The Warlord
A lone adventurer steps off the longboat that has taken him to the necropolis of Dargav. The aging jetty creaks underfoot and the forest seems to mimic the sound. A crow lands on a nearby branch to judge the visitor. It caws, perhaps in approval? Clutching the urn he has brought here, the warrior takes a deep breath and steps forward. This place is hallowed so he must tread carefully.
Enter Dargav
The Witchling
Far to the north and east the beggar's sister stifles in the humidity of Ku'Than's forested canopy. Insects constantly gnaw at her ankles and the sweat stings her eyes. Her companion, a small white owl, hoots impatiently. She bends down to retrieve the bottle that is the focus of her task. Inside, a tiny winged creature flutters and bashes the glass in frustration, its lips mouthing silent curses. The Witchling wonders what will become of the fairy; her mistress and mentor is oft cruel. "I won't be like that when I'm a full witch", she tells herself
Into Ku’than
The Thief
Back where the soldier began his journey, the streets of Calarium are choked with the dust from passing horses and carts. A small child weaves through a crowd of merchants and soft skinned gentry. Spotting her mark, she approaches confidently. With practiced ease she feigns a trip and bumps into the unsuspecting gem cutter. With an apology she pushes away from the man, but not empty handed. The concealed blade in one hand has liberated a purse of its strings. Stepping casually away from the crowd she slips into a darkened alleyway to assess her work. Only five gold coins. Not bad, but not enough to get her to Ku'Than. That will have to wait, for now.
To Calarium
The Priestess
Within the half-forgotten circle of statues, the Priestess kneels in the dust. Her fingertips graze the carved runes of Aeter, the Lightbringer, one of the revered Annarr. She chants in a cracked tongue until a sliver of dawn pierces the mist. A single beam ignites the glyph, and faint warmth spreads through her bones. In that moment, she is both shield and beacon—not in defiance of darkness, but because she has invited light to guide it.
Worship Aeter
The Beggar
At the ragged edge of a ruined crossroads, the Beggar rests beside a shattered shrine dedicated to Njord, the Stormlord, another name among the Annarr pantheon. Hidden in his ragged cloak is nothing but a handful of cracked coins—and perhaps a dying spark. He prays to Njord in a whisper so low the wind nearly steals it. The clouds stir. In the distance, thunder grumbles. A pale coin glows as if struck by lightning. The Beggar clutches it, though it burns, and knows he has invited more than charity—perhaps fate’s thunder.
Worship Njord
The cursed king
Beneath a roofless chamber in a long-lost keep, the King stands before a grand mural of Frur the Fertile, the gentle yet powerful goddess who tended fields, flocks, and famines. His throat closes as he remembers the fields that starved and the people who wept. He lays his crown at her stone feet, murmuring, “Reap what I have sown poorly.” In answer, the mural’s blossoms bloom in dust and cracks—feathered petals drifting downward like hope. It doesn’t feed his lands yet, but it reminds him what he must repair.
Breathe the history
The banished man
Exiled into the wasteland of frozen towers and haunted memories, the Banished Man stumbles across a half-buried relic inscribed with Skald, the cold-hearted Annarr whose name is both feared and revered. He presses his palm to the frost-carved syllables. A shiver races up his arm. In return, the relic breathes familiar bitterness into him—not to punish, but to sharpen. He stands straighter, his resolve tempered by regret, and turns back toward the world that cast him out.
Seek adventure
The Prisoner
Imprisoned in walls woven from damp moss and old regrets, the Prisoner traces fractal veins of green creeping across the stones—each line shaped by the ancient Annarr, immortal stories in living form. In the damp gloom, he closes his eyes and calls for Skazka’s old will—not a name, but the world itself. The moss quivers. From below, the ground trembles as if the land breathes. His chains rattle. He doesn’t escape—but the world listens.
Pity not the wicked