Search the Community

Chronicle of the Archdrakaar On my brother Azdromoth, for whom we wept: Throughout the desolate and unfinished lands of Aegis, there lay the dull visage of stone alongside what other deities had woven.. In that stone, vision was seen by a singular Daemon, Dragur. Over an expanse of time Dragur elaborated on thought, teetering on the edge of brooding, sight cast upon all that which others made. In this time, he took to the very stone that none had gazed over. Time passed, and he carved from the stone his own imagined child. Detail rolled across its form like an ocean’s ripple; scales overlapping one another as though they all greedily sought to show themselves off. The beings form was lean, taut in what could only be assumed to muscle from earth’s strongest substance. The features were bestial, but personified, adorned with the maw of an apex predator that could easily curl into the cruelest or most joyous embodiment of emotion. Talons stretches and eyes stared, lifeless in its initial sequence. Dragur could not have such a beautiful formation lay dormant. Life energies sprang from the Daemon’s form, frolicking over and within the scales, giving each the attention they oh so desired. These same energies peeled back the being’s lids and lips, showing off their animalistic pupils and blade-like teeth. It was with this that the first dragaar was wrought to the world. Dragur’s child, Azdromoth, was born and thoughtful. He and the Daemon conversed, finally giving Dragur something more than simply watching all the others and collecting thoughts on their every demeanor. He so loved Azdromoth, and bestowed upon him the greatest things that he could. More and more dragonkin were made, but none truly surpassed Azdromoth, both in attributes and the amount of care Dragur held for them. Time eroded at memory and none wholly remembered the origin of Archdragaar aside from Azdromoth and Dragur, content with the shadowy mystery of whence they came. The goodly Azdromoth mirrored the nature of his divine father. For what Dragur had, Azdromoth had not: knowledge. Azdromoth strived to learn. The primordial world mystified the Archdragaar, and he made certain to see all that he might. The colossal being took to the skies, casting great shadows beneath his wingspan. Beloved by his brothers and sisters, Azdromoth was regarded as the chiefest of all dragonkin, and so they pursued him across the world to take its secrets for their own. Azdromoth tested himself and his kind, growing fond of performing feats consummate to his capacity for power. He romped freely and wildly, gulping down the milk of wonder. Thought it was not long before the demeanor of Daemons would show itself; change. The war between good and evil ravaged ancient Aegis. Dragur’s children had made covenant with the line of Horen, the forerunner of Man, and so Azdromoth took great interest in mortal men, ever impressed by their ingenuity and capacity for greatness. It is recorded that some knights of old took dragons for their standards, and even fewer practiced dragon reverence. The tradition is one of secrecy, passed down by the descendants of those who witnessed the glory of the dragonkin. While the Archdragaar was beloved by his divine father, he collected only the ire of the Archdaemon, Iblees, the enemy of Aegis. He knew that if he were to soil the dragonkin, he would wound Dragur. How better to do so than to take from him his magnum opus? His firstborn son, Azdromoth, chiefest of the dragonkin, fell victim to the machinations of the Archdaemon. His pure, whimsical mind was rent asunder and plunged into darkness. His scales blackened and the bright radiance of his eyes darkened. A strain of madness overtook him. He would be used to wage war against his goodly kin, and through the will of his master, spread the corruption that overtook him. He became known to all as the Archdrakaar, the first of a new breed of evil. More followed as Azdromoth was bestowed the duty of growing his forces. One by one his brothers and sisters were to join him in his wicked duty. Iblees made apt use of his titan-like servants. Azdromoth’s flight of drakaar led the Archdaemon’s forces into battle, dressing his kind in wreaths of immolating flame and talons that could render even the most stalwart soldiers naught but ash. Their wings were Iblees’ own heraldry, shadowing armies beneath their grandeur before disintegrating the darkness away with newly smoldering cadavers. Veterans could only recall the smell of flesh, the feeling of charcoal and the sound of crackling only comparable to a feast in preparation. It was hard to imagine the two were not much alike, most said, after they witnessed how corpses were removed after the battle. It goes without saying that Azdromoth was noted to be one of the most predominant commanders under Iblees’ regime, a foe to be trifled with. It was in this time that Eshtael took his chance amidst another ordinary battle. Divine shield bearing fire and blade rending scale, the Aengul took hold of the Archdrakaar’s throat and dragged him down from the smoke-blotted sky. They landed with a tremendous tremor, shaking the morale of both combatting powers before Eshtael rose through the displaced dirt. Amongst all the slaughters Azdromoth had caused amongst the forces of good, this was the first victory. After the blood soaked into the earth and they rose to victory, Eshtael dragged Azdromoth’s malformed state to imprisonment; sealed deep within Khaz'Bokkdwedohin for what shall hopefully be an eternity. The age-worn seal of Aruzond, Warden of the North marks the page. ((Credit is given to Slic3man and myself for this piece, which is but a recording detailing Azdromoth. This knowledge it not commonplace in role-play, but is free to be read by the public in efforts to better create a transparent relationship between the LT and the player-base. Enjoy.))

[[ This is an elaboration on lore which already exists. I wrote this several months back, around the time when Wraiths were first implemented, and thought this was necessary to throw in. http://www.lordofthecraft.net/topic/99462-wraiths-harbingers-of-the-fourth-age-ready-for-review/ ]] Within the archaic ages of Old-Aegis, when peace was known between the early-Four purely because there did not lie petty territorial conflicts or wars waged from greed, there dwelt a benevolent being whose heart shined true, his soul bearing pure intentions for the mortal races that inhabited the Ancestoral Land. The child of the Father of Dragons, Môrdring was like all of his wise, ancient kin -- pure, willing to act as a vanguard of the goodly, and keeper of time in the form of old tomes. His power spun wide, for his blood bore the very essence of magical power -- but it was purity Môrdring dabbled in, the power of light and golden flame; and for this reason, he held many ideals that agreed with that of the Aengul of Purity, Tahariae. But alas, he was a timid creature despite his willingness to entrust the Mortal Four with the blessing of virtue. He was Môrdring the Radiant, for he was of light and righteous flame. But his benevolence and his wisdom did not prevent the clever Dragaar from swelling with assurance upon formulating a plan he thought would lead to the protection of the Mortal Four for all eternity; protection of their mortal coils, and the protection of their souls. He bore a hatred for sin and the naivety that mortality brought, but this did not falter Môrdring’s wish to save them all. On one fateful night, near the dawn of day and during the twilight of the land, the Dragaar of purity stepped from his lair of white stone and libraries to declare to the skies, to the Father of Dragons himself and even to the Creator that he will create an artifact so thoroughly pure and powerful that the sins of mortality will be absolved and cast from the common-man’s soul by it’s very presence, setting them on the track of purity and virtue, and that they would be protected under this shell of light and celestial force for all eternity; to prosper not as the Mortal Four, but as the Enlightened One. And for one-hundred years in count, the Dragaar Môrdring had labored and toiled in the burdens of arcane weaving; with magical knowledge known by no mortal man in those ancient ages, Môrdring cast his power upon a dazzling crystal of radiance, gold and white in structure which bore a warm glow that would dissolve the impurity from one’s soul in but seconds after the sinful touched the object and drank it’s aura. Within it’s shining depths, Môrdring the Radiant locked a mass of arcane knowledge, the key to enlightenment, and the most prominent gift of them all. Locked within the radiant void of the artifact he deemed the “Luminant Shard”, lay the tongue of Môrdring, the dialect of the Seven Skies, as he described -- The Tongue of the Âru. The Luminant Shard was cast from his spire of blessed brick and sturdy mortar, sent to lay in wait within the mainlands of Aegis. But the Mortal Four would not accept Môrdring’s gift as easily as he expected; for it was not self-assurance and pride in his ideals that led to his dark unraveling, but the over-expectancy of the mortal mind. It was first found by the Elves of Mali’nor, who treasured the sanctity of their forests and the purity of their line. Brought to the Branch-Shapers, or otherwise known as “Druids”, the Luminant Shard was studied as thoroughly as the Druian could study it; but, despite all efforts, the artifact of golden light and radiance did not react what-so-ever to the Druidic magics applied to it. Deeming the comforting, albeit eerie hushed words the artifact often ushered into the minds of several of the Druids that crept near it’s tall crystalline structure as an omen, it was cast from the tall forests with much haste by the Elves. It was the human Kingdom of Oren that discovered it next. Unlike the children of Malin, the priests and paladin-crusaders of the Old-Oren Faith were more skeptical on the intentions the Luminant Shard bore. The holy aura it expelt frightened the priests and struck suspicion into the church, and with but days after the Shard was discovered, it was cast from the human lands in a religious fervor; they would have nothing to do with heresy in it’s prime form. Within the heated hills of sand, the Luminant Shard was discovered by the nomadic Orcish people who, with much caution, dragged the artifact from the sand via a long rope, and after studying it close, took it to the shaman that resided within Krugmar’s capital. But as the Druids failed to trace the origins of the bright crystal back to their Aspects, the Shaman could not commune with the crystal with their spirits. The Orcish peoples, with their quick temper, were upset by this failure of progression, and with little thought flung the Shard from their desert-lands in a blood-rage. At last, the holy Shard fell into the hands of the Dwarves weeks later; but their reaction to such a radiant, fascinating gem was much more different than the other three races’. Bearing the assumption it is a diamond that had been so magically blessed that it obtained sentience and acquired the ability to telepathically communicate, the Dwarves’ curse bubbled up and showed itself in it’s raw form -- bearing mastercraft pickaxes of mighty carbarum alloy, they surged upon the Shard and struck at it without hesitance, but to no avail. The Luminant Shard’s arcane wards, in retaliation to it’s harsh treatment, blew the incoming Dwarves back with a mighty push of telekinetic energy. Enraged by the fact their greed could not be sated the Dwarves cast the crystal from their cavern home and into the fray of obscurity. But even obscurity is dwelt, and by darker things. Five men of black crowns discovered the Luminant Shard and, with much haste, hoisted it from the dark corner the crystal was cast to only to bring it into another -- their lair, stinking of rot, death and old dust. It was there the Luminant Shard was situated, and it was there the Five Lords tampered with it with the most unholy of magics: Necromancy. Wielding the taint of unlife as their weapons, they cast the putrid black smog forth and surged it into the Shard’s very being. Knowing they were unable to unlock what the whispers promised in it’s state of light and purity, the Five Lords displayed their greed and their treachery to the crafter of the light-bringing, sin-cleansing gift and corrupted the Luminant Shard to it’s core, corroding the massive amounts of information carefully stored within and wiping out every single trace of light and pure arcane magic that dwelt the Shard’s crystalline structure. But alas, warping the seemingly locked, crystalline vault of power into a shell of what it once was did not provide the Four Lords with the unlimited power the crystal promised them.. Môrdring the Radiant was a clever being. His skill in magic spanned far and wide, but even then he did not recognize a hint of the taint that warped his prized creation, for the concept of mere mortals wielding such a manipulative, malignant force was beyond his comprehension. To expect the mortal ilk would dare scorn his craft was something he was incapable of conceiving at the time, but when the Shard was corrupted, and when he felt the agonizing backlash and the endured sensing the sharp cry of pain the Shard released, as if it actually bore sentience in subconscious form, it was then that Môrdring realized the mistake he made. The riddles he set as the keys were too advanced for the Four Races to figure out; their ignorance betrayed him. Their impatience led to the Shard’s outcasting; their foolishness scorned him. Who was Môrdring to assist the Mortal Four if they were too corrupted already with greed, with sin and rage? He had handed them the key to the universe, and now it had been twisted into a husk, a shell of his own power. It was a shell, but it was not defenseless. The Luminant Shard, it’s warm glow and golden hue replaced with a swirling black void of darkness and aura of fatigue and fear, lashed out at the Five Lords -- it took their power, and it used it itself to punish them, to twist them into beings that are not dead, yet are not alive. It was no malignant deity’s artifact that created the Wraiths of the First Realm, but a mistake; a manipulation of a gift meant to spread good, to cast purity forth. But the Mortal Four were not ready for Môrdring’s gifts, and he was well-aware of this. The mortal races he was tasked with protecting and even vowed to do so, in his eyes as the Wraiths rose, did not deserve his protection. And so he fell. He fell from a state of enlightenment to a state of depression, anger and darkness; and those who know well of the Dragonkin are aware that if these emotions drawn from his failure and his spite took ahold of the once-wise Dragaar of like, he would form into a being of evil, of sinister intention -- he would be that of the Void with a soul as black as night. But Môrdring the Radiant’s will to spread righteous purity would be so diminished by this dark turn of events. When the darkened power of the Luminant Shard drew forth and tethered the Five Lords to warp them into beings of death and decay, Môrdring surged what power he still had into the crystal from his white spire -- it was then he settled a lock, a barrier upon the corrupted Shard that prevented the tainted gift from making more of the abominations that then counted in five and were capable of taking on tenfold their own numbers. Môrdring the Radiant fought a battle in the shadows and prevented the death of the realm by the hands of the Five Lords of Death instead of by the vassals of Iblees. The lock upon the Luminant Shard which now bore the name Black Nexus as deemed by it’s new undead masters kept the Dreaded Five from summoning more embodiments of terror forth, and as the years passed, the depressed and distraught Môrdring attained relief as the Wraiths began to die off, one by one, as the Undead of Iblees assaulted the land enmasse. But fate would not leave the dark artifact behind so easily. There lay more in store for the Black Nexus to endure. As Aegis fell, the Wraiths fell with it. Before their fall they collected their closest minions, and in-turn, sent them upon a voyage across the sea and away from the Verge that endured the wrath of Iblees like the land behind the portal had; the ancestral land that the Dragaar of Radiance vowed to protect. Time passed by quickly and the Black Nexus was kept hidden, kept safe; through the toils of Asulon and through the trek of Kalos and Elysium the minions, despite their weakening grasp on their faith, kept the Nexus secure. But their faith in their past dark lords eventually slipped, and not bearing the will to hear the screams the swirling, blackened crystal expels from any that dwell near it, they, as the Dwarves had, cast it into obscurity upon reaching Anthos where it rested for a time within the deepwoods of the continent. But dark things dwell obscured places. One who deemed himself with the title “The Perfectionist” discovered the Black Nexus and thusly brought about the second coming of the Wraiths and the rise of the Gravelords; from their dark hoods they drew forth the corrupted Tongue of the Âru; deeming it Oblivion-Speech and scorning it’s creator by speaking it. The Four Gravelords declared themselves the Khôr, the Oblivion-Tongue word for both lord, and darkness. And in the shade of the Mortal Four, now counting in five, dwelt Môrdring, the bitterness of dismay having darkened and blackened both his mind and body, but not his soul. His white scales no-longer painted his massive, draconic frame; only ones of darkened hues clasped about his immortal coil - as dark as his spite, with amber eyes burning bright like the churning flames of his anger. But he did not turn, for he was still of light and righteous flame. Môrdring the Shadow remained obscured by all - standing idly by to simply watch, to silently wait. He watched as Aegis fell. He watched as the Mortal Four committed atrocities within Asulon, ranging from genocide to magical advancements that scorn the very fabric of the realm the Mortal Four once inhabited. Môrdring watched as they left Kalos and Elysium in a ruin, he watched as his weakling kin, Setherian the Black Wyrm, threatened the very existence of the five races that inhabit the land of Anthos, and now he watches as the four races squabble and argue within another land which slowly dies by the hand of warfare and colonization. He watches, but he does not dare move from his perch -- he does not dare cast the shade of his wings. Not yet. He is the Shadow, the Father of the Khôr.