Lore: Main Storyline
"The exterior reaches of Castle Adiart, where the King of the Blue Dragon faction resides, is quite bleak. Those who are welcomed within the castle can masquerade within these golden halls of nobility, while those exiled experience a desolate wasteland of emptiness, watched only by the awkward gazes of distant crows. Shadowy creatures have been seen lurking about the outskirts of the royal graveyard, crying for simply being forgotten in both this realm and the next."
The Good King (Blue Dragon)
"The Good King struggles with power - learning his followers are not all who they claim to be, and his devoted ones seemingly lacking devotion. When the King falls, who shall rise? He worries not about himself, but the kingdom; if he were no longer to be the keeper of balance. This royal blood struggles if he should take action, or silently wait for the ideal moment to avenge his royal family."
The Unseen Path of Corruption
"The royal blood that flows through the man that challenges the throne is that of the Unseen faction. His heart is as black as the dungeon chambers that stretch far beneath the kingdom. His eyes glowing of deceit, as if already devouring the souls of the people he lays sight upon – for he is no king of men, but a harbinger of death and a slave-master to both loyal servants and enemies alike."
The Crown of the Cult
True to his subjects and loyal to gods of realms beyond this one. The King, as a Cultist, must shepard his wayward flock into the loving embrace of Mithras and the temptation of power emanating from Corax. He is not evil nor malicious but disappointed in the path his children and court have taken. With The Sage’s wisdom of his beloved Cult Leader subtly by his side, he sets about amending the ways of his skeptical subjects.
After all, a King must look out for his people - and the only fitting future for his kingdom is to join with Mithras, lest a fate far worse befall them all. The disappointment the King endures does not mean that he is without mercy, however. His subjects are given every opportunity to join his righteous path. Only in their refusal is their life forfeit and, only then, would they serve as either blood or as body.
Where is my Color? A Fool's Story
"The sweet aroma of nightfall has swept across the kingdom and the throne is found empty, echoing sounds of glory with each step in this warm throne; yet the floor is so cold. I often ponder the unquestioned - why is he my king? I didn't vote for him. What makes him royalty? His robe? Where is my color? I stare at the reflection on the polished royal tiles to see only one image: Nobility. Gahaha... now I see it. The missing puzzle piece, laying in my shadow, taunting me this entire time:
I have been king all along!
This is no fools story... everyone shall see! EVERYONE!! Hehehehhh..."
"Who shall be your King? All the royals gather before the throne to decide. The silver lining in the King’s heart is thin: All together, we could make up his mind. Do you desire your king to be kind, or for him to be evil?
Lies are those we heard, those we told. We were naive to those we believe."
"The corrupt King forges a meeting in the deepest reaches of the castle, calling upon his members of the Unseen. In this particular meeting, lives will be marked and soon forgotten. Strategies of betrayal are normal tactics within these grounds - it is commonly known here to shield your back, although, they say, it's better to keep your enemies closer..."
The Story of the Court Wizard & The SageThe Court Wizard's Journal Reads:
Deep within the realm of Castle Adiart, renowned for the Blue Dragon faction, lay a confused king, his trusted nobles, and a few unsung heroes that may not be so trusting as factions become divided. Rumors of treason echo through these castle walls and now we're at war amongst ourselves! We must quickly separate friend from foe before nightfall. I find solace in my warded room at night, but fear this may be my last.. I used the last of my magic to summon forth a runed spell of protection to guard me this night - I hope it will last.
At first light, I found myself still breathing! But I discovered those closest to me begin to fall without the faintest sound of fading life. I suspect our King is not who he says. Those that speak up are at risk to be executed for treason against the realm. I have already seen too many falsely slain by coercion and trickery. I felt that I still have friends, so I tightened my fists, felt the cool rush of fresh air in my lungs, and called out our King for being the TRAITOR that he is!
The tides turn as the accusation suddenly seemed to cause everyone surrounding me to fall into shadows -- as I stepped into the light of attention full of unkempt faces as eyes glared and fingers began to point at me. "I am The Court Wizard-- I SWEAR it," I said as my pulse started to race. No-- that is not what others say. Others say I am the Unseen, their sworn enemy, whom shall they believe?
Sun sets, and I swiftly scribe....in my journal my final thoughts to leave behind for the others -- That the king is not of our faction -- but is a traitor! ...a member of the Unseen.. My brothers, I fear you may be next--
(The journal page is found to be unfinished, with only the letters "Masterm....." before the journal ended.
(The Sage speaking) "What appears my allies of the Blue Dragon, I need you to trust me-- that I am an ally of yours, and together we can find the traitor that did this! *Suspicious laughter through lips* *Maniacal Laughter*
if only they knew..."
Bravest in the Land
The Royal Caravan trotted along the dusty streets near the southern edge of the castle wall with Sir Epsilon, the leader of the King’s Guard, at the head. His polished armor shone bright in the sun and his ceremonial crest featured bright blue, red and green flowers, each representing a victorious battle.
His white horse was unsullied by the clouds of dust and he kept his head tall as his braided mane flowed down the right side of the stallions’ neck.
The local kids gathered around to get a glimpse of the brave Knights whose names they learned in school. The armored warriors of the realm reached down from the great heights of their mount to touch the children upon their head as they strolled past.
Little Guinevere ran out between her friends and darted into the street for a closer look. Sir Epsilon quickly halted the procession. The handsomest man in the land removed his helmet and reached down for the young, auburn-haired girl’s hand.
Young Guinevere was awestruck by the size of the horses and the armored Knights until she lost sight of them in the cloud of dust. She caught just a glimpse of the Princess’ smirk before Edward, Guinevere’s older brother, grabbed her by the shoulder and whisked her away.
She ran the rest of the way home, flew up the stairs and out the window onto the roof. She sat in a familiar spot and stared out above the castle walls.
Sir Epsilon noticed a fallen-tree ahead in the road and called on the party to stop well before it.
“On your guard.”
Epsilon drew on Gyflym, his legendary longsword, and called on his Lieutenant, Sir Andres, to examine the path ahead.
The blonde-haired warrior walked cautiously towards the tree and with a quick glance could tell it had been sawn. The Unseen Enforcer leapt from the hiding spot behind Andres and fired a long spear. The glancing blow injured the brave Knight and threw him to the ground alongside the fallen tree.
The Enforcer turned attention towards the Royal Caravan. Sir Epsilon’s two Captains charged with their swords drawn. The Enforcer artfully dodged their attacks and with seemingly unnatural quickness, parried Sir Drake’s thrust and wounded the great champion.
Sir Babish saw an opening and swung his sword upon the blackened armor of the hulking Enforcer. His forged-steel blade shattered against it. Still in shock, Sir Babish was taken-upon by the frightful warrior, who began beating him with his hands.
With one quick look towards his Princess, Sir Epsilon left her side to join the fray. He knocked the Enforcer off of Babish with one great kick and leveled Gyflym at the blackened heart of his old friend.
“There is no armor that can stand against this cold steel when it is held by the bravest in the land. Your black magic only serves to further tarnish your reputation.”
“You are not as powerful as you think,” croaked the Enforcer, formerly known as Doamnă. “The bravery of those inside Castle Adiart wanes. The only thing we need now is a Royal sacrifice.”
They angrily clashed swords. The thunderous sounds echoed through the land. Epsilon marveled at the power of his enemy. Each blow from the mighty sword came crashing down like a thousand waves along the shore.
Sir Epsilon attempted to evade one of the Enforcer’s thrusts but was snagged by the roots at his feet. Doamnă’s first killing strike was barely evaded and Epsilon scurried along the ground with his sword behind in the dust.
“Make peace with your Gods,” said the Enforcer, “For this is the last time you will speak to them.”
The Enforcer lifted the blade for a final killing blow. The cold steel ran through the chest and split the blackened armor at its center. The Enforcer’s blood dripped slowly onto Sir Epsilon until the Princess removed Gyflym with a solid thrust and a boot to the back.
“Are you Ok, my love?” asked the Princess as she rushed to her fallen Knight. She removed his helmet, wiped the sweat from his brow and gave him a passionate kiss.
As the sun faded behind the castle walls, Guinevere heard her mother call for supper. She opened her eyes, gave one last look at the Emerald Forest and scurried back through the window.
The Sorcerer's Search
Music from the Eclipse Day parade flowed ov
er the castle walls and mixed with the violent winds of the surrounding sandstorm. It danced joyfully as the howling winds tore it to shreds.
The Sorcerer followed the destruction and blindly snaked her way towards Castle Adiart. She dropped her veil and revealed the familiar face of the Priest with a ghostly complexion.
The sound of her staff pounding on the gate boomed throughout the castle. The revelers could feel the ground shake with each thump and chalked it up to the great beasts walking along the parade route.
Visibly angry, the Sorcerer stopped knocking. She lifted her gnarled wooden staff into the air and a blue aurora grew up through her hands and into the sky. The desert grew quiet as she thrust her staff into the ground and threw open the door. The Sorcerer lifted her veil and walked casually down the empty corridor with clueless parade goers streaming passed her at the opposite end.
The Inquisitor read the tiny symbols to himself out of a thick, dragon-leather bound book. He looked up, but the dust clouds blew into his face and made it impossible to see where he was going.
He raised the sleek metallic staff in front of his face and whispered a few words. The head of the staff glowed red. He continued his trek forward as he waved the wand back and forth in front of his path.
The Inquisitor chased the music from side to side, but every time he felt sure of its origin, it fired up from the opposite side.
Carefully, he walked down another of the endless sand dunes before getting caught in his robes and stumbling down to the bottom. He frantically searched for his staff in the darkness. The sands battering the old man’s face briefly went quiet and a pale blue light emanated from the head of the staff. The Inquisitor snatched it out of the sand and followed behind.
With the parade moving clockwise along the perimeter of the castle, the Sorcerer went against the stream. She slowly lumbered through the traffic of men carrying large instruments and those wearing giant papier-mâché likenesses of the King and his inner circle.
As she pushed aside one rambunctious kid, the Sorcerer could hear one of the castle guards yelling in her direction. She flashed anger on her face and began to draw dark energy into her right hand.
“Miss, please make way,” he shouted over the noise of the crowd. “The King will be coming down the route at any moment flanked by a hundred Knights on horseback. I wouldn’t want a lovely lady to get trampled on my watch.”
The Sorcerer made her way to the inner edge of the parade and reached out to the guard, who pulled her out of the fracas. She knocked a bit of sand out of her cloak and into her right hand, leaned in close to the guard, and sprinkled a bit on his sword.
“Thank you, kind sir.”
As the dust storm settled, the sun regained its power and the shadow from the cross atop the Castle’s highest tower stretched across the scene. With the guard’s attention soon diverted, the Sorcerer slipped through the door behind him and into the castle’s inner confines.
The crowd washed over the Inquisitor as he scanned the area. He detected a few weak magic users in the throng of unwashed masses moving away from him. He turned to look at the incoming hoard when he felt a dark presence pushing forward.
The cold feeling started at the precipice of one of the waves and rushed towards the Inquisitor. He briefly locked eyes with a large, oafish man robotically waving the Adiart flag above his head. Behind the man’s vacant expression, lived an ancient evil.
With the cold of despair ready to crash down on him, the Inquisitor pushed his way to the edge of the crowd and threw himself against the wall. The darkness continued down its path while he caught his breath.
The pale blue light emanating from his black staff was almost overlooked in the frenzy. Just a few meters further down the parade route, a hooded figure stood along the wall.
The light grew darker and the Inquisitor gathered his strength. The dark magic was reminiscent of the immense power he’d felt in the graveyard the previous night, but it was gaining awareness. He tugged lightly at the source of the magic with the staff and focused his mind on the task. He quietly whispered the spell aloud and wrestled with the darkness. He set his hooks into the demon’s aura and yanked at it, ruthlessly, separating it from its host. The Inquisitor raised his voice.
“Return to the realm of shadow. The god of darkness is banished from this plane. The time of Corax is at its end.”
The Inquisitor clenched both hands around the staff and they shook with effort and exhaustion. With one final burst of energy, he thrust the staff forward and drew the dark force kicking and screaming back towards him. The demonic energy relented. The exhausted old man clenched it in his fist and fell to one knee. When he opened his hand, a thin wisp of dust fell to the ground and blew away in the wind.
The hooded figure approached the Inquisitor with a smile.
“May I offer you some assistance?” asked the castle guard with his hand extended.
The Sorcerer scaled the spiral staircase leading to the castle’s highest tower. The unfamiliar steps bore her deeply worn footprints and drew her to the top, but memories of this place eluded her.
At the top of each landing, she hid out of sight and listened, but there was no sound. The castle was nearly empty, but there was one presence she could feel. It gripped at the corner of her mind and warmly guided her towa
rds the chapel.
In her mind’s eye, the sorcerer could see the Mystic seated at the first pew, where the Priest often went to connect with the Lord on a commoners level.
“Come closer,” she could hear faintly in the back of her mind.
The brightness of the Mystic’s magic was disorienting.
“I will,” the Sorcerer let slip from her mind before she ducked into an empty room along the corridor.
The weakened Inquisitor dragged himself up the spire, step by step. He leaned unsteadily against his staff before pushing himself around the cold stone walls. At each landing, he stopped for a moment to regain his strength.
When he reached the door to the chapel, he raised his staff but the door swung open on its own. The hooded female in the front row stood and turned towards him. He felt her warmth. It fueled his passion.
She stared at him for a few moments before giving him a curious look.
“You are not who I was expecting.”
“If you were expecting the Reaper, consider me his ally. This realm has no use for your magic. I will return you to the darkness.”
The Inquisitor raised his staff once again as the blue light flooded the house of worship. It bathed the Psychic in its awesome glow. He continued to mumble his spell and moved the staff in giant circles before him, drawing out the magic from within her.
The Mystic gasped.
“I’m sorry,” said the Sorcerer through the Mystic mind link.
The Inquisitor gripped his staff tightly and detached the magic from the Psychic’s soul. He drew it closer and closer as the life force drained from the Psychic’s body.
“You are no longer welcome inside the gates of this castle. The gates of hell are once again your boundary.”
Just as the Mystic fell, a purple light followed her. It whipped passed the Inquisitor and swirled around him like a cyclone. The purple waves danced around before shooting from one arc to another, just missing the front of his boots. He turned toward the stream as it jumped across to another arc at his heel. He raised the staff once again, but it was sucked from his hands by the increasing winds.
The streams continued to jump until the Inquisitor looked down to see the familiar pentagram. The circle of death grew brighter as the Inquisitor mumbled his final words. The heat burned his legs but did not consume the flesh.
The Inquisitor let out a final scream as he was sacrificed to hell. The scene cleared and the Psychic’s body sat alone on the floor.
The Sorcerer exited the empty room and retraced her steps back down the staircase.
Class Lore: Eye of the Tavern
The tavern of Castle Adiart was bu
stling; the court had spent a long hard day doing…something. The barkeep wasn’t really sure what it was the court actually did, but that didn’t matter, now -- it was a time to relax and be merry.
...Unless, of course, you’re part of the tavern staff. The staff were rushed off their feet as usual and, worst of all, he was here.
“Wahey!” came a raucous uproar from the corner of the tavern with the center of attention shined upon the black sheep of the royal family, dressed in a ridiculous, mismatching outfit with ale dripping down the front of his tunic.
He slammed the tankard down on the table and let out a mighty belch, along with a cry of “another!”. The exasperated barkeep signaled to a waitress who brought over another round. The beer-soaked, rarely-called-Prince took the tankard and :glug glug glug: -- it was gone as soon as it came.
:Glug Glug Glug:
[...]The barkeep rolled his eyes, “I know he’s a Prince of the Realm, but it wouldn’t kill him to pay his tab once in a while”, he thought to himself.
Suddenly the bar fell silent; a stunning figure stood at the doorway. His hair and perfect jawline almost shone with the dim light of the tavern’s lamps.
"Brother! Our Father wishes to speak with you, so cease these ridiculous antics and make yourself presentable".Two guards took the younger prince and escorted him to his chambers, where his butler was waiting with a change of clothes. The older brother tossed a sack of coins to the barkeep, “This should be enough to pay for the drinks”.
As the older Prince left the tavern he could have sworn he heard the barkeep mutter the words, “I wish”.
Class Lore: The Assassin's Grievance
We have recently discovered a note that the Assassin has written on a corpse during a previo us incursion:
Maybe things wouldn't have come to this if people didn't get executed, drawn and quartered just for thinking the "wrong" way. --The Assassin
Castle investigators have yet to determine if this was actually the assassin or simply a message someone else is trying to get by.
--Note discovered by Loremaster B_Psycho2
Class Lore: Into the Mystic
In the corner of the second-rate market, two men with straight teeth and hardly-worn heels spoke gently. The vendors implored the passersby to take a look at their meager offerings. A few dented melons here and batches of over-ripened bananas there.
The taller, dark-haired man broke off from the conversation first and strolled back along the path.
“One piece for an honest game of chance,” said the young dark-skinned girl with a blue hooded-cloak and painted third eye.
“No tricks to be found here.”
The man placed three pieces on the table and the girl frenziedly shuffled three cards. She seamlessly flipped the middle card, revealing a black X and returned it to the fold.
A moment later, she placed all three cards on the table and stepped away with her arms folded. The man slapped his greasy finger on the right-most card and smiled. The girl revealed the black X card and sheepishly handed over five more pieces, her entire day’s take.
He strolled away from the market without another glance.
That night, the Nobleman tossed and turned in his sleep with the assassin's’ blade holstered at his waist and the eight pieces in his purse.
The real world blended with the dream world as he fell through worlds of his mind’s creation. The vortex drove him lower until the void was inescapable. He landed on his bed and sat upright with sweat on his face. A ghostly vision stood before him.
“Do you still stand by your oath to obey the King and defend it from its enemies?”
“I do, great Mystic of the realm. I spend every day in service to the crown.
“...But alas, my maids have heard nothing and my own snooping has found only allies. Perhaps, we are searching for something that is not there.”
The Nobleman stared deeply into the blurry visage, attempting to make out a face but the deeper he went, the more he only saw himself.
In a flash, the vision was gone and the nobleman was left alone in his chambers. He rung for the butler and began to change out of his sweat-covered robe.
On the following day, the tall, dark-haired man was noticeably jittery. His fingers reeked of tobacco tar and he half-heartedly looked and the market’s offerings.
He met with the same man in the same corner, but this meeting was brief. They shook hands and as the dark-haired man made his way north, he read the message quickly and placed it into his pocket. He repeated the words over again in his head.
“Artem Arawack was scheduled to see the Physician, but…”
“One piece for an honest game of chance,” said the young girl.
“No tricks to be found here.”
The Nobleman fumbled for the change in his pocket and spilled out another three pieces, even though there was little in the girl’s stash.
“Are we playing?”
The girl shuffled up the cards and once again the man fingered the black X with his greasy paw. He waited with a smile as the little girl fished the remaining bits from the bottoms of her purse.
The Nobleman did not attempt to sleep that night. He sat in his bed and repeated the message.
“Artem Arawack was scheduled to see the Physician, but he was never seen arriving.”
A ghostly-vision appeared and he took a second to steady himself before focusing on her gaze.
“The King has some questions about your lack of information. Members of our court are dying every day while you do nothing.”
“Tell my Liege that I have found something, possibly of great importance.
Artem Arawack was scheduled to see a Physician, but never arrived... My maids overheard a conversation, a heated conversation, he was having with the valiant Sir Conway, who was recently found dead… as of course you know.”
The Mystic hung in the air for another moment before vanishing once again. The Nobleman took a long breath and unconsciously checked for his dagger and the money in his purse.
The following day, the Nobleman looked refreshed. With regained confidence, the smug look on his face made it clear how much more important he was than the peasants at their stalls.
He turned up the alley and barely crept into the darkness.
“I knew he was playing the fool,” he told the companion. “The look on the Knight’s face when he chopped off his head and glitter exploded everywhere was priceless.
“These Blue Dragon are turned in circles. Now is our time to convert another member and bolster our ranks.”
The two men shared gleeful smiles and even shook hands before going their separate ways. The Nobleman strolled through the market and walked right up to the little girl at her table.
“Ahh, my lucky charm,” he said as he threw another three pieces down.
The girl shuffled the cards with all her might. She flashed the black X for just a moment and set all three cards down at the same time. He hesitated before selecting the center card and revealing a red circle.
“Seems like you’ve been practicing, little girl. But do not dare cheat me. I am a very powerful man,” he said as he threw down three more pieces.
The girl shuffled with all her might. The black X was merely a blur before she neatly arranged the three cards.
His hand hovered over the right-most card but he kept his gaze on her. His hand slid down the spine of the card before he jumped to the center and flipped over a red diamond.
“I see what you’re doing… One more go, but this time I want to clearly see that X. No more of these games.”
He dropped six pieces on the table and sneered.
“Don’t fail me now, my little lucky charm.”
The little girl was much more deliberate this time. She turned over the black X and held it there until the Nobleman shook his head. She casually shuffled the cards from side-to-side before rotating them around and placing them on the table.
“Hahaha, you silly little girl. You cannot fool me.”
He confidently reached for the center card and flipped it, revealing the symbol of the Blue Dragon.
“Your luck has run out, assassin” whispered the girl.
The incredulous, dark-haired man threw the small table to the ground and drew the dagger from his waist.
The King’s Guard reacted quickly and dragged the man to the ground.
“By order of the Prince, you are to be brought at once to the dungeon,” said the ranking officer. “You will meet the executioner’s axe before the sun rises.”
The young Mystic gathered her pieces from the ground and put them into her purse. A light-haired man kneeled down beside her and helped gather her things.
He picked up the three cards from the ground and flipped them over, revealing the indigo rose of the Unseen.
--Documented by Loremaster i42-Thunder
Class Lore: Alchemical Apathy
“...I have a passion that is not shared by many. I love the s
mell of a freshly brewed healing potion just as much as I love to watch a poison take effect. I once aspired to be a doctor, but I could never focus on just one type of potion to make.
I loved to see the eyes go blind just as much as I liked to see the writhing of a creature as its organs shut down. There is merit in healing though, as seeing a creature go from being at the Reaper’s door to full health is just as amazing a feat. People say I’m a monster for watching a man suffer, but then praise me as if I was a god for saving another. I do not see the difference, both are just subjecting a body to different alchemical substances and seeing what happens.
I don’t pretend to use my substances to support one group or another, I just watch to see what I can do with simple ingredients, and gain more knowledge of what one human is able to do to another. Then why stop at humans?...”
--Ripped log page discovered by Loremaster Ashe
Class Lore: The Paladin's Crusade
Sworn to protect all that is good and just in this world, the Paladin has made it his lifelong crusade to end the influence of the blood god, Mithras and the rumored god of darkness, Corax. Although not specifically a protector of the Blue Dragon, the Paladin is said to be a protector of the entirety of the realm.
Though he does his best to protect his allies from succumbing to the dark gods’ corrupt power, he knows the only way to end the terror these deities spread is by striking down every Cultist who would heed their insidious call.
Enshielded with golden armor and a divine sword, said to reveal the truth within the reflection of the blade, the Paladin arrived at Castle Adiart only yesterday. His coming can can only lead to one harsh fact: there are Cultists hiding among us. If we do not root them out, our kingdom may be the next to fall to the blood god and be engulfed in eternal darkness.
Class/Deity Lore: Whispers of the Gods
A man walked slowly down the end of the crimson corridor passing body after body out of Castle Demwir; incantations echoing through his head, "Who--what the hell is Corax? Certainly not another one of those voices, I hope... Mithras. This other voice: what are you? How do I even know your name?"
Bursts of red rushed gallantly to the top of the snow after each footstep. "I must stop wasting time, for I have important business to attend to." "NO! You're mad! Just get out already!" the man screeched while clenching his head, writhing in an internal struggle as he ground his teeth in agony. Recollecting his thoughts, he stepped further into the frosty midwinter's evening, discovering only the stinging down his face by the chilled air from clawing his head. He had made up his mind -- or had it been made for him? He was to leave this place and find proof! Proof that these "night whispers" of men--no, GODS-- existed outside his head. He knew they were real, but could only convince others with blood. Throughout the night, he walked, gazing out into the darkness. "Masters!", he cried into the night, "Prove to me that you are real and that I am not a fool for trusting you!" There was only the eerie sound of silence. "I see! Of course, I understand." The man cried into the inky blackness of the night, "I must prove my worth to you: An army; a sacrifice..." He looked back and saw nothing but the night and the gazes from whatever lurks nearby the edge of the gorge. He knew he could not turn back. There was nothing at Castle Demwir; not anymore. He had to keep moving forward. The mist spread aside to reveal a vast structure... Castle Adiart. He broke into a sprint as he ran towards the grand, sand-stoned castle, but swiftly collapsed from lack of energy, for he had not eaten in days. He collapsed by the gate as a Butler of Castle Adiart rushed him in and, seeing his robes, considered him to be of a noble status. Even the ice was too dense to even gather the tiniest water droplets. "How did this man even survive?" the Butler questioned in his head.
As this was after-hours, the Butler brought nourishment and wine for both himself and the waking man. He sat next to him and listened to the ramblings of a mad man about some unheard names: Mithras and Corax, and how he journeyed from Castle Demwir on his own accord. The Butler smiled as he drank his wine. He gazed at the scarred chalice he drank from that he never recalled seeing before. His white wine appeared red in the dark tavern - perhaps an illusion from the dancing flames of the fireplace. The man slowly leaned in towards the Butler, frozen with a smile, and whispered in an unfamiliar tone, "You... my flesh puppet -- you know what needs to be done." They both leaned back and merrily sipped their wine in silence as their crimson eyes continued dancing to the reflection of the fireplace.
--Reported by JammySplodge, Loremaster
- Why won't the gods devoid of darkness and despair whisper back? Perhaps if the cry is loud enough, it will one day be heard...
Class Lore: The Immortal Torment
The court of Adiart once had more nobles than today. Specifically, another man and a woman that childed the castle's first recorded instance of twins. It seemed as though death itself couldn’t even come between them. However, it did. Upon failing to kill the male noble, an Unseen Assassin fled the scene, leaving only a scratch from the edge of a dagger. However, the color that flowed from his wound was not crimson, but nightshade: he had been poisoned.
They feared not, because a local physician was rumored to be able to cure all ailments. The wife went to seek out this physician in his quarters and was offered an exchange. The noble wife was told to deliver a note to the King to prove his innocence regarding false rumors. In exchange, the nobleman would be healed. She agreed to meet that night after gathering the ingredients, as there was not much time.
Pacing their room that night, the noble lady witnessed her husband doubling over in pain, wondering if the promise will be kept. Meanwhile, the Physician was on the floor next to shattered glass -- with not blood, but wine. He was being occupied by the royal butler, accompanied by a pale hand on his shoulder, for the butler was now serving someone other than the King.
Although not a trusted word, the man whispered, “Alchemist--” and, as a last resort, the lady stormed out to find the Alchemist, who promised to return a favor for when called upon. The Alchemist was nowhere to be found, but her unmarked potions were.
When the lady returned to the poisoned husband, the physician still did not come. She also no longer needed a cure....
Completely destroyed, the wife sought out revenge against those who scorned them. She drank the obtained potion, which was an unusual color, for she had not known that she sampled an experimental potion for immortality. Perhaps she had, indeed, become immortal, but at the unknowing cost of leaving her soul behind. Her soul was not the only memory left behind, but also the twins. Later known as only a rumor to the court as being called the “Scorned,” no one actually knew what happened to the twins’ mother -- in fact, no one even considered the question of what kind of toll would happen for ingesting an Alchemist's makeshift potion, let alone the torment of betrayal and the early departed, had they known the truth.
The stories foretell that the Scorned feels the weight of guilt in the hearts of others -- only assuming the guilt is from the conspiracy of her husband’s untimely demise. It is said that victims of the Scorned are dealt with by any means -- as long as all means come to an end.
There have even been matching reports of a lucid whisper, echoing down the castle walls. The consistent reports were as follows:
“The names of those who scorned me are etched into my mind. I will not forget them. I will see them all destroyed before the court, or worse, if it takes the last of my breath. The Blue Dragon faction is no longer an ally of mine -- no one is. They don’t know what it’s like. I will see all who betrayed me lifelessly fall to my feet before I am likely taken with them."