GUNTHER

The Vagrant Seer

Name: Gunther Steinern
Title: The Vagrant Seer
Age: 45
Birthplace: The Reaping Fields
Allegiance: Unknown

A resilient warrior that wields the power of earth itself to hinder his foes and protect his allies.

Sometimes, names do possess a strange kind of grim irony. The Reaping Fields were so called by virtue of the abundant scraps of the old age that could be collected there. Over the years, small villages made of junk began to sprout through the barren lands, while the valuable materials grew scarcer and scarcer. As resource gathering activity started to fade, a new, sinister kind of reaping began: a cruel human harvest. The marauding Black Roads clans send their warbands to raid the villages, the mutants from the Shifting Forest steal children for their King that Never Was and the knights of the Bulwark take those deemed worthy and pure of blood to their citadel, often forcefully.

And yet, not all the denizens of the Reaping Fields are hopeless and resigned to a cruel fate. Among them it is possible to find genial inventors, brave explorer, cruel sellswords and even heroes. The Vagrant Seer is one of such champions.

Gunther always lived a rather serene, dull and solitary life. He was a mechanic, a lone worker of one of the smallest hamlets. He tried to never get involved in any trouble or get too attached to anything. He saw both the Black Roads raiders and the Bulwark knights come and go, after having done what they pleased with the villagers. He never complained, he minded his own business.

One day, Gunther decided it was enough. During an incursion of the Burning Valves clan, he picked up his staff, and walked out of his workshop to face the marauders' leader. He found his foe and his warriors in the village's square. Gunther raised his staff and did what he had wanted to do for a very long time: he talked. He spoke words of common sense and cooperation, words of hope and wisdom.
They listened.
They laughed.
They beaten him.
And still, they left the hamlet.

From that day, Gunther travels from village to village, spreading his message of a better future and, sometimes, enforcing his words with a good blow of his staff. As the Seer always says, everyone must do his part.

There are footprints in the sand, left by those who walked the valley before. They won't be erased until the next age of this world, for the wind never blows in the narrow canyons of the Reaping Fields. Two figures stand still, where the path divides in diverging roads. One is a young girl, not a child anymore but not yet a woman. She wears a rugged white robe. She smiles. The man in front of her is short and large. He leans on a staff. He doesn't smile, for he never quite learned how to lie.
"So...", he says.
"So.", she replies.
"So...I guess this is a goodbye"
"It is."
The man clears his voices a bit broken by sadness, "You know, since I found you in the desert, two years ago, you've been like a daughter to me"
"I know. But you had no idea who I was, back then"
"No, I didn't"
"And you do now?"
"I think I eventually figured it out. Too late, I suppose. But you don't have to go, you know? You could stay with me. We could be happy."
"I have to go. I want to go. What are you going to do about it?"
"I already did everything I could these last two years. I showed you a different way to live. I teached you compassion. I hope this will be enough."
"Yes. It will." Eris answers. She lies. She doesn't need compassion for her quest. She needs an army.

NAIMA

The Silent Seeker

Name: Naima al-Nadim
Title: The Silent Seeker
Age: 29
Birthplace: Neon Shrine
Allegiance: Reclaimers

Armed with a keres-tech rifle and haunted by a dark secret, this lone sniper can protect critical locations and snare her foes with energy shots.

Among the sons of the desert, no one knows the tainted sands of the Wastelands better than Naima. Defiant of her people’s strict rules, she chose to walk down the dangerous path of the explorer, on her own. Disdainful of any assistance, she relies only on her infallible aim and on a keres-tech rifle, a formidable weapon Naima built herself from age-old scraps.

During her lone journeys, Naima was able to reach fabled ruins and bring several relics of the ages before the fall back to the Neon Shrine. Perhaps, the most precious of these trophies is Archaios, an ancient keres-powered artifact. However, the broken guardian was not the only thing Naima unearthed from the Red Yonder, but no word has ever been spoken of the rest of the Vault's contents.

And yet, when the Silent Seeker is far from the Neon Shrine, strange stories are told about her past. It is said that the girl is haunted by a dark secret and seeks redemption in the barren deadly wastelands. According to others, she has no secret, but she has ventured too far in the tainted desert and now her mind is stirred by the whispering voice of the sand. What the truth is, no one knows, for Naima always keeps her own counsel.

Dust, black as a fading memory, covered the metallic floor of the ancient tunnel. It laid as a shroud, a thick layer growing slowly ever since the day everything fell. There were footprints on it. She could spot them in the flashing, blue-white light of her rifle’s keres core. They didn't belong to the living. She felt a cold shiver running down her back; Naima begun to run faster. She was so close now. She could almost see the opening she used to access the forbidden ruins. Only a few meters left. Instinctively, Naima squeezed the pendant in her hand. It was hers, finally. A prize. A key. Redemption.
Suddenly, an iron pillar erupted from the ground in a cry of metallic agony, blocking the way out. It was a dim mass of gnarled wires, like the twisted tendril of a deranged tree. The girl leaped back, barely avoiding the impact. From somewhere in the tunnel behind came a familiar, hated voice:
"This charade ends here, little one. Nothing may leave Zaicarse, not now, not ever."
As the Gatekeeper spoke, a green cloud of noxious smoke began to ooze from the distorted coil. Naima got back on her feet. She knew she had to act quickly. Nothing that lives can withstand the breath of the Forbidden City. In his deep voice, Infestus went on:
"That trinket you have stolen will not help you. Relief cannot be found in this place of damnation. Only oblivion can give us rest."
For a brief instant, the blue light that once swallowed the world shone once again, then everything was engulfed by the merciless sound of an explosion. Naima lowered the rifle. As always, her aim had been true. Climbing on what was left of the blight tendril, the girl escaped the dreaded ruins. As she walked in daylight, she could still hear the grave voice of the Gatekeeper:
"It will return. Everything returns."

Intricate hieroglyphs adorned the Vault's floor. A stain of fresh, blue blood, soiled one of them. Beside it, a wounded girl was breathing heavily. She had hair dark as the first night and was dressed in the white of a lost innocence. She had slept for centuries, in that strange dream bestowed by the ancient keres technology. She was young, and yet she had ages in her. She had been awaken by an intruder before the stars were ready. This wasn't supposed to happen. Yet, somehow, the thief had turned the key. Yet, somehow, the thief had descended into the inner sanctum. The young girl could do nothing but wait.

Finally, the doors to the Vault's core opened once again. Naima stepped out, dragging a piece of ancient junk behind her. Without hesitation, she headed towards the exit. The wounded girl, with a last effort, addressed her, in a whisper:
"What are you going to do with me?"
"With you? Nothing."
"Nothing? You broke inside this vault, you brought me back into this world. Alone."
"Everyone's alone."
"You don't understand, I'm Eriss..."
Then, the wounded girl stopped abruptly, as if she was about to pronounce a forbidden word.
"...nothing, Just Eris."
Without a word, Naima drew her knife.
She threw it at the girl’s side. Then, silently, she reached for the door. Before leaving the Vault, Naima said:
"Take the knife, Eris. We're all on our own in this world."

Naima looks at the desolate sands she calls home.
In the distance, a thunder shakes the heavens.
It has begun.
Naima embraces her rifle.
She is ready.
She can now see the meaning of the old prophecy.
Dark tides are rising.
Blood is on her hands.
She is ready to atone.

TRAUMA

Fury of the Wastelands

Name: Trauma
Title: Fury of the Wastelands
Age: 26
Birthplace: The Black Roads
Allegiance: Synchromesh Axes

A fierce, rage filled warrior, Trauma can perform devastating area of effect melee attacks.

The Black Roads are a maze of ruins from the lost Zaicarse. Forlorn highways and rusted tracks are tangled together in paths to nowhere. The forgotten streets and the rocky surroundings are home to the Blackroads Clans, a loosely connected group of gangs and warbands. As the stories tell, the tribes made the ravaged streets their home over two centuries ago, after the Last War signed the end of the bitter Age of Discordia. Having all but lost the knowledge of the ancient keres technology, the Clans developed new ways to wage war. Using a flammable, dark oil found in abundance in the sands near the Roads, they were able to build loud engines and even louder weapons. Of course, subtlety and ingenuity have never been the most prominent qualities of the warring tribes and all of their devices are quite prone to explode.

The Black Roads Clans live to fight, pillage and plunder. While some among them are honorable warriors and other nothing more than raving marauders, they all share the same view: the world is gone for good and now it's up to the strong to take what they want from the weak, before the flames consume all. Not the deepest of philosophies, it’s true, but it’s better not to argue over such topics with octane-crazed punks.

Born in the Burning Valves clan, Trauma quickly rose up the ranks of the warriors, establishing herself as a feared and respected leader. Concerned about his position, Hexanitro, chief of the tribe, ordered his most loyal warmonger to kill the young girl. But they proved to be no match for Trauma's unquenchable fury. Betrayed by her own clan, the girl fled the Black Roads, leaving behind Coma, her little sister, and started a solitary war against everyone and everything.

Words of Trauma's deeds in her lone fight eventually reached the other clans of the Black Roads. Many young warriors left their tribe to pledge allegiance to the Fury of the Wastelands, as the girl was now being called.

Today, Trauma rules her own small clan of outcasts and the violet flag of the Synchromesh Axes inspires both awe and dread. The Fury knows her army is not strong enough to return to the Black Roads to exact her vengeance, so she drives her warriors to raze the Reaping Fields, and even beyond into the wastelands. She must prepare. One day all clans will bow before her axe!

There is a loud sound, as metal clashes against metal. The white-haired warrior leaps backwards, just before a cogwheel axe smashes into the ground before him. Trauma rises the weapon back up. Her face is contracted in a strange grin. She teases her opponent: "You're slow, snowflake".
Without hesitation, the purple clad girl charges forward. Flames flicker from the strange engine on her back while her weapon spins with a maddening sound. The swordsman doesn’t move. He waits, patiently, for the perfect moment to strike. His foe’s blind fury will be her own demise.
Trauma attacks. The white warrior is ready. His sword parries the blow. Upon impact, a white, cold light dances out of the blade. The girl pulls back her axe and readies another strike. Once again, metal clashes against metal. Again the light beams from the sword. She goes on, hit after hit. The swordsman falters.
"Pathetic", Trauma yells, as the axe slams into her enemy. The white-haired warrior falls.
"Why do you hold back your blows, snowflake? Are you afraid to hurt a poor girl?"
The woman in purple laughs as she presses her boot to the swordsman's chest.
"You...you do not deserve such regard. It is not about you."
"Oh, so you can talk, little snowflake...and if it is not about me, then what?"
"I...I made an oath. I will never rise my right arm again, for I lost the right half of my sky and..."
"And you've become weak, poor snowflake. But don't be afraid, I can fix this. Consider it a welcome gift from the Wastelands."
Trauma lifts her weapons and strikes at the white-haired warrior right arm. Again. And again. And again, until flesh, bone and blood are cut, until a crimson stain wets the black sand.

ANGOR

The Eternal Hunger

Name: Unknown
Title: The Eternal Hunger
Age: Unknown
Birthplace: Unknown
Allegiance: Unknown

Ever relentless, ever eager for war, this fearsome beast storms the battlefield consumed by an insatiable bloodlust, shaking the ground with unstoppable charges and colossal blows.

Of all the dangers of a broken world, no one is deadlier than the beast called Angor. When this fearsome creature emerges from the tainted sands of the Wastelands, the earth itself trembles under its thundering claws and the wind howls as an omen of misfortune. To cross its path is to encounter certain death, for never has this monster known defeat in battle.

Angor's dreaded presence seems to be as eternal as its hunger, for legends about the fiend have been told for countless generations. They often begin with brave steam-knights from the Bulwark or ruthless hunters bearing the colours of the Black Roads facing the beast for justice or glory. They always end up bloody and defeated.

They all sit in a circle, as they always do when the green moon shines over the jagged wastelands. They are chanting, for this is the hallowed night of the oldest memories. Those we lost before the Shrine was made anew. Those we lost before the Reclaimers sworn their oath. Amidst the circle there is a woman, as there will always be. She lingers for a moment while the chorus wears off, before resuming her tale.
"...And so it came, after the second-born sun swallowed the kingdom.
And the children of man named it Beast, for they were alone and afraid and their wisdom was burned away.
And yet, we still remember the names.
And we call it al-Rabie, for it was the last harbinger and the greatest among them all.
And we call it al-Muharrir, for it drove the sinners in the deepest places of earth.
And we call it al-Tathir, for its coming cleanses the world.
And we call it al-Ramar, for the desert is its domain..."

And yet, there are other stories, by which lost travellers and helpless villagers are saved from keres-touched horrors by a monster able to swallow them whole.

No one knows the truth, for Angor's essence is one with the desert: eternal, deadly and mysterious..

The metallic ramparts of the broken city stand tall against the night, as a black stain in the darkness. At their top, the one that maybe is a man and maybe is a monster looks at the desert through the eyes of a raven mask. He speaks, addressing the wastelands as they were an old friend:
"And so it fell to us, to bear the whips and scorns of time, as the next age of the world rises from the ashes as an undiscovered country, from whose bourn no travellers return. But to what avail? Is there a point in this suffering? Should I forever bear this mortal coil as jailer of the damned?
Wasn't it better to fade away and hide from that burden they call reason? Wasn't it better to follow your fate, as comrades in arms?
No.
For I have duties. For I have responsibilities. For I still hold the key.
No.
For it was you. For you’ve done the deed. For I will remember."
From the desert a low howl rises, as the only answer.

ARCHAIOS

The Broken Guardian

Name: Guardian Unit θξ
Title: The Broken Guardian
Age: 448
Birthplace: Zaicarse
Allegiance: Reclaimers

This keres-tech artifact was build in ancient times with a single purpose: to heal and to protect. By binding itself to another Champion, it can heal, shoot projectiles and create a devastating attack area of effect. All of Archaios' abilities are stronger the closer it is with its master.

Archaios is an ancient keres-tech guardian artifact, built centuries ago during the golden age of Zaicarse, when the Kereid dynasty still ruled the land. Under the guidance of the scions of the blue blood, wise men learned how to harness the untamed power from beyond the Veil. They chained the eldritch force inside complex devices and used it as a source of limitless energy, creating an era of wonders, creating an eternal kingdom.

But even eternity cannot last forever.

The fall came, when the second-born sun swallowed the land.

Still, as everything changes, nothing is truly lost.

Scattered through the Wastelands, buried among the ruins of the Forbidden City and hidden in secret vaults under the crimson sands of the Red Yonder, some relics of the lost age still exists. It was in one of those vault that Naima, a young explorer, found the broken husk of what was once Archaios, the noble and steadfast guardian.

At the Neon Shrine, the Reclaimers were able to partially fix the ancient robot. When the crystalline matrix inside its core was reactivated, Archaios found itself in a strange new world, with an unknown feeling flashing through its logic circuits. Somehow, the old directives had been overridden and Archaios was experiencing, for the first time, a form of free will. But freedom comes at a dire price, for the Guardian was now struggling to find a purpose in its life - if that strange electric dream of a machine can be called life. Archaios choose to fulfill its old role of healer and protector. But, this time, it will choose its own master.

And yet, sometimes, Archaios feels a presence in the depths of its cortex, like an ancient secret waiting to be revealed, like a black box waiting to be opened…

A pale light shines in the large chamber. Its reflections are treasured and amplified by gleaming crystals lined against the wall. In the center, over a pedestal, a golden artifact floats silently. A man enters the chamber. He wears the colours of royalty, blue and white as the glare from over the Veil. As the prince approaches, the machine's eyes flash with a spark of life. It speaks, with the unnatural voice of something that should not be:
"Good morning, honoured master, this unit is ready to fulfill all your wishes. If I may dare to suggest, your highness should begin his glorious day with a proper refreshment. Should I fetch a bottle of lotus wine for you, my lord?" The man doesn't reply. He walks nervously towards the crystals. The machine continues:
"Oh, I see, it’s one of those days. Maybe your highness could find some solace in a relaxing conversation. Should we engage in a pointless verbal exchange about the weather, my lord?"
The prince turns toward the floating construct: "Halt all communication functions." he orders peremptorily. He then finishes to tune the gemstone, before turning his gaze to the machine once again.
"Hear me, Guardian Unit θξ, for this will be you final and eternal assignment. Dark clouds are gathering and soon my line shall pay the ultimate price for its foolishness. I am ready to face the oncoming storm although it might be my undoing. For this reason, I have to secure the future of our house. For this reason, I have betrayed the only person I ever held dear in this world. As we speak, my sister, the princess Erissa Selene, is being taken to an hidden vault against her will. There, she will dream, untouched by time, until the storm passes. Go to the sanctum and defend her sleep. Go to the sanctum. Heal her. Protect her. This is my final order, the final order of your prince, Asterion Helios Kereides.
Have you understood my words, Guardian Unit θξ?"
"Yes, Master"
"Now, before you go, there is a last thing that needs to be done. Guardian Unit θξ, deactivate your primary memory matrix and store my next order only inside your black box..."

The vault has been broken. Weird creatures, not entirely alive and not completely dead, are swarming inside. They clash against the doors of the inner sanctum, slowly grinding the metal alloys with claws and bones. Awakened by the intrusion, the Vault's Guardian joins the fight, terrifying the invaders with a glorious battle cry:
"Good morning, this is Guardian Unit θξ, I regret to inform that you have breached a forbidden chamber. Please, leave this place at once or there will be rather unpleasant consequences".
Unshaken by the bold message, the restless dead continue to ravage the last defence of the most sacred halls.
"Oh, this is quite annoying. Please, I have to insist, I beg you to go back to the surface and engage once again in your favourite activities. If i can make an educated guess, your kind should be particularly fond of murdering humans and devouring their flesh."
This time, the creatures reply, with an angered hiss:
"The... Gatekeeper... he... wants... her..."
"This is beyond strange. Save for the Master, only the High Archon should know of this place. I'm afraid I have to proceed with your extermination. Please, hold on while I activate Protocol: Keres..."

INFESTUS

The Gatekeeper

Name: Unknown
Title: The Gatekeeper
Age: Unknown
Birthplace: Unknown
Allegiance: Unknown

Eternal jailer of the horrors sealed within the Forbidden City of Zaicarse, Infestus can summon static defenses and clouds of noxious miasma.

Once center of the known world and seat of power of the Kereid dynasty, the city of Zaicarse is now a forlorn bulk of ruins. Twisted metal structures and stone remnants of nameless temples are tangled together in a distorted mass of bleak debris. Everything is touched and corrupted by the terrible fury of the unleashed Keres. Like the plagued tendrils of a choking vine, black iron wires wrap the once magnificent towers, and from rusted pipes noxious clouds of poisonous gas shroud the streets. To draw in the breath of the Forbidden City is to encounter certain death.

Though, far worse was the fate of those left behind. In the sprawling depths of the city, hordes of creatures that were once humans swarm the forgotten tunnels, lost in a cursed existence equally distant from both life and death. As this wretched beings desperately try to break free from their cage and spread their poison upon the lands, the most brave or foolish explorers struggles to enter Zaicarse in search of the treasures of the lost age.

But the black gates hold fast, for Infestus, the Gatekeeper, is bound to an eternal watch. Under his watchful eye, nothing can enter the boundaries of the Forbidden City. Forever chained to his duties as jailer of the damned, this ruthless guardian won’t stop at anything to keep both the horrors and the artifacts of the past sealed within their tombs.

Sometimes, Infestus leaves Zaicarse, either to pursue thieves or to protect other ruins, for he has sworn to keep the world free of the terribile touch of Keres. If the legends are to be trusted, the Gatekeeper also leaves his duty one night every one hundred years, to place a red flower over an unmarked grave at the edge of the Wastelands…

There is a chamber, hidden under the ruins of a broken age. It held the glowing soul of an entire world, once. Now, it is empty and scarred. Broken crystals lie scattered on the floor. There is a figure among the debris. For an instant, it looks like a man. Perhaps he was one, before the light swallowed everything in shades of white and blue. Now, he is something else. He hides his face in his hands. He speaks to himself.
"Why? Why have you done this? We were so close, we could have broken our chains. We could have changed the world. And now you have killed it. Why?"
From the corridors over the buried hall, footsteps resonate like drums.
"Was it your doing, Asterion? Did you truly betrayed us all? Was this your scheme from the very beginning? Was this destruction your desire?"
The steps thunder again, closer and closer.
"Or Echion, it was your hand that forced fate? Was your hatred for the blue blood so strong?"
Blows. Against the doors. One after another.
"ANSWER ME! Who of us four did this?"
Blows. Against the doors. One after another.
"It will be easy to just fade away now. To disappear, like water in water. But I can not do that. I must make amends. WE must make amends. For I was once the High Archon and my duties still chain me to this place. I will do what must be done. And I will wait. I will found you all. And I will discover the truth."
The one that was once a man reaches for the mask of his old office and places it on his face. Now his watch begins.

The metallic ramparts of the broken city stand tall against the night, as a black stain in the darkness. Atop, the one that might be a man or might be a monster looks at the desert through the eyes of a raven mask. He speaks, addressing the wastelands as they were an old friend:
"Can you see the thunders, from your hidden abode? Can you see the sky cries for mercy, as she turns the key? The deed is done. The last scion of the ancient blood has awaken the sleepers. Soon, from the sands of time, all the horrors and the wonders we buried will reach out for the stars once again. Soon, all the champions of this broken world will gather and fight, for they will all hear the call, for the Whispers will scream their names. The long age of solitude is finally over. It is time to shape the future of this land, for the Age of Insidia begins now."

SHIRYO

The Spirit Blade

Name: Shiryo no Ame
Title: The Spirit Blade
Age: 34
Birthplace: The Hidden Havens
Allegiance: Outcast

This mystic swordsman, an Ascendant Warrior from the Hidden Havens, can play spectral dirges to empower his attacks with the essence of his ancestors.

Centuries ago, when the Exiles fled east to escape certain demise, the First Rite was established. In observance of that sacred law, the Exiles divide their society in two castes: the Ascendants, who took residence in the soaring peaks and dedicated themselves to meditation, and the Descendants, dwellers of underground abodes sworn to remember the grief inflicted upon them by the hated Kereid dynasty of Zaicarse.

To defy the ancient rules of the Hidden Havens is to face a fate worse than death: dishonour. Shiryo, once a noble warrior of the Ascendant caste, wilfully chose the way of the banished rather than strike the final blow at his battle-brother, the traitor Descendant Ikyrio. After wandering in the desolate wilds for a year and a day, playing spectral dirges to pray the ancestor for their wisdom, the Spirit Blade finally found a new purpose: he will travel westwards to bring words of harmony in the forbidden lands.

Two men face each other. One wears the pale colours of air, rain and reason. The other is clothed in the black attire of hidden depths, night and vengeance. Both have a solemn gaze. For a moment, only a feeble gust of wind dares to disturb that strange, sacred silence surrounding the warriors. Then, in compliance with the First Rite, the younger one begins to speak:
"You have betrayed me. You were the light of my shadow, you were the flame of my thoughts, and you have betrayed me!"
The other man doesn't utter a word, as his opponent goes on, "You know I speak truly. The scion of the ancient blood must die! Haven't we suffered enough by their hands? Haven't the years of our exile lasted enough generations? Haven't I dwelt enough in the darkness, only to remember our right to retribution?"
There is a pause, as long as the end of all things, before the white-haired warrior replies, "I feel the fire of your hatred burning, for you are my anger and you are my memory, but still I am here to stop you. Even if the voices are to be trusted, this heir of cursed Zaicarse you speak of is nothing more than a girl. A young maiden with no blood on her hands. The Elders have spoken against your resolve and so did I.
I beseech you, cease this foolishness. Am I not your calm? Am I not your reason? Aren't we bound for eternity, you and I?"
"No."
The black clad swordsman draws his weapon.
"No more. Our bond is shattered. The oath is broken. If you can't see justice in my action, then I will walk alone. Raise your blade, my light, for only in death I will relent from my purpose."

As the flute ceases its ethereal music, the light of the dancing sphere begins to fade. Only an echo of the ancient dirge, deep as the voices of the departed, resonates in the dark eventide, gently guiding the flickering glows far beyond the Veil.
Slowly, the white-haired warrior raises. He speaks in a voice calm and yet resolute:
"If this is your will, let it be fulfilled. I shall walk to the sunset lands, where the ancient corruption still thrives. Even I am unworthy of you, noble ancestors, I shall play the tune of harmony for the barbarians of the red sands. Still, as you command, a price I shall pay, for great was my dishonour. Hereby I vow never to rise my right arm again, for Ikiryo was the right half of my sky and I’ve failed him. Out of devotion, but I have failed him."

JARIL

The Mouldsinger

Name:Pavel Gerovit
Title:The Mouldsinger
Age: 41
Birthplace:The Bulwark
Allegiance:The King That Never Was

Exiled to the Shifting Forest along others keres-touched mutants, the Mouldsinger is now driven by righteous vengeance. He can taint enemies with parasitic mushrooms, able to inflict huge damage over time and take out sturdy opponents.

Sometimes, a child is born different. Sometimes, a traveller returns from the desert disfigured and changed. Sometimes, monsters exist.
They are mutants, humans and beasts forever changed by the insidious force known as Keres. No one knows why this happens, but the legends say: when the second-born sun swallowed the kingdom, Keres broke free from her cage. She became one with the water. She became one with the earth. Her touch twisted the land, her caress tainted the trees. Her nefarious breath crept inside the children of men. Waiting.

Mutants are generally feared, since, along with their change, they often gain strange powers far superior to even the crazed nature of this broken age, which commoners erroneously call magic. They can sing rocks to do their biddings and persuade tangled vines to choke their enemies. They can see the future and the past. But mutants also becomes more and more unstable as time goes by, their mind forever shattered by the merciless Keres. Hence, they often leave their villages way before losing their sanity, wandering alone in a desperate search for a place to call home. It is said they end up gathering in the Shifting Forest, where the King that Never Was rules over the courts of those who are no longer human.

But Jaril never chose to live in the forest. He was only a child when the touch of Keres started to take its toll over his body. He was only a child when, not knowing how or why, he poisoned his brother with a parasitic mushroom. He was only a child when the knights of the Bulwark sentenced him to death.
And yet the young Jaril managed to escape, running towards the center of the Shifting Forest as if an invisible hand was guiding his feet. There, the King that Never Was took the child in the darkest of his courts, for the boy's heart was filled with rage and thirst for revenge.

Silence is, perhaps, the rarest treasure to be found in the Shifting Forest. A restless wind howls without pause among the tangled trees and distant echoes reverberate through hidden valleys, leading travellers astray from safe paths. In a lower pitch, the luminescent moss chants its tune, as it changes colour in accordance to a secret law. At times, for a brief moment, a furious growl or a raving laughter can be heard in the distance, for the ones who hide in the shades are never too far away.
Yet, there is silence when the knight and the children enter the glade. The boys are two. Neither of them has seen more than eleven winters. One is a squire. The other is a prisoner. Both are scared.
"Childe, are you sure you want to do this? You are far too young...", the aged templar asks, with anxiety and pride.
"I am.", the squire replies, without lifting his gaze. There is sweat on his dark skin.
"Then take my knife. I shall say the words and leave this place. You will be alone with the Gods. You know what must be done."
"I do."
The knight ties the young captive to a bare trunk. He declaims the dreadful words:
"In fealty to the Gods and by the law of the Bulwark, I declare you, young Pavel, corrupted by Keres and lost beyond redeeming, for there is blood on your hands and the tainted mark defiles your body. I hereby condemn you to death. May your brief existence be lost into oblivion. May the gods have mercy on your soul."
He then leaves the glade, without looking back.

The squire holds the knife with both hands. He breathes heavily. He raises his arms, ready to strike. There is a loud scream, when the cold blade hits the ropes, freeing the frightened prisoner.
The squire screams once more:
"Run Pavel, RUN!"

And Pavel runs, straight into that strange mystery that will be the rest of his life.

It is night over the scattered villages of the Reaping Fields. The humble houses, made out timber scraps and metal sheets salvaged from ages past, seem to hug one another, as to protect themselves from the horrors lurking in the darkness. They are wise, for a monster is coming indeed. He walks alone in the sand. The moon reveals the woody mutations on his skin. He is chanting and old rhyme, as monsters often do.
"One for sorrow"
He remembers being cold and alone, in a forest of moving paths.
"Two for mirth"
They found him, the ones that hides in the shadows.
"Three for a funeral"
The King that Never Was scorched Pavel away.
"Four for a birth"
And Jaril was made anew, in the winter brigade of the sombre court.
"Five for Keres"
May change be blessed. May the children inherit this world.
"Six for the mould"
It lives, and grows, and answers the call.
"Seven for a secret never to be told"
Where to does the forest walk?
"Eight for a wish"
Revenge.
"Nine for a kiss"
There is a princess hidden beneath the trees.
"Ten for a bird
You must not miss"
For the King wants a child of men tonight, and Jaril will kidnap the finest one he can find.

A monster is coming indeed.

BAZ III

The Blinking Sparks

Name: Bartholomew Archibald Zachary III
Title: The Blinking Spark
Age: 14
Birthplace: The Wastelands
Allegiance: Unknown

A swift trickster, Baz III can switch place with his foes and control the battlefield by carefully positioning Keres Runes, shifting traps capable of either healing or damaging other Champions.

When the second born sun swallowed the land, forever shattering the old world, the corrupting touch of Keres gave birth to countless nightmarish creatures, turning the once marvellous outskirts of fair Zaicarse in a deadly wasteland. And yet, between those children of the new age, not all are bloodthirsty abominations. Some are different. Some are known to be gentle and helpful to travellers in need. Some are a glimpse of hope in a world in ruin.

Baz is not among them.

Little is known about this strange creature, whose home lies hidden somewhere in the endless junkyards of the wastelands. He appeals himself “the third” and yet no one has ever seen another of his kind. Certain things are Baz’s disposition towards mischief, his unfathomable greed for shiny trinkets of the old age and his passion for bargain.

Often, those who seek Baz’s aid, leaves requests, always accompanied by an offer, in the outer reaches of the Wasteland, hoping that the Blinking Spark will find them and accept the deal.

A buzzing sound of long-forgotten electricity echoes through the junkyard, jumping between the crystal circuits of old broken machineries. The mutant walks slowly, dragging behind him a precious prize for his King that Never Was: a child of men. The mutant walks slowly, chanting an old rhyme, as monsters often do.
The static hum intensifies, growing from a background noise to an audible clatter, modulating its frequency from meaningless sounds to intelligible, albeit slightly distorted, words.
"How inconvenient for one such as yourself, sirrah, to fare 'tween this junk garth of mine, portaging a so inconvenient burden nonetheless."
"Who is it, who are you?", the monster clad in mould says, while his mismatched eyes look for any sign of motion amidst the still field of wreckage.
"Naught should a rapscallion of your kin know of my name. Besides, this is an ambuscade, a bushwhack, a chicanery, an attack built upon surprise and wit. And yet, prithee, no matter what the circumstances are, there is always time for a proper introduction, I’m know as Bart..."
Jaril strikes. His staff smashes the already broken sound repeating module of an abandoned machine, from which the electric voice was being broadcasted.
The voices does not fade. It goes on speaking, from another dust covered device in that never ending pile of junk.
"...holomew Archibald Zachary III. Yet, some friends address me as Baz III, but such a close acquaintance you are not. And, with your harsh and malapert gestures, you are worsening your already desperate situation, sirrah larcener."
"Show yourself!"
"I guess you can have the privilege to gaze upon my most exquisite form before succumbing to my finely crafted rouse"
A figure emerges from a heap of cracked metal scraps. Its violet fur is dotted by red sand. The light bulbs on its back are crackling with sparkling jolts.
"You are one of us" Jaril says, lowering his weapon, "then why you want to steal this prize from our King that Never Was?"
The creature doesn’t not talk. It submerges its tail inside the heap of junk, connecting itself to the shattered tools of the lost age. As before, from buried speakers, words are broadcasted.
"Lucky there is no likeness between you and I. Different we are, as a grimalkin and a camelopard. And I serve no King. An higher purpose drove me before you today, to reunite that poor creature with his family. An higher and noble purpose indeed, a proportionate display of respectfulness towards my person sublimated in the guise of mundane goods. That is to say, I was paid."
Jaril grins, while a green cloud begin to gather around his staff. Suddenly, beside him, a luminous circle appears on the ground. The voice goes on.
"You have two choices now, sirrah mooncalf, you can jump towards that Keres Rune and experience a somewhat rejuvenating feeling, not unlike those provided by the wonders of old, or you can stay where you are and taste the sweet nectar of a well timed, excruciating painful explosion..."

COMA

The Shadeslinger

Name: Coma
Title: The Shadeslinger
Age: 20
Birthplace: The Black Roads
Allegiance: Aurora Society

Quick and deadly, Coma can dish out powerful chained attacks at middle range. However, to sustain her damage output, the Shadeslinger must carefully choose when to reload her gun, to avoid being caught with an empty barrel.

While each one is shaped after its own fashion, all the marauding clans of the Black Roads do have something in common: an unquenched drive towards chaos and destruction. For those high-octane pillagers the world died a long time ago and there is no point in trying to fix it. Future is a concept unknown to most of them, and their life is a never ending present of raids and battles, with no concern for survival. There is no tomorrow in the Black Roads, just a broken chain of todays.

Yet, hope can bloom even amidst the broken wreckages of a forlorn world.

Coma always felt herself out of place in the ranks of the Burning Valves. Weary of pointless havoc, as a child she took refuge in her own mind to escape the smell of death and the violent colour of fire. In her fantasies, she begun to think of a different way of life, of a land imbued with different shades. But there is no place for such delusions in the Black Roads. When her time did come, she was forced to join Hexanitro’s warbands. Only through the constant intervention of her sister, the renowned warrior Trauma, Coma avoided being sent to the slaughter in the front lines or a much worse fate at the hand of her own fellow Burning Valves. This was Coma’s eternal, unpleasant present.

Until everything changed.

One day, after surviving an assassination attempt by Hexanitro’s henchmen, Trauma left the clan to start her own warband at the edge of the Wastelands. Some loyal warriors followed her. Coma was among them. But Trauma refused her aid. “You are too weak”, she said.

That day, Coma fled. All Burning Valves warriors were pursuing her sister, so nobody hindered her escape. Coma found shelter among the wretched villages of the Reaping Fields, where so many times her clan had brought sorrow and woe.
Now alone, Coma had to learn how to survive. Even if she was too weak for the Black Roads, her repeating gun quickly became feared in her new home. But the girl had not lost the dreams of her youth. Even in the Reaping Fields, she saw nothing but desperate faces and the dull colours of wood and rust. She wanted to do something. She begun to patrol the Wastelands in search for rare pigments and a different kind of old junk: where others looked for iron and food to go on with their lives, Coma was trying to find something that could make that life bearable. Something humanity seemed to have long forgotten. Beauty. Soon, her brightly dyed clothes and the colorful marks she left wherever she went became a bright beacon of hope through the Reaping Fields.

Coma’s action attracted the interest of the secretive Aurora Society, a hidden group of free tinkers devoted to build a better future for the people of the Reaping Fields. Without hesitation, Coma joined their ranks.

Now, the Shadeslinger continues her search for beauty in a wrecked world, while patrolling the Wastelands carrying on secret tasks for the Society.

There is a village, in the Reaping Fields. Its name is Barckfurt. There is a house, inside its rusted barricades. It bears no name. Nothing special ever happened between its bleak walls. Its cellar, however, holds a great secret, for today the elusive Aurora Society has gathered there.

They fancy no symbols nor ceremonies. They need no decorations nor banners to remember who they are. They know that. They are the future.

They sit around a table. There are five chairs. One is empty. An old man is speaking.
“As you may have heard, something terrible has come to pass. The King that Never Was sent one of his underlings to kidnap the child.”
“I’ve warned you, dozens of times!” a woman screams “I’ve warned you and yet you never allowed us to put any surveillance near that house!”
“That would have been unwise” the old man replies “and served the sole purpose to draw the attention of a much bigger threat: the knights of the Bulwark”.
A man clad in black breaks his silence with a low cough. “Well, then we might have another problem. My informants told me of a knight roaming the Fields, asking questions. His name is Kowalski. As far as rumors go, he seems to have some old scores to settle with the mutant who took the child”
“Damn” a childish voice remarks.
There is a long, nervous pause, then the old man resumes his speech “So we must act. We all know what the fate of the child would be, if he was to be taken to the Bulwark. There is no compassion to be found among those blind worshippers and their four gods.”
“We could ask Gunther…” the woman proposes, but she is abruptly interrupted by the man with a black dress. “Gunther doesn’t was to be one of us. He made that perfectly clear.”
Silence falls once again.
Then, the young girl speaks.
“I could find the child.”
“Dear Coma, I believe you are far too young for such a task…”
“I can fight. You know that, but...”
“That is probably true, considering the, well, brutish place where you were born and raised”, the old man says “and yet i can not let you put your life in jeopardy like that.”
“..but, as i was saying, i don’t want to expose myself directly. I know...someone...that can move freely and unnoticed through the Wastelands.”
“And you would entrust that, hum, creature with this most sensitive endeavor?”
“I thought there were no prejudices among this Society” Coma remarks.
There is a loud laughter, then the black dressed man speaks
“She got you there. I say we are set. Coma, feel free to contact this creature of yours. The child must be found. At any cost.”