
A deeply mythic and historical realm where the diverse Free Peoples must set aside centuries of grievances to unite against the creeping blight of the Ashen King. Magic here is not flashy or common; it is subtle, ancient, tied to the songs of creation, and it is slowly fading from the world as the age of mortals begins.
Ancient magic is tied to the spirit of the land. As the world ages, magic becomes weaker, rarer, and more melancholic. Artifacts forged in the old days cannot be replicated.
Evil is not just a moral choice; it is a physical blight. Creatures or mortals exposed to the Ashen King's dark artifacts will slowly become twisted, paranoid, and physically deformed.
Oaths sworn on blood, ancestral names, or sacred landmarks are woven into the fabric of fate. Oathbreakers are pursued by restless spirits and terrible misfortune.
Every living thing, and many ancient unliving things, have a True Name in the Old Tongue. Knowing a True Name grants absolute command over that entity.
Immortal, ethereal, and attuned to the natural world. They possess innate grace and sorrow, preparing to leave the mortal shores as their era ends.
Gruff, fiercely loyal, and unparalleled craftsmen who carve their domains deep within mountains. They are highly resistant to magic but susceptible to gold-greed.
Short-lived but wildly ambitious and numerous. They are easily corrupted by promises of power, yet capable of immense heroism and leadership.
Diminutive, barefooted agrarians who possess a startling, quiet resilience to dark magic and a deep love of comfort.
Twisted, corrupted mockeries of the Free Peoples bred in the mud and ash of the east. They serve the shadow through fear and malice.
The last great sanctuary of the Firstborn. It is a breathtaking city woven directly into the branches of colossal, glowing silver trees, hidden deep within an enchanted valley.
A subterranean kingdom of immense, geometric stone halls lit by bioluminescent moss. Now mostly abandoned, echoing with the memories of a fallen dwarven empire and the horrors that sleep below.
A desolate, volcanic plateau in the east where the sky is permanently choked with black smog. The seat of the Ashen King's power, patrolled by twisted, corrupted beasts.
Rolling green hills, quiet farmlands, and cozy subterranean homes. The inhabitants care little for the grand wars of the tall folk, preferring good food and simple peace.
Crumbling stone monoliths that once bordered the kingdoms of Men. They are now haunted by wraiths and serve as grim reminders of fallen glory.
Year 1
The Great Song — The creator deities sing the world into existence. The Firstborn awaken beneath a star-filled sky before the sun or moon are forged.
Year 3000
The Forging of the Artifacts — The master smiths of the Stout Folk, aided by deceitful whispers of the Shadow, forge powerful crowns of dominion.
Year 120
The Fall of the High Kingdom — The greatest kingdom of Men is corrupted from within and sinks beneath the western ocean in a divine cataclysm.
Year 1054
The Last Alliance — Elves and Men unite in a desperate siege against the Ashen King, temporarily defeating him by shattering his dark artifact.
Present Day
The Shadow Lingers — Rumors spread that the Ashen King was not fully destroyed. Wraiths gather in the east, and the Free Peoples are fractured and unprepared.