Table Of Contents

Adept

Across the lands there are countless ways to fight. To battle. To kill and die. But in my experience, there are only a handful of ways that we are trained to do so. Whether it is with the weapons of War, in grand military traditions and ancient fighting styles, in the ways of the Hunter, borrowing some of what the colleges of war might teach and combining it with tracking and skilled archery, or the unarmed styles of those who rise up against oppressers or spill blood on the sand to the delight of the crowd.

This last group of people are widely called the Adepts. While many have skill with weapons of war, their greater skills lie within unarmed combat rather than in the mastery of sword or axe. In your journeys you will meet them, if you live long enough or visit arenas to slake your thirst of violence.

Peasant Warriors

While the first adepts were likely those who fought without weapons in some ancient battle long lost to the spreading sands. But even now, in kingdoms and khanates across the world there are Tyrants who keep their populace, particularly priests, unarmed for fear of uprisings and usurpers. In these places, Adepts are often priests who are trained to protect temples and the congregation within using only the simplest of weapons, common tools, and their own bodies.

Such adepts are often deeply religious and philosophical people. Most are well educated and often well read. Many write chronicles of their own, poetry, and histories of their peoples and their religion. Others spend their time transcribing works from language to language, often making faithful copies of older works so that paper, rotting in a darkened library, will not take it's secrets into decay.

Gladiators

Under the watchful gaze and brutal lash of a master, many a slave is trained to do battle for the pleasure of a roaring crowd. Often by a valued slave, a champion gladiator largely retired. These warriors are often trained to use specific weapons to great effect, but are also trained to kill in brutal hand to hand combat without weapons of any kind. In many of the fighting pits and arenas of the world, Gladiators who survive a certain number of victories are set free, or are able to buy their freedom from their winnings.

But just as often, if not moreso, former gladiator-slaves break free by violence. Whether by their own hand, or by the hands of those who would see no one chained and enslaved. Often, former gladiators find themselves leading such revolutions. Just as often, those revolutions are crushed under the iron fist of tyrants and mercenary armies who care nothing for freedom... save their own.

-The Chronicler-


Neasc Adept

Lustful Cries and Roars of Rage

Blood filled Nissa’s mouth after Agarites’ blow across her cheek and jaw, the heavy round pommel of his short bladed falx had landed a solid connection and sent her staggering back a few feet. The crowd gasped and then roared over the impact. She spat blood upon the sands of the arena, and thrust the butt of her shortspear into the hard-packed dirt beneath the sands. Agarites raised his swords high and offered a throaty howl to rile the crowd.

He ran to her, arms wide. He expected her to strike, to aim for his unprotected torso, where the thin leather of costume armor would provide no protection but the narrow angle of a spear-thrust could be dodged by turning the body… she would give him no such opportunity. Instead she turned her shield upon the diagonal and lunged! He closed his arms enough to cushion the impact of her shield slam, but her feet were braced while he had been mid-step. And now it was he who fell back from the impact.

But Nissa was upon him. Driving, holding his body against the shield by her rush, forcing him back on his heels. He’d topple if he didn’t brace, and she gave him no opportunity. Back and down he tumbled, though he had the presence of mind to kick his feet against the sand to push, to outpace her charge in a backward leap that landed him on his back and set him to roll ass over head as her spearhead buried into the sand where his belly had been.

The crowd laughed at Agarites’ misfortune, misjudgement, but there were no cheers for Nissa upon that blow. For no blood had spilled. She settled her shield on the diagonal, spear resting across it, that she could grip the butt of it and drive forth with extra reach, chasing Agarites back while he was still on his heels from outside of the range of his falx. The man growled in frustration and anger as he dodged long blows and backed into the wall of the arena. Nissa knew that had been a mistake… she only intended to get him near the wall, not against it. She’d overreached.

Bracing his back to the wall, Agarites had left her only one avenue of attack, to his face. He could not turn and run, she could not overpower him to force his footsteps in any direction. While he was certainly in a poor position to strike, he was no longer at her mercy and the man knew it. With both falx he struck the spear aside, Nissa’s grip low on the haft meant her control had been weakened. She struggled to draw it back from the wide angle it had been cast at while Agarites returned to the offensive.

That was her cue, and with a grim set of her jaw, she drew the shortsword from the sheath within the shield. With a scream of vicious anger she lashed out against Agarites as he lunged, and though his falx caught the blade before it could make grievous work of his belly, he was left with a long and shallow cut from the strike running from right hip to his navel, the sword continued it’s arc under his deflection and sent a spray of blood glittering in a narrow arc before it landed upon the sands like a short red serpent. Agarites, now, stepped back with blood. He dabbed fingers at the wound as the crowd roared for Nissa.

He was far less dangerous off his horse.


Gladiator, Adept Archetype

Frenzied Cheers

All Gladiators are skilled performers, as riling the crowd to howls and cries of the crowd are the entire point. At 3rd level, when you choose this subclass, you gain proficiency in Performance.

Showmanship

At 3rd level, you can use your bonus action to taunt and mock a creature within 30 feet of you. The creature must be able to see and hear you but doesn’t have to understand the same language in order for this feature to have an effect on it. Make a Charisma (Performance) check contested by the creature’s Wisdom (Insight) check. On a successful check, the creature becomes visibly flustered and has disadvantage on the next attack roll it makes before the end of its next turn.

You can use this feature a number of times equal to your proficiency bonus, and regain expended uses at the end of a short or long rest.

No Sell

Starting at 6th level, when you are hit by a melee attack, you can use your reaction to spend 1 exertion and reduce the impact. After resistance is applied and damage is determined, roll your martial arts die. Reduce the damage suffered by that amount.

Rile the Crowd

Starting at 11th level you may use Showmanship immediately after landing a critical hit without expending a use of the ability. When you do so, roll your martial arts die and add your proficiency modifier, you gain temporary HP equal to this value.

Champion of the Sands

At 17th level you become a true God of the Arena. You may continue to act while you have 0hp and are making death saving throws. You may also spend 1 exertion while in this state to recover hit points equal to a martial arts die roll.

Bard

It is said that the first moment of civilization, of order and of calm, came when the Serpent and the Witch sang a song to the beasts of the forest, the plains, and the sands. In those dazzling moments, music soothed the bestial violence for a time. Mere moments of beauty and compassion, of peace and comfort. Fleeting as the wind and fickle as the sea, varied as the people who birth it into our world.

Since that glorious moment, we have sought music. We have created it from thin air, devised instruments to produce it's tones, and raised our voices in song. Even infants, our children, babble and hum to have some measure of music and the passions it brings.

If there is any goodness within packed cities and crowded streets, it is the music shared from one to another.

Music of Creation

The gods gave, and give, magic to the world. Not only in the Witch's Arcana, but the mysteries and magics of their various Priests. Music, it is said, is the only magic they do not grant, for it exists beyond them, outside of them. Something they use, but do not make for themselves. A deep truth of all that is, and ever could be.

That those who raise their voice in song, who create music, who give it breath and strength and life, create in those moments of song, create something far greater than themselves. For that creation of music lives in the memory and the heart of those who hear it.

One must be careful, then, what they breathe into the world.

Those Fretting Players

There are many who sing, who dance, who play their songs for the world. Who stand upon the corner of a street, who prance upon stage, who sing to kings of kind or wicked temper. But these are not the fretting players of the world. No. They are wondrous in their creations, of course.

But it is the Bard who travels, who chronicles, who gathers music from across the wide world to learn of it's touch in every way they can. It is these people who collect the true secrets, and power, that lie within the song and rhythms of the world. They seek and create, they birth and they restore. Every lost composition recovered reminding the world of what has been lost in some small measure.

These souls can birth legends, and gods, can sing into being terror and pain. Those whose music can bring a king to his knees, and raise a people to unspeakable heights.

Embrace these souls. And fear them.


                                                                             Stormborn Bard

Song of the Scarlet Shadow

Nabirye slithered quickly toward the great hall as the horn sounded. Behind her, a shadow slipped between pillars in the great halls of the palace at Akhet, where Prince Rudjet-Ka the Golden mustered his armies in preparation to make the final push toward Il'sha-ah, to take the throne from his sister, rightful Phaoris of the Annam.

Nabirye glanced back with downcast eyes at the place the shadow had been standing, and entered the King's chamber, where his generals feasted and fornicated before the would-be ruler. "Music!" He cried out, his voice hoarse and slurred from the burn of wine in throat and belly. His eyes, not quite focusing on the serpent-girl as she made her way to the small stage where musicians began to play.

Around the pillar at it's center she climbed, coiling about it, the cool marble felt luxurous against her scales, her hip, her back, as her arms reached outward and her voice slipped forth. Wordless and sweet as honeyed wine, yet more satisfying by far.

Her eyes settled, for a moment, upon the king before turning up to the shadow above him, behind him. Quickly she swept her gaze away, across the torchlit chamber. Her voice held an ethereal quality as it came back to her from the walls of marble and stone,echoing her melody back. It sussurated and surrounded the generals, the king.

And for a moment, there was peace as mouths hung open and turned toward Nabirye upon the column. The grunts of effort ceased, and even the players, still plucking harp and beating drum, dulled and quieted behind the resonance of her voice.

None saw the Scarlet Shadow drop from the balcony behind the king. But all heard the tenor of the song change when he landed. The distraction was broken, lifted like a veil from their eyes, as words broke through her song. What began as distraction became far more sinister in it's sussuration...

The Song of Doom began and Rudjet-Ka the Golden, Prince of Il'sha-ah, exile and would be king, felt the doom clutch upon his heart. Felt the weakness in his arms as he rose from his gilt throne, the nemes cloth on his head fallen to awkward angle by the sudden lurching motion. His hand found the hilt of his khopesh from the table...

And the Scarlet Shadow, his prey at hand, struck out at Rudjet's exposed back. A shallow cut, as the prince's inebriation and the song set him off weight, he screamed at the bite, nonetheless. And spun to see the masked face of his assassin.

The musicians broke and fled, scattering across the hall in terror and fear, for their patron's demise meant their own destitution if only for a time. The generals rose from stupor, from lust, eyes growing clearer as they looked to the interloper, the assassin with the strange hooked axe.

And the spell broke. Chaos began, fighting and blood, screaming and death. And above it all the song of Nabirye, ringing and clear, strong and empowered. She gave to the Scarlet Shadow great strength in her song, and in time, short time, the Song of Doom was fulfilled. Rudjet and his number lay dead.

Nabirye sought the arms of her lover, and the mask of the Scarlet Shadow raised for their kiss in the bloody aftermath.

Chronicler, Bard Archetype

Consummate Explorer

As a Chronicler you gain Proficiency in the Survival Skill. In addition, you may gain the full benefit from a Long Rest while camped outside of a Haven. This feature allows a Chronicler to remove Fatigue and Strife while taking a long rest anywhere.

Invocations

In your study of occult lore, you have unearthed invocations, fragments of forbidden knowledge that imbue you with an abiding magical ability. You may choose any invocation from the Warlock Class list that you would otherwise qualify for.

For example, unless you have the Eldritch Blast class feature from another source you cannot take the Agonizing Blast invocation.

You gain an additional invocation of your choice at 10th and 14th levels.

Chronicle of Combat

At 6th level you may choose between two Combat Chronicles.

1) Chronicle of the Warrior: You may attack Twice instead of Once when you take the attack action on your turn, and may select future Invocations as if you have the Pact of the Blade class feature.

2) Chronicle of the Mage: You gain the ability to apply Eldritch Invocations to your Cantrips, and count as having an Eldritch Blast of your choice for the purpose of gaining Invocations. You gain one such Eldritch Invocation immediately.

Flexible Knowledge

At 10th level you expand your occult knowledge, which grants you an additional invocation of your choice alongside your Invocations feature. This additional Invocation may not have a Level Requirement above 5th level.

Final Invocation.

At 14th level you expand your occult knowledge, which grants you an additional invocation of your choice alongside your Invocations feature. This additional Invocation may not have a Level Requirement above 7th level.

Berserker

Rage. The fire which burns in all hearts. Placed there by the Beast when we were but animals, wild things in his world, raised by the other gods. It lets our blood boil, our hands leap to violence. There are many who will claim that rage is wicked. Evil by it's very nature. But these few have never had need to defend themselves, in truth. Never heard the rush of blood in their ears as battle was joined.

Pity them their decadent lives. Pity them their still hearts and unmoved spirits that languish in a prison of flesh. For those who have never felt rage have never loved anything enough to rise up in fury at threat of it.

Wild Folk in Dark Times

Tribes roam the grasslands, forests, and deserts of the world. Often protected by wild warriors who hearken to their rage, to the pound of their hearts. Primal and powerful, these Berserkers hunt and kill, war and woo, with deepest passion. Boisterous and boundless, they rove.

Some even claim the Khufu Sea is their own, leading crews of pirates and raiders from the isles of Ellenici or the shores of Neasc.

In all cases, these folk are dangerous to all around them, including their allies. For while rage itself is not evil, the things we do when we embrace it, succumb to it, can be. The curses of the Gods can find us all. And the Berserker as easily as any other.

You would do well to hear your heart's flame, but keep that dark fire lest it burn all you are, and all you hold dear.

Cold Rage and Fine Silk

Those of the cities are not immune to the heat of rage, to the burning of their hearts. But in the decadent and delicate cities of the world, places of politeness, of false modesty, rage must be hidden, contained, ignored. But not all can ignore their rage, much as they try to hide it. To control the heat that burns behind their eyes.

These ones, these polite berserks, are more common than one might imagine. Constrained, bound, and kept from the fullness of their passions many become like caged beasts, pacing the confines of their lives, waiting for the opportunity to release even the smallest fragment of rage wrapped in cold manner... It bears not the flame of the beast, but the cold edge of steel.

For while a tyrant king may choose to let loose their rage upon their people, those who do not hold that position must contain their violence until the time is right, and hide it even unto that moment.

-The Chronicler-


       Musarran Berserker

Hammers and Chains

The alarm is raised as the guard slumps, lifeless, in Madius' hands. His eyes turn up as the guards' close to see the fires of the watchtowers grow, torches lit, braziers flaring to life along the wall. Hastily he drops down with the tumbling body to search for a key, a pick, anything to unshackle himself, his wife.

He turns his head toward her cry before he registers that he hears anything. One of the oafish guards has her by the hair, his eyes full of anger at her attempted escape. Madius rises, chains between his hands rattling with the motion, and runs down the hillside to hurl himself bodily at the guard. For the briefest moment there is a look of confusion on the minotaur's face, almost bemusement, when Madius crashes into him.

And falls to the ground, his weakened state getting the better of him. The wife of Scyles, however, pulls the dagger from the guard's belt in the distraction and pulls it up with both hands to sever the handful of hair within the minotaur's hand. Between the laughable attack and the sudden jerk of his own hand, it's prize lost, the guard bellows a shocked laugh.

Moments before the dagger bites into flesh. Xalais pulls up hard on the blade to rend the cow-man's fat gut, twists the blade to rend further, and the bullish roar that results brings a shocked smile to her face. Perhaps the minotaur did not know that Scythian women are all trained to fight from the same age as the boys...

Madius finds his footing as the minotaur's broad arm slams into Xalais, pushing her back far enough to bring the club down upon her neck and shoulder. Madius leaps to cling to the Minotaur's wrist, to slow the blow, the chain on his hands making this almost impossible. He feels the cold iron biting into his flesh, much as the guard had felt it in his belly. And for a moment that rage burns in him as hotly as it did months before.

For a moment, he is in the great tent, again. Seated across the table from the tribal leaders, laughing a false laugh at Scyles' frail humor to avoid the man's ire. Drinking down wine and making merry when he wants nothing more than to rip out the man's eyes for what he dared do. For a moment, perhaps, his smile wavered, but none knew.

None knew that his rage would tear Scyles from the world.

The blow slowed, Xalais was still tossed to the ground by the impact, and the cold rage Madius had hidden so well rose anew. As it had risen when Scyles found Xalais in Madius' arms. As it had risen when he dragged Xalais from the bed to fling her against the wall. As it had risen while he choked the life from his rival, from the chieftain of his own tribe.

The guard, his thews flexing under Madius's grip, raised his arm, lifting the man from his feet, and brought his other meaty paw to bear, gripping Madius by the throat. The rage in the man's eyes grew as breath was stolen from his lungs.

His rage would lie cold in the pit of his stomach no longer. His choice had lead Xalais to shackles and he would see them broken. Tooth and Claw, he fought the minotaur, tearing at the mighty guard's flesh, grappling like a man possessed, he even managed to hold the great bulk down for Xalais to strike with dagger.

With love the two looked to each other. With gratitude they looked up to Moadi upon the burning wall. Freedom would be theirs, to ride the grasslands in the west. Far from Kyran.

Coldrage Barbarian, Berserker Archetype

Cold Rage

Your rage is a quiet seething rather than an explosive anger. Any character using Insight against you rolls with disadvantage. In addition, you gain advantage to Deception, Intimidation, Performance, and Persuasion checks while raging.

Controlled Fury

At 3rd level your control over the fire in your heart grows even more precise. As a bonus action you may choose to suppress your rage. When you do so, mark down how many rounds of rage you have left before your current rage would normally end. At any time on your turn, or when you are struck by an attack, you may expend a reaction to resume your rage, gaining all normal benefits for the remainder of your rage's duration.

You may only use this ability once per rage.

Steely Demeanor

At 6th level your control over your emotions expends to mental compulsion. You become immune to Fear effects and gain advantage to saving throws against Charm effects.

Furious Strike

At 10th level you can pour all of your rage into a single attack. When you make a successful attack action while raging but do not deal a critical hit, you may choose to end your Rage immediately and instead treat the attack as if you rolled a natural 20 and critically hit your target.

You may use this ability a number of times per day equal to your Proficiency Bonus.

Dominance of Fury

At 14th level your absolute control over your rage is unparalleled. You no longer end your rage when you utilize Furious Strike, though you may only use it once per rage. In addition, you become immune to effects which control or influence your emotions, such as Calm Emotions and Tasha's Hideous Laughter.

Cleric

There are many gods in the world. Powerful deities and entities we seek to appease to protect ourselves from their ire, their wrath. In this we have failed... but there are those, yet, who court the favor of the gods, seek their blessing. Across all lands are shrines and temples to gods uncounted, but it may be said that they are masks, names, false claims that the Eight wear before different peoples... Or are placed upon them by the priests.

Clerics, Priests, Medicine Men, Shaman, countless names for the same thing. Speakers of the Gods, adherents of the faith. They who bear the message of their religion into the world. Many do so in good faith, but even among the number of those who serve gods are cruelties and betrayers, deceitful and manipulative, who would use their position, their beliefs, to place themselves over others.

Servants to Gods

Priests serve the gods, directly. They interpret signs, perform rituals, and counsel lay people in their day to day life. Wherever you find priests you almost always find the heart of a community. Priests are often learned folk to whom you may turn in times of need. Look to them for local histories, for legends and myths, for long memories of the past.

But do not trust in a Priest. For priests are mortals with their own agenda. They will seek to couch their advice in the words of their god. To make simple suggestions into edicts of behavior. To change your heart from what gods and faith you might hold for their own.

A Game of Souls

It is said that the gods wish to claim our spirits for themselves in death. That when we perish and the Dweller ushers us into the afterlife that we will sit by their sides and be numbered. Some say that this is how we shall be rewarded for our service to the Gods in life, or at least our deference to their desires and intentions.

Others, however, say that it is how the gods will judge their vast game. By collecting and counting our souls for their own ends. To compare them, and say "I, now, have the most souls!" But such things are questionable at best.

For what care can the gods have for games, for souls, for us when we are so little beside them. In my travels, I think the gods care little for mortals, and less for our souls. They desire compliance and acceptance in the manner of a king to the peasants. He no more cares for one subject than a cow in his holdings. Both provide him with value and deference, and this is enough. Perhaps this is how the gods see us... Yet priests speak of children, of flocks, of congregations.

And that speaks to a deeper meaning I yet hold hope for.

-The Chronicler-


Achelbite Priest

The Mysteries of the Flower

"Gaioz of Grisia, Priest of the fourth circle, adherent of the Flower. Rise, and be recognized!" Bellowed the Archpriest, her hands raised high into the air, the symbol of the Flower, a gilt lily upon a blue background, hung heavy from her neck and hardly shifted for it's weight at her broad gesture. Gaioz rose slowly, his dark blue skin sheened in sweat after the hours long trials required to prove his faith and secure his ascension. With bare head lowered and panting he stood, and held his hands forward, together, fingers spread and touching to show allegiance to the Flower.

The attending members of the congregation, nobles and priests and a handful of artisan leaders, raised their voices in exultation and called out to the Flower for favor in attending this moment. Gaioz smiled wanly as his head rose, looking out over his new peers, the Fourth Circle. His family would be proud if they saw him, now.

At the gesture of the Archpriest he stepped forward on wobbling legs, like an antelope child newborn and faltering. She gave him her blessing, and he felt the surge of strength restore what vigor he had lost in the trials, felt the wounds close upon his back and arms. And she took him in her great arms to hug him as one would a child, to pet the sweat from the back of his head, and nod.

And then she was gone, off to attend other business as the Priests and nobles and merchants spoke and feasted in his honor. He had accomplished much in a short time by following the Golden Rule, to do unto others as you would have them do unto you. So simple. So basic. Yet it created great comfort, and endless joy to see it repeated, performed, by countless adherents in their lives.

He had counseled so many to follow that simple guideline, and their adherence helped lead him to his new position of honor. As the evening wore thin, the nobles and the merchants slipped off into darkness to seek their homes and beds. Gaioz made certain to bid goodnight and offer simple blessings to each within the temple's garden. Amid flowers he had tended two short moons before.

And then he followed behind the senior priests of the Fourth Circle as they lead him deeper into the temple than he had ever been. "You were chosen, Gaioz, for your piety and your attention to detail. Did you know this?" asked Alaira, who had once been a Musarran merchant, herself, before donning the cloth and the flower.

"I was told, yes. There is nothing I would not give to the Flower. To the church. My life, should it be needed. My flesh. My blood. My very soul."

"Yes, yes. We know. Follow closely, now, and mark the path in your mind. There are no markers where we go now." Bid Alaira, and Gaioz did as told. Through the catacombs beneath the temple, through the halls of the dead which long preceded the priesthood, here. Built, as it was, in an ancient time, with cyclopean stones. A twisting path to a great vaulted chamber.

Within, the tithings of countless souls. Gaioz was stunned by the sheen of gold and of silver. He looked to Alaira in confusion at the wealth which should have been used to help people.

"You'll be keeping the ledgers, now, Gaioz. Follow the Gold and Rule."

Priest of the Order, Cleric Archetype

Domain Spell List

You may choose the spell list of any domain to expand your own spell list. Once you have made this decision you cannot change it.

Initiate of the Order

As an initiate of your Temple's order, choose two proficiencies that exemplify your faith. These can be individual weapon or armor types, skill proficiencies, tool proficiencies, or languages, in any combination that you prefer.

Channel Divinity: Ritual of Sanctuary

As an action you can expend a use of Channel Divinity to create a Safe Haven in a defined space. Such as a particular clearing in a forest, a cave, or building. The space must be devoid of hostile entities when the ability is used, or it fails.

Associate of the Order

At 6th level you become an Associate of the Order and may choose between the following class feature options:

1) Forceful Rebuke: You may expend your reaction when hit by a melee attack to push your attacker 15ft directly away from you.

2) Warrior Priest: You may make a weapon attack as a bonus action if you use your action to cast a Cleric Spell.

You may use this ability a number of times equal to your Wisdom Modifier (Minimum 1) and regain expended uses on a short or long rest.

Deeper Mysteries.

At 8th level your knowledge of your order's mysteries grows deeper. You may choose to either deal 1d8 additional Radiant or Necrotic damage on your melee attacks or gain your Wisdom Modifier as a bonus to damage on Cleric Cantrips. At the end of a short or long rest you can change between these two options by expending a use of Channel Divinity.

Master of the Order

At 14th level you become fully versed in the mysteries of your Order. When you reduce a sapient creature (Intelligence 3 or higher) to 0 hit points you may expend your reaction to instead kill that creature in a sacrificial offering. Doing so causes the target to immediately die.

If your target was Helpless you may immediately petition your god for a Divine Intervention, even if you have used this ability within the past 7 days. If your target was not helpless, you instead gain 1 use of Channel Divinity.

Druid

In the wild places of the world, in the hollows and valleys, forests and jungles, marshlands and mountains, there are few people to meet. Rarely, you will meet a hermit, a recluse, or find a hidden place of contemplation. In these places, hidden from the world, you will occasionally find a Priest. But these priests are nothing like those you know from your comfortable city-states and arable lands. No. These priests are wild, uncouth, or contemplative. The gods they serve are as unknowable as the distant moon, but as present as cool water.

One cannot truly trust a druid or priest of this sort. For their ways are as inscrutable as the ways of the gods they serve. And keep your eyes on them. For they may slip away with a moment's glance aside.

The Beastly Druids

In Jungles, in Marshes, in Forests, the Beast holds sway over all animals. And to him turn those people of dark intent and vicious streak. Druids, are his priests called, for he has no Temple within the walls of civilization. Power over the animals, the elements, and the plants are given unto them. And they are encouraged, often, to shed their mortal forms and take up the figure and countenance of fierce beasts to do his will.

Such folk tend to be as brutish and violent, volatile, as their deity. Brash, bold, cunning, and deadly. They've been known to slip into villages and see them destroyed from within.

The Deepest Mysteries

These hidden priests, these hermits and druids and seers and slayers, know deep secrets of the world, of the stars, of the beasts and cycles of the world. But above all this, they alone speak the true language of the Gods. Often called 'Druidic' by lay men who know little of the Weaver's Mysteries, it is a language kept only by these reclusive priests of each order. Many of whom spend their entire lives in near-solitude, living in the wilder lands at the frayed edges of our maps.

The Starscribes

While each of the Gods has followers among the druidic sects the ones known most broadly, beyond the Beast's harrowed following, are the Starscribes. Weaver's Children, the starscribes witness the passing of time, of the movements of the Heavens in their eternal dance. They look to these movements, so foreign to our eyes, to learn what the Weaver portends. It is said that they can divine the moment of a man's death, or the lives of his unborn children down to their names.

This I have not seen... but what I have seen leads me to believe it.

-The Chronicler-





            Imba Druid

##


Circle of Storms, Druid Archetype

Fighter

Warriors, Fighters, Gladiators, Guards. There are a thousand thousand words and names and phrases which each speak to the same thing. Those with the will, the strength, and the skill to pick up a weapon, don armor, and change the world through force of arms, or through force of arms refuse any change.

From the lowliest peasant conscript clutching spear and shield to the mightiest general, each has felt the terror of battle yet to come, the intense strain of battle endured, and the incredible relief of having survived that battle, only to know growing dread of what battle may yet rise.

But Fighters, those dread warriors of skill, talent, and care, seek these challenges and battles as a Chronicler seeks knowledge. They who set out to end evil by opposing it, or to enact it, themselves, are our greatest allies and our most dreaded foes.

Styles and Substance

Mist and Shade, the Razor's Edge, the Sanguine Knot. Each a school of fighting, a style, born across the world and taught by different armies, different soldiers, different schools. Eight are known to me, and three more are legends I hope to witness before my end. From the stoic brutality of the Adamant Mountain to the vicious barbarity of Tooth and Nail, you will see many warriors use their styles, and blend them.

But for all the style, the poise, the violent animalism. What is a Fighter but their cause? A Kingdom, perhaps... or a Crown? Love and Peace? The chance to visit the great cities of the world and drink as deeply of the wells of their martial knowledge as any chronicler might drink of arcane knowledge? The most ocmmon that I have known, that many have known, is the simplest and the saddest.

Revenge.

In the Cause of War

There are many fighters who serve kings and phaoris. Who obey the will of their chieftains. And you will meet many such warriors in your time as a chronicler. But I warn you, now. You are just as likely to be the target of their ire as their ally. Moreso, still, if they serve a cause. For any cause that is not their own can quickly become their enemy.

If you meet one upon the road girded for war, with no battle near at hand, offer a wide berth... or cleave so close to their steps that your own cannot be distinguished. For to slow their stride is to invite their blade.

-The Chronicler-





































       Naghese Fighter

Sacred Nights of Il-hamun

Ureku, son of Alman, guard of Annam, citizen of Il'sha-ah, picked his path carefully over the many soft paths of the necropolis at Il-hamun, his sandals sinking into the loose sand and dust of the quarries. To his left Tul, their armor dull in the night, raised a hand in warning. The words which slipped from Ureku's lips fell still, sat upon his tongue like a dull weight as the hand rose, as his eyes followed theirs.

His ears felt full of silence in the night, save the soft wind which blew across his skin, setting him to shiver, which set a hushed rush across his ears. He looked to Tul with a questioning gaze before their eyes turned to him. It was only when their gaze met his that he heard the faintest scratching noise in the middle distance.

The two separated. Tul circled to the north while Ureku's steps turned to the south. Both traveling toward the sound. Each step grated upon Ureku's ears. Yes, the sand was quieter than the stone under his feet, but when one stalks through the night with intent to hear, every sound seems louder, harsher, more clear to the world.

Above, the twin moons cast their pale light down upon the world, bathing it in sacred blues and deepest black shadows. Ureku's eyes had long adapted to the night, early in the patrol, to the point where everything seemed near as bright as day. But those shadows in the valley of Il-hamun never seemed to part, to allow the light of moon or star pierce them. And though they sound came from further west, it was to the shadows his eyes were drawn.

What horrors had come from that darkness in the ages cince Il-hamun was first carved? What terrors did they hide? Ureku had long heard tales of the old guard, and more, passed down from their predecessors, and their predecessors in turn. Stories of haunted dead, unquiet, stirred from their grave to horror and death anew. And though he had walked the Dead City patrol for nearly a year, he could not shake the terror which gripped at his heart whenever he drew too near to that cloying darkness...

Tul, in the distance, turned their footsteps toward the sound. Picking their way through the tombs and paupers graves of the necropolis, they slowly drew their blades. The bronze blade of the khopis glinted in the wan light of the night, a brief comfort for the guard who approached the scratching in the memory of the first drawing of that sickle-blade under midday sun. But the memory quickly faded as they moved west.

Tul, child of Akenton, Guard of Annam, citizen of Il'sha-ah, slipped into the shadows which Ureku shunned so fiercely. Their footsteps muffled in sand, their form hidden in darkness, their eyes intent upon the world around them, they became as the living shadow. They turned toward the sound, for they, and Ureku, were upon it, now, coming from a small tomb carved with an ancient depiction of battle.

Ureku and Tul, each armed, turned the corner of the tomb almost in unison, to see who scratched upon the stones, who sought to break the seal... And found only each other in the night. Confusion marked each face. Concern and distress followed with quickness.

Their eyes turned from each other as the scratching, now so loud that their heartbeats could not be heard to pound in their ears, came from within the sealed tomb. And to their joint horror, the clay seal that had been undisturbed for centuries fell to the sand, split in half by the sawing of a claw.

Herald

Some warriors train their lives away to do battle. Some mages spend their lives studying magic. Some priests devote their entire lives to their gods. And some... some are gifted with great and terrible powers. Not like Sorcerers, no. Sorcerers arise from bloodlines of power. From corruption and transgression, no.

The Herald rises from nothing, or from everything, with powers that many mortals may dream of. Martial skill, mystical strength, faith of the heart. There are no Herald orders. No vaunted halls or legendary kingdoms. No towering edifices of stone and wealth devoted to their strange art. There is only sand and stone and blood and bone.

Heroes of Legend

Isra, who wrestled with the divine, who brought the heavenly bull Ukada, destroyer of walls, to his knees and remade him was a Herald. Born to be a hero, he championed the people of Musarra even before the Beast sent his bull. Before he ruled the city, he was a peasant-child. Raised far from the water's side, in the lands that dried in winter, he took up spear and shield to defend the city, to fight it's wars, and to guard it's citizens.

And when those in power abused it, he flexed his own to ensure right would rule the day. He was well loved, or so legend tells, long before his great battle. Long before the crown graced his brow and the Bull became the Minotaur.

While any might become a legend, Heralds are largely unknown outside of them.

Lost in the Sands of Time

While the legacy of a Herald may stand the test of time, unknown numbers have been lost to time through failure, attrition, or the inevitable slide of civilization into barbarism. From many dunes and in cavern-halls glower ancient features in stone, their names and goals long lost to time. Often broken, damaged, or defaced, these Heralds failed to become legends.

Else they were legends of forgotten eras, lost in time beyond their grim visage left to stare across the endless gulf of time until all ends.

Of Faith and Arcana

Heralds hold the power of gods in their veins. And most rarely, that blood is the Witch's. While most Heralds cast magics of faith, some few use Arcane magics at her offering. What's more. Such Heralds do not risk her Corruption through the use of Arcana...

Unless they betray her almost inscrutable intent. Shippurat of Qesh was a herald of some power, centuries ago, who used the Witch's power. But when she turned against the King of Qesh and sought to conquer the city for her own gains, the Witch released all of her corruption into the woman, and stole her away from the mortal realm.

What became of her beyond that is unknown, and we must hope it remains so.







            Imba Herald

Isra and Ukada

In the days before the great flood drowned the city of Musarra, when the First Kings still ruled the world, the Beast grew petulant and wild as the borders of civilization crept into the wildlands. Oh, he would not be contained within the walls of Mankind, this had been decided. But as the walls of the different cities drew near, he felt confined by their borders. And so he sent the great bull Ukada, Brother to Night, The Wall-Cracker, to destroy the fledgling cities and save the wilds for wild things.

Nameless villages fell to Ukada, in a string running toward Musarra and it's neighbors. And seeing this horror galavanting through the world, this threat to the fabric so carefully woven, to threads that would be cut short by a hand other than her own, the Weaver chose to offer great power to a hero of the people.

His name was Isra. And into him flowed the strength of those that Ukada had destroyed. Into his muscles their strength. Into his heart their lives. Into his mind their knowledge. And he knew the great bull before he saw him. Viewed through the eyes of the countless mortals Ukada had killed. He saw it's every motion. He saw it's mighty strength. And he knew to overcome it would require all that he had been gifted.

Years would pass, as the strange child would grow to fine strong man. He knew his purpose from the day of his birth, knew that in him breathed the moments of all those Ukada had killed, would kill, in his path to Musarra, across the great plains and steppes, chasing after horse-lords and monstrous creatures that foolishly trod his path.

And as Ukada approached Musarra, at long last, he found Isra standing in his path. Enraged, the great bull charged Fate's Chosen, but struck nothing more than air. For Isra knew not to remain near the bull's path. Knew to jump when his head was low and his eyes blinded by the angle of his horns. Knew to cleave close to the beast's side, so sharp hooves could not tear flesh and cast him to field where a turning bull could trample Isra or strike him down into the loamy soil with piercing horns.

For six days and nights they fought and wrestled. Once Ukada's deadly charge had failed. Isra never let the distance between them grow anew, and instead took hold of the bull with his hands. Against each other they crashed and raged, shattering bones, tearing flesh. But on the Seventh day the battle stopped. For Ukada had been broken to much, so many times, that he stood as a man. And saw as a man.

And felt as a man. For Isra had put all of his heart into the fight, and the hearts of all those Ukada had killed. He had attacked the Bull with reason, and the thoughts of all those who had perished beneath the horns. He had not only broken Ukada's bones with his great strength and the strength of those who had died. He had reformed him into something new.

In the depths of the wildlands the Beast roared in terrible anger, his champion defeated. While Isra and Ukada, the first Minotaur, became dear friends and companions on many quests to come.

Marshal

Warlords and Commanders, chieftains and generals, battlemasters and lanista. Marshals by any name are those who hold mastery not only of metal, but of flesh. For what is a blade without the hand that wields it? A field without those who work the soil and draw life from dark soil?

The Marshal will tell you that they are nothing. A waste of metal and water. That one may kill another without so much as a rock to wield, that a field can be planted with nothing more than hands and seeds. Much like the Fighter, you should cleave close to the steps of a Marshal or remain far removed from their path.

For while a fighter may kill you with skill and daring, a Marshal will rally numbers to crush you, and erase you from history.

Calculated Risks

Shouting orders upon crowded battlefields, charging deep into the enemy's lines, wheeling with spear and shield... The Marshal is known, above all things, for commanding others in time of battle. Their powerful voices cut through the din and rouse even the most reticent warrior to dizzying heights of martial prowess.

What most do not see until days after the battle, even years, are the careful thoughts and planning that goes into those moments. They hear the rallying cry, and charge to their doom, as allies and their leaders move to flank, to pincer, to withdraw. And those losses must be counted, and measured, against the victory or retreat.

Steely Resolve

It takes a strong stomach and a spine of stone to order people to their deaths in service of a cause.





Kyrani Marshal

The Cobra and the Dragon

It is said that in Il'sha-ah upon the great river Cobra where his hood opens as he bites into the sea of Khufu, there came a drought in the forty and second flooding season in the First Dynasty. The Phaoris Am-Tet, blood of the Serpent still cool in her veins, called forth her armies to guard the failing river as she, with the wisdom of the Serpent, made the trip south to the River's Source.

In the great desert Annam, beneath the sweltering sun, she took her personal guard, forty and two, and sought to end the drought. Forty and two nights they traveled, and forty and three days, and each day a member of her Guard refused to go further, for no sign of the cause was found on each of these days. Each day these men would seek water from the sickly river, seek comfort from the heat, and find themselves absent the Phaoris's company.

Am-Tet continued on the forty and third day, alone, to walk through the Annam, to pass across the ruined plants upon the sickly river's banks, to see the dying herds of animals upon it's shores, until she came upon the source of all ire. There, across the river on the forty and third evening, before the night fell, Am-Tet found a great dragon had lay across the Cobra's tail.

The beast was so large, so bold, that when it raised it's mighty head Am-Tet, Phaoris of Balam, Third of the Blood of the Serpent, First of her name, fell into shadow and darkness. The great dragon's bulk had diverted the river from it's bed, and cast the life-giving waters beyond into thirsty sands which drank the Cobra. And it had been drinking of the river, as well, taking the greatest share of water for itself.

For a night Am-Tet pled with the great beast. Her every argument met with refusal. "Your people would drink, but I would thirst." claimed the dragon. "The Khufu is too salty for me to drink down." it reasoned. "My scales would grow hot if I left the riverbed to let the river flow as I drink." it complained.

And on the dawn of the forty and fourth day, Am-Tet's patience drew thin. And in glorious battle she slew the dragon, setting it's waters to join the flow and releasing the Cobra from bondage. For forty and seven days the river ran red and lapped high upon the floodstones of the Cobra's bank. Forty and three days she walked back to Il'sha-ah, not drinking of the poisoned river.

And each day she came upon one of her guard, bloated with water and poisoned with Dragonsblood. But when she reached the Cobra's hood the water ran clear of blood, of poison, drank down by those who betrayed her for their own ends, of those who put themselves first before Il'sha-ah, as had the Dragon.

Or so it is said.

Ranger

It is said that the path of the thief-taker is the lonely one. To wander the Scorpion Lands from city to city, hunting people across trackless wastes and endless canyons, through scrubland and sand. Those who do so must have a terrible weight upon their back, or a terrible pain which drives them onward. Away from the cities and into the wastelands. But they are not alone in understanding the hidden paths.

Wardens, and Judges, Secret-Keepers and Bandit Lords. Those who travel the brutal sands and the dark forests of the world learn it's secrets. They can be guides for those who are worthy, protectors, hunters.

Be worthy, young Chronicler. And never be the one they hunt.

Law in the Wild

Across vast sands footsteps stand until the dunes shift. Until the wind washes them away like waves upon a shoreline. To follow them when they are fresh is no trouble. To discern them in a sandstorm is the place of the ranger. Many such people track horse thieves and frauds, or hunt down cults of false and fallen gods. Dragging them, or proof of their end, back to the place of bounty, to the one who wanted them.

While any might take such a job if offered, few have the skills required to do so. This leads to great legends of Bandit-Kings who cannot be captured. At least not until the Thief-Taker takes up the task.

Scouts and Hunters

Those who track are often employed not only to find criminals, but food and information. Great hunters of legend are said to have tracked dragons through the sky by the patterns of wind, and brought them down in their lairs. To have chased trickster gods aground and extracted heady bargains from them.

But even mortal hunters, of no fame or legend, may feed a tribe through harsh months of drought and famine. May save the lives of villages by killing wild bantuar which plague the village's herds, and teach those helpless fools to take the venom from the flesh without spoiling the meat.

Keepers of the Hidden Way

Others known to walk this path are those of the Hidden Way. Secret-Keepers of Annam know of terrible things hidden in the roving desert. Learn to mark their way by the stars and not their maps, so that the horrors they keep in the sands cannot be learned with simple theft.

If you meet a ranger in the desert of Annam, ask him what stars he walks under. If he speaks of the signs of the Zodiac be at ease unless you are a horse-thief. But if he names the stars, one by one, you may already be too close to a hidden secret.

Let him guide you away, or dispatch him quickly, depending on how much you desire what he guards. Because when he learns of your designs on his secrets, it will end swiftly.


                                                                                                    Minotaur

Ranger

The Mire Which Halts Hearts

Umbataa had seen the great riverbeasts, bloated and dead, upon the savannah. Far from water, they had chased something, someone, before collapsing. Or, perhaps, had fled? The massive feet of the riverbeasts destroyed any trail leading to their bodies, but no steps lay easy in the grass beyond. Above, vultures circled. It might be hours, yet, after the bodies ceased motion, before they would swoop to take their fill. For riverbeasts are among the most deadly of the Beast's progeny, and most angered when wounded, or dying.

Rough hands rolled over the blubberous form of one Riverbeast. It's skin hot under the savannah sun, but there was no life to it. Stiff and stretched as it was by the rot within. Umbataa's hand moved to it's great jaws, mouth wide upon the ground where it had bellowed it's final breath. Amid the fetid stench, the scent of rot and gore, he caught a whiff.

The barest scent, really. The faintest hint of a familiar odor that hearkened back to the heady days he'd spent in Kyalo, sleeping dreamless nights and dream-filled days away, his mind lost in heady Nectar.

His eyes turned heavenward, again, to see the circling vultures. They would feast well, in time. It was time to leave. Umbataa turned his hooves south, trodding the path of the riverbeasts to seek their poison.

Before him lay the Stopwater, a fetid swamp where the Ahlaki falls were lost to the savannah in a spredding mud-filled lake spotted with trees and populated with horrid insects, giant lizards, and a small town of swampdwellers upon it's edge. Questions were asked in Oromi, but the children of the town knew little, and their elders refused to speak of Pokenkwo flowers and their nectar. Instead there were dead stares, shouts of anger, and far too much attention.

And so Umbataa, who had tracked men from Tefari to Ipu, who had hunted the great lizards of Ngo and slain Kor the Implacable, set out from the packed dirt roads that wound between the treehouses and huts of Oromi and moved into the greater swamp.

Everyone from fifteen to fifty had left the town, and their footsteps were not hard to follow into the stinking mire itself, his hooves sucked down into the muck, swiftly, for minotaurs were not well suited to soft grounds. Each sucking step, however, lead him to the scent he had once loved. His fingers trembled and so he clutched his axes with them to stop their motions.

In time the sun's light waned and drew red-orange upon the horizon. And it was then, pulling aside the fronds of a small tree, that Umbataa found the source of the riverbeast's end.

Pokenkwo.

A plantation stretching across acres, worked and picked by the populace of Oromi. Most walked in a gape-mouthed daze, their fingers and palms swollen from handling the clearly toxic leaves. To the west, a patch of pokenkwo was flattened, ruined by the fat beasts who had eaten their deadly fill of the heady plant.

But one of the glass-eyed women, a basket of petals half-full upon her hip, finally managed to focus her eys upon Umbataa and let out a shrill cry. And the guards, many wearing the colors of Kyalo and the witch Tupo Ava, who Umbataa knew bitterly, rushed the minotaur. Axes left their slings and shaking fingers became as steel when battle was joined.

Rogue


Sprite Rogues

Of Traitors and Thieves

Atorkhan's blade flashed swiftly, in a silver arc as moonlight, the curved dagger's edge hissed sibillantly as it traced the line of the traitor's throat from ear to ear. Unable to cry out, the man crumpled to the ground, clutching at the wound as crimson blood, more precious than any gem and spent more freely, pooled beneath his unbelieving eyes. The Bandit King stepped swiftly away from the dying man, along the cavern wall, staying clear of the firelight when possible.

In the near distance another of the betrayers turned, too late to see Atorkhan's silks slipping around a carved stalagmite, etched with ancient words of power. Instead he beheld his comrade in arms upon his knees, gurgling his final breaths. Where his friend could make no sound, the second traitor screamed so shrilly and so loudly, that it echoed through the ancient vault of the cave.

One scream lead to barked orders, shouts of light, of torches. More and more of the traitors, seventeen in all, now, lit flame to stinking pitch for the chance to see what horror struck in darkness. But these men were no fools. No, they had been well trained by Atorkhan, himself. Soon enough their eyes faced in every direction, with no man out of sight of at least one other. And together they stumbled through the cave. Some walking as crabs, others like ghosts. Forward and Sideways and Backward all.

Onward they stumbled through the tunnels they had once called home, away from the sibilant death that awaited them on Atorkhan's blades. One of which hissed through the air past their number, glinting in torchlight for a moment only, leaving a blazing trail burned into vision like a passing comet or falling star. None looked to where it went in the shadows, but many eyes turned toward the darkness whence it came.

Stillness. Darkness. The torches waved overhead, pressed back the encroaching darkness, one they had held such comfort in, many a time. Darkness which now held only deepest fear of reprisal. Between them, these seventeen held the last of the stolen wealth of Atorkhan. And as he lay, dying, he had spit forth a curse that none of the betrayers would escape his wrath.

A wrath which stretched beyond death. A wrath that chased them through darkened tunnels and twisting paths. But the seventeen who survived knew they were near to the exit, knew every foostep and stone from years of service to the Bandit King.

Sixteen, now. As those who turned to look back at their peers saw Alhamar was now missing. No body. No scream. No sounds of struggle, of flailing arms, only gone. There was no word spoken on realizing this. Only a brief shared look of confusion in which realization dawned.

After that moment, Sixteen men fled at speed, stumbling and crashing into one another in their flight toward the exit. For if numbers and vigilance cannot stop Atorkhan's Wrath, only speed might evade it.

Fifteen. Fourteen. Twelve.

Again and again the wrath of Atorkhan made itself known, tearing into what numbers fled it. Into the traitors and murderers who would kill the lord of thieves, their own friend and mentor, whom some had called 'Father of my Heart if not my Blood'. To whom so many had sworn so many oaths.

Three. And then one. One, alone, burst upon the sands at the cave's mouth, stolen treasure heavy burden upon his back, scimitar in hand. The wrath would follow... in time.

Sorcerer

Power. Power travels with bloodlines, this is known. The wealthy man raises a wealthy child. The noble passes title to heir. The blood of the queen passes on to her children. But so, too, does corruption. Corruption of body, of spirit, of mind. These things may pass to generations, also. And no case of corruption's passing is more evident than the passing of the Witch's Curse to one's brood. It is said that the first Sorcerer was gifted knowledge of the Arcane by the Witch, herself. That in their blood traveled power that was shared.

Whether that power was shared by desire or consumption is a matter of debate.

Whatever the case, Sorcerers, now, are known for being born with mystical prowess, and the Witch's Curse flowing through their veins along with the blood of their parents. Few learn the cleansing rituals, the purification the Flower gave us.

Thus beware the children of the Corrupt.

Legacies of Evil

Not all Sorcerers are the children of Spellcasters. Some are birthed of those who succumb to the Beast's curse, the Serpent's, the Weaver's... but all bear a spark of Arcane power. None know why this is so, few question it. All that matters is the power birthed and borne by the children.

Children who may not know the Flower's touch, or word. Who know only the Witch's jealous nature and vicious temptations. Their parents' transgressions oft follow them. The child of a deposed tyrant is unlikely to garner safety and welcome from those their parent oppressed. And defending themselves with the power granted makes the corruption evident...

Lament the wayward Sorcerer.

Destiny Embraced or Deferred

In rare instances, there are those who are born chosen. Not through corruption or the sins of their parents, but for some higher destiny. And they, and their more accursed cousins, must make a terrible choice. Whether to embrace their destiny as it was ordained, or cast it aside to make their own path in the world.

There have been Sorcerer-Kings killed by their own children, who refused to don the crown when their day came. And there have been Weaver-Born blessed ones who have cast off the cloak of valor given unto them to live lives of decadence or folly, or even deepest piety.

Who can know what result will come from denying Destiny? None among the many that I have asked.

-The Chronicler-







            Il'sharran Sorcerer

Shed Skin of Il'sha-ah

Adra-sun-Ramun had fled the palace. Her father, Phaoris Hatfet II, had been killed by the High Priest of the Serpent, and now the High Priest would see her killed to end the line of Hatfet. In her haste to flee the temple, Adra-sun-Ramun had taken a heavy cloak from one of the Phaori-Kha, the private guards of the Phaoris. She could feel the blood upon it cooling in the night air as she hurried through the streets.

Looking down at her shaking hands, Adra-sun-Ramun saw the smudged gold paint still on her skin, some had rubbed off on the cloak she wore, from her holding it shut. Her back likely smeared the inside of the rough-spun fabric as well. To hide, she would have to shed her skin, as the Serpent teaches.

In the distance she could hear the Temple Guard searching, so she would not have a great deal of time. Knowing this, she fled toward the fields of the great city of Il'sha-ah, toward the irrigation ditches, lined with limestone, to fling herself into the shallow water which swiftly shone gold as the paint washed clear.

The cloak discarded upon a low hedge of Papyri bushes, she rolled in the water, scrubbing her scales against the limestone bottom, hands frantically scrubbing over her arms, before she rose, dripping wet, and slithered through the hedgerows, bracelets cast aside, rings following suit. The farmer would find quite the harvest from this field, she thought to herself sullenly.

But when the time came to discard the armband her mother had given her, with the pearl inlay, Adra-sun-Ramun hesitated. She remembered her mother's kindness even up to her end. The care she showed in all of her actions. The love which welled up inside of her heart. And disobeyed the Serpent's edict. Not all scales would be shed, this night.

And in time, she would have her vengeance. The crackling power within her veins arced lightly between her fingertips before she clenched her fists to stop it. No. Her vengeance would be delayed. For now, she had only to escape the city.

Through the hedgerows she moved, low to the ground, darting from shadow to shadow as the twin moons shone down upon the world, bathing it in the blue glow of the season. Nearer, now, she heard the din of the priests in their search, saw the garish glow of their torches upon the dun-grey walls of huts and homes. Their voices were raised, calling the city to waken, to rouse, to the hunt for her.

They would. She knew this. For while her mother was kind, her father had been cruel to all around himself. And if the High Priest had felt he had authority, backing, to strike so boldly, the generals had joined his cause. Adra-sun-Ramun slipped down an alleyway, hoping to double back behind her pursuers, to hide among the dazed and confused populace following timidly in their wake.

For a time it worked. For her scales shone no more brightly than any others, what clothes she wore were fine, but without gilded adornment seemed no more wealthy than any merchant. But as the search neared the western wall, as she climbed around a pole near to the wall, a shout rose.

"There! Upon the wall!" a young man's voice, soon joined in a cacophany of others crying for the guard. As archers took aim, lightning, green-gold, lanced through the air into their midst, and the Sorcerer's Daughter fled over the wall, her fingers still crackling.

Blood of Ages, Sorcerer Archetype

Heritage Signature

As a descendant of a corrupted bloodline or a wielder of a mark of destiny, your heritage is difficult to hide. Whenever you cast a spell your mark glows or your heritage is displayed in the appearance of the spell. When this happens you gain Advantage on Deception, Intimidation, and Persuasion skill checks against those who view your Heritage Signature, unless you are attempting to convince them you are not a member of that Heritage.

If you use Subtle Spell this Signature is hidden for that spell, alone.

Bloodline of Magic

Within your bloodline there is a great and unique power. Work with your DM to create a spell list, containing 2 spells of each level from 1 to 5. These spells should be reflective of your particular bloodline or the meaning of your mark, and may be drawn from any spell list.

Power of the Blood

Your blood is a powerful tool for magic. At 6th level you gain the ability to sacrifice one hit dice to create a Sorcery Point. Using this separate sorcery point allows you to apply the same metamagic effect multiple times.

You may use this Sorcery Point immediately, or bottle it and offer it to another character. That character may then use that vial of blood as a spell component to apply any of your metamagic abilities to a spell they cast. Only one such vial can be applied to a spell at a time.

If, however, you are ritually sacrificed as part of a spell, your remaining hit dice can be used as spell points in the ritual spell, and apply any of your metamagic effects to the resulting effect.

You may use this ability a number of times equal to your Constitution Modifier. You regain all uses at the end of a Long Rest.

Mystical Modification

At 14th level your control over your power grows drastically. Choose two of your Metamagic options. Reduce the Sorcery Point Cost of these two options by 1, to a minimum cost of 1 Sorcery Points.

Channeled Destiny

At 18th level your experiences have shaped who you are, and who you will become, unlocking the ability to directly channel your own life into your magic. When you cast a spell you may choose to sacrifice as many hit dice as you like, up to your current total number. When you do so, roll those hit dice and add their value to the damage of a spell you cast, not including your constitution modifier.

Alternatively, you may channel this Destiny in the form of Healing. When you do so, touch a creature other than yourself as an Action, then roll the hit dice and add your Constitution Modifier to the total. Recovered on a Long Rest.

Warlock

The power of the Witch flows through the world. She shaped it. It is of her. But it no longer belongs, solely, to her. Loosed into the world, taught to the peoples, it was unleashed and made vast and wondrous. And Terrible. Now Arcane Magic is as much a source of power as a river is a source of water. It ebbs and flows, rises and falls, but it cannot be contained, entirely. Even the dam does not stop the river. Only diverts it, changes it's flow. So, too, is Magic.

But the river can be poisoned. The dammed lake be fouled by the dead or by salt to ruin it's use for others. So did the Witch respond to mortal trespass. But mortals are strong, flesh is strong, spirits are -strong-, and she knew this. While we can be poisoned by her waters so, too, can we be cured, purified, of it's taint.

Careful Studies

In my wide travels I have seen places of learning, education, where those who have the will to wield arcane magic are taught great care in it's use, how to purify themselves after it's use, and how to deflect the twisting corruption the Witch instilled in the world. While I do not think it right to so blatantly circumvent a God's Curse in this way, teaching many to do so, the result seems... stable. For now.

These students gain great respect for the curse, and for the weight it bears, and for the deep wells of power that it protects. Where a Wizard might cast many spells of different power, the Mage learns to limit themselves to a handful of specifically powerful spells, to control the corruptive nature magic provides. Such limits largely protect them.

Heedless Bargains

But for every school of Mages, there exist Warlocks. Like their Mage brethren they limit their spellcasting to control their descent into corruption. But they have chosen the swifter path to power. One which bears terrible weight, terrible price.

To become a Warlock, one need only find ancient magics and terrible beings who possess power that can be leased to a mortal. To make a simple bargain, often for one's soul, or firstborn, or name. But to make this deal, this barter of future for power, is to invite the evil with which you trade into your heart.

Such people, such Warlocks, rarely have much desire to purify themselves, even if they understand the methods to do so.


            Ellenic Warlock

Wizard

Chroniclers, my friend. We are called Chroniclers. Wizard, to the lay man, sounds much like Sorcerer, even interchangeably so. We are Chroniclers of history, of life, of the stars and the seas and the seasons. That we hold the arcane in our hands and our hearts must be hidden, carefully, lest terms like Sorcerer, Witch, and Burning rise to meet lips and make reality drastically more difficult, painful, or impossible for us.

They are not wrong, in truth, to distrust Wizards, these laymen with little knowledge. For not all are, or have been, kind of heart and tender of hand. Few, in truth, are. While not so many are so cruel and hateful as legends may speak, even those of us who are not wicked to our cores may do terrible things for what we believe are good reasons.

And in the end, our reasons are ours alone.

Gathered Power

It is the role of the Wizard to travel. To seek. Unlike the Mages in their towers who learn a sanitized magic in forms and styles, we who travel the world seek the full breadth of the Witch's intentions and power. We find it in the stars, in tombs, in the faces of strangers. In hallowed halls and spider-haunted ruins half-buried in time. Some would say we seek power to terrible ends. But for many of us, we seek power to learn of it's nature, it's weight, and it's curse.

Some with hope to break it. Some with hopes to wield it. Some with hopes only to know it, for themselves, ill content to accept the words of their elders. For what is the heat of fire if never felt? What is the light of day if never seen? What is the strength of love for one who has no heart for it? It is only through -knowing- rather than -believing- that we find truth in ourselves, and in the world around us.

Corruptive Flame

But one does not touch flame without being burned. One cannot see the sun without turning your gaze aside. Cannot feel love without the pain of it's end. So, too, is the Witch's Corruption, her curse upon us all.

Chroniclers, Wizards, burn in this flame, endlessly. Even the smallest of spells, the most meagre of magics, bears the price the Witch has set. Bears a cost of flame and blackness, smoke and smolder, in our very souls. Those who are heedless of this burning find themselves ash and cinder. Blackened skeletons upon the pile, their life's work gone when retribution falls upon them for their misdeeds.

Bear in your mind, in your heart, in your hands, the Flower's touch. The rituals of purity, of cleansing. Learn each as soon as you are able, lest what you will be what she wills, instead.

-The Chronicler-



                                                        Myri Wizard


Chronicler, Wizard Archetype

Consummate Explorer

As a Chronicler you gain Proficiency in the Survival Skill. In addition, you may gain the full benefit from a Long Rest while camped outside of a Haven. This feature allows a Chronicler to remove Fatigue and Strife while taking a long rest anywhere.

Invocations

In your study of occult lore, you have unearthed invocations, fragments of forbidden knowledge that imbue you with an abiding magical ability. You may choose any invocation from the Warlock Class list that you would otherwise qualify for.

For example, unless you have the Eldritch Blast class feature from another source you cannot take the Agonizing Blast invocation.

You gain an additional invocation of your choice at 6th, 10th, and 14th levels.

Adventuring Chronicler

At 6th level you become quite adept at using minor magical effects to make your way around the world, such as magically opening a door or propelling yourself through the air mid-jump. You may always choose to use your Intelligence Modifier for Athletics and Acrobatics checks.

Flexible Knowledge

At 10th level you expand your occult knowledge, which grants you an additional invocation of your choice alongside your Invocations feature. This additional Invocation may not have a Level Requirement above 7th level.

Final Invocation.

At 14th level you expand your occult knowledge, which grants you an additional invocation of your choice alongside your Invocations feature. This additional Invocation may not have a Level Requirement above 9th level.