Mythos

There weren't always dragons in the valley. At some point during his time as a ram herder, Gromdir, a stoutly member of a race of ancient stonebreakers we call Stromkin, would take his herd through the lush meadows in the valley between the Faeryn mountains to graze upon the plentiful Ambrose root that grew upon the backs of Boulderer Giants; A race of megalithic living stone creatures aslumber for as long as we've had eyes to see and ears to listen.

No one knows how long they've been at rest, only that the bellowed rumbles that originate beneath them can be heard for miles. Even the weariest of folk that come to rest atop the backs of these sleeping giants awake renewed after being lulled by the calm and powerful breath of a Boulderer. They say there is a deep magic living within the Giants. One that came from the time of the creation of Mythos itself. They say that the Giants were molded by the last great wizard during the age of the Moon Elves and the towering white crystal city of Andryseth.

Yet, the time of the Moon Elves is now long past, and the crystal spires of Andryseth have not been seen since the city vanished all those years ago. Now is the time of dawning. The time of dragons. Now is the time of Magic.

"Woahhh, woahhh! Slow down now ye' wild beast!", Gromdir sternly commanded as he rode his ram Strom, a great burly white elder ram, down into the scorched valley and into the ravines carved by dragons’ breath. Across from the Stromkin's new home on the edge of this freshly seared land laid a fallen spiketail dragon, one that Gromdir had been eyeing for weeks. The scales of a dragon are stronger than any metal that even a stonebreaker could forge, it's only rival being that of elven steel. In fact, interestingly enough the structure of both is quite similar, but elven steel is more uniform in its molecular construction. Nonetheless a dragon's scale will fetch a hefty price in the markets of Fenrik, and are extremely rare to come by due to the dangerous nature of retrieving them.

Yet Gromdir is not in search of these scales for a petty piece of silver. No. Gromdir is not only a former ram herder, but an armor smith, and a dam fine one at that. Although acquiring the scales of a dragon is a risky endeavor, they are just what he needs to make a suit of armor strong enough to compete in the Games of Keletas, a brutal tournament meant for only the strongest of warriors and wizards alike, with a prize unlike any other in all of Mythos; A piece of the fabled moonstone. The stone fell onto the planet sometime before the dragons arose under the influence of the dreaded Gahmen. It is said to have the power to cast out the darkness of the Gahmen and relieve them of their magic if reunited as a whole, but no one knows where all the pieces lie.

It was broken you see, shattered in fact, by the Gahmen who sought to destroy it and rid its threat upon their corruption of the land. It is said that the pieces are guarded by the High Priest Zeletar, a cruel and unjust warlock who leads his legion of dark wizards throughout Mythos, tainting all that are unlucky enough to cross their path. Though not all Gahmen are under his control. The Gahmen, you see, are not born of Mythos, but of another land known as Aerith, and there are but a few that came through the ingress that do not fight for Zeletar, but for the chance to rid his rule over their race and cleanse the land of his treachery once again. For this is the right of all men, is it not?

Gromdir was now close enough to the carcass of the spiketail that he could begin to smell the decay of flesh in the air. As he came into view of the downed beast, a skitterer ran past Strom's hooves. The ram squealed and lifted his legs into the air kicking wildly and almost knocking Gromdir to the ground.

"Calm down Strom! Woahhh!", yelled Gromdir. "Ye' ought to gone past the skitterer frights by now eh Strom?". The burly ram huffed towards Grom, and stamped his hooves in derision towards the skitterer, a wild fleshy carnivorous creature summoned by the Gahmen in hordes during the initial wars that ensued upon their arrival.

Gromdir swiftly jumped off his mount, grabbed his Stromkin hammer, and ferociously charged towards the skitterer. Faster and faster, he ran, the skitterer screaming, trying desperately to escape the charging stonebreaker, jumping and dashing through holes and breaks in the scorched cliffs. Still, Gromdir charged, bursting through thistle and mounded char, sending dust and rock into the air.

"Hyahhhhhhhhh!", Gromdir cried, as if charging into battle. Nothing will stop a stonebreaker's charge. Nearing the skitterer now he lifted his hammer straight into the air, jumped with all the momentum of his stride, and landed with a swift thunk and the satisfying crunch (to the Stromkin at least) of smashing bone, bringing his hammer straight down onto the fleshy monstrosity and sending it back to the horrors from whence it came.

"See Strom? Nothing to worry about it's just a wee little thing. As weak and frail as a baby kaertlock.". Strom huffed at Gromdir in defiance. "Ye' really need to get past the skitterer frights now Strom, ye' fought in wars for Caern's sake, it's just a wee critter!".

Strom looked down at the crushed body of the skitterer, his big gentle eyes glazed and opened wide with a distinct fearful gaze, yet an adorable innocence as if it were coming from the eyes of a child. Suddenly, the crumbled carcass twitched violently and Strom bleated, loudly and without hesitation, lifting his hooves and turning swiftly to stamp off behind a bush.

"Ohh Strom, ye' really are just a wee coward aren't ye'? Come on you.".

Gromdir grabbed the terrified ram's reigns and with much resistance, pulled the hesitant beast out from behind the bush and mounted up, heading back towards the fallen dragon. The stench of decay now grew stronger, as it had been weeks since the spiketail was shot down by the Stromkin ballistae that now lined the base of the mountains.

The stonebreaker militia, whose numbers now weakened due to continuous war with the Legions of Zeletar and the countless corrupted dragons under his control, set up these ballistae near the entrance to their final standing fortress, the city of stone and thunder, Thrahmdor. This formidable fortress was woven within the mountains, with intricate roads and pathways leading up and through the sunbaked stone cliffs to a final castle placed on the edge of the mountain's peak. The walls were built of a type of blue metal that reflected it's shine like lightning in the midday sun and glowed a brilliant starlike blue in depth of night. The Stromkin mages discovered the element that is used to forge the blue metal, which they call 'Arcanite', in an unfortunate explosion while they were experimenting with the transmutation of silver into gold. It seems the inherent greed of the Stromkin people brought them luck, as the metal Arcanite is now one of the toughest in all the land. Being extremely dense, when forged into a weapon it could strike an immensely powerful blow. Yet due to its density it required the utmost strength to wield, perfect for the stout and burly build of a stonebreaker warrior. To the Stromkin's surprise they also discovered (through more dangerous tinkering and explosions) that its glowing nature was in fact coming from an unstable electrical field within the metal, that when struck (hence the explosions) would send out a massive burst of arced lightning, enhancing the magnitude of its capabilities in use as weapons, armor, and defensive structures to say the least. The Stromkin after all were already one of the strongest races in all of Mythos, and with Arcanite at their side they became an incredibly powerful ally in the fight against the Legions of Zeletar.

Unfortunately, to the Stromkin's dismay, many of the mages with the knowledge to forge Arcanite were captured and enslaved or killed by the Gahmen during the battle to save the city of Andryseth, and the few that did survive remain hidden, safeguarded from the shadowstalkers Zeletar let loose upon the world. Only a few of these Arcanite weapons still exist, for most were destroyed through darkfire magic in the aftermath of the battle. Still, the stonebreaker warriors of Thrahmdor who continue to wield these Stromkin weapons are a force to be reckoned with, as only the strongest of armors and magics can protect against a blow struck from a weapon forged from Arcanite.

Further and further, Gromdir and Strom pushed, through the scarred red rock valley at the base of the mountain, the land now deposed of all its greenery and lushness, stripped away by the horrors of war. Grom stopped, and Strom looked up into the sky towards the tops of the burnt and broken trees. They came upon a cliff, that at its highest edge had been shattered by force, the tumbled blackened char scattered at its base, and a large gash across its summit. The dragon.

“Onward Strom! We ain’t got long to go yet!”.

Strom bleated in excitement, for he knew when they reached the dragon, it was time for his special treat of the day. A large bag filled with dried Ambrose root. You could almost see the excitement in his eyes as he rushed forward and around the cliffs edge to come into view of the decaying beast.

“The Dragon! We made it Strom! See that wasn’t too hard, was it?”, exclaimed Gromdir, as he hopped off Strom’s back and walked towards the body of the spiketail. “You know what this means, don’t you boy?”. Gromdir looked directly at Strom in his eyes and with a smile as wide as the sky, pulled out a large canvas bag from Strom’s pouch and poured its contents onto the ground. Ambrose root! “Ahh, come here you big rascal!”. Strom bleated and hopped up with his front hooves and ran over towards the root, voraciously devouring them one by one.

“Ye’ bloody pig. Slow down Strom ye’ll hurt yerself!”.

Gromdir waved his hand in derision towards the chomping ovine and focused his gaze on the scorched spiketail carcass. The dragon's scales shone in the light of the sun like a darkened silver sword, the edges sharp and crisp, and the surface smooth like steel. Beneath the scales the skin was starting to turn a pale white and crumble to ash, any subtle gust of wind and Gromdir would be covered in dragons' dust, although this was also of value to the Drow of the Hallowed Glen. There are many a tales told to the Stromkin children of the magic of the Drow, who would snatch them up at night and take them to the Darkling Tree, and through incanted rituals using the powdered dust of dragon and heartling skin, turn them into stone and bury them in the ground. Still alive, but unable to move, breath, eat, sleep; forced to dwell in their own thoughts and used as a siphon for the Drow’s everlasting life. But that was just a story, right?

“Alright, let’s get on with this now.”. Gromdir slowly unsheathed his axe and started prying the scales loose. Using the long engraved redwood hilt as leverage, he popped one off. Two. Three. Four. A bead of sweat flew from his brow. Strom of course couldn’t be bothered, his face covered in velvet sap and his belly swelling towards the ground. Five. Six. Seven. Gromdir looked back towards the horizon, the sun starting to set and the grimbigs starting to swarm.

“Get off ye’ bloody flying rats!”, cursing and swatting at them with his axe, (another fleshy creation of the Gahmen, but smaller and with wings). Fed up now, Grom grabbed his hammer and started to swing violently in the air, in circles, yelling, “Gyahhhhhhh! I hate Griiimmmbiiiiigggsss!!”, amongst other Stromkin profanities, when suddenly, a loud rustle came from the entrance to a cave within the cliffs behind the body of the dragon.

Gromdir, whispering loudly, “Quick Strom, quit eating yerself to death and bring me me helmet and me shield!” Strom looked up, confused and engorged, and the rustle happened again, this time nearer to the entrance of the cave. Strom's eyes widened, thoughts of the skitterer raced through his mind, his hooves began to tremble, and suddenly, he bleated and ran quickly and furiously behind a bush.

With a sigh, Gromdir shook his head.

“Dammit, Strom. I swear to Caern, you’d be more useful as a weed eater at this point ye’ bloody coward!”.

Gromdir, now enraged with his cowardly, supposed elder war ram, grasped his Stromkin hammer in both hands and took a defensive stance near the head of the dragon, facing the darkened entrance of the cave. Likely, it was just a skitterer, or some vermin spawned from the bowels of hell by the darkfire magics. But Gromdir knew the dangers that Lurk within the caves of Mythos, ever since the plague of Zeletar spread across the Land. Shadowstalkers. Dark creatures that only come out in the shade of night, hunting all that do not smell of the sickness that is the Darkfire. The toxic slime alone dripping from these creatures is enough to kill a man, but its teeth as plentiful as an eastern brimshark, and as long and sharp as a Drow assassin's needle blades.

Yet wait, a light shone in the darkness of the cave, bright and blue, almost like the glow of Arcanite, but gentle and pulsing, moving, growing.... closer?

“What in the bloody...”. Gromdir focused his eyes intently on the light, squinting so much his thick Stromkin brow tickled his nose.

The light grew larger, and larger, and larger still, moving side to side in a gentle sway, almost as if it were alive, until suddenly out from the darkness came a hooded figure into the twilight, donned in dark blue robes and a tabard trimmed in silver, holding the blue orb of light in his palm. It was...

“Gahman!!! Ye foul creature!! I’ll send ye back to yer mother the devil so she can nurse yer broken bones ye hellwalker!!”.

Gromdir ferociously charged the Gahman, Stromkin hammer held high overhead and gripped tightly in both hands. Screaming at the top of his lungs, “Hhhhhhhhyaaaaaahhhhhhhh!!”, the stamps of his solid Stromkin Steel boots sending flying debris into the air, reaching closer to the Gahman every second and closer still he jumped high with a classic Gromdir Hammer Slam and flew towards the hooded man with a defiant and righteous fury.