The Legend of Astaroth
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WARNING! This article is about a player character in the campaign: A Figure in the Mists. If you are a player in that campaign, and do not play this character, please do not read this article!
WARNING! This article contains spoilers for the campaign: A Figure in the Mists. If you are a player in that campaign, please do not read this article.
WARNING! This article is about a player character in the campaign: A Shadow Behind the Crown. If you are a player in that campaign, and do not play this character, please do not read this article!
WARNING! This article contains spoilers for the campaign: A Shadow Behind the Crown. If you are a player in that campaign, please do not read this article.
WARNING! This article is about a player character in the campaign: A Trick of the Light. If you are a player in that campaign, and do not play this character, please do not read this article!
WARNING! This article contains spoilers for the campaign: A Trick of the Light. If you are a player in that campaign, please do not read this article.
WARNING! This article contains spoilers for a future campaign. If you are a player in this world and not planning on GMing in it, please do not read this article.
This document has been contributed by: Unnamed Elemental Mage
Long ago, in the years far before the God War, the mightly Aleyara bore her children. She had Ten children, one for each of the colours. These dragons stood mighty and tall, and the world cowered before them.
Negligible was Grandar. Not truly a dragon at heart, he abandoned his family and went to the Feywild.
The smallest was Vylia, White dragon of the cold, youngest was she. She was terrifying in her own right, but next to her brothers and sisters, she was tiny.
Xalish was green, a sight to behold. His breath nearly the same magnificent colour of his Green scales, he could choke out an army if he wished.
Ortus was a smaller one, but made up for it with his large personality. He was grand and great, and he looked of midnight sky.
Mayelemar was playful, one would have thought her young. But her copper scales and her old eyes were enough to see otherwise.
Quiel was quiet, but masterful was he. He encouraged his siblings, and offered wisdom. His brass scales sparkled in the moonlight, and you could see him for who he was.
Myyara was the Blue, she was smooth and cool. Collected, and supportive. She was close to her family, and her family was close to her.
Landaris sparkled a beautiful bronze, magnificent in the sunset. He was the bravest of them all.
Imeria was the oldest, her shining silver scales indicating her as her mother's favourite.
But the greatest of them all, magnificent in his might, was Vyrgamel.
These ten dragons went on to make their species, growing and developing and making a way. They had children to number the stars, grandchildren to number the grains of sand, and decendents to the very particles of the universe.
But one child stood tall among the rest. Astaroth, the first child of Vyrgamel.
He was mighty, he stood tall. His fiery breath could drench a mountain in its heat, and return it a pile of ash. He was fearsome.
But he was not without honour. He stood for his name, defended himself against those who would dethrone or disregard his enchanting strength of will.
Then, tragedy hit, and the God War struck. The siblings were split, and a mother torn in two. The people fought, the gods argued, and the dragons joined the fray.
Astaroth, by far, was the most mighty of sword and spell. He fought valiantly for his cause, the cause that no one else dared to fight for. He was courageous in his battles, and meritous in his accomplishments. His ambition shone like the sun on a summer's day. He was better than all of his siblings, overpowering even the mightiest among them.
But the gods and the people he fought for were not of similar talents, their simple teachings failing them as they fell and fell and fell. The darkest day of the War came and passed, and it was a hopeless cause. The devils became that day.
Astaroth was spared the gods' wrath that day, for his truth and veracity and his noble stature won him their favour. But he was not a hero to the common folk, as he rightfully should have been. Nay, he was seen a villain, a scheming no-god terror and threat to their society. He sensed that he was not welcome among the people, and he was forced into a centuries long hibernation, a slumber of ages.
When he awoke, it was from the meddlement of the dwarves. He did look upon them, saw them as they were, small creatures seeking greatness. It was detestable, the lengths they went to unearth him, not even knowing what they would find. They had disturbed his greatness, and they had to pay the price.
The dwarves were slaughtered where they stood, for the crime of seeking the greatness that could only come from the birth of one as Astaroth himself.
And Astaroth, now awoken, emerged.
He found himself to a world that knew not of his age, his accomplishments, his valiancy, his heroism. They knew not of their own history, the God War a name but known in passing. It was a horrific scene, these already pathetic creatures having fallen so far. Had they forgotten from whence they came? Had they forgotten that their precious gods had forsaken them so? He could not live with this, allowing them to go on in ignorance. No, in order for them to be properly aware of all they were blissfully ignoring, he would have to become again a name to be known. But he knew now that his generous benevolence was not effective. As much as he wished for the people to remember him, it may be forseen that he would need to do so with a fist of iron, a crown of steel, and a heart of fire.
He flew across the land, finding those that would be needed. Spawn of Blue, Speech of Green, Might of Black, and Eyes of White. He collected his people, uniting them once more, in a crusade that was to be remembered forever. And so his plan came to fruition, and so he was to be known.
The great.
The mighty.
The Magnificent,
The King of the Beasts that would rule the very land itself, the people under his grasp. His name to go down in history.
Astaroth.
Negligible was Grandar. Not truly a dragon at heart, he abandoned his family and went to the Feywild.
The smallest was Vylia, White dragon of the cold, youngest was she. She was terrifying in her own right, but next to her brothers and sisters, she was tiny.
Xalish was green, a sight to behold. His breath nearly the same magnificent colour of his Green scales, he could choke out an army if he wished.
Ortus was a smaller one, but made up for it with his large personality. He was grand and great, and he looked of midnight sky.
Mayelemar was playful, one would have thought her young. But her copper scales and her old eyes were enough to see otherwise.
Quiel was quiet, but masterful was he. He encouraged his siblings, and offered wisdom. His brass scales sparkled in the moonlight, and you could see him for who he was.
Myyara was the Blue, she was smooth and cool. Collected, and supportive. She was close to her family, and her family was close to her.
Landaris sparkled a beautiful bronze, magnificent in the sunset. He was the bravest of them all.
Imeria was the oldest, her shining silver scales indicating her as her mother's favourite.
But the greatest of them all, magnificent in his might, was Vyrgamel.
These ten dragons went on to make their species, growing and developing and making a way. They had children to number the stars, grandchildren to number the grains of sand, and decendents to the very particles of the universe.
But one child stood tall among the rest. Astaroth, the first child of Vyrgamel.
He was mighty, he stood tall. His fiery breath could drench a mountain in its heat, and return it a pile of ash. He was fearsome.
But he was not without honour. He stood for his name, defended himself against those who would dethrone or disregard his enchanting strength of will.
Then, tragedy hit, and the God War struck. The siblings were split, and a mother torn in two. The people fought, the gods argued, and the dragons joined the fray.
Astaroth, by far, was the most mighty of sword and spell. He fought valiantly for his cause, the cause that no one else dared to fight for. He was courageous in his battles, and meritous in his accomplishments. His ambition shone like the sun on a summer's day. He was better than all of his siblings, overpowering even the mightiest among them.
But the gods and the people he fought for were not of similar talents, their simple teachings failing them as they fell and fell and fell. The darkest day of the War came and passed, and it was a hopeless cause. The devils became that day.
Astaroth was spared the gods' wrath that day, for his truth and veracity and his noble stature won him their favour. But he was not a hero to the common folk, as he rightfully should have been. Nay, he was seen a villain, a scheming no-god terror and threat to their society. He sensed that he was not welcome among the people, and he was forced into a centuries long hibernation, a slumber of ages.
When he awoke, it was from the meddlement of the dwarves. He did look upon them, saw them as they were, small creatures seeking greatness. It was detestable, the lengths they went to unearth him, not even knowing what they would find. They had disturbed his greatness, and they had to pay the price.
The dwarves were slaughtered where they stood, for the crime of seeking the greatness that could only come from the birth of one as Astaroth himself.
And Astaroth, now awoken, emerged.
He found himself to a world that knew not of his age, his accomplishments, his valiancy, his heroism. They knew not of their own history, the God War a name but known in passing. It was a horrific scene, these already pathetic creatures having fallen so far. Had they forgotten from whence they came? Had they forgotten that their precious gods had forsaken them so? He could not live with this, allowing them to go on in ignorance. No, in order for them to be properly aware of all they were blissfully ignoring, he would have to become again a name to be known. But he knew now that his generous benevolence was not effective. As much as he wished for the people to remember him, it may be forseen that he would need to do so with a fist of iron, a crown of steel, and a heart of fire.
He flew across the land, finding those that would be needed. Spawn of Blue, Speech of Green, Might of Black, and Eyes of White. He collected his people, uniting them once more, in a crusade that was to be remembered forever. And so his plan came to fruition, and so he was to be known.
The great.
The mighty.
The Magnificent,
The King of the Beasts that would rule the very land itself, the people under his grasp. His name to go down in history.
Astaroth.
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