Atheran Lore Tomes

Following the transition from Thales to the new realm of Athera, various literary works scattered around the land which gave insight into Athera's past were discovered by the settling descendants. These works are made public and are shown below.

A Mysterious Tome

Scribed from the last words of Urangoi Ballenz, fifth descendant of Urguan’s generations. “I am stuck. I ventured too deep into the coil of the Motley Ravine, and after a wrong turn in one of the abandoned mines I suppose I was knocked out. I’ve awoken to be affixed to a wall of some gooey, thick sludge. It binds me to wall, but luckily I have my journal wedged beside me, and close enough to write on. Nearby I hear a woman, I can barely make out her lectures, but it sounds like she is preaching in a far off cavern… I fear for my life here.” Deep underground the ridges of the Motley Ravine lay a muddied labyrinth, marbled in stone and the hardened byproduct of ant-like construction. Riddling the maze of tunnels and crevices once scuttled swarms of uncountable hordes, writhing masses of legged, exoskeletal shells and tibia, clusters of wriggling bugs formed out of coxa and spinnerets. With thick armor of biomass from their antennas to their thoraxes, in the pitch abyss roamed the aphids, grand and gargantuan in both number and size.

But now, all have vanished. Not a single critter may be sought scuttling about in those barren halls, decrepit with time’s withering. That being due to collapse. The Deep now only consists of a chamber; the pith. The lifeless bluff of the overworld resides without motion while all of the Aphidylytes are compacted into their own deposits and veins of sand and sediment. But one.

In the core of one mesa’s knoll, wedged down below in a sliver of openness, lies the central crux. It too lies in stillness, but not in death, but in concealed ambush. The ancient Hive Queen rests in unconscious slumber, awaiting the day for excavation of a foolish kind before her automaticly reactive limbs may draw in the prey and feed upon it to revive her, and thus the Hive.

An Odd Poem

The Crumbling Tower

The old King’s daughter, Day by day she waits, Her cheeks ruddy as a rose, Her voice sweet as a lark, She moves with a lilly’s grace, But it is there she waits, In her ivory tower, Passing her days until her prince is to come.

A Scrap of Paper

Thumbleweed the fool, Sitting in his tower, Passing every hour, Searching for the sorcerer's tool,

Thumbleweed the failed, Gazing into his book, Looki— *The scrap has no more writing on it*

• Someone else’s writing appears below*

This, Aldereki, is the poorest work I have seen in years. Your assignment is not even complete. — Iyathir Aereos

Mystic Wanderings

It was the raw and wild duo of earth and natural growth: the Aenguls Cernunnos and Cerridwen. These two incorporeal beings are the patrons and deities of which Druids call upon for influence over nature. With the elven penchant for similar ideals as the Druidic Aspects, the two factions frequently blend. In this, the Druids exist.

A Bloodstained Journal

Day 1: Today I begin my trek to Mount Thahn, the colossal mountain in the centre of the world. It is an intriguing target for scientific study as it is a frozen tundra, yet is surrounded by temperate to hot lands. This is a mystery I shall solve, and which will catapult me to recognition in the guild and that fool Havery will finally see me as a proper rival.

Day 3: Arrived at Mount Thahn. Was rudely thrown out of dwarven city built upon the upper slopes for attempting to enter the Remembrancer’s library. Apparently the dwarves take issue with having their doors broken open with axes, but they shouldn’t lock their knowledge away like that! Not from me, anyway. They can lock it away from Havery all they like.

Day 4: A little prospecting soon deduced why: the mountain stone is rich in thanhium, a heat-absorbing magical ore. The ore has many useful magical properties including use as a power source for enchantments. I will hire some miners at once!

Day 5: Unfortunately, setting up a thanhium mining operation could prove difficult. The dwarves have discovered and claimed the thanhium. All of it. They haven’t actually dug it up, but a foul smelling mountain dwarf informed me at sword point that it’s all theirs. Should I attempt to steal it from under their noses, they’ll likely respond by force of arms. I will search for a place where we could potentially mine the ore without them noticing.

Day 8: I discovered a cavern today. It seemed to warm as I went down, as if the thanhium were… missing. Surely there should be more of it as one goes down? It’s as if it’s already been dug up, but the dwarves live on top of the mountain, not below it. I will venture deeper tomorrow.

Day 9: I discovered a huge door at the end of the cavern. It looks dwarven, but different, like it’s centuries of architectural development ahead. Could the dwarves have developed time travel and invaded the past? I wouldn’t put it past them. That being said, stealing their time machine and claiming it as my own invention… Forget beating Havery, this could send me right to the top!

Day 13: No luck opening the door.

Day 17: Still no luck opening the door. This sure is a low technology door for future dwarves, though...

Day 20: It has occurred to me that the future dwarf theory is, to put it as the orcs would, a load of skah. The door isn’t a future door, it’s an ancient one. Have the dwarves devolved? I could believe that, they must have lost their brilliance with their height. Still no luck opening the door, but I suppose we could tunnel around it. Heard what sounded like people skulking around.

Day 21: This discovery is remarkable. I can’t write it down for fears I will lose these notes and Havery will steal my discovery. We collapsed the tunnel we dug and I will hire a full expedition to loot this place. We need to get out quietly though. The dwarves are onto us. I’ve heard they can be so quiet that they can sne

• The journal stops abruptly here.*

An Ancient Verse

The boarman walked on the mountain high To the altar they built long ago He knew in his heart twas his time to die For the shaman said it was so

But his heart did not race in fear He knew why he must now go Up on the slopes of the mountain high To the altar they built long ago

Sick he was not, nor old in age Barely past his twenty-first year Yet he went to the altar to gods of rage Of flame, fury, fire and fear.

He climbed upon the icy peak The altar lay just ahead It was time to discard this body weak He would die but would not be dead

He carved the circle in frozen mud In the center a dwarven bone He marked the ring with elven blood Intermixed with the thanhic stone

He struck the ring with his ancient spear And the altar lit in voidflame The thanhium burned purple and clear And thus over the mountains it came

Huge white teeth and huge black wings Hellish thunder in flight Archon of terror, devourer of kings The dragon flew through the night

The boarman stood with spear in hand As the mighty beast did near He stood in thanhic ring of flame His heart devoid of fear

The dragon swooped and in one sweep Consumed the boarman whole But this was not sign of boarman weak For this battle was of the soul

The dragon writhed, its mind aflame Two minds fought for control The beast did falter in infinite pain Conquered by boarman’s soul

Victorious he roared with fiery breath His new wings took him to the sky And then he tumbled and fell to his death For boars know not how to fly

A Dusty Tome

The Warped Henge is found far to the west of the human kingdoms. Even to the ancient kings of old, the true purpose of the henge has been entirely a mystery for centuries. Those who dare step under the arches will find themselves relocated spontaneously to another arch.

It is hypothesised by the King’s Arch-Scholar, Adrian Veretz, that the henge was once the home of an ancient magical society of not just mages, but also of druids who seemed, for some inexplicable reason, to cooperate for the purposes of furthering their own intellectual and naturalistic desires— That being said, this theory remains entirely unfounded.

Others, particularly those who have seen it with their own eyes, claim it to be a gift from the Creator himself. A puzzle left for the devout to solve so they might ascend to the seven skies and walk amongst the gods themselves.

An Old Journal Entry

Artorias Thannius: The Impossibility of a Soul Rending Mechanism

17th of Snow’s Maiden, 1324

Reports from the far away lands of Urguan’s Hall tell the tale that the dwarves have begun work on a terrible mechanism they call “The Seal”. While I will not pretend to be one who has studied the brutish and noisy mechanisms of the dwarves I can say with utmost certainty that the power of a soul is not something that the physical mechanisms, which the dwarves create, is capable of interacting with.

Indeed, the notion the the dwarves could harness the power of a soul, when we the mages of Rivel find such a thing impossible with eldritch might is a notion that is so absurd some would say that it is even laughable.

I remind you, those of the Purple Circle that the efforts of the mages Torak Hergardul and Franz Astartes, who studied the nature of the soul for their entire productive lives, led to no remarkable discoveries except the conclusion that the soul is an intangible creation which can not even be influenced by the hand of the arcane.

It is therefore that I, Artorias Thannius, Archmage of the Purple circle hereby recommend that Rivel refrain from acting on the impossible notion that dwarves will be able to harness the power of the soul. Should Rivel act on such a rumor it would simply be heeding the words of fools and madmen.

- Artorias Thannius.

An Aged Parchment

The Outbreak of War: Urguan’s Surprise Attack!

It was on the 2nd of the Grand Harvest in the year of 1332 that Urguan’s Hall sent a trade caravan to Rivel whose arrival was unheralded. The wealth within, upon inspection, was great and so it was the decision of the Purple Circle that the caravans, the dwarves and its contents would be permitted into Rivel so that it would be protected from those who might attempt to plunder and raid the traders.

The traders made their way into the city and the sun set upon Rivel and by nightfall assaulted the gate house. The gate was swiftly taken and the grand gate opened to the dwarven monstrosities known as golems which lumbered into the city. It was then that a great battle took place as arcane clashed with the cantankerous constructs of the vile stout men which tore the very city of Rivel asunder, destroying much of the old quarter. The dwarven assault failed and now Rivel prepares for war against Urguan. I know not how long this war shall take but know that the ire of Rivel is great and the power of the void greater. Beware, dwarves.

A Ragged Letter

We advanced upon the great doors of Urguan's Hall last night to find them sealed entirely. Reports from our spies within the area assured us the dwarves would not seal the door for their strange soul rending machine they call “The Seal” had consumed all but a fraction of the city’s populace, by order of the dwarven government. These informants did tell us that some remained at the gate, a skeleton crew who they believed were to few in number to seal the great door. Evidently, they were wrong for when we arrived we came across a hall which was impenetrable. Those left inside had seemingly prefered to leave themselves to the horrors within, rather than answer to our eldritch might which would bring them justice for their crimes.

Beyond the wall sickening screams were heard for days, and then silence. What brought them their final descent into death remains unknown to us. Was it thirst? Starvation? Or something far more sinister which lurked within.

For days the most powerful of my kindred assaulted the wall with the elements: Fire, earth, wind and water but nothing could break its eternal watch. And so, days later, we left. The war had been won, but the mysteries which lay within the walls had forever been lost.

— Alderiki

A Poem of Myth

The Fabled Forge:

Deep within the dwarven mountains cold, Miles under ancient earth and caverns untold, Lies the ancient dwarven smithy of wealth long lost, A place of dwarven dreams, Into where flow rivers of gold, The ancient smithy an awe to behold, Many a dwarf lost in the caves, Those who found it took the secret to their graves, Know sons of Urguan, Heed these words and take hold, For one day you might find this wealth foretold.

A Shabby Tome

Aldron Festivus was a known apprentice to Ezekiel Cunningham although his power is claimed by many to have exceeded that of his master in many ways. After the massacre of 1183 Aldron is known to have disappeared for 10 years— Though precisely where he went is entirely unknown. Some speculate it was to his master’s training grounds he returned to harness the power which Ezekiel had only begun to comprehend.

In 1194 Aldron returned to prominence where he terrorized elven and human alike— Killing far more than his master ever had. It is rumored he took upon a half-spectral form, where his soul was bound to a far more malevolent and powerful creature than he could ever have been alone which permitted him all manner of eldritch powers including the often sought ability to fly— A power which was much the envy and ire of those benevolent mages and clerics who wished to smite him.

Aldron is known to have been killed by a dwarven order dispatched to kill him early on in the 1210s. What happened to the artifact which powered him is unknown.

A Tattered Diary

• The pages appear to have been damaged by time, only fragments are legible*

1183 Sno…

Ezekiel pur… Order of Nine.

• Tens of pages are unintelligibly damaged*

1183 18th of …

Reforging a soul-ring similar to what which Ezekiel possessed is proving more difficult than anticipated. Only poltergeists remain bound to my will. Time is running out.

• Further pages are damaged*

...8t… 11…

Ide… has come to… m… The appar… Which Eze… bound to his will returned lon… ago. Perhaps a diff… arr… m…

29th of… 1183

My soul appears just as fragile attached to my mortal body as the souls which cling to one another in the spectral beasts known as apparitions. Perhaps I might bind my soul to that collective entirely to manipulate it. Results will be reported.

• Hundreds of pages are unintelligible*

… 1183

It is done.

• There are no more entries in the damaged diary*

An Ominous Poem

The Great Serpent of Earth and Stone:

An unquenchable thirst for earth and stone, It sits down low beneath the soil, Far beyond the mortal’s reach, Wide it may open its vicious maw, Shaking the mountains as it moves, It slithers far off and devours many, Beware the Vermianae, children of mine, For it asks not even a name before it turns dwarven flesh to gore.

A Strange Tale

The Swirling Hill, and the Tale of Sluthery the Slothful

You happen upon a small, crumbling book. Its faded colours look as if they were once colourful and vibrant, implying that it may have been for a child. A simple picture of a snail can be made out on its rotting cover. Within is terrible poetry.

On the inside cover however, there’s some handwriting in ink scribbled in barely-legible cursive.

“I remember you loving this book when you were the size of a pickle, Damni. I hope it gives you a little smile in the coming days, despite the dreadful rhyming.

Much love, your brother, Herbert.

P.S. Don’t stop making your pumpkin pies!”

Upon the next page, the book itself begins.

Far back in the days of the silliest yore, When knights would woo ladies, and fight nothing but boar, There was an old wizard; a white beard to his ankles, His name were Migweed Berleuth-Perrydankles.

Old wizened Migweed were in a slump, Whilst in his chair resting his wrinkly rump. He were tired of all these youngin’s a-many, Rushing about and bothering him a-plenty.

He wanted to set a good example, For all the chil’rens against their rushful debacle. So he scratched his chin, and thunk’d a bunch, And decided instead he’d have some lunch.

And ‘lo, he sat down with a pumpkin pie, And ate his fill with a serving of lye, Then slowly it came from across the old table, A small sloshing snail, most slow and graceful.

“Aha!” Exclaimed Migweed with a grin most cunning. “Ye will be he to send my message a-pummeling, Into the mind of many a young stoat!” The snail, in reply, said nothing of note.

The snail were small, no greater than a mere finger, But on such details Migweed weren’t one to linger. He enchanted his magiks into his pumpkin pies, That any who dined would grow ten times their size!

Migweed fed the snail a piece most fat, And the snail were grown to the size of a cat! But the snail loved the taste, and was the greedy sort, And ate and ate ‘til he were the size of a fort!

Migweed named his fort-snail Sluthery, And rode upon his shell through miles of shrubbery. But at the first town, he met the sum of his fears. He had died during the trip--it had taken ten years!

Not only were size that Sluthery did gain, But also did grow his sluggish snail-brain. And what did he ask the scared townsfolk within? “Poompkim Poie!” he glubbled with a grin.

Town after town did he demand of pie, And fatter he grew as years went by. Until one day he felt a wee-bit woozy. So he found a nice field, and had himself a snoozy.

But this snooze were nary a quiet little matter, He’s yet to wake up, and not getting any fatter! Plants and trees grew while he was so still. His shell is bright green! He has become a hill!

So ends the tale of Sluthery the Slothful. But, sweet reader, always be mindful; Grow no pumpkins, those who would tempt fate, Or you may find him sloshing towards -your- gate!

A Frayed Tome

The Order of Nine: A History

The Order of Nine was founded in the year 1143 to combat what was apparently an increase in the number of attacks by those who practiced Dark Magics. Although the reason for this increase is unknown it is known the Order was led by Ser Maximillion Vegasus and the High Priest Paul Rutherford.

In the year 1144 the Order began its formal duty and purged 27 suspected heretics and practitioners of Dark Magic in that one year. Their methods, while unorthodox appeared to yield results for this was the greatest number of dark practitioners purged in many years— Scholars of later years have suspected this to be the result of inaccurate detection methods.

The Order is known to have come to an abrupt end on 1302 when they attempted to purge Ezekiel Cunningham— Known for at least 2 magical massacres in the first half of the decade of 1290. The Order is known to have sealed the Apparition which arose from the Massacre of 1183 which killed the Cleric which undertook the task. Thus the pillar was only sealed in gold and the apparition maimed and not banished proper.

Although he was eventually killed and sealed within his cavern home as a tomb, eight of the order perished within, and the ninth, he who oft created wards, spoke not of that day or the location of the tomb afterwards..

The location of the final resting place of the Missing Eight remains unknown to this day. However, it is said that the ring which gave Ezekiel power still rests there to this day. It is also rumored that he who acquires the ring and brings it to the southern elven isle on the eve of a new year will gain the power of Ezekiel.

A Frail Tome

In the year of 1183 the practitioner of the dark arts known as Ezekiel Cunningham and his apprentice, Aldron Festivus, struck and killed individuals in a settlement near Fiandria. Curiously there are reports of the mage manipulating a dark spectral force at other attacks— Though details on this creature are unknown.

Little is known precisely of what happened on that day as there was not a sole survivor of the massacre. In the beginning of 1183, the Order of Nine was sent to investigate the reports of the massacre. All that was found within the town were the bodies of the dead and a newly formed apparition pillar within a nearby cave. The battle to seal the pillar which ensued left Ser Rowyn Villinus, the then most powerful cleric of the order, dead. The apparition is known to have been maimed and sealed within its pillar.

A Ruined Book

[A filthy mark covers most of the page, but some words at the bottom of the page may still be read.] “…-found the strange ring half-buried in the earth. The pale ones had me and a few others dig it up. I am glad. It gave me a chance to be around her. The others find the pale ones strange, but their beauty couldn’t have escaped all, surely?”

• Multiple pages of rotting paper.*

[The page is caked with mud, but there are a few pieces of writing intact] She looks at me like I’m nothing, bu-... . .. … eyes are so beautiful, and her voice is melodic to me. Oh Father help me. I love her so. She will n- … . .ha… . of my kind. My heart is foolish. Sweet Larihei, all I wish for is y-... … .att… Is t-... much to ask?

• There are numerous other pages torn and ruined, before what appears to be the final few pages.*

She had said they would be back by now, but they haven’t returned. The other s-... . … . leaving. I’m the last of the ones still here. There are still supplies… .. .i….th… other ho….. but nothing important. They wouldn’t leave me. She wouldn’t leave me. She smiled at me. Please Father, let her still be coming.

I’ll wait, regardless. I won’t leave until I need to. I still have wine. It’ll pass the…

• There are no more entries.*

A Rotting Journal

• You stumble across a rotting journal wedged within the shattered ribcage of a charred skeleton. On the face of the book, the name “Migueleo Brackenankle” is written with faded gold type.*

[Unreadable mess, obscured further by large, copper stains] -rst tests have begun well, with very little damage I can see. Sadly, it appears that the fly has become lethargic and tired. I expect it to kark it soon. Bloody quitters, these insects. Reminds me of my days in that pisshole academy. I reckon I just need to refine the process with the swamp-lilies, and then place the r--- [The page is too mottled with ancient blood to make out]

[Several pages on, faded words can finally be made out.] --1276, second month of testing. Khorvad’s arse is less wretched than the stench that’s lingering from that bastard fly. Need to bury it further away. Though, at least the smell’s keeping those crows away from my pumpkins.

• Upon the next page, there is an undated page in rushed writing.*

Success at last! I just needed to remove the swamp-lilies entirely from the equation! Don’t even remember why I needed them in the first place...

• The writing appears to become less legible leading to the end of the sentence, but then returns to its original rushed form.*

My old mate from the academy made me one of his pumpkin pies while visiting, and then I see this fat little snail just chomping away during dinner. Hadn’t tried one before for the concoction, so I tipped it on the pie for the little bugger to eat! Bastard grew to the size of a dog, and he’s still energetic! Going to brew up a fresh batch, then me and “Sluthery” are going to those limp-wristed academists and shoving it right in their fat, fu-

• There appears to be a violent, thick pen-stroke, before the rest of the page is covered in a deep coppery stain. There are no more entries.*

A Sinister Note

• The pages seem to be written in a near-illegible scrawl.*

Bark of iron, deep in the south. The rip in existance that we must embrace! It gives gifts! It gives wonderful gifts to those who serve! A blade most perfect! So perfect that it does not belong in our world! All it takes is a few drops of blood! A few drips from your wrist, and it shall awaken! And when it does, it will look upon you with such favour! The sweetest favour! It is an impossible thing, but it is a wonderful thing! Seek it out, brothers and sisters!

Seek it seek it seek it deep in the south, for amongst the Islands of the Ankulos Peninsula, it waits for others to appreciate its luminescence!

• A second piece of writing by a different hand is scribbled below the first.*

Do not trust it. The tree is evil in a way that I cannot comprehend. Take only its first gift, and then never return.

• A third piece of writing by yet another hand is scrawled at the very bottom of the page.*

Take nothing from it! It wants only to consume! It consumes everything! It will consume you! I can't get it off me I can't get it off me I can't get it out of me only flame will end it BurN th TrEE

• The writing trails off to nothing.*

An Ebony Volume

Perilous Locations: Volume IV

The Forest of Adrallan

The Forest of Adrallan is always eerily silent. There is clearly life there, but no birdsong tweets through the trees, there is no rustle of animals and the trickle of water in the streams always seems somewhat muted. Despite the apparent tranquility, one is always slightly uncomfortable beneath its canopy.

The Forest is a dangerous place. It is a place of magic, almost like a maze. It is littered with magical disturbances that teleport people across the forest, making it incredibly easy to get lost. The longer one stays in the forest, the longer one feels their memory slipping, their identity fading away. Why did I come here? Who am I? I don’t need to leave this forest, I can just stay here, sit down on this rock, and not move…

A Jade Volume

Perilous Locations: Volume II

Embermoor

Embermoor is a place where the immaterial boundary between our world and the others is at its thinnest. It was the site of an ancient magical catastrophe and the swamp has forever been a place where magic is both strong and dangerous. Elemental spirits can take physical form, and demonic creatures skitter between the trees. It is the one place in Athera where just about any eldritch horror can appear, stalking beneath the swampy canopy. Wisps of magical energy float lazily through the air, giving the area its name.

In the centre of the Embermoor is an ancient ritual site, a nexus of dark magic. Historically, it was the meeting ground for ancient practitioners of the Dark Arts. Here, they attempted to pool their insidious and powerful magics to force a Daemon to manifest so they might enslave its power for their own uses. This went catastrophically wrong: the dark mages that “survived” now walk Embermoor as sinister spectral creatures and twisted horrors, and it is thought what remains of the daemon is what has left Embermoor in its beyond unnatural state.

In Embermoor, ghosts find they have the ability to physically interact in a way they cannot in the rest of the land. They can touch the world for Embermoor is not entirely part of our plane. However, it is no paradise for them: Embermoor is a very dangerous place where none should linger for long.

A Burgundy Volume

The world's Mysteries: Volume III

The orcs do not build to last the centuries. THey know that they could be driven from their camps any day, and their wooden huts are designed to be both built, repaired and torn down as quickly as possible. Having structures future civilisations can uncover, caked in dust, doesn't do THEM any good.

The orcs of ancient times were nomadic and next to nothing remains save for a few carvings on cave walls. Only one artifact of the ancient orcs remains, a stone henge used as a meeting ground between ancient orcish clans.

Why the henge would be built there instead of anywhere else was unclear at first, but the significance became clear once explored. The place is a proving ground; nearby lies a deep cave filled with traps and hostile spiders. At its deepest depth lies the cave of a great mother Scaddernak, far too bif to ever leave the cave and tended to by her young. This creature must be ancient, hundreds if not thousands of years old. It isn't clear if the orcs worshipped this Scaddernak before the time of Krug, sought to prevent its escape, or used the cave as a proving ground, a trial of strength and skill to descend into the cave and recover the creature's eggs, then escape alive.

A Byzantium Volume

The World's Mysteries: Volume IX - Part 1

Elven Word Altars

For years scholars have puzzled over the few remaining writings in elven of the ancient elves. In ancient times the elven tongue was almost exclusively spoken by the elves and yet over time, inexplicably to scholars, the language was to become outlawed.

Who imposed this ban or taboo on the language is unknown and it is particularly remarkable given the long lives of elves which would presumably slow the change of language tremendously. Some scholars have postulated that the words held ancient and eldritch power, yet no proof has ever come forth to prove such a notion.

In truth elven, was indeed a powerful tool for the elves— Yet only in particular circumstances. Just as the dwarves were gifted the ancient Dwarven Anvils by Aenguls, it is said that the elves were gifted Word Altars for the protection of the elves.

These powerful relics were placed in the safekeeping of the great elven druids. With their druidic powers aided by the Aspects and the power of the ancient elven language the druids held mastery over the most powerful relic ever known to the elves.

A Violet Volume

The World's Mysteries: Volume IX- Part 2

-Continued from Part 1-

The purpose of the Word Altars was two fold: With the altars and the language of the elves, a druid could commune with the entire forest at once, literally knowing the thoughts and feelings of every animal and plant withing their woodland domain. The Second purpose was perhaps far more dangerous; through the use of their connection to the Aspects, the Word Altars and ancient elven the druids could forge, or rather in their case "grow", sentient plants of size and stature which would slumber deep in the forests until a time of need.

But what of the descendents who found themselves in Aegis? Alas, it is said in ancient times that it was Malin who commanded the altars be sent to the East with a small contingent of elves to guard them until their deaths. It is believed that, after the first great war with Iblees, he himself feared their power should they have come under his control. Thus the elves of Aegis, over time, would forget their tongue as it served them no purpose... and the story of the altars would be list to time.

Yet the altars were not to have the longevity that the Dwarven Anvils did- they would meet their demise in time. It was fear which cause the demise of the altars, for in the year 1200 the leader of the elves was to hear of a great temple in the West and the wrath of a being- a story foretold by those who brought the altars from Malin's land. The elves, controlled by fear and the words of Malin, vowed that the great Word Altars were too powerful to control for those who would harm their kin, and thus they were destroyed.

A Dirty Book

The Stonekin

The Descendants of Urguan were a hearty people, sturdy in form and ideology. With this, of course, came those who were a tad too zealous for their own good. With a culture and lifestyle idolizing the mountains and rock, there came a group almost religious about their love and adoration for the peaks of stone that were about the lands. With this exaltation for the strong and grand, this group turned more passionate than expected; the loose collection of arcane artists within the cult gathered with the most devout and ardent to the order of Faith of the Mountain leaders with an idea that would further their works, believed to bring them to divination. They tried to make the perfect being… And after several decades of experimentation and testing, something was made.

The Faith of the Mountain produced numerous of these creations after their original birth, seen as the most true and correct embodiments of their emotions for the glorious mounds of compact perfection.

These supposed ‘supreme beings’ were far from the truth, but anyone may think what they will. In truth, these men made one of the first collaborations of the natural elements into an entity; an elemental. These beings are the true works of stone, masonry in its most primal and gruttal fashion. Morphs shaped of pebbles to boulders, these sentience lacking things were none the less exalted and glorified, called gods and avatars for their creative powers, able to format all things earthen. Although, they were correct in partial; they represented the mountains, the rocks, the unmoving and forever tough. And it was so, the Stonekin outlasted the children of Urguan. To this day they remain in the last shrine of the Faith of the Mountain, home the last trio of Stonekin, the beings forever locked away in their own tor, a crag made just for these three men of gem and subsurface grain.