The Legends of Krukiv

[Pegleg_Bob 1107]

 

IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 626 A.A

Spoiler

 

The people of the Ravenmarch hold many a story,

Most of these tales are said to spring from forgotten truths or the whispering legends carried by the Ravenfolk across countless ages. From the shrouded mists of the Middenlands of Veletz to the wind bitten Highlands of Haense, their stories weave through time like threads of shadow and silver. Each tale bears a fragment of the old world, heroes turned to ash, and the sorrow of journeys unending. Together they form the living soul of Krukiv, revealing its faith, its fury, and the unyielding heart that binds its people beneath the raven's wing.

 

 

The Story of the Black Knights

 

In the age of the great diaspora of the Middenlandic people, when the fires of war burned without end, the heroes of Middenland fell one by one beneath the blades of the Hanseti. Each dawn brought the death of another legend, be it the valiant child of Captain General Gaspard the Second van Aert, or the noble knights of Veletz whose banners once shone proud upon the fields.

 

For the sons and daughters of the Middenlands, it was an age without hope. They were forced to abandon their names, and their heritage, forced to live as shadows among their enemies. Yet, in this time of despair, a few from the north rose in defiance. From the realm of Ravenmire came those who would not yield, heroes cloaked in black and iron, who stood as guardians for the middenlander people.

 

From humble origins they were born, yet through battle and brotherhood they were forged into legends. Their deeds echoed across the north, they slew the vile darkspawn, shattered the spears of Skanarri champions, and drove back the bandits emboldened by Haense’s coin. Each name was carved into the stone of memory, Hacket Hemoss, the Real Life Hero; Godefroy, the Great Diplomat; Magnus Winburgh, the Lisping Knight; Illatius, the Hidebound; and Aleksander, the Raev born Blade.

 

Yet, as with all great legends, even these knights, clad in the black of mourning and honor, would fall, one after another.

 

The first to perish was Sir Illatius, who martyred himself to save Sir Magnus after a duel of first blood was betrayed by Prince Alexander Caius of Aaun. Where the prince sought to execute Magnus beneath the veil of guest rights, Illatius stood between blade and brother, sealing his fate in blood.

 

Soon after, Sir Magnus too was lost, vanishing upon a journey westward. Some say he wandered beyond the known realms; others claim he was slain within the lands of Haense. The truth of his end is lost to this day.

 

Sir Hacket vanished next, seen only in times of calamity, appearing amidst fire and terror to defend the Ravenfolk before fading once more into shadow.

 

Sir Aleksandr met his end in a duel against Sigrun Stonehammer, his valor unmatched even taking his eye in defeat.

 

Last of all fell Godefroy, whose death remains veiled in mystery. Some whisper of treachery, others of divine calling. None can say for certain, for his passing marked the end of an age, but by the time of the last knight fell. A new age of hope has already reached the lands, the time of the Empire. 

 

The Workshop of The Hare

 

When the port of Caerfran was filled with refugees from across the realms of Aveos flocking to its docks. From the devastation of the Coalition War which had been felt in every realm, yet none bore its scars more deeply than the people of the Middleland. Many families moved to Caerfran, finding it a world apart from their old home of Winburgh. Towering alchemical workshops already filled the city streets, producing wonders that most Middenlanders could scarcely imagine.

 

It was in this city of exiles that two men met. Jakk Volten, an Adrian born merchant whose family had lost its fortune and standing after the war, and Felix A. Crannic, an Adunian tinker famed for his brilliant Clockwork Automatons.

 

The two quickly became friends and partners. Jakk sold the mechanical marvels that Felix crafted, while Felix continued to refine and reimagine his designs. Yet both men hungered for more. Each had a family and a restless ambition, for greater wealth, greater renown, and a place which would secure both of their family lines

 

In pursuit of this dream, the two purchased a grand workshop on the harbor’s edge, where Felix began work on a new creation, an automaton built for  joy. It was to be a gentle machine, designed to entertain the children at the local tavern, a clockwork rabbit, animated with laughter and song.

 

But the work consumed Felix. He spent sleepless nights chasing perfection, striking against invisible barriers of design and will. His wife, Lindara, soon left him, unable to endure the obsession that had overtaken her husband. In her absence, Felix turned to the bottle.

 

His hands, once precise and steady, grew restless. His genius turned into madness. The automaton, his masterpiece, was almost complete, but flawed in ways he couldn’t see. It was shaped like a rabbit, its metal face fixed in a wild grin. Felix named it The Smiling Hare.

 

The first test was conducted using Jakk’s two children. At first, all seemed well. The Smiling Hare sang cheerful songs and told simple jokes, its eyes gleaming in the workshop’s torches. Jakk and Felix exchanged a weary but joyous toast, believing at last their creation was a success. Yet their celebration came far too soon.

 

The Hare twitched. Once. Then again. A faint hiss of metal grinding against metal filled the room. Its movements grew erratic before quickly the automaton lunged.

 

When at last the noise subsided, silence fell heavy. Both children lay still beneath the blood slicked Hare. Horror rooted Felix where he stood, he knew what would come if word of this reached the city. In a trembling voice, he offered Jakk one final apology . . .  and brought his hammer down upon his friend’s skull.

 

The workshop was now a tomb, filled with nothing but smoke, death. The spirits of the slain Volten family lingered, unseen but filled with rage. Felix staggered into the night, setting the workshop ablaze behind him trying to burn away his sins.

 

But fire cannot cleanse what was born of madness and murder. When dawn came, only ash and twisted metal remained, yet the Smiling Hare was gone.

 

Some say it still roams the fog choked streets of Caerfran, its iron body blackened and warped by flame, its eyes burning with the hate of all murdered Voltens. They whisper that it hunts those who mock the dead, that its laughter can be heard between the turning of the city’s great clock, metal on metal, and a smile that never fades.

 

 

The Future King and The Lady

 

In the age after the Bull of the Midden was struck down by the Crow, the Twin Snakes, and the false Eagle, a scion of House Amador, hated by his kin for siding with the Heir to the Exalted Emperor and for marrying the purest blooded lady of Carrion, was banished to the farthest reaches of the land, to a realm of eternal winter and storm. There, he sat upon the edge of the great white cliffs, gazing out over the Bitter Sea before him.

 

He prayed day and night, praying to the Almighty to protect his people, his wife, and his future children. On the second sunset of his vigil, God sent him a messenger. From the rays of the setting sun descended a beautiful woman, her face shown as if veiled in divine light. The Amador gazed upon her, stunned by her presence. Then the Lady spoke, her words carried on the songs of the Seven Skies.

 

“Bo of House Rostova, heir to the great lands of Crestfall and all the mighty holdings of Amador, hear me. God and the Exalteds have received your prayers, most loyal son of the Purple. Take comfort in the knowledge that God watches over you. So long as the Sun reigns in the sky, your people shall know peace in time. Yet they will face many trials, and shall endure and overcome them all.”

 

As she spoke, the Lady seemed to shine brighter still, and others descended alongside her from the sun’s rays. Saints and Heroes of ages past stood with her, their presence lending weight and majesty to her words.

“Rest now, future King of the Ravenfolks. Many battles still await you. Traitors lurk in the Rhoswoods, seeking to place a false Dragon upon the throne of man. Enemies, both new and old, shall rise to challenge you, yet through it all you will ascend like a Phoenix and join us in the Halls of the Seven Skies.”

 

And with that, the sun set, and the radiant figures that had filled the skies retreated to their realm of heroes. The future king then rested, his heart heavied with the knowledge of the trials yet to come, and the preparations that awaited him.

 

Igane of the Moon

 

In times past in the city of Eliveta, there lived a woman, a daughter of the Moon, who was known by the name Igane. She was a skilled warrior, she joined the city’s guard, and though she didn’t know a word of common, her courage and prowess soon set her apart. In time, she learned the language of the common man and integrated herself into the life of the city and its people. Little by little, the people forgot she had ever been an outsider, growing to accept her strange traditions and brash personality

 

Beloved by the common folk, she became a hero to the smallfolks, slaying many darkspawn and other servants of darkness than any other guard in the city. Soon her name spread far across the realm, until even the noble lords of the realm spoke of her deeds. At last, a knight clad in violet, by the name Wulfram, was sent to test her might, and before a great crowd, he challenged her to a duel.

 

Igane accepted the challenge, and before the gathered crowd, the duel began. Their blades clashed with a fury that echoed across the squire of Eliveta, steel rang against steel, the sound carrying for miles. They fought for hours beneath the rays of the sun, neither yielding any ground. At last, both warriors collapsed from exhaustion, their swords falling on the ground under them. The duel had no winner, only a draw.

 

After a moment, laughter escaped Wulfram as he rose to his feet. Igane had proven herself a capable warrior. He extended his hand to her, offering to help her up as an equal. In her, Wulfram had found the only true equal he had ever met. From that day on, the two became fast friends and steadfast partners.

 

their bond deepened, and a love quietly grew between them. But the greater powers would not approve. So they kept it secret, and for a time, the two were happy. A child was born of their union, a girl. Yet happiness, as it often does, would not last.

 

One day, while protecting their daughter, Igane was captured by a coven terrified of her skills on the battlefield. She endured a year of torture as they sought to break her spirit. Slowly, her resolve began to crumble, and the morals she had long held dear were stripped away, forcing her to embrace the evil she had always despised. But the Coven’s cruelty did not end there. They released her, warning that they would hunt her for the rest of her life.

 

Terrified and shattered, she fled, running from her beloved, her child, and everything she had ever built. Yet Wulfram did not give up. He went on countless quests, and after five long years, he finally found her. Igane once more tried to run as she was found, but Wulfram confessed his love again, unwavering. He brought her back home, dedicating himself to protect her and help her reclaim the life they had lost.

 

But in the end, it was all in vain. The coven’s plans had succeeded, and both Wulfram and Igane were betrayed by the very people they had sworn to protect. Igane was seized by knights, brothers in arms to Wulfram and he was forced to watch as his beloved was executed before his eyes.

 

On that day, he swore vengeance upon the realm he had once given his life to defend. He and his daughter went into exile, leaving the realm far behind. Wulfram vowed that his descendants would carry out the vengeance he could not, ensuring that the betrayal would not go unpunished.

 

The Ferryman of the River

 

Once, when the people of the Ravenfolk still lived in the old lands, there was a river deep within the woods that split two villages apart. Upon this river stood no bridge, only a small shack with a dock and a raft, where a simple ferryman lived, who wore clothing of faded blue. One day, one of the villages was attacked by a band of savage Nordlings who had long abandoned the honor once held by their kin.

 

The Nordlings wished to strike the other village as well to take even more from the Ravenfolk, but the river barred their path, and the only way across lay with the Ferryman. Yet the Nordlings knew the old tales, stories told by people in whispers of the men in faded blue who guarded river crossing.

 

So they devised a plan. They waited until the sun sank and the moon rose in its stead, and the faint moonlight couldn’t pass the treetops. They crept toward the shack by the river, intent on slaying the Ferryman while he slept and stealing his raft.

 

Yet somehow, when the raiders arrived, the Ferryman was waiting for them, a simple trident in his hands. He shouted a challenge to the Nordlings, demanding that they send forth their strongest to face him in mortal combat.

The chieftain of the group came forth to take the challenge, a large man the size of a Uruk. But soon after the duel began, the chief fell, a quick stab to the throat taking him down. The other Nordling raiders scattered into the woods, never to be seen again. Some say you can still hear the screams of the Nordlings as they were slaughtered in the woods by other men dressed in blue.

 

Under the White Tree

 

Once, in a time of great turmoil for the people of the Ravenmarch, there lived a boy born into a long line of farmers. Everyone in his family worked the land, from his brothers and sisters to his grandparents and uncles. It was a simple life, but he was content.

 

That was until the rains ceased to fall. A great drought descended upon the land, and their crops began to wither and die. It wasn’t long before the food ran out, and the family grew desperate. None more so than the young boy, who wandered deep into the woods in search of the Vedmak Tree.

 

He searched all day, and at the setting of the sun, when God could hardly see him and the moon rose into the sky, he found the great white tree. Whispers seemed to drift out from its bark. The boy slowly approached and gave a deep bow before speaking.

 

“Oh White Tree of the witches, I come to you in this most dire time. My family is starving during this great drought. I beg you, please give us aid.”

 

The whispers seemed to slowly form one voice in response, taking time before speaking in tens of hundreds of voices.

 

“Son of the land, we shall send your family rain in exchange for a sacrifice. Nothing can be given without a cost. Bring us your sister. She shall be the price to save the rest of your family.”

 

The boy did not speak after that; he simply gave a nod of his head before wandering back across the dead fields of his family farm. He arrived at his home and woke his sister. He told her lies of the deal, saying that the Vedmak Tree simply wished to see her. Before long, they set out for the forest again, the moon still high in the sky, to return to the white tree.

 

The boy brought his sister before the tree. There was a pause; the whispers that seemed to surround them went silent before speaking in one voice once more.

 

“The pact is complete, your sister for the rain you wish for so dearly.”

 

A scream pierced the night as blue moths swirled around the sister, engulfing her completely before vanishing in a faint blue light. The boy watched silently as the spirits took his sister, and immediately the rain began to pour. But after their return to the farm, the rain did not stop. It lasted for a week, and then another.

 

After a month, the farm was flooded; all his family had worked for was gone. His sister had been given up for nothing, and as he cursed the spirits for taking everything, a voice could be heard on the wind,

 

“This is what you wished for, brother. The pact is complete.”

 

Feathers of the Phoenix 

 

When the Ravenlord still crawled, and his father still reigned over the Ravenfolk, the young Ravenlord was cared for by his maid, who took him on long walks through the woods around his family home. The young Ravenlord would explore the woods for hours, his faithful maid always at his side.

 

During one of these forest excursions, the Ravenlord and his maid wandered deeper into the forest than ever before. After many hours, the sound of a mighty caw could be heard, echoing through the ancient woods. The young Ravenlord rushed forward, running wildly into the woods, his maid struggling to catch up to him.

 

Soon the Ravenlord saw it, a mighty phoenix perched atop the tallest pine in the woods. The boy was filled with excitement, and before the maid could catch up, he began to climb the tree, swinging from branch to branch, while his maid could do nothing but watch.

 

In spite of everything, the Ravenlord was able to reach the top of the tree. He reached out to grab the phoenix, but nevertheless, the boy fell while attempting such a feat. The maid closed her eyes, yet after a few moments, no sound of a splat was heard.

The Ravenlord grabbed hold of the mighty phoenix’s talions and was brought down to the ground, the phoenix seeming gentle in this task. As he was set down, a feather fell on his head, as if to mark him. On his back, a mark of the phoenix appeared, an ancient sign unseen for hundreds of years. The Ravenlord and his maid returned home after that, sharing the news with all his family. His father was proud, seeing it as a sign from God of who his heir should be.

 

The Salt Lantern

 

During the time when House Winburgh was first establishing its hold upon the Isles of the Bittersea, the first scouts were sent out to find a suitable site for a new keep. Those who ventured the farthest traveled to the islands north of the capital, Caerfran, to an isle known as Dreorholme, a place so feared that even the magi who once called the north their home refused to set foot upon it.

 

The first expedition to Dreorholme vanished without a trace, save for one young sailor who returned half mad. He claimed to have seen a bright blue light upon the island, one that drove his comrades to madness. In their frenzy, they turned upon one another, slaying each other before taking their own lives.

 

After this, another expedition was sent, and then another, and another. Each crew met the same fate. Soon, no sane sailor was willing to set course for that accursed isle. Yet the Sovereign of the realm, and the lords beneath him, recognized the growing threat posed by this Island of Blood. Thus, they gathered the greatest of knights and the last remaining Samáns and sent them forth to Dreorholme to face whatever evil lurked there.

 

The landing upon Dreorholme was eerily quiet. The sea was still, the air calm and heavy. No wind whispered, no birds called, only the sharp scent of salt filled the air. Yet the Samáns alone sensed the island’s true horror. To them, everything about it was wrong, from the stone beneath their feet to the lifeless winds that howled in their minds with the voices of the dead.

 

Quickly, the leader of the Samáns drew forth a great drum, crafted from the tanned flesh of Aveta and wood stolen from the Great Tree of the Vedmak. The symbols carved upon its surface began to glow, the air seeming less thick as the Samáns continued. Still beating the drum in a slow rhythm, the Samáns led the knights  deeper into the heart of Dreorholme, to a place of dead trees, their souls seemingly drained from them.

 

And there, amidst the lifeless grove, in a shallow pond, stood a bright blue lantern that reeked of salt.

 

As the other Samáns raised their own drums and joined in the ritual, the knights were sent forth. But as they approached the lantern, they beheld the twisted souls and salt trapped within that horrid creation. False truths whispered by Ibless shimmered before their eyes. Most of the knights were ensnared by the visions, phantoms of comfort, deceitful promises, and blasphemous lies about God. 

 

Yet still, one marched forward, a divine golden light surrounding him, shielding him from the unholy lantern’s blue glow. The Heroes and Saints of the past stood beside, helping to guide his steps as he fulfilled his holy charge. Raising his warpick high above his head, he brought it down upon the cursed lantern with a mighty blow.

 

The air was filled with the piercing cries of the souls at last set free. The curse upon Dreorholme was broken; the spirits of their fallen comrades, and countless others,were released from torment. And for the first time in memory, sunlight fell once more upon the isle of Dreorholme, golden and pure.

 

 

Mal’yamé the Healer

 

In the age of the great diaspora of the midden, when few healers were left among any ranks of the Ravenfolk and the time of suffering was still in effect, a noble lord of a powerful vassal fell ill. His heart grew weak from the many heartaches of living in the north. He was on death’s door, and his son ordered the knights under his father to search for a healer.

 

Yet in all places, they were turned away, from their allies, the people of Northern Ash, to the High Elves of the White City. Every land was searched until only the realm of their arch enemy was left, a place known for hating them above all else.

Only the two bravest, or perhaps most full hearted, knights ventured to the city of Valdev in search of a healer. They went from clinic to clinic, each one turning them away, until at last they found a woman with tan skin, yet dressed as a raever, a woman by the name of Mal’yamé. She was still quite young, yet strove to appear older than her years.

The knights begged her to come and heal their lord, offering her all the money they had, an oath to do whatever she wished, so long as she saved the noble. And so, after much pleading, the knights and Mal’yamé rode swiftly back to their home, the wind carrying them like whispers of fate.

When they arrived the situation was most dire, the noble lord was on the brink of death. The rays of the gates of the Seven Skies were to be open any moment, yet as Mal’yamé entered, only taking out a simple herb bag. She got to work, grinding down a few and feeding them to the noble. The gates seemed to fade as his life was saved.

 

But after her work was done, she refused all payment. No matter who offered it, the knights who had found her proclaimed her kin, always calling her Auntie Mal’yamé from that day forward. And should she ever find herself in danger, they vowed, they would come to her aid without hesitation.

 

 

The Koeng and the Boy

 

Once, by the border of the Ravenmarch, there lived a small family, a mother, a father, and a son whom they loved with all their hearts. It was a good life, but life on the border could be harsh. And when the final sliver of the moon fell that month, neither oils were set out, nor a crow placed for the Koeng.

 

Before the sun could set that day, and the new moon rose, the boy went out to hunt a crow. He searched all around the woodlands where his family had hunted, looking high and low, but no crows could be found. He ventured deeper into the woods than he had ever gone before, and at last, on a branch high above, he spotted a crow. Quickly, he drew his bow and released, hitting the crow just as the sun dipped below the horizon.

 

The boy rushed home as the forest was swallowed by darkness. No light remained to guide him through the trees, and soon the distant cawing of crows echoed all around. The boy could no longer find his way, his bearings lost to the night.

 

After a time, he rested beneath a great birch tree. But as he began to close his eyes, he heard the soft rustle of leaves, like footsteps moving through the dark above him. Soon he heard it, a large creature landing by him.

 

Looking toward the sound, the boy saw it. a creature covered in a patchwork of skin and feathers as black as the void. Its mouth seemed a beak, yet sharp teeth gleamed within, and its eyes burned a bright, sickly yellow. It bore both arms and wings, though the wings looked forced into its body rather than a part of it and lastly, its feet ended in cruel talons.

 

The boy swallowed hard, for he knew what stood before him, the Koeng of the Voron. He had heard the stories, the death brought by this creature.

 

The Koeng began to snap its beak, as though trying to speak, but only low grunts and harsh squawks came forth. It lowered its beak toward the boy’s face, seeming to taste him through the air. Then, suddenly, its head jerked toward the dead crow clutched in the boy’s hand.

 

The boy slowly held out the offering to the beast, his hands trembling. The offering was taken swiftly, the Koeng did not chew, but swallowed it whole. Then, with a dreadful motion, it drew back its unnatural wings and rose into the sky.

 

The boy remained beneath the tree, waiting through the night until dawn slowly came. But when he returned home, his family was gone, devoured by the Koeng, with nothing left to bury.

 

The Mountain of the Wan

 

In a time long past, there lived a mage whose mastery over the Void surpassed all others, and with such power, as always, came great hubris. Desiring to prove his strength, he sought to test his magic against the greatest beast in the land, that all might witness the might of the Void. He had heard rumors of a mountain far to the north, a place said to be home to the Wan.

 

He ignored the warnings of all who spoke of the Wan. He brought neither priest nor Samán, carrying only a great tome at his side. Alone, he set out to find the creature, and it was not long before he beheld it. The hands of the beast moved to cover its face, yet soon the mage caught sight of it.

 

Its face was grotesque, long and pale, eyeless, with a gaping mouth full of milk white teeth. A terrible scream echoed across the mountains as the Wan raged at the mage for having seen its face, a scream few have ever heard and lived to recall.

 

The mage unleashed his assault, hurling great blasts of voidal fire and raising walls of flame to block the creature’s path. Yet the Wan seemed indifferent, its flesh burned away only to regrow almost instantly. Soon, the mage was forced onto the defensive, dodging the creature’s slashing strikes with frantic, blinking movements. He tried to cast even more fire into the beast’s gaping maw, but it accomplished little against the relentless horror before him.

 

The Wan soon began landing slashes upon the mage, one cutting deep across his chest before he managed to blink away once more. He unleashed every spell he knew, yet they did nothing but slow the relentless beast. He realized then that it was over, his own pride and hubris had doomed him.

 

In a final, desperate act, he did what he had thought he would never do. As the creature’s next slash descended toward his neck, he prayed, prayed to God, the Exalted, and all the saints and heroes of Man. A golden flash erupted, blinding both him and the Wan. The strike missed his neck, but the mage was not unscathed, the Wan struck his eye, leaving him blind.

 

Whatever the flash had been, God or something else, it had frightened the Wan, forcing it to retreat once more to its mountain. The mage, now broken and weary, slowly made his way back to civilization. He would become a priest, vowing never again to wield the powers of the Void.

 

 

The Dolphins and the Middenlander

 

A long time ago, shortly after the great Skanarri assault upon the Ravenfolk, when our people were driven south back into the what shall become the future empire, there lived a scion of one of the great coastal houses of the Northern Middenlandic.

 

The young scion, barely into his tenth year, was regarded as the runt by his father, smaller and weaker than his elder brothers and sisters. To most of the house, he was a disappointment. Thus, his father, the lord of the house, gave him a choice, set out four years early for his year at sea and prove himself worthy of his name, or remain at home and take a new one in shame.

 

So the young scion set out alone, taking for himself the smallest ship in his family’s fleet and calling it his own. He sailed southward, far beyond the familiar coasts, into the warmer waters of Aveos. There, upon a quiet stretch of shore, he made his camp and waited.

 

He spent many days there, sleeping beneath the open sky, fishing, and, on occasion, making port only when he needed to restock his supplies. Most of his time, however, was spent upon the sea, for he was determined to prove himself. The young scion tried to make the most of his solitude, yet the silence of the waves often weighed heavy upon him.

 

After a month at sea, he was ready to give up, to abandon it all. He thought himself weak, believing every cruel word his father had ever spoken about him.  But before despair could carry him too far, he heard laughter. A pod of dolphins had surrounded his ship, their calls echoing like laughter. The young scion wondered how such creatures could be so joyful, so full of life.

 

Then he began to laugh at himself ,  softly at first, then louder, until his voice carried over the waves. In that moment, he understood what he had been missing: the joke of life itself, that to live was to laugh at the hardships it brought.

 

 

Izabel the Mad

 

In the annals of our people, madness wears many faces, yet none so fair or terrible as that of Princess Izabel. After the loss of her betrothed, Prince Thorin, at the hands of her own people, and the betrayal of her allies in Balian, she forsook the path of duty. From this despair, she gave herself to violence, learning from the Uruks the arts of keeping a prisoner alive while inflicting maximal suffering.

It is recorded that after each raid, she would select a few men to the dungeons. When her cruelty was complete, only their flayed skins remained. The chronicles note that even this eventually failed to sate her dark desires. The Ravenlord fell into grave sickness, and Lord Constantine descended into madness. Many accounts hold that Princess Izabel administered poison to both, elevating her son, Owyn, to power.

During Constantine’s delirium, he committed acts most irrational, he is said even to have proposed marriage to Izabel. The princess, overwhelmed, retreated into the Langkette Mountains with naught but the clothes upon her back, abandoning her children and the few faithful companions who remained.

Reports reached Prince Owyn of patrols and hunting parties disappearing in the Langkette. He dispatched knights to investigate, yet they too vanished. One by one, those closest to him were lost. Lord Constantine met his end by execution at the hands of Lord Peter, yet the realm remained in disarray. Consumed by fear and foreboding, Prince Owyn abdicated his throne, convinced that his mother’s hand guided the darkness.

The chronicles describe five years of chaos that followed, a time in which traitors and the unworthy vied for the crown. The Emperor, compelled by the turmoil, dissolved Ravenmire, the first realm of the Ravenfolk and assumed control, restoring order. The Ravenfolk would regain their autonomy and vassalship only upon the Ravenlord’s awakening from his coma.

The fate of Princess Izabel is unknown. Some assert she became the Wan, others claim she lingers as a ghost within the halls of House Rostova. Only the boldest maintain that she yet lives, plotting to reclaim the throne for her blood, hidden in the distant reaches of the Ravenmarch.

 

The Hunter’s Curse

Once, in the woods of Krukiv, there lived a hunter who hunted to support his family. Every day, he would venture into the forest and hunt the animals that dwelled within it. But soon, he had to go deeper and deeper into the woods, for the animals had grown wise to his presence.

This worked for some time, until one day he heard three deep howls echo through the trees. Thinking the pelt of a wolf was a fine prize fit for nobles, he followed the sound. He went deeper into the forest than he had ever gone before, until at last he saw the beast.

Before realizing his mistake, he loosed his arrow. Only when he saw the creature in full did he understand what he had done, the Chernaya Gonchaya bled a dark, red ichor, almost black as the night itself. It let out another howl, before the black hound ran off into the deep woods. 

Afterwards, the hunter tried to return to his usual routine, but misfortune followed him wherever he went. His family fell ill whenever he brought home meat, for it would rot and spoil the moment it crossed the threshold. As time passed, his sons and daughters all met grim ends, or worse fates still.

The hunter lived a long life, one filled with suffering and pain. And on his deathbed, with no one left by his side, he heard it again, the haunting howl of the Chernaya Gonchaya.

 

The Bride of the Drakodyny

In the time when the Ravens and Crows both lived in the lands of the Raever, there was a powerful Bogatyr under the king. He wished for more, to become a landed noble, for his family to grow wealthy in their own fiefdom. He waited for years for the king to give him what he saw as his right.

Yet after so many years, he decided that it wasn’t worth waiting anymore. So the Bogatyr went out into the lands, bringing his eldest daughter in search of the Drakodyny, a spirit of chaos and madness. He searched from the land of Malin to the trade city of Sutica. In the end, in the deserts of Krug, he found the beast.

He brought with him drinks of the finest Kvass and a large sack of gold as an offering to the Drakodyny. He then asked to make a deal with the spirit, to give his daughter’s hand in marriage to the Drakodyny in return for its help in making him a noble.

After some thought, the Drakodyny agreed to the deal. The daughter vanished into smoke, and the Drakodyny laughed, telling the Bogatyr that he had received what he wished for. When the Bogatyr returned home, however, he found his land in ruin. The king was dead, a civil war had begun, and his wife had been slain by bandits.

Yet in the midst of this chaos, he rose through the ranks and became a noble, a duke of the southern lands. But it was hollow. Most of his friends had perished in the war, and his daughter was gone. With nothing left, he climbed to the top of his keep and stepped off, falling to his death.

 

 

[!]

You turn the final page of the book

Spoiler

To my dear reader, this has been the longest book I have ever written. It took me four years to complete, and I hope you enjoy this journey into the myths and legends of the Ravenfolk. 

May God be with you on your travels, dear reader.

Written by L.M. Rad

Spoiler

I would like to thank everyone who proof read this like @Zqppy @KillerMaid @ChillDemonLad @EmiliainWonderland@minarichankun and everyone else, this took a month for me to write both post.