The Shadow over Iraythil Overview The kingdom of Iraythil is a flourishing and vibrant realm nestled between jagged mountain ranges and expansive plains. Renowned for its breathtaking landscapes and diverse ecosystems, the kingdom’s heart thrives in its lush valleys, where bustling towns flourish amid sprawling fields and ancient forests. Its rivers, nourished by glacial waters from the Silvercrest Peaks, crisscross the land, providing both life and trade for its people. Yet, beyond its natural beauty lies a rich history shaped by resilience and unity, as the kingdom has faced its share of challenges and adversities. At the heart of Iraythil’s culture lies its commitment to the gods of light and knowledge. Towering above the capital city of Veylskar is the Argent Spire, a radiant monument made of alabaster and quartz that functions as both a temple and a beacon of hope. Scholars and pilgrims from far-off lands journey to Iraythil to study at its academies, while its talented artisans and architects enhance its reputation as a hub of enlightenment. Despite its prosperity, the people of Iraythil remain modest, crediting their success to divine favor and a strong sense of community. However, this stable kingdom now faces an existential threat. From the desolate Vhaldar Wastes to the north comes a militant force known as the Crimson Horde. This army, made up of gnoll tribes, monstrous beasts, and corrupted sorcerers, marches under the banner of Xerathak the Crimson Maw. Their goal is conquest and destruction, driven by prophecies of an ancient god’s return. Villages along the northern frontier have already succumbed, their ruins a stark warning of the Horde’s brutal efficiency. The kingdom’s defenders, though brave, are fractured. Noble houses quarrel over resources, while border lords struggle to gather enough soldiers to hold their ground. The clergy of the Argent Spire urges unity, calling for the kingdom to rise against this common enemy. Yet, fear and distrust creep into the hearts of many, as whispers of betrayal and sabotage sow discord among the ranks. The survival of Iray As the shadow of the Crimson Horde looms larger, the once-peaceful realm teeters on the edge of chaos. Iraythil’s fate now lies in the hands of those willing to take up the mantle of defenders. Whether through diplomacy, valor, or cunning, these heroes must rise to protect their homeland and preserve its legacy as a bastion of light and knowledge. A Tale from the Barstool of the Drunken Ogre Gorlen leaned forward precariously, his mischievous eyes glinting in the dim light of the tavern as he surveyed his captivated audience. “Now, listen well, for this tale isn’t for the faint of heart!” he bellowed, spilling a bit more ale from his already half-empty mug. “The Kingdom of Iraythil, yes, a shining gem it may be now, but it wasn’t always so. It was a land of squabbling clans and wild, untamed beasts! Lawless, dangerous, and full of the kind of trouble that would make even the bravest among you reconsider stepping beyond your village.” He smacked the table for emphasis, drawing approving murmurs from the crowd. “Then came Veylor the First,” the gnome continued, swaying slightly as he adjusted his hat. “A warrior-king, they called him—the Shield of Light. Armed with a blade blessed by the gods themselves, they say he united the clans through blood and sweat. He fought off the marauding giants from the east, cleared the gnoll infestations to the west, and built the walls of Veylskar with his bare hands—or so the songs go! But mark my words, heroes like Veylor don’t just rise from nothing. They say he was chosen by Aurelia herself, the goddess of light and justice, to bring order to chaos. Gorlen paused dramatically, allowing his audience to lean closer, their breaths held in anticipation. “But here’s the twist, huh?” he whispered conspiratorially, lowering his voice to a gravelly growl. “While Veylor was building his shiny new kingdom, something dark was brewing in the north—the Vhaldar Wastes, a cursed land where nothing green grows. A shard of something ancient and foul, the priests called it the Heart of Night. They claimed it was an artifact of immense power, buried deep in the ruins of a forgotten age. The fools tried to harness it, believing they could tame its darkness. But what did it bring instead? Fire! Destruction! The Scorching, they called it, and it left the Wastes as dead as a dragon’s hoard is dangerous! “Now fast-forward a few centuries,” the gnome said, his voice rising as he waved his arms for emphasis. “The kingdom thrived—oh, yes, the people grew fat and happy, their villages safe behind sturdy walls. But peace doesn’t last forever, does it? From the north, where the Wastes still fester, a new threat emerges: the Crimson Horde. Gnolls, ogres, beasts twisted by that cursed shard, all following the banner of Xerathak the Crimson Maw. They say his maw is so wide it could swallow a man whole, and his eyes burn with the fire of that ancient god, Zarghanok, who’s itching to return. Gorlen takes a deep breath, “Long ago,” the gnome reiterated with conviction, drawing the crowd deeper into the tale, “the land we call Iraythil wasn’t anything but a patchwork of bickering tribes and warring villages. Each clan had its chieftain, and each chieftain had their pride, but pride doesn’t feed hungry bellies or stop marauding giants from storming your fields. The land was beautiful, sure, but it was chaos—chaos held together by grudges and the thin thread of survival.” He paused for effect, letting the weight of his words sink in. “And then came Veylor the First.” Gorlen takes a long breath. “Long ago,” the gnome repeated with conviction, drawing the crowd deeper into the tale, “the land we call Iraythil was nothing but a patchwork of bickering tribes and warring villages. Each clan had its chieftain, and each chieftain had their pride, but pride doesn’t feed hungry bellies or stop marauding giants from storming your fields. The land was beautiful, sure, but it was chaos—chaos held together by grudges and the thin thread of survival.” He paused for effect, letting the weight of his words sink in. “And then came Veylor the First.” Gorlen puffs out his chest, mimicking the stance of a warrior-king, his voice swelling with mock heroism. “Aye, they called him the ‘Shield of Light,’ and for good reason! They say his sword gleamed so brightly that it blinded his enemies before they could even swing. With sheer will and perhaps a whisper of divine favor, he united the clans. He transformed quarrelsome chieftains into vassals, villages into strongholds, and chaos into a kingdom. By the time Veylor raised the first banner of Iraythil, even the giants of the eastern hills had learned to tread lightly. His rule wasn’t just about strength; it was about order. Iraythil had finally found its purpose purpose.” But then the gnome’s expression darkened, and his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Still, there are shadows in every bright tale, right? The priests of Veylor’s court spoke of omens, signs in the stars, and whispers on the wind foretelling that the land’s peace would come at a price. Up north, beyond the Silvercrest Peaks, lie the Vhaldar Wastes, vast and desolate. But let me tell you something—it wasn’t always this way! Oh no, they say the Wastes used to be a paradise. Rolling green hills, golden fields stretching as far as the eye can see, and streams so clear you could see the heavens reflected in their waters.” Gorlen leans in closer, the crowd hanging on his every word. "Then the Scorching came. Some say it was the gods’ wrath; others claim it was something far worse, something forgotten. The priests believed they had discovered a relic of great power, an artifact from a time when mortals dared to challenge the heavens. They called it the Heart of Night, a shard of pure darkness buried deep beneath the hills of Vhaldar. The fools thought they could wield it, using its power to secure Iraythil’s glory forever. Instead, they awakened something ancient—something furious. Fire rained from the skies, the fields burned to ash, and the once-lush hills were left as a wasteland.” Gorlen takes a deep swig of his ale, shaking his head solemnly. "And so, the Vhaldar Wastes were born—a cursed land where no grass grows, where the wind howls as if haunted by the screams of the past. Veylor himself ordered the place sealed, forbidden to all, and the Heart of Night was buried even deeper, its power left to slumber. But here’s the thing about curses, right? They don’t stay quiet forever. And the Wastes, they’re stirring again. Mark my words, folks—there’s darkness coming from the north, and it’s looking to finish what the Scorching started.” Gorlen’s voice dropped to a whisper, his tone heavy with dread. “The Vhaldar Wastes weren’t always the barren, cursed land they are today,” he began. “Long ago, they say, those hills were a paradise—a place where golden fields swayed in the wind and crystal-clear rivers sang their songs beneath endless blue skies. It was a place so blessed that even the gods looked upon it with envy. But paradise rarely lasts when mortals grow ambitious, doesn’t it?” He leaned closer, allowing the weight of his words to hang in the smoky air of the tavern. “It all began with the priests of Veylor,” Gorlen continued, gesturing as if invoking some long-lost rite. “They were a curious group, always sticking their noses where they didn’t belong, and one day they uncovered something buried deep beneath the hills—an ancient shard of darkness. They called it the Heart of Night. They believed it was a gift from the gods, a power that could elevate the fledgling kingdom of Iraythil into an unparalleled realm of glory. But it wasn’t a gift. It was a curse, something better left forgotten.” His voice trembled slightly, as if recalling an inherited fear. With a dramatic flourish of his hands, the Gorlen paints a vivid picture of destruction. “They tried to harness it, those fools,” he said, shaking his head. “They built altars, performed rituals, and sought to bind the shard’s power to their will. But the gods themselves were angered by their hubris. The skies darkened, and fire rained down upon the land. The fields burned to ash, the rivers dried up, and the earth split open, spewing black smoke and molten rock. They call it the Scorching, but it wasn’t just fire—it was the gods’ wrath, a divine punishment that turned the Wastes into the lifeless desert they are today.” Gorlen paused, taking a deep swig from his mug before continuing. “And as for the priests, their end wasn’t merciful,” he said, his voice dropping even lower. “They were consumed by the shard, their bodies twisting into shadows that howled in agony as they were pulled into its dark embrace. Those who survived fled south, begging Veylor for salvation. The king ordered the shard to be buried deep, sealed beneath layers of rock and sacred wards, never to see the light of day again. And so, the Vhaldar Wastes were left abandoned—a place where not even grass grows, where the wind carries the whispers of those lost souls.” “But here’s the thing about curses,” the gnome added, a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. “They don’t just disappear. The Wastes are stirrin’, I tell ya. Dark shapes have been seen movin’ through the mists, and the Crimson Horde marches south, drawn to the power still buried there. Whatever was unleashed back then isn’t finished. The Heart of Night still beats beneath the Wastes, and it’s callin’ to those foolish enough to answer.” He leaned back with a sigh, leaving the room steeped in uneasy silence, the weight of his words pressing down like a storm about to break. Gorlen leans back in his chair and lights his pipe, his eyes gleaming with the spark of a storyteller weaving a tale of awe and reverence. “Now, “The Argent Spire,'” he began, “isn’t just the pride of Iraythil’s architecture or a symbol of its cultural and spiritual legacy. No, no, no! It’s far more than that—it’s a fortress, a divine sanctuary, a place where mortal hands protect an artifact said to be a fragment of the gods themselves: the Heart of Aurelia. Aye, they say that when the gods departed this world, they placed that very fragment here, a spark of their light to stand against the darkness. And it’s been the kingdom’s lifeline ever since.” Gorlen’s voice grew more animated, his gestures broad and exaggerated as he described the Heart of Aurelia. “Oh, you should see it!” he exclaimed. “They say it’s like lookin’ into the sun itself, a golden light so pure and radiant it could melt the shadows right off the walls. This isn’t just some gem or bauble; it’s a piece o’ divine power, a relic so potent that it has kept Iraythil safe through countless wars and dark times. The priests of Aurelia, bless their tireless souls, watch over it day and night, tendin’ to its glow with prayers and sacred rites. They’ve built wards and defenses around the Spire so strong that not even a dragon could break through.” He chuckled, taking another swig of ale. “Not that I’d want to see a dragon try!” As he spoke, the gnome’s tone shifted, growing somber and laced with unease. “But here’s the thing,” he said, lowering his voice so the gathered patrons had to lean in closer to catch his words. “The Heart’s light—yeah, that golden glow that fills the Spire—it’s been growing dimmer. Just a little at a time, mind you, but enough for the priests to notice. And if the priests are worried, well, that’s enough to make me worry too. What could it mean, huh? The gods growing distant? The power of the Heart fading? Or something darker, something lurking in the shadows, draining its strength? Gorlen paused for dramatic effect, letting the tension envelop his audience. “Now, some folks say it’s just a natural thing, a relic slowly losing its potency after so many centuries. But me? I believe there’s more to it. The Crimson Horde marching south, the stirrings in the Wastes, and now the dimming of the Heart? That’s no coincidence, my friends. There’s a thread that ties it all together, and it’s marked by darkness. If the Heart of Aurelia fails, if that light goes out completely…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Well, let’s just say Iraythil won’t last long against the shadow that follows. Gorlen leaned forward once more, his tone urgent. “So, what will it be then, huh? Will you wait for the light to fade completely, or will you do something about it? The Heart might be fading, yes, but it’s still there, still glowing, still pushing back the darkness. Perhaps it’s a test, a challenge from the gods themselves, calling for heroes to step forward and take up the mantle. The Spire stands tall, a bastion of hope, but it won’t last forever without those brave enough to defend it.” it. After a brief break, Gorlen returns from a bathroom visit, but a heavy seriousness has replaced his lively demeanor. “The Wastes, yeah, they’ve always been cursed, but this is different,” he muttered, scanning the faces of his audience. “Something is waking up out there, something that’s been sleeping for far too long. The folks who live near the border—the ones brave or foolish enough to stay—they’ve been whispering about shapes moving through the mists. Creatures they can’t describe, but they all agree on one thing: their eyes burn like embers, and their howls sound like death itself.” He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle like the final toll of a bell. “It’s the gnolls,” the gnome continued, his voice growing sharper. “But not like the ones you’ve heard of before. These ain’t just scavengers and pack hunters; they’re somethin’ else now. Somethin’ worse. Clad in armor as red as fresh blood, with claws sharp enough to rend steel, they’ve become somethin’ unnatural. Some say it’s the influence of the Wastes, twistin’ their minds and bodies. Others whisper that they’ve been touched by an ancient power—an’ not the good kind. They don’t fight like gnolls either; no, they fight like an army, marchin’ in ranks, followin’ orders. That alone should chill your bones.” Gorlen leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “And then there are the beasts. I’ve heard tales of creatures that walk like men but roar like dragons, their breath hotter than a blacksmith’s forge. Some say they aren’t beasts at all, but something twisted from what they once were. Farmers and hunters swear they’ve seen these things in the distance, their forms shimmering in the heat waves of the Wastes, stalking the edges of the wilds. No one knows where they came from, but everyone agrees on one thing: they’re marching with the gnolls. Together, they’re a force unlike anything Iraythil has ever seen.” “And what about their leader?” the gnome asked, his voice trembling slightly, though whether from fear or ale-induced theatrics was unclear. “Xerathak, they call him—the Crimson Maw. A demon in the flesh, some say, though I reckon he’s something worse. They say his maw’s wide enough to swallow a man whole, and his eyes burn brighter than the Wastes themselves. He’s not just strong; he’s clever too. He’s rallying the Horde, bringing together all the monsters of the north under one bloody banner. And that banner? It drips with blood, so much blood it leaves a trail wherever it goes. They say he’s got the backing of something darker, something that’s been waiting for this moment for centuries. Gorlen straightened, his tone becoming grave. “Mark my words,” he said, scanning the crowd with a steely gaze. “This isn’t just another raid or some rogue warband. This is a brewing storm, and it’s headed straight for Iraythil. The Crimson Horde marches south, and if Xerathak isn’t stopped, he won’t just conquer the kingdom—he’ll burn it to the ground. This isn’t just a fight for survival; it’s a fight for the soul of the land." Gorlen’s voice carried an ominous weight, reverberating through the crowded tavern as his words painted a grim picture of the danger looming to the north. “The Wastes,” he repeated, his tone heavy, “they’ve always been cursed, a place where life doesn’t dare linger. But now? Now there’s somethin’ wakin’ up there, somethin’ old, somethin’ powerful.” He scanned the faces of his audience, his expression one of cautious fear. “The farmers on the edge of the frontier have seen the shapes—dark figures movin’ through the mists, their eyes like burnin’ coals, their howls like the voice of death itself. Brave or foolish, they stayed long enough to warn us. But for how long will their warnings hold back what’s comin’?” As the Gorlen leaned closer to his rapt listeners, he described the unnatural transformation of the gnolls. “These ain’t the gnolls you’ve heard about,” he said, his voice sharp with urgency. “These ain’t scavengers or lone marauders. They’ve become somethin’ else, somethin’ twisted. They wear armor now, red as fresh blood, an’ they march in ranks like an army. They’re fightin’ with a purpose, a discipline that ain’t natural for their kind. Some say it’s the curse of the Wastes that’s changed ‘em, made ‘em stronger and crueler. Others whisper of a darker power, an ancient force that’s bound them together under one banner.” Gorlen’s tale darkened further as he recounted rumors of beasts that walked alongside the gnolls. “An’ it ain’t just them,” he muttered, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “There’s creatures—things that walk like men but roar like dragons. Their breath burns hotter than a forge, and their forms shimmer in the heatwaves of the Wastes. Farmers swear they’ve seen these monsters stalkin’ the wilds, and every story agrees: they’re marchin’ with the Horde. Whatever they are, they’ve never been seen in Iraythil before, an’ their presence is a sign that this ain’t no ordinary threat. It’s a storm brewin’, and it’s bigger than anything we’ve faced before.” The Gorlen stood straight, his voice rising as he named the leader of this dark force. “Xerathak—the Crimson Maw. Some call ‘im a demon, but I reckon he’s worse. They say his mouth could swallow a man whole, an’ his eyes burn brighter than the flames of the Wastes. He’s strong, aye, but it’s his cleverness that should scare ya. He’s rallyin’ the monsters of the north, bringin’ them together under one bloody banner. An’ that banner? It drips with blood, leavin’ a trail wherever it goes. But worse than Xerathak’s strength or his cunning is what backs him—a darker force, one that’s been waitin’ for this moment for centuries. This is more than an army; it’s a reckoning.” The tension in the room reached its peak as the gnome downed his mug, leapt onto his chair, and raised his hat high. “So what say you, eh?” he bellowed, his jovial demeanor momentarily returning. “Will you wait for the shadows to take you, or will you rise, fight, and carve yer names into history?” The crowd erupted into applause, their spirits lifted by the defiance in his voice. As he hopped down and ordered another ale, his tale lingered in the air like a challenge—a call to arms for those bold enough to step into the fire and shape the fate of Iraythil with their courage. Gorlen’s words hung heavy in the room, a spark igniting the possibility of hope in the face of impending darkness.

The Tale of the Xelvian Gorlen sits down and records a journal entry. Speaking into his memory crystal, “Encrypted journal entry.” In The One Tongue, Gorlen says, “Prepping for pocket reality deep manaethereal plane expedition in search of Xelvian library. Here are my notes.” In the forgotten annals of time, before the world was molded into its current form, there existed a magnificent civilization known as the Xelvians. They were a sister race to that of The Ones, birthed by the gods of nature and granted unparalleled wisdom to see the world in its truest form. Their cities were adorned with towering spires of crystal, and their streets were paved with coruscating stones that glowed softly under the moonlight. The Xelvian were the epitome of harmony and knowledge, their society a beacon of light in the ancient world. Among the Xelvians’ custodianship of powerful relics and ancient secrets, one treasure stood above all; The Aether Crystal. This limitless source of energy and wisdom was not just a gift from celestial beings, but a beacon of hope and enlightenment for the Xelvians, guiding their path through the cosmos. The Xelvians were beings of elegant grace and boundless wisdom, often called “Infinity Beings” by those who encountered their legends. Their lifespans were not measured in years but in epochs, their existence transcending the linear flow of time. To behold a Xelvian was to witness a creature woven from the very fabric of the cosmos, their forms shimmering with an inner light that pulsed in harmony with the universe’s rhythm. Xelvians possessed an extraordinary connection to the elemental forces of nature. They could command the winds, shape the earth, and converse with the stars. Their voices carried the resonance of ancient songs, and their eyes held the reflections of galaxies. This deep communion with the cosmos granted them insights and abilities far beyond the comprehension of ordinary mortals. They were the keepers of the Aether Crystal, a celestial artifact channeling creation’s purest energy. In their prime, the Xelvians built their cities not with stone and mortar but with thought and intention. Their structures floated like islands in the sky, anchored there by the will of their architects. The Xelvians’ profound understanding of metaphysical principles allowed them to manipulate space and time within their domains, creating sanctuaries of peace and enlightenment. These sanctuaries were places of pilgrimage for those seeking knowledge and spiritual ascension. Despite their immense power, the Xelvians were not conquerors. They valued balance and harmony, seeing themselves as stewards of the universe’s mysteries. Their society was a tapestry of interwoven destinies, everyone contributing to the collective wisdom. Now to tell this story, you have to understand The One race, and what happened to them. The One race, a breed of beings birthed at the dawn of creation by the gods of magic, was a singular entity of unlimited potential and knowledge. They were the first explorers of the cosmos, existing in a state of perfect equilibrium with the energies of the universe. Their power was seen as immeasurable, and for eons they lived in friendly competition with the Xelvians – researching the very bounds of the universe and pushing the underlying laws therein, trying to one-up the more patient Xelvians who preferred to “go with the flow” and let nature take its course. However, as time passed, differing philosophies began to emerge within The One race. Two distinct ideologies took shape, gradually pulling the race apart. One group, who would come to be known as the Powermasters, believed that their vast power should be harnessed and wielded, in the form of spellcasting, to shape the cosmos according to their vision. They argued that their immense abilities could create a utopia where they would rule as deities, ensuring order and progress. The other group, who became known as the Ancients, held a different view of creation, focusing on craftsmanship and engineering of magical devices. They believed that their powers of creation were the path to true power and knowledge, and were a sacred trust. They saw themselves as stewards of the universe, tasked with creating ever-more-powerful items to push the envelope of what was possible. Their culture deeply ingrained this philosophy, guiding their actions and decisions. Emerging from the schism within The One race, the Ancients embodied a philosophy of control, restraint, and curiousity about the universe’s natural order. Their creations were not just tools or artifacts but works of art, each imbued with profound intent and purpose. Tensions between the Powermasters and the Ancients grew, fueled by debates and disagreements that could not be reconciled. The breaking point came during the Great Council, a gathering intended to heal the rift and restore unity. Instead, it became the stage for the final confrontation. The council quickly descended into chaos as the Ancients, led by the ambitious and charismatic Zolthar, unveiled their plan to seize control of the cosmic energies. They argued that their destiny was to reshape the universe, to eliminate chaos and create a perfect order. The Powermasters, led by the wise Elara, opposed them vehemently, warning that such hubris would bring ruin. Unable to reach a consensus, the schism became irreparable. The One race fractured, splitting into the Powermasters and the Ancients. Each group went their separate ways, the Powermasters to pursue their dreams of power, and the Ancients to bring about new and powerful creations. After the devastating fracture, a few of the remaining Ones, deeply saddened by the division and the ensuing chaos, chose to step back from the world. These enlightened beings, known as the Hidden Ones, recognized the futility of direct intervention in the escalating conflict between the Powermasters and the Ancients. They understood that overt action might exacerbate the discord and lead to further destruction. Instead, they opted for a more subtle approach, operating from the shadows to influence events without direct interference. The decision to withdraw was rooted in a profound philosophical shift. The Ones came to believe that the true path to restoring balance lay not in direct confrontation but in fostering the conditions for growth and enlightenment from within, through research and the pursuit of knowledge. They saw their race’s fractured state as a reflection of deeper cosmic imbalances that needed to be addressed indirectly. By stepping back, they aimed to allow the natural course of evolution and self-discovery to unfold among the Powermasters and the Ancients. Operating from their concealed sanctuaries, the Ones adopted a strategy of indirect guidance and subtle influence. They observed the actions of the Powermasters and the Ancients, intervening only when absolutely necessary to prevent catastrophic outcomes. Through dreams, visions, and cryptic messages, they imparted wisdom and warnings to those they deemed worthy or capable of understanding their guidance. They also subtly inspired acts of heroism and balance, ensuring that the essence of their wisdom continued to permeate the world. Though their presence was unseen, the influence of the Ones was profound. Their subtle interventions and quiet guidance helped to prevent many potential disasters and steered individuals and events towards paths of greater balance and understanding. Over time, legends of mysterious, benevolent forces working behind the scenes spread across the cosmos, inspiring tales of hidden guardians and ancient protectors. Through their decision to operate in the shadows, the Ones ensured that the spirit of The One lived on. Their legacy became one of quiet strength and enduring wisdom, a testament to the power of subtlety and the belief that true change often comes from within. In this way, they continued to shape the destiny of the cosmos, fostering a future where the fractured pieces of their race might one day find their way back to unity and harmony. Sadly, today, very few Ones still exist, and most have adopted a do not interfere approach, focusing on their research, but now and again, if the situation is big enough, they will band together to intervene and prevent a calamity. Only a few short centuries after the fracture from the One race, tension had simmered between both factions. The Ancients and the Powermasters focused on consolidating their power and pursuing divergent philosophies. The Ancients sought to maintain balance and protect the cosmos through their craftsmanship and magical engineering mastery. At the same time, the Powermasters pursued a path of domination, using raw power and aggressive tactics. As their ambitions grew, so did their mutual distrust and animosity, setting the stage for an inevitable conflict. The discovery of the Xelvian essence as a potent source of power became the catalyst for conflict. Both factions, driven by their own motivations, began capturing and experimenting on the Xelvians, resulting in a series of secret raids and covert operations. Tensions escalated as each side accused the other of exploiting the Xelvians and disrupting the cosmic balance. The final straw came when a prominent Xelvian sanctuary was attacked, and both sides blamed each other for the atrocity. The Ancients saw the Powermasters aggressive actions as a direct threat to universal harmony, while the Powermasters viewed the Ancients’ interference as an obstacle to their rightful ascent. Diplomacy broke down, and old grievances resurfaced, rekindling animosities that had never truly faded. The turning point came with discovering a large shard of the Aether Crystal, a relic of immense power capable of altering the balance between the two factions. Both the Ancients and the Powermasters believed that control of the shard would secure their dominance. A race ensued to claim it, leading to an inevitable confrontation at the crystal’s site. The initial skirmish was brutal and decisive. The Ancients, with their superior craftsmanship, constructed formidable defenses around the crystal, while the Powermasters unleashed their raw magical prowess to breach these fortifications. The battle was fierce and costly, with heavy casualties on both sides. The Aether Crystal, caught in the crossfire, released bursts of chaotic energy that further fueled the conflict. The battle over the Aether Crystal shard began an all-out war. With both sides unwilling to retreat or negotiate, the conflict quickly spread. The Ancients fortified their strongholds and deployed their enchanted constructs, while the Powermasters launched relentless assaults, using their amplified powers to devastating effect. As the war raged on, the boundaries of ethical conduct eroded. Both factions resorted to increasingly desperate measures, including the use of experimental magics and forbidden technologies. Entire landscapes were transformed into war zones, with nature itself caught in the violent struggle. The war left an indelible scar on the cosmos. Ancient cities were reduced to ruins, and once-vibrant ecosystems were turned to wastelands. The Ancients, despite their initial principles, found themselves compromising their values in the face of annihilation. The Powermasters, driven by their lust for power, became ever more ruthless and destructive. The Xelvians, caught between the warring factions, suffered immensely. Their population dwindled, inching closer to extinction, and their sacred sites were desecrated. As the war between the Ancients and the Powermasters raged on, its devastation and chaos reached a tipping point. The very fabric of the cosmos began to tremble under the strain of their relentless conflict. Watching from their hidden sanctuaries, the Ones who had chosen to step back from direct involvement realized their intervention was now imperative. The universe’s balance was at stake, and the unchecked power struggles of their fractured descendants threatened to unravel everything The One race had ever stood for. The Ones, now known as the Hidden Ones, convened in a timeless realm beyond the reach of the warring factions and prying eyes, known as the deep manaethereal. Here, they shared visions of the future, contemplating the possible outcomes of continued conflict. It became clear that the Aether Crystal, the powerful artifact at the heart of the struggle, needed to be removed from the equation. Its very existence was a magnet for discord, and neither the Ancients nor the Powermasters could be trusted to wield its power responsibly. After much deliberation, the Ones devised a plan to intervene subtly yet decisively. They would extract the Aether Crystal from the physical realm, transporting it to a place where neither faction could reach it. This plan required a delicate balance of power and precision, ensuring that their actions would not further destabilize the already fragile cosmos. The Ones called upon the most skilled beings who retained the profound abilities of their unified heritage. They would work together to create a dimensional rift, a pocket of reality hidden in the manaethereal Deep where the Aether Crystal could be safely hidden away along with the remaining Xelvians and wipe all memory and recorded history of them, preserving them in stasis for them to return one day. This realm would be protected by layers of enchantments and barriers, impervious to even the most potent of the Powermasters’ and Ancients’ magics. On a night when the energies of the cosmos were most aligned, the Ones enacted their plan. Using a combination of ancient rites and powerful spells, they converged on the battlefield where the latest skirmish over the Aether Crystal was taking place. Invisible to both sides, the Ones wove their magic with silent, unprecedented precision, leveraging the crystal’s power and One magic. As the combatants clashed, the Aether Crystal began to glow with an otherworldly light. In a blinding flash, the Aether Crystal, the remaining Xelvians, and all memory or record of them vanished even from the gods, leaving both the Ancients and Powermasters stunned and disoriented. Confused about their goal or why they were there, the battlefield fell silent, the fury of the conflict momentarily halted by the sudden and inexplicable absence of the artifact that had fueled their war. The removal of the Aether Crystal and the disappearance of all Xelvians had an immediate impact. Deprived of their ultimate source of power, both factions found their momentum faltering. The Ancients, who had relied on the Xelvian essence and crystal to bolster their defenses, were forced to rethink their strategies. The Powermasters, deprived of powerful spell components and a power source that promised them dominance, were left in disarray. In the sudden lull, voices calling for peace and reflection grew louder. The more enlightened members of both factions began to see the futility of their struggle. The Ones, still operating from the shadows, subtly influenced these peace efforts, encouraging dialogue and reconciliation. This brought precarious peace for a time, but as the Ones discovered, the two races regrouped and were eventually back to war a short century later, in a constant push and pull for power. Based upon my research and what I have learned since arriving in the manaethereal universe. The Xelvian Library, ensconced in stasis within the deep manaethereal plane, is a marvel of arcane architecture and ancient knowledge. This legendary repository exists outside conventional time and space, floating serenely amidst a swirling nebula of raw, unrefined mana. The library is an expansive, labyrinthine structure composed of a unique blend of ethereal crystal and enchanted stone, glowing with a soft, otherworldly light. Its walls shimmer with an iridescent hue, shifting colors like the surface of a calm, magical sea. The corridors are lined with towering shelves that stretch infinitely upward, filled with tomes, scrolls, and grimoires containing knowledge from countless worlds and epochs. Powerful enchantments hold the library in a state of perpetual stasis. Time within the library flows differently than in the outside world, allowing the preservation of ancient texts and artifacts without the risk of decay or corruption. This stasis also ensures that the library remains unaffected by the passage of time, allowing guests to study and explore for what might feel like days or weeks. Still, only moments pass in the material plane. The deep manaethereal plane imbues the library with an almost sentient awareness. The very air within the library hums with latent energy, and the texts themselves seem to respond to the presence of scholars, pages turning of their own accord to reveal pertinent information. This ambient magic enhances the research experience, allowing for intuitive leaps in understanding and connections between disparate pieces of knowledge. I theorize the Xelvian Library holds secrets far beyond mortal comprehension, including the original spells of creation, records of forgotten gods, and prophecies yet to unfold. It is said that deep within the library lies the Codex of Eternity, a mythical book that contains the true nature of reality itself, accessible only to those deemed worthy by the library’s enigmatic consciousness. And with the Library itself in stasis, I suspect The Ones spell caught a few Xelvians in the library at the time of them casting their spell and got caught up in it, so I may get to see one up close. End of recording.

In the heart of the Mana Abyss, a place where the very essence of magic pulses through the darkness, a vibrant Gnomish Trading Company caravan readied itself for a journey of epic proportions. Laden with goods of unparalleled craftsmanship and arcane marvels, the caravan set its sights on conquering the perilous paths of the Underdeep, with the ultimate goal of emerging into the vibrant, magical world of the ManaEthereal Prime Material Plane. Led by the intrepid caravan master, Thimble Gearspark, the gnomes bustled about, securing crates of enchanted trinkets and shimmering crystals onto the backs of sturdy pack animals. Excitement filled the air as they prepared to depart the familiar gloom of the Underdeep for the boundless opportunities of the surface realms. Among the caravan’s members was a young gnome, Rillo Wizzleflick, his heart brimming with anticipation for his first foray beyond the depths. Equipped with a sharp intellect and a natural talent for negotiation, Rillo harbored a fervent dream of carving a name for himself in the bustling trade cities of the Prime Material Plane. As the caravan delved deeper into the twisting tunnels of the Underdeep, they were met with a barrage of challenges – from convoluted passageways that seemed to shift with every step, to hostile creatures lured by the caravan’s precious cargo. Yet, with their wits and resourcefulness, the gnomes overcame each obstacle, their resolve unyielding. After weeks of travel, the caravan finally emerged into the sunlit realm of the ManaEthereal Prime Material Plane. Their first destination: the bustling city of V’Ral, a melting pot of cultures and commerce where traders can exchange goods and secrets. Upon arriving in V’Ral, the caravan was greeted by a cacophony of sights and sounds – towering obelisk of enchanted crystal, bustling marketplaces thronged with merchants and travelers, and the hum of arcane energy permeating the air. Here, amidst the vibrant tapestry of the city, the gnomes sought out their fellow gnome and merchant, Gorlen Blackhammer. Gorlen, a renowned gnome merchant with a twinkle in his eye, a penchant for finding trouble, and a taste for mana wine welcomed the caravan with open arms. Over a freshly opened barrel of frosty Jamas, he regaled them with tales of his own travels and the wonders he had encountered in distant lands. As the days passed, Rillo found himself captivated by Gorlen’s stories, his admiration for the seasoned merchant growing with each passing moment. But amidst the hustle and bustle of V’Ral, Rillo tells Gorlen about a rival trading consortium that is envious of the Gnomish Trading Company’s success. A rival merchant house has sought to sabotage their efforts and seize control of the lucrative trade routes. The House of Zytharis, led by Matron Zytharis, has been leading an open war on our trading company, attacking several of our clockwork caravans. Gorlen rubs his head, cocking an eyebrow toward Rillo “Is that why my voidsteel shipment was late last month?” Rillo looked to the ground, “Sadly, yes”. Gorlen grumbles as he gives the old man an ache, getting out of his chair…” This is going to require a new fresh barrel.” After a few moments Gorlen comes walking out with a golem carrying a new barrel, settling back into his chair with his pipe. Taking a few puffs from his pipe, the bartender Golem pours fresh mugs. Gorlen says, “talk to me about the last attack on one of your caravans by this Matron.” Rillo leans back and describes the dimly lit tunnels of the underdeep. A caravan from the Gnomish Trading Company made its way through the twisting passages, laden with valuable goods and guarded by stout-hearted gnomes. Unbeknownst to them, they had become the target of a calculated surprise assault by the sinister House Zytharis, a Drow noble house with a reputation for ruthlessness and cunning. As the caravan moved through the tunnels, shadowy figures emerged from hidden alcoves and crevices, their drow eyes gleaming with threatening menace in the dim light. With a sudden, chilling silence, the attack began. Drow warriors, clad in dark armor and wielding wicked blades, descended upon the unsuspecting caravan with swift and deadly precision. Their movements were like shadows in the darkness, striking from concealment before melting back into the gloom. Chaos erupted as the caravan gnomes fought desperately to defend their cargo and your voidsteel, their shouts echoing off the cavern walls as they clashed with their unseen assailants. Spells crackled through the air as arcane energies clashed, illuminating the cavern with flashes of brilliant light amidst the darkness. Amidst the chaos, the caravan master, Thimble Gearspark, rallied his companions, his voice ringing out above the din as he directed their defense. But the Drow attackers were relentless, pressing the assault with merciless efficiency, their dark intent clear as they sought to capture the valuable cargo for themselves. I ran immediately over to the clockwork golems, as they hadn’t activated but stood motionless, almost as if they had been disabled. It wasn’t until I reset them in the battle that they were able to get into the fight. It was clear the drow was surprised to see the clockworks activated; it wasn’t until shortly after that the drow fell back into the tunnels, and the gnomes could regroup. Similar occurrences have been occurring with our other caravans as well, I have heard of two other stories similar to my own. Gorlen …” mumbles something about that bitch drow,” then clears his throat and speaks up, “Well, Rillo, it seems to me your caravan scouts probably need some divination magics, recommend some gems of true seeing, next there is a gruff old surly dwarf in town who has the forge, believe it or not but he is an Ancient, I would have him look at your clockworks he can probably figure out what the Drow are doing to them. “ Gorlen thinks for a minute, “I tell you what, Rillo, go ahead and get your caravan and wares set up in the merchant square. I’ll go down and get Kargin properly lubricated with Jamas, stop by in, say, 3 hours, and we can discuss him looking at your clockwork” … laughing…” Hell, by night’s end, he may even buy some of your raw metal supply.” As Rillo waves by to Gorlen… Gorlen glances up at the bartender golem; come on, it will be a long and expensive night. It’s time to bust out the top shelf. As Gorlen walks toward the crafting area of V’Ral, the noise of clanging hammers and the roar of furnaces can be heard. Gorlen enters the shop, watching the flames dance in the forge, and the scent of molten metal fills the air as his hands shape the glowing metal into works of artistry and ingenuity. With each strike of the hammer and twist of the wrench, life is born into his creations. Eventually, Kargin’s eye catches Gorlen on the edge of his vision, and he begins to wonder why his front door was unlocked, noticing Gorlen brought his bartender golem with him. Kargin, knowing Gorlen well, knows he does not drink anything but quality beer, so after a long day of work in the forge, why not drink on Gorlen’s tab? As the evening wore on and the forge fire burned low, Gorlen and Kargin began to tell stories of their adventures, with thoughts of countless wonders still yet to be discovered in the manaverse. Kargin looks up at the wall and nudges Gorlen… “Hey, watch this.” Getting fresh, full mugs, at the stroke of the top of the hour, Dregnoth comes strolling in and lays eyes on the elemental fragments around the forge. Dregnoth catches an eye on the barrel of Jamas; Kargin and Gorlen are enjoying and, for a minute, seem distracted. At which time, a worried look begins to pass across Kargin’s face for a few brief moments, but then Dregnoth’s focus reasserts itself, and he declares himself a GodKing and begins the process to interface with the earth fragment, vaporizing himself into a pile of dust. A few moments later, a dwarf-looking Homunculus comes walking across the room with a broom and a dustpan, cleans up his remains, and dumps it outside. Gorlen looks at Kargin “How often does that happen?” Kargin replies…”About every 12 hours, always at the top of the hour.” Gorlen laughs… “You should sell tickets; people would pay money to watch.” Kargin replies…” Ohh, trust me, I have thought about it, but I do worry that one day he will come in, lay his hand on the fragment, and not vaporize… then we need to worry.” Not much more than a few moments later, a distant “Hello” sound is heard toward the front of the forge, with Rillo slowly emerging near the back where Kargin and Gorlen sit. After Gorlen makes the introductions, he explains the drow troubles Rillo and the gnomish trading company are having. After much grumbling, complaining and resistance, Gorlen makes sure to tell the bartender golem in front of Kargin to please retrieve four of his finest barrels of Jamas. Naturally, we see a glint in Kargin’s eye with the knowledge of that … “Well, I suppose I have sometime before the beer arrives to take a look at these clockwork golems,” … telepathically Gorlen tells the bartender golem to take the long way to get the beer. A few minutes pass as the Ancient starts pouring through a clockwork golem, scratching his head and mumbling, “Just why?”… “Hoh dear lord”… “what the f?”… “For Christ’s sake,”…. “how did this ever work” … and then finally, “What is that?” pulling a magnetic magical disc out of the clockwork golem… Kargin opens his spectacles for a closer look…. Hmm, this isn’t gnomish in origin; it’s drow. I would hazard a guess either they did a reverse pickpocket and planted this in your golem, activating it during the ambush, which is unlikely because most golems don’t fall for stealth tricks, or you have a traitor amongst your trading company sabotaging your golems. Rillo was shocked. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing…Kargin pulled the remaining magnetic enchanted discs out of the other two golems. Kargin looks at Rillo saying “bring me the remaining clockwork golems by tomorrow, and I’ll fix the remainder of them up; I also have some construct big ohms around here, I would be happy to sell you, it warms my heart that it will be used to stick it to a bunch of drow” With a wave of his hand, several ancient dwarven homunculi emerge, reassembling the clockwork golems. About that time, the bartender golem showed up with four barrels of Jamas, and as one may expect, no more work was completed for the rest of the night. Kargin glances at Gorlen as the beer is poured… “We get to see Dregnoth vaporized, we get to drink Jamas, and we get to help stick it to the drow… it’s a good night”