I am working on flushing out my major character, Brogud, the un-killable living god of the orcs. this book that i'm working on, All Shall Rest, details his struggle against hordes of undead under the Putrid Legions and coming to terms with his own standing as a God. my cousin and colleague Chuck asked some good questions regarding not having Brogud be too badass and shit, so i am working of flushing him out plenty, especially since i will be using him in other books as a cameo, "oh shit who the fuck was that dude who just saved the main characters or did something else equally important?" type scenario.
So far, i have that Brogud was born a long long while ago, so much so that even he has problems remembering his origins. Because he is incapable of death, he has had lots of time to get fairly good at pretty much anything he has wanted to master, such as the practice of Magic, Martial Arts, Weapon-Mastering, research into different fields, ect. Because of his agelessness, he also suffers from OCD to a small degree, and is very scatterbrained, often working on many projects at once, which are also dragged out over time, mostly because his concept of time is growing very askew. He is starting to notice a strange set of instincts, a sort of 'knowing' that he cannot explain, what he is calling his "God-sense." Brogud does not enjoy praise, even though he is worshiped by many savage Orc tribes, the natives of the Bear Islands, and others scattered around Thegorn and the rest of the world. the Orcs of his native tribe and those under his command during the Purge Wars do not 'worship' him per say, but make sure to give him respect and blessings at their shrines to their other gods. as far as physical power and prowess go, however, he has few flaws, being considered the greatest warrior to ever live, for good reason, seeing as how during the Purge, he killed many powerful undead warriors who had bested many Thegorn champions, and slaughtered more undead warriors than anyone, even holding off an entire horde of Zombies with the help of only a Dwarven warrior. he has a very powerful sword from an ancient age (rumored to have come from the Stars) that will mold itself to any sword or combination of swords the wielder requires, Brogud preferring a huge, single-edged greatsword, dual sabers, and a short gladius-style blade. He practices with any and every weapon at every opportunity he can get, and hosts bare-fisted prize fights in the village he exiled himself to.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Opening Chapter
This is the opening chapter for my 'Brogud' story. I'll be putting in some prologue shit in the beginning of the book, explaining the history to this point in a series of journal clipping-looking deals and maybe an epic poem written by an Elven Lord or something. What it will explain is that 35 years ago, everyone was chilling in their regular Fantasy-feudal world, the Orcs viewed as the savage boogeymen, and everyone warring with one another. Then a zombie virus hits, turning infected men into shambling hordes of zombies, and infected elves into fast-as-shit 28 Days Later motherfuckers. so everything is horrible during what is known as 'The Plague.' during this time, people start getting possessed by demons across the length of the land of Thegorn (the main story setting), and that makes everything really bad. These dark days continue, and as the factions of men, kingdoms of elves, and Dwarven Lords all start coming together to fight off the hordes of zombies, massive armies of more intelligent undead calling themselves 'The Putrid Legions' assault Thegorn from the mystical Haunted Forest in the southeast. these undead armies 'herd' the infected Zombies ahead of them, for the dead do not attack the dead, and use the darkness spreading across the land to strengthen them and nearly succeed in bringing the entire population of Thegorn to a prophesied euphoria of undying bliss, a 'Perfect Eternity of Undeath' to quote D&D. Just when all hope appears lost, and the now allied races and nations of Thegorn desperately trying to not get devoured and then resurrected as Undying Warrior-Slaves, a giant army of Orcs from the Northeast comes down, lead by the legendary living Orc god, Brogud, or the "Deathless One" as he is called by his people. Instead of raiding and killing everyone, as most people expected of Orcs, the Armies under Brogud succeed in routing and breaking the Putrid Legions utilizing their Orcish brutality and inner darkness to match the dark power of the Undead Armies. Under the leadership of Brogud, the newly created 'Commonwealth of Thegorn' is finally able to push the Putrid Legions and all the zombie hordes back into the Haunted Forest. However, the head church of Thegorn uses this to instigate a massive ethnic cleansing of sorts against almost every creature of magic or myth, grouping them with the Undead and instigating what is known now as 'The Purge.' After the Orcs build and man a massive fortress and vast wall to contain the Undead, Brogud's shame at being used by the church and Purging so many innocent beings to a hell that they did not deserve, the Living God goes into self-exile. the world has begun to heal, and the Haunted Forest has been quiet for 30 years.
Chapter 1-
-somewhere in central Thegorn-
Orson's day had been largely uneventful, busy no doubt, but uneventful as far as days go. Early in the morning he had tended his chickens, in the afternoon he had with his children while his wife tended to what was left in the Garden, an now as the cool of a late Autumn night began to descend, he busied himself with gathering firewood. The sleepy Autumn day was slowly drawing to a close, the orange glow of the sun drifting lazily beneath the mountains in the distance.
The shadow of night had just crept up to Orson's cabin at the top of a small rise, and already he could see his breath in the air. Inside, his wife worked on preparing a brace of rabbits that Orson had caught the day before, and the smell of cooking meat tickled his nostrils. The man grinned as he worked, savoring the simple life around him, the sound of his axe splitting logs into smaller pieces muffling the sound of his dogs barking momentarily.
It wasn't until he reached down to collect an armful of split logs that Orson heard his dogs at the bottom of the hill. Living this close to the forest, they always seemed to find something or another to bark at. Orson whistled casually for them as he turned to carry the chopped wood to his cabin. he placed the first armful of the evening next to his front door, and could smell the hot meal to come even stronger. the crisp scent of bacon wafted from the kitchen, and Orson fancied that his wife had turned out some beautiful concoction or rabbit and pork. With his mouth watering, Orson was rather reluctant to turn and gather more wood, but he knew that one single armful would not keep his family warm until morning.
So, with his nose fighting to travel towards the savory scent inside, Orson trudged back down the hill for more firewood. The quicker i get a good stack, he thought to himself, the sooner i can discover what Cassilda has prepared. At the bottom of the hill, his dogs remained where they were when Orson had first called them, having apparently not heard their master's nonchalant whistle over their own barking.
"Red, Hazel," he called for them, quickly gathering another armful of logs, "C'mon up." He tried to stack this armful a bit taller in his eagerness for food, and succeeded only in taking a few unbalanced steps up the hill before dropping the wood in a heap. Orson couldn't keep from chuckling at his own antics, and bent down to retrieve his fallen logs. As he did, however, something caught his notice.
His dogs had yet to heed their master's call, and more than that, their barking was becoming frantic, almost fearful. Orson again dropped the logs he had collected and peered into the gathering darkness. At first, he tried to pick out his hysterical dogs, wondering what could have gotten them so wound up. had a Bear or some other forest animal wandered out of the woods and spooked them? The dogs gave a sudden yelp and whimpered as though something were preparing to attack them, and Orson caught sight of them as they came bounding up the hill in a mad dash. they barreled past their master and disappeared into the woods next to the cabin, never once even slowing as Orson called after them.
The startled man then turned his gaze back down to where his dogs had so desperately fled from, nervous and fearful of what could have frighten his dogs so much. Movement in to dusk caught Orson's eye. a man was walking up the hill towards him. It was odd, however, for the man walked with the strangest gait, limping and stumbling up the hill with his arms hanging stiffly at his sides.
"can I help you ser?" Orson called out, inching slowly to his axe embedded in the chopping block. The man did not respond. He merely lifted his hands towards Orson and continue to stagger upwards.
Wrenching his axe free of the block and taking a step back, Orson yelled loudly and sternly, "Mister, i think it best if you just turn around an leave."
This time, the man responded.
He responded, though not with words. Rather, Orson could see the vague shadow of the man's mouth opening wide, and heard a deep-throated moan escape the gaping maw. Orson shivered and backed away even more, his heart pounding. As adrenaline pumped through his veins, Orson's awareness sharpened, and he became aware of more shapes materializing out of the twilight.
They came from all directions, each one wandering at him with an awkward limp. Shambling like tired drunks they approached, and Orson could hear their faint moans rising like a fetid chorus. Cold sweat engulfed Orson as he kept backing towards his cabin, the axe before him quivering in his weakening grip. As the sun dies, so the Dead shall rise. The mantra taught to him as a child born after the horrors of the Plague played in his mind. He prayed it wasn't so, almost hoping that they were just a band of drunken roughians, but the light from within the cabin illuminated those closest to him, granting Orson a gruesome spectacle.
Dead grey eyes fixed on him as broken, rotting hands reached out for him. Their wide open mouths dripped with dried blood so coagulated that it appeared black. Open, mortifying wounds that should have crippled any living man, caked with the same blackish-horror criss-crossed their bodies, not inhibiting their steady, hungry advance, and always the horrid moan echoed from their throats. This cannot be happening, Orson thought, this cannot be happening again. With each step the figures took closer to him, the haunting stories of the plague some forty years old bubbled up in his mind. He had grown up after the horrible wars of the Putrid Legions, after the horrors of the dreaded Zombie Plague, but his parents had been sure to tell him how fortunate of this he was, how lucky he had been to not have had to face the Undead, to live in the serenity after the Purge.
"No," Orson said aloud, not sure to whom, "no, the horrors are over... the horrors are over..." He prayed it to be true, pleaded with the gods that the atrocities of the past to be over and done, as everyone who lived hoped and pleaded, but there, reaching out to him were grim reminders, each one closing in on him with hungry, dead eyes.
The smell of burning pork snapped Orson's attention back to his family inside the cabin behind him. he walked backwards, unable to tear his gaze from the terror before him, and tripped on the doorstep of his home. The horrors are over, he thought again and again, unable to rationalize the grim truth, the gods are good, the horrors must be over... Finally wrenching free of the hypnosis of the impending doom, Orson rolled into his cabin and slammed the door with his feet. "Cassilda," he yelled to his wife as he stood, "grab the children and run for the-" the harsh stench of burning flesh cut his thought off.
A thin haze of smoke filled the cabin, and something behind Orson spat and crackled over a fire. Turning around, he was struck with mind-shattering horror as he gazed at what was before him. His knees gave way, and Orson slumped against the closed door, his mouth agape in silent despair, unable to breath, unable to think, unable to do anything more than to stare in morbid awe. the doom awaiting outside was paled to transparency against the shocking spectacle before Orson, for tied and stretched to wide, circular frames were the charred remains of what had once been two young children. "The horrors are over," he wept quietly, "the horrors must be over..."
"oh, sweet pea," croaked a brittle voice, "we horrors never left."
Orson's head lolled to the side in the direction of the unfamiliar and harsh voice, and nausea hit him as he laid eyes on what had once been his loving wife. she did not stand, but instead hovered several inches above the floor. Her head hung low and her long chestnut hair cascaded down in her face, a few strands fluttering in some ethereal wind. Fiery-orange eyes peeked out from beneath the chestnut cascade, piercing into Orson's very soul, and his former lover's lips cracked and split into a twisted, bloody smirk. She drifted closer to him, a knife clutched in her twitching hand.
"What's wrong my love?" she croaked before lunging with the knife in a blur of violent motion.
Orson never felt the blade, only a sweeping cold. the door behind him shuddered as the first of many rotting fists came pounding down, eager to gain entry. The horrors must be over, he sobbed in his mind, the horrors must be over.... The coldness grew eternal, and Orson never thought again.
Chapter 1-
-somewhere in central Thegorn-
Orson's day had been largely uneventful, busy no doubt, but uneventful as far as days go. Early in the morning he had tended his chickens, in the afternoon he had with his children while his wife tended to what was left in the Garden, an now as the cool of a late Autumn night began to descend, he busied himself with gathering firewood. The sleepy Autumn day was slowly drawing to a close, the orange glow of the sun drifting lazily beneath the mountains in the distance.
The shadow of night had just crept up to Orson's cabin at the top of a small rise, and already he could see his breath in the air. Inside, his wife worked on preparing a brace of rabbits that Orson had caught the day before, and the smell of cooking meat tickled his nostrils. The man grinned as he worked, savoring the simple life around him, the sound of his axe splitting logs into smaller pieces muffling the sound of his dogs barking momentarily.
It wasn't until he reached down to collect an armful of split logs that Orson heard his dogs at the bottom of the hill. Living this close to the forest, they always seemed to find something or another to bark at. Orson whistled casually for them as he turned to carry the chopped wood to his cabin. he placed the first armful of the evening next to his front door, and could smell the hot meal to come even stronger. the crisp scent of bacon wafted from the kitchen, and Orson fancied that his wife had turned out some beautiful concoction or rabbit and pork. With his mouth watering, Orson was rather reluctant to turn and gather more wood, but he knew that one single armful would not keep his family warm until morning.
So, with his nose fighting to travel towards the savory scent inside, Orson trudged back down the hill for more firewood. The quicker i get a good stack, he thought to himself, the sooner i can discover what Cassilda has prepared. At the bottom of the hill, his dogs remained where they were when Orson had first called them, having apparently not heard their master's nonchalant whistle over their own barking.
"Red, Hazel," he called for them, quickly gathering another armful of logs, "C'mon up." He tried to stack this armful a bit taller in his eagerness for food, and succeeded only in taking a few unbalanced steps up the hill before dropping the wood in a heap. Orson couldn't keep from chuckling at his own antics, and bent down to retrieve his fallen logs. As he did, however, something caught his notice.
His dogs had yet to heed their master's call, and more than that, their barking was becoming frantic, almost fearful. Orson again dropped the logs he had collected and peered into the gathering darkness. At first, he tried to pick out his hysterical dogs, wondering what could have gotten them so wound up. had a Bear or some other forest animal wandered out of the woods and spooked them? The dogs gave a sudden yelp and whimpered as though something were preparing to attack them, and Orson caught sight of them as they came bounding up the hill in a mad dash. they barreled past their master and disappeared into the woods next to the cabin, never once even slowing as Orson called after them.
The startled man then turned his gaze back down to where his dogs had so desperately fled from, nervous and fearful of what could have frighten his dogs so much. Movement in to dusk caught Orson's eye. a man was walking up the hill towards him. It was odd, however, for the man walked with the strangest gait, limping and stumbling up the hill with his arms hanging stiffly at his sides.
"can I help you ser?" Orson called out, inching slowly to his axe embedded in the chopping block. The man did not respond. He merely lifted his hands towards Orson and continue to stagger upwards.
Wrenching his axe free of the block and taking a step back, Orson yelled loudly and sternly, "Mister, i think it best if you just turn around an leave."
This time, the man responded.
He responded, though not with words. Rather, Orson could see the vague shadow of the man's mouth opening wide, and heard a deep-throated moan escape the gaping maw. Orson shivered and backed away even more, his heart pounding. As adrenaline pumped through his veins, Orson's awareness sharpened, and he became aware of more shapes materializing out of the twilight.
They came from all directions, each one wandering at him with an awkward limp. Shambling like tired drunks they approached, and Orson could hear their faint moans rising like a fetid chorus. Cold sweat engulfed Orson as he kept backing towards his cabin, the axe before him quivering in his weakening grip. As the sun dies, so the Dead shall rise. The mantra taught to him as a child born after the horrors of the Plague played in his mind. He prayed it wasn't so, almost hoping that they were just a band of drunken roughians, but the light from within the cabin illuminated those closest to him, granting Orson a gruesome spectacle.
Dead grey eyes fixed on him as broken, rotting hands reached out for him. Their wide open mouths dripped with dried blood so coagulated that it appeared black. Open, mortifying wounds that should have crippled any living man, caked with the same blackish-horror criss-crossed their bodies, not inhibiting their steady, hungry advance, and always the horrid moan echoed from their throats. This cannot be happening, Orson thought, this cannot be happening again. With each step the figures took closer to him, the haunting stories of the plague some forty years old bubbled up in his mind. He had grown up after the horrible wars of the Putrid Legions, after the horrors of the dreaded Zombie Plague, but his parents had been sure to tell him how fortunate of this he was, how lucky he had been to not have had to face the Undead, to live in the serenity after the Purge.
"No," Orson said aloud, not sure to whom, "no, the horrors are over... the horrors are over..." He prayed it to be true, pleaded with the gods that the atrocities of the past to be over and done, as everyone who lived hoped and pleaded, but there, reaching out to him were grim reminders, each one closing in on him with hungry, dead eyes.
The smell of burning pork snapped Orson's attention back to his family inside the cabin behind him. he walked backwards, unable to tear his gaze from the terror before him, and tripped on the doorstep of his home. The horrors are over, he thought again and again, unable to rationalize the grim truth, the gods are good, the horrors must be over... Finally wrenching free of the hypnosis of the impending doom, Orson rolled into his cabin and slammed the door with his feet. "Cassilda," he yelled to his wife as he stood, "grab the children and run for the-" the harsh stench of burning flesh cut his thought off.
A thin haze of smoke filled the cabin, and something behind Orson spat and crackled over a fire. Turning around, he was struck with mind-shattering horror as he gazed at what was before him. His knees gave way, and Orson slumped against the closed door, his mouth agape in silent despair, unable to breath, unable to think, unable to do anything more than to stare in morbid awe. the doom awaiting outside was paled to transparency against the shocking spectacle before Orson, for tied and stretched to wide, circular frames were the charred remains of what had once been two young children. "The horrors are over," he wept quietly, "the horrors must be over..."
"oh, sweet pea," croaked a brittle voice, "we horrors never left."
Orson's head lolled to the side in the direction of the unfamiliar and harsh voice, and nausea hit him as he laid eyes on what had once been his loving wife. she did not stand, but instead hovered several inches above the floor. Her head hung low and her long chestnut hair cascaded down in her face, a few strands fluttering in some ethereal wind. Fiery-orange eyes peeked out from beneath the chestnut cascade, piercing into Orson's very soul, and his former lover's lips cracked and split into a twisted, bloody smirk. She drifted closer to him, a knife clutched in her twitching hand.
"What's wrong my love?" she croaked before lunging with the knife in a blur of violent motion.
Orson never felt the blade, only a sweeping cold. the door behind him shuddered as the first of many rotting fists came pounding down, eager to gain entry. The horrors must be over, he sobbed in his mind, the horrors must be over.... The coldness grew eternal, and Orson never thought again.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Writing Tips
though i have yet to use the "get plastered and write spooky shit" method, i do have one technique that i use alot to get into the 'feel' of what i am writing. I listen to music that is either themed or reminds me of a part the story i am writing, and let the events play out in my mind like a music-video of sorts. then i describe them in as best a way as i can, put it down on paper, then edit it and make it more reader-friendly (I.E. make it flow out of my mind and into the reader's mind). It is a really good way to get a feel of the story.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Writing Good Horror
One of the main difficulties I face from having not written in such a long while is that i am terribly out of practice writing good suspense and horror. so i've been looking about on the internets and such, searching far and wide for tips to get back into the swing of spooky shit. Apparently, one of the best ways to write good horror in general is to get totally pissed-drunk, do or read some spooky shit, and then write. From what i've heard, if many famous horror writers like Edgar Allen Poe, Steven King (though i despise everything he does and stands for) all found their success within the sweet nectar of inebriation. It makes sense, i suppose, since alcohol makes shit more vivid and scary, thus it would be a pretty good amplifier for horror writing. as soon as i get some spare money i'll test this theory and get some nice booze, watch some Slender Man on youtube, then see what comes out.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Back to Work
After a very long hiatus, i have begun to write once again. i am focusing on my main novel, of which i have the most done(a rough first draft). this is the story of a living orc god who is physically incapable of death, and has to lead the scattered and bickerring races and nations of his world against a massive invading horde of undead. i am trying to revamp the entire genre of 'Dark Fantasy,' blending High Fantasy and Horror together (particularly Cosmic Horror) to come up with a really bad-ass story that both entices and terrifies readers. this second draft of the so-named "Brogud Saga" is being hand written in a leather journal that i recieved for christmas, so i wont be posting much of it untill i begin typing the later drafts.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Wrestling with Magic
as i continue to flush out the different races of this world that i have been working on, i also wrestle with the idea, or concept of how Magic should work in this world. i REALLY love the Dweomer-folk of Paul Kearney's Monarchies of God series, and i also like to try and incorporate as much of Terry Goodkin's concept of Additive and Subtractive magics from his Sword of Truth line into my writtings. the Lovecraftian notion of Magic being a forbidden and taxing subject is also something i try to use as a mold of sorts, so the idea of magic for this world, and for the Ravanys' Warlock powers in particular, i have come up with a basic sort of structure:
most races, save for the Dragons and Ravanys, try to stay away from Magic or Dweomer, because of it's power and the reprecussions of experimentations with magic. the Dragons, however, and specifically Neriscaryn, have harnessed magic because of the intense level of Dweomer in their island homeland, to which Neriscaryn, in all his God-like wisdom, is able to manipulate and teach to the other dragons. Witchraft is a form of 'Natural Magic,' drawing on the forces of nature to bend the laws that it itself creates, and is the most common form of Magic practiced. the Ravanys have always used an obscure tainted form of witchcraft, especially under Xandrak, as he learns from the Doomspire itself. the Meteor Crystals that the Ravanys have now attained allow them to amplify their power to higher levels, as well as draw upon the Dweomer of the Alien God within the Doomspire's blasphemous home, thus giving the Ravanys Warlocks powerful corruptive magical powers which they can use with devestating effect. because of this, the other races, primarily the Valkyrie and the Illios-based Crusader Order are trying to learn as much as they can about Magic and the Dweomer-feilds in order to combat the Ravanys threat.
most races, save for the Dragons and Ravanys, try to stay away from Magic or Dweomer, because of it's power and the reprecussions of experimentations with magic. the Dragons, however, and specifically Neriscaryn, have harnessed magic because of the intense level of Dweomer in their island homeland, to which Neriscaryn, in all his God-like wisdom, is able to manipulate and teach to the other dragons. Witchraft is a form of 'Natural Magic,' drawing on the forces of nature to bend the laws that it itself creates, and is the most common form of Magic practiced. the Ravanys have always used an obscure tainted form of witchcraft, especially under Xandrak, as he learns from the Doomspire itself. the Meteor Crystals that the Ravanys have now attained allow them to amplify their power to higher levels, as well as draw upon the Dweomer of the Alien God within the Doomspire's blasphemous home, thus giving the Ravanys Warlocks powerful corruptive magical powers which they can use with devestating effect. because of this, the other races, primarily the Valkyrie and the Illios-based Crusader Order are trying to learn as much as they can about Magic and the Dweomer-feilds in order to combat the Ravanys threat.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Dawn of Worlds Races
here is a basic list of the different races inhabitting the world who's history was described in the previous post:
-VALKYRIE-
-oldest race
-elf/orc type race
-great hunters and warriors
-struggled for centuries with corruption from the Northern Wastes.
-have an Order of inquisition/espionage-like crusaders dedicated to fighting the Northern Wastes' taint.
-have another Order of Dragon Knights, trained in the arts of magic and warfare by the Dragons themselves.
-very Pictish/Eurasian like society of hunting-and-gathering in their Borialis and Tundra homeland.
-DEEP VALKYRIE-
-lived underground and became tainted and mutated by the Doomspire's Taint.
-have hands resembling clawed gauntlets made of dark chitin, and are adapted to living underground life, with very pale, sensitive skin.
-have been purified by the Valkyrie Order, and now work extra hard fight against the Doomspire's influences and thier own tainted history and appearance.
-DRAGONS-
-led by a living Dragon God, Neriscaryn.
-the only purely righteous race.
-masters of magic.
-very mystical and mysterious, staying away from the affairs of most of the other races, that is until the alliance with the Valkyrie was made.
-DWARVES-
-very generic as far as fantasy Dwarves go, but all seem to have an incessant Black Humor.
-constantly at war with Daemons.
-Strongest allies with the Valkyrie.
-most of their great mountain fortresses have been sacked; all that remains are scattered towns and villages, and many Dwarves now live as refugees or nomads in forign lands.
-great fighers and smiths
-more village oriented than usual now.
-live roughly 150 yrs.
-DEEP DWARVES-
-zombie-like crazies tainted by the Doomspire.
-RAVANYS-
-horrible daemon people.
-recently pushed thier forces beyond the confines of the Northern Wastes.
-discovered crystals in a meteor crater, allowing them to become great Warlocks.
-worship a horrid ice-god-alien-demon-monster that crashlanded in the Northern Wastes and became entombed in the Doomspire.
-humanoid crustacean daemon creatures, similar to the 'Prawns' of District 9, only bulkier and more chaotic in appearance.
-HALF-RAVANYS-
-horrible cross-breeds of Ravanys and Doomspire Cultists.
-HUMANS-
-generic, and have at least a small population in every land, but are most populous and civilized in the central and south-eastern portion of the main continent.
-have a great Carpenter's Guild, which now struggles to hold the world of men together after the concecutive fall of Dargor.
-various kingdoms and baronies now war with each other after the Leviathan's devestation.
-the Leviathan is their scorn.
-HIGH ELVES-
-generic woodland peoples with a shamanistic society.
-great mariners.
-have taken it upon themselves to destroy the Leviathan.
-allies with the Humans under the Carpenter's Guild.
-are known to cross with Humans on occasion, making Half-Elves.
-live roughly 250 yrs.
-LEATHER ELVES-
-barbaric offshoot of elves.
-live mostly in swamps.
-renown leatherworkers.
-do lots of trading with the Valkyrie to the north, and concider them thier ally.
-TOAD PEOPLE (my favorite)-
-horrible things that live in the swamps alongside the Leather Elves.
-shamble/hop rather than walk, unless they use their signature spears to prop themselves up.
-unbelievably lazy society.
-THEY WHO DWELL ON HIGH (tree-frog people)-
-legendary people nearly as old as the Valkyrie.
-cousins to the toad people, and have contact with only them and the dragons at present.
-old allies to the Valkyrie, but devered all ties due to corruption from the Doomspire.
-purely righteous, like the Dragons, and try to remain hidden from the Doomspire's taint and the Ravanys.
-live in tall trees and mountains near the Leather Elves' swamps, and in the jungles of the south, near the Dragon's homeland.
-GOBLINS-
-primitive, savage, tribal raiders of the world.
-if there are big mountains, or deep woods, there are probably some goblins.
-a nucance more than a threat at most times.
-goblins in the Northern Wastes were long ago tainted to become Imps.
-VALKYRIE-
-oldest race
-elf/orc type race
-great hunters and warriors
-struggled for centuries with corruption from the Northern Wastes.
-have an Order of inquisition/espionage-like crusaders dedicated to fighting the Northern Wastes' taint.
-have another Order of Dragon Knights, trained in the arts of magic and warfare by the Dragons themselves.
-very Pictish/Eurasian like society of hunting-and-gathering in their Borialis and Tundra homeland.
-DEEP VALKYRIE-
-lived underground and became tainted and mutated by the Doomspire's Taint.
-have hands resembling clawed gauntlets made of dark chitin, and are adapted to living underground life, with very pale, sensitive skin.
-have been purified by the Valkyrie Order, and now work extra hard fight against the Doomspire's influences and thier own tainted history and appearance.
-DRAGONS-
-led by a living Dragon God, Neriscaryn.
-the only purely righteous race.
-masters of magic.
-very mystical and mysterious, staying away from the affairs of most of the other races, that is until the alliance with the Valkyrie was made.
-DWARVES-
-very generic as far as fantasy Dwarves go, but all seem to have an incessant Black Humor.
-constantly at war with Daemons.
-Strongest allies with the Valkyrie.
-most of their great mountain fortresses have been sacked; all that remains are scattered towns and villages, and many Dwarves now live as refugees or nomads in forign lands.
-great fighers and smiths
-more village oriented than usual now.
-live roughly 150 yrs.
-DEEP DWARVES-
-zombie-like crazies tainted by the Doomspire.
-RAVANYS-
-horrible daemon people.
-recently pushed thier forces beyond the confines of the Northern Wastes.
-discovered crystals in a meteor crater, allowing them to become great Warlocks.
-worship a horrid ice-god-alien-demon-monster that crashlanded in the Northern Wastes and became entombed in the Doomspire.
-humanoid crustacean daemon creatures, similar to the 'Prawns' of District 9, only bulkier and more chaotic in appearance.
-HALF-RAVANYS-
-horrible cross-breeds of Ravanys and Doomspire Cultists.
-HUMANS-
-generic, and have at least a small population in every land, but are most populous and civilized in the central and south-eastern portion of the main continent.
-have a great Carpenter's Guild, which now struggles to hold the world of men together after the concecutive fall of Dargor.
-various kingdoms and baronies now war with each other after the Leviathan's devestation.
-the Leviathan is their scorn.
-HIGH ELVES-
-generic woodland peoples with a shamanistic society.
-great mariners.
-have taken it upon themselves to destroy the Leviathan.
-allies with the Humans under the Carpenter's Guild.
-are known to cross with Humans on occasion, making Half-Elves.
-live roughly 250 yrs.
-LEATHER ELVES-
-barbaric offshoot of elves.
-live mostly in swamps.
-renown leatherworkers.
-do lots of trading with the Valkyrie to the north, and concider them thier ally.
-TOAD PEOPLE (my favorite)-
-horrible things that live in the swamps alongside the Leather Elves.
-shamble/hop rather than walk, unless they use their signature spears to prop themselves up.
-unbelievably lazy society.
-THEY WHO DWELL ON HIGH (tree-frog people)-
-legendary people nearly as old as the Valkyrie.
-cousins to the toad people, and have contact with only them and the dragons at present.
-old allies to the Valkyrie, but devered all ties due to corruption from the Doomspire.
-purely righteous, like the Dragons, and try to remain hidden from the Doomspire's taint and the Ravanys.
-live in tall trees and mountains near the Leather Elves' swamps, and in the jungles of the south, near the Dragon's homeland.
-GOBLINS-
-primitive, savage, tribal raiders of the world.
-if there are big mountains, or deep woods, there are probably some goblins.
-a nucance more than a threat at most times.
-goblins in the Northern Wastes were long ago tainted to become Imps.
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