Staff of the Forgotten Arcanist

  It is unclear whether the staff was wrought or simply found—if it was ever truly made at all. A length of twisted, darkened metal, its surface bears no marks of hammer nor chisel, only jagged etchings that shift when studied, as though unwilling to be understood.

  Some say it was the tool of a scholar who defied the limits of his own existence, a mage whose knowledge was deemed too dangerous to be remembered. Others whisper that it is not a staff at all, but a remnant—something left behind when a mind could no longer be contained within flesh, its final thoughts burned into the shape it left behind.

  The claw at its peak clutches a fractured gem, dull and lifeless, yet pulsing ever so faintly—like a breath yet to be drawn. In the presence of magic, it stirs, sensing the flow of mana before the wielder even knows it is there. To hold it is to feel the air shift, to glimpse the Weave just beyond the veil. But there is a reason the Arcanist is forgotten. Knowledge has a cost, and debts do not go unpaid.

  Fragment of the Death God's Grimoire

  This is not a book. It is a scar.

  Blackened leather, cracked and worn, yet warm as though something beneath still breathes. Its pages are brittle and thin, rough as old skin, and the text—sharp, unnervingly precise—glows with a colorless light that should not exist. The runes shift when left unread, bleeding into one another like ink on water, waiting to be noticed. Waiting to be understood.

  No complete version of this tome has ever been found. Some claim it was never whole to begin with. Others believe it was shattered deliberately, fractured to keep its truths from being known. What is certain is this: even a single page is enough to mark its bearer. The spells within are not learned but remembered, as if they have always been there, waiting in the quiet places of the soul.

  Its origin is lost, its purpose unclear. But those who have held it too long speak of echoes in the dark, of whispers that do not fade. Of something watching.

  Big Chief’s Mace

  A thick length of blackened steel, heavy as judgment, worn smooth where countless hands have gripped it. No engravings mark its surface, no flourish mars its form—only the weight of each swing, the certainty of impact.

  It was wielded by Rurik, known in the end as Big Chief. A warlord. A scourge. A name that sent the unworthy scurrying. But before war, before blood, he was a boy who was too slow, too soft, too kind for the world that made him. His father beat the gentleness out of him, carved the hesitation from his bones, until nothing remained but strength.

  In the depths of the dungeon, he led his kin against horrors that should have swallowed them whole. He fought not for glory, nor power, but because there was no one else left to fight. And when his blows landed, they struck harder than they should have—as if something unseen wished to see them fall.

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  Now, the mace remains, its magic simple, inexorable. Each strike carries more force than the last, each blow landing heavier than the one before. Some call it enchantment. Some call it fate. But those who know its story understand the truth:

  It was never just strength that made Rurik’s blows land harder than they should.

  The Church of the Eternal Dawn

  From the Treatise on the Origins of the World by Isenvael, Scribe of the Fallen Halls

  To speak of the Church of the Eternal Dawn is to speak of contradiction.

  It proclaims itself the light against the dark, the hand of mercy in a world of cruelty, the guiding fire illuminating the path of the lost. Its doctrine preaches warmth, renewal, and the endless cycle of life granted through the Divine Light of Solanna, their radiant goddess of the sun. Her followers declare her the source of all life, the one true deity who lifts souls from shadow into salvation's embrace.

  And yet, for a faith devoted to life, the Church has carved a staggering trail of death across the ages.

  It is an empire unto itself, though it claims no land in the manner of kings and queens. Its dominion spreads through conviction, through dogma enforced as law, through the slow, inexorable tightening of chains disguised as prayer beads. Its heart pulses not from conquered territory but from the gilded halls of the Holy See, a central seat of power from which its influence radiates. The faithful do not see chains, nor an empire's grasp; they see purpose, order, illumination. It is their sacred duty, they claim, to purge the darkness—to burn away heresy, monstrosity, and any shadow that defies the ordained light.

  I wonder if they have ever truly considered what festers in the shadow cast by their own brilliance.

  I do not dispute Solanna’s existence. Even the Ilvaari, the Firstborn, acknowledged a vast presence arriving long after the true Three had ceased their shaping of the world. But the first sin of the faithful is mistaking power for divinity.

  The Three demanded no worship. They hungered for no temples, craved no praise etched in stone. They were existence—their will the Weave, their breath the sky, their silence the turning of time.

  Solanna is not of them.

  She is something lesser, something hungry, something that needs to be worshipped. She does not grant life; she merely takes credit for what already pulses. She has never created—only consumed. She guides her followers not toward wisdom, but toward obedience.

  Perhaps that is why her Church thrives where true understanding falters.

  Unlike the Three, she speaks. She commands. She punishes. The Three cared little if they were followed or forgotten—but Solanna is a jealous entity, and the sun tolerates no shadows. She demands fealty, and in return, she grants her chosen champions power. That power is real. I have seen it, felt its scorching touch. Her Celestials—beings twisted by divine radiance until they forget their origins, reflections perhaps of the Firstborn yet beholden to her light—are undeniable proof of her reach.

  But power does not make a god.

  If it did, then my Master, too, would sit upon a divine throne.

  I do not write this to sway the devoted. Words hold no weight against absolute belief. But for those who still harbor doubt, who dare to question the blinding light—consider this:

  If the Church is consecrated to life, why is death its most favored instrument?

  If the Church brings illumination, why must it incinerate all that lies beyond its narrow beam?

  If Solanna is truly divine, why does her godhood depend so utterly on your belief?

  That is the question they fear most.

  That is the question they seek to bury beneath the ashes of any soul brave enough to ask it aloud.