The Lore of History

Once, the world was in balance. That time is no more,
recorded only in dusty scrolls or on the monuments of
drowned cities. There are, perhaps, those who remember,
gods or those near immortals gifted in sorcery, but they
hold their silence.

Since ancient times, the world has been at war. The Pact
between Elves and Men is no more. The kingdoms that
pledged their armies in service of that sacred treaty are
gone into legend. The descendants of the noble princes
who swore eternal oaths of friendship war openly with
one another. The glorious empires of those days are lost
to the ocean, the palaces of the wise home to kraken, the
scions of their great houses exiled or extinct.

The seers foresee an age of horror approaching, for the
spirit of the earth is sick, tainted with deadly sorcery in a
conflict now only a few remember. Not that the warlords
of this bloody era care, not while there is glory to be
won, territory to be wrested from the enemy, foes to be
slaughtered... Man, Elf and Dwarf struggle for power and
influence, battling across the ruins of long-dead realms,
or staking claims to new lands. Orcs roam the dark places,
the high peaks, forbidding forests and frozen plains, a
threat to shake the mountains, should they ever unite.

Over all, great dangers hang. As the petty lands of
Men vie for dominance, as the relentless Dwarfs extend
their boundless under-kingdom, as the Elves sink
into despairing dreams of their past glories, the dark
mage Mhorgoth stalks the land. The most powerful
necromancer ever to have tainted the earth with his
existence, vast legions of unliving warriors follow his
rotting banners.

To the far north, the evil Abyssal Dwarfs create
machines, a fusion of dark sorcery and technology,
ready to enslave the world. Within the deep pit of the
Abyss, dark gods stir, yearning to break free from their
prison and tread the clean earth once again. Their
demonic servants are legion, ready to do the bidding
of any willing to pay the terrible price of the Abyssals
in blood and souls.

There are but a few places where the light of the old
era persists, where the remaining deities of noble intent
might still be implored for help, but ranged against such
evil, what hope is there for the world? Nine hundred
years after the last dark god was cast down into the
Abyss, Mantica trembles once more to the marching of
vast armies.

THE ERA OF LIGHT
Things were not always this tragic. In the ancient times,
three civilisations whose achievements tower over those
of today’s benighted world coexisted in great harmony,
bringing much good to all. The Kingdom of the Elves,
the Underlands of the Dwarfs, and the mannish Grand
Republic of Primovantor ruled a world untroubled by
dark magic or the likes of Orcs and Abyssals. Then from
the darkness of the sky a terrible force assailed the world,
plunging it into despair.

The Celestian, a race of divine beings now worshipped
by all three of the Noble Peoples, came to the aid of the
dying world They thrust out the shadow from beyond in
a long and terrible war. Many Scholars will argue and
debate the lasting effects of this forgotten war and how
it would affect the Celestians most of all in the times to
come.

The Celestians their long war completed sought to rebuild
the world with their newfound followers and gave them gifts.
Their gifts to Man, Dwarf and Elf were mighty, fitting to
the talents and hearts of each. Under the guidance of
the Celestian, towers reached to the stars. Men walked
upon the soil of other planes of existence, the elves
created works of art never surpassed, and the Dwarfs
delved their greatest underground cities.

Whence the Celestian came, and whether they were truly
gods or some other kind of being, is no longer known.
What is recorded, in scraps and fragments, in mildewed
tomes in wizards’ libraries, in worn hieroglyphs on the
walls of forgotten temples, is how they fell.

CALISOR AND ELIANTHORA

A great Elven mage was Calisor Fenulian, the greatest
wizard in all history, surpassing the art of Valandor the
Great himself, some say. Where and when he was born
is unrecorded, but his entrance to life at the Elven High
King’s Court is well-known, and his deeds there are half-
remembered in innumerable legends and songs. Calisor
was said to be so powerful that he could call the ocean
up from its bed, or call the clouds down from the sky. He
could step between one world and the next as easily as
he might walk from one room to another. Elves had long
had dealings with dragons by Calisor’s time, and yet he
was the first to learn their speech. The list of his feats,
when taken together, seems ridiculous in these times.

That he could breathe the water. That he jumped to the
moon to win a wager, that he could turn pillars of flame
into flocks of birds, that he could know the mind of any
whom he touched. An accomplished artist, statesman,
and warrior, for although peace was the norm then, war
was not unknown, Calisor was the hero of ages.

As is often the way of those who have everything, it was
not enough for Calisor. Perhaps he would have lived his
long life out in peace and prosperity had he never have
met Elinathora of Primovantor, but it was not to be.

Elinathora was the daughter of Marcon, a Tribune of
Esk, one of Primovantor’s great cities. No longer an
active Tribune, Marcon kept his title and was granted a
role as an envoy to the Elven city of Therennia Adar, at
the time the home of the High King’s Court. It was here
that Elinathora was first seen by Calisor.

Calisor fell instantly in love with Elinathora, and
immediately began to court her. Unions between Man and
Elf were not unknown in those times, and many of the
great romances of this age refer to the doomed love affairs
between short-lived humans and the long-lived Elves.
Calisor and Elinathora’s is not one of them. She did not
reciprocate his affection. The thought of wedding herself
to so great an Elf, and living in his shadow forever, and
then to die long before he, filled her with something
close to horror. She was polite to him, and felt a certain
friendship for Calisor, but she was firm. Every one of his
outlandish gifts she returned, every suit she declined.

Initially Calisor was not to be daunted, but over time
his spirit was somewhat crushed. His laugh was heard
less frequently, and his duties were performed with
lacklustre, if at all.

Others then came to Elinathora, asking that she
reconsider, for Calisor was much loved, but she remained
true to her word.

Eventually, Calisor left the city, and took to wandering
the sacred glades outside the city.

Therennia Adar stands to this day, but the glades that
once surrounded it are drowned beneath the sea. The
Sacred Glades the Elves have now are a pale shadow of
the original Groves of Adar. Here was great power, for
the Celestian were wont to wander under the ancient
boughs when the evening came.

While Calisor roamed, he chanced upon Oskan, one of
the younger Celestian, who stood in starlight.
Oskan enquired as to Calisor’s health, and Calisor
answered easily, for he was used to dealing with the
gods. Oskan could read the hearts of all, and he knew
Calisor was troubled. He pressed the warrior-mage.
Haltingly at first, then with increasing anguish, Calisor
told Oskan of his heartache. gave the Celestian their power.
The taking of this single ray of light was to have profound
consequences.

Oskan told Calisor to be calm, and that he would help.
He gave Calisor then instructions as to the construction
of a magical mirror that would show past and future
both. A fine thing, this mirror, but cursed by every
generation ever since.

THE FENULIAN MIRROR
Oskan told Calisor to make this artefact, and then
contrive to have Elianthora gaze into it. “There will
come a moment when a golden bird sings. Do not,” the
god said, “allow her to see beyond this point, and all
will be well.”

Calisor nodded eagerly. For the first time in months
his mood lifted. So quick was he in hurrying off to
begin the mirror’s fabrication that he almost forgot
to thank Oskan.

The making of the Fenulian Mirror was long and
arduous, some say Calisor’s greatest task. He was obliged
to bring together many items of great rarity, including
the glimmer of the Star of Heaven, the sacred star that
The Elves were pleased to have Calisor some way back
to his old self, and they did not query his constant
questing. In time, he had all he needed, and he
commenced construction of the mirror. It is said the
sky split with terrible thunders the day he silvered the
glass, and that the sea flooded inland many leagues
when he set it in its frame. It was as if the cosmos knew
what would happen and sought to warn the mage. He
paid it no attention.

Finally, he was finished. If creating the mirror was a task
worthy of a god, it was nothing compared to actually
getting Elinathora to look into it. Somehow, he did.
Where wit, charm and gifts failed, he pestered her until
she acquiesced.

And what things she saw in there! She saw her future side
by side with Calisor Fenulian, a life full of adventure and
deep love. She saw many fine deeds and finer children,
she saw a husband devoted to her like no man could
be. She saw her life lengthened by her proximity to him,
and when old age finally did come upon her, it was a
glorious, golden twilight, lived out in a splendid castle
with a garden of breathtaking complexity, where she was
loved and adored by Men, Dwarves and Elves.

Elianthora’s heart began to thaw toward the elf hero,
and she cast a sidelong glance at him, and gave a smile
such that he near perished with happiness.

A song sang unheeded. Calisor was lost. Too late, he
saw the golden bird, singing on a branch in this possible
garden framed by the mirror. His attempts to bring the
woman away only made her intent on watching, and she
did not like what she saw.

She died. She saw her corpse rot in a marble tomb as
Calisor grieved outside. She watched as Calisor took lover
after lover, trying to drown out her memory and going
near mad in the process. She saw the dual natures of her
children at war inside them. She saw how one of their
sons grew bitter, and rose an army. She saw him fight his
father, and saw him slain.

She saw Calisor die of shame. Elianthora stepped back
from the mirror, shaking her head. “This cannot be, this
cannot be,” she said.

Calisor, distraught, tried to assuage her horror, to no
avail. Elianthora, terrified of what might have been,
smashed the mirror.

THE GOD WAR
The mirror was possessed of Celestian’s essence, and
when it was broken, so too were they.

Those Celestian that did not perish were split in twain.
Two aspects were birthed by every one, both limited,
vengeful, and petty, both lesser than the Celestian, which
were truly gods in every sense. Each Celestian split in
two, giving birth to a ‘Shining’, good side, whose strict
morality of itself has sprouted many ills, and a ‘Wicked’,
evil side, an anti-pantheon who relish destruction and
bend their godly talents to all manner of perversity and
cruelty.

Countless cities were toppled as the ground heaved at
the new gods’ birth. Flaming comets fell to the ground
as the very stars were dislodged from the sky. Seas boiled,
magic ran riot.

These aspects were antithetical to one another, and
immediately strife followed as they set upon one
another. War followed the split, then war upon war upon
war. Members of all the Noble races were tempted to the
evil side, and brother fought brother as madness gripped
the world. Many half-gods of both sides were slain, and
many powerful magical artefacts used in those ancient
conflicts litter some of those forgotten places to this day,
the greatest and most pernicious of these abodes being
the Abyss, home of all that is evil.

Many among the wise suspect that Oskan had
manipulated the situation to have the mirror created and
then destroyed, setting in chain a series of events that
he, as a god, could never hope to begin. It is suspected
that he coveted power, or that he had been snubbed in
some way by his fellow deities. In any case, his better
half was swiftly trapped and destroyed, and the evil
Oskan, still calling itself Oskan but named by his foes
as The Father of Lies, became the most bloodthirsty and
deadly of all the new gods.

Much knowledge was lost, thousands upon thousands
of people of all kinds were slain as the God Wars raged
for centuries. Kingdoms fell and were laid waste. The
evil gods, known as The Wicked Ones, created many foul
beings to do their bidding – the ranks of the Abyssal
race swelled. Only when Domivar the Unyielding, the
offspring of Mescator, God of Justice, and the human
woman Laria, High Consul of Primovantor, fought with
Oskan were the wars brought to a close. As armies a
hundred thousand strong fought upon the ground,
Domivar took upon the divine form of his father and
soared into the sky. There, amid sorcerous lightning and
roiling black cloud he wrested with Oskan, The Father of
Lies. Oskan had become mighty indeed, feeding upon
all the evil he had unleashed upon the world, and his
form had become monstrous and strong. Nevertheless,
Domivar bested him that day, taking from Oskan’s grasp
his deadly Black Axe, a terrible thing forged of the icy
cold between the stars. Domivar struck the ground with
it, tearing a great rent in the earth. Into this Abyss he
cast the majority of the evil gods, imprisoning them
there. Domivar returned to his mortal form by the hellish
pit he had created, and, his small measure of divine
power spent, he died.

THE TIME OF ICE
For thousands of years, a semblance of what went before
returned, although far lesser in degree, for much had
been lost, and Mantica was home to many wicked things
that before had not existed, and the threat of the Abyss
was ever-present.

The ties between the three Noble Peoples weakened.
Dwarfs never trusted the Elves again, saying it was
Elvish pride and sentiment that had doomed the world. The
Primovantians were diminished by the conflict, some
of the nobility of their spirit had gone, and barbarities
that had previously been unknown in their lands became
commonplace. And yet cities were rebuilt, and civilisation
made the slow crawl back to its previous heights.

Wars became frequent, as Orcs and Abyssals and other
foul things troubled the land. More and more often Orcs
came down from the north as the world cooled. The
great Mammoth Steppes expanded in range, and land
previously suitable to cultivation became uninhabitable.
The seas withdrew as they were taken up into the ice and
the lands by their shores became poisoned by windblown
salt, and multitudes starved. Fed by the dying seas, the
ice covered great tracts of Mantica, including the grand
plains of Ardovikia, where much of the latter day glory
of Primovantor was, and the republic was slowly brought
to its knees.

The last great war took place almost a thousand years
ago. The cooling of the world was far from natural, and
eventually the Elven seers discerned that the goddess
known simply as Winter was behind the chilling of
Mantica. Somehow she had escaped Domivar’s prison,
or had not been cast down with the rest. Discovered,
Winter fully unleashed her magic, and glaciers advanced
like armies upon the civilised realms, strange creatures
marching before them.

Men, Dwarfs and Elves stood shoulder to shoulder once
more against the threat of the Wicked Ones.

This time there was only one divine enemy, but all three
peoples were far weaker than they once had been, and
the aid of the Shining Ones was erratic, for they too had
lost a great deal of their energy, and their minds had
become unfocused, their actions whimsical.

For one hundred and fifty long years of unending cold,
the war dragged on. Finally, Winter was confronted and
bested in a battle of magic by Valandor the Great, the
mightiest battlemage of his era. However, the culmination of
this struggle against Winter wrought havoc upon the
world. Even in their victory, the wise amongst Elves and
Men did not foresee that the ending of Winter’s Age of
Ice would drown so many lands under the ocean, a last
bitter gift to the world.

As the glaciers of Winter melted with magical rapidity,
the sea came crashing back, and it did not stop once
it had reached its original extent. The waters surged
onward, inundating much of the lands of both Elves and
Men. Valandor the Great, the hero of the war, was thought lost
as he tried to hold back the waves.

Gone forever is the great Republic of Primovantor, the
northern provinces crushed under the ice, the colonnaded
cities of the south empty of inhabitants now but for
fish and kraken. Destroyed too is much of Elvenholme,
the kindreds of the Elves shattered, the Sacred Groves of
Elvenkind lost.

THE AGE OF CONFLICT
The world turns on, and a new age has begun, an age
of new wars. The ranks of the gods are thinned, but they
still walk abroad, while the conflicts of the ancients have
re-wrought the world time and again, offering fresh
territories to Man, Dwarf and Elf alike. Some say this is
a time of rebirth, if so, the midwives attending are war
and strife.

The three Noble Peoples are no longer united, and bicker
and squabble. The Elven Kindreds no longer function as
one kingdom, the glories of Primovantor are long gone,
and the Dwarves have hardened their hearts against the
surface world. The threat of resurgent hordes of Orcs,
Goblins, Ogres, and creatures of the Abyss is never far
away, while armies of the dead pace the land, led by the
necromancer Mhorgoth, who some say is the greatest
threat to the world since the destruction of Winter.