#But Warden is savage and unlike anything else

[jackdawyt]

Contaminated with the Blight. Known to thin the Veil, and forces anyone who dare wield it go mad. There’s a lot we’ve got to talk about regarding this most blighted material, however, in order for us to foreshadow what involvement red Lyrium may have in the future, we’ve got to excavate its original source – raw lyrium.  

Lyrium

Regular, non-tainted Lyrium is a mineral constantly mined for its properties, it has many purposes in Thedas today. The dwarves have built a trade empire mining and selling the material across the entire continent because of its usage. This trade is the main reason why Tevinter and the dwarven kingdoms have such a close relationship.  

Lyrium is essentially a mana booster, able to strengthen one’s magical power beyond what anyone might naturally muster. When mixed into liquid and ingested, Lyrium allows mages to enter the Fade consciously.  No wonder the mages of the Imperium have such a secure trade of the substance.  

While mages combine Lyrium with spells and rituals. Templars ingest the substance to enhance their abilities at resisting and dispelling magic, while the dwarves and non-magic wielders use Lyrium to create magical runes and enchant items.  

Even the Qunari were intrigued by its usage and began experimenting with the properties of Lyrium to bulk up their own mages called “Saarebas.”  

In the current Dragon Age, Lyrium has become a beneficial and essential mineral for the majority of Thedas.  

As Lyrium exists in both the physical world and The Fade, the Chantry believes Lyrium to be the “emerald waters of the Fade, the very substance of creation itself.” While others call Lyrium a conductor that "bridges the gap between the dreamer’s world and the waking world” (WoT V1).

Whatever the truth is... There’s a lot beyond the surface regarding this powerful substance that the common Thedosian may never know.  

The dwarves call “Lyrium” - “Isana” which translates to “singing stone” (WoT V1).

This is because Lyrium is; in fact, a living substance, it’s said to be the very blood of the world-shaping Titans.  

According to; their children, the dwarves, the legendary, ancient beings sculpted the world. Their earthquakes are apparently their method of reshaping Thedas to their accord.  

It's impossible to describe in words how truly vast a Titan is. The one I met is so large you can only glimpse parts of it. I had wandered inside its body for who knows how long without even realizing it. I've heard tales of dragons and giants on the surface, but descriptions of their size do not compare to the Titan's.

Its blood now flows through me, and its song fills the gaps in our history. I close my eyes and see glimpses of the world that was, before everything changed and the dwarven race broke in two. Something caused the Titans to fall, and the fate of my people fell with them. The Titan wants me to know. No, more than that. It wants me to understand. There is a loneliness to its song.

Codex entry: Titans: Shaper Valta's personal journal.

Whether the Titans, or “Pillars of the Earth” created Thedas, and have since been dwelling since the beginning of creation itself is still a rather ambiguous mystery. However, based on codex entries, we can confirm that the Titans existed before the Veil was created.  

In actuality, before the Veil’s creation, the Kingdom of the Elvhen hunted and declared war against the Titans, stating their death will be a mercy and will make the earth blossom with their passing.

"In this place we prepare to hunt the pillars of the earth. Their workers scurry, witless, soulless. This death will be a mercy. We will make the earth blossom with their passing."

Mythal, All-mother of the Elven Pantheon struck down a Titan, as the people praised her name.  

"Hail Mythal, adjudicator and savior! She has struck down the pillars of the earth and rendered their demesne unto the People! Praise her name forever!" 

With the defeat of a Titan, the Ancient Elves discovered Lyrium from its body. The elves continued to fight with the Titans, mining their bodies for raw Lyrium and "something else" which has been made unclear.  

"The runes say the Evanuris fought the Titans. They mined their bodies for lyrium and... something else. It's not clear."

While I’m trying not to theorise and speculate, Cole once said: "They made bodies from the earth. And the earth was afraid. It fought back. But they made it forget."

Perhaps the Ancient Elvhen made Lyrium bodies from the Titan’s blood. Crafting strong, resilient vessels for the Evanuris and their people to inhabit. Continuing their savage hunt against the Titans.  

Thus, explaining the fall and disconnect of the Titans from their children, the dwarves. Justifying why the dwarven kingdom have grown disattached to their creators throughout the ages, and only now have begun to re-establish that connection once more.  

In any regard, the Titans were not completely silenced. They slumbered for years, and somewhere down the line, Red Lyrium came into existence. Perhaps caused by the Evanuris war, or perhaps self-inflicted by the Titans themselves, we don’t know. Red Lyrium’s origin is still a huge enigma... However, we do know that the spread of Red Lyrium has merely just begun.  

The red corrupted substance is a perverted form of raw Lyrium. Just like its predecessor, Red Lyrium is alive, it has a lifespring, and it grows and multiplies across Thedas. It too ties power between the waking world and the Fade.

To answer your question, my lord: yes, I have indeed heard of this "red lyrium" of which you speak. A single piece of it surfaced in the eastern city of Kirkwall, and its influence alone was nearly enough to cause the city's destruction. As near as we can determine, it is regular lyrium that has been somehow corrupted. Those who have touched red lyrium—or even come near it—report that it "sings" to them, like whispers in the mind that slowly drive them mad.

—From a partially burned letter by an unknown writer, affixed with the Grey Warden seal.

As discovered by Bianca Davri, Red Lyrium carries the blight, explaining its twisted form.  

Unlike regular lyrium which requires you to digest it in order for it to impact you. Red Lyrium corrupts everything it touches, being in close proximity to it will greatly affect you.  

Far more disturbing is the fact that lyrium could be corrupted at all. Treat any red lyrium you encounter as if it were poison. Do not go near it, do not attempt to destroy it... and most importantly, do not attempt to use it.

—From a partially burned letter by an unknown writer, affixed with the Grey Warden seal.

The substance is most unique, it can thin the Veil, allowing spirits and demons to interact with the real world. Prolonged exposure will change not only your mental outlook but your physical appearance too.  

It tends to leave people or animals in a mad-like state. They become paranoid, and see no reasoning for morality, as Bartrand sabotages his own brother Varric. Red Lyrium tends to consume the mind and take over. Much like the reasoning for the Red Templars in Inquisition, Red Lyrium is very deadly, and grows off of anything living.

We do not know, however, what might stem from extended contact with red lyrium. Madness, surely, but would there be a physical corruption as well? What would happen if a mage or a templar used red lyrium as they use regular lyrium?

—From a partially burned letter by an unknown writer, affixed with the Grey Warden seal.

Speaking more specifically on Red Lyrium’s growth - its corruption throughout the land has merely begun - and attempting to remove the mineral is likely a fruitless effort, as it will have already introduced itself into the food chain, which begets more corruption: as Red Lyrium effects all it touches, insects digest blighted soil, animals then digest the blighted insects, this will have a knock-on effect, more animals, plants and trees will become tainted by merely following their survival instincts until eventually the people of Thedas are infected by their own harvest.  

While a lot of the growth of Red Lyrium has been greatly caused by the hands of many Thedosian’s, a great deal of its development into the eco system is simply inevitable. It's merely a matter of days until a Ferelden Farmer has spoiled crops, an Orlesian Noble eats an infected nug, and a predator hunting its prey soon becomes blighted.  

And that’s not all that lingers for the future, Red Lyrium has plenty of involvement in many scenarios that awaits Thedas.  

The Titan’s connection

When Valta connected with a Titan, she felt pure, wasn’t afraid anymore, and could somehow survive without needing food or water, as if the Titan’s essence was her sole sustenance. The Titan connected with one of their children stopped the tremors throughout the land.

Valta established a longing connection with the dwarves supposed creators, as adult and child rekindled once more, Valta’s consciousness intertwined with the knowledge of the Titans. Vital information that would shake up the entirety of the dwarven kingdom’s foundation.  

With Valta’s connection, surely the Titan’s seek to find the rest of their children, becoming one once more.  

Red Lyrium Idol

The Red Lyrium Idol is still a mystery. This McGuffin was brought back in Tevinter Nights, instead of being destroyed when Meredith created her sword Certainty, it stayed within her statue-like corpse, preserved for a fair while.  

it’s been described as: “a couple hugging, too thin to be dwarves”, or “a god mourning their sacrifice.” However, disregarding what it supposedly looks like, this idol belongs to Solas. It’s his, and he wants it back, he has a purpose for it.  

Its current whereabouts have been set up for interpretation, we can assume the Idol is either with a noble’s son heading to war torn Tevinter, or Solas has indeed collected his long-lost possession after some time. Again, we can only assume at this point where it may be, and why Solas requires it.  

Red Lyrium Sarcophagus

In Dragon Age: Blue Wraith, the most recently released comic book roster, the comic cast uncover a Lyrium Sarcophagus, originally utilised for Fenris’s transformation into a “Blue Wraith”. The device infuses the occupant with Lyrium markings that grant the host with immense power like the ability to go through walls, and tear an enemy's heart out of their chest.  

Towards the end of Blue Wraith, we understand that the Venatori have this device and intend on willingly putting one of Fenris’s trusted friends through the device using Red Lyrium to make him a most formidable, unstoppable warrior.  

If successful, perhaps this practice may become common in Tevinter for the remaining Venatori and their elven slaves.

New clusters of Lyrium  

Discovered briefly in Tevinter Nights, The Horror Of Hormak, other colours and variations of Lyrium seemingly exist. A massive Lyrium crystal glowing yellow and green hung suspended deep within a lost dwarven thaig.  

Above it, a massive lyrium crystal hung suspended. It glowed with a sickly light, tinged with yellow and green. Streamers of energy flowed from it into the pool, sending it bubbling wherever it touched. (Horror Of Hormak, pg. 100).  

With more variations of Lyrium deep underground, perhaps we’ll begin to see different properties of this mineral, who knows, perhaps this could lead to other Titans waking up across Thedas.

Origin Of The Blight

And of course, we need to comprehend how the blight began. I attempting at looking at this plot thread, without going to deep into theory, but I do believe it has something to do with the Titan’s war between the Evanuris, because suddenly Red Lyrium pops into the picture and the Elven Pantheon are becoming mad with armour of the Void, turning against each other.  

Perhaps a Blighted Titan is the original source of the blight, as it reaches out for revenge against the Evanuris, attempting to establish a connection with their children once more, destroying everything else in its path...

So many mysteries, and so much to go on for the future of Dragon Age!  That is it for my first entry in this Road To Dragon Age 4 series, let me know what you thought of it, and tell me your potential theories for the future Dragon Age narrative.  

[bnha-ra]

Wait wait wait that supernatural au you talked about sounds so freakin cool wth I would for sure read anything you wrote about that!!

Is this late? You bet your fucking arse. 

My friend, seeing as you asked so nicely, I’m going to give notes about this au because it is probably needed.

There might be some triggering terms in here guys, so I warn you before reading!

Starting with the realms! There are three in existence, which are called

The Higher Realm (I changed the name, Upper didn’t sound right)

The Middle Realm

The Lower Realm

The Higher Realm is basically Heaven, in the supernatural au. It’s where the Gods/Goddess reside and where All Might reigns over. Much isn’t known about the Higher Realm, other than those worthy go to the Realm once they pass into the afterlife. Mortals, monster and human alike, cannot venture into the Realm without permission from a God/Goddess.

Within the Higher Realm resides The Council, a group of Gods/Goddess that protect the Middle Realm and rule over it from above. All Might is the head of the Council and (Name)’s mother was also a participant, however, since her disappearance, her seat has been left empty for her (Hopeful) return)

The Middle Realm is Earth, inhabited by monsters, humans, animals and plants! Monsters and humans live separate from each other, some communities of Humans know about Monsters and some don’t, those who know tend to hate monsters because of fear and a rough past with them. Due to their separation, the two species basically live in different centuries.

Humans live in modern society, they have technology, they have public transport, etc. while Monsters basically still live in the Medieval era, send letters to communicate, walk, hike, horseback, etc. are the only ways to travel and yeah.

and finally, The Lower Realm, or in other words, Hell. The place you go when you’ve done wrong, evil, things during your lifetime. The Realm is nicknamed “The Home of Chaos” as most evil entities tend to reside there and it’s the birthplace of demons. There are Nine Circles to the Lower Realm (Kudos to Dante’s Inferno which I’ve never read (: ) to which have nine ruling entities to it (Todoroki’s father, or his alias, Endeavour is the ruler of the circle “Wrath”) You are assigned a Circle depending on your greatest sin. The Circles go as follows: (This has been changed from the original Nine Circles my dudes)

Sloth - For those who haven’t done anything inherently evil, but have had their shared experiences where they’ve watched people get hurt and have done nothing about it. (For example, let’s say a mother sat back while her child was being continuously abused by the father, or a spouse knew their other half was killing people but sat back as they did it)

Lust - This goes for sexual lust and blood lust (So, for example, people who have sexually abused, assaulted, raped, etc other people or murderers end up in this Circle)

Envy - Those who have felt jealous of others but have used horrid ways to quench it (Let’s say, a father abuses his son because his son is better at something than him, or lets say a robber mercilessly kills someone else for their stuff)

Greed - Those who have acted upon their greedy urges for the whole of their life (Mostly people in power (Monarchs, generals, presidents, etc) tend to end up here because of their Greed for more land, riches and power)

Wrath - People who let their anger get the best of them, releasing their rage on others or ending with something bad happening (Most abusers end up in this circle)

Pride - People who have sinned against others, committed atrocities and have felt Pride for them (For example, Hitler, Mussolini, etc.)

Violence - Those who have assaulted, hurt, killed others because they felt it was there right and there was no excuse for their violent actions (Once again, murderers, abusers, serial killers, etc.)

Fraud - Those who had tricked and lied their way in their lives for their own cruel/selfish benefit

Treachery - Worst of the worst, the most sinister entities in existence are trapped down there. They aren’t human, they’re beyond evil and so they’re trapped in a cage, hidden away from everything.

There is a ruling entity of the Realm, however, seeing as it was so malevolent to the demons and other inhabitants of the Realm, they overthrew it and locked it away in the Circle of Treachery. No one is allowed to speak its name in fear it will give it power again to overthrow everyone and break free of the Realm. The Nine Kings basically act as guardians, not all of them are bad but then again it is the Lower Realm so they’re not really good either, but they all agree, no one wants it getting out. 

One king rules one Circle each but together, they rule the whole of the Lower Realm. Also, think of demons as the “Slaves of the Lower Realm”, their main purpose in life is to survive the rulers of the Lower Realm by either doing their bidding, acting as the torturers for the sinners that fall into their Circle or tricking humans/monsters into falling to sin so that they end up in the Lower Realm once they kick the bucket.

Okay, that’s it so far for the Realms. Next,

The Capital

It’s the leading city of monsters and Wiccan! It’s known around the whole world! Even beings from the Higher Realm and the Lower Realm know about this city. It’s centred in an unknown location in the Middle Realm and the only way to get to it is through magic means. 

Within the Capital resides The True Parliament a group of leading monsters and Wiccan picked from each species to represent the others that make the rules of the magic world, oversee the magic world and represent any and all magic.

The Capital is a heavy sought-out place for young monsters to start out their life, mostly young Wiccan though as they have a chance to become a Warden.

A Warden is a monster or Wiccan who protect the community from harm and has special permission from The Ture Parliament to use magic to protect others. They’re centred around cityscapes that tend to have rogue monsters and Wiccan.

Also, I’ve mentioned them a lot, but for anyone wondering, a “rogue” is a monster or Wiccan who has turned to the dark forces and act out with the aim to hurt others around them.

The Barrier, The Pocket, The Town and The Midoriya Family Farm!

Alright! Let’s do this! 

The Barrier as its name entails is two magic barrier-like walls between the human forest and the monster forest! It protects the monsters from the savage humans that reside within the town. (Name)’s mother had put down the barrier after the incident before her disappearance as a way to keep the monsters safe while she wasn’t there. There is the human barrier and the monster barrier. Humans who try to pass through their barrier will only end up in another destination, miles away from it with a mind wipe about ever seeing it. Monsters and Wiccan, however, are unaware of their barrier, as the forest beyond the barrier from their side just makes way for more forest, as though the barrier isn’t there. It takes a special spell or special item to pass through the barrier to what truly lies beyond it. The Guardians are centred between the two walls, where they patrol on a 24 hour, 7 days a week basis to make sure that nothing happens to the barrier.

The Pocket is where (Name)’s home resides, a space between the walls. She has a little cottage that her father and mother had built when they were younger and it’s where she lives, hidden away from others to protect her from the dangers from the outside world. The guardians and the Midoriyas are the only ones allowed into the pocket.

The Town is, well, a town just on the outskirts of a monster forest and is surrounded by woodland in all directions. There is only one road in and out of the town so it’s pretty secluded, they’re kind of sheltered and they hate the supernatural. It is believed to be from a grudge of old ruling supernatural entities that cause their hatred and even though there have been multiple attempts to soothe over old wounds from the monster's side, the whole town is too stubborn to accept it. They have hunters, people who are trained to capture/kill monsters, who watch the outskirts of town to make sure no supernatural creatures leave it.

Also, the Midoriya Family farm! The Midoriya farm is huge and is about a mile into the forest, on the outskirts of The Barrier. It is a farm blessed by the nature Goddess herself, (Name)’s mother, that provides fresh food to the town, the Guardians, (Name) and the nearby city. (Which is probably a 3-hour drive from the farm) It is owned and run by Midoriya Inko and her son, Midoriya Izuku helps her out around the farm on a day to day basis. Despite their amazing food and fast harvest rates, no one else in the town as ever seen anyone leave other than Inko and Izuku, nor does anyone else in the town work at the farm. The town, on many occasion, have believed that the farm is guilty of witchcraft, however, they cannot prove this, do not want to ruin their only true source of food for miles and for some reason, there always seems to be people working in the fields or around the barn when people try to investigate?

Okay! That’s what I got for solid so far! If anyone has any other questions, please ask them.

A friend of mine has asked something already!

What happens in a human walks into monster territory?

While that’s highly unlikely due to The Barrier, if there were the odd human that did get past it, they would be captured by monsters, have their mind wiped with an amnesia spell then sent back their way to the human world! This is so it doesn’t cause tensions for the two worlds! However, if they are caught by a rogue monster, that human is dead for sure. 

[littlegalerion]

A little Character background on Trechire, because I realize it’s probably confusing how I have an OC the daughter of an NPC who directly is against daedric worship, vampires, and lycans.

Trechire was born on the main Isle Summerset, but Vanus and Caafire decided they didn’t want to raise their daughter close to all the prejudice (Caafire suffered from a great deal of scrutiny from the masses on Summerset, to the point she was actually shunned by a one city entirely. I don’t think I need to explain Vanus’ status.) However, they wanted their daughter to at least know Summerset growing up. Say what you want about the altmer, but the islands are beautiful and magic feels as if it’s woven into the spring breeze. So they opted to raise her on Auridon. This went smoothly for a while, as the Mage’s Guild had a nice set up in Firsthold, and Vanus had begun to gain popularity after the more crippling and tense birth of the guild. Even Caafire was better received, though this was mainly due to the Fighter’s Guild taking an interest in her enchanted craftsmanship. Trechire stuck close to her parents until the age of eleven, which was when Vanus took the reins and brought her with him to the other young guilds. Caafire would sometimes bring her along to the Fighter’s Guild, but that obviously held more dangers for a young child than the Mage’s Guild. Not that Caafire was absent in her daughter’s life- the family always found time together, even if it was only once a week, in the more busy seasons.

But something else popped up when Trechire turned eleven- an anxiety disorder. Mental health is not entirely well received in Tamriel, as I’m sure most players have gleaned over the years. You’re either sane, quirky, or clearly possessed by Sheogorath. When Trechire began to experience panic attacks, to the point of freezing completely, trembling, and being unable to register anything but her fear, it didn’t go unnoticed among common society, no matter where they were. The nicer members of the Mage’s Guild tried to stop the rumors from spreading, but to no luck. As the attacks grew more common, Vanus turned towards trusted healers to try and cure his daughter.

An important thing to know about mental health- you can not cure it. You can only treat it, and learn to cope with it. It does not need to rule your life, but it is a part of you, and you must accept that and not try to keep “fixing” yourself.

Therapy wasn’t exactly a real thing yet, at least not to a professional degree. So the healers treated Trechire’s condition as something they needed to cure, which led to a lot of frustrating months of trial and error spells and potions. Then, for a while, Trechire’s attacks seemed to calm down. It was during this time that Aithilo Raamando, a very popular dunmeri wizard, suggested to Vanus and Caafire to enroll Trechire with the Wardens. He argued her temperament was perfect for the class, and that nature- animals, plant life, the stories woven into it- do a wonder for the nerves. They agreed, and at age thirteen, Trechire began to learn from the Wardens of Valenwood. Just to clarify, Vanus didn’t teach Trechire himself, and never planned to, because he didn’t want a teacher-student relationship to poison a father-daughter relationship. The Mage’s Guild was slowly filled with wonderful mentors, from which Trechire could have taken her pick and Vanus would have been just as proud.

At the age of twenty one, the Wardens released Trechire on “field practice”, and she returned to the Mage’s Guild ranks to explore and research with other students. But that didn’t last long.

Her panic attacks returned, and this time in a more intense fashion. Suddenly she had trouble eating, gagging at any of the food offered to her, which immediately would induce an attack. In our words, she would be called “emetophobic”. The attacks would last anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour, during which she wouldn’t want to be touched, save for someone holding her hand. She’d remain sitting, frozen and trembling, unable to hold a conversation but having to wait out the panic. In the more severe cases, she’d begin crying and repeating phrases like “I don’t want to get sick”. Of course healers were turned to once more, and a new fresh round of spells and potions were tested on her.

None worked, nor did any of the teachings of the Wardens soothe her. Trechire was slowly cautioned by her parents to cease any attempts at field work, at least until she had a better grip on herself. So Trechire was often stuck within guildhalls, healers coming to check in on her and run her through some tests, then measuring out some potions for her while she tried to study. Even that was becoming difficult, as her mind couldn’t settle long enough for a peaceful reading. She’d dropped significant weight in a matter of months, having hardly eaten day by day, mostly living on crackers or small slices of bread with cheese. It was all she could get down without freaking out entirely. It got to the point she felt as though she couldn’t function well enough to do anything, despite grabbing for anything that could distract her.

Vanus and Caafire grew more and more worried, understandably, and continued to seek help for her. Eventually, all they could do was comfort her and ask that she be patient, that they’d find someone or something that could heal her. But this carried on for a year, and Trechire just couldn’t take it any longer. People were starting to talk, starting to watch her like some sort of sad experiment. A few jokes got passed around- which Vanus and Caafire tried to kill but unsuccessfully- that Sheogorath would be coming for her, sooner or later. In her panicked and malnourished state, Trechire actually believed that.

She couldn’t take the threat of ending up the Mad God’s puppet, she couldn’t take the defeated and scared faces of her parents, she couldn’t take the memories of having been freely exploring Tamriel as a promising student- she wouldn’t live like this. She was left with two options: one which I will not write here, as she herself doesn’t like remembering she even considered it, and then the other which was to try to seek safety under another daedric prince. If a prince already claimed her soul, Sheogorath couldn’t have her. Maybe the prince could even find a use for her. At that point in her life, she just wanted to be something more than an un-contributing object in a room. Trechire began to secretly raid the guildhalls for texts on the daedra, and narrowed down which princes she thought she’d survive. One in particular caught her attention: Hircine.

As a Warden, she was drawn to his natural order of hunter and prey. The concept of becoming a hunter, of overcoming obstacles that keep you from your goals, of being in control of the animalistic nature bestowed on you- it hooked her right in. Lycans did suffer from thoughts clouded with blood lust and the hunt, but she’d heard stories of some that had learned to control it. What if the same practice could be put to use with her own disorder? It was a long shot, and maybe even in the end she’d be bitterly killed in the process, but it’s the only decision that, at the time, made sense to her withering mind. So she timidly asked if she could go to the guildhall in Reaper’s March, and waited until all was routine, then snuck out one night to find Hircine’s shrine.

Of course Trechire was blessed with a bite, after groveling at the shrine and begging for it. She was welcomed into the Hunting Grounds, and quickly forced to prove her worth among her pack-mates. At first, her condition fought against lycanthropy. Her head spun, clouded by panic and blood lust. But just as she had hoped, among the senior members of the packs, there were alphas whom had learned to cope. Once Trechire sought them out directly, they were happy to teach her- so few lycans ever bother, wanting the raw experience of a savage hunting hound. Every other night, Trechire would sneak out, and join her pack-mates in various locations around Reaper’s March. This continued for the next few years, which yes, was highly stressful. Vanus and Caafire are not easily fooled.

But they are easily distracted, and seeing their daughter suddenly come back to life was a fantastic distraction. The alphas’ teachings worked. Trechire’s attacks didn’t cease completely, but lessened to maybe ten minutes minimum, twenty or thirty max, in the worst cases. She learned how to fight against it, or talk herself through it, just as her teachers had with their blood lust. It was not an easy process, but unlike anything she’d tried before, this was actually coming up with lasting results. Trechire explained this away with one of the numerous potions that had been presented to her by other healers, lying that it was in fact her savior. She popped the potion on a daily basis to ease her parents. Eventually she was allowed her independence once more, and so her nightly outings were easier to manage. She became more involved with the packs, a sense of purpose coursing through her she hadn’t felt in all her life. Trechire began to enforce a strict honor system among her pack-mates, craving truly noble hunts, as well as proper care of their lycan conditions. Traditions like capturing the local wanderer, or tearing after children who played outside villages- what were they? Dogs? No, Trechire was a hunting hound, and as such refused to give chase to anything but REAL prey. Many pack-mates came to agree with her, and they formed their own group under Hircine which stalked the lands, hunting great bandit chiefs, dangerous in hiding criminals, and eventually corrupt politicians.

Trechire, at the age one hundred and twenty, was given the moon-washed white fur of alpha, and full command of packs across the Summerset Isles. At this time, she finally bid her parents farewell, assuring them she was beyond stable, and took up a position in the Lillandril guildhall. During the day, she saw to the matters of the guild, but at night, she ran the packs with both pride and purpose. 

That is the complete explanation as to why a Galerion child just happens to be a lycan. The events of ESO for her didn’t happen until she was around two hundred and fifty, by which a lot of other interesting secrets had crept into Trechire’s closet that her parents never knew about. I might write about them later, but they fall under Raveoov’s background as well.

[jimothy-g-brooks]

My D&Derivative [I]

So ideas regarding a D&Derivative (ala Pathfinder) I have rattling in my brain, mostly based on 5e. Since I have my doubts I’ll make anything of these ideas, I’d be appreciative if someone else stole them:

- Classes will have epithets attached to them, a simple few word description of what exactly I’m going for with this class. For example, Wizards, the Knowing Ones: My take on Wizards will emphasize how their power comes from technical knowledge. A number of spells will rely various knowledge checks to boot up properly- unlike other casters, your spells don’t just work, you have to know what and how you’re plugging into things. I coulda gone for Wizards, the Magician Technician but I’m trying to maintain some gravitas. Maybe I shouldn’t.

- - Jumping further off this point, and this is perhaps the main point of this, there will be multiple classes with the same name, but different epithets. For example, Barbarians, there will be two Barbarian classes, the Wild Savages and the Primal Berserkers. The former emphasizes the rage as a physical thing, transforming the barbarian’s body, and all subsequent archetypes will be derived from that. The latter will have rage as a spiritual thing, your primordial fury crawling out of your soul and making itself real in the material world.

Now, the point of this is to encourage a certain kind of homebrewing. Don’t like the base book’s interpretation of a class? Well, there is already a few precedents not to have to make up a new but similarly themed class that does what you want, but just use the iconic name you really want and attach the appropriate epithet. Don’t want Wizards to be fumbling technicians trying desperately to find the Slot A for Plug B but arcane philosopher gazing directly into the cosmos, pouring eldritch wisdom directly into their brains? Make Wizards, Masters Of The Arcane! Or however you want to do it. And both types can exist in the same world.

- All classes meant for PC consumption will be almost always explicitly supernatural in form or another. Look, if your co-worker is a reality warping wizard who is not going to fuck off in the middle of the campaign to fight demons just so you have an opportunity to shine, then you’re going to need to bring more to the table than martial skill and grit.

- - That said, I will bring back NPC classes you can use to spice up creatures. This will be where non-magical martials and magically limited casters will go. For example, Rangers, the Lone Wardens, who will have a kind of cowboy theme going on.

- There will be some rearrangement of abilities. I’m thinking of condensing Strength and Constitution into Toughness, while splitting Cunning (name pending) off from Charisma. I was considering splitting Agility off from Dexterity, but doing that and the thing with Toughness seemed to tip the scales of physical stats too far in the other direction. Besides, now I can group abilities into physical, mental and social, as I mine World Of Darkness, especially Chronicles Of Darkness, for as much inspiration as possible.

- - Speaking of which, there will much expansion of skills and a more explicit decoupling of particulars skills with particular abilities. Using CofD for inspiration, I wanna make sure there are enough skills to equally fill out physical, social and mental categories.

I’ll have more on this

[alittlestarling]

Welcome Home, Good Hunter

It’s the Avvar AU no one asked for and the thing I’ve been yelling at @rhetoricalrogue about for months now, honestly. Currently I have a few parts planned and more to come. Featuring Vincent Trevelyan and Rosalind in a “what if Vincent were Avvar and Roz were inquisitor?” AU.

Part 1: Fallow Mire

“Herald, watch your step,” Cassandra held a hand out as Roz’s foot slipped into the muck for what felt like the millionth time. It was hard to see the pathway through the swamp; not for the first time, Rosalind Marlowe wondered exactly who would settle down in the Fallow Mire. Rain had assaulted them with an annoying consistency since they had made camp along the borders, there was more water than land anywhere she stepped and, of course, the residue from a plague as well as the dead rising gave this place little charm.

“Thank you,” Roz shot a quick, grateful smile as she shook the peat and mud from her boots. Armor felt strange to her despite having been decked and dressed in it since waking in the dungeon in Haven. The last few months had rushed past in a blur of faces, battles and all eyes upon her as she made choices that she never wanted to be part of.

True, she had participated in rebellion (Leliana and Josephine had gently asked her not to disclose that piece of information to anyone looking to join their ranks), but even with the unsteady legs the rebel mages had stood upon, they at least were fighting for freedom. Yes, saving the world was important too, but Roz only felt shackled again, caught in a web that she knew she might never escape so long as the mark remained on her hand.

It crackled and sparked to life in the dim mist, the sickening green tingle running up her fingertips. Strange magic and an even stranger lapse in her own memory left her searching, seeking answers that always seemed just out of reach. Not to mention the looks people gave her. Some were caught in reverence, bowing and scraping and called her Chosen by the Bride of the Maker; others watched with wariness, tense and uncertain, as if she might spring forth a demon in disguise.

Perhaps it was better they remembered she was a mage and that she should be feared. In the end, though, it left her feeling more lonely than satisfied.

Cassandra had never swayed after their first attempt against the Breach, steadfast and faithful beyond words. Not many others had looked upon her the same way. Varric had this way of watching from the corner of his eye, as if mentally taking notes, sometimes narrating under his breath, but never getting too close to her. Blackwall was polite and uncertain, strong on the field but the wandering Warden hadn’t opened up much since joining their party.

“You really do take us to the nicest swamps, Rosebud,” Varric quipped from behind, “though I don’t think I care so much for the undead.”

“Perhaps you’ll have to write a strongly worded letter to the bog,” Roz snorted, shooting the dwarf a small smile. “Find some good words to use to describe this place. Damp, squelching, muddy-”

“An ever-constant fear of stepping in water and summoning the dead?” Varric added. Roz brushed back a small piece of damp hair off her face with a shake of her head, pausing only a moment to keep an eye on the shore nearby.

“Whatever magic’s afoot here, it’s not good.” Was it the rifts? Or perhaps someone else had harnessed something deeper and darker to bend and twist to their own will? The beacons in the bog didn’t give her a good feeling either way, not when she sensed it wasn’t the only one.

The world was filled with more magic, wonder and dread than Roz could have ever possibly imagined. Had she been told only a year ago that this would be her life, she would have laughed. But now stepping through dangerous territory, fighting off bandits and undead alike had become normal, along with the magic that swirled and surrounded her.

“Another broken home,” Blackwall tilted his head towards yet another run-down building in the distance. “Poor sods. I’ve seen plague, it’s not pretty.” Roz could believe it, wrinkling her nose against the putrid scent of death and decay that permeated the air around them.

Her own mind wandered to charred bodies, those broken by the fires set in the Circle and the people she had lost when they ran for freedom. How many bodies made anything she did worth it? How many deaths could be justified for the cause of seeking a life free from the Chantry and the Templars?

Shaking herself from a familiar spiral, Roz wiped rain from her face and kept them moving forward.

Magic was calling to her, a shift in the air drawing her closer to it. The mark offered an unfamiliar tang in her mouth, a strangeness that felt so unlike her own power that she’d nurtured and lived with almost her entire life. That was a force she knew well, a vast warmth that glowed and smoked like embers in her chest. The magic she could taste felt like the mark and she knew before they’d reached the strange green glow that there was another rift.

“Well,” Varric frowned at the stitch that glimmered green against the sky, cursing under his breath a moment. “Looks like the one in the valley, doesn’t it?”

“Not fully closed,” Roz sighed from the ruins of the house they’d paused in, eying the improperly sealed rift with irritation. Her hand sizzled at the thought of opening it, the magic already tugging to the stitch, the mark given a mind of its own when they got close to these when they were in the field. “Come on, let’s see what we can do.”

“Wait-” Cassandra had an arm flung out before Roz could move further ahead, running straight into Cassandra’s armored arm before slowing down. A gesture and Roz turned her attention to the shadows. Solid, strong and far bigger than she was, the stranger made no move forward to attack when Roz became visible.

“Is he friendly?” Varric intoned under his breath, the question they were all asking. It was hard to tell friend from foe in the wilderness sometimes, especially when they had yet to run into the Avvar who had apparently caused all this trouble and fuss.

“It doesn’t matter, does it? We need to close this. Properly.” Magic surged in her fingertips, wild and free as she stepped forward, lifting her hand to rip apart the veil. It struggled against her attempts, harder to control and contain, but she grit her teeth and let out a snarl as the world exploded in a green haze and demons burst into the world.

Roz held her staff, magic channeled within it, focusing the raw energy that raged within her. She was a wildfire, a clean burn that surged forth with spells and stabs of burning, bright energy. Fighting had never come easily to her; she had focused her own skills into herbalism and learning how to hone healing as an art. It helped in hiding evidence of her darker dealings, developing poultices to keep scars closed and healing. She wasn’t graceful in a fight nor did she have the brute strength that came with a warrior’s body.

Cassandra and Blackwall could dive into a fight, clashing metal and steel against their enemies, drawing forces to them to slash and hack away with brutal precision. Varric picked off stragglers, keeping them from getting too close, his line of sight always seemingly clear, despite his height. Despite only being grouped together for a few months, they worked rather well as a team. Roz alternated between savage bursts of flame and cool, shimmering barriers to protect as the dead rose from the peat bog around them.

All it took was a moment when her attention turned away, focused on setting a mine below the feet of a corpse near Varric, that she nearly missed another one ambling towards her; first slow, then fast, tripping over it’s feet momentarily in anticipation of slicing into her. There was a brief should from Cassandra, but before Roz could turn to face the creature, an axe sailed just past her, landing with a dull thud against the head of the creature.

There was no time for her to do more than react, instinct shooting flames into the mist at the sudden arrival of, what? Friend? Foe? Neither?

“Hold, I come in peace!” The fire bounced off a barrier, the figure light up a moment as all the breath left Roz’s lungs. Dark hair clung to his face, a smattering of scars along his face and one hand up, the other clutching the twin axe close to him. Another flash of green light and she noted, without looking too closely, that he was undoubtedly Avvar.

Roz swore internally. Of course, two would appear when they were in the middle of battling a rift.

“More demons!” Cassandra bellowed and Roz shifted her attention quickly from and then back to the stranger.

“If you intend to stay, then help fight them with us.” Roz called out, muttering a prayer under her breath. A glance to her side and she couldn’t help her eyes widening as lightning and blue energy surged along the axes in his hands.

“Hakkon guide your blade, Herald.” And the fight was on.

“Be careful, Rosalind,” Cassandra was eyeing their new friend with caution and wariness. Roz couldn’t blame her, not when he had arrived at just the right moment and found himself among those his people were trying to fight.

“Not my people,” Vincent clarified when the rift was closed and all eyes fell upon him. “I’m not of that clan, lowlander.” He was a little gruff, despite his earnestness to help, watching them all with a relaxed gait that still held coiled concern in each step. He may have helped, but he didn’t trust the companions he’d found himself amongst.

That is, everyone but Roz.

There was...something there. A tug not unlike what Roz felt when she grew close to rifts. It didn’t feel quite so severe or strange. As though there was a force calling to her, drawing her in when she got close. Intoxicating and strange and filling her with a sense of calm that she hadn’t felt since she left the Circle.

“I don’t bite, Lass.” Vincent hadn’t even looked up from the fire he was tending to, blowing across embers before the steady flow of magic turned them into bright, glowing flames. The warmth felt good; she had used magic on her clothes and the others earlier, drying the dampness from her armor

Rain continued to fall outside, puddles forming at the cave entrance and mist rolling inside. Roz couldn’t help herself – she was desperately curious, a million questions already forming in her head. “Yes,” she huffed softly, shifting from foot to foot, as though uncertain. Sit? Stand? But a glance from him followed and his gaze was warm, open and she could see the same curiosity echoed back at her.

“So,” Roz began, sitting down on a nearby log, rubbing her hands together before the fire. “If you’re not with the Avvar here, where are you from?”

“My clan is from Stone-Bear Hold,” Vincent answered, lifting his gaze from the fire to meet hers across from him. “My home is in the basin, along the mountains to the northwest.”

“You’re a ways from home,” Roz noted, “why are you here?” She paused, adding quickly, “I mean, I know why you’re here-here, but why are you in the swamp?” No one, certainly not anyone in her group, would have come here willingly. Not with the rain, the undead and the threat of strange beacons in the dark.

Vincent tilted his head to the side and for a moment it felt like his gaze was boring straight through her. As though he could truly see her, Rosalind, not the Herald of Andraste. Her cheeks flushed and her heart thumped in her chest but she didn’t drop her gaze, she couldn’t bring herself to look away. Here, among the undead and the peat, this man sat before her and it felt like nothing else seemed to matter in that moment.

Maker, what a lovely man he is.

“I was looking for you.” Her heart hammered with an odd uncertainty at the intimacy in his words. Cassandra’s warning to be careful echoed though as Roz swallowed hard.

“Me?!” But her alarm was short-lived, realizing a half-second after she’d spoken that he obviously hadn’t been looking for her; rather, he had been seeking the mark and the woman behind it. Her silly fantasies that had cropped up effortlessly were wiped from her brain, flushed now more out of embarrassment than pleasure.

Silly, foolish, of course he seeks the mark, not you, you dolt.

Shifting along the log, gaining her composure again, she stared at the fire to collect herself, adding her own magic into the mix.

“Herald of Andraste, you have made quite the commotion in the world.” If he had noticed her strange shift, he said nothing of it. “I almost wouldn’t believe it unless I’d seen it with my own eyes,” and his tone dipped, low and soft, “but you can heal the sky. How does that work?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Roz murmured with a small sigh. That was the mystery of it all: more than just how she had gotten the mark, but the why continued to plague her.

As if it knew they were speaking about it, the mark sizzled in a sharp contrast of green against the warm firelight. Roz gave a soft hiss, a frown creasing her brow as she fought off the sudden wince that followed. Instead, she clenched her hand into a fist, all but willing to light to stop. It does with an abruptness as Roz adjusts her gaze back to the lowlight around them.

Vincent watched her, curious and almost concerned by the looks of it. “Does it hurt?” He asked gently. Roz shrugged in an attempt to look nonchalant.

“Sometimes. It’s more of a sting these days, annoying but not terribly painful.”

Roz rarely talked about how the mark was affecting her and very few people asked. Josephine had often shown concern and sympathy when they were together in Haven but everyone else seemed to comment in passing and were far more intrigued in how it worked and how useful it would be to them and the world around her, not for her, the person. The shift in tone and the soft gaze across the fire felt odd to her as she busied herself with the folds of her shirt, gently warming the fabric to continue to keep herself dry.

As if sensing the discomfort, Vincent didn’t seek to fill the silence or push the subject. Roz was grateful for that as she glanced back up to him, watching him shift before the fire. It was only through subtly watching a moment that she caught the half-wince, the little grimace when he moved.

“Are you hurt?”

Vincent, for all intents and purposes, tried to wave it off without fussing. “Just a few scratches, nothing serious. I’ve lived through worse.”

Roz scooted over towards him, a frown on her face as she reached out. Gently, gravely, she asked, “May I? I can help.” There was a moment, a longer pause before Vincent gave a sharp nod.  

Despite her training, healing had never come quite as easily. Yes, she could find ways to use blood and make it work in her favor, but the healing arts were stiff even after practicing for the last few weeks on the road. The magic within her stuttered awkwardly a moment as her hands reached out, resting along his clothed chest. He took in a sharp breath, eyes wide and apologies fell from her lips.

“Sorry, sorry, I know, healing isn’t my strength but I’m getting better at it.” Letting the cool, blue magic wash over Vincent, Roz tried not to linger in silence long. “Give me an herb garden and I can create a poultice for almost anything. Or tea, I can do tea, too,” She gave a nervous little laugh, pulling her hands away when she was finished. “This is just a necessity of traveling, I suppose. How do you feel?”

“Better,” Vincent murmured, looking oddly winded, eyes fixed still so intently on her. The crackle of the fire was the only noise between them for a long moment as Roz shifted away again, aware how close she had gotten to him.

“So,” She tucked a leg beneath her, adjusting to sit as comfortably with a little distance between them, “you’re a mage? I saw what you did, with the lightning and your axes.” He nodded and Roz continued, asking the questions that burned from within. “But you use martial weapons as a focus? How did you learn to control it?”

Her teaching had always told her a mage outside the circle as dangerous, an apostate without any clear control or careful watch on their powers that could leave them open to hurting themselves or others. And the fear of possession and abominations had often been spread as a tale of caution for all who lived within the circle walls. Yet she had watched him during the fight, impressed with the strange mix of physical combat strength that blended with magic that crackled and fizzed in the air around them. There had been control and power without either outweighing the other and that had surprised her more than anything.

“A spirit of Patience taught me to use this gift.”

Her shocked silence followed this statement and he glanced at her with genuine confusion. “What? Is that not how you lowlanders do it?”

“Hardly,” Roz gave an incredulous laugh, half-curious, half-hysterical at the notion that anyone would willingly taken on possession when they were taught from an early age just what a demon might do. “You’re talking about being possessed. That’s a dangerous thing to us.”

Yet you have offered the same. Hypocrite.

The voice at the back of her mind was bitter and judging and she ran her hands along her arms where she knew scars remained from the rebellion. It was the only way to stay safe, she reminded herself, the only way she could ensure they made it to the conclave alive. Regardless of what had happened, she had done what she needed to survive. No one knew this, but Roz wasn’t going to divulge anything to her companions, not even this strange and handsome Avvar.

“Mages are a conduit to the gods, Lass,” Vincent interrupted her thoughts, leaning forward, “it’s a sacred duty we perform when we use our gifts. Spirits help us learn to channel that.”

“Don’t let anyone from the Chantry hear you saying that. Or a Circle mage, for that matter.” Roz shook her head, her magic flittering to stoke the fire once again. “I didn’t learn how to use my magic from spirits, that’s for certain.”

“How old were you when you began to learn with your gift?” Vincent asked and Roz realized he meant that genuinely. Magic to him was a gift, something that hadn’t been tucked away in a tower for years at a time and feared. It was simple and extraordinary and a lump rose in her throat fast. She swallowed against the sudden emotion, dropping her gaze away, afraid she might cry if she thought about living that life too hard.

“I was six when I came into my abilities. I accidentally lit my older brother’s eyebrows on fire.” That had been a sight - Matthew with no eyebrows, smoke floating in the air and the pair of them caught between amazement and, after a moment, horror at what had happened. “He was fine but my mother and father were swift to do what we necessary.”

“Necessary?”

Roz nodded. “Within a week, I was packed and off to Ostwick Circle with Templars to accompany me.” Her memories from home often felt fuzzy, a piece of a life she couldn’t quite grasp. Now and then she missed it, the sensation of home but that had faded with time when her family had ceased communications with the Circle. “I miss Matthew the most. I hope his eyebrows grew back in properly.” The comment was light but her heart did have a certain ache when she tried to picture her big brother, uncertain these days if they shared the same eye color or whether their laugh sounded the same.

“You didn’t stay with your family? Why?” Vincent looked horrified when she glanced up again, his own brow creased deeply with a glower of someone who hadn’t grown up in her world. “You were a child, you shouldn’t have been taken from them.”

“Magic exists to serve man,” Roz recited by heart, “never to rule over him.” When he looked even more bewildered, she went on. “Mages are inherently dangerous with magic and must be watched. Whether you believe it or not doesn’t really matter; we have been taught we need to stay locked away for the safety of ourselves and others.”

“That’s backwards thinking,” Vincent voiced and Roz couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped her lips. Bitterness prevailed in her tone though as she stared at the fire again.

“Perhaps, but like I said, it doesn’t matter.” The fire had begun in Kirkwall and now it spread across Thedas with a force that almost gave Roz hope for true, real change for all of them. Alderis had given her hope for such a thing; he paid for it, but that flame still burned brightly within her chest.

“Change had to come with a battering ram and we’re still picking up the pieces.” Uncertainty still remained and Roz could feel it whenever they’ve visited with folks across the map. “I hope to build something better than before with those pieces. Not everything was broken, but enough of it needs to be destroyed completely.”

“A lofty goal,” Vincent murmured with a little nod of his head. Roz shook her head, closing her eyes with a small yawn.

“Yes, and one I doubt will come easily.”

“Then I pray the Lady will guide you to your goal.” Genuine was a hard thing to find these days, especially among those who tried to wriggle their way closer to Roz. But that’s exactly what she saw when she gazed over at Vincent. Her heart thumped again in her chest when he smiled at her and she prayed to Andraste Herself that he didn’t notice the flush that reappeared along her neck.

“Well, first I need to rescue my soldiers.” It was better to change topics, she thought, careful not to lean in too closely as she added, “What can you tell me about the castle in the swamp?” It wouldn’t hurt, she told herself, to enjoy being around him for a moment. Even if he were to leave them in the morning, his help had been a necessity. It didn’t hurt either that his smile gave Roz butterflies.

It’s a harmless daydream. I doubt I’ll see him again after this.

[jaegertango]

TrueAU stuff

I don’t really have a legit name for this AU beyond just “typical” AU scene in which a random event in an OC’s life is changed drastically. No “evil” AU, no “sci-fi” AU, just something different applied to their lifestyle that really changes a lot about them. Mostly done for my own reading later on, because I don’t wanna forget about whatever detail I got right now.

Alastair Pentarus does not meet his fated end in Lordaeron. Managing to escape with his fiancée and his best friend, he survives the siege and starts a new life in Ironforge acting as the front gun man and bounty hunter for Enfinite Arms. The real Zolfos Enfini creates impressive new weapons and does not meet depression without the death of his father and best friend. Faerina, having not needed to remarry with her own fiancé still alive, stays at Alastair’s side faithfully and happily. Together, the three create a capable mercenary band tighter-knit than any net, and spend their years taking whichever missions they please. As Pentarus does not die – and therefore does not meet the Death Knight destined to brand him with Blood Runes – the art of Bloodhunting is lost to him. Instead, he sticks to his roots and simply uses as much gunpowder as possible, relying more on various arrays of bullets, as well as enhanced metal armors to improve his physical capabilities. What else more could he want in his blessed life?

Pentarus (as he still lives and does not feel the need to become Rasputen Tarsalai) is about equal in power as his undead self. What he lacks in magical power, he instead surpasses with technological might and an array of different tools for the job. His rifle, Songstorm, is even more finely tuned than his Kitten is, as now it has Zolfos’ expert touch improving it. The rifle has a heightened rate of fire, holds a clip instead of a bolt-action mechanism, and he can modify his bullets based on the desired effect he needs – such as explosive rounds, sniper shots, or crowd-control zaps. He also has several different weapons hidden in his armor, such as hidden blades and bombs. While he might not have the raw explosive (and portable) might of his Elementium Deathcannon, there is enough sheer firepower strapped to Alastair to obtain the same result if need be.

Haarithur Yed’elryn does not betray his Prince when he is branded a traitor. Sticking wholeheartedly to Kael’thas’ demands, the enfeebled Blood Elf drinks deeper into the Fel, his body eagerly absorbing the energy he so desperately needed. His enhanced prowess and savagery attracts the attention of the Illidari, and he in turn happily joins their ranks thanks to his addicted thirst for the Fel. When Kael’thas falls, Haarithur sheds no tears for his once-great Prince, his only thoughts dedicated towards feeding on demons and the most primal of his desires. After the fall of the Illidari (and the subsequent reawakening), the Sin’dorei begins to regret how wracked his body has become with corruption, and how his only reasons to live were either long since gone, or simple necessities of life. Attempting to find some other reason to give himself to this world, Haarithur now walks as a stain upon Azeroth, a fel-infused monster brought forth solely to slaughter demons or fuck the life out of them. With his normally calm temperament now blazing with demonic energy, the Demon Hunter takes his fire prowess to a whole new level, setting everything around him ablaze as he takes very vigorously to his Infernal demon within. If he can’t find his reason to live anymore, he’ll survive simply to spite whatever gods seem to want him dead.

Bound to the Infernal soul Immolus, Haarithur took his fiery crowd-control prowess to a much more aggressive height, and is also about equal in power to his original self. While the demon soul is simple-minded, its sheer rage and emotional value is in constant struggle with the Demon Hunter, making the Blood Elf much more hostile in combat. His skin seems to split with fel-green fires, and his Metamorphosis nearly sets him fully ablaze. Complete with his slow, thundering attacks and ground-shattering leaps, Haarithur terraforms the very battlefield with his actions, leaving nothing but a craggy waste of scorched earth in his wake. This also makes him much harder to control, as he turns from a stalwart vanguard bringing the fight to himself to instead chasing the slightest foe down with eager bloodthirst. The Demon Hunter in the excitement of a fight is unstoppable, but also impossible to lead without casualty. Such recklessness also keeps him wide open to attacks, forcing him to simply tank through blows he could otherwise dodge or block with ease.

Soren Sigmaine is not the sole survivor of the Vermillion Verdict. He instead perishes at the Enclave, killed by the Scourge as he protected his High Priestess Luxford. He is later raised at Acherus, and though his connection to the Light is strong, his inability to channel it into physical form also reflects in undeath – there is no way he can form death magic. Deeming the raised knight a failure, they condemn him to die by the other Death Knights who were able to prove their magical abilities. Yet, the knight never is killed once again; in a fit of supernatural defiance and zealous fury, Sigmaine slaughters every Death Knight seeking their title, tearing into them like paper and even ripping them apart with his bare hands when his blade was taken away. Deciding that it was too great a waste of resources to keep sending capable Death Knights to their violent ends by a “failure,” Rasuvious instead demands they arm up Soren and instead give him a fitting title – The Doomslayer, a stolen honorary of a disgraced Paladin sent on perilous missions bordering on suicide. As he lacks any ability to cast the death magics of the Ebon Blade, many believe him to be killed very quickly, but his inhuman rage and fanaticism drives the silent, seething knight into many bloody victories. While his memories have been blurred and corrupted, Sigmaine’s faith in a cause has not dwindled in any sense. There is no foe too mighty nor too numerous for the Doomslayer to kill.

Soren Sigmaine and the Doomslayer are not much different in fighting prowess. They both lack the magical might of their peers, and both prefer the aggressive, overwhelming might of their claymores in a storm of steel. However, the Doomslayer is much more wrathful in a fight, and is not against using every ounce of his extreme strength to utterly rip apart anyone and anything he fights. Sigmaine’s zealotry is the same, but his inner morality usually does not have him savagely tearing his foes to pieces so brutally. Either way, the knights prefer a fast paced style of attack, seeking to overwhelm their enemies and beat them back with obscene strength and body checks alone.

Shenvol Stormshade turns towards envy and corruption as many of his brothers had done before. Sickened by his constant rejection and worthless patrols of Malorne, he is wiled over by the temptations of the Flame. Entirely tossing away the ideals of zen the White Stag once enlightened him with, Shenvol reverts to his old passions of hasty and emotional fire, taking quite acutely to the teachings of the Firelord and Majordomo Staghelm. His compassion to fight and his eagerness to be noticed for his strength quickly give him the infamous name “Ashen Dragon” for the sheer amount of scorched earth and life usually seen in his presence. When the Firelands are besieged, he greedily fights back against the forces, preying especially on the members of the Cenarion Circle or the Sentinels themselves whilst ignoring everyone else. Though he fights hard, the effort is for naught, and he is forced to go into hiding as a result. Rumors of the Dragon’s whereabouts seem to skirt everywhere around Azeroth, though reports have now placed him against the Legion’s forces. Whether he is trying to rectify for his past actions or simply belying to his baser nature, it is much harder to tell. As his powers are amplified as a Master of the Flame, Shenvol takes a much more aggressive and flamboyant style of fighting, usually setting everything around him on fire with explosive palm strikes and burning kicks. He may have once been Nature’s warden, but now he walks as its betrayer.

Shenvol the Waywatcher prefers a precise, but fast-hitting form of martial arts that involves several blows to pinpoint areas where they will matter most. These barrage of attacks do not do much by themselves, but when combined into a flurry, the final hit always multiplies the attacks together into one mighty finale, destroying the target before they even have a chance to realize the damage they’ve taken. His Master of the Flame self, however, relies on simply using extreme amounts of explosive damage, including long-winded kicks and punches to simply smack through defenses through sheer (literal) firepower. He is much easier to block, but blocking also causes a gout of flame to burst from his fists with every punch. This style of martial arts, unlike his Way of the Hundred Blows mentality, is violent and puts more emphasis on singular attacks that chain together, rather than long combos that always end on a particular blow.

Rex tries to instead follow the orders of his people by sacrificing his Raiders to hold off the ensuing Orc masses on their march to Shattrath. In the end, it is inevitably for naught as the Orcs regardless pillage and slaughter the majority of the Draenei people through sheer numbers. While the Prophet personally tries to consult him that the Reaver had done the correct thing, Rex is heartbroken and disillusioned by his crew’s senseless sacrifice. Despite the many honors and praises attempting to cheer him up, the Draenei eventually goes on a suicidal quest to slaughter as many of the greenskins as possible, seeking repentance for his failure as a leader. Upon a lone hill in Hellfire Peninsula, he stacks the corpses up high, stomping above the mountain of dead as Rex keeps killing more and more of the corrupted Orcs. It is only through the intervention of a powerful Fel presence (possibly that of Kil’jaeden himself) that the Draenei’s mind is fully turned – and with it, his body. Twisting himself into a mighty Eredar, Rex’s thirst for blood and sex is tripled as he becomes one of the Legion’s most powerful and capable juggernauts. Some even claim him to be as demanding and strong as Broxigar himself – to which he gains the name Rexarath the Red. With huge amounts of Fel energy coursing through him, Rexarath now commands both indomitable magic as well as his unrivaled strength. Woe betide any who see Rexarath the Red looming in the distance…

Already the most powerful of the characters naturally, becoming an Eredar only boosts Rex's strength to even greater levels. He does not lose any of his extreme skill with a weapon, and now he also boasts powerful (albeit amateur-trained) prowess with Fel magic, simply hurling colossal balls of demonic flame at targets. Combined with his further-enhanced vitality, as well as the destruction of his personality to only desire destruction, and Rexarath is made into a being that would take armies to defeat.

Erendiir Ravenlight does not fall for the temptations of the Legion. Rather than lustfully seek more power, he instead turns against his Queen in a snide and prideful attempt to keep the Highborne people “at the top where they belong.” Being the powerful mage he is, he manages to escape even with his roaring betrayal against Azshara, and he takes several of the Highborne caste with him into the hands of Malfurion and the like. Because of his self-centered betrayal, Erendiir is on the winning side when the Legion is repealed, which only fuels his xenophobic ego even more greatly. For thousands of years, he absorbs the praise he receives as a hero of the War of the Ancients, gaining even greater power as a Gran Magister. His influence amidst the Highborne makes him a tremendous ally or a dreadful foe – but an asshole all the same. Regardless, there is no doubt that he stands as one of the most powerful and spellcasters to walk Azeroth, seeming to blur the very strands of time around him. All Night Elves are welcome under him – and everyone else are but paving stones for the Kaldorei empire to rise once more.

Erendiir loses out on the Fel-enhancement of his Satyr being, but spending ten-thousand years honing his magical craft and devouring magical rarities have made him an extremely powerful Mage that would actually surpass his demonic form. His magical content is so condensed with mana that the very fabric of time wilts around him at his will. This means that while his Satyr form was a definite upgrade, now he is a supercharged version of everything that already made him powerful. Ironically, this also makes him more mentally unstable than his demonic form does as well – so much magic coursing through his veins has made him even more hostile and xenophobic than ever before, and there are few people even among his own kind that he inherently trusts or likes. What he has in paranoia though, he also possesses in raw power – it's hard to find someone or something strong enough to keep their form after meeting Erendiir on the fields.