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A SECOND ENCOUNTER WITH CHIEFTAINS OF REINMAREN YORE [!] A mural depicting Theoderic summoning the Reinmaren people for Moot. As the brave men and women of Reinmar settled down for the night after a day of preparation for the coming war against the Ravenswood, a vision would come to those that had been BLOODED. You would find yourself within what looked to be a tribal camp, your trained eyes darting around for hostile natives. You would feel an air of reprieve as a Reinmaren man in full armor, dented and scratched from multiple battles stood in front of you; the shadowed eyes of the man looked towards you, masked by an iron faceplate similar to those of the officers of the Host of St. Johann. You recognize this man as Theoderic, one of the two most fabled Chieftains of Reinmaren history. Ancient Reinmaren war drums bellowed in the distance. “I called you back here to remind you of the storied legacy you are to uphold, blood of my blood!” The graveled voice of Theoderic called, he would walk up and put a gauntleted hand on your right shoulder. “On your mantle, you carry me and Gelimar’s legacy, much like the Blooded brothers and sisters before you that have passed on and returned here.” He proclaimed, gesturing with an outstretched hand to the Reinmaren that stepped out of their yurts and removed their helmets, here you would see the familiar faces of brothers, sisters, parents, or other family and friends that passed on from your world. Another man in the armor of a Chieftain, much like Theoderic, would stand at his fellow Chieftain’s flank. This one you recognized as Gelimar, who’s gauntleted hand now laid on your left shoulder. “For those who live, fight for the glory of Reinmaria. For those who will die, die with honor, o’ kin of mine.” Rang his voice within your ears, the wisdom of both Chieftains etched into the very corners of your mind. Suddenly, clouds parted and briefly showed the glory of the Fifth Sky as Saint Johann, the namesake of your Host, came down to meet with his kin. “Glory to GOD who watches the world from His throne in the Seventh Sky.” The Saint proclaimed to all within the camp, Theoderic and Gelimar stepped back to allow Johann to talk with you. The Barclay Saint walked up to you, his very presence steeled the resolve within your Blooded Reinmaren soul. “Hark these words from your Father GOD, as His Word is the Absolute Truth: The ground within Ravenswood itself cries out for salvation, this is your purpose in this campaign. Purify that accursed land in the name of GOD.” Saint Johann explained, your focus drawn to his message. “You, kin of mine, may fight for glory, but do so in the name of GOD the Father.” The Saint would walk away from you as his Barclay blue eyes looked at the gathered crowd of Reinmaren. “Honorable are the ones who die in the name of our LORD, glorious are those that fight in His Name! WER RASTET, DER ROSTET!” Yelled Saint Johann, pounding his chest plate loudly with his fist, sounding like thunder, in a Reinmaren salute to all as he began to ascend back to his place within the Seven Skies. “WER RASTET, DER ROSTET!” All that gathered yelled, including yourself, as everyone returned a Reinmaren salute to Saint Johann in unison before the clouds parted and then concealed his pious visage. Once the clouds came back together and calmed, Gelimar’s visage stood in front of you. “It is time for you to return to your brothers and sisters, o’ kin of mine.” His voice reverberated behind his helmet’s iron mask as he laid a hand on your forehead, then spoke in the ancient Reinmaren tongue before everything went black. When you opened your eyes once more, you were back home within the Reinmaren Capital of Kretzen; laying in your bed as rays of sunshine seeped through the windows of your bedchamber. It was morning and in your soul, you held a freshly steeled determination that was ready for the war to come. WER RASTET, DER ROSTET.

It had been decades since the pact was first formed. Oaths were made, some kept, and others broken, though through this, one constant remained, a half goblin whose skin was stained with the ichor of her matron. Throughout this span, the ire of Gazighaz occasionally followed the aging hybrid, but in truth the spirit and the masked shaman that followed her word to the very letter had grown distant. Even still, when Emony’s power waxed, the mother of blood smiled, her hands folded in anticipation of the day she could call for her dept to be repaid. Gazighaz bid her time for the day when the hybrid’s power reached its zenith. The day eventually came when the blood mother’s patience waned far below a tolerable level. A cold fog rolled in over the city of San Velku as deep within her bowls, a magician and her master practiced rituals that were considered too dark for the eyes of ordinary folk. The goblin seemed to take to the lesson quickly, aiding in the right with only a few minor issues indicative of a first timer. As they concluded, Emony felt a strange twinge in her nostrils. She ascended the set of stairs out of the hidden space with haste, all the while grasping her nose shut with her thumb and fist finger. By the time she had reached the main square, her face had begun to pale as blood trailed down her chin. Her pace was slow as she held her right hand against the surrounding walls for support as she made her way to her shop. Blood now flowed freely from the nose of the goblinoid, trailing behind her as she weekly climbed the ladder to her office. As she passed the mirror within the cave-like space a look of horror settled upon her face. Within the mirror’s reflection stood a half goblin with pale green skin. The former red pigment to her skin was seemingly draining from her nostrils. Emony recoiled in disgust at the face she had long ago abandoned as the last of her red left her face. Her hand curled int a loose fist which she threw at the mirror’s glass, but her strength had already left. The goblin’s knuckles thumped pathetically against the mirror before she fell to the ground. Within moments, Emony found herself in the place between the realms. Her body huddles through the utterly desolate plane and seems to be battered by an omnidirectional, rushing force. What met her vision when she fought the pressure exerted upon her eyes enough to open them, she was met with an utterly empty, lightless void. The hybrid’s ears only beheld the sound of the gale like winds that signaled their movement through this vacant space. Soon enough her nostrils are assaulted by a pungent metallic odor. This pervasive olfactory stimulus trounced every other sense. The falling sensation was soon replaced with a feeling of sinking into a bottomless abyss of stinking entrails. Further adding to this sensation, the temperature and humidity rise in tandem. Emony awoke upon the heaving realm of guts, organs, and blood from whence she once drew her pride. With her skin stripped of its blessing, the pulsating landscape before her felt all the more hostile. The ground squelched beneath her feet as she approached a massive pulsating mound seemingly formed from the intestines. She folds her arms close to her chest, huddling against her own fear as she approaches an opening within the pile. The flesh tunnel extended deep into what could be considered earth within this realm. The intestinal tract’s interior possessed an oppressive humidity, enough to make the skin of a hardened traveler crawl with discomfort. This space varied in its width; some areas allowed the goblin to stand comfortably while others forced her to squeeze through their barely traversable passages. All this was traversed with sparse lighting. Veins within the wall occasionally dipped or ascended close enough to shed a pale crimson light. With each step, the ground seemed it would give way beneath her tread before her sinking was impeded by strands of connective tissue. Each footfall seemed to yield little in the way of progress. Her distress grew as she descended ever deeper. The path became more snakelike as it began to deft all logic, doubling back on itself in impossible ways that would normally see the space converging on itself, though nothing like this occurred. The tunnel eventually began to radiate a fowl, coppery odor which assaulted the olfactory senses and mind of the goblin. Within her mind several voices began to shout, as if spurred on by the stench. They called to her in warning. Ukh krum (go back) Irz mokh-ûr, gaz baalak (Run for home, little half breed) Lat paashnar bazg nau. Lat ufur hûnpûlp (You cannot reach the end. You fear the heartbeat) No matter what was chanted, they all discouraged progress, though Emony was persistent. She pressed on, covering her ears to spite the fact that this served no purpose. When the voices became more persistent, she increased her speed. Eventually all fell to silence and the horrific scent faded leaving the goblin to recover. Within this new room the ground lay somewhere beneath a pool of blood. Each step brought Emony deeper into its body, quickly passing her knee and by the time she had reached its center, the crimson pond threatened to pass her neck, but it wouldn’t get the chance as Emony ascended a bone pile that lay at the pool’s heart. Perched atop this osseous mound was a great throne constructed of muscle stretched over rendered bone. Within it sat a disfigured female of indiscernible race. Her gaunt and pale figure nearly matched the coloration of the bones at her twisted feet. The woman’s skin bore a spidering network of blue veins that all seemed to lead towards her dislocated jaw. This maw retained a set of jagged teeth, built for the single purpose of piercing flesh. The horrific figure stood as its hollow gaze spotted the lone traveler. Its upper lip curled into a mangled half smile. The spirit’s jaw flapped as it spoke to address the goblin. The following has been roughly translated from old blah. So, the prodigal daughter returns to the realm of the heartbeat heading its call once more. You who once showed such promise, now writhing in the blood like a worthless parasite. Speak worm. Give your pathetic excuses. I thought my actions pleased Gazighaz. The rights I performed were in her honor. Truly, you are misguided if you think that blood magic of yours pleases the matriarch. You have done nothing to spread faith in her. Even if the little “rites” you performed did somehow serve the blood mother, you always do so in secret. We require new followers, and you refuse to preach the faith. Is that why my skin has returned to the color of my birth? Indeed. You must earn the right to wear the mantle of Gazigazh. What must be done to regain what was lost? The mother and I demand you build a great shrine. Construct a heart of bleeding stone, bound with links of iron. Endow this with the blood of your people, of any descended willing to give of their blood. Then, become her herald to the uruks. Who shall this heart be dedicated to? THROQUGRIZH With that name uttered, the bones beneath Emony began to tremble. They shifted, falling away from her feet, leaving her to plummet into the body of crimson ichor once more. Her vision was filled with red as she sank beneath its surface, but this soon descended into pitch black. Before long Emony awoke on the floor of her office in a small pool of blood from here her nose had leaked. Her reflected appearance in the mirror sported the green skin she was born with. As she stood, one final phrase echoed in her mind. Nar lûmp garmadh-ishi. (Do not fall in ruin [do not fail])

The Events Depicted are not common knowledge. 𝓐 𝓟𝓻𝓸𝓹𝓱𝓮𝓽𝓼 𝓣𝓪𝓼𝓴 The priest had been wandering those hazed woods, for many a night had he not seen rest, a part of his blessing from the Angel. To roam the woods and lands, free as a wolf who shepherded the fearful sheep, he had been haunting those roads. Perhaps waiting for someone, or something, such was a mystery upon his muddled mind. However it was upon that travel, did he begin to hear it, the toll of bells. A constant hum and ring that refused to lessen, bearing directions from the west, east, south, and north. It called as one would whistle for a dog, goading him into the woods, to search further and deeper. To take call of his destiny perhaps, for as he ventured further into the woods. So did those trees began to warp and shift, their brown bark blackening, their green leaves quickly falling. Replacing into long arms of a warped and charred wood. Black ash, soon began to fill his lungs, as his feet sunk further into the mud and muck. His gaze began to linger further into the landscape, wrought on by the blessing, the truth! For in the distance, did he see it, the long dark towers that rose from the ground like obsidian obelisks. How grand they where, how ruinous, a true depiction of the end wrought from truth of his prayer. In the distance, enwreathed in flames, was there a brilliant mote of light. A tree, akin to the Ashwoods of the north, enwreathed in brilliant hues of orange and red. Like a Moth to flame, did the man begin to make his way forward. Fear clung to his soul, yet more importantly, did his zealousness trump that emotion. For he was in the domain of the dark, the shadow. He was granted a sight of the days to come, and so with every fiber of his being, would he force himself to draw nearer. "All converges into one. One, converges into all. Time fades, time intertwines. The flesh of wood, the flesh of man, the flesh of lion. To grant my vessel" "Devoted. Defying of the Deific. Break the Chains. Grant my Vessel" The words came from the ground, the earth, the tree. Like a choir, it rang through his psyche like an ever persistent hymn. Feelings long since held, returning, as he remembered his first encounter with the choir. So, did he stare at the tree, frantic words exited from his scarred maw. "Who are you?" The thing of yore almost seemed to twist and bend towards the man, the priest, the Blackfinger! In its many bodied tone, did it answer that question, with a truth. A testament to its being and holiness. "I am the first, I am the last. The eternal flame is snuffed when I have burnt to ash." The mans eyes, those of a gray hue currently, bore witness to what he had only though to see in visions. "The Eldar Flame?" Its silence spoke volumes, before that choir grew in volume. Spreading its faith, its truth and goal, to the man in front of it. "To show the dreams of the eternal mass, one shall grant my vessel. To rebirth beyond the memories of the world. To birth upon the flesh of the descendants, to grant clarity, to grant timelessness. To grant, all." "Devote to the breaking of chains, and all shall be revealed." Then did it give one last sermon, one last gospel for the prophet of the tower to bask in. Though as it did, a gnarled branch would extend forth, in doing so would it drop. Creating his crook, his guide in a sense, for the flock. "The Husk of the Aspects. To meld at my place of rebirth. To then fuse a lion into the flesh of my tree, shall awaken my roots to flow through wherever I stand. To break through the constraints of mortality. to grant you guidance." Slowly did he lower himself down, amongst the muck and mud, did he find that branch of gnarled make and eldritch runes. His fingers, gracing over its design, before the leather clad digits poked at the pointed stake. His head merely nodding as he saw such things, before his gaze looked to the Eldar Flame, to the one that had guided him. "Then so shall it be done" Upon such utterances, did the trees and choir grow, almost in glee. His head thrumming and mind breaking, as he felt his head hit the tough road. He was there, perhaps minutes, hours, days even. Yet upon him standing, did he find within his grasp, that occult branch. His staff, his crook, his guide for the lost sheep. So, did he begin to walk, and walk, and walk! Until his feet grew blisters, and his skin grew pale and pallid. Until the dyes of his hair fell through, and the shock of silver was made clear again. Through turmoil and travel, did he bear semblance once more to his true visage. The one that was dead, yet not, the one that had learned all he needed. The one that had failed his Kingdom and Lordship. Yet despite it all, did he travel, far and fast, until he found the blackened keep. His hands going to those iron gates, no longer as merely a man, but instead as the Ashen Prophet

ooc WARNING The two following parts (introduction and summary) were written in a rush. They have grammatical and vocabulary issues and are kind of derpy and trolly. I regret nothing. Introduction Wouldn't a paladir be very overpowered for this server? Of course it would but they are actually very different. See the summary or the lore itself for further details on how it will be balanced and what it actually does. Or read the lore. Why are there so many parts in this? What else does the lore include? I decided to make this more or less like a novel/book instead of the usual blunt pile of information. It's part can be read on it's own and more or less, all of them act like examples or provide information. But above all they give a taste of the roleplay I intend to bring with this spheres. If you choose to read the summary I will explain certain parts as some were made as examples of how the visions of the stars would work. The lore also includes some stories about the old Tarusian kingdom and lots of information about the plant phegaryon. What is this plant phegaryon? Why did you put it here if it does not requires acceptance, like all plant lore? 1.It is the sacred plant of Morighaen and is linked with the spheres. More is explained in the part I need to pm to the Lore Masters. 2. It makes more interesting the lore. Who is this Letholdus? What does his have to do with anything? Letholdus is the man who lived back in the Tarusian era and found the spheres and the phegaryon. By revealing his story you learn the lore about the spheres and have a nice read. I have more questions! Then read the summary, which again is question/answers or read the lore itself. If you still are not satisfied, ask me. I do not bite. A lot. Summary The Tale of Letholdus Prologue Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6