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Fantasy All is Lost

Jiggly

Lemme sing to you
All is Lost


NOTE: New characters can only be male from this point onward until I say otherwise. The male:female ratio is way off.


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“Power is the one element that has been fought over since the dawn of time. Some use power to influence, to control, to manipulate, or to dominate. But seldom is power used solely for the purpose to make the world crumble, because when the world falls… power is useless.”


— First entry of the very first volume of the Journals of Krodarr


Vexalius was the first of the immortals to ever walk upon the world of Welandire. Even though plenty of other creatures had been created as the first races of Welandire, all could eventually perish by age. Vexalius, the first of the Drahki race, was created in the image of one of the Six Constructors: Dralök. And because of this, Vexalius would live until he was cut down by the sword.


The first immortal stood three feet taller than the average elf, his flesh sparkling like that of gold. His mien was flawless, his countenance handsome, yet the undeniable fright of his appearance was apparent to all. As the first immortal created by the Six Constructors, Vexalius was not given the power to create, but the power to advance his civilization. The Six gave Vexalius a limit though, only allowing him to create another Drahki every year, which was nothing in the eyes of an immortal. The Six Constructors trusted Vexalius with this power.


Out of hatred for his god-brother Dralök, Khauldain created the second immortal of Welandire. The first and only of the Xavian race was Krodarr, his appearance as lean and muscular as the Drahki, if not even more so. He was birthed from the Blood Pool of Khauldain, found deep underground beneath the Mountains of Ghordum in the empire of Helshmire. His flesh was as dark as ebony, and what at first began as a bald head began to grow into a mane of inky blackness. His ears were elongated like that of an elf, his eyes swirling abysses of black and purple.


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Krodarr was created by the hate of a god, and that hate became him. It defined him. He was branded with a single physical trait that made him unique—his mouth was sewed shut, seeming to make his face stretch. He could not create like Vexalius though, for he had no need to. Krodarr was born with the innate ability to destroy. Because Vexalius had been born of peace and benevolence, he and his kin knew not how to kill for anything other than justice. And that was why Krodarr had the upper-hand.


During the time of Krodarr’s birth, Khauldain was cast out of the realm of the Constructors. The god of hate, desire, malevolence, greed, and all sins was forced to create his own realm, a realm that could be called upon by Krodarr and Krodarr alone.


Due to his sewed mouth, Krodarr—even though his power was great and his ambition relentless—was very fond of the quill. After a few hundred years of living in secret and building his power, Krodarr had finished a fifty volume set of his own personal journals written in the blood of Khauldain’s pool. They reveled about the dialogue held between him and Khauldain, the knowledge that his god creator had granted him, and the realm Khauldain had created only for his use.


Krodarr didn’t leave the Mountains of Ghordum for a long while though; hundreds of years passed without the first evil of the world. By this time, the Five Constructors were beginning to find Khauldain an amusement. They found his work comedic, and unintimidating. But the very moment when the Five Constructors began to doubt Khauldain, is when he truly made himself known.


Krodarr summoned his first beings of Aldrunari from the Blood Pool of Khauldain, gathering thousands of fiendish creatures that eventually overran the mountains of the north. They built his fortress and named it after the undead ghaul minions that he ruled over: Ghaulspire.


After his domain had been fortified, the demonic and undead servants of Krodarr and Khauldain flooded out from the mountain pass, overrunning the southern lands of Helshmire with their evil.


While the immortal Krodarr waited in Ghaulspire, his fiends killed every living being as they traveled farther and farther south. The immortal monster that was Krodarr meditated in his fortress, his unparalleled prowess of darkness corrupting the lands that were invaded by his legions.


Helshmire was falling, and the empire had called for aid. Its only hope was the country of Ramsvald, its eastern brother. Due to the terror that had befallen Helshmire, legions of warriors had bolstered at the western battle fortress of Ramsvald: Dalenhorn.


And this is where your part in the story comes into play. You are either one of these warriors gathered at Dalenhorn, and the task of defeating Krodarr and his armies has been laid upon your shoulders, or you are a lieutenant of the almighty Krodarr, and your plan is to rid the world of life. But perhaps you swear allegiance toward no one and simply seek adventure. Perhaps you have your own personal agenda, whether it be divine or devilish in nature.


All of these things are possible in the world of Welandire.





Character Name / Race / Alignment / Bio Page # / Roleplayer


• Mangetsu Tsukiryuu / Dragonfolk / Resistance / CS 1 / SaphireTsuki


• Myrah / Human / Resistance / CS 1 / Minnows


• Torin Valenhal / Human / Neutral / CS 1 / Ascension


• Cassandra "Cass" Thelia / Elf / Resistance / CS 2 / Ascension


• Eren / Human / Resistance / CS 2 / Minnows










NOTE: Feel free to suggest any races. Races in red can be corrupted by Krodarr.


Human: I'm sure you know the appearance of these individuals, but they were, behind elves, the second mortal race to walk upon Welandire. Average height of six feet, live to be around eighty years old. Fairly talented at any and all crafts. Can perform magic.


The Vakkarim: A species somewhat related to the elf, yet they have some astounding differences. They are the same size as humans, but their skin is painted a dark, blackened ebony. Their eyes can be red, black, or purple. The ears of the Vakkarim are much more angled than that of the elf, and their hair is mostly a blood red. The Vakkarim are a tribal race, much like orcs, but without the shear ferocity of the green-skinned monstrosities. The Vakkarim are much more agile and favor the spear, javelin, and quarterstaff rather than massive weapons or the bow and arrow like that of elves. These creatures don long, charcoal grey tails and natural thorns protruding from the knuckles of their hands, their elbows, and their knees, making them deadly in hand-to-hand combat. Can perform magic, and live to be around four hundred years old.


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• Elf: Standing at around seven and a half feet, they are much taller than humans. Since they have more of a lean physique, they are not as physically strong as humans or dwarves. Their ears are elongated, and their hair color is usually black, blonde, or silver, depending on the clan or kingdom. Elvish women are mostly beautiful, but the men are on the contrary. The men are pale and gaunt, equipped with mysterious, yellow eyes. The women are pale-skinned as well, but not as much so as the men. They flock to woodland areas of the world, usually favoring the bow and arrow, or the dual swords. Elves live to be around six hundred years old. Can perform magic.


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• Mulari: The undeniably magical people of the Stonefist Mountains. While they live in the same region as dwarves, they have had little to no contact with them through history. In fact, no races have seem to be in contact with the Mulari other than a platoon of Ramsvaldian soldiers that got lost in the Stonefist Mountains during the Stone Raids nearly a thousand years ago. They are six and half feet humans with sanguine flesh. Gold markings shine throughout their bodies, seeming to allow them better prowess in magic. They are talented martial artists as well, being brought up by elite hand-to-hand combat artists from a young age. Are naturally talented with all weaponry, but tend to stick to magic and quick, blunted weapons like staves. Usually live for one hundred up to one hundred and fifty years.


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Dwarf: The strange and frightening beings of the Dungmar Peaks and Stonefist Mountains. While being a terrifying sight, dwarves are usually a species that keeps to themselves, but they can be called upon by greater forces to due a bidding, whether it be evil or benevolent. They stand at about eight feet in height, draped in vine-like flesh that can be green, red, or grey. Their eyes are pitch black and their ears longer than that of elves and Drahki. They are excellent smiths however, and can create cities of stone and beautiful sets of armor and weapons with ease. Dwarves are undeniably strong and durable, but lack motivation to kill. To inspire them, a magnificent leader or power is needed. They talk very little, and are the epitome of a nightmare for a small child. Live to be around three hundred years. Cannot perform magic.


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• Gnome: Standing at about four feet, most gnomes are rather cute, with fur all about their body. They have great, big eyes and are able to perform powerful magic, but often stay underground or in tight communities on the surface. Rarely do gnomes battle, but they will fight for their survival. Such as they are, anyhow. Live for about two hundred years.


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Orc: Built with enough brawn to overcome four men at once, the dark-gray-skinned orcs are often rare throughout Welandire. They have built tribes in the Ghorlash Hills, and are known to raid the forest villages of the nomadic elves. Since they are gifted with the most physical prowess, orcs are lightly armored (usually wearing furs of animals hunted down in the Ghorlash Hills) most of the time. Orcs stand roughly at seven foot, highly adorned with raw muscle. They take kindly to tribal tattoos, long-braided hair or bald heads, and were designed with elf-like ears. Many orcs have protruding tusks from their wide lips, and massive knuckles capable of taking down many of the other races quickly in hand-to-hand combat. Live to be around sixty years old. Can somewhat perform magic, but rare. Only done by orcish shamans.


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• Dragonfolk: A species born of fire and volcanic ash. They are a descendant of the ancient and extinct reptilian monsters that once were the most dominant creature of the mountains and sky. Now they have shrunk substantially and have formed a humanoid shape, bearing thick, heavy scales that can blunt most incoming blades. Their maws are filled to the brim with dagger-like teeth, and their claws resemble curved swords. They can wield colossal weapons with their twelve foot size, but oddly, are unable to perform magic. Due to their origins and their cold-blooded nature, water is extremely damaging to dragonfolk. Not only does it slow their muscle movements, but it weakens them as well, making it difficult to continue a fight or swing powerful attacks at foes. Dragonfolk are incredibly rare (not too many roleplayers of these, please; first come, first serve), and can live for thousands of years.


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NOTE: Most of these races are too unintelligent, or too rare, to play. Red races can be manipulated by Krodarr.


• Troll: Oddly, trolls are a very peaceful but powerful race, usually dwelling within caverns throughout Welandire. They are very family-based, and do not mettle with the affairs of others. Trolls are seldom seen, but some come out of hiding every now and then. Stand at an average height of fifteen feet. Ugly as all hell, and while they cannot perform very powerful magic, they can use telekinetic powers that allow them to move small items, open/close doors, and write by making a quill move by itself. Because of this, many noble families have trolls as scholars that they keep hidden in lower levels of their castle. They have long, flopping ears, huge crooked noses, white eyes that cease to blink, and long, curved fingers that can make any child cringe. Trolls are very intelligent and wise. Can live for thousands of years.


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Imp: Being chieftains of the goblin tribes of Welandire, most imps are five feet tall and red-skinned. They have petite horns decorating their foreheads, and bat-like wings stretching out from either side of their spine. Their eyes are overwhelmed by blackness, not allowing them to have corneas, irises, or pupils. They are very dominating of their goblin servants, and have the ability to cast fire magic. They were easily influenced by Krodarr in his time due to their demonic nature. Unlike most races, imps are of a different and more malevolent brand. They live to be around one thousand years old.


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Goblin: Four foot tall green-skinned creatures with overly long and crooked ears. They have squeaky voices, sharp teeth, and a knack for eating anything with flesh. Many goblin tribes are led by imps and almost all of them dwell underground or in the sewers of colossal cities. They are weak when alone, but can overrun a garrison with large numbers. Live to be around forty years old. Cannot perform magic.


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Brownie: Plump, brown-skinned monsters that have repeatedly attacked trade caravans and wanderers/adventurers out in the wilderness of Welandire. They are said to live in tremendous holes carved out by their vicious claws, but no one has found their dwellings. Legends tell of them warring with goblin tribes in past days too. They have rounded ears like humans, bulbous green eyes, and a maw of teeth that could tear off a human limb with ease. They stand roughly at the height of four and a half feet, being nimble and quick despite their fat physiques. They are dangerous in packs of five or more, but only live to be around twenty-five years old. Cannot perform magic.


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Ogre: Thirteen feet tall monsters with a hunger for the flesh of mortal races. White-skinned and heavily loaded with muscle. Their lips are much thinner than any other creature known by the mortal races of Welandire. Their multitude of teeth are long and slim, but incredibly sharp. Their flesh is a pale white, and their eyes resemble pools of blood. Great bat-like wings adorn their back, enabling them to fly great distances.


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• Ox-Men: While there are two different types of ox-men, each identified by their specific region in which they live, both are very similar in their act. Ox-men are omnivores who will feast off small beasts and a large array of edible plants and berries. Ox-men are, to put it simply, humanoid ox who roam about with hooved feet. They can wield weapons and have often warred with dwarves, making a fierece hatred form between the two species.


—Hill Ox-Men: Standing at about ten feet, hill ox-men are not nearly as physically strong as mountain ox-men, but they are faster and have acquired more stamina due to long treks over hundreds of rolling hills. They are brown-furred and have great horns that are not curved as much as the mountain ox-men. Have a tribal way of life, and are relatively peaceful, but have been known to raid desolate villages in time of need.


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Mountain Ox-Men: Much stronger than the hill ox-men, but are not as fast or durable. Most peak at thirteen feet, but some clan leaders have been known to be giant, standing at nearly twenty feet. Known to be armored more so than the hill ox-men, and are excellent at crafting siege weapons. Very talented at mining and rockclimbing as well, but are much more wrathful than hill ox-men.


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Houolf: Six foot tall carnivorous wolf-folk that travel in packs. They are rather intelligent, able to craft armor and weapons and put them to good use. They are excellent scavengers, but with three or four, can easily overwhelm a band of merchants with just their relentlessness and aggressiveness. Their teeth are razor sharp, and their thick fur helps them in the harsh winters of the mountains in which they usually reside when not attacking traveling individuals.


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The Drahki are a race of men and women created by Dralök; a race immortal to age and gifted with great magical prowess. They stand over ten feet, their flesh like that of an elf or human, but tinted gold. While they would normally be handsome and beautiful, the eyes of the Drahki are all white, and massive scar-like lacerations run through their faces like the branches of a dying tree, glowing with silver energy. Their hair is a shining silver, usually long and cascading down their backs. The most intimidating factor of the Drahki are their silver wings protruding from their backs, giant and able to let them soar into the sky.


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NOTE: This is not exactly what they look like. Drahki are much more unique and there is no similar picture to them. This is as close as I could get, with the hair color/length and wings.





Vexalius's Biography


• Name: Vexalius.


• Age: 2,112 years old; immortal to age.


• Gender: Male.


• Race: Drahki.


• Alignment: The Resistance


• Magic: The first immortal of Dralök was granted magical powers that are only rivaled, or even overmatched, by Krodarr. Vexalius was given ultimate mastery over the magical energies of light, allowing him to cast beams of light that can sear through materials and creatures of Aldrunari alike. He can manifest a light so bright, it can make mortal races blind for eternity, and the silver energies coursing through the severe laceration scars on his face can glow substantially until the energy overwhelms Vexalius’s configuration, making his scars emit a blast of blistering heat that can vaporize many of the undead and demonic origin. Vexalius is the ultimate bane of Khauldain’s hellish beings, and even though Khauldain is a god while Vexalius is only a being of the world he had a piece in creating, Khauldain fears Vexalius. Finally, Vexalius was given the unique ability to create one of his species every year, allowing his population to be his age.


• Physical Appearance: Vexalius, unlike the rest of the Drahki, stands at the height of fourteen feet, larger than the dragonfolk. While not being draped with muscle like an orc or other similar creatures, Drahki’s magical mastery makes him a foe that is feared by almost everyone belonging to the world of Welandire. A mane of silver hair flows down from his head, cascading down his shoulders and to the small of his back. This mane streams forward from his shoulders as well, falling down to his chest and sternum. His eyes, like all Drahki, are all white, yet he can see as well as any race of Welandire. Severe laceration scars adorn his countenance, but in fact, they are not scars at all. They are a part of his creation, as Dralök first envisioned him. They burn with the light energy gifted to Vexalius from his creator, and is the well of all his magical power. Of course, this well does not allow him to be handsome, but again, he has no need to reproduce, and has no desire for it. Vexalius’s flesh is like that of a human or elf, but colored gold, shining like diamonds in sunlight. The final characteristic of his mien are his magnificent silver wings that stretch out from the immortal’s back. They can fold back into his skin at a telekinetic command, however.


• Apparel: When Vexalius was not at war, he wore extravagant clothes that he crafted himself in the first year of his creation. Those robes now lie in his homeland, Raliox, hung upon a rack for later use. Now, being a general stationed at Dalenhorn, he wears silver and orange, heavy plated armor, spiked in all places besides the palms of his hands. The pauldrons of the cuirass are massive, appearing as boulders beside Vexalius’s head. The immortal wears a helmet of silver that has one great spike and a slit that glows from the silver energies flowing about below the helm. Holes are drilled into the back of his armor, which allow his wings to escape.


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• Weapons: The immortal wields a blade supposedly forged by Dralök himself, when Welandire was first created. The sword is named Dunafos, an ancient relic of the light deity that can burn through any material known to exist on Welandire. Dunafos is about sixteen feet long, handle and all. The metal in which Dunafos is crafted is unknown, but it appears as a forever-glowing steel that glimmers more than any steel seen to most men and women present on Welandire. Vexalius wields no other weapon, for Dunafos is a mighty weapon alone, without even being paired with Vexalius’s magic.


• Personality: As a being created by the god of justice and benevolence, Vexalius is an enlightened soul that only seeks to do the right deed. Of course, the right deed is always controversial, and Vexalius will take matters into his own hands to invoke justice upon those deserving of it. With his all-white eyes, Vexalius is able to see the true motives of one’s character, and has the innate ability to tell if one is of a malicious nature. On a personal note however, Vexalius is a kind individual who will offer his time generously to those who require it. He will aid the poor and the troubled, and will do his best to solve problems if he has the time.


• Brief History: Well, Vexalius is an immortal, so his history would never be brief. The immortal was birthed into Welandire by the light and power of Dralök, and the god-man first appeared in the Mountains of Ghordum, quite odd considering it was the same birthplace of Krodarr. At birth, Vexalius was born as what everyone sees now: a man of towering height that did not have to go through stages of adolescence. Vexalius ventured the world for a long time, until he finally found his home of Raliox in Frostwood when he was fifteen years of age. Vexalius remained there up until present time, creating an immortal civilization deep in Frostwood. He only left the snow-glazed forest when the country of Ramsvald called for his aid to defeat the power that was Krodarr. He answered quickly, having his Drahki people smith him a set of armor that would protect him from the abilities of Krodarr’s minions, yet he still needs to test it on the dark lord himself.


• Other: Vexalius regards all of his Drahki as family, and will do anything for them to ensure their survival. This is one reason why he supports the Resistance against Krodarr, the other is his willingness to help those who are in grave danger.










• Ghaul [undead]: The foot soldiers of Khauldain's undead realm and Krodarr's undead armies. Other than by the power of Khauldain, ghauls can only be created through tremendous dark magic and corruption forced upon a stationary mortal (Krodarr is the only individual able to perform this). They stand at around eight feet tall, their hunched forms allowing them to move into a quadrapedal stance with ease. From afar, it seems like their black-skinned bodies are hairless, but when up close, one could easily see the incredibly thin layer of black fur masking their pitch black anatomies. They have no lips or gums, revealing two rows of razor sharp teeth. Their eye sockets are all black, and their eyes are as white as snow. The fingers of the Ghaul are very long, curving. Claws extend from their feet, and their thin configurations show their body's muscles very well. While they are not intelligent enough to bear weapons, the ghauls have a hive mind that can be controlled by Krodarr himself. Through the hive mind, Krodarr is able to give intricate directions and orders to his ghauls, thus enabling them to take on vast legions of mortal races. Can only be killed by silver weaponry, and cannot perform magic.


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• Bloodspawn [undead]: While ghauls are the foot soldiers of Krodarr's ancient legions, the bloodspawn are his elites. Standing at nine feet, these monstrosities were figures of strewn-together crimson flesh. Their heads are usually crooked, their faces contorted to symbolize the demented souls trapped within them. The bloodspawn still have raw muscle showing, along with sickly yellow bones poking out from their red decaying flesh. Strings of muscle attach their arms to their shoulders, or ankles to their groins. Some bloodspawn can have three arms donned upon their undead forms, but all bloodspawn have black claws stretching out from their fingers (bloodspawn usually have four fingers). Unlike ghauls, bloodspawn can carry weapons, and most use bone-crafted scimitar-like blades. Bloodspawn have all-white eyes like the ghaul, and can take on multiple mortal enemies at once. Bloodspawn can only be killed with silver weaponry. Cannot perform magic.


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• Blood Fiend [Demonic]: The lesser demons found within Aldrunari. Peaking at about twelve feet, all blood fiends have four arms and enough strength to take out six or less men at once. They are crafted from blood, gore, guts, and raw stringy-muscle. Because of this, all blood fiends are a deep blood red and seem to have red tentacles squirming about under their skin. All arms are weaponized, having five extremely sharp dagger-like claws. Blood fiends, oddly, have no eyes and rely completely on smell and hearing to take down their enemies. To compensate for this though, blood fiends have a colossal mouth that can open up to bite off the head of a human with little to no effort. Blood fiends can only be vanquished with light magic, for silver weapons do not pierce the dark magics that protect its outer shell of gore. Cannot perform magic.


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• Obsidite [Demonic]: Another lesser demon of Aldrunari. While being shorter than blood fiends at the height of ten feet, they are much stockier and filled with more muscle. They are forged from a black-and-purple metal, and adorned with Khauldain-based insignias all over their metallic frames. Their hands are curved blades, able to cut a man clean in half with one slash. Their eye sockets are black, and their jaw appears to be mimic the visor of a knight's helmet. Metallic horns stretch out horizontally from either side of its head as well. Can be killed by light magic, or very powerful silver weaponry. Cannot perform magic.


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• Darknire [unknown]: Many from Welandire believe these odd creatures to be both demon and undead. Where demons are highly corrupted souls that are no longer mortal, undead are simply basic evil souls that are resurrected. Because of this, many do not know if these are apparitions of malevolent souls of mortals, or if they are demons of Aldrunari. But alas, they stand at the same height of elves, and are wreathed in shadow. They hold a humanoid shape, with long curved fingers and yellow eyes. Except for their eyes, darknires have no faces. Darkness seems to emanate from their configurations, and if they travel into a bright area, it will almost instantly become dark. They can seep into the ground and reappear elsewhere, but they do so rarely. Can only be killed by light magic. Can perform darkness magic.


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• Greylin [Demonic]: While being some of the weakest demons in Aldrunari, they are still formidable to those who do not expect their presence or surprised by their numbes. Greylins fly in flocks of ten, their black and purple humanoid bodies covered in spikes that they can shoot form the palms of their hands. Their eyes are sharpened and extremely red, and their wings, being spiked, are sharp enough to cut through wood. Greylins are known for the unique sound of of their vocal chords, which resembles that of a screeching child. Can be killed by silver weaponry. Cannot perform magic.


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• Daemonum [Demonic]: Only three of these giant abominations exist in Aldrunari, and unfortunately for the mortals of Welandire, all are present within their world. Two guard the Blood Pool of Khauldain while the third travels with the legions of Krodarr, wreaking havoc on the mortal armies they clash with. They stand relatively at the height of twenty-five feet, their lean physiques packing enough muscle to allow them to weigh over one thousand pounds. They don brilliant, bat-like wings that enables them to fly over great distances. Their eyes are all-white, and two black horns protrude from their heads. Can perform magic. Can be slain by silver weaponry, though difficult.


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Hierarchy demons of the plane of Khauldain are singular beings, and cannot be multiplied. They take a nearly impossible amount of energy to call forth, and can wreak havoc on the world for centuries. Each hierarchy demon has their own name in the twisted tongue of Aldrunari. If even muttered, their names can bring forth dark omens that can make a mortal weary or ill. The more powerful a hierarchy demon, the more dramatic effect the name will have when spoken. None of these names are known by anyone other than Krodarr... yet.


• Orgvalzod: One of the first creations of Khauldain in the plane of Aldrunari. Krodarr has spoken to this hierarchy demon directly, for he has mentioned him in his journals. Orgvalzod is over three hundred feet in length, his anatomy being a combination of a lizard-type creature and a massive centipede. Where legs would exist for a centipede lie great, black arms with gigantic claws. Orgvalzod's configuration is entirely jet black, and his spine is adorned with hundreds, if not thousands, of giant spikes. His head is shaped like a bulbous "V" with the center technically being his face, but the abomination of a demon has no eyes or nose, only holes for ears. Orgvalzod can breathe fire upon his enemies, and can burn down cities with ease.


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• Dothlugrall: A one hundred foot, two-headed demon of Aldrunari. His entire form is made out of the undead forms of those who were brought into Aldrunari unwillingly by Khauldain. He is a humanoid-shaped hierarchy demon, and has an extensive tail trailing behind him. Both of his heads appear as spiked skulls, with crowns of spikes protruding out of each of their craniums. Dothlugrall is covered with ancient Aldrunari metal of blue and purple that defends it from most attacks, if they were even large enough to hurt him.


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• Name: Zelwark.


• Age: Unknown.


• Gender: Male.


• Race: Lesser Hierarchy Demon.


• Alignment: Krodarr.


• Magic: As a hierarchy demon, Zelwark is allowed more supernatural abilities from Khauldain. The demon has mixed talents in both darkness and bone magics, making his capabilities one of a kind. While he does not have the entire move-pool of both magics, he does have enhanced areas of both. Zelwark can instantly make a ten-by-ten square (in yards) obscured in complete and utter darkness, allowing him the advantage through his keen hearing and his prowess of dark vision, for he was born in the realm of Aldrunari. Zelwark can also manipulate bone, by either making his bones protrude through his skin to pierce a foe, or by forcing the bones of an opponent to escape their body and begin to attack their own anatomy. Finally, with bone mastery, he can drive forth the skeletons from lifeless corpses and animate them, creating true undead.


• Physical Appearance: The demonic entity stands at about ten feet, his physique being wringed with muscle, making him weigh nearly two hundred and eighty pounds. His flesh is grey, with demonic white scars etched about his articulation. Zelwark dons incredibly high cheekbones, and an extended mouth that seems to smirk at the world of Welandire. His eyes, unhindered by irises and pupils, are adorned with all-red corneas, making them stand out when he creates patches of darkness with his magic. A mane of black hair streams down his back, and diagonally elongated ears point upward. Due to his appearance, some believe him to be a creation of Khauldain to mimic that of Krodarr, for they do look rather alike. Nonetheless however, Zelwark is still a minion of Krodarr, and leads his legions into battle.


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• Apparel: Zelwark usually only wears a red sash into battle that is held up with a metallic belt. This is because his fighting style is quick-paced and agile, making him lighter on his feet when he wears no armor.


• Weapons: The demon of Aldrunari brandishes dual blades, but how they were forged is unknown. Black metals make up their frames, the hilts being pointed dangerously and the blades themselves being four inches wide, but the sides seeming to resemble that of a saw, with a scissoring pattern on either side of the sword. The dual blades can gnaw through flesh, muscle, and bone with ease. Each sword is about seven feet long, allowing Zelwark to carry either with one hand. When he does not have them ready, the demon keeps them sheathed in leather cases that are strapped across his broad, grey back.


• Personality: Zelwark is a demon. He hates all, he desires power, his ambition is relentless, and his ferocity never lacks. One that is to engage in battle with Zelwark will most likely meet their untimely death.


• Brief History: Unknown. Created by Khauldain in the Realm of Aldrunari.


• Other: The Resistance does not know of his existence yet.





• Dralök: The god of light, holy magics, the Drahki race, and benevolence. He is revered by most humans throughout Welandire despite being depicted as a giant gold-skinned elf. His symbol is the background of a sun (with rays stretching out from its rounded edges) with an eight-pointed star held within it.


• Khauldain: The god of evil, death, sins, the undead, malice, dark magic, and darkness itself. He was cast out by the five other Constructors when he created Krodarr. While some would like to depict him as a massive black dragon, most ancient texts refer to him as a being with no form—just simply a swirling vortex of darkness that could speak telepathically and inflict pain at its sight. His symbol is usually associated with the Blood Pool of Khauldain, which is the direct conduit if someone wished to communicate with the devil god.


• Valeria: Goddess of water, nature, and tranquility. Mostly revered by elves and gnomes. Depicted as a giant sea serpent, or water dragon. Her symbol is that of a lifeless ancient tree with many branches.


• Tori: God of stone, mountains, the underground and all creatures that live there, and the forge. Mostly revered by dwarves and trolls. Depicted as an unparalleled stone giant. His symbols are usually either a mountain or crossed smithing hammers.


• Edwaith: Goddess of logic, wisdom, energy, and knowledge. She is mostly revered by the gnomes, but sometimes by elves and humans. Despite being created by Khauldain, it is known that Krodarr thinks of Edwaith highly and stated so in his journals. She does not have a physical form, and her symbol is that of an open elder book with strange legendary writing displayed upon its pages.


• Voruum: God of fire, war, and anger. He is mostly known for the creation of the imps, orcs, goblins, brownies, and ogres. He is depicted as a gigantic ogre-like creature wreathed in flame. His symbol is a burning ball of fire.





NOTE: Each magic belongs to a specific Constructor. The magics of Khauldain can only be used by those with Krodarr. Feel free to suggest other magic types.


• Air [Valeria]: Air elementalists can create bubbles that completely obliterate oxygen within said bubble. The bubble is the size of a human head, and can be put over someone's head to suffocate them. The bubble only lasts for fifteen seconds, so if said person were to hold their breath, they would survive. If one is caught off guard, they will die a slow and miserable death. This bubble ability severely drains the elementalist, and will either make them entirely exhausted, or go into a state of unconsciousness. Air elementalists may also make gusts of wind that are powerful enough to rip flesh. This power, as well, exhausts the user. If used too much, the gusts of wind will rip the elementalist's own flesh.


• Blood [Khauldain]: The elementalists of blood are quite the unique individuals. Once they have mastered the art, their bodies are granted the ability to create blood at an unbelievable rate. The massive production of their own blood often leaves their flesh pried wide open, blood leaking out from almost every orifice of their body. How this may look bad, blood elementalists are immune to natural diseases. This makes their wounds unable to become infected, and allows them to manipulate their own blood into anything they can imagine. Blood from a blood elementalist is toxic, which can be seen as acid to enemies.


• Bone [Khauldain]: Bone users can grow bone on any part of their body. Most bone users have their bodies covered in plates of bone, but it's not all armor. Weapons of bone can be grown from the hands and wrist, and small spines can even be fired from their own body. Bone users can also fracture their opponent's bones, but only if they are weakened to a great extent. Bone masters have gained a bad reputation, mostly because they make great torturers.


• Darkness [Khauldain]: A practitioner of darkness is able to block out the light with their power, obscuring their surroundings. Darkness practitioners can use their power to drain life out of targets, slowly, or to create a pure, elemental form of darkness which takes the form of a cold, acidic substance. Darkness elementalists can also corrupt life, either making enemies join your side, or by creating new and horrible creatures of Khauldain. Krodarr is the only mage known to do this, though.


• Electricity [Edwaith]: Electricity gives the power to strip energy from the surroundings, and then bend the currents to ones will. Examples of these energies would be firing bolts of lightning out of the palms of one’s hands, or electrifying an enemy with the touch of a hand.


• Fire [Voruum]: Those who have studied this element have the ability to manipulate flame to their own will, whether it is twisted or just. Fire elementalists may also strip heat from the air and transform it into a blaze, its size depending on how much heat has been stolen. Those who have mastered such an element may also create weapons out of flame that will burn all besides other fire elementalists, and the creator.


• Flesh [Khauldain]: Mages of flesh have the ability to edit their flesh biologically—or others' flesh—over time, such as giving themselves stronger limbs, claws, jellyfish-like tentacles, or whatever they can imagine. However, flesh manipulation can take quite a bit of time.


• Illusion [Edwaith]: One of the basic arts. Illusion elementalists are but frauds. They can create the false configurations of any person or creature known to man. If the enemy believes the hologram is true, the illusion will be granted the power to wound the foe. If the enemy is not fooled, they will be unharmed by the illusions. In some cases, it can be the most devastating power, while in others it could be the most inferior power yet. Illusion magic only works on people although, for animals have keen senses that can distinguish real from fake.


• Light [Dralök]: There are several schools of magic, but none as valuable as the holy magic of Dralök. Without His magic, the greater and more demonic servants of Khauldain would be indestructible. A practitioner of light magic can cast scorching-hot beams of white light, light rooms aglow, can heal minor wounds, can blind enemies, and can conjure divine golden flame. Where light is extremely devastating to Khauldain’s minions, it is by far one of the weakest magics against normal foes.


• Stone [Tori]: It may be one of the basic elements, but stone is still full of raw power. Stone users can fling boulders up to a hundred feet, can create walls of stone, and create armor of pure stone. It's one of the strongest elements, and small stones can be found almost anywhere.


• Water [Valeria]: Ah yes, water. Water elementalists are superior to that of fire practitioners. Elementalists of water can hydrate or dehydrate anyone they please, but it affects their own bodily water to the opposite (if they were to hydrate another, they would be dehydrated, etc.). This ability cannot kill or save, but it can truly help in dire situations. Water practitioners can manipulate water, and breathe underwater as well.


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• Mountains of Ghordum: While being very treacherous to travel, the mountains do have some man-crafted roads along the cliffs of the summits. They are overrun with the ghauls of Aldrunari, making them unexplored by nearly the entire world. Downpours happen here often, flooding the deeper caverns. Even though the surface of the mountains are littered with ghauls, the caves of the mountains are inhabited by goblins, trolls, some rogue orcs, and other various creatures. Also, in the middle of the mountains is the Ghordum Lake, which is said to be haunted heavily by wraiths. The Ghaulspire dwells here as well, where Krodarr is said to meditate heavily, corrupting all lands he possesses.


• Ghorlash Hills: Home to a multitude of orc tribes. They used to often war with the elves of the Tyrill Forest and sometimes attack Iteedu, but that all ended when everything was swept away by Krodarr’s minions. Now the orcs are servants of the dark lord, and listen to him intently. Most of these hills are crafted from stone, and appear as petite mountains. Some grass used to grow here, but it all died due to Krodarr's corruption.


• Tyrill Forest: The largest forest of Helshmire and the most dangerous region other than the Mountains of Ghordum. Filled with elder tree spirits and sprites, the elves of Helshmire used to dwell here in the city of Evelend before the armies of Krodarr came down from the Mountains of Ghordum. Now, the undead and demonic abominations of Khauldain stalk this forest. Trees here stand over eighty feet tall, and have a canopy that blocks out the sun. Very easy to get lost in the shadow of the wood. Many foul, black-goo-oozing plants are growing here now, and the trees are becoming twisted. The sprites here are now red-eyed and all black, draining life from their surroundings.


• Dungmar Peaks: These mountains are home to the dwarves and their dwarven kingdom. Dologmar is hidden within these stone cairns, expanding for miles beneath the surface. A constant flow of gold comes out of these mountains to be traded with the rest of Welandire. The dwarves here are at constant battles with the overwhelming tribes of goblins and ogres, not to mention the forces of Krodarr that are finding their ways into the deeper mining tunnels of the dwarves. These mountains are a very defensible position in the west of Helshmire against Krodarr’s legions.


• The Barricades: The warfront for the soldiers of Helshmire trying to ward off the legions of Krodarr. There are constant soldiers flooding into this battlefield from Drautbriar, Lyrerius, and Raemonheim. The front barricades are made of wood, and are shaped as massive spears tipped with silver heads. A granite wall lies behind this, a structure that was created by the dwarves of Dologmar while the northern lands were being purged by Krodarr. Archers are constantly upon this wall, firing with silver arrows. A gate through the wall lies in the center, but most times it is closed except when troops are sent through to fight away hordes of the undead and demonic entities.


• Open Wilderness: The rest of Helshmire is mostly lightly-wooded areas and open fields. Most of the evil residing in these locations are from goblin tribes beneath the surface led by imps, packs of brownies, and clans of bandits and marauders. Other than that, most of Helshmire is relatively peaceful.


• Welandire Sea: It has never been crossed in the history of Welandire due to the massive sea serpents lying in wait in its deep waters. No one knows if more of the world lies behind this ocean.





• Raemonheim: Being the most southern settlement of Helshmire, Raemonheim is known for its peace away from the war with Krodarr. The city isn't too large, and has no walls defending it, but it does have a rather extensive fishing industry. Dozens of small hovels can be seen here, all decorated with thatch roofs and the like. The duke of Raemonheim lives in an elegant manor just up the slopes of the Raemonheim Barrows (the hill region just north of Raemonheim). Most of the royal and peasant dead are buried in tombs within the hills, making them somewhat haunted and dangerous to adventure into. There are said to be decent treasures found within the barrows, but stealing from the buried dead is illegal in Raemonheim. Their city guard has lowered recently due to most of them being sent to fight at the barricades.


• Drautbriar: The walled-in city under the shade of the Five Cairns. Most of the architecture here is old stonework, for most of Drautbriar is practically built into the side of a mountain. Unlike Raemonheim, the militiamen of Drautbriar are more heavily trained and ready to guard their keep from enemies due to the astounding amount of raids from goblin tribes, bandit clans, and stone golems. Most of the city, as stated before, is drilled in to the side of one of the Five Cairns, making it a sight to see from ground level. Drautbriar is built along a cliff road that ends in a fairly large plateau at the base of the steep slope of one of the Five Cairns. The main keep of Drautbriar is placed upon this plateau, and this plateau itself has an inner wall, defended by archers, catapults, and boiling tar. Almost all of their soldiers are sent to the war camps and barricades fending off Krodarr’s invasion.


• Moritain: A rather small village on the shores of Lake Moritain. Where once this petite fishing village was a place of peace and tranquility, it now lies under constant danger from the abominable creatures of Krodarr that have been crawling out of the lake. Because of this, soldiers from Lyrerius have been pouring into the village, fending off endless waves of undead monsters rising from Lake Moritain and the boglands outstretching from it.


• Dologmar: The dwarven city of wealth. It is highly protected by the Dungmar Peaks, for it is encased within them. The city itself was built into the stone of the underground, making it adorned with towering pillars and stone bridges that cross great underground ravines. Thousands of mining tunnels stretch out from Dologmar, some of them connecting to caverns overrun with goblins, ogres, or the minions of Krodarr. Because of this, some tunnels are classified as safe and are used for mining, while others are battle frontiers where constant underground bloodbaths occur. The gates to Dologmar lie to the northwest of Lyrerius, and a fifty foot tall tunnel leads through the mountains until it opens up into one of the greatest caverns in all of Welandire. Within this colossal cavern, the underground royal house of Dologmar is the first sight: a massive stone fortress with seventy-foot-tall dwarven statues carved into the stone walls on either side of the garrison.


• Evelend Ruins: Where this used to be the home of the elves in Helshmire, it is now a giant encampment for the more intelligent undead and demonic anatomies of Krodarr. Large fires burn here, and outlandish, red-and-black tents dot the wide open land in the center of the Tyrill Forest where Evelend was burned to the ground.


• Iteedu Ruins: It used to be a peaceful settlement of gnomes in the north, but it was literally destroyed by Krodarr. Orcs, demons, ogres, and undead came down from the Ghorlash Hills, slaying all in their path and raising Iteedu to the ground. This is now another encampment of Krodarr, and is the battle frontier against the dwarves of Dologmar.


• Lyrerius: The capital of Helshmire. It is a bustling city built on the Lyreria Bay, allowing it to have a decent-sized navy that trades frequently with Raemonheim and the people of Ramsvald.


From a clear view several miles from the major city of Lyrerius, one would notice the dome-designed top of a colossal cathedral that had been made centuries before. This cathedral is named the Azarien-Calivane, an elder language of humans that means "The Origin of Life." While this cathedral stretched three hundred feet into the air, the gilded walls and ceilings of the brilliant structure have not weathered whatsoever.


A plaza, stretching about six hundred feet in length and over three hundred feet in width, is the main place of commerce and barter. Trivial stores displayed upon wagons, stalls, and actual gray brick buildings littered the area, and thousands of people come here every day. This part of Lyrerius is fondly named the Market. While this sector is lavishly placed in Nobleton, a section of Lyrerius where most wealthy men and women stay in large manors and mansions, it had a rather dark essence about it. Thieves from all over come to the Market of Lyrerius to pickpocket the obscured folds of someone's trousers for loose pieces of gold. Since there are thousands of individuals within the Azarien Plaza, hardly any thieves are caught.


If one were to move east or west of the Azarien Plaza, one would realize that the cobblestone streets that connect this area of the city are all enclosed within the low walls of Nobleton. Lyrerius, being the home of the Emperor, is heavily defended. Built around Lyrerius is a high wall that is about one hundred and fifty feet in the air. Accompanied by several flights of stairs, the high wall is connected to a medium wall that is about seventy-five feet tall with catapults positioned every one hundred and fifty feet. The high wall is embellished with parapets that are commonly used for defense whenever armies would come upon Lyrerius. Unfortunately, the next attack it defends may be from the legions of Krodarr.


Archers are positioned upon the high wall at a daily-basis, looking out for enemies or anything else that may wish to enter (such as merchant caravans). At the most southern part of the high wall lies the gatehouse where the gate is guarded by a dozen guards fitted with chainmail and plate armour (usually called towerguards). These guards brandish halberds usually, but some are adorned with spathas. The gate is ten feet thick, made entirely of the wood of Tyrill Forest. The walls are all gray, influenced by the paint of granite. Atop the gatehouse lies a pair of ramparts with built-in holes for archers to shoot through. It is highly defensive and can only be toppled by siege weaponry such as ballistas and catapults. Several other ramparts are positioned at every corner of Lyrerius's walls, and in the center between each corner rampart. Large holes are also made within the lower areas of these ramparts which allow defenders of Lyrerius to poor boiling water or oil upon enemies.


Affixed by even more stairs, the medium wall is attached to the low wall, about fifty feet high, which is the wall the townspeople see on a daily-basis. Each wall is made with a gatehouse at the southern end, designed as the first gatehouse of the high wall.


The southern area of Lyrerius is called the Peasantry where all men, women, and children of the lower classes (slaves, servants, peasants, middle class) remain. This tends to be a dreary place, filled with despair. The Peasantry is the home of thieves, murderers, assassins, and bounty hunters. It is also where several inns lie, but not rather good ones. The better taverns lie within Nobleton.


Finally, the last sector of Lyrerius is the Docks which is the southern most part. Since Lyrerius is positioned on the Welandire Sea to the south, it is a place where ships of all kinds come to rest. The marvelous Ryedune Lighthouse of Lyrerius is about two hundred feet tall, and its blazing flame can be seen over twenty miles out into sea. Most inns and taverns are built here, but they tend to be sloppy or only have a few rooms for sailors and such.





• Ghaulspire: The black tower of Krodarr. Made from the black and red metals of the Mountains of Ghordum, the amazing structure stands to be five hundred feet tall. The metal tower seems to be spiked in all areas, and glows a subtle tint of dark green. The most intimidating detail of Ghaulspire is the very peak of the tower, where eight jagged points of metal meet together to create a beam of fire, electricity, and darkness that fires relentlessly into the sky, making the black clouds quiver and thunder. The tower is surrounded by huge mountains on all sides except for its southern border. On this southern border, Ghaulspire has been built into a grand walled-in encampment filled to the brim of Khauldain’s devilish elite soldiers. Krodarr can often be seen on the summit of his tower, his own meditation creating the beam that shoots into the clouds. Also, the Blood Pool of Khauldain lies in the deep underground beneath Ghaulspire, and it is here and only here where Krodarr can communicate with Khauldain.


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• Mountains of Ghordum: While most of these crags lie in the Empire of Helshmire, some of them spread into Ramsvald as well. These outskirt locations of the mountains are mostly controlled by Krodarr, but it is a hardly a front of war for the dark lord.


• Shaden Forest: A very peaceful location relatively far from the troubles of Krodarr. This forest is dominated by elves, tree spirits, gnomes, fairies, and forest ogres. Other than the ogres, the tranquility of this woodland realm is revered. It borders the Stonefist Mountains and is home to the great city of Yveel. Most of the forest is made up of oak and maple trees.


• Stonefist Mountains: While not being as monstrous as the Dungmar Peaks in Helshmire, these mountains are still prosperous. They do not hold veins of gold, but they are very rich in iron ore and coal. The dwarven city in these mountains, Odimar, is not nearly as grand as Dologmar, but it is a homey refuge filled with many forges and mining tunnels. Despite this though, these mountains are mostly overrun with goblins and mountain ogres.


• Winterhills: A region home to hundreds of troll families, making it a very safe to travel through. These hills are constantly covered with snow from Frostwood on its southern border. These hills, unlike the Ghorlash Hills of Helshmire, are mostly frost-covered-grass hills that are not made up of stone whatsoever. Silver is plentiful in these hills as well.


• Frostwood: The most colossal forest in all of Ramsvald and Helshmire. It is a forest of evergreen trees and has a harshly cold climate. The Welandire Sea just south of Frostwood is glazed over with ice, allowing no passage for ships and the like. In the center of Frostwood lies The Grove, which houses the city of Raliox. Frostwood is home to the Drahki race and their leader, Vexalius. Evil does exist here, but it does not dare approach Raliox.





• Glaubank: The main resistance district in Ramsvald against the eastern attack of Krodarr. While Krodarr's forces in this region are not overwhelming like in Helshmire, warriors are needed to hold off the ragtag bands that attack at random times throughout the day and night. The city itself is very wealthy from the trading with Yveel and Alamair, not to mention the fishing industry on Glaut-rain Lake. Because of its extreme wealth, Glaubank is a city that hosts a multitude of expensive mansions and manors within view of the great lake of Ramsvald. The city is walled-in by a twenty-five-foot-high granite wall adorned with towering ramparts. The gate lies to the west, allowing easy flow of troops from the war camps of the west to Glaubank.


• Yveel: City of the elves within the Shaden Forest. Their structures are crafted from wood and silver, and most of their architecture holds cathedral-ceilings. All their pillars are designed as two interlocking bars of silver that spiral up to the ceiling of each structure. This is a very peaceful place, and while it hasn't required soldiers for hundreds of years, it nows sends its skilled archers and cavalry to the eastern battlefront of Krodarr's legions.


• Alamair: A very poor village just south of Glaubank. It is also settled along the shoreline of Glaut-rain Lake, but the fishing industry here is not as prosperous as it is several dozens of miles north. Those that live here are either too poor to live in Glaubank, or are outcasts of Odinstead. Despite their low-class ranking, some heroes have risen up from this village.


• Odimar: A city of dwarves that is more based on having a boisterous military than it is facilitating trade and commerce. These dwarves, unlike most, are not overwhelmed by greed and use most of their resources to put into their unmatched dwarvish legions. Many of these soldiers are at Dalenhorn or other war encampments, though. Other than that, Odimar is not built underground. A stone fortress lies in a clearing of the mountains, and streets of pale stone lead to hundreds of stone hovels that house dwarven families. Mines are dug into the sides of mountains, extending deep into blackness.


• Odinstead: A village just south of the Stonefist Mountains, named in respect to Odimar. Mostly humans live here, learning the ways of the dwarven-battle-elites. Because of this, Odinstead also produces great warriors who have traveled to Dalenhorn to stead the tide of the evil Krodarr. Regarding business, Odinstead is known for its lumber industry from the forest just north of it. Odinstead's people are hardy folk, who are built around war, and withstand a harsh winter that comes down from the Stonefist Mountains. Their leader, Gerald Raylish, is a hulking man who has not been bested in battle all his life. He, currently, is at Dalenhorn though.


• Raliox: Home of the renowned Drahki race. They are the first immortals ever to walk Welandire, and reside within the natural barrier of the Three Summits. All architecture within the Grove is crafted from the insanely durable wood of Frostwood's trees. Over this incredibly strong bark, a layer of gold is built, making all structures reflect off the snow. The Drahki are known for their massive glass window panes, and often entire walls are crafted from glass. The House of Jewels lies here, in the center of Raliox. It is crafted from all kinds of precious gems extracted from the Three Summits surrounding Raliox, and is the mighty home of the one and only Vexalius.





• Dalenhorn: The most durable, strong, and long-living fortress ever to be built in Ramsvald and Helshmire. It is built into a mountain, and has never been breached by an enemy. The fortress can best be described, from one who is looking at it from afar, as a great stone wall that end on either side with a mountain. The wall is about two hundred feet high, stretching two and a half miles across the valley created by the surrounding mountains. This near-indestructible wall is capable of having over eight thousand archers positioned to fire, heavily guarded by the wall’s beautifully-designed parapets.


In the center of the wall is the gatehouse, where an eighty foot tall gate of Frostwood bark is stationed. The gate can only be opened by a series of levers and cranks within the fortress, and it takes a good fifty men to open the massive barrier.


About thirty feet above the gatehouse is a ten foot tall opening able to hold a straight line of fifteen archers that can aim downward and shoot those in front of the gate. After that, the wall raises another ninety feet to match the rest of the two hundred foot tall wall.


Giant stone steps lead up to a thirty-five yard wide granite bridge that stretches for about one hundred yards until it meets with the gate. Stone supports lie beneath the bridge, connecting it to the ground and not allowing it to fall. To protect the bridge, stone walls stretch out from the main wall of Dalenhorn, armed with a dozen ramparts on each side of the bridge. Many archers and pots of boiling oil/tar can be placed here to thwart any enemies upon the bridge.


Because Dalenhorn was built to be surrounded by mountains on all sides except one, enemies can only approach the giant fortress from one direction: the west. The mountains in the north and south lower into hills, but eventually foes must go up the sloping path to Dalenhorn. Where the path becomes slightly narrow, a one hundred foot tall wall of stone is built, being about two hundred yards long. Both ends of the wall also are built into the mountains, and has a small forty foot high gate of the same Frostwood bark. This wall can house about two-hundred-and-fifty archers at once.


Now, within the main fortress that is Dalenhorn, if one were to enter through its colossal gate, they would enter a perfect square plaza with a length and width of three hundred feet. A statue of Eidain Raylish, great grandfather of Gerald Raylish, is positioned in the very center of the plaza, a large fountain built around him on all sides. The outer stone wall of Dalenhorn encompasses this plaza, allowing archers manning the wall to fire down at intruders if they were to breach the main gate.


On the opposite side of the plaza across from the main gate is the first inner gate of Dalenhorn, approximately sixty feet high. Because the outer wall surrounds the plaza, archer holes are designated on either side of the first inner gate, allowing five archers to shoot at once, on either side, into the plaza.


Past the first inner gate, a walled-in corridor stretches one hundred yards into a wide staircase that leads up to the main keep of Dalenhorn. Another gate, only twenty foot high, bars the keep from the corridor. Within the keep is a great feasting hall with a silver and gold carpet that leads up to a throne with two smaller thrones on either side. From this giant mead hall, dozens of hallways branch out, creating a labyrinth that houses over three thousand separate barracks. Each barracks holds five bunk-beds, a fireplace, and ten personal chests. Because of this, ten soldiers can fit in each barracks, and since there are three thousand barracks, a total count of thirty thousand soldiers can be housed within Dalenhorn during any given time.


Behind the thrones in the great feasting hall of the main keep are the six royal rooms, made to symbolize the Six Constructors. Currently, these royal rooms are held by Vexalius (first immortal to walk upon Welandire; hails from Raliox), Gerald Raylish (most profound human warrior in all of Ramsvald; hails from Odinstead), Rioken Stonepaw (the unparalleled dwarven king and battle-hero; hails from Odimar), Elavian Olminair (the experienced elven bow-lord; hails from Yveel), Izar Delevain (hometown hero and renowned master of cavalry tactics; hails from Alamair), and Borus Uideen (the beyond wealthy duke; hails from Glaubank).


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• Be respectful to all roleplayers.


• All original rules of roleplaying (no powerplaying, no metagaming, no auto-hitting, etc.)


• Please have adequate spelling and grammar.


• Try to be active!


• No limit on how many characters you can have, but don't go overboard okay?


• Romance is very much allowed, just keep it PG-13 for the young'ens.


• Non-bios are very much allowed.


• Magic, if used too much, will exhaust your character. Be warned!


• Have fun! :D
 
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Dalenhorn bustled with life for the first time in many decades, maybe even a century. The western gate leading into the heart of Ramsvald was wide open, lines of marching soldiers entering the battle fortress at a deliberate pace.


White-grey clouds traveled sluggishly through the bright blue sky, rough winds sending the flag of Ramsvald—a purple flag with a golden head of a ram stitched into it—rustling about high upon the granite wall of Dalenhorn.


The idle chat of armored men and women echoed along the uphill road to the western gate—talk of the growing darkness in Helshmire, talk of the maybe arrival of the one and only Vexalius, talk of the legion of various species that was bolstering in Dalenhorn as they entered. Rumors spread quickly with such a population of soldiers, and frankly, no particular soldier knew rightfully what they were up against. They had heard tall tales from days of old near the Mountains of Ghordum, but none were deemed officially true.


_,.•'`¯`'•.,__,.•'`¯`'•.,__,.•'`¯`'•.,__,.•'`¯`'•.,__,.•'`¯`'•.,__,.•'`¯`'•.,__,.•'`¯`'•.,_


Far within the stone of Dalenhorn lied a room, a room with a round table in the center and five chairs filled with important individuals. No maps were laid out on the table, only ale and tobacco for uniquely-engraved smoking pipes. Billows of smoke drifted through the air, filled the stone room with a smog that would force those not familiar to the feeling to cough. But none of these identities did.


“Why are we even building an army against something we haven’t the slightest knowledge of?” A plump man with a black goatee and braided hair down his back remarked, his brown eyes squinting through the smog at the rest of the men, or creatures for that matter, seated at the table. He smoked his pipe longingly, well… longingly for his massive manor in Glaubank.


“We’re building it to save those who our have called for our aid, Mister Uideen. But of course, you have never had the overwhelming desire to help those who ask for your support. Actually, you probably shouldn’t even be here. You’re not a warrior or a mage; you’re a fat piece of shit that lays around in his gold, hoping this darkness of Helshmire doesn’t reach his borders,” Izar Delevain retorted, his voice raising as he insulted the duke of Glaubank. His fist was clenched under the table, and a look from a Gerald Raylish left him relaxing the muscles of his hand.


“You should hold your tongue, Izar of Alamair, for if you haven’t realized, while I am no fighter, I am the only one in this room who can afford the rations capable of sustaining such a legion that you have so insisted on assembling in this god-awful fortress,” Borus Uideen said, grinning devilishly as he smoked another puff of tobacco.


Izar was not a mountain of a man in any standards, for he was a master of cavalry tactics, being able to lead a cavalry unit through some of the toughest terrain and circumstances of war than any other man in Ramsvald. Yes, he was a hometown hero because he was raised by a poor family under a thatch roof, but he had all the natural looks. He was handsome with his long blonde locks. He had a perfectly angled nose, and irises of solid green that could mesmerize any woman. He was proficient with the spear and javelin on horseback, and that was to be his domain for the upcoming war.


“That is a false statement, you foul human,” came the deep gravelly voice of Rioken, king of the dwarves of the Stonefist Mountains. The dwarf was the largest of all seated at the table, his grey-vined flesh and blacked out eyes forming an uncomfortable feeling in the hearts of those at the table. The creature’s appearance was terrifying, and the stature of his hunched shoulders was terrifying alone. “The dwarves have enough riches to pay for this army, but why waste our money when we are actually contributing with warriors. Last I heard, soldiers form Glaubank haven’t even been seen in the fortress yet.”


And thus a statement was uttered by the king of dwarves that brought the glare of Gerald Raylish upon the overweight duke of Glaubank. The duke nervously bit at the tip of smoking pipe, his eyes fluttering about the room. “Borus,” Gerald said, his eyes stern and his face unmoving.


Borus continued to act nervously, his fingers now tapping the table as his eyes fell down to the surface of the table. “Borus!” Gerald yelled, slamming his fist into the table, causing it to shake and rattle the bottles of ale placed upon it. “We were all to bring soldiers from our respective holds! Just because you’re the wealthiest human here doesn’t mean you can not bring your military forces!”


Gerald Raylish, descendant of the great Eidain Raylish, was obviously the leadership figure out of all the generals in the room. He was a burly man of muscle with a rugged light brown beard that covered his cheeks, his jaw, and wrapped about his lips. Cropped hair lay upon his scalp, a scissoring pattern of hair falling shortly upon his forehead. His irises were a piercing amber gold, and his hands colossal for his six foot height. “We must put petty differences aside and personal gains if we are to defeat a spawn of Khauldain!” Borus bellowed, standing from his chair, his fists still clenched. All looked on with complete and utter attention, especially the one general that had not spoken yet: Elavian Olminair of Shaden Forest. “We are mortal men fighting against unbelievable odds! We are mortal men going up against an immortal! So please! Enough with the antics and get focused on the war at hand!”


With that, Gerald took a seat, his face flushing red with wrath. The smoking and drinking had halted because of his speech, and now the five sat there in a tense situation. “Dismissed,” Gerald said, standing up again and leaving the room. The other four generals looked at each other, and the youngest of them, Izar, simply grinned, mostly because Borus Uideen of Glaubank had finally been put in his place by none other than one of the Raylish ancestry.


_,.•'`¯`'•.,__,.•'`¯`'•.,__,.•'`¯`'•.,__,.•'`¯`'•.,__,.•'`¯`'•.,__,.•'`¯`'•.,__,.•'`¯`'•.,_


All the soldiers were assembling in the courtyards of Dalenhorn, the rattling of loose armor echoing about the fortress along with the same rumor-speak that had been occurring earlier. While captains were dishing orders and giving directions to soldiers’ specific barracks, the winds seemed to gust faster than before. A whistling sound began to emanate from the sky, influencing the eyes of the soldiers to drift upward.


And the sight they were greeted with was astounding.


Armored from head-to-toe came down the winged immortal of Dralök. His flapping silver wings beat like that of a heart as the colossal Drahki landed amidst the throng of arriving soldiers. His bulky silver and orange, spiked armor shimmered in the light of the sun, and the forever-burning light of Dunafos nearly caused a stinging in the eyes of those that looked upon it for too long.


Whispers began to erupt among the crowd of soldiers: “Vexalius!” “The immortal has come!” “The Bane of Khauldain!” But none had truly looked upon the creation of Dralök. None had been worthy of that honor until now. As Vexalius’s wings ceased to beat, they slipped into the holes on the back of his armor, fleeing beneath his flesh. The immortal apathetically removed his giant helmet, revealing his horrid face overwhelmed by the magical scars. His white eyes stared about, blinking several times. And without further ado, Vexalius tucked his helmet beneath his left arm and made his way through the willfully-moving soldiers.


The fourteen foot immortal made his way up the many granite steps of Dalenhorn until he reached the keep of the hold, where the main set of doors suddenly burst open before the hands of the raging Gerald Raylish. And how his eyes altered from anger to utter delight was priceless.


Being the main general of the troops of Dalenhorn was an honor in its own right, but there was no better honor than being in the presence of a being that was created to resemble a god. “Vex… Vexalius, it is a pleasure to meet you at long last. I’m glad you received my letters and decided to aid us in this war… and to come so prepared was at the bottom of my estimations,” Gerald said, smiling greatly, causing Vexalius to smirk.


You are most welcome.


Those words echoed in Gerald’s head, causing him to blink and feel nauseas. He understood why immediately, especially after he gained his composure. Vexalius was a god-like being, and his voice in the ancient tongue of the Drahki would be too much for a mortal human like Gerald Raylish. The telekinetic message was all Vexalius could offer without severely wounding the man. “Again, thank you. We prepared a room for you through the throne room. It is big enough to fit your astounding size, Sir Vexalius,” Gerald said, chuckling somewhat. The astounding size comment brought another smile to Vexalius’s scarred face as he nodded at the human general and walked passed him, entering the stonework of Dalenhorn.


But while the arrival of the first immortal was indeed a wonderful thing for morale and physical aid in battle, it also meant one thing that Gerald realized.


The threat before them was great enough to call forth one of the most benevolent and merciful beings into a war.
 
The great stone walls were a marvelous sight to see, and a welcome respite from an endless stretch of wood, followed by the near endless stretch of grey rocky mountain. The city was loud with people bustling, talking, walking down the busy roads of the great fortress, much unlike the quiet wilderness of her travels. There was a structure about the place that had filled an unexpected void in her stomach. Travelling was a lonely business, and she was glad to be rid of it for the time being. She had heard a great many things about the fortress of Dalenhorn, but to be looking up at the carved parapets and the great stone wall had left her quite breathless. She heard tell of the mountainous keep and its great towers, but she'd never imagined it quite like this.


She thought it might only be a few hours since her arrival, and once she'd set eyes on the soldiers, a mixture of fear and hope tainted her heart. That was the reason she was here. There must be a spot for her in the resistance because if there wasn't, where else would she go? Everywhere she walked, the soldiers would either ignore her, or send her curious glances as though wondering what a child was doing in such a place. It was an uncomfortable attention that she'd gained, and she was more than tempted to draw her hood but she just kept walking.


The sound of seemingly hundreds of footsteps had brought her attention back toward the entrance. Men would gaze, wide eyed upon some figure that had entered the keep, though she could not see what it was. She peered over the shoulders of these men, desperate to see what the fuss was about, but only the brief flash of what she thought may have been a wing, was what made her thirst to see more. She lightly pushed through the crowd, ducking between shoulders and under elbows, until she had a clear view. And then she saw it. Or, perhaps him. Either way this creature was not human. It was beautiful--heavenly almost, save for the gruesome scars that ripped through his perfect skin. And he was quite tall, fourteen feet, perhaps...


"Wha's that?" she murmured, almost to herself, but the soldier beside her had heard.


"Do you know nothin' boy?" Came his gruff response. "Tha's a Drahki, one of them immortal folks, made by the hand o' Dralök 'imself!" His eyes did not leave the magical creature to see that she was no boy, though she hardly noticed his mistake, for her eyes were too fixed on the great creature.


"'s magnificent" She said softly, and the both of them spoke no more.
 
Mangetsu walked, wings tucked neatly into her back and sword placed between them, through the outskirts of the crowd. Each of her clawed feet causing a slight thud to be heard. She knew that, though among her kind quiet, she herself was not going to be able to move unnoticed in this land of smaller creatures. Her towering form granted her an easy sight of the magnificent, winged creature who had just landed. There had been tales of beings like him, though she had not been invited to listen, and only her sensitive hearing aloud her to catch even the tiniest of snippets of them. The magnificent armor was quite impressive, she figured it might have been as protective as her scales. Though she noticed odd scars on his face, and inwardly winced, for non-scaled creatures that must have been painful, if it wasn't natural. She nearly avoided knocking over one soldier with her next step, and immediately focused her attention on the floor so it wouldn't happen again, tail swishing around above the heads of the other soldiers carefully. I can't afford to focus on anything but getting to wherever we sign-up, if I don't want to injure my allies.
 
A relentless shadow seemed to make everything impossible to understand. It was ever-growing, always lurking, and overwhelming all that could be seen by the eyes of Torin Valenhal. He walked down a path, all sides draped in shadow besides one direction: forward. The path seemed to extend on for an eternity, and yet Torin continued on.


Hands of shadow tugged at his apparel and flesh, their only desire to bring him into their darkness and make him a part of their ethereal blackness. Torin’s anatomy was stern though, his arms crossed, and his face unmoving as he trudged on the forever path.


But suddenly, the path altered, forcing Torin to stop. The path’s eternity faded away, and the road ahead became closer and closer, vast regions of the darkness disappearing as Torin was brought closer and closer to something that was colored a deep… red.


Winds whistled past Torin’s face, making his skin ripple and his clothes whip in the gust. It was almost as if something was pulling him closer and closer to something he needed to see. Something he had always needed to see.


And then, finally, the tugging of an invisible force halted, leaving Torin alone at the end of the path, the shadow no longer reaching for him with its disembodied hands. Now, before the boy with a slaughtered family, and a gift of magic bestowed upon him by a higher power, lied the one an only Blood Pool of Khauldain.


The surface of the crimson liquid wavered like water, yet was still as any dormant body of liquid would be. The pool was perfectly round, carved into a block of black and red metal. One step lowered into the pool and no more, allowing someone to step into the pool.


Or step out.


And so the blood began to shake and ripple until spurts of gore began to shoot up from the red surface. The blood began to boil, and while Torin was frozen still, a form began to rise from the sanguinary pool. Wreathed in blood came forth a fifteen foot tall creature, its toned muscles visible through the dripping blood that streamed downward from his body.


A mane of hair ran down its back, soaking in the blood and painting it red. All black eyes stared through the downpour of blood that cascaded downward from the top of its head. A stitched mouth could be seen through the crimson coating, and it only took a few steps before the creature was right before Torin.


The incredibly giant creature fell slowly to one knee, still concealed by the essence of the Blood Pool of Khauldain. Long, blood-covered, ebony fingers trailed against Torin’s cheek, leaving a smear of blood across his countenance. The black eyes roamed about Torin’s physique before meeting with his eyes, and then the creature stopped moving.


Arms—blood-covered arms—began to climb forth from the flesh of the monster. Dozens of them, and all adorned with long, curved fingers that began pinching and prodding the skin of Torin.


“Torin,” the creature said, its voice ungodly deep and gravelly. The voice was undoubtedly supernatural, for it echoed many times over in various languages and different tones. The abomination’s head turned sideways, the sewed mouth of the creature suddenly tearing apart, the long stitches falling out of his open maw.


Blood poured out from its mouth like a waterfall, adding to the dripping gore all about the beast’s configuration already. The original two hands of the creature dabbed its fingers in the blood rushing out from its mouth and then suddenly grabbed a hold of either side of Torin’s face, jerking his whole body and pulling him closer to the demonic entity. “Torin,” it repeated, echoing again, its voice getting deeper and deeper.


A snake-like tongue sluggishly squirmed through the blood waterfall coming from the creature’s mouth, moving slowly about before coming into contact with Torin. It slowly licked the side of his cheek, tearing the flesh off of the cheekbone.


Despite the agony, Torin still could not move, and the fingers of the dozens of blood-slathered arms were beginning to dig into his skin, making Torin’s magical, acidic blood fall down upon the creature’s hands. Yet… it had not effect.


“Join me, Torin. Join us!” The entity finally screamed, its body sprawling over Torin’s silhouette like that of a spider. All of its arms pierced through the boy’s flesh, and he felt every second of the pain.


And thus he awoke from the nightmare. He was under a tree in which he had fallen asleep, his body dripping with sweat. He was in the outskirts of the Tyrill Forest, a few dozen miles away from his home village that had been pillaged by the ghauls of Krodarr.
 
Chase updated All is Lost with a new update entry:


New Races

I've added several playable, non-playable, and Aldrunari races. Remember, you are allowed to make multiple characters if you wish (just in case you like some of the new races better than your current one, or you like them equally).
Also, a hierarchy of unique/singular demons has been created. They are unbelievably powerful demons of gigantic size that may be used later if I find a way to fit them in without them bringing an apocalypse upon Welandire.


Also, I'm struggling creating more...
Read the rest of this update entry...
 
The sky grew vivid with the colors of sunset; searing orange burned like wildfire across the horizon, melting into a pink glow beyond the clouds, and finally a darker blue as the daylight began to fade. The stone walls seemed to reflect the light, shrouding the keep in a mist of dewy gold. If she had to pick a favorite time of day, it was this. The world glowed in a lazy daze as if taking one last yawn before closing its eyes to the light, and everything seemed calm.


She had not seen the hauntingly beautiful creature for the rest of the day, but he had not been forgotten to her. He lingered in the back of her mind as she explored every aspect of the fortress, met battle hardened soldiers, spoke with fearful cravens and the like. Besides a ghaul, she’d never seen a thing so strange; so inhuman. The first of many. She thought, reminding herself that the world was filled with magnificent creatures, and not all of them as fearsome as the monsters that haunted her in the night.


By day her hope soared, and her spirit burned with a fiery passion—her laugh could echo through the halls as she joked and teased with those she’d shed share her dinner, and by night her sleep was dreamless and restful. Yet, there were some nights she had no sleep at all. They were few and far between, but they still sent a chill through her spine. Dark figures looming in the shadows, black eyes and sewn mouths that seemed to rip and tear apart in a gaping hole. And blood seeping through the cracks of the floor above like red rain. Sometimes she could feel the drops on her pale skin. Other times she’d drown in it, gasping and choking for air until the coppery acrid taste had filled her mouth and threatened to gag her. Only then would she wake, the dream only lingering for a few moments before she focused on reality.


Why she lingered on the thought was a mystery even to her. Perhaps it was nerves. Perhaps it was the fact that one of those restless nights had occurred not a fortnight ago. Quickly pushing it to the back of her mind, she found her feet taking her back to the entrance of the great keep, thinking that someone in there could tell her how to sign up for the resistance, or perhaps give her an assignment then and there. No, she was getting to hopeful. She feared they would not have a place for an orphaned girl in their ranks, no matter how short-handed they may be. But if she didn’t give it a go, what was the point of it all? She couldn’t bear to think what she might do if she was turned down like a whining child. The soldiers of this fortress would not see her that way. She’d be sure of it.


The last light of day faded as she climbed the stairs, remembering as the beautiful creature had done that morning. She wondered if he’d be inside, or if by his magic he’d teleported to some far off land. There was not much she knew about magic, but she imagined the creature could do anything. She slowly opened the heavy door.


“Hullo?” She called, her worn voice echoed through the long hall.


[sorry this took so long! Also I'm loving the idea of Torin!]
 
The thousands of soldiers entered Dalenhorn eventually, for that had been the last of the soldiers arriving at the fortress for the day. Eventually all were guided to their barracks by the original garrison of the fortress.


Within the fortress of Dalenhorn was a city-like structure, especially through the mountains east of the battlement. Winding cobblestone roads led through the mountain, houses built into the rock that fostered refugees from Helshmire. The main plaza of Dalenhorn that led to the keep was largely where the rationing of resources took place for the refugees.


Officials of the kingdom of Ramsvald passed out flasks of water and crates of food and clothes for those in need. Training grounds, on the western side of the keep (toward Helshmire) was a place for military routines; a suggestion by Elavian Olminair to keep the troops fresh and ready to battle.


But night was falling upon the battle fortress, and the sun was beginning to set, sending a vast array of crimson and purple shades across the lightly-clouded sky. At this time, the girl concealing her own gender dared to open the doors of the keep alone, and dared yet again to speak.


Myrah’s voice echoed through the keep when the words slipped from her vocal chords. The first sight the young woman would see was a large, lobby-esque room with four royally attired soldiers stood guard. They all stared at Myrah with striking eyes through their full-plated helmets, yet… they did not move an inch.


“What do you need, girl?” The first guard on the right said, clutching his golden, bejeweled pike a bit tighter. “If you’re a registered soldier, you should return to your barracks. If not, speak to the general of your homeland. Where do you come from, girl?” The guard inquired, his voice smooth and relaxed, but his body ready to fight whenever.


These soldiers were of a different breed it seemed. They could have a normal conversation yet they could be willing to kill someone at any given time while doing so.
 
The deep voice that sounded in greeting was a comfort to her as she slowly walked further into the room. Nerves were replaced by a sort of excitement as she saw the future she'd imagined for herself just at her fingertips.


"I'm not a soldier" She said "But I'd like ta be one. It's Merah" She said, "I come from a small village up north a long time ago, but I've been travellin' for a while so I don't come from nowhere really" She confessed. She noticed the room was filled with men, all large warriors so forboding and gritty and hardened, it was hard for her not to feel young and naïve. She hoped they'd see the fight in her. Her brother always said she had it, and now, she hoped he hadn't merely told her what she wanted to hear. When a short silence followed, she decided to speak up again.


"So is this the place to register?" Expectant hazel eyes peered into the depths of the man's helm.
 
“One does not register to be in a war like some damn circus,” the guardsman began, his tone beginning to acquire anger as his eyes held the gaze of the girl that looked upon him, “One volunteers to be in a war,” he finished, his eyes relaxing along with the sound of his voice. “Please, enter through these doors and ask for Gerald Raylish. He’ll put you to use.” The soldier pointed toward the next set of doors that the four elite soldiers were protecting.


“We need all the help we can get to fight what’s out there.”


((Sorry, dialogue posts suck.))
 
"well either way I didn't come here for tea." there was a sarcastic edge to her voice. she figured these men wouldnt be too kind but she could play just as rough. The man, however seemed unfazed by her retort. She nodded to him thankfully as he opened the door, and headed through. It seemed she would have to repeat her routine, walking into strange rooms and hearing her voice echo through the halls, taunting her with the sound of her inexperience.


"hullo?" she called once again. "Gerald Raylish?"
 
Mangetsu had been looking for much the same man, having pantomimed to some of the others what she wanted and being led to the same man by them. She refused to say anything, for fear of her voice being too loud, as she did not know how these nonDragonfolk could handle the sounds of her voice. She paused, however, at the sound of a young Scaleless, human she reminded herself, having learned the term just that day. Slowly, trying not to make the ground quake, form hunched down so as to avoid any possible lighting she might hit with her head, she moved towards the source of the sound. Once she had found it, however, she had no clue what to do.


Waving slightly towards the young woman, for female she was, Mangetsu decided to wait for her newfound companion to make the first move. She was well aware her size might frighten the youngling, and thus did not make any other movements, even forcing her tail to lay still on the ground.
 
Her call was met with silence, for there was no one in the room. She thought him a busy man, recruiting and training soldiers and the like. He might spare her a minute of his time, but she was foolish to think he would see to her right away. She let out a small sigh before, not a moment later, hearing footsteps behind her. They were quite loud, though undoubtedly careful. She wondered if the man had followed her inside.


Turning around to face him, she was met with quite a surprise. The creature that stood before her may have been a dragon if not for her more humanoid features. But rather than fear, it was a slight wonderment that lit her eyes. The first of many she remembered thinking as she first gazed upon the Drahki creature. Though not of the same race, this creature had a different magnificence. Scaled and armored she was, and quite strong. She would make a fine warrior for the resistance. Forgetting her courtesies, she found herself asking in the most casual of tones


"what are you?" Soon realizing what she said, she hastily added, "If ya don' mind me askin' "
 
Mangetsu, surprised at the relative lack of fear, allowed her tail to move into a more comfortable position, keeping her balanced more easily. To answer the younglings question she spread her wings, careful not to clip the walls with them. Holding the position for a few seconds, as though to say 'what do I look like?' she waved her hands in a way that she hoped suggested that she didn't talk. Her hand to her mouth she shook her head from side to side, careful once more not to hit anything, and folded her wings again.
 
The second lobby of the Dalenhorn keep was shaped like an octagon, torches hanging on each of the eight walls by steel hooks. In the center of the room was a large granite pillar, shields with crossed swords behind them hanging on each four sides of the pillar. There were three corridors going straight, right, and left.


As the two women, one obviously of a more scaly nature, conversed, a man entered the octagon lobby beside another individual. They talked quietly, barely audible, but one could tell the chat concerned rather important matters just by their facial expressions. Both of them walked around the pillar before stopping, looking forward toward the draconic humanoid and the young girl.


Surprisingly, the two men were Gerald Raylish, outfitted in his fur collared steel plate armor, and the esteemed Vexalius, though now he was adorned with lavishly gilded, silver robes customized for his massive frame. The immortal’s silver hair fell down to the nape of his back, his stature being even taller than Mangetsu.


Gerald grinned through the thick, light brown stubble about his cheeks and jaw, his fingers stroking his own chin as he looked at the two women. The draconic figure interested him very much, for the legendary dragonfolk were revered throughout ancient lore. The young woman, on the other hand, did not make him as curious, but still, she was here for a reason. “What’re you two doing in here, if I may ask?” The general asked politely, his arms crossing over his armored chest as he stared at the two women with his gold iris eyes. “Have you come for rations, or for more… serious reasons?”


Greetings, Vexalius said telepathically to Mangetsu. The voice of the immortal within her head would not make as large as an impact as it would have on a human or an elf, but it would cause her head to feel a decent sting. The dragonfolk were a powerful race, but none were as renowned as the Drahki.


The immortal stared at the draconian with his all-white eyes, his deep scars seeming to glow brighter with the silver magical energy. Vexalius’s hands were clasped behind him, leaving his posture impeccable.
 
She stepped back in surprise as Mangetsu spread her wings. As much as the creature interested her, she could not dull the small spark of fear she'd created when she unfolded those giant things. "So you're one of them dragon folk then" came her breathless rasp. "An' you want to join the resistance?" She asked, but before she could get an answer, the deep gravelly voice of whom she assumed was the general had interrupted their conversation.


He was a magnificent man in stature, but dwarfed by the godly creature who stood next to him. His silk robes flowed like liquid gold down his pale hardened body. Once she tore her gaze away, she forced herself to focus, completely unaware of the telepathic conversation between he and the scaled woman who stood next to her.


"I'm not here for no rations sir, I come to volunteer for the resistance"
 
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Mangetsu nodded sharply at the young human's words, scooting behind her as if to say she was here for the same reason.Upon receiving the greeting from Vexalius she winced, but tentatively, unsure if the beautiful immortal would be able to hear her, thought in his general direction Greetings, great one. I come wishing to join your cause. Deep inside she worried that he would find her unnecessary and thus send her back to her clan. Though, even if he did so, she would not leave, merely fight without direction.
 
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Outskirts of Tyrill Forest


~Torin



A light breeze basked his features in a refreshing cool, the sweat on his brow chilling with the passing winds. His hair was a matted mess, and his tunic soaked through from a combination of heat and night terrors. When nightmares struck him as a child, he would ponder their meaning, searching for the symbols and motifs of his subconscious's depictions as though it were a puzzle. There were no such symbols embedded in his nightmares anymore, though: it was the same every night, and he suspected it would continue to be the same until he relented.


Tough luck...


Torin had no intention of giving in. No intention of becoming one with the monster who took his home and sister from him. A brief flicker of memory stirred in him as he thought of his homeland. The burning barge, a collapsing gate, and the unforgettable screams of his younger sister as the ghaul ripped her apart. So often had he thought of them when he first escaped, that Torin still could not fathom how he managed to keep himself alive. The pain had been unbearable at first as well, his arms constantly ripping themselves open. He had been a mess of blood and tears for years, until his master took him under his wing. Torin had since mastered his condition as best he could: he carved a series of spirals into his forearms to circumvent all excess blood through those avenues as opposed to mindlessly bleeding from every orifice. The strong linens he wrapped himself in were usually soaked in minutes, but they were extremely absorbent and he did not have to care about infection or disease. There were perks in his perverted magic, even if he was unwilling to admit it.


His breakfast was a handful of chestnuts, a swig of water, and a crust of dry bread. It wasn't glorious by anyone's standards, but it was enough to keep him moving, and more than enough to keep him alive. His mission had become muddled with time. Village after village seemed to collapse into the dirt at the feet of Khodarr, and that meant shelter was rare and not often available. From the last town he managed to find, he had heard rumors of aid coming from Ramsvald, but only scoffed. There was no way anyone who valued their life would march West, he thought. He had been wrong. The longer he traveled, the more he heard the same story from the occasional merchant, or refugee. Evidently a retaliation force was assembling at last.


Torin stopped asking, growing bitter with the truth. Some part of him was unnaturally displeased with the news.


They should've come earlier. Might've saved this blasted country if they hadn't been twiddling their thumbs and hoping the scourge wouldn't turn its eyes their way...



***


Torin rode atop the back of a grey mare. He hadn't a name for the beast, as he picked it up wandering aimlessly through the fields. The horse had been more than reluctant to join him at first, no doubt still shocked from what Torin guessed to be a raiding party of ghauls. The ever-present cloud cover above him sparked to life with lightning, followed by a deluge of rain that came pouring over the fields South of Tyrill. The weather always sucked, but it seemed almost unusually cold in that moment, as if whatever malevolent force presided over the skies was displeased. It was a sorry omen, but Torin hadn't any time to squander, and so he put his spurs to the beast and carried on. He had been steadily traveling East, but was making for The Barricades gate. If he had any chance of leaving the filth and plague of Helshmire behind him, then he had to reconnect with some semblance of authority.


He didn't particularly love the idea of other people, neither did he believe they were going to survive their ill-fated war, but then again it would be safer for him behind the walls of Dallenhorn than it would living like a hermit in a slowly-rotting country. The trip to the barricades would not be complete for some time, so he resided to sit back in the saddle of his ride and drift off to a fitful sleep...


***


When he awoke, his first thought was not on The Barricades, nor on his voyage. It was a simple thought to be sure, but one informed by a serious lack of movement betwixt his thighs.


The horse is gone.



The second thought came to him open opening his eyes and seeing the familiar grey of the night sky, before feeling a rough dragging sensation on his back


Move.


He didn't know what had taken a hold of his leg, but with all the strength he could muster, he swung his calve upward, connecting with the rotting maw of his captor. Scrambling to his feet, Torin drew his swords and rubbed his eyes with both arms in the process. There were no less than six Ghauls surrounding him. Of the six, one was painted in a series of offensive markings, no doubt drawn on in blood and gore. He was a large creature as well, which he made sure Toring recognized by rearing up on his haunches and bellowing a deep cry of anguish. The other mindless creatures seemed to click into place at that moment, rushing him as if by their master's command.


Strange.. They are usually so devoid of direction it becomes a game to pick them off...


Torin ducked beneath the first lunge, and drove his swords into the head of the second beast. The third runner attempted to catch his flank while both swords were deep in the cranium of his comrade. Unfortunately, Torin saw it coming, and kicked the beast once in the jaw before beheading it with his newly-freed weaponry. Torin took a deep breath before spinning on his heels. As he guessed, the first creature whom he had ducked under was now back again. Torin couldn't let himself be surrounded, so he made a move by hacking at the beast. It was smart enough, however, to sidestep the swipe and get beneath his defense.


Shit.


The creature's claws rose to meet his face, but Torin met the blow with his own arm. The force of the attack was great enough to rip Torin's gauntlet from his right arm and send him to the ground. It was at this point the two other minor ghauls came at his prostrate body from either side. For anyone else, this might've been game over. Even Torin was momentarily stunned by the idea of death, but then it dawned on him that the attacking ghaul had made a terrible error.


The two new attackers came tumbling forward, but in a flash, Torin's bandage came rolling off his arm to reveal the oozing scars beneath. Before the ghauls could say "zombie", two tendrils of his life-force went rocketing towards them, spearing each through the cranium. Torin felt their pain for an instant, his blood working its toxic effect. The last remaining minor ghaul backed up, eying him with it's pitch-black orifices. Torin used the creature's hesitation to retrieve his silver swords from where they had fallen, and then deftly cut him down. All that remained was the pack leader.


Torin dashed forward, but was met with a deafening blow to the chest. He had not expected such strength, and suffered for it. However, it was not the sort of mistake he planned on making twice: Torin charged again but, expecting to be swat away, ducked into a roll at the last minute.


Ghauls were dumb. This was one rule of engagement that Torin never forgot. The raid leader swung its massive, rotting forearm at the human, but did not account for the roll he performed which, inevitably, positioned Torin right beneath the beast. With a forceful push, Torin drove both bladed up through the creature's torso, pulling it close in the process.


"If you aren't just a lump of moving flesh, let your master know in hell that if he really wants me around, he should find a less annoying way to contact me. I'm not pleasant when I'm deprived of sleep." On the last syllable, he yanked the swords back out, watching the creature crumple to its knees. His arm was still bleeding profusely again, and he lost considerable blood during the fight. His body would make in back in less than an hour, but he was still drowsy nonetheless.


He eventually found the horse: it's legs had been ripped from the body to slow it no doubt, and Torin had little else more of value on the creature when he discovered it. He did carve meat from its ribs though, and salted it with what little he had left. If he was walking the rest of the way, he would need more food for sure. As he thought this, he began to readjust himself with the landscape around him. Luckily for Torin, his destination was not as far as he thought, clearly indicating he had been at rest for a long time before being assaulted by ghauls. As he had a long way yet to go, the human sheathed his blades and took a moment of rest, before once again setting out on the open lands.
 
The Barricades—a sight Torin would probably never forget. It was an act of desperation by the people of Helshmire as the minions of Krodarr came farther and farther south. They were made to hold back the never-ending hordes of a devil god, and they did their job, but not in the most ethical way possible.


They were made from thousands of bodies of mortal men and women, stacked up one another in a gory fest of survival. They rotted in the sun, the crows descending from the skies to bathe in the feast prepared for them. Every twenty yards or so, a wooden post about twenty-five feet high was dug into the dirt, the bodies gathered around them like entities being sucked in by a whirlpool.


From each post, a wooden walkway was built that was nearly always manned with archers. And that was how the barricades were today; hundreds of bowmen stood watch over the northern plains south of the Tyrill Forest. Cloths were wrapped about their mouths and noses, their best attempt to keep the foul aromas of the dead at bay.


The wall of lifeless anatomies stretched for miles; frankly, Torin wouldn’t even be able to see the end of the wall. The fields north of the wall in which Torin stood were stained with the red shade of blood. The decomposing corpses of Helshmire warriors and ghauls littered the battlefield. Crows flocked in by the hundreds.


Some of the archers manning the barricades spotted Torin, for he was about two hundred yards out, being nothing but a silhouette to the bowmen. From his position, he would be able to see them point, their heads nodding as they conversed with inaudible talk from Torin’s location. They were not firing their arrows, for they knew he was not of an undead or demonic nature. They waited for him, their bows bent around their bodies, the flax string of their bows being tight across their chests. 
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“You wish to join the legions of Dalenhorn, girl?” Gerald asked, his fingers no longer stroking his bearded chin. “While I admire your passion, one needs military training and physical endurance to be in a war. How can I trust you to acquire both of those things? If I were to accept you so easily, I would accept every person who waltzed in here. But then again…” Gerald paused, beginning to pace as Vexalius continued to stare at the draconic creature that was Mangetsu.


The dragonfolk could not send telepathic messages to other people, but Vexalius was powerful enough to read the female lizard’s mind.


You may speak here, dragonfolk. It is only I who must fear my own voice, Vexalius said telepathically to Mangetsu, bowing his head slightly to her. The immortal then turned to Gerald, sending him another statement into his mind. The draconian wishes to join as well.


Gerald’s eyes blinked multiple times as he took deep breaths, the telepathic power wracking his brain again. After a few seconds of recovery, Gerald regained his composure. “I’ll tell you what. The Resistance will accept both of you into our cause. The draconian will have a much easier time in fitting in around here, but you, girl, you will have to work hard to become one of the legionnaires. I hope you are ready for that.”
 
Her eyes narrowed at his lack of faith in her “I have the endurance” Came her agitated retort. She may not have the training, but she thought she was fit enough. She’d been hardly anything short of a ranger half her life. “And I can shoot. I can shoot a rabbit in the eye a hundred yards away easy” She bragged. Gerald seemed not to care much for her attempts to prove herself as he paced.


She wondered what the dragon creature would have to say about all this. She hadn’t gotten a single word nor gesture in as far as Myrah was concerned. She noticed the immortal figure and his eyes fixed on her. What was going on between the two? Did they have some sort of unspoken understanding? She opened her mouth to inquire, but before she could speak, Gerald had made his decision.


Though she’d imagined herself fighting for the draconian resistance all her life, it still came as a shock when he’d accepted her. She knew that humans were not as strong a race as the dragon folk or some of the others. And she couldn’t even perform magic.


“Thank you” She said, unable to stop the large grin from spreading across her face. “I won’ let ya down, promise.” She made a promise to herself as well. By the end of her training, she’d gain the respect of every soldier in this damn army if she had to. She wasn’t here on some hero’s whim, or some quest for honor. She was here because this was the path the world had chosen for her, and she had nowhere else to go.
 
Blinking slightly, the pain this time less, if only because she expected it, Mangetsu nods. "Thank you, great one." Her voice is low, for her kind, as low as she could get it. Even if she wasn't worried about hurting their ears anymore, for why would the son of the Creator of Light lie, she still didn't want to scare them. "My name is Mangetsu. I will gladly serve for the sake of the world." She dipped her head as low as it went, not wanting to hurt the youngling in front of her. Her voice, deep and rumbling as all her race, still held a hint of femininity.


Finally, she would be able to take part in the war against the creatures known to serve Krodarr. She knew that this may be a chance for glory, but to her it was more about the people of the world. Non Dragonfolk were so much more likely to die easily. She'd heard, during her travel, that there were human villages which were completely eradicated due to ghouls and such. Something in her made her want to growl at the very idea of such creatures murdering the innocent. Of course, there was also the goal of establishing the Dragonfolk as allies of the other races, but mostly she wanted to prevent more death. She may not have been alive at the time, but she still knew of the sorrow when entire clans had been wiped out during the Shrinking Times. She would not wish that upon the worst of races, save those Krodarr had made. And only them because of their deeds.
 
It was a time still before Torin got near what appeared to be a wall of diseased flesh. At first he was unsure why anyone would build anything so revolting, but form the eschewed angles of the bent and battered corpses, it was clear that at least the foundation had been built by those fleeing in the opposite direction. The rest were a motley sort of crew, each adorned in various stages of bodily defense--some looked ready for battle, while others simply looked like the average civilian. The ground became increasingly soggy with blood as well. No doubt the rangers atop the posts had their work cut out for them.


Torin casually sauntered as close as he dared, noticing they recognized him as human. This was good: Torin would've been ill-equipped to stop a hail of arrows if they had been persuaded otherwise. He walked forward with hands raised nonetheless, as he wanted to make sure none of them were alarmed by his appearance up close. Of course, his arms were covered in several layers, so none of his bodily abnormalities would be immediately apparent to any of the onlooking guards.


"I come in peace. I am a survivor who has traveled far to reach this point. I need to pass your barricade to make for Dalenhorn, where I intend to join your ranks!" Torin attempted to yell, so that they might hear him from so far beneath the mountain of carcasses. In all honesty, he knew nothing of the politics behind the resistance movement, or whether they were even accepting newcomers. Perhaps they weren't short-staffed, but even Torin--who had not had contact with the world in many months--found that hard to believe. When you are forced to build with the bodies of your friends, then there is clearly a deficiency of resources, be that bricks or soldiers.
 
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Mangetsu's voice was like thunder, deep and rumbling, and strangely beautiful all the same. The Dragon's voice startled her though, as Myrah assumed she did not speak, and her words did not make much sense. It was as though a whole chunk of conversation had been skipped over and they had went right to the end. She remained silent, though. Better not to end up the butt of their joke. They already thought little enough of her. However, despite herself, she stole a curious glance Mangetsu's way.


[stuck a lil mini-reply in there ^-^]
 
Through the cloth covering his face, a muffled voice yelled out for Torin. “Dalenhorn is hundreds of miles from here! If you wish to join our ranks, we need bodies here! These barricades will fall if our garrison continues to diminish!” The bowman paused, looking over at the other archers stationed upon the wooden walkway along with him. He then averted his gaze back to Torin as he got closer and closer to the wall of corpses.


“We have no gate! To pass the barricade you’ll have to climb the bodies! We’ll do our best to help you up!” The man shouted, ushering Torin to close his distance between them more quickly.


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Gerald was taken aback by the sudden speech of the draconian, for it was rather boisterous. “Well then, I guess you two will have to share barracks with some of the male soldiers here. We don’t have enough room for gender-private quarters. But of course, Mangetsu, none of the men will dare mess with someone of your kind. And if you offer that strength for this girl, they will not trouble her either. Did you happen to mention your name, girl?” Gerald asked, multi-tasking as he said it by beckoning one of the elite soldiers from the first lobby to enter the octagon-shaped room. It was the same one that Myrah had spoken with before.


He whispered in the guard’s ear, and the soldier simply nodded, standing to the side until Gerald, Myrah, Mangetsu, and Vexalius were finished speaking.


“When we’re done here, Sir Pine will escort you to your chambers. Training will begin in the morn; until then, feel free to settle in, explore the fortress, and get to know the squad in which you will be designated. Chemistry and loyalty to one another will be key if we are to win this war,” Gerald said, and Vexalius only nodded subtly, as if in an almost silent agreement.
 
Myrah bit back a retort that she could take care of herself. It seemed the man was merely trying to look out for her


And he didn’t seem to hear her outbursts anyways. She sighed inwardly “It’s Myrah” She said, though it came out like “Merah.” She glanced over at the draconian, admiring her brute strength even as she stood still. And the fact that the creature could indeed speak was somewhat of a relief to her. She’d endured enough silence in her travels. It was a good thing to have a companion once again.


“We’ll have a great time, you an’ me” She held out her hand for the Mangetsu to shake, before turning to head for the door after Sir Pine. She looked forward to some time out to explore the keep. At first she'd explored only as a lone traveler, but now she would be an official member of the resistance.
 

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