then she’d strike, fists flying, bets rolling in, and by the end of the night, the patrons were drunk, bruised, and oddly content. Zara became the unofficial mascot of the shady tavern: half-barmaid, half-brawler, and full spectacle.
"I don't care if you think they are extinct. The Eaglors are out there, I feel it. And I will find them. I will make them realize I am one of them, no matter what it takes."
But not everyone celebrated her situation. There was one man who hated seeing her go down that road: Ben.
To Zara, he was like an uncle. She’d always remembered him coming in and out of their home, a looming presence with salt in his beard and secrets in his eyes. Whispers of a relationship with her mother were common in the village, but neither he nor Jara ever confirmed them. Ben had once been a pirate, old now, weary perhaps, but still sharp as a cutlass. He had taken it upon himself to watch over Thornwatch in his own way, and Zara? Zara mattered to him.
He saw what Ivo was doing. More importantly, he saw where it would lead. So he intervened. He trained her, not in the crude style of tavern scraps, but in the discipline of blades. He taught her to fight like someone who meant to survive, not just win. To defend, not just strike. Zara soaked in every lesson, every correction, every scar. And Ben knew… Thornwatch would not hold her for long.
When the time came, she told him she was leaving. Just like that. No plan. No map. Just her instincts and the ache for something more. Ben didn’t argue. Instead, he gave her what she needed most: a direction.
Despite Jara’s furious objections, Ben told her what he knew. If she truly wanted to uncover her mother’s past, she needed to start with the man who had been erased from it. Her father. His name was Bastian. Ben didn’t know much, only that he hailed from Thandor and that he was a shadowy figure, someone who walked on the edge of things. Dangerous, maybe. Unreliable, certainly. But real.
And for Zara, that was enough.
She left Thornwatch with a blade on her back, a secret in her pocket, and a fire in her chest that would not be quenched until the truth was hers.
Ondrea Almara
Character Concept
Ondrea is a peculiar creature, born into even more peculiar circumstances.
Her beauty and charisma always stood out; especially in Crimson Hollow, the small, stubborn village where she was raised. Tucked away at the edge of the known world, Crimson Hollow served as the last flickering bastion against undeath. A community of people too proud or too desperate to flee, too stubborn to surrender what little they had to the darkness that had swallowed Myltery for centuries. They kept to themselves, clung to their own laws and customs, and protected one another with ferocity.
Among them, Ondrea was different.
She was a shining reminder that the gods had not abandoned them entirely. An aasimar, divine-touched, radiant, marked by golden eyes that shimmered like sunlight through stormclouds. From the moment she could walk, the village swaddled her in reverence and fear. A beacon of hope in a place where hope had no business lingering. And because of that, she was never allowed to live freely.
The people of Crimson Hollow knew what the undead lords of the major cities would do if they learned of her existence. She would be taken, twisted, broken, made into a tool or worse. So they hid her away. Her parents were cautious, the village watchful. She never left her home without the dark-lensed glasses meant to dim her radiance. Her childhood was not hers. Her future was not hers and their protection became her cage.
She dreamed of freedom. Of sunlight not filtered through ash. Of green forests untouched by rot. Of laughter that didn’t sound like mourning. And she got her wish; just not in the way she’d imagined.
Now, Ondrea walks the world with a singular purpose: to bring joy where it has been forgotten, to speak for those who have no voice, and to remember those left behind in the cold grip of the dead.
Background Scenes
Born in the Land of the Dead
Life in Crimson Hollow was never easy. You had to be careful- of every step, every shadow, every breath. Children learned this from the day they were born, and Ondrea was no exception. Still, she stole what little peace she could. Most days, she’d sneak off with Elias- her best friend- to a small clearing they’d discovered deep in the marshes. It was their secret world, untouched by death, where they could be children for just a little while. But even then, she always returned home before dusk. Everyone did.
She was ten years old that night. Her mother was heavy with her third child, and Ondrea had taken it upon herself to help. With her father Gareth serving as the village warden and her older brother joining him on patrols, the burden of care fell on her small shoulders. But she bore it with quiet determination.
She cooked dinner. Marked their doorway with the protective runes they refreshed every night. Then sat with her mother, speaking in soft tones, holding her hand; until hell broke loose. Undead attacks were not unusual in Crimson Hollow. The villagers were hardened, trained, stubborn. Her father and the other brave souls of the village fought them off time and time again. But this night was different.
This time, her mother went into labor.
Ondrea knew no one was coming. No midwife. No healer. Not even her brother. The battle raged outside, snarls and screams echoing like thunder through the wooden walls. But she did what needed to be done.
Guided by her mother's labored voice, she brought her baby sister into the world as death clawed and howled at the threshold. Her hands trembled, her heart thundered, but she held strong. She was light in the darkness. Just like everyone said she would be.
She would remember that night forever.
Not just for the blood and the screams or the pale, perfect face of her newborn sister, but for the look in her father’s eyes when he returned. Gareth, her hero, stood in the doorway soaked in gore and ash, and when he saw them- alive, safe, whole- his knees nearly buckled. He didn’t speak at first. He just held her.
And then, with tears he refused to wipe away, he gave her something priceless.
A small, worn case. Inside it, a pick for his lute- an heirloom passed down from generations in their family. He had never played well, not really. But he always said music was his shield against despair. Now it was hers.
“Keep bringing light into this dark world,” he said.
And Ondrea never forgot it.
The Fall of Crimson Hollow
The night Ondrea’s life changed forever came two years later. Much had shifted in that short time. Most of all, the loss of her father. Gareth, the brave warden of Crimson Hollow, had fallen during one of the many undead attacks. Since then, sorrow hung over their home like a storm that refused to pass. The laughter had vanished from the walls. Even Ondrea struggled to smile. With her hero gone, everything felt dimmer. Nightmares haunted her sleep. This night was no exception.
In her dreams, shadows clawed at the corners of her mind. Her father stood before her, eyes hollow, skin peeling, his body rotting in real time as he reached out. She screamed and jolted upright, drenched in sweat. But the shadows weren’t gone. One stood above her bed; tall, thin, its limbs stretched unnaturally long. Its hands ended in knife-like claws, and its eyes bled crimson tears.
Then, steel flashed. The creature howled and reeled as a blade struck it from behind. It was Torin.
Her uncle didn’t stop to speak. He grabbed her and ran.
Ondrea heard her mother’s scream before she saw the blood. Her brother lay crumpled on the ground. The air stank of rot and iron. Crimson Hollow was ablaze in panic, its final stand had already crumbled. And looming over it all were the undead lords. Mounted on skeletal beasts that once resembled horses, they rode through the village like harbingers of doom, searching.
A hand was raised. Pointed at her. Ondrea's breath caught in her throat.
It was Kaltor.
The same Kaltor who handled the village’s dead. The one trusted to keep the fallen from rising. The one who had smiled at her not two days ago. He was the traitor.
The moment shattered. Torin screamed. Undead swarmed. Everything blurred- blood, smoke, screams- and they ran. Through fields, past burning homes, over broken fences. Torin fought them off as long as he could. But eventually, they caught up. She saw him take a blow that knocked him to his knees. Heard him cry out her name, urging her to keep running, to not look back.
She wanted to stay. She wanted to fight. But then, he began to change.
She ran. And didn’t stop. Not even when her lungs burned and her legs gave out. She ran until darkness swallowed her, and she collapsed into it.
The Golden Caravan & A Strange Love
"I sing for those who need to be heard. I perform because what's missing from this world is joy."
Ondrea’s life changed after that fateful night. Whether it was luck or Torin’s last act, something guided her into the arms of a new beginning; one bathed not in shadow, but in light.
She was found unconscious on the edge of a long-abandoned road by a traveling company of artists- a vibrant caravan moving from village to village, bringing music, laughter, and color wherever they went. They took her in without question. Their leader, a middle-aged man named Vay, became her mentor... and, in time, the father figure she had lost.
At first, Ondrea struggled. She still heard the screams in the night. She wanted to return. To bury her dead. To mourn. But the caravan-their laughter, their freedom, their defiant joy in the face of a broken world- began to heal her. And slowly, she came to belong. She danced. She sang. She performed beneath moonlight and torchfire, her golden eyes hidden behind dark lenses, her smile genuine at last. With time, the pain didn’t vanish, but she buried it deep. Remembering was something she did alone, in silence, between songs.
Years passed and then, one summer evening beneath a starlit sky, she met him.
Cassian.
A bard like her, though a wanderer by nature- one who drifted between caravans, chasing new songs, collecting stories like treasures. He carried a charm she couldn’t ignore, a wit that matched hers, and a sadness that mirrored her own. Their flirtation bloomed quickly into something deeper. They played, composed, and sang together, crafting a duet that felt like a child of their shared souls.
They spent a month wrapped in music and laughter, kisses and whispered stories by the fire. Then, one morning, he was gone.
No farewell. No explanation. Just a gift- a music box enchanted with his voice, forever singing their song in which he had added lyrics- and a letter. A single, handwritten page she still keeps close to her heart, its edges worn soft by touch.
Cassian taught her what love could feel like. And what it meant to lose it.
When first I saw you, wild and free,
A laughing flame upon the sea,
Your voice, a song the wind would keep,
A fire that danced, yet ran so deep.
No chains could bind, no walls contain,
Your spirit soared beyond the rain.
Yet in your eyes, the stars would burn,
And light the path for my return.
Darvin the Smoked
Character Concept
If there is one truth about Darvin, it is this: he is a survivor.
He has endured what would break lesser souls- pain, loss, humiliation- and yet he remains, standing tall with quiet strength and eyes that refuse to dim. Resourceful, resilient, and fueled by the stubborn hope of a better tomorrow, Darvin has lived through fates worse than death… and walked away breathing.
He was born in the remote wastelands of Pariant, among the nomadic and mystical clans of the Sol’kali- one of the five bloodlines that make up the Tir’naru tribe. From the moment of his birth, his path seemed clear: to become a warrior of his clan, a protector of its ancient rites and sacred secrets.
But fate rarely follows the script of tradition. It is a wind, subtle and cruel, that shifts without warning. Darvin’s fate was shattered when he was taken, stripped from his people and sold into slavery. He survived the chains. He bore the scars of torture and the weight of humiliation. Yet he lived. From one master to another, his journey eventually carried him across the continent to Thandor, into the cold, arcane halls of Oblidonia.
There, he became the possession of a high mage- an ornament, a slave, a body without a voice. The world sees a servant. His master sees a tool. But Darvin? Darvin sees a man who will endure. A man who waits, learns, survives. Because the truth still burns quietly in his chest:
He is not broken. He is simply biding his time.
"You see me and think I am weak, aren't you? Good. Think that."
Background Scenes
The Test of Adulthood
One of the most pivotal moments in Darvin’s life came during the Test of Adulthood.
Among the Sol’kali, this rite marked the passage from youth to warriorhood. Every five years, the scattered clans gathered beneath the shadowed ruins of Ran’dar’al, the cradle of their forgotten city, to honor old blood and welcome the rise of the new. Darvin- known then by his birthname, Asharvin- was only ten.
He and three others of his age stood before the elders. Their quest: to venture into the Wastelands and return with a single blossom from the desert flower, a plant said to bloom only in the Salt Flats of Rhok, a region of shimmering pink salt and jagged crystal spires where the earth breathes danger. They set off without hesitation. Sol’kali children were raised by hardship. The sun had long since become their brother, the sand their sister. For four days, they walked the cruel lands, drawing strength from silence and from each other.
The flower grew there, delicate against the salted wind, but so did pale scorpions, translucent vermin that swarmed the ground. The children fought them, blades flashing under the moon. Yet as they cut down the creatures, they failed to see the shifting ground, the trembling salt beneath their feet. One among them- Itharak, proud and eager- broke away, thinking to seize the flower himself while the others died.
The salt cracked. The wind fell silent. And then she rose.
Umb’a’Aran, the Black Mother of the Wastes- a colossal scorpion with an onyx carapace that shimmered like obsidian fire. Her claw struck like lightning. Itharak was gone before he could scream. The others ran, hearts pounding, shielding each other with dust-streaked arms and bloodied blades. They did not scatter. They endured together. When they returned, ash-footed and shaken, they bore no blossom. But they bore something greater: the tale of Umb’a’Aran.
And the elders understood.
To see her and survive was a sign of grace- to be spared by the fierce mother was to be chosen by the desert itself. Asharvin had passed the test. He was no longer a child.
He was Sol’kali.
The Black Chains
Asharvin was fifteen when the Black Chains shattered his world.
His clan had made camp just miles from the city of Ahr’tul, the fires low, the night calm. There were songs still echoing in the dunes when the black riders came; silent as shadow, swift as death. The attack was merciless. He awoke with a dagger at his throat, its blade gleaming faintly in the moonlight. All around him, screams and fire. His mother’s blood soaked the sands. His brother fought back- and paid with a deep cut across his face. His sister was taken. Their leader was executed with a single arrow to the heart.
No words. No mercy. Just chains and silence.
They tied him up and dragged him into the night, as they did with many others. He was thrown into a black wagon, robbed of sight, speech, and dignity. He lost consciousness more than once. When he awoke, the desert was gone.
He lay paralyzed on a stone slab inside a musty cavern, the air thick with rot and damp stone. A single oil lamp cast long, flickering shadows across the walls. Then came the man. A strange human in a worn doctor’s coat, his face lined by time and cruelty. He introduced himself as Jonas, and he called himself a caretaker.
Jonas worked in silence. He pulled Asharvin’s teeth- those he deemed unfit. He shaved his hair, scrubbed his skin raw, tended his wounds with cold hands. Not out of compassion, but to preserve value. To make him more presentable. And when he was finished, another figure entered. A towering blue brute, silent and inhuman, holding a branding iron etched with runes that glowed faintly with magic. The fire roared as it was heated. Asharvin screamed as the brand was pressed against his chest, just above the heart. The mark sizzled into his skin, and a surge of arcane energy ripped through his soul like lightning.
Jonas then declared it: he was property now and if he tried to speak of it, if he tried to run away, this mark would kill him.
Time faded. Hunger, thirst, torture, backbreaking labor in the salt mines- he endured it all. Day after nameless day. Hope faded. His family: gone. His sister: vanished. His identity: burned away. And then, one day, he was shipped off.
He was loaded onto a vessel with others. When he stepped off the boat, he stood not in chains, but in a place of illusion. He had arrived in Oblidonia. The elite magical academy denied all ties to slavery. Its masters claimed innocence, its wards spoke only of excellence, and its servants- its slaves- were forbidden to speak the truth.
Here, he was called Darvin.
Not a student. Not a man. A shadow.
The Gift
Throughout his years as a slave, Darvin learned the most important lesson of all:
Observe. But never speak.
He became invisible by design, quiet by necessity. And in his silence, he saw what others missed. He watched. He listened. He remembered. In the shadowed basements of Oblidonia, he witnessed rituals that should not have existed. Secret orders that moved beneath the academy’s polished facade. Sacrifices offered to forgotten things. But Darvin kept his silence. Because silence, he knew, was the only way to survive long enough to see the sun again.
And he was right.
In time, the masters of Oblidonia began to trust him- at first as useful labor, then as something more. Jacob Candeskus, the professor of Conjuration, a man with a tower of his own and a name that held weight across the continent, claimed Darvin for himself.
At first, he was trained as a bodyguard. Jacob forced his memory to wake, to remember his childhood training, the way he once moved and struck and survived. But the mage noticed something else.
Darvin understood magic.
Perhaps it was pride. Perhaps arrogance. Perhaps the thrill of owning a servant who could cast. Whatever the reason, Jacob nurtured that spark. He fed Darvin scraps of knowledge, and Darvin devoured them. By his late twenties, he walked the city on his own- still branded, still bound by the mark that burned over his heart, still unable to speak of what he was. But he walked, under the sun, fed and clothed. He had almost forgotten what hunger felt like. And in the city’s gutters, he made a friend. A petty thief from The Pit, a wiry boy with clever hands and a defiant grin. They never spoke of chains. But they both knew what it meant to survive.
Then came the day when Jacob left, to visit his daughter and his grandson. A personal errand, beneath the notice of the academy. He left Darvin behind to manage his affairs. But before he departed, he left a gift.
Or maybe, a warning.
It was small and simple, wrapped in old cloth. But when Darvin unwrapped it, he froze.
A bone dagger.
His bone dagger.
The one he had been awarded by the Sol’kali after surviving the trial of adulthood. The one he thought lost to blood and sand. Now it rested in his hands again. He didn’t know what to think.
Was it a kindness?
A sign of trust?
Or a message? A reminder that no matter how far he walked, the Chains still watched?
Our Tale Begins...
It is the first month of autumn, known in Kena’an as Silanthia, and the year is 960 A.D.A. The air is crisp, the leaves burn gold, and the roads are restless with travelers, traders, and things more secretive still.
The four heroes of this story have not yet met. But that is about to change.
Each of them finds themselves drawn toward the northern edge of the empire, to a modest village called Oakwood. A place that, by all accounts, is isolated and inhospitable. A place where something is beginning to stir. Their paths converge just outside the eastern gate of Thandor, where a weathered merchant’s carriage waits on the road, its horse idling and its wheels creaking softly.
Mael, the silent, melancholic alchemist.
Ondrea, the colorful, smiling bard.
Darvin, the tortured but optimistic magus.
All three have paid for a seat in the wagon bound for Oakwood.
And then there is Zara- a nervous but focused fighter.
She is not a passenger. She is the blade that watches the road, hired by the merchant Mat to keep the journey smooth and the wolves at bay.
The sun is rising. The wind smells of smoke and harvest.
And the wheels of fate are beginning to turn.
All written content is original, drawn from myth, memory, and madness.
All images are generated via Midjourney using custom prompts by the author, unless otherwise stated.
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