Uncover the truth behind a fractured realm

Nabyri

Nabyri is a master of the arcane, weaving diverse magical disciplines into a seamless flow of power. Her mastery of Spheromancy channels energy into ethereal spheres, letting her store and combine spells with ease. This ancient craft allows her to not only to unleash potent magic at will but also to awaken the arcane potential in her allies, making her an invaluable cornerstone of any team using magic.

The Royal Archives were open to all who looked to expand and enrich their minds. Books, appendices, scrolls, and parchment fill every nook and cranny. Some old as time and others older still. The more exclusive tomes however, were placed behind the Iron Bars of the Holy Library. An area open to none but the highest priests. Such restrictions never stopped her before.

A lone figure roams the twisted shelves and stairs that compose this majestic space. Staring at a stack of scrolls, she can’t help but notice that she’s finally found what she’s been looking for. Wrapped around each of the scrolls is a ribbon, complete with a metal pin, flared wings and an entwined star, the symbol of Divinas.

She removes the ribbon, the ping of the metal pin resonating through the silent aisles and grand ceiling. Someone would have heard, she had to act quickly. Unrolling each of the scrolls one by one, she sees that each is more inscribed with old Asalian than the last. She rushes to decipher them, but finds them to be nothing more than fragments. Another deadend. There would be no answers it seemed. In the distance she could hear a group of high priests rushing up the nearby stairs.

“Who goes there,” they call out, getting closer and closer.

She would have to fight her way out. Her eyes flare and she begins to concentrate, collecting her power as a small wisp of flame that wove itself between her fingers. More than enough to take care of some coddled Divinian priests.

With a whip of her arms, she hurls a fireball, engulfing one of their robes as they round a corner. The other two panic, pushing him to the ground to stifle the flames looking to the attacker. They see her but for a moment. An Umbral. Her blood red eyes, ashen skin, and rippled horns send chills down their spine.

“Demon,” they shout, pelting her with starlight as she runs to the window behind her. Concentrating again, the stones at her feet chip and assimilate around her, forming a hardshell as she lunges through the stained glass.

With a painful crash she lands on the street, the gravel of her temporary armor falling from her as she pulls herself up. The priests at the window begin to ready themselves for another attack. The Umbral mage concentrates again, summoning the water from a nearby trough and rushing it towards the priests.

The priests, knocked back by the violent wave, compose themselves and prepare to counter, only to find the emptiness of the city street below them. Just a small pile of slightly bloodied gravel remained. The truth she sought, would have to be saved for another day.

Kryger Bryk

Kryger is a formidable force, standing as an unyielding shield for his allies. He taunts enemies, forcing them to focus their attacks on him, and diminishing their damage in the process. His Retaliate skill allows him to strike back, dealing damage to those who dare harm him. His most distinctive trait is his Rage. The bloodier the battle, the more unstoppable he becomes, turning the tide with his escalating power

A lone Brunyk sits at the bar of a dimly lit tavern. He draws the last of his cup for a drink, looking down to his hands; scarred from a lifetime of conflict and mercenary work. On one finger is a ring, the face of a bear, the sigil of his clan. Such a long way from the Frozen Bays of the North, a Brunyk stands out amongst the crowd, drawing the attention of some of the less desirable patrons nearby.

“Another round, friend?,” asks the bartender.

Before he can answer, a forked tongue Boernallyean moves to his side.

“New to the city? I can’t help but notice you been stayin here a while, need some work? You Brunyk’s are known for that aren’t you? Muscle and all that.”

The Brunyk stares at the bottles against the bar, seeming to ignore the question. As the candlelight paints the room, the Boernallyean notices the dull features and worn skin of the Brunic before him.

“Well, I’ll be…a gray beard…”

With a slow turn of his hooded head, the Brunyk’s icy blue eyes pierce through the Boernallyean, seeming to go straight through him.

“Oh didn’t mean to offend grandad, it’s just, time’s are tough you see, and that little ring of yours, well, it looks like it could really help us out.”

From behind, a group of other undesirables begin to surround the old Brunyk. Before their weapons fully leave their sheathes, the old man smashes the thugs down like a rogue wave on an unsuspecting ship. Suddenly, the beaten bodies of the group smack hard against the floor. The old Brunyk bends down to the  Boernallyean as he writhes in pain, reaching into his pocket and alleviating him of his gold. He turns to face the bar again, this time sitting, the creaking of the wooden stool layers itself atop the groans of the men. Looking up at the bartender, he places the newly acquired gold on the counter.

“Another round then,” says the bartender.

Loriah Lucah

Loriah excels in the arts of Divinian magic, providing support to her allies. Her healing abilities swiftly mend wounds and restore vitality. By Storing Vigor, she also harnesses the energy from her combos, conserving it for future turns. Loriah’s unique talent, Harmony, allows her to bless her companions with potent buffs, or manipulate the Fate deck, adding cards that tip the scales of destiny in her friend’s favor.

A thin, light haired man looks down from his podium.

“And let it be known, that with certainty, without Divinas, the Decennary of Stars would have ravaged the lands even to this day. Now if you can turn to page…”

As the priest prattles on with his lesson, he notices one of his students can’t help but find herself enthralled by something beyond the window.

“Priestess,” shouts the priest.

Startled, the young girl sits upright, throwing herself into her notebook, writing feverishly.

“Now then, Divinas is a gift to be shared…” continues the priest.

The young girl however stares out of the corner of her eye. Outside is a child, stricken with dirt, thin, and sleeping against a closed door.

“Pssst,” calls another priestess behind her. She leans back, as students do when receiving a secret message.

“Are you really going,” asks the other priestess.

With a nod of her golden locked head, the other priestess scoffs.

“You’re insane you know? They’ll never let you go.”

The priestess looks out the window again at the homeless child. That night, when the bishops and cardinals began to settle in for the evening, the young priestess slips out of the window of her dormitory, taking to the streets of Boernallye one step at a time.

She nears the place where she saw the child earlier, only to find him still shivering on the steps of a neighboring Inn. The child stares back at the beautiful girl before him. She removes some food from the bag slung over her back and hands it to him. Like a wild animal he reaches for this next meal and scarfs it down. She bends down to the boy and removes a small cloak from her bag, throwing it over his shoulders in the cool autumn night.

Before the boy has a chance to thank her, she disappears. As he looks down the alley, he sees the glow of her golden locks, illuminated by the moonlight above, as she melts into the shadows of the alley.

Talina

Master of the unseen and the silent kill, Talina excels in close range combat. Her Assassinate skill lets her swiftly eliminate weaker foes in a single, deadly strike Her signature move, Acrobatics, enhances her chances to evade or completely dodge attacks, making her an elusive and deadly opponent on the battlefield. With her Stealth, she can amplify her lethal Assassinate and nimble Acrobatic prowess.

An Ethuri sits alone in a windowless cell. There was no cot, no hay, not even the warmth of the sun to provide any comfort. Still, it was home. At least it had been the past week.

Normally such a place would prove difficult to deal with for the average guest, but not to one so accustomed to a life in the shadows of the world. The only sounds to be heard are the distant wailings of the other guests and the drips of the water from the cracked ceiling, that pricked up her long pointed ears as they pitter pattered against the stone floor.

The time had come. She could hear the trudging of the jailer as he waddled towards the iron barred door. She couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like he had gotten fatter since she had arrived. He stood at the bars and looked in, her glowing eyes staring back at him from across the room. He whistled to her.

“Dinner time kitty,” he said with a mocking sneer. “Oh my what do we have today? Some sort of paste it looks like. Might be glue, I dunno, and, oh! What’s this? A bit of salted pork?”

He lowered his face into his chin.

“You won’t be needing that, will you kitty?”

The jailer scoops up the salted pork from the dented bowl and holds it above his mouth in a grand gesture of superiority. He closes his eyes and drops it into his mouth. The only issue was that there was no salted pork to be found as he chomped. He opens his eyes, baffled. In the confusion, he turns away from the barred door to check the ground for the missing snack. Just for a moment, but it was long enough.

He turns to face the glowing eyes still staring back at him. With no food to find and no reason to linger, the jailer waddles back up the hall, huffing and puffing in frustration. Suddenly, through the dripping of water and the cries of the other prisoners, he notices an all new sound. Behind him, the metal clang of a turned lock echoes. He whips around to face the Ethuri’s cell, only to find the iron barred door swinging wide open. With a gulp, he reaches down his back for the keys, but there are none to be found.

As the jailer runs down the hall, shouting to the guards, the Ethuri is long gone. She stands atop a nearby watchtower, looking to the moon with a content smile on her face. A brief respite. Suddenly a bird flies silhouetted against the light in the distance. It is a sight largely unwelcome to her. Embittered by a painful reminder, she descends into the bustling city streets below, looking for her next mischievous outing.

Erdin Temir

Erdin Temir is master of ranged combat and a learned hunter. Using his skills, he can decimate the battlefield with a relentless storm of arrows, and mark his foes, exposing their positions and bolstering his damage. But what sets Erdin apart from the others is his bond with his slagwolf, Fenix. This fearsome, loyal companion obeys his every command, striking fear into enemies, diverting their focus, or even shielding the team from harm.

A caravan makes its way through a thick woodland forest headed to the northern gate of Boernallye. The wheels churn over the thick muddied ground, splashing the chest of a nearby Mineborn and as he walks by its side. It was something he was used to at this point. The past month, the area seemed to be caught in this perpetual downpour.

“Huntsman, make yourself useful” calls the caravan master, gesturing to his Mineborn escort to look ahead toward a particularly dark cave in the distant bend. The Huntsman readies his bow and makes his way to the cave as the caravan comes to a stop.

“10 minute break,” howls the master as the wheels slow to a stop.

With the caravan now out of sight, the Huntsman approaches the mouth of the cave. He removes something from a well-worn satchel. A fetid piece of meat. He places it near the entrance of the cave and waits silently in the brush nearby.

Suddenly he sees two golden eyes approach from the cave. A basilisk long, scaled, and fanged, slithers out, investigating the bait. Before it has a chance to eat, an arrow finds itself embedded in the skull of the serpent.  Suddenly, a low growl is heard through the rain from behind the Huntsman. He knocks another arrow and whips around, blind firing and avoiding the gaze of the ambusher. The arrow finds its mark, and a basilisk matriarch reveals herself, hissing as it chomps at the Huntsman.

Ducking and weaving through the treeline, the huntsman fires again, another shot, another hit. Tired of this short statured pest, the matriarch strikes, ripping through the trees. With a roll, the Huntsman dives behind a tree and lets out a whistle. Suddenly, a great red slagwolf answers, lunging and wrapping its vice-like jaws around the throat of the great snake. With a twist, the slagwolf tears through the matriarch’s throat revealing a soft spot, one that only a moment later was penetrated and ripped through with a volley of arrows.

A few minutes pass and the caravan makes its way around the bend, unveiling the enormity of the denmother as it lays alongside the road. On her head, the Huntsman sits, scratching the chest of his red furred companion. The caravan pulls up alongside them.

“Well done,” calls the caravan master. “That’ll be a bonus for you once we get to Boernallye, Huntsman.”

The slagwolf growls.

“Ehh, w-what I meant to say was: that’ll be a bonus for you and Fenix there when we get back to Beornallye, Huntsman.”

The caravan master can’t be sure, but he swears that Fenix smiles at his response.

Hamza

Hamza is a master of adaptation. With years of study in magic of the Salir, he has honed the ability to siphon vitality from his foes. He can then release this life force back to his allies, rejuvenating them in their time of need. His signature skill, Focus, is a testament to his versatility. As his Focus deepens, it unlocks a spectrum of aggressive and defensive effects, making Hamza an asset in any scenario.

A lone monk sits, meditating in the bones of an old temple. The stones there tell a story. One that, despite his lack of physical sight, the monk can read quite well on his own.

Deep in his rumination, he pours over the ethereal messages before him. He sees the people that lived here once, their souls trapped within the walls, echoing out from the catacombs to the spire. One such trapped spirit approaches him.

“You should not be here, blind one,” whispers a voice. “He will find you, you know. Quite quickly.”

The monk sits in silence.

“It is unwise to welcome such danger.”

The monk sits in silence.

“As you wish,” says the spirit, his final words pouring out with a haunted breath. A violent eruption of the soul swallows the room, engulfing the sanctum in pale blue light. The spirit now stands before the monk as a terrible malformation.

“You are weak, blind one,” rumbles the great beast.

The monk opens his eyes to greet his unleashed foe. In the astral plane they would fight. The hulking spirit, ripping, striking, and biting at the monk as he glides between blows. In an instant and an eternity they would fight. He would have to work quickly, such magical interference could prove disastrous to the balance that bound him there. With a lucky twist, the beast latches onto the arm of the monk, biting hard and burning away at his flesh. It was now or never.

Wrestling the gnashing creature to the ground, he holds his palm high, summoning the power of the spiritual world at his zenith. With a downward strike, he severs the chords of the beast’s soul, rending it asunder as the energy spirals out from the wound. In an instant, the flames in the temple die. There are no whispers, no lingering lights or trapped voices now.

A lone monk walks, leaving the bones of an old temple behind him. The stones there told a story. One that, despite his lack of physical sight, the monk read quite well on his own.