Chaos stone

The Nagharian Citadel: Built on the immutable pedestals of four sovereigns, intertwined in the Compass Rose Alliance.

The king of the Elves- Nameny as East Guardian;

[Nameny image]

"Enclosed in a heap of books and maps, in the confines of Graturan, Nameny ascended to the top of the highest tree, from where he observed the world with a comprehensive vision. From above, he wondered how to free the world from shadows, imprisoned in a tenebrous darkness. The Elf King, in his simple posture and adorned in robes woven by his own hands, often pondered the possibility of protecting his kingdom alone. However, his discerning mind recognized the impracticality of such an undertaking, even for a being of his elven lineage." - Curiosities of the Elven forests XV

The king of the Grafois- Hulnerito as Southern Guardian;

[Hulnerito image]

"The widest mountains could not hide the long wings of his Dragon, the most resistant stones could not withstand the arduous and devastating fire, but the most beautiful lady could contain the beast, not the dragon, but Hulnerito" –Tales of winged knight XI

The king of the Dwarves- Nemor as West Guardian;

[Nemor image]

"From abyssal depths, where shadows prevail and sepulchral silence reigns, a titanic roar echoed, a rumble of cosmic proportions that tore the fabric of stillness. From the stony bowels of Belbolto, a colossal figure rose, with slow and inexorable steps, bathed in the twilight rays that outlined its imposing silhouette against the red-hot sky. It was Namor, the Son of Stone, bursting from the womb with the brute strength of a rising titan." - Biography of the son of the stone

And finally the Guardian of the North, represented by the king of Humans and Kings of Kings, Nafilos, leader of the Compass Rose Alliance.

[Nafilos image]

"Imprisoned in a labyrinth of shadows and sanity in his dismal chamber, Nafilos, under the yoke of madness, was lashed by ethereal voices and dark thoughts that drummed in his ears in the burning gloom, while the clairvoyance of the long nights amplified the torment in his core, blinding his eyes with the overwhelming force of his own reflections, transforming him into a martyr of his own mind on a stage of endless torment." – Tales of Ascension.

The monarch Naphilos, an imposing figure draped in crimson silk robes adorned with sparkling jewels, dedicated long hours to contemplating a stone of enigmatic nature. The possession of this mystical object, imbued with a great and obscure power, consumed him in a whirlwind of reflections and concerns, he dedicated himself to an extensive examination of the stone, pondering its secrets with slow meticulousness. His mind, a maze of intricate thoughts, delved into the depths of the enigma that lay before him.

The royal majesty, aware of the extraordinary and enigmatic power that the stone held, was tormented by the absence of his expeditionary groups, all of whom were sent on missions to unravel the mysteries of the artifact. The monarch's mind, like a canvas painted with paints dried by time, outlined an audacious plan, shrouded in veils of secrecy and expectation.

The King, a figure shrouded in enigmas and contradictions, boasted a self-perception of unshakable virility, intertwined, however, with a deep melancholy. This duality, evident in the eyes of his subjects, contrasted with the image that the monarch projected. Amidst the festivities, the King indulged in boasting about past achievements, almost begging for applause and recognition. This incessant search for external validation revealed a man of deep curiosity, eager for attention and admiration.

The four kingdoms, immersed in a state of profound peace that would arouse the envy of any nation, were about to have their serenity shaken by the disturbing force of Naphilos. The stone, imbued with a mysterious and unfathomable power, threw the individual's mind into a whirlwind of haunting doubts, doubts that seemed to transcend the limits of human knowledge and challenge the very understanding of reality. Naphilos, captive by this torrent of questions, believed that the search for answers was a futile effort, doomed to failure.

The truth, in his view, lay in an unfathomable abyss, inaccessible to mortals and immune to any attempt at deciphering. Guided by this dark conviction, he prepared to act, without the slightest intention of adhering to the rules of logic or reason.

In every corner of the room, imposing Nagharan guards took position, their watchful gazes and rigid posture projecting an aura of impenetrability. The same stoic figures guarded the imposing doors of the grand castle, ensuring that no intruders disturbed the solemnity of the moment. With every breath of wind or animal noise that echoed through the corridors, the veins of those present trembled in an uneven rhythm, betraying the nervousness that took over their hearts. According to reports from the servants, the debate that took place inside the castle lasted for a longer period of time than they knew how to count, such was its duration.

"Countless hours by countless counters, soldiers covered in highly polished metal that swayed like cedar fabrics, had they been touched by the gods and seen the future of that endless debate? " – Hall of Truth: The judgment seats.

The last rays of the sun, once splendid and radiant, now faded into a melancholic torpor, giving way to the inexorable rise of night. Over the distant mountains, a veil of impenetrable darkness falls, like a funeral pall covering the face of the earth. The shadows, once shy and furtive, take on a denser and more palpable form, expanding like a dark tide that invades every corner of Lorimpius. Light, a symbol of life and hope, gives way to the tyranny of darkness, which reigns supreme over the sleeping landscape.

Lorimpius, an astonishing monument to human ingenuity, stands majestically like a beacon of civilization amidst a wild panorama. Its capital, strategically built inside an artificial lake with deadly toxic waters, defies the laws of nature and logic, boasting a unique beauty that transcends the limits of conventionality.

Although the lake that surrounds it inspires terror in the hearts of the bravest, its presence does not diminish the splendor of the city. On the contrary, under the faint light of the moon, when the rustling of the leaves intertwines with the silence of the empty streets, Lorimpius transforms into a haven of peace and serenity.

However, this stillness is just a prelude to the spectacle that unfolds at dawn.

The first ray of sun, shyly emerging on the irregular horizon, announces the awakening of a vibrant and pulsating city. The center of Lorimpius, where commerce flourishes, is dominated by the Mercado Vertical, a colossal structure that defies gravity, with its stacks of shops piling on top of one another in an almost magical balance.

A different day, a harbinger of unusual events, finally appeared on the horizon, after endless hours that followed the arrival of the kings. The heart of the city, once pulsating with life and energy, now lay in a sepulchral silence, as if it had ceased

to beat forever. A blanket of profound stillness fell over the streets, breaking the usual bustle of merchants and the hubbub of passersby. Doors, balconies and tents, once symbols of commercial vibrancy and social life, remained closed, as if mourning the absence of the city's soul.

Those who dared to venture into the deserted streets on that dismal day were overcome by an overwhelming feeling of loneliness. The houses, hermetically sealed, seemed to have their doors painted on the walls, as if the life inside them had been extinguished. Doubts and uncertainties hung in the air, thick and heavy, like storm clouds about to break apart in a deluge of revealing words.

With the radiant Sun adorning the firmament, rising majestically on the first morning following the historic meeting, the square adjacent to Gaarak Castle was filled with a vibrant crowd. There, under the imposing shadow of the fortress, Elves, Humans and Grafols gathered, their faces marked by a mixture of anxiety and expectation. For the most discerning eyes, it was also possible to distinguish the presence of Dwarves, camouflaged among the human mass, their taciturn faces reflecting the gravity of the moment.

The atmosphere was thick with anticipation of the King's speech, as he prepared to speak and reveal the fate of his people. The murmurs of the crowd, like a rough sea, reflected the uncertainty that hung in the air. The meeting, called with such urgency, promised to bring with it irreversible changes, and each individual present wondered what the future held.

And then, as if arising from a prophetic dream, Naphilos emerged from the depths of the reddish curtains, his figure wrapped in a cloak of mystery and solemnity. The prominent ears and slightly aquiline nose gave him a singular appearance, accentuated by the thinness of his face. His scraggly beard and long, dark hair, bearing the hue of night as did his skin, gave him the appearance of a hermit who had long since distanced himself from the civilized world.

Unlike the King, who stood in full light, the other monarchs preferred to remain in the shadows, their silhouettes silhouetted against the reddish fabric like ghosts on a macabre stage. Naphilos, with slow and hesitant steps, walked towards the edge of the eaves, his hoarse and hesitant voice echoing in the silence of the room. Fighting his throat, he struggled to make a brief speech, each word pronounced with immense difficulty.

-This day will be remembered for generations. – Naphilos pauses briefly to draw his pointed sword and point it at the citadel. – After much conversation, we came to a conclusion, today we will banish from the four kingdoms, those called thieves, murderers and any type of scum from our kingdoms, and thus we will cleanse our Nagharian banishing them to "The unknown" – Lowers his sword again , having difficulty placing it in its sheath.

—This day will be written in the annals of history, to be eternally remembered by generations to come! - proclaimed Naphilos, his voice full of solemnity and firmness. With a theatrical gesture, he raised his pointed sword, the blade gleaming in the sunlight like a ruthless symbol of justice. His eyes swept across the crowd gathered before the citadel, conveying the message that the time of tolerance had come to an end.

—After arduous deliberations and heated debates, the Nagharian Kings have reached an irrevocable verdict! - He continued, his voice echoing across the square.

—Those who give themselves over to villainy and disregard for laws, those who call themselves thieves, murderers and the scum of our society, will be banished from our kingdoms forever!

A murmur of apprehension ran through the crowd. Naphilos' words were like lightning in the midst of a storm, announcing a radical change in the social order. Banishment to "The Unknown" meant exile to inhospitable and dangerous lands, a cruel and unforgiving fate reserved for the worst elements of society.

With a deliberate movement, Naphilos brought his sword down, the tip of the blade touching the ground with a metallic clang that resonated in the silence. His breathing was heavy, the effort of the proclamation evident on his weathered face. With difficulty, he sheathed his sword, his tired muscles protesting the movement.

Once again, the future, this enigmatic and fickle entity, offers us a demonstration of its capricious nature. The words that were once whispered in dark corners now rise with irresistible force, their echoes reverberating to the furthest reaches.

In the dim light of the curtains, three figures stood out, their faces bathed in a reddish light that transcended over them. Their searching gazes swept the gathered crowd below, capturing every nuance of emotion, every tremor of fear in their eyes. They were

Like specters emerging from the depths, silent witnesses of the anguish that gripped those present.

As the mob churned in a sea of uncertainty, the royal figures remained motionless, their silhouettes silhouetted against the crimson fabric like hieroglyphs in an ancient temple.

Under the yoke of the Nagharian kings, the fragment of immeasurable power, once a symbol of curiosity and fascination, became corrupted into an instrument of unimaginable destruction, casting the kingdom into an abyss of despair, transforming into a ruthless weapon against its own people. that he swore to protect.

In a brief period of time, marked by incalculable afflictions, a line of indefinite length materialized, made up of individuals from different corners of Nagharian, compelled, against their will, to join it. With each step taken, each stage completed, they inexorably approached the inexorable end, an ineluctable destiny that appeared like a black and implacable horizon.

The Nocturis Mages, guardians of archaic knowledge and masters of functional locomotion, took on the arduous task of overseeing the portals, erected deep in the eastern quadrant of Lorimpius.

A Stone of colossal power was embedded in the ground, serving as the fulcrum for opening the portal. Around it, three rings adorned with magical runes of immense power were arranged, with the purpose of controlling the intense flows of energy emanating from the crystal.

Above the Stone, a wide field of pulsating energy, with blue-purple nuances, extended for more than five meters, resembling a crack in reality itself. Through this mystical opening, only the hypnotic ballet of colors was visible, rarely interrupted by beautiful and harmless rays that burst into the outside world.

The rock, scene of atrocities and symbol of tyranny, bore the nickname Pedra do Purge during this dark period.

It is important to emphasize that the individuals who marched inexorably towards their execution were not restricted to bandits and murderers. Among them were the sick, the unfortunate and, above all, those who dared to challenge the oppressive power of their tormentors.

At the beginning, as the line dragged at a glacial pace, the environment reverberated with a terrifying symphony, a macabre composition where the main instruments were the lament of the condemned, the screams that echoed through the crowd, the steel whipping the rebels and the chains that sang in unison, in a high and rhythmic tone.

This atypical composition, a concert of cruelty and suffering, unfolded at every step, as the condemned, one by one, were swallowed by the dark blue portal, a mysterious enigma that led them into the unknown.

[View]

And so, day after day, the melody of death repeated itself, weaving a cloak of terror over the crowd.

[View]

"…The eyes of the people in their windows were as deep as the holes made by royal spears, blood flowed through the city, the smell of red paint emanated from within the city, my memory tries to remember exactly, but it eats away at me …" – Red Lorimpius

[View]

Shortly after the end of the tribulations, Naphilos promulgated a decree that established the foundation of a new era, the Ascension. To symbolize this break with the past, a new calendar was established, marking the beginning of a new beginning. From that crucial moment, the kingdom entered Ascension 1, the First Era, carrying with it the hope of a promising future, free from the shadows that once haunted it.

Cosmic improbability, an ineffable enigma, has become a crucial tool for shaping the present.

Those exiled to distant and unimaginable lands gradually came across a new and disconcerting world, where forms of life and non-life contrasted drastically with everything they had already witnessed.

[Ildrain view]

[Ildrain view]

Paralyzed, in a colossal cluster, they observed the oppressive darkness that enveloped them. However, like rose petals blooming on barren soil, hope, although thorny, blossomed in their hearts.

Thorns of poignant memories and unforgettable feelings permeated this hope, a constant reminder of the past that haunted them.

The planet, in its magnanimity, welcomed outsiders, sparing them from bestial furies or natural disasters in its dark and imposing lands.

Racial intrigues, however, wove their insidious web, dividing the newcomers into distinct groups. The Elves, seeking peace and seclusion, headed north, while the Grafols and humans, united by pragmatic ties, headed east.

In their new refuges, rudimentary but promising, they began the arduous task of reconstruction. Unknown fauna and flora were given names, leaders were chosen, and laws were enacted, marking the beginning of a new era.

The shadow of the past, however, refused to dissipate. The memory of the old life, although desired to be forgotten, persisted in the minds of the exiles, feeding the flame of revenge dormant in their hearts. In the newly erected taverns, far from the chords that narrated romances and adventures, songs echoed that inflamed hatred and a thirst for revenge in the hearts of the exiles.

Time, in its inexorable course, turned the new into the old, and soon the Elves and Grafols were faced with the rise of a new power: the fearsome Orcs.

Initially, a whirlwind of emotions took over the exiles: uproar, chaos and surprise upon discovering that the emerald beasts, as the Orcs were called, dominated their common language.

Led by their imposing king, the invaders were led to the Temple of Blood, an imposing building that stood as a symbol of power and terror.

Beneath the temple's high ceilings, rain fell in torrents, intensifying the frigid atmosphere that hung throughout the vast chambers. On the dull stone floor, hundreds of Orcs remained silent, their gazes filled with expectation and restlessness.

Near the imposing staircase, the Elven and Grafol leaders knelt, their wrists cruelly tied behind their backs. The humiliation was evident, a symbol of defeat and submission in the face of the new dominators.

Beneath the imposing throne of bones, Junnim, the Orc ruler, raised his mighty voice, echoing throughout the vast chambers and inviting newcomers into his domain.

[Junnim view]

With a solemn and authoritative tone, the Orc king spoke the words of welcome:

—Welcome to our world, our master is happy to welcome you.

—Rydric. - Said the leader Grafol, with a firm posture and resonant voice.

—Lorlyn. - Said the Elf leader, following Rydric's example, he uttered his name with elegance and composure, in a show of respect to the Orc.

With a voice filled with power and intimidation, Junnim, the Orc ruler, spoke his words, issuing an ultimatum to the newly arrived leaders.

—Understand. -He proclaimed.

—You now find yourself under the rule of our Ildrain, and here, we are the predators of everything that dwells in it, including you.

In an imposing gesture, the Orc King rose from his throne, slowly descending the staircase towards the leaders. With each step, his strength and grandeur became more evident, reinforcing the message of absolute power he conveyed.

Stopping before the leaders, Junnim fixed his piercing eyes on their faces, intensifying the tension that hung in the air.

—You have two choices. -He declared firmly.

—Die under the steel of our axes or live, swearing loyalty to me and my kingdom.

—Remember. -Continued Junnim. —You will grow and strengthen under my master's tutelage. When the opportune moment arrives, we will march to the Land of Light and destroy everything."

—And now, what do you decide? - Junnim asked, his voice full of expectation and challenge.

With a gesture of submission, the leaders nodded, agreeing to the terms imposed by Junnim, the Orc ruler.

Thus, an alliance pact was sealed, an unequal agreement where the Orcs would exercise absolute dominance over Ildrain, the land of perpetual shadows and icy cold.

Elves and Grafols, once free and proud peoples, now found themselves subjugated, relegated to the status of subjects in a hostile land.

Over the centuries that followed, the exiles adapted to their new reality, molding their customs and traditions to the relentless demands.

Under the relentless pressure of natural selection, the Elves and Grafols, once distinct peoples, embarked on a journey of profound transformation, shaped by the harsh realities of Ildrain.

The Elves, in their search for survival, witnessed a radical metamorphosis in their own bodies. Their skin, once white and smooth, has taken on a gray hue, granting them the ability to camouflage themselves in Ildrain's eternal shadows.

Their nails, once delicate and thin, became rigid and sharp, essential instruments for hunting and defense in a hostile environment.

Elf eyes, adapting to the perpetual darkness, acquired the ability to see at night, a vital gift for survival in this dark world.

In a symbolic act of renunciation of the past, the Elves abandoned their ancestral name, taking on the nickname "Dark Elves", a reflection of the transformation that had shaped them.

[Dark Elves view]

[Dark Elves view]

The Grafols, guided by their deep empathy with the animal world, followed a different path. Gradually, they integrated into the villages of Succubi, enigmatic and fascinating creatures.

In this unusual union, the Grafols experienced an impressive physical metamorphosis. Horns of different sizes and shapes appeared on their bodies, their limbs became hairier and their tails, once the distinguishing mark of their race, disappeared forever.

In a final gesture of breaking with the past, the Grafols abandoned their ancestral name, adopting the name "Endragol", a tribute to the union with the Succubi and the primordial force of nature.

[Endragol view]

"The uproar to the heavens, a grand glow opens in the midst of our forests, the wind roars against us, and we roar against the wind, in the midst of our forests visitors from afar have come to us" – Diary of Lenidrin the Ildraian.