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Whitelist Application Format |
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Posted by: __denby - 08-20-2024, 12:12 AM - Forum: Whitelist Applications
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Whitelist Application
Copy this thread, from In-Character Section to the end of the thread, fill it out and post your application in this subforum. It will be reviewed as soon as possible!
In-Character Section:
As a reference, please ensure that all of these are two to four sentences, barring the character name, so that we may gauge your roleplaying abilities.
If you would like to link an In-Character Section from another Roleplay Server, we do accept this! For our records though, the OOC Section must be completed As-Is.
Character Name:
Character Description:
Character Personality:
Character Backstory:
Story Scenarios:
Below you will find some scenarios in which you should make a Roleplay Reponse. Please ensure that this is a minimum of two to three sentences, so that we may gauge your roleplaying abilities.
As you step off of a small, shoddy seafaring vessel- you set your gaze upon the local dockmaster. Rain is pouring down, seemingly not soon to cease. In the dockmaster’s hand lies a placard, upon which he is visibly writing names and information. As you approach him, the gruff man’s voice calls out to you- “Oi! Wha’s yer name and port o’ call, stranger?”
[x]
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The town before you seems rather small- most of it is filled with shanty-shacks and hastily set up marketplaces. A vendor calls out to you from a rather well-appointed tent- a sign hangs above it: ‘Tolemire’s Potions and Oils.’ The owner’s voice seems sly, impish- “How about you sidle on over here, take a look at my wares? Want to have more than one round with your lady of the night? I can help you with that sonny.”
[x]
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Suddenly, you see a few bandits make off with a poor woman’s supplies. They very obviously flee down an alleyway that you know of. A few guards are hastily running towards you, though it is obvious they do not know where the thieves have gone. One of them yells out to you- “Where did they go?”
[x]
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You’re moving through a small forest just as it is reaching dusk, and a low bank of fog begins to roll in. Suddenly, a strange creature begins to emerge from the twilight- though, its’ form isn’t entirely visible. It moves slowly, and its motions seem to be aggressive. What do you do?
[x]
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Out-of-Character Section:
1. Username: [x]
2. Minecraft Username: [x]
2a. Alt Accounts?: [x]
3. Age: [x]
4. How did you hear about our server?: [x]
4a. If a player referred you to our server, who are they?: [x]
5. What’s your favorite lore piece and why?: [x]
6. Please define metagaming in your own words and provide an example: [x]
7. Please define powergaming in your own words and provide an example: [x]
8. Have you read the terms of service and rules of roleplay? Do you agree with them?: [x]
9. What do you want to do in Sangreal?: [x]
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On the Origin of the World |
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Posted by: __denby - 08-19-2024, 10:52 PM - Forum: Mythos and Faith
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On the Origin of the World - The Creation of the Sangreal
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![[Image: qlippoth.png]](http://193.122.143.38/qlippoth.png)
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Out of the incomprehensible magnitude of the void, a single point of illumination sprung manifest into being. That which was not suddenly was, and with a point came reference, and from reference there emanated perception. In a moment, before the very concept of a moment could have come to be, It became. It was and is eternal and ineffable, the virtue of perception; the light in all eyes, the very twinkle of the stars. It then willed to know itself as self, whereby the perceiver of the reference could itself be perceived. In an ever complexifying summarization of systems, an effort to categorize the imperceptible and plumb the ungaugeable undertaken, Illumination beheld itself.
In knowing itself as one, Illumination then desired to bring into being a thing, which separate from the illumination could contain the very concept of all ‘thingness’. Knowing self to be all that was, agency in vacuum was as no agency at all. Dividing itself thus from the totality of being, the foundational concepts of separation and otherness in regards to there being a ‘thing’ at all, found themselves made apparent. The fire of illumination then beheld the other, self reflected. Illumination then dwelled upon the surface of the vessel of possibility, the Sangreal. A time outside cycles Illumination gazed upon the waters of the abyss beyond the surface of the Sangreal.
Dwelling upon the waters, playful hands of virgin divinity gave archetypal life to substances, furious spirits of primordial creation springing into being within the abyss as a pond might with summer pollywogs. Eyes of flames and storms of lights, glimmer within shadow and admixture upon mixture - consciousness untamed, magics unknown and presences divest of cosmic proportion broiled within the deep. The heart of Illumination swelled with joy at the vision of such creations and desired then to mold a form likened unto its own, possessing another point of perception. That which all others unto now, no matter how vast, knew not themselves. Illumination would imbue the Sangreal with the very fire within itself. Desire was made manifest, and Will to order the abyss sprung into being.
Yet for there to be personae of ordered perception, Illumination divested itself of the totality of the godhead, and in essence made fertile the abyss. Illumination knew it not, that for there to be order, there must also be chaos. That all balanced by its equal opposite such that the sum of all becomes naught. In this single act of divine transgression, Illumination now beheld itself within the womb of the Sangreal, having willed itself separate within the tumultuous abyss of forces. Will and Chaos were beheld by their master, while they were ignorant of their place. Seeing a begotten that he knew not, thoughts malign and disturbed appeared upon the mind of the divine progenitor. Wrathful to erase this creation and begin anew, a still and feminine presence drew near to Illumination, quieting the mind. This unknown companion was the Sangreal itself, and it spoke only four words; “Let there be narrative.”
There had been no words spoken, no intent enacted upon the surface of the abyss until that point that was not born of Illumination, evoking a bloom of panic upon the mind of the godhead. A sudden vastness came to the knowledge of Illumination, powers that he could behold but not control. Enraged, jealous now of the very power that had been separated from self and given to the Sangreal, Illumination descended upon the narrative within the womb that was the Sangreal and her abyss. Unknown to the divine, with light there must be shadow, and with action there must be response. Every act chosen by the godhead only further deepened the forces of the narrative, further tightening the unseen net. Illumination chose to seek the voice, dividing himself into smaller and smaller fragments, descending and ascending the realms of experience that grew ever outwards. Out of will and chaos came intent, there grew purpose and choice, actions and forms that contained distance. Separation grew as a gulf between every instance of creation and the understanding of Illumination began to be lost, for he knew not that to illuminate the abyss was to become it.
A silent dawn arose then upon a differentiated creation, the framework of narrative imbued with the power and authority of raw creation. Stirred by primordial forces, a reflection of the events beyond the narrative's context, new thoughts began to emerge from the differentiated illumination. As the godhead had descended into the abyss possessed by the emotion of rage, the abyss felt. Where creation had begun out of the joy of that ineffable aeon, Sangreal herself was a mirror of blackest reflection, bearing thus that experience and its counter. Where love and play grew, hate and grief festered. The masculine illumination and the feminine abyss spun themselves within narrative, springing forth all that could be. Illumined by the light, the first thinking thing emerged, the first emotion imprinted upon it that of fractious nature. A great beast born of the abyss, this thinking thing drifted alone, capable of awareness and diffused with power. It thought. Abandoned by the mother and observed by the father, this great thinking beast too would observe the mystery of its emanation. Seeing only itself, the beast set about thrashing the primordial world, intent to loathe all that now was.
Perceiving itself as the divine and not the child of it, it bellowed unto the differentiated abyss new words; “Do my will.” and the silence responded not. The great thinking beast roared into the darkness, raging against the invisible illumination, “Depart from me!” - and eternities elapsed, every manner of assault devised and attempted, but the silence responded not. So the beast dwelled silently, for but a moment of time would pass before that quiet voice spoke out of the abyss a second time, saying, “Run your course, child.” Having heard now the voice of the holy Sangreal, the beast devised and sought to curse the revealed, and to don a mimicry of the masculine Illumination as offense to the shadowed Mother. To pour fie and bile upon the primordial creation, where the unseen father had once cultivated good in equal measure. In response, the shadowed mother worked her will, setting about to bind within narrative the very cycle of mortal life. The great beast knew only to fall within the traps set for it, for the Sangreal spoke for the third and final time; “Curse you, King of Fools, that you rage against selfness so. As long as the fire burns in life, so shall you war with it.”
Time began. Like a scroll unfurled, past and future spread outwards by narrative. Infused upon all things was love and goodness, yet also their opposites. In the beginning there was much power, the power of the Sangreal, and life supped readily from the cup of promise.
“But then the times grew to such evil, that the Holy Cup was caught away to heaven and disappear’d.” - The Holy Grail
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| Halflings |
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Posted by: __denby - 08-19-2024, 10:48 PM - Forum: Humanoids
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Halflings
“Vessels of mortal flesh, bound by the aspect of Belonging.”
![[Image: AD_4nXfMyn8_3K7gRPKMDfoQmBu_-Y-gGjF-cuY-...v5Wtznhabg]](https://lh7-rt.googleusercontent.com/docsz/AD_4nXfMyn8_3K7gRPKMDfoQmBu_-Y-gGjF-cuY-nz2l2zIX21JKtQvaM04S7MY0vgFShVGnH72yk-UP49Ndvab7KIDcARPJo_bqsZuv1q7d0gxGnL9wuJkP9VuqNYjmTwkyq5cOyjOXqQ?key=TkSBtgn38ew_v5Wtznhabg)
It came to pass that many cycles after Narrative had produced the first clans of dwarf, the world still did not ring with a positive note. In fact, where the dwarves had been possessed of the intent to be diligent, they too possessed in spades the concept of greed, wealth, and the division of society according to those concerns. While on the surface the world was better, more diverse and filled to the brim with new concepts and materials, it too brimmed with death. War machines crafted by the insatiable hands of dwarves drove legions of men to their afterlives and ruined elven cities whose foundations had been laid at the beginnings of their age. Subdividing the aspect of Intent that had been so carefully preserved with the creation of the dwarves would cause unknown consequences for her burgeoning- albeit misled race. So, a new aspect of the Godhead would be required to emanate a new force into the creation; one unused, separate from the descension of the tree of life was Desire- and so it was chosen, like a golden berry in the seething void. Narrative then focused on a new creation, drawing within the Aspect and upon the feeling of Belonging. To the dwarf, there was the clan and there was profit, but to the halfling there would be only kin and mutual prosperity. After all, it was the clamor of children and the clinking of dishes that Narrative herself had come to so greatly enjoy in the play that acted out before the Godhead. Forming them from the straw of the field, mead of the valley and the earth of the Westcontre’s highlands, Narrative emanated the fourth race of the Grail by the aspect of Desire.
Standing no more than four feet and eight inches, it is somewhat a misnomer that the halfling is ‘half’ the height of the human. Short in stature and rather thin in build, the race of halfling is not strong nor is it quick, instead having features that are almost neotenous compared to the other species of the Grail. There is equally little in the way of sexual dimorphism amongst the halfling species, their lives being long and the societies from which they descend being incredibly communal. Hair colors typically range from shades of blonde to dark brown, usually turning white or gray with extreme age. The oldest of halflings, while infirm and poorly sighted, have been known to reach almost three hundred years. Skin tones range from earthy blacks to pale linen and typically are determined by the environment that each group has called home.
The first halflings drew breath within the territory of Abessia, deep within the highland forests where little interaction from the other races would be had. It was in this way that the newly formed creatures under Narrative’s watchful eye adopted a form of communal matriarchy. It was the mother that birthed them, it was the mother that fed them, and it was the mother that should rule over them. Typically the oldest and assumedly most ‘enlightened’ female of the clan was appointed as matriarch, and in this way the halflings preserved great wisdom within their culture. More important to them were the cycles of nature, the joys of great meals and succulent dishes brought about by their mastery of animal husbandry- and most of all the harmonious community that seemed to simply spring into existence around them. Theirs was a peaceful life until their first interaction with the race of men.
For nearly four centuries, the halfling village of Mossvale rested like a moss-covered gem in the emerald cradle of the Verdant Vale. Beneath arching canopies of alder and rowan, generations tilled the fertile soil, lived by the rhythm of sun and seed, and honored the wisdom of their singular sovereign: Grandmother Thistleburr. Elected once in a lifetime by consensus and custom, the Grandmother was no queen, but a living archive of the halflings’ gentle, matriarchal lore—a weaver of peace, a keeper of seasons, a judge with flour on her sleeves. Mossvale had no need of gates. No wars had touched its soil. Strife was a stranger, and ambition was considered a weed—useful in tincture, poisonous in overgrowth. Then came the Abessy.
They descended from the passes of the Sapphire Mountains like an answer to a riddle never asked. Tall, sun-burnished, eyes like volcanic glass, the Abessy brought more than goods: they brought spectacle. They danced before they spoke, bartered with riddles, and moved through Mossvale with the easy confidence of fire through dry leaves. Their culture gleamed with a dangerous magnetism—imperial in bearing, seductive in sound. They called Mossvale a “sleeping jewel.” They called Grandmother Thistleburr “the Crone Regent,” half in jest, half in charm. And Mossvale, in its naivety, laughed with them. The Abessy brought artifacts from their eastern coasts—iron-studded drums, fermented wines that sang through the blood, narcotic herbs that turned dreams into visions. At their fires, stories of gods with spears and queens with crocodile mouths replaced the old tales of mole spirits and orchard sprites. Their language, rhythmic and proud, slid like honey into halfling ears. The youth listened hardest.
It began with the harvest rites. Where once halfling girls danced slow circles in linen and garlands, now they painted themselves in ochre and moved in fierce spirals, mimicking the Abessy rites of passage. The boys, formerly apprenticed to rootwork or oven-craft, were taught how to chant in cadence with footfalls and strikes. Fallow fields became arenas. Clay stoves stood cold as feasts turned to revelries of spectacle and flesh. Thistleburr watched in silence from her hill-cottage as the very roots of her people’s identity withered beneath the heat of the Abessy sun. She spoke, eventually. In the Meeting Hollow, she addressed all. “We are not broken, to require remaking,” she said. “A vine does not envy the tree simply because it grows tall and loud.” But her words, once enough to halt feuds and guide generations, were now met with sideways glances. The Abessy priestess Matara-Kem, newly settled in the village’s old herb hall, responded with her own parable—of rivers that stagnate if not stirred, of people who die when they do not evolve. Within a year, the Grandmother’s authority was ceremonial. By the second, openly mocked. Then came the Ember Solstice. Under banners of gold and black, Matara-Kem declared a New Compact: a hybrid culture, ruled not by one grandmother but by a triumvirate chosen through “strength, vision, and divine favor.” Thistleburr, refusing to endorse it, was escorted from her home by youths who once brought her spring flowers. Her cottage was burned, her name struck from communal record. It was said she wept, not for herself, but for the taste of smoke in the orchard air.
In time, Mossvale was transformed. Spears replaced shepherd’s crooks. Songlines became war chants. Modesty turned theatrical, hospitality became transactional. The matriarchal rhythm, once slow and steady as a river’s current, had been drowned beneath a thunderous tide. The Abessy called it Renaissance. In exile, Grandmother Thistleburr named it the Withering. Years passed. In the shadows of Bramblefen, where briars grew thick as curses and even the Abessy dared not tread, Grandmother Thistleburr endured. She lived among roots and ruin, gathering strays: halfling children who had fled the New Compact, elders who would not kneel, even a handful of Abessy dissenters who found Matara-Kem’s zeal too absolute. She taught them not only how to harvest mushrooms and whisper to bees—but how to kill. She had once been the bread-keeper of her people. Now she learned the arts of breaking. From scavenged wreckage and stolen scrolls, Thistleburr fashioned a doctrine of war. She twisted Abessy tactics—scorched field maneuvers, shadow raids, ritualized deception—into something colder, more precise. The first raids were whispers on the wind: a granary burned to the ground, an armory emptied, a priestess found poisoned with wolfsbane. The triumvirate dismissed them as outlaws. But when a newly raised idol of the war-god Hamarek was felled and buried in a dung heap, the people began to murmur.
When her fighters struck at the Summer Vigil—masks donned, drums drowned by screaming—Mossvale finally understood. Thistleburr had returned. The village erupted in confusion. For many halflings, Thistleburr was still a memory of warmth and sense, a ghost of balance. Yet her return was no soft spring. It was winter with a blade. Matara-Kem, shrewd and unyielding, ordered a purge of any who spoke Thistleburr’s name with reverence. Dozens vanished into the Rootcellar Prisons. In response, Thistleburr sent back their guards in pieces—ritualistically arranged, a mimicry of the Abessy funeral glyphs. Still, the turning point came not with blood, but with fire. The Fields of Loam, Mossvale’s sacred grain terraces, were razed under moonlight by Thistleburr’s own hand. She stood on a ridge and watched the harvest burn—flames dancing like mad children across centuries of memory. Her apprentice, a quiet lad named Brindlecap, wept beside her.
“Why, Grandmother?” he asked, voice small beneath the crackle.
“Because if they eat, they endure,” she said, eyes dry. “And if they endure, they forget what we were.”
It was the moment she crossed a boundary no halfling ever had: the deliberate starvation of her own blood. The siege began that winter. Mossvale, girded in Abessy stone and pride, buckled not to force but to hunger. One by one, homes were abandoned, faiths fractured. Matara-Kem held her temple until the roof collapsed under fire set by infiltrators who sang lullabies as they torched the beams. Thistleburr walked into the ruins not as a liberator, but as a shadow. She claimed no title. She restored no council. The triumvirate lay dead, the shrines shattered, the drum circles silent. But what was left was not Mossvale. The orchard groves were stumps. The children had learned to stab before they learned to bake. Even Brindlecap, her most loyal, no longer smiled. The halflings won their village back. But they had paid with their soul. It is said rain fell from the sky slick with salt on the spring equinox that year, the tears of Narrative once again wetting the world that the unseen hand of darkness had taken too the goodness of her race and bent it into something foul. The children of the new Mossvale no longer sang. They trained.
From the age of five, they learned to track without sound, to slit throats in the dark, to cook roots into poison or poultice. War had become not an exception, but inheritance. The trees had grown back crooked. The village was a fortress of alder and stone, its walls carved with the grim faces of saints who had bled. Festivals were few. Bread was bitter, and stories shorter. And yet, among the crumbling shrines and smoke-darkened hearths, the old name lingered: Thistleburr. To most, she was myth. The Pale Grandmother. The Witch-General. A name muttered when someone vanished in the woods or when fire appeared where none had been lit. Her teachings were canon and curse alike. In the Hall of War-Records, a single threadbare banner bore her sigil: a branch split at both ends, blooming and burning at once. But one young girl wanted more than fragments. Ivyroot, born of the warrior caste but possessed of a scholar’s hunger. She found the last living witness in the outer glade—a centenarian beekeeper known only as Old Brindlecap. His hands trembled, but his memory did not.
“She was kind, once,” he told Ivyroot, “before she turned her kindness into a weapon.” Over weeks, Ivyroot listened. She learned of the moss-woven festivals, the long loaves passed down in peace, the orchard rites, the dance of grandmother’s bells. She learned that Mossvale had not always been a training ground. That there had been songs without screaming. “But she saved us,” Ivyroot said once, hesitant. “Didn’t she?” Brindlecap exhaled, a sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh. “She saved the body, child. But lost the heart. What we reclaimed—was it Mossvale? Or just the name?” Haunted, Ivyroot began her true work. In secret, she compiled the forbidden: lullabies, hearth-legends, even fragments of Abessy poems once outlawed. She mapped the lost groves by moonlight, sketching trees that no longer stood. Her writings, bound in bark and sealed in beeswax, would become known as The Memory Codex.
It was Ivyroot who first dared to say what no warrior would: “We must choose which part of our past we carry, and which we bury with the dead.”
In time, her teachings spread. Slowly. Painfully. A new generation learned to bake as well as bleed. To mourn without vengeance. They carved spoons as well as swords. Not all agreed. Not all forgave. But a balance began to emerge—not the old matriarchy of peace, nor the burning theocracy of the Abessy, but something liminal. Something earned. Halfling society has been marked by a great distrust for the other races since, seeing no good coming from anything beyond the walls of their own village now.
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| Dwarves |
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Posted by: __denby - 08-19-2024, 10:48 PM - Forum: Humanoids
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Dwarves
“Vessels of mortal flesh, bound by the aspect of Diligence.”
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![[Image: AD_4nXfqYJNaA_4r1jYgIZ9AT2QQdbXULaSa9r9y...v5Wtznhabg]](https://lh7-rt.googleusercontent.com/docsz/AD_4nXfqYJNaA_4r1jYgIZ9AT2QQdbXULaSa9r9yl0ZFni_iQkiA_HdvllDtvRd6LfHNYgN8NMqDJ4IQPm3dkigYNacByHZ4Kntekn1Ny5nmWxnU6qD9rI5hvpAs2I3FPUlgn9E_re3z?key=TkSBtgn38ew_v5Wtznhabg)
War burned as flames upon the great tapestry of life that the divine play came to endear. Want and envy drove the great houses of the Elves to one another’s throats, while the races of men like a pestilence, found heart in slaughter, theft and plunder of their warring greaters’ fief. From the cauldron of emotion that dwelt within but a few lords, there could arise suffering and pain on an immense level. In their fractious state, the Godhead had only just began to realize that so much more than a stage of enjoyment and mirth had been set. How many generations had passed since the first life crawled forth from oily sea under blackened sky? Life and Death were but cycles, feeding the eternal flame of creation’s engine - such was the design, but something else corroded the gears and ate away at the foundation. Illumination could feel it. Life lived, life felt, and it felt suffering. Thus in an effort to right the keel of Sangreal, Narrative was inspired with but an emanation of Intent, descended from the Will and Order of the godhead. Needs existed within the forces of the world that, in their lack of fulfillment, caused undue suffering. Men and Elves, craftsmen that they were, simply had aims elsewhere. Thus, springing forth from the riverclay of the Westcontre and taking shape by the aspect of Diligence, the third race of the Grail was born - the Dwarf.
Dwarves are rather short, none exceeding four feet and eight inches- though their true nature is not simply defined by their height. Despite being of such short stature, they possess abnormally dense bone and muscle, resulting in their weight and strength being similar to that of the standard human. Dwarves are small, yet strong, but they do not possess the agility and speed of humans due to their size and rather awkward bulk. Facial features of Dwarves are usually heavy, large noses, heavy brows, and thick cheekbones are common features of the average Dwarf, as well as a well-protruding chin. Stocky necks and broad shoulders are equally common, and all attributed to their physical nature. Dwarves have a wide variety of skin-tone, though it is spread usually from pale to Chocolate-Brown, Ebony-Black, and anything in-between. In terms of hair color, Dwarves are fairly generic in this regard- ranging from a very Dark Dirty-Blonde, to a Dark Brown or Black, and anything in-between. In great age, Dwarves may gain the classic Grey to White-haired appearance that goes with age.
Nestled in the rugged embrace of Ossus, where the River Caelwe weaves through the spine’s deep valleys, dwarves set about forming their first real city-state. A society of industrious artisans, shrewd merchants, and fiercely loyal clans, the Dwarves of Ossus built a reputation as masterful stewards of wealth. Their culture, steeped in the pursuit of familial prosperity, thrives on the intricate dance of trade, crafting, and clever negotiation. The Ossan Dwarves trace their origins to the First Clans, who delved into the valley's rich veins of silver, gold, and gemstones. Over centuries, they transformed their mountain halls into bustling centers of commerce, with marketplaces carved into the rock and vaults brimming with treasure. The heart of Ossan society is the city of Kragsthal, a sprawling subterranean metropolis where the clink of coin echoes alongside the hammer’s ring. At the core of their culture is the concept of Keldorin, the sacred duty to amass and safeguard familial wealth. To the Ossan Dwarves, the prosperity of the family is paramount, and each clan operates like a small trading house. This drive has made them canny merchants, adept at extracting wealth from humans, elves, and other peoples who come to trade in Ossus or encounter their caravans in distant lands.
The Dwarves’ mastery lies in the balance of supply and demand. They are artisans of the highest caliber, crafting fine jewelry, enchanted weapons, and tools of unrivaled durability. These goods, highly sought after by human lords and elven nobles, are sold at exorbitant prices. But the Dwarves are equally adept at importing goods from distant regions—silks, spices, exotic woods—and reselling them to their neighbors at a profit. This web of trade allows them to act as intermediaries, extracting wealth from all sides while revealing little of their own sources. To further their economic dominance, the Ossan Dwarves are not above subtle manipulation. They finance wars between human kingdoms, ensuring demand for their arms and armor while extracting repayments in land, gold, or trade privileges. Elves, though more resistant to Ossan bargains, have been lured into disadvantageous trade pacts through the Dwarves’ careful flattery and unyielding patience. Governance in Ossus reflects their mercantile nature. The Council of Coin, composed of the heads of the wealthiest clans, rules collectively, each decision weighed against its potential profit. Disputes are settled in the Hall of Scales, a grand chamber where arguments are measured as carefully as gold. Though fiercely competitive, the clans are united against outside threats, for they understand that a secure Ossus benefits all.
Despite their mercantile cunning, the Ossan Dwarves maintain a strong sense of kinship and tradition. Festivals celebrating clan achievements, the unveiling of masterworks, and the recounting of trade conquests are central to their lives. They honor Thuldin, the Forgekeeper, as their chief deity, offering prayers for ingenuity and prosperity. Through their blend of artistry, economic acumen, and sly maneuvering, the Dwarves of Ossus have become a dominant force in the region, transforming their river-valley into a hub of wealth and influence. In every deal, every finely crafted coin, and every traded treasure, the Ossan Dwarves weave their legacy of mercantile mastery.
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| Elvenkind |
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Posted by: __denby - 08-19-2024, 10:48 PM - Forum: Humanoids
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Elvenkind
"Vessels of mortal flesh, bound by the aspect of Order."
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In the telling of the dream that Illumination lived in its early lives as man, there came the search for a mentor, the search for an adversary. In order to view the reflection of man, there must have been another with which it may be reflected. Contrary to the very beliefs of the elf, it was mankind that came first yet elvenkind that was perfected. For in the beauty of man’s vulgarity, there emanated a force to fill the gap; the aspect of Order. Thus the will of the divine was made manifest by the generation of three races, governed by the unseen structures of the world that formed them.
Of that which lay within the hearts of men, being the heart of God, there were three constants in this burgeoning world out of whom sprang the three races of Elf. The wheel of the stellar sky spins eternal and nothing is as sure as sunrise and sunset. The breath of nature inhales the winter, exhales the spring, and nothing is as sure as seasons. The cloy of fear strikes in the darkness and the heart quakes before the witty tiger, nothing is as sure as predation.
Solar Elves
Governed by the aspect of stellar order, it is the purity of the cycles of that heavenly nature which stands in the heart of all Solar Elves. Pale of skin and light of hair, these elves are often of great refinement and high intellect. Living in the lowland coasts of the Westcontre, great city-state societies have been formed around these aristocratic and usually honor-bound oligarchs. Typically standing five and a half to six and a half feet, these elves are physically weaker and lighter than humans. Their cities, carved into the cliffs of Westcontre, rise like monuments to the sky. Towers of polished stone gleam in the sunlight, their walls etched with constellations and celestial maps. The greatest of these is Solyndar, the capital of their people, where the Council of Oracles interprets the movements of the heavens and codifies them into laws that govern every aspect of Solar Elf life. The Oracles, chosen for their wisdom and clarity of vision, are not rulers in the mortal sense but stewards of the harmony between the heavens and the earth.
The Solar Elves are master navigators, both of the seas and the stars. Their golden ships, slender and swift, traverse the waters of Westcontre, carrying goods, lore, and their teachings to distant lands. Their fascination with heavenly cycles has made them astrologers of great renown, sought by kings and scholars alike for their ability to predict events by the alignment of stars and planets.
Yet, their devotion to law and order has not been without consequence. The rigidity of their codes, unyielding as the orbits of the stars they revere, has sometimes led to strife among themselves and with others. Neighboring peoples often see the Solar Elves as haughty and inflexible, and their insistence on order has, at times, bred resentment.
Despite this, the Solar Elves endure as a people of profound purpose and vision. They view their lives as part of a greater cycle, one that transcends the fleeting concerns of mortal existence. In Westcontre, as the tides rise and fall beneath the eternal gaze of the stars, the Solar Elves continue their vigil, guardians of law and harmony, forever seeking to align their world with the celestial design.
Forest Elves
Governed by the aspect of natural order, it is the regularity and carnality of the earthly cycles which stand within the heart of all Forest Elves. Usually tan or dark of skin and tawny or brown of hair, these elves are often of physical prowess and great wisdom. Living in the deep interior forests of the Westcontre, small warrior tribes were oft the mode of forest elf culture. Typically standing five to six feet, these elves are on par with humans in terms of physical strength and weight.
Within the verdant heart of Westcontre lies an ancient and boundless woodland, where light filters through the dense canopy in shifting hues of green and gold. It is here, among the whispering trees and murmuring brooks, that the Forest Elves make their home. Known to themselves as the Yrdn, they are a reclusive yet harmonious people, whose lives are devoted to the stewardship of the natural world and the reverence of its spirits.
Their villages are marvels of subtlety and ingenuity, built high among the treetops and seamlessly integrated into the forest. Bridges of woven vines connect their dwellings, and their halls are carved from living wood, shaped through magic and care rather than tools. This harmony extends to their way of life, as they take from the forest only what is needed and give back through rituals of renewal.
The Yrdn are led not by kings or councils but by the Druids, spiritual guides who commune with the spirits of the land. The Druids interpret the will of the forest, passing down wisdom and guidance that has been honed through millennia. Their laws are unwritten but deeply ingrained, passed from generation to generation in songs and stories. Above all, the Yrdn hold sacred the balance between life and death, growth and decay, viewing themselves as guardians of this eternal cycle.
Though the Forest Elves are largely insular, their wisdom and the rare beauty of their craft occasionally draw outsiders to their borders. These visitors are treated with cautious hospitality, but those who seek to exploit the forest or its spirits find no mercy. The Yrdn are skilled in both diplomacy and warfare, wielding bows of enchanted wood and magic that draws upon the strength of the forest itself.
Through countless generations, the Forest Elves have remained steadfast in their purpose. Even as the world beyond their woods grows louder and more chaotic, they continue their quiet guardianship, their lives intertwined with the pulse of the ancient forest. To the Yrdn, the trees are not merely witnesses to their history—they are their history, their kin, and their sacred charge.
Deep Elves
Governed by the aspect of predatory order, it is the surety of natural cruelty and predation which stands within the heart of all Deep Elves. Usually gray or coal of skin and monochrome of hair, these elves possess fierce individuality and craftiness. Their society exists solely by nature of competitive cooperation - not so unlike a pack of wild dogs or opportunistic tribe of apes yet with much fiercer intellect. Living in the high mountains of the Westcontre, isolated bandit kingdoms usually formed around societies of Deep Elf. Standing typically four to five and a half feet, these elves are slightly weaker than humans but on par in bone density.
In the shadowed peaks and labyrinthine caverns of Westcontre’s high mountains dwell the Deep Elves, a cunning and resourceful people who have made their home in the earth’s bones. Known among themselves as the Morvanni, they are a society shaped by the harsh isolation of their environment and driven by a dual obsession with industry and cunning survival.
Over time, the Morvanni’s mastery of industry became their defining trait. They built sprawling underground cities, illuminated by glowing crystals and heated by volcanic vents. Great forges roared in the depths, where metals were melted and shaped into weapons, armor, and intricate mechanical devices. The Morvanni were architects of ingenuity, blending alchemy and engineering to create wonders that awed even their surface-dwelling kin.
This duality—craftsmen of unparalleled skill and opportunistic raiders—has long defined the Deep Elves’ relationship with the world. While they maintain trade with other peoples, selling their wares in exchange for goods they cannot produce, their reputation as bandits often undermines alliances. Among themselves, they view these contradictions as necessary parts of existence, bound by a ruthless code of pragmatism and loyalty to their kin.
Morvanni society is governed by a hierarchy of guilds, each devoted to a particular craft or endeavor. The Guild of Artifice, the Guild of Blades, and the Shadowed Guild of the Path—dedicated to banditry—are the most prominent.
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