SYMBOL:  Crow.

DOMAINS: Mercy.

STATUS: Alive. 

PROTECTOR

History

Svandara was once a woman far from the walls of Wycke, a town upon the icy northern seas which bore little for trade, and fewer for visitors. A healer, a mother, a sister, a daughter, a warrior and a friend, the girl had lived a life deeply involved in the sorrows of others. There was always a distance to her, a piece of the northerner unseen as she lent two ears to listen and half as much to speak.

The shieldmaiden listened close to the clanfather as he brooded in solace. Within him a grim truth that was his alone to bear, a secret meant to save the worry of others. She listened closely, her presence trusted so well to keep such truth in quiet confidence.

Few will make it through the winter at this rate. There is little but the hares and the beasts which ate all but. We will not make it to Wycke before the deep snows set - we will not be able to eat upon anything but the leather of our boots and the flesh of our old, should our situation truly become so desperate.

Svandara listened quietly, before she spoke; soft, yet affirmed.

And what of the beasts, Clanfather? If you would not gorge upon a single leg of rabbit, what of a Galkn’s? 

The Clanfather hummed quietly and low, a tiredness in his eyes that had only come from a life of fighting. A fight which had long been burnt out from his eyes.

One Galkn had slewn three of our hunters in a week’s time. We cannot afford to bleed men - to cause them such suffering to care for even the few that survive across the deep cold. 

Svandara had furrowed her brows, her icy visage warming as the blood began to pound within her chest.

And if not for the hunters whose lives you would spare, what of their families? Their children? What of the elders who have given us the clan we have, and the wisdom to give us the clan we could? You would see them wither to bones to prevent the deaths of young?

The Clanfather rumbled lowly again, looking to Svandara in silence. His speckled brown beard was scratched as he continued troubled in thought over the future of his tribe.

I will not send those who will die to die without necessity - better their families they will stand by for in death. Better the elders provide in one final way to ensure their clan lives on. It is the most honor they could provide - if not their fast to spare food for the young.

Svandara had always borne a flame within her, a spark that burned brightly as she imbued her flame of life unto others. But something struck her with such purpose, such passion, even she had been stricken by the outburst that had come.

Then die as you wither to bones with your family who had entrusted you to bring them to safety. Condemn the elders to starve or be ‘honoured’ in flesh because you would fear the death of our hunters. Because you would fear more families living without fathers and mothers. They will all die if you do not act - and Clanfather, I am no longer giving you the peace to live without acting. It is in our blood to fight and die, nay to live no better than the starving pack. If you will not guide us to Spring, then it is without you that I will. 

Svandara was filled with purpose, a righteousness and fervour that burned within her brighter than any star. A compassion that was divine - a blessing from the Aengudaemon which had been so stirred by the girl’s desire to provide and protect. And so the Augur, blessed of Yeu Rthulu, had done. Quickly had she begun to slay the beastly Galkn with her tribe. Though her power was great and fervour greater as she held the dying tribe together, few stories of heroes end without tragedy.

ENDINGS

Closure

It was with tears upon her cheeks and blood weeping from her neck that Svandara would lay dying in the early snows of spring. Her throat choked of crimson whilst she tried to speak words of comfort to her distraught hunting companions. The Galkn lay dead and it would provide for them for weeks to come - and yet, they would be without their empathetic leader. In the last thoughts of the northerner feared not for what was on the other side of life, but of the life she would leave behind. Friends abandoned, a family without a mother or a wife, secrets confided in her from tribesmen that brought solace with their burden shared. 

The ravens above cawed as the sun began to crest over the horizon for the first time in months past a peek. A winter sun that heralded the coming of an early spring. It shone upon her cold and pale body as the healers tried and tried again to stifle the tide of blood that bathed their hands. It’s warmth was radiant - with the last light within her green eyes did she look forward and see the sunrise of the spring. The spring that heralded the survival of her tribe. 

As her emerald gaze set upon the amber rays of the first sun, she had nearly smiled - a brief respite of comfort in these last fleeting heartbeats which became further apart with each pass. It was beautiful, the warmth basking upon her cold body.

-{}-

Svandara had lived a short life, whether she knew it or not, lawfully abiding Yeu Rthulu’s thirty strictures. A person good at heart who lived in the best life and peace of others not by command, nor promise, but by nature. A breed that was hard to come by.

The Augur lived a bitter life in The Winter Realm of Kavenjun, the afterlife Yeu Rthulu had given her and others to cherish for eternity in laughter and joy. Yet she felt so little - a piece of the puzzle the Aengudaemon could not fathom. A humanity that never left in the afterlife that the deity couldn’t help to comprehend even as it pretended so.

Though she was bitter and alone, it was always the ravens that laughed long in the distance that haunted Svandara. Though she was at peace of soul, her mind would forever worry of those she left behind. Days and weeks passed by for her spirit as months and years passed for her tribe. The scars of her death something that had forever tormented the tribe which mourned, yet imbued them with a passion to live in her image and by her nature. Something she would never be able to see, not before they all had succumbed to age, battle, sickness, and further. Generations lived on as the question of their very existence crawled under her skin without certainty, without closure. 

It seemed the day was without issue when the sound of the sky sundering was heard. As if the universe itself had been cut in two with a single blade, a wave of grief and pain wracked the Augurs of Yeu Rthulu as they heard a cry of suffering from deep within Kavenjun. As the Augurs wandered from hill to hill, they had converged all upon one clearing as if it were fated. The countless Augurs observing as Yeu Rthulu lay within the snow, terror upon her halved face as her wings and body lay broken, a pool of bleeding starlight shifting the sea of white beneath her dying body.

In a realm of compassion’s design, the Augurs had begun to weep. A sorrow heard from beyond the realm as a song of lamentation deafened the realm with the cries of despair. Few were stunned, others silenced, many had attempted to heal their goddess with the magic of her own make. None were successful, as the attempts at healing and comforting only had brought the Aengul more pain.  To see her most beloved suffer in grief and futility at something beyond their comprehension. The wound would prove in soontime fatal, and with it, the death of Kavenjun and all its Augurs. 

Svandara stirred - seeing a familiarity within herself in the situation of the wounded Aengul. She approached the dying Yeu Rthulu, softtrodden among the field of white and starlight as she looked down to her. She saw the fear in her eyes, the pain of her wound, the anguish of all those she would leave behind that she promised life and living forever in joy. Yet Svandara had seen something distinct - something which perturbed her.

There were no tears that the angel wept, there was no humanity in this god - only something that had mimicked it. And despite this, she felt. It was in that moment of pause that the young Augur had realised she herself was weeping, perhaps even enough for the two of them. She approached further without word, and placed her hand over the Aengul’s heart. The hand which, in the last minutes of her mortal life, had been severed by the jaw of a beast that killed her to survive, a move no different than the spear she plunged unto it’s neck to do the same. Though the Aengul’s inhuman and manufactured eyes looked back unto hers, Svandara showed only sorrow. Not for what would be her death, but that the compassion she was hailed Augur for was not something of Yeu Rthulu’s intent or creation. Merely, a trait she admired, something she kept to herself and her sparing followers like a pet. There was a hint of betrayal within the eyes of the dying Aengul, that which still yet could possess the power to obliterate her very being. But she had sensed her intent, what The Augur had upon her mind to express the most ultimate form of compassion.

It was pure. It was strictly in the domain of empathy, of love, and of mercy, that Svandara had pushed her artificial hand, that taken from her which had made her human,  deeper upon the centre of The Aengul’s half-cut chest. Yeu Rthulu had looked upon her and found that there was no satisfaction in this action, there was no joy, no malice, no revenge. It was but forgiveness as Svandara would relieve Yeu Rthulu of that griefed burden of feigning an emotion that defined what made a mortal. A final act which would show her humanity over the angel which only pretended to be so. The Aengudaemon stilled as Svandara trembled, tears weeping from her bloodshot emerald eyes as she felt something familiar. Something comforting, something that pierced through the grief that hung over her like a headsman’s axe. The familiarity of mortality, yet it clawed just beyond her grasp as she chased the joy that Yeu Rthulu’s heart offered. Yet this path was one already tread, one where mortality is lost in pursuit of comforts. Her purpose was not to replace what had once been - but to reinvent what had failed. A burden her soul alone would bear to bring the gift of mercy unto others. Tears of cerulean wept from her eyes as streams began to crack and carve through the rivers once made of ice. The dead Aengudaemon’s augurs looked upon the western horizon of the winter realm and saw the sun rise for the first time as white snows gave way to bask in gentle silver rays of light. The land would turn green, and flowers from the blood of starlight that surrounded an Aengul given the mercy of peace. Among fierce grief she alone would hold, it was a brief catharsis to feel as a once endless winter turned to forever spring.

THE LANDS OF FOREVER SPRING

Realm

The Lands of Forever Spring are a land in which the spirits of those granted mercy by Saphiel or her Elysari are given a death of peace and lifted spirit. Their spirit would continue seamlessly from death into life once more without even the blink of an eye. It is over the course of months and years in which the spirit would gradually come to total peace through the illusion of loose ends tied. All unsettled debts, all buried secrets, all regrets and all hopes would be realized as the soul would encounter them all in kind.

A means of resolution for the dead which gave them closure and satisfaction in their course of life, and with this closure came acceptance. In acceptance, the soul would be prepared for it’s next journey among the planes, and thusly, move onward thereafter to the soul’s intended destination. Clean of impurities and liberated of the weight of unresolved grief, The Lands of Forever Spring grant the warmth of sunlight’s mercy to souls which so desperately had needed it.

THE OMEN AND THE RELIEF

Present Day

Skittering amongst mortal disguise, Saphiel is a deity that walks in the skin of humanity instead of what would be an Aengudaemonic self. Living among descendants, Saphiel and her Elysari roam as wanderers amongst Aos and Eos alike spreading their charity far and wide. The boon of knowledge and wisdom, the healing of magic and medicine, and the peace of death to those who had long desired so. It is of the greatest torment to witness suffering, and live your last moments - if not forever - in grief. 

Saphiel scarcely recruits those of good nature and sympathy to her Elysari, and only by devoted choice pure of intention. Whilst her ascension to Daemonhood was one quiet, and scarcely seen with an already somewhat unknown predecessor, Saphiel intends to keep providing as much good as her power safely allows her to. Whatever the cost may be in the future, it is in her very being to provide solace as much as she can today than to worry for tomorrow. 

THE ELYSARI

Following

The mortal followers of Saphiel, the Elysari are the servants who act as an extension of herself. Blessed with her soft magicks, The Elysari are descendants who were offered power for their good empathy. With the capacity to carry out Saphiel’s mercy and live by her mission, The Elysari act most often independently of one another and even their patron Daemon. Often, Elysari find themselves living amongst communities as Svandara once had, being pillars of where they may find themselves. Though, this is not without its skepticism.

Most often appearing as descendants, many may take different forms and roles as to what they may provide. From grizzled and jaded veteran to noble knight, to a community building mother and poor priests alike. Elysari appear as sympathetic people who prize empathy and wisdom in one’s quality of life. While some may choose to defend life at their cost of their own, or others providing humane healing and ends to those stricken by disease, others may instead be simply ears to listen or a guiding light of voice in the dark. Though oftentimes a sign of omen, many Elysari are followed by ravens and crows. Despite good intentions and empathetic charisma, it is this that makes Elysari something of intense scrutiny and distrust by skeptical descendants and the wary poor they seek to help. Their presence and seeming generosity often inspires suspicion rather than gratitude by way that they may be wolves in sheeps clothing. It goes without saying that cultures across the world paint devils in a light that reaches the lowest among men with offers too good to be true. To keep these largely independent Elysari in line, and to remind them that they are protectors of the people rather than holy defenders in some greater purpose. This aids in the nomadic nature Svandara herself once had to rove from place to place and provide where Augur’s had once failed in cherishing life at all costs. 

Appearances aside, deific beings are hardly trusted with the havoc caused amongst Aos and Eos alike, and it is far from unheard of that fear had rejected Elysari from serving long lives within communities as their centers. Though some Elysari have been killed, none have struck back in malice or defense for the terror that stirs in the hearts of descendants. Whilst some may be heralded as heroes and are beloved, just as many are branded demon and rejected. Regardless of love or it’s lack, The Elysari serve onward until their single moment of doubt - in which they return to mortality once more. 

PURPOSE

Explanation

Saphiel not only wraps up a deity which had long been a somewhat awkward fit into the overall LoTC canon (And further, adds more in the to-be-explored mystery of her death), but adds further into a more in-universe friendly niche of herself. A natural transformation of her mantle from Compassion to Mercy, Saphiel is a deity that is not only much more human in nature, but human than her predecessor. Offering a more direct niche of healing, forgiveness, peace, and stability, Saphiel plays a niche in the server of a genuinely benevolent and empathetic god which is otherwise found lacking. While it could be argued protection of the weak and innocent is well within her domain, she has seen how militaristic-type holy magics tend to play a role in an Aengudaemon’s agenda rather than that of the commonfolk. While she is remarkably different than other aengudaemons in nature, humanity is something that sheds through that she knows she is not without fault, and would rather have her following be more supportlike, focused on charity and mercy than to slay monsters and purge evildoers. While this could be a sect of her following in commonfolk, maybe even a subtype in any future lore or event this Aengudaemon may be part of, I don’t think right now it’s something she should endorse without further exploring what door that sort of pandora’s box truly opens that “Murder is okay, if its against bad guys” instead of purely devoting themselves to the good. Though, it is unknown how the consequences of such will play out as time plays on and how this character may change at the hands of lore and player interactions alike.

Credit to:

Squakhawk - Writing

Werew0lf - Formatting

SYMBOL:  The Mountain.

DOMAINS: Rulership & Control

STATUS: Active and on Aevos.

WHAT IS BALANCE IF NOT CONTROL?

Origin

There was a time before The Thirty Years War when there was only harmony among the materium; a time when mortals and immortal alike lived in an age of discovery. Of themselves, the world, and the cosmos, an entropic age in which even aengudaemons knew the extent of their capabilities. In this time existed a deity known as Orsathiael. Both an angel of fortune and truths who had come to the conclusion of conservatism in power and morals alike. 

In this, Orsathiael had found a familial bond in another Aengudaemon who had come to the same conclusion long before he had realised the truth himself. Still in process of finding truth in belief and identity alike, the two had closely aligned in the desire to contain the threats of the material plane antithetical to the harmony the material had found itself within.

Time marches on, and despite the attempt to strike balance - that one day forces may align and threats are banished forevermore. Yet, time and time again, Orsathiael remained observant to one issue Eshtael had simply settled as a matter of life. No matter the time and effort placed, every seal is broken eventually. When another foe is placed in chains rooted deep within the earth, another comes to take its place - even, inevitably in time, that those chains may break one way or another. Eshtael dismissed this finding; believing balance was something deliberate and crafted, and that even should the most benevolent warden hold the keys to all, it is domination and fear that rules - not balance.

The phrase resounded throughout his mind time and time again as the young Aengudaemon obsessed with seals broken so repeatedly. Every seal is broken eventually. From once a curious deity, he knew that ultimately it was control which dictated the universe - not balance alone. Despite Eshtael’s teachings, the path of balance was one of work so frequent and unresolving it effectively had been fruitless. There was little balance between order and chaos - only a ceasing of the inevitable victory when the day balance ceases her sisyphean task. All it would take was a single battle she failed to win, a lapse in judgement of her own duties, and nothing would stop havoc from being wrought upon the heavens and earth. 

Yet Orsathiael knew it was not a war which would win the aengudaemonic court - such a thought hadn’t even been considered, let alone conceived in the age of discovery. The heavenly court was one where relations were to be played in trade, transactions of things far beyond gain in power. Trust, favour, loyalty - to bring slaughter to every creature which threatened the material would make a lone enemy of the single warden, no matter how benevolent the intent. Instead, Control over all - to shape the prison, rather than the cell. To convince each within their cell that they held freedom and choice, yet it would only be his word that was presented to them.

Orsathiael practiced as seals were placed over the foes which he knew would break away in time - even if it were decades, centuries, millennia until they were released, the potential would always remain. Enbittered by countless years of repetition, of a fruitless goal of which Balance only sought to maintain a false-vision of a status quo, The Aengudaemon of Control and Authority was born in secrecy. While still yet he had the trust of many, those who admired his curiosity, his loyalty, his observations - there would be a singular moment to decisively strike, in time. A time in which he could assume authority, and lay the groundwork for what would become his vision without constant bloodshed. So came the dissolution of Dragur, a first instance of conflict before even The Thirty Years War - and with it, the spark of ambition for the Aengudaemon to prepare his great plan.

IMPRISONMENT WITHOUT ATONEMENT

History

As war ravaged the world against mortalkind and gods, Orsathiael finally opted to act on his previous intentions. He was aware, through his fraughtful connection with Eshtael, that Dragur had been imprisoned elsewhere, and in order to access and make use of the perished Daemon’s fragmented power, he would create a realm–a prison, and unbeknownst to him in time, his own jail. 

Orsathiael did not want another other watchful gaze to observe him through his mission, and as most of the Aengudaemon were too busy settling their strifes with the Archdaemon during The Thirty Years War, he found himself upon a reclusive island. Stone in its entirety, the land was a rocky plateau of valleys and hills, with a singular large mountain with scattered islets in the surrounding. The peaks of its jagged and rocky surfaces stretching up towards the clouds, the mountain nearly grazing the heaven’s itself. He found this to be symbolic, and perhaps, there was a slither of awe from the audacious shape and height of the mountain itself; to him, it was the perfect peak in which to enact his ambitions. A wrathful gaze which stood higher than all else upon the mortal plane, that which could stand over Eos and observe it from near and far. Perhaps even further, the Aengudaemon pictured the rock would have made for Dragur’s greatest creation - if only he were there to see it himself. Maybe with his might, with his knowledge, with that that could persuade the heavenly courts past this war, the ability to sway the pantheon to trust in his vision.

With seams of his divine energies slipping out from his heavenly form, Orsathiael attempted to pull a fraction of the material-realm in towards the heavens, subtly, so that he would incorporate it into a larger design–a prison realm, where he would be able to house Dragur and play-wicked with the forbidden powers he now tempted. Orsathiael did this at an era none had achieved before–a deity who would claim a portion of the material realm as his own. 

Yet, he toiled with powers even he knew not the extent of. To push his own limits, and to test that of Eshtael herself. Orsathiael watched as his own ambition betrayed him in unmitigated and horrendous silence, a deafened cry as he succumbed to the ultimate of his own ego. The mortal world, for a second, would be subverted by the loud roars of his angelic form, as it was forcefully dwindled and chained into that very mountain- swelling in size as the ultimate prison of his own creation became himself. When the Daemon had awakened, centuries thereafter, he was only left with stark reality and bleak hope. Bonded and bound forever by its stone form, he would watch as aeons passed by, unable to do a single thing to resist so. Chains pulled at his form every which way as not even a whisper of his cries reached his own thoughts.

Filled by vain hatred through the inadequacy of his own power, Orsathiael was left to toil as an empty mound of stone, shifting through the great maw of water within the material realm. It was never his ambition to imprison anything but the greatest of creation - that which would be utilized to secure the mortal and immortal heavens in perpetuity. All he remained as proof of that was a laughing mockery of a selfish deity who reached for powers beyond his comprehension. Humiliated, imprisoned within the world and left without form, Orsathiael had not given up all hopes and ambitions. Despite his torment as a silent observer, he still desired freedom, a way to escape the world and to return to his rightful place amongst the heavens to control his own shape and power. The phrase resounded throughout his mind, ad nauseum for millennia - Every seal is broken eventually.

Although weakened, Orsathiael was still Daemon in name and strength. As his bonds weakened to time, and a determined resistance to find freedom, he eventually used what little stored energy he had to unleash storms from stone. A gambit which could have cost him countless years and destroyed what little hoped he had remaining, lightning and cloud sparked from the rock like steel upon steel, surrounding the mountain island in a raging typhoon. This storm was meticulously planned with contingency in mind, for none could leave it, but others around it were drawn towards it-like insects to light. Over the numerous years that followed, The Mountain began to grow outward further and further, consuming the islets, and by his own design made land. A continent, that which would become Aevos. 

The descendant races started to trickle in over centuries, forced through the storm as wary and lost traveller alike were pulled by it’s eminence. Many came to settle upon Aevos, a land which flourished in resources and life that inspired more to follow in the colonist’s steps. Despite the illusion of choice, of freedom with each and every settler, Orsathiael’s careful manipulation mortals into making choices he had presented each and every time. A meticulously planned scheme to extract any and all use he can from the traveller who may have believed in fate, fortune, or the heaven’s which gave them such an ability. It became a routine occurrence, and soon, the lands of Aevos flourished with all races, and Orsathiael felt a slither of control reign back into his firm grasp. With each new arrival, he beckoned and bartered in any way imaginable to see if they may be of use to him - to chip away at his chains, to break away and give him freedom. When there seemed no use for the mortal, his beneficience would end, the generosity of stability and promising frontier replaced with harsh weathers and natural calamity. A childish and impatient lashing out as he was teased time and time again with the potential of a step towards freedom with each new arrival - hardly finding anything but failure.

Very rarely, Orsathiael would find austere and scarce-trodden mortals who had irked his gaze, and they would be called to the summit of the mountain. And in them, he would make a following, a slow, voluble cult that would become known as Palmreaders, who were given the power to navigate the storm. These Palmreaders were given a simple task: to bring descendants and their artefacts from off-land shores into Aevos, those who Orsathiael had vested interest in. A choice many palmreaders believed was their own, a path which they believed they had chosen to take. All in vested interest of freeing the Daemon in stone.

AEVOS

Realm

Aevos is a curious continent, one lush and fertile and yet never settled despite the countless attempts. Each expedition and settlement found the continent not wanting, but failing through unique mistakes and causes each and every time. The arches carved of mountains and hills on the continent seemed almost with purpose as they stood with tall, moulded legs that defied the ground beneath them.

Aevos was as much a land of the material as it nearly had been Orsathiael’s. A land carefully shaped and crafted by the god who’s reach was limited just beyond its shores; The Storm of Aevos almost as old as time as the magnetic pull the continent had clawed for anyone who may aid in Control’s plight. 

The Mountain itself was a thing of vanity. Taller than any structure both natural and created, spiteful in ensuring that this pride is kept. It poisoned and beat any who dared to climb its summit, and rewarded those who’s soul found potential use in his service. Aevos was a prison - one that contained Control as he clawed for freedom through any desperate thread he could. 

THE GIANT IN STONE

Present Day

As Aevos grew so too did its ambition as The Mountain pulled any and all that would follow its beacon in the night. A lighthouse upon an endless sea that called for those both lost and not to be found upon its shores. The Giant lay in apparent dormancy, The Storm of Aevos only maintained as it trapped more and more of descendant kind upon its mountains and meadows. As the earth shifts, The Mountain moves as Orsathiael stretches at his chains and craves freedom from his bonds. 

You live in a time of history yet to be written. What lies in the plans of Control’s long scheme for freedom  is unknown… but without doubt, in play. 

PALMREADERS

Following

Following a unique type of power, Palmreaders are spinners of fate and fortune not through means of divination, but of control. Of those that summited, only a handful had ever been granted The Mountain’s boon - those that did becoming something greater than themselves, and becoming instead what Orsathiael had seen within them. 

Roving from continent to continent, legends tell of raiders who came and went in the blink of an eye- abducting as many as they could not with sword, but with sorcery. Though tales varied wildly in these raiders, two things had always remained the same, passed down eerie tale by eerie tale. The palms of any witnesses and survivors burning deeply, and that these followers had come upon one ship - The Faultless Heirophant. 

The Palmreaders in modern times are of a different stock however. Many of them find dwelling amongst descendantkind, having been born and raised amongst this group which had travelled so far to happen upon Aevos. Though relics of ancient times remain with the scarce few ancient Palmreaders which still may yet live, perhaps their purpose is something new - something undiscovered. Something greater. It was a path they believed they walked unassisted. Perhaps a path that could lead to the betterment of their kind, their goals, through their enigmatic benefactor.

What could say the truth but the future.

PURPOSE

Explanation

With many Aengudaemons being tied in plot threads ongoing or finished, I sought to introduce five new Aengudaemons which would be utilized to shake up the plot and add more to the story through more liberal usage. This number has shrunken down to three, and for years now has been a plot thread kept very tightly under wraps until its release. I’m excited for the stories yet to be told with Orsathiael, whose true nature and ambitions are obscured deeply under this foremost desire - freedom. 

Credit:

Squakhawk - Writer

Werew0lf - Writer, Formatting

SYMBOL:  The Lamb

DOMAINS: Dreams

STATUS: In a deep, dreamless sleep.

THE ENCHANTMENT OF SLUMBER 

That From Which She Never Wakes

It was never always this way. An exhaustion never sated, a fatigue never dissipated. The Pale Lady watched onward as The First War broiled into a conflict that threatened all of Aengudaemonica between Aeriel and Iblees’ great conflict. She could never quite leave the confines of The Nebula, but from it’s fringes could she see without; and she could see only turmoil.

It was in the power vested in her exceptional realm that Lyes, and those who ventured within, were capable of witnessing marvelous things. Their greatest desires, deepest regrets, memories and wishes manifest as Dreaming became possible. She learned and interacted with those in their dreams, even of the most powerful of descendantkind as they taught her as much as she taught them. It was when one curious descendant came that her view would change forever.

A curious manling, The Stranger, one who was blind but could still yet see; and with wisdom of a hundred lives, he asked Lyes if she too dreamed. Indeed had The Pale Lady too dreamed, but in a much different manner than man, let alone mortal. Curious, if he was so lucid in this dream, was Lyes a part of his? Or truly, was it of her ordainment that he could dream to begin with? 

Her eyes blinked, but they did not open again. Witnessing his gaze last she saw a dark within him, a palpable fear that The Stranger held deepest within him; a vulnerability he only had ever kept to himself. A secret he ensured nobody would ever know. An existence that she alone knew, and now, was helpless to share. Lyes rested as her mind began to wander, The Stranger now gone from The Nebula as Lyes became lost in the great fog that had begun to overcome it.

A fog endless, boundless, The Daemon lost within a dream of her own. She would come to rest for millenia; a deep sleep from which Lyes was incapable to even realize she had become enveloped within. 

THE NEBULA

Realm

The Nebula is perceived differently by all of those who enter it. Particularly easy to enter, though never intentional, The Nebula is visited by those sleeping and experiencing particularly vivid or lucid dreams and nightmares. Select few are plucked from a normal or even dreamless sleep by Aureus or Ectorius, who through their own volition and desire wander The Nebula uninhibited.

The Nebula is a deep fog from which there is no beginning, and too no end. A place which those in slumber visit the fringes of before being pulled back out, only those who sleep and never wake truly delving into its depths. Lyes always remains within the heart of her realm, cursed in a deep sleep which she is powerless to wake from, let alone become the architect of her own dreams as she once was.

It is through the manipulation, or safeguarding, of Aureus and Ectorius that those who dream within may be visited by these patrons unknowingly. 

PRESENT DAY

The Deepest Sleep

Still even untold millennia later does Lyes lay in a deep, dreamless slumber she is unaware of. Though many still visit The Nebula during vivid or lucid dreams and nightmares, Lyes is not present. Helpless to wake or take control of her own dreamless sleep, Aureus attempts to stir the dreamer so that she may dream once more. On the contrary, her more confined patron- Ecotorius- runs amok and ungoverned whilst Lyes remains unfortunately unaware. 

The Nebula remains quiet and in deep fog between the scarce dreams and nightmares that occur at its fringes as descendants dip into the realm and disappear from it. A silence unbroken, a sight unseen as Lyes lay within the heart of it all. The Dreamer within a deep, dreamless slumber from which it seems she may never wake.

AUREUS

Patron

Though his true form remains unknown, Aureus knows the affliction of his leal-deity, yet does not understand its make or origin. It is through this he has taken it upon himself to, by any means necessary, find those who may have the means to make Lyes conscious of her own dreaming. Aureus often manifests in the dreams of those of powerful or magical affinity, most often the good natured he will watch for years before approaching himself. 

Aureus tends to manifest as those humble, subservient, or stewardly to those he encounters within their own dreams; blessing them with particularly restful and rejuvenating sleep regardless of outcome, it is scarce he may approach as he so carefully tries to keep the dreamer unaware of his visit. Most often asking simple questions and prodding more about the self, he assesses a person and if they may be useful to his quest.

Though as it seems, no descendant seems to have any solution toward The Pale Lady’s plight. He is undeterred, though troubled by the meddling of Ectorius, the darker half of The Nebula. Stuck between maintaining the status quo of the realm and Lyes’ wellbeing, keeping the veil of secrecy unbreached, and putting out the fires of Ectorius’ meddling, Aureus scarcely has the time to truly take action but to be The Nebula’s steward in Lyes’ deep, dreamless sleep.

ECTORIUS

Patron

A far more malevolent entity, Ectorius is the manifestation of nightmare; inflicting those whose dreams he visits with wracking terrors and restless sleep. Often he twists and eats the dreams of those he comes across venturing into The Nebula, taking their hopes, experiences, and memories for himself as he lives ungoverned in the realm with a sleeping god.

Ectorius tends to visit dreams of those who often have difficulty sleeping themselves, the most wizened elderly, and those most potently affected by fear. Feeding off of emotion when a descendant is at their most helpless, Ectorius often manifests as someone closely tied emotionally to the dreamer. Often as a lover, a passed friend or relative, or a nemesis who revels in a memory of when the dreamer was at their lowest.

Ectorius is a force not evil for evil's sake; but thriving in the eternity of a closed realm. Without being able to wander as Aureus may, trapped within Lyes’ realm as the unfavoured patron, it is experience he craves, and emotion he seeks. Millenia of an insidious corruption, growing depravity, greater deviance from what Lyes had intended of him, Ectorius revels in a time when he rules himself, and experiences what limits of the world he may. In dreams are imaginations allowed to run wild, that which the patron lacks; and yet desires so deeply. Mocking, he often may appear to dreamers who have been visited by Aureus. Taking upon a similar disguise that he once had, he attempts to betray the dreamer in the trust that has been so long built up by his opposing patron. Despising of Aureus, Ectorius works to thrive in his time that he hopes may never end while Lyes lay comatose forever.

PURPOSE

Explanation

Lyes is a deity scarcely used in the past, and in my opinion, is one of the more interesting non-core deities we’ve had on the server. Granted it is difficult to use her, particularly given her current status, but I’m hoping sometime in the future she can get some more development and act instead of acting as consequence to an untold plot. Though some things have changed from the original lore, I believe this may be best to pursue a future with the aengudaemon and a concise and cohesive piece that allows for not only further development, but possibilities with what lay now. Sowing the seeds for plot threads and hooks that could serve us down the future, but serve finely as an interesting piece of writing and server lore that prods the imagination and individual character’s development and their beliefs. 

Credit to:

Squakhawk - Writing

Werew0lf - Formatting

SYMBOL:  Ouroboros / Eye

DOMAINS: Fate, Conviction. 

STATUS: Alive. 

THE BIRTH OF THE MOUNTAIN

Creation of Dragur

The desolate and windswept lands of Aegis were left unfinished, with dull lumps of louring stone covering the continent en masse; touched by the deities who came before the mortal realm. Upon this decrepit world, the Daemon of Knowledge wandered on foot, teetering at the thought of his envisioned creations. As time passed, Dragur’s brooding left him in front of this untouched stone, one avoided by many of his brothers and sisters.

It was a glorious mountain that overshadowed all others, covered in flakes of snow that illuminated the night sky. Dragur saw eminence in the mountain and fashioned it to be his first. He began carving into the stone like one would paint on a canvas, crafting overlapping scales that shimmered in the moonlight. With every night that passed, the mountain continued to change, before it could no longer be called a simple lump of stone. Talons that were overbearing, and wise eyes that were in lifeless sequence. Dragur knew that his first born would be the one to challenge his intellect, that of the sagacious deity of knowledge. 

The Dragon-God was filled with a pride unmatched by all of his other brothers and sisters. From his fingertips, powerful and lively energies permeated and scattered over the carved scales. An unfettered soul began to warp and give shape to something more powerful, to be suited for his magnificent creation. Eventually, this unmatched soul and all energies of life plunged itself into the would-be body of the firstborn. It gave colour to the dull creation, causing the master sculpture to become vibrant. Slowly, the mountain began to move, causing seismic waves to overpower the nearby land.  Dragur did not know he could feel awe, but excitement invigorated this simple movement of stone. 

Drauchvozsas, now Azdromoth, opened his eyes for the very first time, staring at the world from above all others. He grasped the nearby mountains with his formidable claws and took in all the depth of beauty that surrounded him. With stretched, beating wings, the firstborn took flight. Dragur could only watch, like a father gazing at his child's first steps. 

The nights were filled with knowledgeable conversations, as Dragur taught his most favoured son about the winding roots and the clouds that covered the skies. The breadth of the world was edified by the Dragon-God, who did not withhold insight from the Archdragaar about the nature of creation. However, the cunning Azdromoth coveted the wisdom of those aside from his divine father.

Azdromoth made flight across the world, his journey for knowledge being paramount to his worldly desires. Dragur eventually fashioned more bristling souls to cover the world that would become brothers and sisters of the Archdragaar, however, none could compare to his might. The dragon-king filled his lexicon with ancient knowledge gathered from his flight, sprawled across the pages in a runic tongue of high draconic. He was the chiefest of his siblings in size and knowledge and wore the love of his divine father and siblings as a shawl upon his winding neck.   

THE PACT OF HOREN 

The First War

As the lands of Aegis were filled by the children of the blessed four, the sons and daughters of Dragur made agreements with the covenant of man. For that reason, the votary of man began to raise banners with symbols of great dragons. 

Azdromoth, too, was interested in the world of man; they created mechanisms that had different purposes and decorated their homes with curious beauty. The ingenuity and resilience of descendants intrigued him the most.  However, outside of learning about them, he did not incline to make any specific pact or deal. 

In the corners of the continent, a war between the gods brewed. Azdromoth loved the descendant races and the knowledge they held, and saw the Archdaemon as a foe who wished to trample on the beauty of mortals. He did not wish to see the end of man, and so asked of his brothers and sisters to protect them. 

The Archdaemon, Iblees, saw a great opportunity when it came to the Dragon-God. He craved for the creations of Dragur, that of his blessed children. The dragonkin were perfect souls; absolute weapons that would shift the tides of war. In order to gain  this advantage, Iblees went for the Daemon himself. Upon the summit of a bubbling volcano, Azdromoth came like a storm of thunder, hoping to save his divine father.

Iblees’s estranged energies of ruin trickled out from the peak of the volcano, and chained the body of the Archdragaar. It began to poison his beautiful scales, darkening them to match the Deceiver. A pained roar escaped the mouth of the corrupted dragon-king, his mind becoming warped by tools of evil, chaos and despair. The bright radiance of his eyes were now matched by darkness, though it kept a hold of his brilliance and wisdom. Dragur and his children did not understand the weight of the tragedy that had just unfolded, one that would embody ruin. 

Corrupted, the ashen wings of the Archdrakaar cast darkness to Aegis. Yet, his brothers and sisters did not believe so - the spoken murals of this heresy would be something they would observe themselves firsthand. They loved their eldest brother, who once nurtured them, and lead them across the world to find knowledge and warmth. As they set their sights upon the Archdrakaar, his brothers and sisters attempted to plead for him to return to sanity. However, Azdromoth did not listen - and he went beyond their expectations. His large, sharpened talons grasped around the scaled neck of another dragaar, and his snout - burly and strong - feasted down upon his flesh. The Archdrakaar subsided to an act of cannibalism before all who watched, his teeth ripping away scales and meat, swallowed by a lust of blood. And so they knew, that their brother had embraced corruption - and that it was too late. As the Titan feasted on the corpse of his younger brother, the other dragaar made flight and fled the gruesome scene. This was the beginning of countless acts of fratricide as The Archdrakaar embraced corruption not with fear, but with great pleasure- the first atrocity.

During the ravaging war, the undead horde of Iblees marched across hills and ravines. Azdromoth shielded the machinations of evil, blotting the sun with his great flaring wings. Iblees continued to poison the heart of Dragur’s creation, twisting them into malformed creatures. It was at this point that the Daemon of Knowledge, Dragur, set his eyes upon his fallen sons. He was filled with grief and pain, one that caused mountains to shake from his rageful tears. 

The flight of the Archdrakaar brought horror across Aegis, whilst those of the covenant of man felt betrayed by the corrupted dragon-king. For wherever he went, death would surely follow. As the war raged on, Azdromoth used his wisdom to remain a cunning strategist, and an eventual commander of the Archdaemon. His dark flames spewed like viscera, engulfing whole armies until they became nothing but piles of soot. The brevity of his corruption eventually became clear.  

Eshtael stared at the rising smoke that began to cover portions of the continent, and the Aengul of Balance eventually made her stand. As she descended into the mortal world, it did not take long for her to come across the Archdrakaar. The dragon-king could be seen from an island’s stretch, one who held mountains to support his own weight. He shielded sunlight for the ensuing horde of undead, whilst spewing burgeon flames that melted craters into the earth.

As chains of pure white formed link by link, she cast them upon Azdromoth during his confident slaughter. His talons shredded the ground, creating what would become ravines and caves, as mortal men flew around as lifeless bodies. In pursuit of the godly fight, the Archdrakaar took flight into the air, causing darkness to engulf the battlefield. The soldiers of the blessed four stared, perturbed by the mystical nature of the dragon-king. 

Azdromoth fell, wrangled by chains of blinding white. His dishevelled body collapsed, being dragged away by the Aengul of Balance to somewhere mortal men could not find him, to be imprisoned under Khaz’Bokkdwedohin for all of eternity, or what was assumed to be. For the ongoing war, the Titan was no more, as many more of his corrupted siblings fell soon after.

THE RETURN OF THE TITAN

Herald of the Return

In the centuries that would follow, mortals found themselves at the grasp of Athera, lands withheld by the slumbering titan. History now stood as whispers and campfire tales, written as epics sold as novelty. The descendants were voracious creatures, who were ignorant of the ancient past that befell them. Most only looked onward, and did not stare back. They continued to make the same mistakes of their forefathers, emboldened by the curse of Iblees. 

One such mortal found himself in the depths of a ravenous mountainside, winding rivulets of water and cave openings foretold to hold treasures and jewels. The greed of the dwarf known as Sordrin Starbreaker, who cared only for a means to find power, brought him into the heart of this ominous caveside. Yet, he did not know what lay ahead. A series of expeditions occurred, bringing those legionary dwarves and miners further into the veins of the cavern. The ruckus of their pickaxe echoed into the twisted mind of the malformed king, who lay trapped behind the innovations of Eshtael.

Soon enough, the aberrant evil of the serpent whispered into the caves, with promises honied by an unmatched calmness. The dwarven party eventually lay in front of the sealed gates at the end of the labyrinth, covered in runes laid perfectly by the Lady of Balance. It permeated a blinding white that did not mirror the dull cave. 

Sordrin, the weak-willed dwarf, spread his bloodied palm over the runes that held the Titan. As the light shattered before them, the dwarven labyrinth began to quake. The dwarves present could only stare in terror at the commander of Iblees, cloistered in chains of white, broke free of his imprisonment. Azdromoth tore out of the mountain, causing the crust of the continent to wallow and shake in agony. The flight of the Archdrakaar was almost immediate, now returned of his lost strength, no longer restricted by aengulic energies. 

Though free of his immortal shackles, the body of the Archdrakaar was marred with history of the first war; festering wounds from the Aengul who cast him down. In order to hide his nature, the dragon-king cast energies almost palpable to the Archdaemon of Ruin, slowly contorting his corrupted scales into one that mirrored the descendants he wished to abuse. 

The dwarven party came out free under the sequestered mountainside, filled with relief, yet now carrying guilt of the destruction they wrought. It was too late for them, as the shadow of Azdromoth returned into the cusps of the mortal world. 

His return was announced by a tower fashioned in his image, one named in a guttural tongue bespoken by dragons. The citadel of Tor’Azdraeth was home to his mortal guise, where he used the knowledge of his father Dragur to design new sons and daughters, those who would be called nephilim. 

THE WAR OF THE INFERI

Invasion of Arcas

Though having returned to the mortal world, the Titan lay in secret for many generations. His knowing eyes stared at all mortal wars that befell each continent, and he mocked the cycle of their fleeing. For each time they migrated to another land, he used his most trusted sons, the nephilim, as loyal agents to whisper conflict into the heart of descendants. 

Azdromoth remained enigmatic, for even his coveted sons and daughters did not understand his true nature. The Archdrakaar was a prominent general, for though he did not appear, the sons and daughters of the Titan moved with his banners. They spoke sultry words of his greatness to the nations of Arcas; murals, statues, shrines and settlements were perverted into his cause, as descendants would soon join in to become scions of the dragon-king. 

The Azdrazi mantled him with many prideful titles; the Great Titan, the King of Dragons, the First-born of Dragur, the Heir of Knowledge. Azdromoth was dragonkin at heart, for his ego remained above all else. In his truth, the mortal world should be a throne for his creative purposes, something that he pursued at the coming of Arcas. After all, he saw it as his birth-right.

Finally, the Lord Azdromoth appeared in his mortal form. He found that the kindred of Horen had forsaken the brothers and sisters of Azdromoth, as they viewed Xan as more favourable to their cause. However, his gaze settled onto towering walls of white, covered in banners that spoke of purity; the Silver State of Haelun’or.

Iblees was known for manipulating and domineering others, and the Archdrakaar unknowingly followed in his footsteps. He came first as a disembodied voice in flames, whispering of their greatness and that of their pure nature. The nephilim invaded the country, warping their disguises much like their father to appear as high-elves. With each intricate step, those of the high-elven state began to cherish Azdromoth, but he only saw them as tools. He did not hold empathy for them for their pointless decadence and paranoia. 

At the culmination of the inferi invasion, Azdromoth settled his final card; the vow of protection. It warped the minds of the fearful elves with a glimmer of hope, to outlast all others. Azdromoth used his dark sorceries to cast great flames over the country that guarded the high-elves from all ungodly invasions. 

The Azdrazi became an active presence across Arcas, with the world at some point forming an alliance to defeat Azdromoth, only for it to promptly collapse after their numerous defeats. However, the Archdrakaar did nothing - he only watched begrudgingly as he was helpless to Aengudaemons who had no place within what he viewed as his own realm. A mockery of what he wanted, a tease of what he could not have.

Shortly after the events of the Inferi Crisis in the midst of the Second War, Azdromoth sought to take advantage of the distraction by venturing outward. Still frustrated of being denied his birthright, his brilliant gaze had shifted from acquiring deific status, to making him deific among descendants. Confidence surged as pride got the best of the Archdrakaar who saw himself the most powerful creature upon the mortal realm. Undoubtedly, he was. He left the descendants who migrated to Almaris, The Titan venturing to his ancient seat of Tor Azdraeth in Axios. Inhabited by stray druids, he burnt them to cinders and twisted the nature which had overgrown his keep. His castle secured, Azdromoth shifted his attention to those who would keep his empire. 

While his Azdrazi and Heralds were formidable in comparison to descendants, they were fickle when it came to the greater host of enemies that lay across the world. Still stricken with the body of a descendant, they could not rule the swathe of the plane which he had sought to conquer. He could not build a general- but he could find them. The stray drakes and dragons still yet lived across the realm, either in deep slumber or in lives like animals. Unbefitting of their stature, Azdromoth sought to dominate and puppet those who could not lead lives of their own. 

His first targets were Elden and Satar, the wraith-drakes who lacked purpose. Gatekeepers of The Abyss, the two sitting in idle for centuries whilst Mordring’s absence within its gaping depths left them lonely. A mere look into The Archdrakaar’s eyes had caused the younger magma-drake Elden to cower, whilst her elder Satar defied him. Twisting around his titanic form, the smaller drake spewed flame at scales that did not burn- claws crashed against armor that did not waiver. A will of hatred that was unbroken. Satar had tried to break himself upon Azdromoth as Mordring’s gaze proved to be merely illusory. The Wraithdrakes submitted wholly before The Archdrakaar and his might, joining his flight and leaving the Abyss’ edge.

With two generals secured, Azdromoth had sought to find a third- one more powerful yet. The Cloudbreaker of Almaris, a wayward dragon bordering on insanity from the corruption that had surrounded it, had caught The Archdrakaar’s eye. He tested his Nephilim, offering them a potent seed dubbed The Gift of Service. Offering greater mind and body to the Cloudbreaker, who had accepted it from the An-Gho in desperate fear. 

Despite this, The Cloudbreaker was slain by the Great Worm of Ixris, causing the Titan to enter a quiet, subtle rage. Even upon this plane, twisted forces continued to defy him- drakes and dragons would suit, yet more is what he needed. A setback, but one undeserved. The Archdrakaar spread his titanic wings, in search of more generals to add to his service- chief among them, the wayward Dragaar, and the sleeping Drakaar. By any means necessary, would they be taken. 

Azdromoth sat upon his throne of brimstone, staring down at the vast lava pools that gorged from the earth. The earth he saw as his birth-right, one that he would claim with utmost force if needed. In his brooding, the smokes ahead began to warp in shape. This caused the Archdrakaar to ruminate over a forgotten brother. 

He sent those Azdrazi that still cherished him, to journey out to the unknown - to find the lost one.

Apotheosis

The Devouring of Xan 

From schemes and plans laid decades, centuries in advance, Azdromoth had set upon a journey to task his kin in beginning a war with Xan - The Aengul of Order, and his greatest nemesis. Robbed of the ability to choose his own fate, both by his own making, Iblees’ corruption, and Xan’s guardianship over the mortal plane, Azdromoth sought a way to finally make his own choice in either his greatest hour, or that of his true death.

Indenturing the wraithdrakes Satar and Elden, former servants of Mordring, he tasked his nephilim with countless missions in what would become a decades-long war against Xan and his following. From finding the remains of dead Drakaar, to uncorrupting and mobilizing other nephilim forces within Tor’Galend and Gra’kul, Azdromoth was presented with a choice by the daemon Tayl that truly gave him what he wished for; knowledge.

With the option of aiming to devour Xan or usurping the mantle of Asura from Order’s realm, Azdromoth and his kin decided with uncertainty and doubt that slaughtering Xan was the only true option. That of the greatest godhunt, immortality in life, or in death through victory and defeat respectively. 

Culminating in a final battle at Tor’Azdraeth, the winds of fate changed as Azdromoth chose his own. Mortally wounded and with little life to spare, Azdromoth devoured Xan and ripped apart his golden body and form, tearing him with tooth and claw. Xan spoke in his final moments of divinity, as Azdromoth was raptured above; cleansed of corruption and faced to reveal his true nature, that which even he did not know.

“The descendants’ are doomed, and it will be your greed, divinity, that damns them all, you loathsome child.”

THE AZDRAZI

Children of the Firstborn

Like his own father above, Azdromoth had sought to fulfill the footsteps of his now broken creator. The power to manipulate souls had damned Dragur to his fate, yet Azdromoth stood in defiance of what was anathema. The Archdrakaar had spent years in trial as he attempted to perfect what the Dragon-God had done before him. He experimented with the descendants of Horen and Malin, making a covenant with them that they would be elevated to a state unseen by the likes of the world. The first Azdrazi were created, men reborn with the potent blood of the first dragon, and given life anew by the radiance of his flame. Poets, philosophers, knights, and generals, Azdromoth had sought an array for those who would become his most loyal servants. The first of them, Eresar sin Nathemas. An elven philosopher wise beyond his years, who would eventually become the closest companion the Archdrakaar would have.

The Archdrakaar could not battle with the fickle hearts of the descendants, too weak to truly become one of his own blood. A flawed creation that still coveted the tendencies of man, they did not wholly accept their father the Titan. However, Azdromoth still loved them as his own. 

Fiercely loyal and reborn in his image, The Nephilim would ceaselessly seek to further their pact with Horen and see their father's will executed. The Nephilim even themselves counselled upon how they could further Azdromoth’s will, and created a spawn of their own. Twisted with magic and branded in his name, Heralds of Azdromoth were fanatical descendants meant to devote their existence to The Archdrakaar, shown by the tattoos which would cover the entirety of their body, imbued with his magic. The first of them was a daughter of Horenic descent named Amelia. 

Azdromoth bound these heralds to him, expanding their power and manipulation over flame. Battle-brethren of Azdromoth, Heralds would prove to be his most pious worshippers with zeal only converts bore. The path of Asioth was born through centuries of conversation between Azdromoth and his own firstborn, creating the foundations of the faith. The Divine Aurelects and The Fifteen Parables would serve as not quite a religion, but a way of life for Azdrazi and their Heralds to devote themselves to Azdromoth and the world he would build.

After the creation of Heralds, Azdromoth continued in his effort to be seen rightfully as a god. Within the ranks of his Azdrazi, the eyes were born.

The Inquisitor Eternal, The Second Eye - Speaking sweetly to his creations, the first Nephilim were uncertain of the true extent of Azdromoth’s corruption. The Inquisitor Eternal was the first to know of The Archdrakaar’s true nature, and thus, was the one to question each action further beyond. Despite this, The Inquisitor questioned not to undermine him, but to solidify his vision.

The An-Gho, The Third Eye - The speaker and eyes of Azdromoth, The An-Gho is a prophet who seeks to speak when he is absent, and lead when he may need. With a third eye, directly of the Archdrakaar, implanted unto their being, The An-Gho serves as a devout and fanatical follower of The Titan. To inspire The Nephilim and their heralds, and to receive his visions and speak what the flames may tell.

It was after the events of Azdromoth’s Ascension, Apotheosis, in which the nephilim changed.

No longer bearing the corruption of Iblees upon Dragur’s greatest creation, the new Daemon Azdromoth looked down upon the shadows of his past-image and made them anew; granting them freedom in what they wanted to be, who they wished to be, as their scales burned with or without the past reflection of what The Archdrakaar once was.

While this divided some of his kin, it was their ultimate purpose; that of self determination, freedom to choose their own fate, which grew stronger.

THE GARDENS OF FATE

Azdromoth’s Realm

Having consumed the breadth and wisdom of Xan, this included the providence of his realm and domain. Fate is a bridled sense of destiny, and those who step into his realm are encouraged to draw from the philosophy ascertained by the Daemon of Fate: on Asioth. 

To most, this realm is a spiraling labyrinth of gardens, lush in roots and golden trees that stretch at the hands of fate, and the events that one could find pertaining to their life. Usually, this realm shifts and changes with the person who gazes within it. Some may find themselves standing upon a long, winding path that has no end - whereas some discover a short path that abruptly halts into a leaping mountainside. Wherever they are in this realm, each outcome, and each event, is ordained to fit the doctrines that were once spoken in the Aurelects by the Prophet Eresar sin Nathemas. 

In all cases, there is always some sort of lively garden teeming with a flourishing drive to control one's own destiny. The realm is, at most, shaped by the will of Azdromoth in order to host his aforementioned children, and to afford them a new afterlife that they once did not have. Azdrazi are found trawling across his realm, resting after their dues upon the mortal world. It is erstwhile that Azdromoth himself wanders the gardens, with his patron Eresar, teaching and guiding his children and those who come to his realm. The wrathful temperament of the daemon has been quelled to some extent in his mentoring, and in this, his conquest has ended. 

At the center of his realm, built on pillars of high-walls, bristling with shrubs, and the touch of nature, numerous eggs besmirched in a patchwork of scales lay in rest, bundled against tweedled cots. Although abundant in flora, the realm is desolate of any fauna, though one can oddly find the existence of avians within the realm. In the far corners of the realm, where these old remnants of decrepit white-walls were once raised under the banner of Order, a cracked throne gleams with fading specks of light; the throne being split directly in the middle and unable to be seated on. Beneath this brittle, mangled throne, there is an empty void - once filled by something - but whatever it was is no longer there.

The realm changes as fate does, and with it, the destiny of others is manifested. 

ERESAR SIN NATHEMAS

Patron of Azdromoth

The longest-serving and eldest friend of The Archdrakaar, known even before his treachery of The First Atrocity, Eresar had survived the events of Azdromoth’s Ascension and became his first and foremost; that of his herald, advisor, and curator of his realm.

Eresar is known as an exceptionally philosophical spirit known for aiding those in their own growth and development. Seeming unopinionated and flowing with the natural state of tides, Eresar weaves fate by helping others in finding their own; awakening those he may encounter with self determination. Taking upon many forms, most commonly of a flaming spirit or an elf, Eresar often visits the dreams of those troubled and toiling with their own fate.

Taking upon more appearances, he seeks to help those inadvertently set upon a path of finding their own motivation and executive function. From beggars to kings, Eresar weaves those into discovering that which he prizes most; Asioth. A form of conviction and self actualization that involves one pursuing their life’s greatest purpose, as well as understanding their place in this mortality, Eresar pushes those of his following and not to find what it is their existence was meant to be. Or instead, what they may make it be.

A patron of the lost, wanderers, the exiled and the desolate, Eresar acts as a quiet and thankless servant to Azdromoth, or whatever it may be that his greatest goal is to achieve. Whenever the wheel of fate turns, Eresar is surely one to have played a hand within it.

THE PRESENT DAY

The King Who Is

After the events of Apotheosis, and with the death of the Sunlit Lord, Azdromoth has taken to the heavens, leaving behind the mortal world and his desires of conquest and domination. In his ascension, and with his birthing of the Daemon of Fate, he has achieved a sense of peace that has been fallacious since his existence. The clutches of Iblees have been released from his grasp, staving Azdromoth from any corruption that may have festered in his mind, his body, or his soul. 

Azdromoth has warped a new realm for his children, the Azdrazi, to rest once they have accomplished all that can be done within the mortal world. In this new realm, the Daemon of Fate is restless in teaching, guiding and nurturing the nephilim. He is a stern tutor, and in this, he desires for those who learn under him to achieve Asioth, and to find truth in their ultimate fate. 

At the moment, Azdromoth seeks no wars to wage, nor revenge to solidify his existence. He understands the predetermined and ordained truth of the cosmos, a sort of Order - Fate - that is to his understanding, fluid and everchanging, at least with the right actions taken. Though this may change in the future, he seeks for others the freedom of choice, the freedom of their future; that which was robbed of him for all of his mortal life, a burden which he would not wish upon any other with his greatest foe devoured.

Though fate was steady, it was at his hand that it could ever turn differently.

THE PURPOSE

Explanation

Azdromoth has been a prominent lore-figure throughout the history of the server. For the far majority of his life being a reviled and feared target of Aengudaemons and Descendants alike, Azdromoth had coveted more than anything to have the freedom to make his own choices. To be inheritor of Dragur’s legacy, to become a god or not, to fight who he wished to fight. Always eluded from him, Azdromoth schemed and fought more and more brazen until he faced Xan himself.

Though the eventline was months long and months longer in the making, the battle surprisingly came out to Azdromoth’s favour as he achieved ultimate victory and ascended to godhood. No longer corrupted by Iblees and forced to grapple with Xan whom he inherited effectively the mind body and mantle of, Order has twisted to that of a more cosmic scale, the scales of fate that seem or even may be predetermined. Given multiple small unrelated events, a singular fate may culminate- one that can be forged by the hands willing to take it.

Now in his truest form, Azdromoth is still grappling with finding out who he truly is, as this version of himself he is now is a blend of The Archdraakar, The Aengul of Order, and the firstborn son of Dragur before his willing corruption by Iblees. This may change over time, though for all intents and purposes, Azdromoth seeks to act by proxy for the time being whilst Eresar helps others to find their own fates from beyond shadow.

Credit to:

Werew0lf - Writer, Format

Squakhawk - Writer

SYMBOL: The Eagle - The Broken Shackle

DOMAINS: Freedom, Rebellion, Anarchy

STATUS: Alive

ORIGIN

History of Valaen

I - THE FIRST FLIGHT

Valaen emerged as many did through the epoch of creation, where the realms of the material and immortal broke forth from the endless nothingness. The Creator's own will crafted the heavens, the hells, the skies and the mountains to layer upon the endless landscapes that all would now wander. As every creature and entity sought their true home upon their realms. Valaen, that of Freedom, took flight in the endless skies that enveloped the world.

Valaen himself was never one to be, 'evil', for he did not wish to incite the destruction of countless lives. Yet, the term of Daemon does simply not mean that one aims to point towards destruction, but they are mortal in their truths that they exude upon the world. For Valaen stood as a bulwark of endless freedom, of the hopefulness that came from the departure of the ground to the clouds that ensnared the skies. His wings took him upon the winds that bellowed through the world, with every switch and turn spurred by the nature of fate. Valaen himself was an entity that did not stay upon his realm, isolated by the barriers of protection that allowed for the Aengudaemons to continue their percieved immortality. For he instead, stayed on the lands of the descendants before their clashing with the Betrayer, the large eagle that flew across the heavens and granted them the wish of travel and migration. Many of those of the ancient tribes and peoples of Aos crafted totems and sigils upon the existence of the gods, as did many during this formative time in the world. One where the stained mark of death did not linger from the gods, and they roamed ever freely to explore the lands that were not their own. Many of these entities descended upon the world and helped guide those to form collective groups, incite warfare and uplift their spirituality.

For Valaen's flights of freedom were not on his lonesome, for they were taken with another entity that flew in tandem with him. That of the Aengul of Youth, an entity who's true name is lost to time and only mentioned in scripts of pre-curse descendant understanding. For these entities shared a partnership as one would expect, for the curiosity of a child allows for the freedom for them to linger upon the world and know its full intent. Those of the first Aengudaemons shared these experiences and exchanges, where that of Youth took to the form of an Eagle to mimic that of Valaen. The gilded eagles that spun upon the heavens of the world shone in their plumed feathers of gold and silver, staining the skies with streaks of light that would occasionally create the rays of rainbows that would break through to the eyes of man.

These flights were numerous, yet upon one fateful day, the intrusions upon the mortal plane led to dire consequences. As the two took flight, that of Youth decided to glide upon the expansive oceans of the world, where the winds swept and created waves that shuddered against the coasts. Valaen himself flew high above them, as they watched their wings change and move forth, as the entity rose depending on the changes of wind. A small collective of people were seen from the edges of the coast as they would both veer to follow the line of the water, before a sudden crack would follow from the form of Youth. A hefted spear, that of huge proportions was torn through their form, the spear of stone tearing through the feathers of the divines and skewering it mid-flight. A few cheers and cries of victory were heard from the coast, as the hefted giant sat, watching his prey succumb to its wounds.

That of Youth turned suddenly towards the ocean, as the glimmers of golden blood rained from its chest. The strange ichor, first fell upon the material and soaked in the water. No cries or screams of pain came from the Aengul, for they knew not what they experienced, their immortality was never challenged or understood. For now, it was taken away from them with a single weapon. Valaen swung his wings upwards as he watched the carcass of the eagle plunge into the ocean. Water sprayed up akin to a geyser, as the pools of blood sank from the surface to deep beneath them, following the fallen Aengul to the very depths. As the corpse sank, a thunderous echo tore through the skies that would almost draw blood to the ears of those unaware. The grey clouds swirled as the beacon of white light shone down from the heavens to the lumbering giant, who sat there unaware, while he watched the struggle of his prey. A single, piercing column of white struck upon the flesh of the giant, completely eradicating flesh and the existence of the being in a blink of an eye. The skeletal remains of the giant remained taut in its position, its arms reaching to the heavens as their bones calcified into stone. Defiance, as Valaen realised the true mortality that sat with this plane of existence. He fled for years afterwards, never taking flight from the skies.

The death of Youth was an event that was immersed under great secrecy by the pantheon of the heavens, for this revealed to them of something they knew not of before. For when their feet touched the ground of the Material World, they had to follow its rules. The power of their souls did not extend or manifest as they did in the immortal realms, it instead was a fraction of their unfathomable outreach. For now they knew if they did not protect themselves and precaution their existence with barriers upon their soul, a mere mortal could potentially tear them from very existence. The accursed relic that struck the first blow against the descendants laid hidden by the powers that would be, locked up until stumbled upon in the very far future.

Yet, Valaen’s own knowledge and recognition of mortality made him ponder about the beasts that were truly mortal. For he flew within his feathered form and interacted with some of the first people, where they appraised his wings and knew nothing of true flight. Because of such, Valaen himself caused a terrible meddling of the soul that would be akin to Metzlti’s own abominations. For those who were most valiant to grant freedom, they instead drove themselves from the cliffs and were granted gnarled wings of twisted proportions. Their skin itself plumed with feathers, as their throats sung the calls of the sweet songbird, their forms carried the twisted abominable freedom that their master granted them. That of the Harpy.

II - THE CAGED BIRD

Valaen’s own influence wavered upon the first wars against the Betrayer, where the Daemon himself hid away from the machinations of warfare that raged upon the heavens. His own fear of descendant kind after the destruction of Youth forced his presence in the material realm to dissipate during these tumultuous times. As he flew upon the endless spires of his realm, he dared not revisit the battlefields of the descendants; instead, he hid within the depths of the realm he held dominion over.

The influence of Esthael grew upon the completion of the wars of the Betrayer, where her cosmic duties were linked to shackling those that had broken the perceived balance of existence. Those that could ravage realms spawned from the machinations of the Outvoker, from those that could create and manipulate to the near-levels of the Creator. These abominations against the cosmos were systematically hunted down by the Cults of Esthael and Esthael herself. The destruction of Dragur, the chaining of Apohet, the seals of Azdromoth, and all Dragonkind—these marked the very influence that the cosmic jailor had upon all. The innate passion for freedom that flowed within the heart of Valaen was smothered by the presence of Esthael as years passed and the Descendants continued their growth beyond the Four Brothers.

As Valaen sought freedom, Metzlti aimed to create those in her own image, to define the true beauty of her moniker upon the realms of mortals. The emergence of the various beastkin of the goddess, such as the Kharajyr and Hou-Zi, was encouraged, as she herself aimed to create those that were beyond the original machinations of Dragur. For the Elder of Knowledge's creations were flawed and corruptible with a single touch of chaos and ruin. Metzlti knew that her creation of new entities could not be from nothing, and so she began with the transmutation of souls into animals. Valaen watched with great intent these experiences, as his own ideals aimed at granting the freedom of existence to all. To create something of such purity and free will could maybe allow for those like Esthael to loosen their shackles upon existence and allow for more entities to enter.

Valaen grew jealous and sought to sow the rebellion of the Kharajyr to break free from Metzlti and determine their own fates. That of the White Tla’ and Ordium were constructs of oppression, where these entities could thrive without the interference of such. So the seeds of oppression were sown throughout the descendant kind; uprisings against the Kharajyr and the moniker of the Eagle inspired by Metzlti emerged. Small groups of such continued until the descendants themselves charged against the walls of the Kharajyr, sieging them and causing the Fall of Ordium, a construct of great importance to the Daemon. As the power of Metztli’s disgraced entities vanished, the influence of Valaen’s meddling was made known to the heavens. For a Daemon to defy another and incite rebellion upon them was throwing the natural order and balance of the world into disarray. As Valaen tried to flee into his realm, Esthael herself ensnared the realm of Freedom in a ritualistic seal of silence. The outskirts of his realm were ensnared in a never-ending darkness as the world itself transformed into an eternal night, where only the moniker of Aerial’s influence shined upon the heavens. That of the moon. Esthael herself was brutal in the capture of Valaen, fracturing his limbs and sealing him upon a pyramid monument constructed of ivory, akin to the towers of the Bastille. With such, the shackles of Brightsteel ensnared themselves over the form of Valaen, as he was shown as a monument of oppression. For any of those that flew of his realm, the winds themselves would lack the ferocity of the skies, the birds perched upon the peaks as the endless chasms led to their fates of death. Valaen lay hunched over, the eternal night now engulfing his realm by the cosmic Jailor.

III - FREEDOM

The ensnared Daemon felt the heavy shackles of Brightsteel as he lamented in his realm for many years. His home was now his prison, the skies of freedom now only the boundaries of his cage. Hatred and imbalance, the defiance against nature itself, all these thoughts culiminated through the head of Valaen as he felt himself worthless to command presence even in his own realm. Oppression and imprisonment, was this what others felt under the true binds of Esthael, were they just as hopeless as he was? For what judges the world, a singular entity that balances the world upon the whims of their own mind. The Cosmic Jailor, the despised Aengul.
 

The Daemon's thoughts were all he was left with, as the almost eternal 'subjugation' continued. A sudden crash happened as the veil of night in the realm broke apart akin to glass, the jutting of the manifestation of the divines seen on the horizon. An arm, a ribcage, the divine corpse of a beast being torn apart by the ravenous horrors of the void. Their rampage slammed the body of Metzlti upon the jail cell, fracturing the locks that kept the entity under subjugation. The violent calls of the divines rattled through the cosmos as the plan of Gazardiael continued its cruel machinations. For that of Vanity was slaughtered like a sheep amongst a pack of wolves, her realm encased by horrors that tore apart its former dominion and laid claim to it. The skies of Valaen’s domain broke into sunlight as the brightsteel shackles fractured under the influence of the magic being broken by coincidence. The emancipation of freedom now emerged from the chaos of the cosmos, as Valaen’s own influence was spread by those who pledged their lives to freedom. Cults that already worshipped the Eagle spread prophecies to find those subjugated by not only Esthael, but all.

EAGLES REST

Realm

Valaen’s Realm reflects his own endless journeys of flight and freedom. The mountain ranges of the lands itself continue in an endless spiral, never ending as they break through the infinite expanses of his realm. Peaks and jagged outcrops are littered with souls claimed by Valaen, those either transformed into winged creatures or those that worship at their very peaks. Upon the center of the mountain ranges lay a strange, intricate pillar of ivory, where chains of ethereal gold now lay rusted and broken. For once, these bounds held the realm under hostage, shattered by its cosmic incursions. 

For Eagle’s Rest offers infinite flight, an endless amount of depths and heights to dive from and glide across. To taste the heavens and skies, is to embrace the comfort of Valaen’s wings to fight against the conformity of the cosmos. Those that intrude would find themselves aimless amongst the abyssal chasms and cliffs that litter the landscape, meaning those that wander without the blessing of Valaen are stranded, with no clear direction as to where to head. 

A section upon the very edge lies in a weakened state, for where the corpse of Metzlti crashed upon the realm’s tether. Such a land is desolate and immersed in an eternal maze of outcrops and chasms. For those that are unwanted, their first steps are upon the edges of the cliffs. Where they shall either succumb to mortality, or fail in their attempts to breach past this ‘barrier’.

MODERN DAY

Following

Valaen’s direct ‘cult’ upon his re-emergence are the Order of the Fractured Chain, who are an occult group of radicals that aim to uncover eldritch tombs and seals to break them open. They are entities that have been reported to utilise Blood Magic to call forth the removal of Aengudaemonic seals and to cause strife and chaos to incite these acts of rebellion. As the influence of Valaen has spread, there have been small instances of rebellions and uprisings in lands that are not of descendant kind, many pursuing the innate magics of the Outvoker to spread their cosmic will.

Though with Valaen’s presence in pre-curse descendant cultures, he has been a defining sign of freedom and rebellion for those that incite his name. The symbol of the ‘Eagle’ itself has been used in various uprisings and the destruction of slaving nation-states. For these freedom fighters have taken influences from the knowledge of the heavens, with even the Elven Fighters of the original Aeldin incursion adopting marks of the Eagle and the eternal vigilance to use violence to achieve monumental peace.

PURPOSE

Explanation

This is another ‘rebranding’ of an entity that was made with really the only purpose to potentially make bird-people as a player race. I always enjoyed the symbolism of freedom and birds, knowing that this could be a great foil against Esthael and allowing for a Daemon that may seem ‘evil’ in overall intent, but ultimately represents freedom. 

It is meant to be the comparison between Order and Anarchy, and could be an interesting symbol to adopt. I took inspiration from Meso-American cultures in the depiction of Valaen and wanted to really brand a symbol of freedom as one that would fight when pushed. All to allow for potential movements or cultures that aim at violent uprisings to free themselves from oppressors.

I just think it’s something cool that helps expand the cosmos and also helps build the ying-yang dynamics of the aengudaemons that [I, ScreamingDingo] is the superior way to approach it.

CITATIONS

Credits:

ScreamingDingo - Writer

Werew0lf - Formatting

SYMBOL: The Fox

DOMAINS: Chaos, Entropy, Disorder

STATUS: Unknown

ORIGIN

Servant of the Betrayer

It was one of the fading memories of the ensnared daemon that she once stood beside Iblees, Lord of Ruin, as an observer and supporter to his cause. In her shorter and shorter recollections, she’d recalled little time in actually supporting Ruin in his endless conquest of descendantkind. Instead, Asura had delighted in the infernal climb; the stories, the drama, the treachery. No king ruled forever, none but Iblees and his less-favoured son atop them all. 

She’d muted his lessons, his droning tales of when certain victory was to come in his soon-to-come attack on the four brothers; The First War. She’d thought much about what the world was, and what it would be. For now, petty kingdoms which mirrored the climb itself; sundered under the undead of Iblees as entropy was restored once more. The anomaly of descendants would surely be crushed under Ruin’s very boot.

But that did not quite seem to happen.

As Iblees faltered before the four brothers in The First War, as the weakling Asura provided so little help against the overwhelming forces that banded together between The Triumvirate and further, she was the first, if quietly, to question this plan, and to question this war overall; though it was not reason that caused her to think. In fact, far from.

If Ruin is to win and Iblees becomes Lord of All, are things not the same as before? An emperor and his kingdoms, his kingdoms and their people? Order, in one way or another. Even if he was to lose, how is it Descendantkind had earned such a response from nigh-all of the heavens above? Is it not the nature of things, predators and prey, for the weakest to fall and the strongest to survive? Why would the angels above help in this battle from which they gain nothing?

Asura spoke none against Iblees and his failures, as the war came to a close. She was too weak to put any fight against him, too erratic to form any scheme, and too focused on one goal to ever do anything but reach directly for it. Let the natural forces take place, heedless of orderly nature. 

II

The Natural Disorder of Things

As Iblees sieged The Grove in Athera, the waking of Malchediael had given him chance to escape as he disappeared from the mortal plane oncemore, a freed Aengudaemon in his hands from which he would sculpt one of the greatest enforcers of his will. Chaos, however, found herself free to do whatever she’d liked. Iblees was gone; and his attention now clearly enthralled with the newborn she had cared so little for. 

During the grove, much to her dismay, Chaos saw it again. Aenguls descending from the heavens, blessing forces of descendantkind with might and magic to fend off Ruin and his undead. In the time between, it seems the Triumvirate and their heavenly allies had defended the disorderly, treacherous, witless mortal men and women for nothing. Some high goal, perhaps. And whilst he did not speak the loudest, nor claim the title, she’d despised one of them more than all the rest put together. Xan. Order himself, the one she saw at cause for these interventions and the deific power handed to descendants alongside the Ascended, with The Paladins. In the end, if she was to ever succeed in returning things to entropy, Order must die first.

It was then that she had created the Itharel, the fledgeling Aengudaemon creating beings of pure chaos meant to sew discontent and burn away nations from outside and in. Ravenous, hungering creatures that stalked Athera at the fringes of nations, burning villages, attacking caravans, eating away at society’s most vulnerable edge. There too were her Itharel made in the mortal image, sent to disguise and cause rebellion and strife in nations. To bring them down from within, and to let the grand collapse come with the fall of descendant’s foundation in nations.

But the collapse never came, and society simply struggled onward. Unfortunate for Chaos, descendantkind was frustratingly tenacious. She’d frequently lingered on descending herself at times, barely controlled as her emotions caused her to become less creative, less enthused, with her dwindling and failed Itharel. Servants of Order mopped up her creations, fueling her fury as with the last of them destroyed with not even a raise of Order’s finger. It was than, that all became clear.

III

A Moment of Brilliance, To Break The Cycle

It came so suddenly, and so quickly; her eyes widened as clarity was granted unto the Aengudaemon by none other than herself. How couldn’t she see it sooner? Too soon did she fall into the same cycle as Iblees, thinking of how perhaps her goal was different, but her methods were the same. Armies and creatures of her own sent to destroy descendants, and yet each time they had failed. If she was ever to win, how could she simply hope heavenly Aenguls would not intervene once again and thwart her one desire?

She was weak from the start. A Daemon nigh marginally more powerful than some of the others within the pantheon; a Daemon which inspired no following, no faith, and no kinship with the rest of her kind. Would she accept to stay in torment forever? A cycle unbroken, a cycle which stood as antithesis to her very being?

She’d grinned, a smile the widest she’d borne ever since she first observed a demon climbing his way to the top. Disorder begins with the death of order; and yet she could not kill him, not even if she was twice as strong as she was. But perhaps chaos, entropy, is not something that comes within a day. Nor a month, nor a year, nor decades and centuries. She would not sit within this cycle forever, but victory was certain if one thing had happened.

Poison Xan from within, chaos birthing itself once again from the seat of order. 

Asura knew that he would fall for it; were she to offer her own death in open arms to him, Order would seize the opportunity in an instant, and hold her mantle from anyone else. 

She’d come before Dragon’s Peak, Lair of The Xannic Order, her arms spread as Entropy revealed herself in full, a maddened look upon her face as she’d promise destruction over Xan’s servants if their master was not summoned. The same grin spread across her face as when she first was struck with brilliance, in preparation for what was to come. She knew her arrogance was rightly placed; for Xan would arrive without ask or hesitation.

Xan struck with the force of heavens behind his blade, a cleaving attack from which a single swing would kill his greatest enemy in an exploit of her seeming insanity. Stars moved and the sun moved along with his blade, golden light cleaving Asura in twain. Yet from the golden blade of order which cut cleanly through her, a blackened trail of smog followed.

Xan absorbed Asura, both mantle and realm. Eaten whole, wiping the last traces of Chaos from existence as she was smothered in golden light, embalmed in his golden realm as The Daemon of Chaos became a sealed mantle of Xan himself. 

PRESENT DAY

Whispers from The Throne 

As the Dark Lady lay dead, only the barest essence of her grand soul intermingled with Order’s own, her mantle lay dormant as ashes from that which once was still yet haunted him.

It was a gentle accrual; a cancer we began as a benign few mishaps. The Titan of Order, Xan, had began to err mildly in his ways; at least as perceived by his own ilk. Centurions within his realm observed as Order behaved more belligerent- quicker to anger, even if mildly so. Cold, half-calculated demands and orders which seemed at best vague, and at worst and rarest, erratic. It was uncommon for Xan to show any falter, any hint of fear, hindrance, hesitation, or mercy for his foes and brothers alike. And still yet, was it exceptionally uncommon. However, the nature of it seemed to have change. A smidge of brutality, of variability, of turbulence and unfaltering impatience. And though Order maintained his mighty, deific grip over Descendantkind and all it entailed as the greatest holder of mortal subjects and cherished by them with love and respect, something was apparent to only the most devout Centurions of Xan; even unnoticeable from his eldest keepers.

Order was no longer perfectly orderly.

PURPOSE

Explanation

Although Asura and her eventline associated are long-dead, her influence still does somewhat remain as her mantle is an innate part of nature and existence. She did not quite get much time in the spotlight nor the support from the team she really deserved during 4.0, and likely won’t get so again; but she still serves as a part of the pantheon and a motif for other deities, primarily Xan, who she still presides within as a cancerous part of the deity. Maybe she’ll work with new eventlines in the future with the proper flavor, theming, and support Asura deserves to be an interesting and three-dimensional character among the rest of the pantheon.

Credit:
Squakhawk - Writing.

Werew0lf - Formatting.

Vailoen - Consultation.

FATHER OF MACHINES

Birth of Innovation

The advent of innovation started with the emergence of Garumdir; drifting in the endless and vast cosmos - lacking form or purpose. His realm, an empty canvas without the fruition of ideas nor the spark of change that would bequeath new creations. For a long while, the lonesome Daemon dwelled on his purpose - and once his purpose was carved into his soul, the cogs of his work began. 

In his dotage, the Daemon did not leave his realm. His limbs became worn, and his palms expressed his hard work and diligence to his craft; Garumdir mindfully laboured for years, too obsessed with innovating and improving his work. Slowly, his realm expanded with his trade; walls and furniture, abnormal spires or odd tools without functionality. The craftsman felt a lust - a selfish desire to create, to destroy, and to better his work in pursuit of perfection. 

The forge god never tired of his endless role of innovation, yet became exhausted for ideas - but knew there was limitless potential to his work. Garumdir had minimal interaction with his divine brethren, yet noticed their infatuation with the mortal world; ignorant to what it was, but happy to relish in what he came across. Like a father to a son, he proudly gazed at the epoch-making tools, workshops and ideas that mortals came to form. 

With newfound concepts, the Daemon upheld mortal conventions and tools, and improved them by a hundred-fold. If man could make a pickaxe, Garumdir could make a drill for a refinery of ores to be chipped and gathered. If man could make a sword, Garumdir would somehow make it sharper than it could be. 

Slowly, the other Aengudaemon came to respect the obsessive craftsman, and he became a point of contact for help - to use his crafts for their own selfish gain. Garumdir was uncaring, as long as he could progress his work, and find new ways to bring innovation to life. Dragur, the Daemon of Knowledge, came across the lonesome craftsman, who saw potential in his brother's craft. Whilst Dragur was interested in the facet of innovation, Garumdir was impressed by the existence of dragons yet saw it as too flagrant and open; he wanted to refine Dragur’s creative outlet into something less violent and risk-worthy.

Garumdir began his largest project - the Spark. Each day, he worked on his newfound passion with meticulous planning and knowledge gathered from observations of Dragur’s work, or conversations with his divine comrade. He began to refine the Spark until it became whole, and centred it within his realm. From his work, came the existence of cogs, wheels, machines, and automaton. All who gazed at his creation knew him by many titles - the Craftsman, the Machine-God, and the Innovator. 

With the rise of the Archdaemon, Garumdir did not have an active or present role; he felt it was no obligation of his own to intervene, and only proved his usefulness by procuring weapons and tools to allow his brothers and sisters a fighting chance - not out of a selfless desire, but to see the existence of descendants prosper, and to provide him with ambition and ideas to work. 

To stem his observations on descendants, Garumdir manipulated his divine creation to bring rise to his patrons; the Reevers habitually manifested and overtook his realm as their home, and worked to stalk descendant creations, and to craft like their father does. However, the Daemon feared that his godly brothers and sisters would cull him for his ungodly work, and so did not utilise the Spark outside of his world. 

Even now, the Machine-God tinkers with cogs; plumes of smoke, churning of wheels, clinking of levers and the hammering of metals burn within his realm.

SIEGE OF VAL’GARIS

War Against Ixris

Idle hands are the devil’s workshop. As Garumdir continued to observe innovation and spend time making extravagant machines far beyond mortal comprehension, demons watched like wolves from afar at a target weak, and alone. Ixris, knowing The Father of Craft’s isolation and emboldened with his overflowing Inferi forces, plotted to plunder Garumdir’s realm. The Daemon’s realm was rife with knowledge, machines, artefacts, masterworks- most importantly, The Spark. 

It came at an hour quiet after The Second War, unusual as the war in heaven continued to violently rage on between the pantheon as they wrested control over the power vacuum left behind. One, two, a thousand, a hundred thousand, demons began to swarm and infest Val’Garis as Ixris opened the gateway with overwhelming force. The Craftsman was unprepared, but as his mind began to think, his metallic hands began to work. The Craftsman set his Reevers to the defenses whilst he crafted more, shaving off details and intricate technique as he produced each automata with increasing speed and efficiency. In days as Inferi began to raze and pillage his realm, The Craftsman had amassed an army of thousands- seeming almost cobbled together with each unit slightly different from the last, Ixris had made a sore mistake. He mistook these creations for disorganized, and Garumdir himself for desperate. 

As the outermost parts of his realm were surely destroyed, being scrapped and pillaged for whatever wealth they had, Garumdir and his ever-increasing army attacked in kind. Each automaton matched ten demons, even in the earliest models of his creation- with observation of the battle came experience, and the next model would  match a hundred. His technological marvels went from individually crafted masterpieces, taken the shape of his greatest craftsmen, to rapidly produced and hyper-efficient killing machines which continued to evolve and change as Ixris changed his tactics.

The war has not gone on without a toll taken on Garumdir, however. In his construction of greater defenses, such as walls, machines, and soldiers, he has grown stagnant. Innovation still rapid and wild, his purpose has become a shadow of what it formerly was. No longer could he create magnificent crafts, taking time and observing what Descendants or his Reevers may be crafting to improve upon, but was left to continue warping and recreating the same designs en-masse to combat the threat which continues to overwhelm his realm. While the losses are incalculable and the damage catastrophic, Val’Garis holds and The Craftsman continues to work in the blazing heat of his foundries, a symphony of stamped metal and pressurized steam the music of the stagnant war.

VAL’GARIS

The Clockwork Realm

Val’garis is a realm far beyond mortal comprehension, but a terrible temptress of mortal curiosity. Separated into two, incomprehensibly sized cogs forever turning slowly, Val’Garis is home to countless denizens of both mortal and immortal make. Populated by Reevers, the greatest of mortal craftsmen, and soulless automatons, Val’garis seemed teeming with life while being made completely artificial. Tubes and pipes ran for miles as a realm of pistons and clockwork went on infinitely. The ticking and whirring of machines stirred the hearts of those chosen to see his realm. Mortal craftsmen and alchemists renowned for innovation and learning would find his realm a treasure trove of ideas and inspiration. The cogs were a marvel, with distinct cycles of day and night upon each that followed a strict clock cycle with the eternal turn they were stuck within. 

The Avant Sphere

The greatest bastion of workmanship and craft come together, The Avant Sphere would be the home to a majority of Val’Garis’ populace. The cog sized as a continent was thriving with creation, composed entirely of a massive city split apart into districts. Districts had their specialties and unique flair, as travel was efficient and work done around the clock. Foundries never stopped smoking, the streets never emptied, the lights never turned off. The most famed district of Mordron, now fallen into disrepair, was formerly the congregation of the greatest minds known to Aengudaemons and Descendants alike. A think-tank of a select few who made incredible work and machines, now fallen by the wayside as The Forge-God fought for his survival in the sieging war. Progress among descendants and even in Val’garis seemed to halt as every spark was put toward their ensured survival, rather than progress for all kind. Within the centre of the district lay a massive and beautiful spire known as The Progress Engine. Extreme few know what lay within the spire or it’s thousands of floors and rooms, none but Garumdir himself could even fully comprehend it. Visitors to The Progress Engine seldom return out, and those that do, describe it as a plane unlike any they could even imagine. Their crafts and thoughts conceived with utmost clarity, invention and inspiration coming as if it were easy as breathing. Critical thinking was subconscious thought and hands worked without the energy to even tell them to. The Avant Sphere even under siege was a beautiful and illustrious place, where it’s industry and defenses had been greatly bulked with The Siege. Large walls now surrounded much of The Avant Sphere, manned by guards with complex systems to rapid defense and response. The demons seemed to take more than The Father of Machines seemed to give back in repair and improvement, and the outermost districts would be completely swallowed in brimstone and hellfire.

The Dissonant Sphere

Referred to as The Graveyard of Crafts, the Dissonant Sphere is a scrapyard the size of a continent, littered with broken parts and creations. Even still filled with impressive creations and crafts mortals could only dream of, The Dissonant Sphere has turned into a savage continent of junk and scrap under constant Inferi threat. Cut off for most parts of their day cycle from The Avant Sphere, The Dissonant Sphere is a land where resourcefulness and utility take precedent over all. Machines that run on less fuel, Reevers specialized in self-repair and improvement utilizing the infinite scrap of abandoned and failed creations, and mortal craftsmen using these unfinished projects to create something new, and unintended. One craftsman can never think exactly like another, and thus, many scrapped works from previous inventors are reimagined, and remade, into something incredibly far from what was originally intended. The endless gray waste of various metals and clockwork heaped together is inhabited only by broken machines and wandering constructs, alongside Garumdir’s most self-sufficient Reevers and resourceful craftsmen. Within the heart of the continental cog the scrap-heap sits atop of lies an artefact which makes the destitute land worthwhile. A backup of all knowledge within the world, gathered and made in Val’Garis and the mortal realm. Immoveable from it’s set place, Garumdir keeps this artefact not only as a resource, but an option- Should he ever fail, his machine heart meeting its last beat by malfunction or destruction, his mantle may be taken up once more. Progress, at any cost. 

PRESENT DAY

Era of Abandonment

Even now, Garumdir diligently works in improving his crafts. In an eternal war against the Red Prince who attempts to claim his work and his domain, the Daemon has become self-obsessed with the creation of great weaponry that would bring rise to mass destruction. It seems, the Machine-God has strayed from his youthful obsession of innovation, and has deviated into a path of war and bloodshed against his foe.

With rising temper, the Craftsman has lost his progression. He grows strained by the second, as his obsession with the war against the inferi has faltered in his creativity; the Daemon being unable to find something new to create, nor having the time to do so. Stagnant in his work, it is no longer planned or thought-out. They do not reach their full potential, as automated factories and his patron Reevers work endlessly on the same constructions, blue-printed and reduced to machine-work. 

The extravagant work of ambition is now replaced by a lack of potential; Garumdir is able to make great constructions, yet does not have the time or thought of mind to do so – for he continues to fight in an eternal war against Ixris.

Garumdir weeps for his creation.

Written by:

Werew0lf - Writer

SquakHawk - Writer

THE FIRST LIE

God of Many Names

As the deities wittingly plotted between themselves, casting their gaze into the mortal world with their own selfish desires, the god of countless names laughed in his lonesome; observant and ever-watching, toying at his own mind, pricking at the countless lies and deceptions he wished to employ. The aengudaemons, widely known and praised for their strength, were astray of the neglected daemon of deception; they did not know where he was, nor did they understand his goals and intentions, only that his existence could become a tool of chaos.  Silently, the god of many names hid, pulling at strings like a puppeteer, only to gravel at it for entertainment.

During the offset of the Ibleesian war, the gods spoke on matters regarding the mortal world. Clumped in their divine hierarchy, the Aengul of Justice, Zechaerael found himself clashing with Xan. Torn between a desire to bring an end to the vileness of Ruin’s evil, and to see the end of the Aengul affairs with mortals perpetuated by Xan, breaking the creed of autonomy amongst their divine covenant. 

Eventually, Zechaerael was cast out from the divine covenant; the Aengul now lonesome, without allies, and burning with a desire to fight the unjust. It was during this time that a flashing light appeared before his realm; a divine of unknown origin presented himself in front of the ambitious god, bearing a cloak elegant and bristling with stars, and a mask adorning curves, lumps, and sprayed with different, bright hues. He greeted himself as ‘Llahir’, and spoke lies to the Aengul of Justice – ordaining himself as a messenger to the god. 

Llahir deceived the Aengul with sultry words to fuel his passion; it was his first nature – lies spewed out from his godly mouth as if it was mere instinct, allowing for his deception to be seen as truth. In his theatrics, he spoke to Zechaerael about unknowing weapons, false movements, and that the Archdaemon was vulnerable- in a time of weakness with his forces spread so thin. Truly, Iblees was not weakened, and still a force to be reckoned with, one that caused all gods to stay wary of. Yet, his candied words and charm lured the fallen aengul into the lying-gods game. Persuaded by promises for redemption and the allure of the greatest justice, Zecharael was enthralled by the idea. 

Zechaerael set out to heed the words of the Daemon of Deception, running into the onset of battle. And in this battle, the god of many names could only watch, and in his maddening, laugh; the first deception was witnessed, and the death of the Aengul of Justice came to pass. 

With the demise of a powerful Aengul and in the horror of what would become the Triumvirate, fate was made that Llahir was no ally. Malleus, the lone semblance of justice left within the grand pantheon, sought revenge for the god who ripped him of his master. Not The Betrayer- The Liar.

THE LAUGHING GOD

The Liar

In the eyes of the daemon, the world was a vast theatre, made to change and adapt with his lies. A long spoken tale originates with the profound Qalasheen culture about a great king by the name of Solomon – a precursor to the tricksters. In truth, the god of many names - at the time - wished to play king, and so deceived mortal-kind by raising a vast kingdom infested by his illusions. With time, the daemon paraded as King Solomon, and his kingdom crafted by lies became a reality, migrating real descendants to his modest nation. 

Seeing potential in spreading his goal, the god designed; the mantle of the first thief was decreed. Taking on the appearance of a homeless urchin, he ravaged his own kingdom with criminal thefts, and purposely employed strings to pull together a guild of thieves under the ideology of a nameless god – Llort. The corners of his kingdom became a palace of lies, watching as the act unfolded; guards chasing thieves, under the orders of the daemon, and thieves running from the guards, ordained by the orders of the same daemon. 

The deity laughed, his voice cracking into the heavens, and awakening a creature of similar likening: Ifrit - the King of Jinn. Observing the shackled entity and its pursuit in wanton chaos, the daemon of deception became fond of Ifrit, and his fruitful illusions that aligned with his own goals: to find entertainment in lies. 

Slowly, the laughing-god pursued Ifrit, attempting to trifle him as the great King Solomon into a vow of friendship. Truthfully, the daemon wished to spread his yarn of lies into all corners of the world, simply because it was his impetus. Ifrit too was deceived, and made a contract with Solomon. And so, the god of countless names took a fraction of Ifrit, and used it.

Powers of the jinn-monarch spread far and wide, deeproted into the first of descendants. This came to be known as the demi-djinn, who would, unknowingly, become agents of the god of many names and fulfil his role, foretold by the tale of Solomon and Ifrit. With time, the daemon grew bored of his deceptions, and allowed the kingdom to be forgotten; archaic and long-lost. 

The movement of the thieves-guild persisted over the continent, deep-rooted in the philosophy of the god Llort, who truly was the daemon in question. Soon, the god of lies wandered, to speak its deceptions once again. 

After the summit of the first war, Llahir came across a slumbering titan, child to the pansophical Dragur. It bore wings of great size, scales of corrupted ebon-black, and facet wisdom and knowledge with each word it spoke, though rooted by malice and evil. This demi-god would be known as Azdromoth. 

The titanic drakaar settled itself within a mighty keep wrought of crimson magma, cracks of pastel-orange fire, and a preening lexicon of eternal knowledge. With a crack of laughter, the daemon made his descent into the world; his body shifted with time, and began to grow with immaculate power, that of his own, true godly energies. His appearance became reminiscent of Dragur, something that caused the eyes of the Archdrakaar to feel true fear. The dragonkin could not believe the sight, and instantly broke into reverence at what he assumed to be his long deceased father. 

As the pretender announced himself as Rugard, mirroring the name of Dragur, and broke into a fit of ear-deafening laughter; clouds rolled with each spatter and cackle. Azdromoth realised the lies of the divine ahead, and in a fit of rage, sought to immolate the daemon with a gout of scorching, black dragonsflame. Before this could reach him, the lying god disappeared, fading with his mocking jest.

During his next season of desire, the daemon craved indomitable violence, one crafted by his lies. In offshore lands, two pagan human kingdoms - great allies amongst themselves for life-long years - bore a feast of invitation to congratulate their loyalty. The demented god, who sought to ruin his peace for pure leisure, appeared before the king with great, angelic wings infested by white feathers – announcing themselves as a messenger of their paganistic gods. 

He spoke a prophecy to the king, all built on a foundation of lies, to warn them of the betrayal that would come from their allies. At first, the king faltered, untrusting of the words. Yet, the daemon was not to be impeded by challenges, and his sugar coated words drew the king into a state of anxiety.

For months, the king pondered on the prophecy. It began to madden him, silently tearing away at his mind, quilling him into a state of self-deluding. The pagan monarch began to distrust his old, neighbouring friend, attempting to see evil behind every good intention.

The king shattered, engulfed in his loathing and delusions, prepared for war. In a bloody field of battle, the two nations fought – there was no reason for their battle, and they simply did so for the express purposes of being deceived. And as the last breath was drawn upon the bloody walls, the god of many names laughed – continuing to create stories from his lies.  

IFRIT, KING OF JINN

Patron of Llahir

A timeless creature of unknown origin, the King of Jinn rules over his scarce kindred with a sense of ambiguity; it is not known whether Ifrit was created by Llahir, or if the jinn-monarch simply came to existence. The primordial king – an omnipotent contract entity – spread his influence far and wide: appearing as important figures throughout the canals history, or being the source of cruel deception. 

It is believed that Ifrit works under the tutelage of Llahir without apprehension – acting as a force that indirectly enforces the will of Llahir through his deception. He is rarely seen or known, much like his presiding deity, and will find those of interest to make deals: offering those he comes to enjoy with fortune, and those he does not with misfortune. In the fullness of time, the appearance of Ifrit was ingrained into archaic culture due to his bestial head – genie, demon, or a devil of trades. 

Ifrit remains touched upon mortal soil and has not found interest in leaving the plane. Canonically, the King of Jinn was deceived by Llahir; disguised as the old King Solomon to help create what would be known as the half-jinn. Ifrit remains oblivious to who Llahir is, but in their numerous interactions from time-to-time, they have built a friendly relationship on similarity and agreement. And much like his master, Ifrit remains a mystery to all who know of his existence.  

THE DECEIVED

The Followers of Llahir

No deception is as fun to partake in as it is to watch. Deceiving men, kings, gods - no use is there in one single trick. Upon occasion, in the case of his schemes and desires growing evermore grand, The God of Many Names would find few among his deceptions that became  infatuated with them. His Harlequins, his own band of tricksters and performers he would set out upon the world. No single play nor set of schemes- but a cacophony, an orchestra, of deception and lies growing more and more complex with time. Some of his harlequins so-favoured would be given boons by the god for their splendid service. Originally Izkuthii, later the Demi-Djinn, even if unknown to both descendants and some of the creatures themselves. 

Llahir’s Harlequins often appear as wandering troupes and caravans, full of actors, singers, performers, and tradesmen. Guilds of thieves often find themselves in the fortune and favour of Llahir, knowingly or not. Living in his image, Llahir would spend years, decades, and centuries building complex troupes and guilds built as living monuments to his very nature. Blessing them with hints of incredible treasures to steal, or turning locks otherwise unpickable, The Liar would find immense satisfaction and joy at the chaos of their efforts, and the fruits of mortal toil that would follow. 

Despite all this, even his followers stay unknown to the deity’s true nature, lost in a fog of his lies. Known by many names - Llahir, Llort, Ca’fortle, The God of Many Names, even the name of other gods like Xan or Malchediael. 

KORLYOV

Llahir’s Realm

Korlyov is a large, sprawling city with inhabitants in the tens of thousands. A multicultural metropolis focused on trading, with goods and wares from countless places and planes in a city that could easily be mistaken for any other within the nations of man. Stuck in perpetual night, the realm was host to all under Llahir’s banner. Politicians, traders, actors, performers, corrupt individuals from all walks of life. A dazzling maze of a city with seemingly no end, nobody mistakenly walks into Korlyov, only out. It was easy to get lost into the realm, sucked into the life of the city for lifespans without even noticing. Every street, every building, every being within the city seemed to be enveloped in their own complex stories and lies too well developed to abandon. These lies and stories had not only played a part in them- but had become their entire being, a facade of who they may have once been. 

Korlyov was practically an open gate to all who ventured to it, Llahir himself unseen in the world. Potentially playing as one, some, or even everyone within it, there was no such thing as a stranger to the town when everyone had been. There was no caution of entering Korlyov, because no tale had ever truly escaped out- there was no leaving Korlyov, all who ventured to it finding it’s grasp nigh inescapable. Many go to Korlyov, but few ever leave. 

THE PRESENT

The Lost Daemon

Often nicknamed “The Lost Daemon”, Llahir seemingly had disappeared. Whilst liars and thieves continue to flourish, deception is a daily part of life- The Daemon seemed to have vanished. His following does not even know of his existence, in any reaches of the world. The Harlequins of Llahir spread like an infection, self-sustaining and continuing his work in the deity’s supposed absence. Izkuthii had their powers stripped of them, Demi-Djinn unaware even of Llahir’s existence in their own making even if continuing his lies and schemes. It is unknown what The God of Many Names is up to, or even if he still lives. The chaos of The Inferi War and the succeeding Second War has kicked up smoke that the Daemon of Lies seems to have gotten lost within. Maybe he hadn’t disappeared. Maybe he is simply blending in.

Written by:

Werew0lf - Writer

SquakHawk - Writer

Origin

Few know their fear of the dark is mutual. Shadow itself quivers with unease and bolts with distress, et by raw anxiety and et by light, its destruction. Such expresses the first waking moments of an unsteady daemon, one saturated in apprehension.

First there was darkness and before there was light there was Vaasek. Adrift in the all-consuming shroud he was alone and both lost and found; lost amongst the haunting and endless curtain of pitch and there he found only himself, a delicate and dim thing. It ate at him and its almighty silence amplified his thoughts to a rising torrent of panic. Abyss-soaken, he froze and ruminated on the ebb and flow of the terror the shadows invoked and the wild vagaries his mind spun with. This ravening anxiety and baseless mental conjecture punctuated the daemon’s early days for he was born in the dark, molded by it.

This was not forever although it may have felt like it. Glittering stars appeared, his peers, and soon thereafter worlds spanned before him. Always suspicious and wary, he kept to himself and observed the comings and goings of the plane below. He saw them progress through through the early ages, developing machines and magics of considerable power for both ill and good. He saw them love and murder, create and destroy, raise and raze. Therein his creeping caution and fright spiked in a crescendo as he was struck by a grim vision. He saw himself consumed by a sun erupting from his core harnessed by the creatures below and heeded the omen well. Distrust and dread took him as he quickly schemed and decided his fate.

Described in few ancient accounts as the birth and death of a black star during twilight, Vaasek forsook his celestial body and cut himself to pieces. His body numbed and voice sundered into space as he sacrificed himself to create his children. He unraveled in countless ribbons and retreated to his realm in self-exile and what remained animated. The loose fabric of the daemon spawned eyes and wavered as they became veiled and disappeared. These were the kabalees, the eyes of Vaasek. As he sank into the bowels of his realm he instead saw through them and began his eternal plot. The invisible legion saw on his behalf and spied upon the mortals; he would always be in the know and much harder to reach from his vantage point. They spread across the mortal plane and then soon into the soulstream and nearby fates thereafter. They continued into the neighboring planes mirroring the prime but did not venture far. Unseen and immaterial, the kabalees roamed endlessly. They sat in on courts and ceremonies, watched over wars and festivals, prowled city streets and forests, listened keenly to crier news and hushed secrets, and fed the world to Vaasek, its witness. Every additional scrap of information compiled added to the daemon’s fretting for his massive exposure enabled great internal panic. Knowing was not enough. Rather, he sought to deprive these creatures of their own knowledge lest they one day ensnare him and scatter him to oblivion as his paranoid delusion promised.

With the kabalees as his reaching hands and prying eyes he pulled the strings of mortalkind and augmented the terrible machine of fear and lies. First it came with touches. A dash of worry here, some fear and uncertainty there. Then he spurred on anxiety to become desperation and anguish, paranoia fueling caprice like betrayal and tragedy. The mortals were already animals, he only triggered their nature of being spooked and violent against themselves. Rarely did he plot great coups or guide backstabs but his every nudge lended to their development. Then he fed their anxiety with another of his hearts to attack their intelligence. A fib here, some misleading thoughts and impulsive lies there. From a mirage in the desert and an image in the fog to the deceit of an unfaithful lover and deception of a double agent he cast fiction upon them. Some even befell crippling delusions which altered their lives forever.  Most of all he so dearly cherished even the lowest falsehoods like old wives’ tales of which he is the author to many. He was relieved to see them fall upon themselves through anxiety and fallacy but was never and will never feel truly safe so he continues his vigilance and gingerly tips the scales where he sees fit.

However, his observation led to some developments:

First, from his lightless oasis Vaasek saw what he could only describe as true beauty, a mind of immeasurable wisdom and intelligence that both inspired and terrified but left him awestruck nonetheless. Its tribulations at the hands of Iblees taught Vaasek of betrayal driven by malice rather than fear struck his heart and made him pity the great horned god for too was it then bound and sealed from its children. Witnessing his fate, Vaasek comforts the slumbering prisoner Dragur in his gleaming cage through the touch of kabalees by painting him illusionary dreams. He can do little to aid otherwise.

 Secondly, centuries later while keeping a close eye on a monk abbot, Wilven Adonan, one of the kabalees spectated a keen follower of the Triumvirate who the abbot encouraged to depart after restoring Asulon’s temple in hopes of finding another land in anticipation of its need. Eventually she departed in search of such a potential land but the six month voyage had left their supplies ravaged and the boat freely drifting upon open ocean after increasing wear and damage to the sails. One night when the food was nearly gone and it seemed like all hopes were lost, a boatswain blinded the monk with a splash of acid and tried to kill and eat her; the quartermaster and captain quickly intervened but her eyes had already deteriorated before splashing seawater could wash it away and she was forever blind. Shaken by the trauma and left sightless, the monk succumbed to a secondary attack of panic and dread that night for she could not fulfill her promise to Wilven and pave the future the Descendents without her sight, let alone the situation onboard. She wept and pleaded into the darkness and cried out for help, asking the Triumvirate, Aeriel, or anyone to answer her. Vaasek was drawn to her prayers for his kabalees lingered so close already and her desperation stank like blood in the ocean to a shark. Here Vaasek granted his kabalees upon the monk woman and created the first seer, allowing her to see as it did and harness some of its - and therefore Vaasek’s - power. Through incredible sight he showed her the lands of Anthos not too far off their current course and more specifically what she ought to erect her new temple above - the Door of Eternity. Once her job was done and the land was prepared, the woman left one night without a word. Long after her disappearance the descendents landed upon Anthos thanks to get messages back to Wilven and all they had for answers were the emeralds granted by the Triumvirate, immortalizing her as Lady Eldecia. Wherever she walks, if she does, she is guided by Vaasek.

Thirdly, for vengeance against the beautiful Dragur, Vaasek struck at Iblees when the moment best presented itself. He had already planted the seeds of his conspiracy but triggered it soon after the desecration of Athera’s druid grove at the hands of the Betrayer and his Undead where the Axe of Krug was sundered into its true form of the Aengul of Courage, Malchediael. As Iblees vanished with the once-Golden Relic into the nether they was confronted by a vicious civil war amongst the demons and dead Iblees once commanded. Struggling to handle its rebellion, he remained and cut off his connection to the remaining mortal Undead and unsummoned his infernal towers. Vaasek found gratification in the strike but does not know how long his antics can keep the archdaemon occupied.

It is not known what other secrets Vaasek hides or to what ends he intervenes other than to stir greater misdirection to ensure his safety.

Realm

Commonly called ‘the Crow’s Nest’ or ‘the Gallery’ by the few who know of it, Vaasek’s realm Pax is the hermitage of the paranoid daemon. It is here that his true spirit resides within a labyrinthine maze of crude tunnels and caverns within bleak cliffs and mountains which seem to completely disregard the laws of space and defy logic, made to confuse and disorientate any who would dare attempt to traverse them. Worst of all are the monolithic obsidian obelisks that are scattered across the plane whose black surfaces churn and whisper and can hypnotise any whose eyes linger too long upon them and, once hypnotised, will reach out with shadowy limbs and entrap them within; Vaasek’s anxious mind led him to prepare every possible barrier between him and his envisioned demise. The winds howl and whip and the land is chilled and dry, devoid of life save for small locations hidden deep within the convoluted, reality-bending tunnels that run like lattice through the plane. These oases are recreations of things Vaasek has found soothing in his viewing of the mortal plane such as small apple orchards where crows nest, quiet, babbling brooks, or musty library shelves. Here he lingers and copies what he likes as he remains in eternal self-exile and spies upon the outside world.

Following

Because of his intense desire to be entirely forgotten or simply unknown to all others as to protect himself Vaasek does not encourage worshippers or lead orders in his name however he has found a use for a mortal following and loosely possesses one. When the blind are filled with desperation and plead and beg for vision he may intervene and grant their wish by blessing them with a kabalees for which he and they may see through. This allows him a more private and intimate view upon the world by ‘living’ that mortal’s life and is sometimes a better lense for insight than a roaming kabalees as he found with Lady Eldecia and too it allows him much easier influence over their lives and more so if they continue to give themselves to him as willing agents.

Vaasek, as per his exile, cannot himself manifest as other deities may nor can he speak. As such his communication is almost entirely through images and emotions akin to visions to his seers however these are fleeting and rare things. However, they are most common in those who have willingly opened themselves before him and deepened their connection through the kabalees and as such garner his blessings.

 Present Day

Beyond occupying Iblees with the nether rebellion and possibly acting through Lady Eldecia - who may be dead otherwise - Vaasek currently remains boarded up in Pax while observing the mortal plane, active fates, and a few alternate planes. His surveillance grants him quasi-omniscience but not into the minds of mortals and is likely hoarding many important and valuable secrets albeit they are not necessarily important or valuable to him in his delusional struggle for self preservation. He will likely not initiate large events for the overarching story but could very easily play a role. 
 

Purpose

The literal purpose of his lore is to rework and flesh out Vaasek’s history and interactions with the greater world as to make him a somewhat more relevant daemon; his embodiment of anxiety and delusion led him to create a powerful spy network that could very easily be utilized later on in the story and is the perfect target for a powerful force wanting insider information (if they even know he exists which he prefers not usually). Beyond making him a plot hook he nicely ties adds more to the universe with the concept of his low-grade omniscience such as knowing where Dragur is sealed, knowing the fate of Lady Eldecia (or controlling it) and its implications, and re-explaining Iblees’ nether civil war situation (as previous lore is now somewhat outdated in its explanation) makes him a relevant player in the larger game but not one to physically do much himself. The extent of his applied purpose will come more with a kabalees patron and seer magic submission.
 

Citations

“If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered.”

-Edgar Allen Poe

Sigil

The Endless Ocean, representing the never-ending formation of in the sea of memories

Standing upon the oceans of memories, alone under the skies of full of stars, the faceless Daemon held both arms out, feeling the weight of conscience and consciousness crash against the flow of time, eroding little by little like the waning of the moon. For the future is built upon the foundations of the past, yet it seems the past is always relegated to distant memory. Such is the fate of the Daemon of Memories, Ydea. Ydea is portrayed as a faceless Daemon, with short silver hair that blends seamlessly against her marble white skin. Upon her ethereal body she dons a void black dress, adorned with nine gold bangles, encircled around her waist, wrists, ankles, and crown. She appears to mortals with a constantly shifting face that takes the form of the people in their strongest memories.

It is said that she was born from the second that the sun rose the second time over the earth, invoking the first creation of memories upon the natural world, as they recall what the very first sunrise was. Although Ydea does not control the flow of time, memories are nothing more than impressions and thoughts imprinted upon a blank canvas at any given time, distorting and warping as the seasons pass. When the four brothers were first set foot upon the mortal plane, Ydea presented to each a gift for recording their precious memories with their descendants, and more importantly each other. To Horen, she gifted him a quill of the Phoenix, so that his letters may glow when inscribed upon paper; To Krug, she gifted him a bone knife made from a millennium old Drûth Skhelll to carve totems with, so that his stories would come to life when reminisced by the fire; To Urguan, she gifted him a chisel made of Draelond, so that he may carve statues and runes; To Malin, she gifted him a Ironwood branch from the World Tree, so that he may write to the plants and trees. Some would call her generous for the gift of history, but others would curse her for keeping a reminder for all things to come, leading to wars that spanned over generations, to grudges that lasted several lifetimes. As the human poet Owen Irving puts it:

“Your memory is a monster; you forget—it doesn't. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you—and summons them to your recall with will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you!”

Her symbols are pools of water, tranquil forests, patient skies, books and diaries; all that represent infinity as any natural being gets lost within their own memory if they stare long enough at it.

Terrae

Her realm is the Terrae, containing both the Ocean of Memories and the star-filled Orion Skies. Every time a memory is made, a star from Orion’s belt crashes into the Ocean of Memories, mixing and muddling together in the vast memories of the world; the impact of the memory determining the falling star. To dive into the Ocean unguided is to be induced in madness, as every single memory from the time of Creation blends in with the millions more being produced, resulting in a surreal landscape that is neither here nor there. Good, bad, insignificant, curious, creative, intimate, bitter, excited, happy, sad, guilty memories all bubble below the surface of the ocean, warped by the impression of the being upon the formation of said memory. A cockroach the size of cart in the mind of a frightened little boy, a bouquet of diamonds and amber in the shape of roses in the mind of a shy maiden receiving her first bundle of flowers from a handsome young lad.

Within the maelstrom that is underneath the waves of Memories, there exist a single island, the site of a ruined cathedral, situated upon the horizon. Surrounding it is a garden of poppies and pansies, and in the center of that garden, a lone translucent tree prospers, seeming as though nothing living is allowed to grow within its radius. Coming from the lands of Stratum, Ydea rode upon the waves of crossings to pluck a seed from this maelstrom, nourishing it in a realm where it may grow, where Ydea planted it upon the many memories of mortals. Neither good, nor wicked, this Jovian Oak came to encompass both as it witnessed the memories flashing by. Upon gaining sentience, Ydea gave it a name; Oakheart, as it gazes upon the hearts and minds of all mortals to pass. Fancy itself as a saint, it anchored in the ruined memory of a cathedral, allowing only those worthy to be in its presence.

Should one ever meet Oakheart, it will dispense both good and bad advice, as customary of its cousins in the physical plane. However it largely depends on its mood, to push for a certain advice, choosing to side with either good or bad. It is after all Ydea’s adored companion, and would stop at nothing from causing the skies to be full of falling stars.  

Following

Much like Lyes, Ydea is a divine being that bears a fundamental nature of all natural beings, and as such is not worshipped, for she is simply so.

Present day

Ydea has been known on occasion to intervene when a devout prayer for a vision is wished for, to delve within the annals of time to seek the truth of themselves. Appearing before the being within a reflection of a pool, a silver star would tumble from her palm onto the surface of the water, causing ripples that would slowly mesmerize the being, sucking them into the realm of Terrae, where she would guide their inner conscious. She is not kind however, having no qualms in resurfacing the bad memories that others would wish to forget.

References:

https://www.lordofthecraft.net/forums/topic/143054-%E2%9C%93-decorative-metal-lore-drealond/

https://www.lordofthecraft.net/forums/topic/152931-%E2%9C%93-the-jovian-oaks/#comment-1444834

[Descended Daemons of Yore]

"And behold a moonlit sky; whence the Oak, the Blood, the Sword, the Serpent, the Siren and the Poison fell from, long ago."

In ancient times, when Men roamed free as one with no curses to shackle them, the world in which they dwelled endured still the throes of existential development. The Gods, known as Aenguls and Daemons, toiled and machinated to set upon the mortal realms their own creations and designs. Some Gods pitied Men, seeing their inherent mortality as an affliction. Some envied Men, regarding their mortality as a mercy to all things in the cosm of Creation.

Many remained in their primordial skies, knowing full well the darkness that would fall upon them should they take shape in the corporeal plane. There were some among their kind who would see themselves come closer to Men, as to bridge the gap between mortal and immortal, and among them there were six.

They all fell from the heavens, one by one, under moonlit skies. Men of yore named them 'Old Ones' in ancient testaments of Xion, and they perceived them wrongly as dwellers of the Void, gifted souls by the Creator so that they may shape the world into what it came to be. Three were known by godless Men, but three were not.

The Named

Widukind

The Oak

Deemed "the roots of the world" by Weirhents of Xionism, and given the name Widukind by the same folk, the Oak is among the six descended Daemons to take shape as Old Ones. The Oak was once the Daemon of Insight, and sought to rival Dragur in his mastery of all knowledge before he succumbed to descent and took shape as an elderly tree. It is said Widukind's roots span across the known world, and a great deal of that claim is tree -- sites discerned as unearthing grounds show grand roots which go on for miles, even through the deepest of desert sands and amidst the thickest of forests. Some roots even take shape as trees, which the Oak is said to perceive the world from; allowing him to have the 'insight' their once-coveted mantle promised.

Feldamfir

The Serpent

Another godless legend, the Serpent was known as Feldamfir in ancient times, and was ordained  an Old One after the proclamation that their terrible hunger allegedly shaped the caverns within the earth. Feldamfir descended to take form as a massive, mindless worm, wrongly perceived as a snake from both the length of their form and the hunger it was cursed with. The Serpent was afflicted with the mortal aspect of yearning and craving upon taking shape, and is responsible for the more recent cataclysm of Athera, where a majority of the land was contorted and devoured by Feldamfir's depthless maw. It was once the Daemon of Want, and only came to know what their flawed mantle meant once true mortal yearning was beheld.

Dresdrasil

The Siren

The last of the Xionist Old Ones, the Siren was named Dresdrasil and proclaimed Mother of the Sea. From her womb came the life which teems the oceans and the evil that lurks the sightless deep, meaning entities of most grand, terrible form such as the Devourer are likely a descendent of the Siren herself, whom remains hidden somewhere in the drowned abyss. As a deity, the Siren existed as the Daemon of Abundance, and expressed this as an Old One with the occupation of the endless murk.

The Unnamed

The Sword

As one of the nameless three Old Ones, the Sword descended not as a corporeal creature, but as a mere thought in the minds of uncursed Men. It came early, when Men still stacked the stones of their most ancient of walls; planted within the mind of a single mortal of old craft. Through the efforts of this nameless smith, the Sword took corporeal shape as, quite literally, a sword; and came to be the very first armament used to strike another mortal down. The Sword was once the Daemon of Innovation, and this was portrayed through the grim realization of the first blade's design.

The  Blood

Like the Sword before him, the Blood descended as a more obscure design. The Blood did not descend as one being, but as an essence; the stuff of life which granted it a title. In yore, the Blood descended upon the lands as an incorrigible red rain, and soaked into the lands east of Aegis where ancient Men, untouched yet by curses, still roamed. Before the passing of the Thirty Year War, a united band of proto-Orcs, Elves, Humans and Dwarves happened upon a crevasse in which sanguine pooled at the bottom as if water. Lured by the malignant presence of the Blood, these elders descendants were lulled into the cursed ravine by the seduction of an ethereal song and a scent which invaded their nostrils, darkening their mind. The archaic mortals tipped into the tear of earth, and drowned in Daemonblood.

From it, years later and after the Cursing of Men, came the same few who lost themselves to the allure of the Daemon, malformed by its binding to them. The Blood, obsessed with preserving the old visage of the one fabled race of “mankind”, forged them into superhuman folk, who remained as they were, yet became much different. Flesh paled, hair white, eyes a burning amber, and form almost Orcish in height and strength moreso, they rose as First Men, and reveled in the dark blood which remade them.

The Blood was once the Daemon of Origin, and shadowed the beginnings of the curseless race of Men by mixing their blood with their immortal being.

The Poison

The last of the nameless Old Ones, the Poison descended as what their title implies; an affliction. Taking form as a disease, the Poison became a herald of end-times and the catalyst of the eventual ruin of kingdoms, for before the end of all societies there often comes a dire sickness. But only did the winds carry their toxic essence towards where disease would be beckoned -- in streets plagued by the starving and the dying, in farmlands where old crops decayed, in stables where cattle became the feast of flies, and upon thrones, where the minds of lords became gripped by madness. When the Poison came, their sickness could not be cured, for when a people is fated to fall they cannot skirt the inevitable. In the heavens, the Poison was known as the Daemon of Affliction.

Their Nature

When the Old Ones descended, they became so tightly woven into the fabrics of the mortal world that any notion of Daemonhood eventually faded away; and the only remnants of Old One Daemonhood resides still in the fabled First Men, who have yet to be discovered. They have taken the role of "corporeal Gods", or beings that linger among Men as physical aspects of the plane. And as such, they have lost all Aengudaemonic bindings. No longer may they transcend back to the heavens, for when they fell from moonlit skies, they could not find it within themselves to return to them.

Every Old One has taken a singular "true shape", through some are more ambiguous than others. The Oak, the Siren and the Serpent had taken lifelike, organic forms that often adhere to the world itself, such as flora, the sea and caverns beneath the earth. But for the Sword, the Blood and the Poison, a true shape is only achieved by indirect methods. For example; in order for the Sword to take a controllable true shape, the ancient weapon it embodies must be taken by another mortal being so that they may be possessed by the power they hold in their hands. In order for the Blood to take a true shape, all but one of the First Men must be slain so that only one among them bears their living blood, and thus become possessable. The only nameless Old One without a plausible true shape is the Poison, who only arrives and takes shape as disease when a people is 'fated' for inevitable fall, erosion or destruction. One may perceive their true shape as the husk of the people left behind; their corpses, the ruins of their homelands, and their lost legacies.

If there is any relation of higher power among the Old Ones, it is their uncanny ability to commune with mortals through dreams and visions. As beings woven into the fabrics of the corporeal world, they are able to pass on these dreams - nightmares, even - to those whom they choose. But as they stand higher than common Men, they know much more, and thus such forms of contact often lead to madness in the contacted. The term "madness is for the intelligent" acts as key here; for if the insight of the Old Ones is unfathomable enough to bring madness, being insane already prevents their contact from falling on deaf ears or being perceived as indiscernible messages.

In each Old One exists the yearning to multiply. The nameless Old Ones, who seem to sit on more of a malevolent spectrum, had not gained the ability to achieve this as per their strange, unusual shapes. Whereas Widukind may multiply by the reach of their roots, or Feldamfir by the egg-laden nests of their abyss-like burrows, or Dresdrasil by her creation of vast life of the watery depths, the Sword, the Blood and the Poison cannot procreate with usual methods, and therefore must resort to grim means as to do so.

Peculiarly, the Blood and the Posion share a similar method in which "surrogates" are chosen among mortal women. For the Blood, the chosen one must have imbibed the blood of First Men so that the presence of the Blood may form within her; so that a child may then be conceived by their will. For the Poison, a mortal woman must contract their disease before being gifted with a child. Tying in with their true shape, the soul possessed by the Sword must impregnate a mortal woman or be a mortal woman herself in order to be given the child of an Old One. In the event of such transpirations, childbirth is often not survived, and the infant Old One must be taken into obscurity so they may shape into something greater without deterrence. It is the malformed, madness-inducing children of the nameless Old Ones that seem to lack the grace and worldly adherence of the kin of Widukind's trees, Dresdrasil's fish and Feldamfir's similar hunger-enamored beasts, for they are described as alien at-best. They inherit an insight that breaks the minds of common Men, and a power reminiscent of old Daemons.

[ This is my attempt at shaping a canon-friendly form of Lovecraftian entities which adhere to Aengudaemonic laws, as per their origin. These beings, and everything implied of them in this lore (including any “children” they make), are reserved to extensive eventlines and IC references that allow players to chase after them as to learn what kind of horrors truly linger the shadows of the world. ]

Daemon Of Companionship

Tayl is rarely visually depicted, but on the occasion that he is, it is usually under the guise of a wise, old, humble looking man.

Tayl is one of the more reclusive Daemons, considering himself a being of calculation and rational thought. He excludes himself from other Aenguls and Daemons to the point where his existence is but mere rumour in the Seven Skies itself. Millennia ago, Tayl was the first to abandon his brothers and sisters due to Tayl believing the other Aengudaemons to each be blind fanatics, consumed entirely by their own desires. He looked upon his brethren with disappointment, but all attempts to convince them of the error of their ways was met with a reply of ignorance. And thus, disappointment slowly festered to hate, but Tayl being a calculative being, knew that to directly take an offensive stance towards his more powerful brothers and sisters would ultimately end in his downfall and demise.

This is when Tayl’s great plan began to form - he would wipe himself from existence, for centuries going into hiding, allowing his name to be forgotten with time. And after a significant amount of time had passed, Tayl sought to work against his brethren’s actions on the mortal world without them ever knowing of his interference. For you see, Tayl is a thinker, and being a particularly philosophical Daemon he had deduced that the mortals of the world exist for each other - companionship is in itself the meaning of life. By joining alongside others in cooperation, it was evident to Tayl that even the mortals of the world could achieve mighty and wondrous things. So with his own ‘purpose’ in mind, to protect and invoke companionship, his hatred for the Aengudaemons deepened.

To Tayl, Aengudaemons interfered not for the greater good of mortal kind, but instead for their own selfish beliefs. He saw the effects of Iblees, the conflict brought by Xan, the fanatical killers of Metztli, and he was disgusted. Conflict and war seemed to almost always stem from Aengudaemonic interaction. If companionship amongst the mortals were to thrive, then the responsible Aengudaemons would need to perish. Tayl’s depicted as a Daemon not for his good intention of companionship, but instead for his methods of achieving it - Tayl would take the lives of the wicked, the good and everything in between if it meant rallying mortals together.

But Tayl was no fool, and did not consider himself to be a fanatic. He purposely performs each action with careful intent and precision, calculating the risks and outcomes. Tayl understands the variety of circumstances in which mortals rally together, but unfortunately for the mortals, most of these circumstances are instigated through fear of a common enemy. Tayl whispers in the ear of influential figures, often recruiting mortals as ‘Patrons’ onto his cause with the intent of both establishing companionship and destroying the works of Aengudaemons. He is known to bargain power, wealth and knowledge with mortals that align with his careful mind or arguably extreme beliefs, but unlike other Aengudaemons, under great secrecy.

Tayl looks upon the concept of ‘morals’ as a means of manipulation to achieve his own ends. He would not favour a group of innocent people co-operating as companions over a hive of cannibals - as long as companionship exists, he views all mortals under the same light. A moral compass is irrelevant to his work ethic, although being the calculated thinker he is, Tayl understands what it means to own one. He understands that people with a similar compass tend to align together to oppose those of a differing one. The Daemon selects individuals as Patrons with various moral opinions, and even those with no moral compass at all in attempt to rally as many people together as possible. Naturally when such groups appear, conflict would occur. To remedy this, the Daemon is prone to betraying or favouring certain Patrons in order to entirely wipe out a group by supporting another, removing the conflict and leaving the companionship of the victors intact.

Summary of Dragur:

Dragur is the Daemon of Knowledge. The extent of the mortal races’ knowledge of this AenguDaemon are greatly limited. He wields a great deal of power in comparision to the other AenguDaemons though he seems to have isolated himself from his kin. Only a few tomes scribed by the likes of Dragaars such as Xandraza and Aruzond are the only sources of information pertaining to this curious Daemon. All that is established is that he was the sole creature of the puissant dragon-race and that the Daemon has himself locked away. Locked away in an eternal slumber.

History of the Dragonkin:

Part I: The Twilit Discovery

Birthed by an ethereal flame he had emerged. Spawned from the embers of its unbridled might and conceived by the endless depths of the Void and its endless sea of collective thought. He was Dragur, Daemon of Knowledge and Wisdom, one of the first of the Daemonic brood. Weather it was eons or centuries it mattered not to the Daemon. He was carried adrift upon the constantly churning currents of the timeless realm that was the Void. Adrift in the space between spaces. A stray piece of driftwood afloat and at the mercy of the waves.

While a member of the Aengudaemonica Dragur was privileged to knowledge even other Aenguls and Daemons were oblivious to. He reserved information strictly to himself and denied all who sought even the most miniscule article from the Daemon. In his scarce interactions with his brothers and sisters most were irate by Dragur's nonchalant behavior. Regardless of the inquiry Dragur shuffled them aside. He was content with being left to his own devices and delving into the vast achieves stored within the  recesses of the Daemon's mind. Yet even in the midst of the primal muck that is the Void a great twilight shined. A herald beckoning for the Daemon's undivided attention. It was something unknown to even the one who thought he was All-Knowing. Something that had evaded the Omniscient being’s ever vigilant eye. It was the lands of Aegis. The stone, the soil, the wind, the waters. None of it matter to the Daemon. It was the not the first he had witnessed such an instance. But what truly peaked his interest was Man. Molded from clay and life blown into them like glass. But nothing of their form was what had captured the Daemon's interest. With a simple gaze he deciphered how they were forge. Their biological makeup was irrelevant but the status of their mind was not. Yes, it was precisely that. Dragur's influence was never gifted to Aegis yet Man sought knowledge. It sought to further enlighten itself. Language was developed; mathematics were conceived;  crafts were unearthed; even basic sciences birthed. The Daemon was awestruck. For any and all of his brethren they were all too predictable. Their nature was sown with their title. Order, Justice, Time, Cold, Nature, Dusk. Yet Man was not that. They were an unsolvable puzzle of emotion, desires and wants. Some took to the page and scribed their thoughts and documented their events. Time progressed as it would and Dragur intently studied the Four Brothers and their recent spawn. He was capivated by their presence. Astonished by their drive and how the curious carved.

Part II: Deception and Trickery

In the current days of the descendents all know the tale of the Betrayer. The Arch-Daemon who walked among them and promised to grant the wishes of their forefathers. He who left his mark upon the world, afflicting all with a curse that can never be undone. Firstly Malin was tricked by Iblees; then came Urguan; Horen; And finally Krug, the only one to decline Iblees’ gifts. Yet no one, not even the Aengudaemonica recall the tale of the fifth tricked by Iblees. The first one to be deceived by the Arch-Daemon’s silver tongue.

Dragur’s eyes remained glue to the descendants. It was the first instance with one of his Aengudaemonic kin had approached the exalted avatar of knowledge since his infatuation with the mortals had first blossomed. The individual was the Arch-Daemon, Iblees. A sly grin made its way to Iblees. Iblees had been the first to approach Dragur with not an inquiry but a proposition and a challenge. The treacherous Daemon forked its serpentine tongue. He spoke of how he too was infatuated with the mortals and wished to understand them entirely. He stated that he theorized just how but claimed to need the help of Dragur for their Aengudaemonic brood would grow jealous of their actions. The fiendish Arch-Daemon had Dragur wrapped around his finger with his hollow promises. Iblees stated to Dragur that in order to comprehend the mortals he had to understand them first hand. The Arch-Daemon uttered a challenge to the vehement Daemon. Dragur was to descend upon the mortal plane of Aegis and craft his own attempt at life - to conceive his own breed of Man. Iblees challenged Dragur to produce a version of Man that could not be trifled with, one that would never fall, one who would be the trailblazers of their plight of enlightenment. And so Dragur graciously accepted their partnership and began his descent.

Part III: Birth of the Dragonkin

Dragur descended upon the world of Aegis. As his body materialized within the bounds of Aegis the Daemon took the guise of a hawk who donned vibrant red and yellow feathers. The Daemon spared no time and took to the skies. His wings sliced through the clouds as he surveyed the land. He glanced over the animals that populated the forests and took note of their comportments. For days the airborne Daemon steered through the skies of Aegis. Collecting his own research on both beast and man before setting off for the ideal location. It was at sunset Dragur came across the land he sought. An enclosed valley with mountains so tall that even the eyes of Aengudaemons could not see past. He descended to the to lowest depths of the valley. His form altered to that of a man with a fair build and average features. He paced in circles through the lush grass. Contemplating as night fell.

Late in the night the Daemon had reached his conclusion. With a series of hand gestures the earth parted and stone drifted upward. The stone folded upon itself with each sweeping motion of the conductor. The block of stone soon spiraled outward and collasped underneath. The final product being a large statue. A mail of scales wrapped over the creature. Large teeth that mimicked daggers hung from the open mouth of the stone encrusted beast and towering wings arching from its back. Overjoyous with his own creation Dragur approached the stone-clad beast and whispered a silver breathe to the creature. Like a horn blown in the distance the wind spun in the hollow innards of the statue. The sound escaping from the statue’s mouth as it gave a miniscular tremor. It was then that Dragur swiftly turned his back to his creature, his sights set upon the skies above. One had made the mistake of making her presence known. The moon peaked over the tip of the mountain range and gazed upon the Daemon’s workings. With a wafting sweep of his hand, thick clouds surged. Beckoned by Dragur’s call and rapidly concealing the valley. It was under the shaded veil of the clouds as colour flourished along the statue’s frame. Finally the statue blinked though it was no longer that. Its chest swelled with air and it kneeled before Dragur with the curious tilt of its head. He dubbed the creature after himself and the generation that would stream from this entity.

As days had past Dragur had brought forth numerous iterations of his brood. The final product, Dragaar as he dubbed them, walked. He bestowed a sizeable portion of his knowledge to these creatures. Blessed with a heightened intelligence and an aptitude of magic. One so potent these creatures held the ability to alter their form and take upon the guise of mortal men. Satisfied with his work Dragur brought forth the Dragaar he had first conceived and presented him to his compatriot Iblees. Astonished Iblees was with the magnitude of the creature. Dragur had accomplished the challenge Iblees had given and even mirrored the creature after the mortals he was bewitched by. A devious spark had came to fruition in the mind of Iblees. He thanked Dragur for his efforts and stated it was his turn to present Dragur with a spectacle.

It was then Iblees too descended upon the mortal world of Aegis. He came in the shape of a man. A gentle being who loved things delicate, he was quickly befriended by Malin, Urguan and Horen. Krug had a great distrust of him, but after many years of being convinced by his brothers, he finally accepted his company. With his instruments of discord he sowed the seeds of  cataclysm into the likes of Malin, Urguan and Horen. It was not until Krug had rejected Iblees and his rage boiled. Iblees tempted him with wealth, with food, with power. None interested Krug. Iblees was furious, challenging Krug in open combat in fury. The whole world witnessed Iblees' transformation into a hideous beast of the void. His skin turned into scales, fangs erupted and dark horns exploded from his head. He grew large wings and began to breath terrible fire. All stood in shock and horror.

Struck with shock and quickly perverting into hatred Dragur snarled at Iblees from afar. He had taken upon the form of what he had conjured. Dragur had come to the harsh realization he was no more than a mere puppet to Iblees. Masterfully played and used to further his end goal.

Part IV The Tide of Scale

An atrocious war had erupted and plagued Aegis to its core like a festering wound left to rot. Iblees slayed the children of the Four Brothers only to defile them in death and summon them once more to taunt their families. The dead populated Iblees’ legions and grew large with each passing day. Abominations were spawned and further assisted in the curtain of dread that was casted over Aegis. Dragur stood upon the peak of his valley and reviled at the workings of Iblees. Vexation germinated within the Daemon of knowledge. Just as Iblees had done he donned a form that resembled his creations. Scales stained red blanked his colossus body. Horns protruded from his head and spired into a crown of ivory. It was upon that mountain that Dragur’s ire was unmatched. The Dragonkin birthed by Dragur were all too oblivious to the origins of their birth but imprinted upon Dragur like a cub to their mother. They all felt Dragur’s woes and wallowed in his pain. Both the dragons and Dragaar stood at the foot of their valley pleading with their father to amend the enormity Iblees had brought forth.

It was then that the dragonflight took the skies. Dragur released a cry that shook the heavens and the very Earth buckled to the Daemon’s declaration of war. It was Dragur’s own judgement upon Iblees. Pouring from their misty abode they swarming the skies.The Dragaars lead platoons of dragons to the battalions of Iblees. The cries of the descedants had been received by Dragur. He joined the flocks of his dragonkin and laid waste to the scourge of unliving that had been amassed by Iblees. The Daemon was set upon a war path to rectify his fatal error and banish Iblees from the realm of Aegis. Packs of the dragonkin spread far across the land. Some perched themselves atop the towering walls of Horen’s beloved city. Others took to the outskirts of Malin’s forest and acted as wardens. Bathing the intruding minions of the Betrayer in brimstone and fire. Yet Dragur’s armed intervention had not gone unnoticed. Iblees took to the front of the conflict and set his gaze upon the first Dragaar and child of Dragur. In Iblees' right hand, a sword wrought in flame. The ravaging Arch-Daemon challenged the chieftain of the Dragaar to a duel. Constantly taunting the Dragaar with promises of receding from the realm if he was bested in open combat by the leader. Foolishly the Dragaar was taken by the moment and charged for the towering monstrosity. It was with one fluid movement that the Arch-Daemon launched a hand and warped its fiendish digits around the beast’s neck. The creature howled whilst an ebony poison dripped from the clutches of the Arch-Daemon. The blight fall over the scales of the Dragaar. Color was zapped and replaced with a hollowing black. His mind had fallen into the clutches of Iblees and left perverted by his touch.

Finally the Arch-Daemon released his grasp and the chieftain fell to the ground. His enormous stature puncturing the earth. He wriggling about like a worm released from it’s line. The first of Dragur’s kinl recovered and stood on its feet. Its head snapped to one of fellow Dragaar and dived for his brother. With unparalleled agility the blackened Dragaar struck at his brother’s neck and carved into his body with not a shred of remorse. The corrupted creature’s eyes were painted red with an unquenchable bloodlust. He had been disturbed to the core of his being. His already peerless might bolstered by the Arch-Daemon’s power. His fall seemed all too rehearsed. To Iblees, the corrupted dragaar had finally completed his purpose and all too did Dragur with birthing his Dragonflight. Once the corrupted Dragaar was satisfied displaying his misfortunate brother’s innards across the the battlefield he craned his head skyward and announced his triumph in a ghastly wail. Startled and petrified with fright the Dragonkin made their retreat. Their hour of glory quickly cut short.

Part V The Decline of Dragur

The mass of the Dragur’s scaled brood fled back to the confines of their concealed home. Those that had strayed too far where left to their own demise. Just as Iblees had done with the mortal races he sought after Dragur’s brood and amassed them for his own army. Death was not fitting for these creatures as he saw a much more fitting alternative. With ease the Arch-Daemon was capable of bending their will to his own and empowering them further. One after another Iblees conscripted another Dragaar to his growing army.

Dusk had settled and Iblees collected a flock of Dragonkin that he felt was sufficient.  The Betrayer departed from the group of blighted Dragaar and left to collect whatever remained isolated from Dragur’s colony of scale. The corrupted Dragaar and his pack treaded on. Their minds warped by Iblees and sought only the blood of their kind. They had lost their tether to Dragur and become mere proxies of Iblees. As they stood they saw only to decimate their kin. Draft them to Iblees’ ever growing legion and slaying their original father. Just as he had originally the corrupted Dragaar lead his flock of black to the the misty lands they were first born.

Thunder and lightning stirred over head. The mist Dragur had conjured to conceal the valley from the praying eyes of the AenguDaemons was vanquished. The father of the Dragonkin stood at the peak of his mountains. His gazed casted upon the approaching flight of black and grey. Even in the short duration in which Iblees tainted the Dragaars he had located Dragur spawned only more to bolster his forces. His rage only grew further for the like of Iblees. No words were exchanged between the forces of Dragur and Iblees’ tainted flight. A waltz of murder and bloodshed began without any indication. Countless members of Dragur’s beloved kin fell to the feral Dragaars warped by Iblees. Only a few had fallen as their strength outclassed their brethren. In the center of the strife Dragur stood locked in combat with his first born.

The once green glades of grass that filled the valley of the dragonkin had been trampled and drained of life. Rivers of red ran as the fallen beasts of scale scattered the land. Death loomed over the range as twinkles of dawn began to shine from the distance. The dragonkin were drained of their strength. Far too weary to further continue their endless plight. Even Dragur himself showed strain and fatigue. Just as the Sun tipped over the horizon, all had immediately averted their sights upward. The sky had been parted and white fell downward. It bleed into the valley and quickly took the land by storm. A maelstrom of white engulfed the mountain range. A blinding haze of white had befallen those that populated the region. All that stood in its grasp were robbed of their senses. It appeared almost as if they were consumed by a plane of white. One that had stolen their sight, strength and even their thoughts. Just as quickly as the twilight had emerge it receded swiftly like a tide. In its wake the dragonkin were dumbfounded with the scene. The Drakaar that had invaded their home were tethered to the earth. Chains forged of white light restricted the warped Dragaars yet to their shock all too was Dragur. Worn and drained of power the Daemon could not resist. In the epicenter of the sight an alien being hovered before them. It was a feminine silhouette of white that was composed of the same white glow at made up the heavenly chains that bound Dragur and Iblees’ corrupted agents. The entity turned its head and gave a blank stare upon the dragonkin that stood by. As the horizon was flooded with the welcoming rays of dawn the being bursted into a haze of ivory that consumed the valley once more. As the streams of white diminished a flurry of starfall jetting over head. Streaks of white fled from the valley. The land where Dragur and the opposing Dragaar stood was bare. Void of life as if the group had ceased to exist. Purged from the world in brisk white.

To the dragonkin that event they had witnessed was a startling mysterious. Though to the Aengudaemons it was a the start of their intervention. The panel of Aengudaemons had witnessed the actions of Iblees and were appalled by it. Yet they also witnessed Dragur’s robust actions and how his foolery only stirred the flames more. As Dragur removed the mist that draped over his valley the Aengudaemons were only further enraged with Dragur’s actions. He acted alone and attempted to mend his mistakes with reckless actions. One more foolish than the last. It was Eshtael that stood forward in the panel of the Aengudaemons. She had been the one most angered by Dragur’s actions. Without opposition she had convinced her fellow Aengudaemons that she would dispose of Iblees’ tainted dragonkin and reprimand Dragur for his misdoings. It was her who appeared before the Dragur and Iblees’ lackies and who had casted her chains. She had paved the way for the Aengudaemonic forces to breach Aegis and pass judgement onto Iblees. To the patron of balance Dragur as far too much of a liability and a threat. His very existence had become a wrinkle in what she she held dear. With that she had Dragur and the blight-filled Dragonkin within her grasp. As she had returned to the Aengudaemons the entity of Balance hurled the group. With binding nails of an Aengul make she tethered the venomous Dragaar and their original father. Scattered upon Aegis and sealed away. Bound by the same ivory chains they had become landmarks. Some became tucked in towering mountains. Some became bubbling volcanoes. A reflection of their devastating nature.

Summary of the Dragonkin:

Dragur birthed two separate races. Firstly the dragons, the feral creatures that populate our tale tales and fairy tales. They were Dragur’s equivalent of a proof of concept. Afterwards came the Dragaar, the sentient bastions of knowledge. Named after himself, they were his final product to present to Iblees in their agreement.

Dragons

Dragons were Dragur’s first attempt at molding life. They are carnivorous predators that scour the world for large quantities of meat. Capable of flight and the ability to project fire from their maws. In terms of the animal kingdom they stand at the top with their heightened intelligence and unrivaled strength. Although their intelligence should not be mistaken. In terms of wolves, bears or other hunters they are unsurpassed yet that is the extent of their mental capabilities. They cannot process thought or comprehend concepts, they are highly intelligent in regards to instinct. Due to the nature of their kind they are often hunted down by Dwarves, Orcs and Humans alike on a journey to claim glory and fame from slaying one of these great beasts. As a result dragons tend to isolate themselves where they can evade the lustful eyes of the descendant races.

Dragaars

Unlike their counterpart Dragaars are gifted with boons bestowed from Dragaar. In exchange for their ability to reproduce the Dragaar posses a great aptitude of magic. Capable of great feats and even dramatically altering their forms such as their iconic ability of shapeshifting. It is the nature of their father Dragur that they seek any form of knowledge and horde it to themselves. Indulging in it. In addition the Dragaars remain ever vigilant. Constantly in fear of AenguDaemonic forces. They fear the unknown AenguDaemon that had vanquished their beloved Dragur and those such as Xan who encourage the slaying of the Dragonkin.

Drakes

The name of these creatures originated from the mouths of the descendents. They were the dragons that Iblees had captured and turned to assist his armies. Far more barbaric in nature this airborne predators have abandoned all sense of reason.

Drakaar

The first incarnation of these foul beasts were at the hands of Iblees. Their name was only granted to them by the surviving Dragaars. Coined after the mortal phrase “Drake”, Drakaars are the Dragaar equivalent to a corrupted member of the Dragonkin. While it remains unclear few Dragaars have experienced a digression into Drakaar-hood. While it remains a mystery Dragaar believe that it is Iblees’ own curse inflicted upon the Dragonkin while others believe it is the result of Dragur’s absense.

For more information please refer to Viper’s thread on the variations of the Dragonkin:
https://www.lordofthecraft.net/topic/91187-official-dragonkin-lore/

Creator of the Spiritual Planes
Daemon of Faith and Ambition

(All credit to hellfiazz and a little bit to frottimer too)

Apohet, creator of a world unattainable by any regular mortal. The place where shamans visit, the three spiritual planes: elemental, ancestral, and immortal. He created the planes in hopes to gain a kingdom to himself. A kingdom unstoppable by any mortal. The kingdom isn’t any normal kingdom, however.
 

The original purpose of the spiritual plane was to create a new race of beings that could govern the world itself in the name of the inhabitants of the Seven Skies. Apohet had seen the effects of allowing Aengudaemons too much interaction with mortals, so he sought to eliminate the need to do so.

He first made two of these beings, one who had power over space, one who had power over time, both were interlinked. Then he made more, ones that would govern life and death, light and darkness, order and chaos, and the elements. They would act as the governing proxies for the Aenguls and Daemons.

However, as his project grew in power and scope, Apohet gradually came to hold this realm as a means to his own ends. After all, he was it's creator, so why should any other be allowed to abuse it while he was forgotten? With his creation, he could have power to rival any Aengul or Daemon, he needn't be beneath Aerial any longer. However, Aerial caught scent of this dangerous notion and hastefully made to deal with Apohet.  Aerial swiftly banished him to his newly created domain, where he could be of no threat to any other Daemon or Aengul.
 

Apohet's bitterness to the Archaengul hardened into a stone core of spite with this. He couldn't do much to challenge her now though, trapped as he was. He could no longer change the Seven Skies...but he could tamper with what Aeriel cared most for, the passage of souls. Apohet felt a sense of triumph as he attached his realm to the passage, the dead's spirits now flowing into a newly made plane within it.

But Apohet wasn't a malevolent being, or at least he didn't think of himself that way, and he didn't approve of those who were. And so he made it that only the good, the virtuous and the honourable souls would be able to come to him. So was his final insult to Aeriel; she would receive only the evil-doers, the apathetic standers-by, the greedy and the callous. Of course Aeriel was enraged at this, but she was almost powerless against such an action. Apohet's realm was as far from the Seven Skies as the mortal realm, so should she enter she would be vulnerable to one who had grown to despise her. Her only course of action was to allow the good a choice as to whether they go to Apohet's realm or not as they traversed the passage of souls.

Still satisfied that he had provoked such rage, despite his revenge not being complete, Apohet looked back to his children. Astoundingly, in his ethereal absence, they had propagated wildly. Whilst his first creations had represented essential aspects of the mortal world, these new beings represented abstract concepts and minor parts of it. There were ones for nature, for disease, for emotions like anger and concepts like truth. At first he was delighted that his realm grew in power rapidly, but as they continued to multiply in quantity and unpredictability his pleasure turned to panic. He tried confining the new ones into a plane of their own, but even then they continued to burgeon. It was inevitable. Soon, they would surpass him, and that wouldn’t even be the end of their expansion. In a moment of fight or flight, he sealed himself in a separate plane of his realm, impenetrable from without, but he would be utterly unable to interact with any realm outside his plane.

In his blind bitterness and ambition, Apohet had foredoomed himself. Aeriel felt only mirthful satisfaction as she watched Apohet hide in fear of his creations.

The Curses

Before they could complete the sentence, Iblees stood tall for one last time. “You believe you may simply banish me from this plane and that my taint shall not last? I have touched this world with evil and it shall forever be part of the souls that inhabit it. Malin, I curse you with sterility, you and your kin shall forever lack the children they need. May your forest halls forever be silent, and your hearts heavy with sadness. Urguan, your greed and lust shall overcome you, you are not worthy of the height God gave you, your descendants shall be short, squalid and ugly. You will always seek to find Gold and Gems in the deep underground of the earth, your hunger never satisfied. Horen, you wish immortality? I will curse you with the opposite, early death for you and your kin. You shall age quickly and die before you experience the fruits of your useless labour. And you Krug, the most hated of The Descendants, you shall always have the lust of war. You are strong? Well, the strength shall be used against your brothers, used to pillage and murder! Your lust for battle shall be unsatisfied and your descendants shall grow ugly and heartless.” As soon as his words were uttered, the world grew suddenly dark. A great roar erupted from Iblees' mouth and in a blast of fire he was banished from the Mortal World.