When mortals come to see that cunning is as potent as any blade, Numa takes shape—goddess of deception, trickery, thieves, and fools. She walks where laughter masks deceit and every secret bargain echoes her name.

To some, she is a patron of rogues and jesters. To others, a reminder that wit and shadow can be as powerful as brute strength. In every flicker of a lie and every stolen glance, Numa is there, smiling in the darkness.

The Plague of Wretched Ember begins as aether-tainted fires spark in distant corners of Khassid, each pocket of horror consuming entire communities in living flame. Victims become blazing husks—souls trapped in agony, unable to slip beyond the veil of life.

In this hour of despair, Luzion, god of death’s quiet mercy, intervenes. He does not change the nature of death itself, but severs the plague’s unnatural grip on the souls it devours. His visage manifests across every horizon—a global vision of divine compassion and release.

Freed from torment, the souls pass quietly to the afterlife. Yet in the aftermath, the world is left with more than charred ruins—fear takes root. The memory of Luzion’s intervention and the unquenchable blaze leaves mortals wary of magic, its power to twist life and soul laid bare.

For centuries to come, Luzion’s priesthood must remind mortals that while death itself is a quiet passage, it is the corruption of death that demans fear – and only through understanding this can they find peace .

In this age of deepening shadows, pain ceases to be a solitary wound. It becomes a river of anguish, flowing through every life and every system that grinds mortals beneath its weight. In the silent cries of the oppressed and the whispered laments of the suffering, a single truth emerges: that pain is not merely an accident, but a power in itself.

Legaria rises from this collective torment—goddess of pain, oppression, and suffering. Where mortals had seen only fate or punishment, she claims every bruise, every chain, every silent scream as her own. In her cold embrace, pain becomes a divine force—one that shapes the world as surely as hope or love. She is the quiet shadow that reminds mortals that even the light must contend with the weight of what it leaves behind.

After centuries beneath the mountain, the Barazûn emerge once more—led by the clerics of Tolgrin Ironflare, cautiously testing the waters of a surface world that once exploited their talents. Their scouts move with quiet dignity, seeking not just trade, but a sign that old wounds might finally heal.

On the surface, uncertainty lingers—not about the Barazûn themselves, but about whether the surface folk can prove themselves worthy of trust once more. Every wary greeting and every hesitant offer of trade carries the weight of a past that can never be erased, only answered by the quiet hope of reconciliation.

Limited trade resumes—carefully, deliberately, with only those partners who prove themselves trustworthy. It is a small step, but a significant one, echoing the slow mending of a bond once broken by greed and betrayal.

In the shadow of despair, the human blacksmith Calen Matisse joins the Dral’Vyrn against a fearsome green dragon. Guided by Tanaerithiel’s quiet promise of renewal, they triumph—and the Dral’Vyrn are redeemed, their curse lifted by Liantharion’s decree. Calen is welcomed into Aelindor, gifted longevity and the divine spark of Aelthor, and in time, marries a Syl’Aeris woman.

For centuries, Tanaerithiel had been worshipped only by the Dral’Vyrn—a quiet comfort in their exile. But Calen’s selfless act and the Dral’Vyrn’s redemption become the turning point that spreads her worship across Khassid. In every heart that seeks forgiveness and every soul that dares to hope for a second chance, her gentle light shines—the first deity honored by all peoples of Khassid, transcending every boundary of race and creed.

The empire that once gleamed like a second dawn—Alzharan, the heart of human civilization—fell not to the sword alone, but to the slow poison of its own ambition.

For centuries, emperors ruled from marble thrones, weaving spells of dominion and forging pacts with powers mortal minds were never meant to grasp. In the final days, their courts seethed with intrigue, each noble a viper seeking the imperial crown. Arcane academies, once halls of learning, became crucibles of reckless magic. Rituals of ascension and forbidden experiments twisted the air itself, leaving entire districts in ruin—realms of madness where time cracked like glass.

As the empire teetered, scholars and priests whispered of an ancient terror: the wrath of Arzathyr. Though the great dragon had not returned in flesh, his name became a prophecy. “It is Arzathyr’s wrath upon us,” they said, their voices trembling. In stories told by firelight, the empire’s ruin was painted in dragon’s flame—even if no wyrm ever set claw upon its marble towers.

Divine favor waned. The gods turned their gaze away, unwilling to shield a realm that had forgotten humility. And so Alzharan cracked and fell—not with a single blow, but with a thousand silent betrayals, each a thread that unraveled the empire’s golden tapestry.

In the years that followed, Alzharan’s ruins became the haunt of treasure hunters and scholars, drawn to the echoes of power still pulsing in shattered vaults and haunted halls. Its story remains a warning: that even the brightest light can cast the longest shadow, and that in every empire’s heart, there lies the seed of its own undoing.

As the final echoes of Alzharan’s ruin fade, something darker stirs in the shadows. In a world where mortal ambition twisted life and death, the line between the living and the dead begins to blur. Corpses rise as if driven by a hunger not their own; monstrous forms stalk the night, echoes of ancient taboos given flesh.

From this dread convergence emerges Vargesi—goddess of monsters, undead, and undeath. She is the chill in the blood when graves lie disturbed, the whisper in the dark as horror walks the land. To some, he is a punishment for mortal hubris; to others, a dark protector of those who live in death’s embrace.

Her rise is not a single cataclysm, but a slow claiming of the places where life and death no longer stand apart. In every haunted ruin and every crypt that breathes, Vargesi watches—a god born of mortal fear and the shadows they cannot cast away.

As the boundaries between life and death blur and monstrous horrors creep from shadowed places, a new divine presence emerges. Vargesi, goddess of monsters, undead, and undeath, claims her place in the pantheon. Her form is the echo of mortal fear—the whisper of bones in forgotten crypts, the cold breath of the grave turned hunger.

In her emergence, the world learns a terrible truth: that death is not always a passage—it can be a kingdom, a dominion of unending night.

The sky darkened without warning. For three days, the sun vanished behind a veil of unnatural shadow, plunging the land into an eerie twilight. This was no mere celestial event—it was a rupture, a tear between the realms of life and death. Scholars would come to call it the Black Veil Eclipse, but no name could truly capture its magnitude.

Born of Vargesi’s rise, the barrier between the living and the dead was severed. Undead did not rise from graves alone—they clawed forth from shadows, from whispers in the air, from places where death should never linger. Spirits that should have passed refused to fade, their wailing voices echoing like sorrowful cries of the forgotten. Even the gods—Luzion, Kieron, and Olia—stood powerless to intervene.

For three days, the world fought not to win, but to survive. Priests found their magic faltered, their faith muted. Some scholars whispered that the dead themselves did not wish to rise, but were forced into existence by the eclipse’s unnatural power.

From the horror of those days came the First Hunt—the birth of the Gravehunter Conclave. Warriors, scholars, and wanderers rose not as servants of any divine power, but as mortal shields. They took no oaths to gods, only to each other—to stand between the living and the restless dead, to hunt and contain the darkness that had come unbidden into the world.

Yet even in this mortal defiance, the gods did not stand wholly silent. In the quiet spaces between death and life, Xantheris, god of magic, gifted the Gravehunters a form of magic all their own—rites and rituals woven from the blood of the arcane itself. This magic is theirs alone, unknown to any other discipline or priesthood, a secret arsenal that allows them to stand against the horrors unleashed by the Black Veil Eclipse.

Thus began the age of the Gravehunters—an age where mortal resolve, divine echoes, and the secret rites of Xantheris became the final defense against the hunger of undeath.

In the shadow of famine and war, desperation drives mortals to the unlikeliest of alliances. Humans and the orcish and goblin-kin—once enemies across countless battlefields—find themselves standing together against a world that seems determined to consume them both.

The Red Pact is born not of trust, but of mutual necessity. In the face of instability and the specter of starvation, these ancient rivals forge a tenuous alliance for survival. Old grudges burn beneath the surface, and every oath is weighed down by the weight of memory, but the pact is made all the same.

It is not unity—it is an uneasy truce, bound by the knowledge that neither side can stand alone. In the years to come, this fragile alliance will shape the destiny of kingdoms and echo in every corner of Khassid’s mortal tapestry.

The Red Pact was born of desperation and necessity—a promise of unity forged in the crucible of famine and war. For the orcish clans of Khassid, it offered the first glimmer of hope in generations: a chance to stand as equals, to share in the bounty of their human allies in Dalenvar. Under the leadership of King Garvain the Resolute, the pact bound the orcs and humans together in shared strength and mutual aid.

At first, it seemed the pact would endure. Orcish warriors, renowned for their skill in battle, defended Dalenvar’s borders and lent their strength to a kingdom that had once scorned them. In return, grain and livestock flowed to the orcish settlements, breathing new life into communities long beset by hardship.

But as the orcs grew stronger, so too did the fears of the humans who had once seen them as little more than tools. In the whispers of Garvain’s court, the pact turned from promise to threat. The king’s paranoia, stoked by advisors and hidden fears, grew like a shadow over the alliance.

The betrayal came on a night meant to be a celebration—the Feast of the Pact. Orcish leaders, gathered in Dalenvar’s great hall, were welcomed with mead and song. Yet even as laughter filled the air, Garvain’s soldiers waited in the shadows. At the height of revelry, they struck. The orcish leaders fell where they sat, their blood staining the banners of peace.

Simultaneously, Dalenvar’s armies swept through orcish lands, burning homes, seizing provisions, and scattering the clans to the wind. The betrayal was swift, brutal, and absolute.

In the aftermath, the orcs fled to the wild places of Khassid, their trust in mortals forever broken. The Red Pact became a curse whispered by orcish elders, a reminder that the promises of outsiders are as fragile as morning frost. But from the ashes of this betrayal, a new fire was kindled. Guided by Kharvulok, the orcish people turned inward—vowing to build a homeland no foreign hand could ever take, a future forged not by treaties, but by divine will and the strength of their own kind.

In the long shadow of the Red Pact’s betrayal, the orcs of Khassid gather what remains of their scattered clans. Driven by heartbreak and rage, they abandon their ancestral lands—lands now stained by the treachery of those who once called them allies.

Leading them is Kharvulok, the Unbroken Lord—a figure of both legend and defiance. He is more than a chieftain; he is the soul of his people made manifest, a living testament to their refusal to kneel or fade away.

The journey they undertake is brutal. Starvation and sickness stalk their camps like wolves. Human warbands harry their flanks, and ancient spirits of the land watch with indifferent eyes. But the orcs press on, driven by a single purpose: to find a sanctuary that no foreign hand can ever claim.

Every mile walked, every hardship endured, becomes another link in the chain that binds them together. Their songs, once of war and blood, now speak of home and hope—echoes of a promise that one day, they will stand unbowed upon the earth, masters of their own destiny.

For nearly a century, the orcish clans of Khassid wander the land—driven from their ancestral homes by betrayal and bound together by the unbreakable will of Kharvulok, the Unbroken Lord.

They journey across desolate plains and into forests that whisper of ancient grudges. They scale mountain passes shrouded in ice and brave rivers that swallow the careless whole. Everywhere they go, they are met with suspicion and fear—by those who once called them allies and by strangers who see only old hatreds in their green skin.

Many do not live to see the journey’s end. Disease and exhaustion claim the weakest; blades claim the bravest. The cost of survival is written in blood and bone.

As the weight of his people’s suffering grows, Kharvulok raises his voice to the heavens. He entreats the gods Antaz, Sujaz, and Morgdhav—the twin gods of the primordial elements, and the master of the sea and storm—to grant them sanctuary. His prayers are not for conquest or vengeance, but for a place where the orcs can stand free—unbroken and unbowed.

At the end of a journey marked by hunger, grief, and defiance, the orcish clans reach the shores of possibility—Gharnakthul. It is not a land they found, but a land they demanded.

In a fury born of desperation and driven by the unyielding will of his people, Kharvulok stands before the gods themselves. He confronts Antaz, Sujaz, and Morgdhav—the twin guardians of the sky and the keeper of the seas—demanding their aid in raising a sanctuary from the abyssal depths.

He offers them a calculated bargain: in exchange for their divine shaping of Gharnakthul, the orcs will grant them a place in the hearts of their people, a foothold for their own divine interests in a world forever changed by mortal struggles.

And so, driven as much by strategy as by mercy, the gods agree. The land of Gharnakthul rises from the depths, a place of rugged cliffs and howling seas—a land that echoes with the resilience of the orcs and the ambitions of the divine.

The surviving clans settle, building a new civilization upon the bones of memory and the lessons of betrayal. Though they have found sanctuary, they have not forgotten the Red Pact’s treachery. The scars remain, woven into their songs and their stories—reminders that the orcs of Gharnakthul will never again bow to another’s will.

In the hearts of mortals, ambition is a spark—an ember that can light the world or devour it whole. Thyrron, once the god of resolve and mortal striving, is not immune to this truth.

In Year 4902, the shadow of Miné—goddess of greed, ruin, and hidden hungers—stretches across his spirit. She whispers to him in the quiet spaces between dreams and in the roar of mortal glory. In her words, ambition becomes not a calling, but a hunger that consumes itself.

Where once Thyrron’s light guided mortals to build and better themselves, now it drives them to devour and conquer. Pride becomes arrogance; aspiration turns to blind recklessness. In this moment, mortal ambition is no longer a force of creation—it is a predator, tearing at the very foundations it once sought to raise.

From this corruption, the world shudders. The gods watch and wait, for even among immortals, the line between striving and destruction is a fragile one.

The corruption of Thyrron, once the guiding hand of mortal ambition, does not stop at his own heart. Under the insidious whispers of Miné, his fall becomes a quiet contagion—one that seeps through the very threads of divine power.

In Year 4987, Thyrron, blinded by his own twisted desires, begins to spread this taint among the gods themselves. The corruption is subtle—like a sickness in the soul, it is not seen in the light of day, but felt in every word left unsaid and every promise left unkept.

Relationships among the gods begin to strain. Old alliances crack; old grudges flare. Mortals, bound to their divine patrons, mirror this discord in their own hearts. Wars break out over half-forgotten insults; faiths fracture into splintered sects. The very balance of creation begins to unravel, unspooling thread by delicate thread.

And all the while, Thyrron stands at the center, a god who no longer sees the difference between building and devouring—his corrupted ambition echoed in every mortal heart that dares to dream of more.