Oly Huezen

Legend

“A charming neclace with wings of its own, never feeding anyones crown”

Skjald Sigurd

 

Description

Bearing & Demeanour

Oly Huezen carries himself with an unmistakable air of worldly confidence, sharp ambition, and underlying hedonism. Standing at a formidable height, his towering frame demands attention in any room, yet he relies as much on magnetic charm and persuasive charisma as he does on physical intimidation. Oly has learned how to read people and change his personality. As a child, he frustrated local fathers by stealing daughters’ kisses, and as an adult, he had to deal with the strict rules of the Octogon Clergy and the dangerous politics of the Greater Hordes and the court of the realm.

Despite his calculating mind, Oly’s demeanour is defined by a fundamental rejection of hollow dogmatism and rigid piety; he views the world through a deeply human, earthly lens. He possesses a restless, rebellious spirit that fuels his quest for ultimate authority—not out of fanatical devotion to divine doctrine, but out of a conviction that he is destined to lead. When crossed or politically bypassed, his confident exterior cools into a quietly bitter, calculating patience.

Appearance

• Build: Tall, broad-shouldered, and powerfully built, reflecting his mixed Mermerant heritage and rugged upbringing in the cold crags of Wheiag.

• Attire: Clad in heavy, functional wool, leather and chain armour and draped in dark red robes that suit his dual identity as a battle-ready channeller and a high-ranking priest. The broad collar, gold-embellished trims, and structured shoulders accentuate his height and imposing silhouette.

• Features: A strong, angular jawline framed by a full, dark beard and moustache. His dark hair is thick and drawn back, framing a face defined by sharp, watchful eyes that constantly assess his surroundings.

• Aura: As a master of the Channelling realm, Oly manifests a distinct yellow aura. In moments of passion, excitement, or flare, warm yellow light flickers intentionally—or crackles uncontrollably—around his hands and fingertips, reflecting his raw, untamed magic.

Habits & Quirks

• Hedonistic Pleasures: Oly has a lifelong weakness for life’s earthly pleasures—fine wine, grand feasts, music, and especially the company of women. Nights of music and dancing, and a tendency to leave a trail of broken hearts and lingering rivalries follow him across the isles.

• Observationist: A natural wanderer and collector of encounters, Oly takes time to watch local craftsmen, warriors, and fellow channellers. He meticulously judges the magical aura and potential of everyone he meets, gauging their strength relative to his own.

• Charmeour: He often uses a casual, easygoing smile and warm rhetoric to disarm rivals or gain trust before revealing his true administrative and tactical brilliance.

• Restlessness: During conversations or moments of scheming, his fingers often twitch or trace small patterns, occasionally giving off faint, warm yellow sparks when his mind surges with ambition or frustration.

Skjald Valgrif

 

History

The biting winds of Wheiag howled across the crags around Burkup, shaping Oly Huezen’s desire for a warm embrace long before anything else did. Growing up in this rugged area of Midgard, Oly stood out early. As a Mermerant boy, of Vular and Kartlieti origin, his growth spurts were staggering, quickly pushing him towards his towering height. But it wasn’t just his size that drew stares; it was the faint, warm yellow glow that occasionally flickered around his fingers when he was angry or excited – the first untamed sparks of his channelling aura. His parents realised their son possessed a dangerous combination of raw, magical potential and an unruly, hedonistic spirit.

While his parents tried to raise him with traditional Mermerant discipline, Oly was a creature of intense curiosity and earthly desires. As his adolescence bloomed, his focus shifted away from forging and hunting toward the local girls. He was a natural charmer, using his height, striking looks, and quick wit to win the affection of nearly every maiden in the valley. His youth became a whirlwind of secret rendezvous, stolen kisses by the peat fires, and late-night escapades that infuriated local fathers.

The chilly mists of Burkup provided the perfect cover for Oly’s first true romance. Her name was Miasmo, a bright-eyed Mermerant girl from a neighbouring clan whose sharp wit matched his own. While Oly was used to casual flirtations, Miasmo was different. She looked past everyone and recognised how she could utilise their restless, desirous minds. Together, they spent late afternoons hiding from their families in the heather-covered hills, sharing dreams of exploring the wider world of Midgard. It was during a quiet moment with Miasmo, holding her hand by a rushing highland river, that Oly’s yellow channelling aura flared intentionally for the very first time, reacting to the pure joy of her presence.

But the romance was short-lived and fiercely condemned. Miasmo’s father, an indigenous traditionalist, forbade them from seeing each other because he viewed Oly as the unpredictable youth with dangerous, untamed magic who was misleading his daughter. When Oly’s parents found out about the forbidden trysts, it was the final straw. Afraid he would waste his channelling gifts on a foolish countryside romance or end up in a bloody feud over a local girl, they decided he needed absolute discipline.

In 1153, his parents fast-tracked his enrolment in the clergy. They used their savings and connections to secure him a position far away from the temptations of Burkup. At the age of sixteen, a rebellious and deeply reluctant Oly was packed off to the rigid, geometric halls of the worldly Octogon Clergy. The day Oly was sent away, Miasmo watched from a distance with tears falling, or was it the rain? Oly was, she knew, captivated and hers; she turned and smiled.

Oly arrived at the temple gates not out of holy devotion, but as a wild youth forced into exile, bringing his love for the female form and his untamed yellow aura right into the heart of their strict, godly worship. For Oly, entering the strict, joyless geometric halls of the temple wasn’t just a loss of freedom; it was a confinement born of a broken heart.

Oly had been in heaven; that he saw clearly, and it was his truth. He had hoped for mercy and wanted justice. There was no honour in this discipline, and he vowed to return. As the whimsical yellow gods Gulmur, Ehmdali, Ravali, Kaeloso, Lioran, Sorlen, Thidalo, and Varekil thrived on his energy. The memory of Miasmo became the secret fuel that kept his rebellious spirit alive, ensuring he would never truly accept the clergy’s godly worship.

When his parents had sent him away from Burkup, a part of him had always planned to return for Miasmo. The torches of the Octogon Clergy cast rigid, eight-sided shadows across the stone floor, but Oly’s mind was always wandering outside the geometry of the temple. Yet, as the years passed and the allure of political ambition took hold, he chose to let her memory fade into the grey Burkup mists, trading his first love for a shot at greatness.

Yet, as a young apprentice in the clergy, his greatest devotion was not to the gods, but his yellow flair was bent toward Miasmo’s kin: women. His weakness for the female form reached its peak during a grand, sprawling feast at the clergy’s in 1164. Amidst the music and flowing wine, Oly locked eyes with a captivating 19-year-old woman named Esylot, daughter of a nobleman visiting the sanctuary. He stepped forward and danced a daring, breathless dance with her; their movements synchronised under the high-arched ceiling. That night of earthly passion broke Miasmo’s enchantment.

Later, as the intoxicating dance with Esylot offered a taste of a life of genuine passion, he realised he could no longer stomach his cage and its rigid, hollow rituals of godly worship; Oly turned his back on the Octogon and left in the spring of 1165. He walked away from the Octogon not just out of disgust for their worship and view of his taste, but also because he believed he was destined for a higher, more absolute kind of authority. He sacrificed all to keep his hands free to grasp the ultimate prize: his mantle as archpriest.

Freed from the clergy, Oly didn’t go home; instead, he drifted across Midgard for years acting as a wandering preacher and soaking up what people craved. First into Trov, then Makarat, Yugahama, and Etain; as he visited a spice and combat herb merchant, he met Elge a'Gintyr, a 4-year-old dreaming of becoming a bladeweaver more than an herbalist. He then travelled into Ikarato, where, in Gnangneong, he met Jakki Yingki, an engraver of confluent origin, and Xut’ulka Gisfa, an enhancer of the Kobold race.

In 1167, in Oshon, he met Tobi Sahsnot, a young nobleman’s son looking for a scoundrel who ruined his sister’s honour. Oly, with far too many ladies kissed to remember who and when, just to be certain, hastened onwards to Scia, where he met Wilson. It was an intriguing encounter, as the Rimzir bloodline was exceptionally strong in this monster hunter. Wilson taught Oly quite some melee tricks. Then Oly went through Julmul and into Økatuur. As he crossed the Oldrim Valley, he entered the town of Cochamaan near the Widow Caves at Lake Uru Uru’s eastern side, and there he met The'D Fish and, to Oly’s surprise, Wilson. Wilson had astravelled to a nearby site and killed a marshlip.

Thereafter, Oly walked and talked his way through Lesmus, met Ferädör in Mallbeder, continued through Ladris, and entered Æbalgo, where he saw the infant Pakara. Then Oly entered Ebrar and met Jiakob Burne, an extremely talented apprentice crafter. Feets then carried Oly into Ascal, where he met Regarir, a young lad with one of the strongest orange auras Oly had ever seen, so strong that it almost scared him. So, he travelled on and went into Uhmzel, where he met Murf'ar, a scion of such towering proportions that Oly felt dwarfed.

But in 1202, as he walked through Adrol, he encountered Den Godan, an extremely skilled bladeweaver. Then his sharp mind and imposing presence caught the attention of the 1st Alliance. He pledged his skills to their growing cause. But after a while he wanted a place of his own, and in Muldum, a bustling city at Markeoy, he found the right settings for his plans. So, he founded a sanctuary in Muldum. There he met Menni Jes and began leaning towards the organisation Menni was creating.

In the year 1228, a mysterious traveller named Hebra Hargi pushed open the heavy wooden doors of Oly’s newly built temple. Hebra stood in the doorway, introduced himself, and laid out his grand purpose for visiting. The two men found an immediate kinship, and Hebra ended up staying at Oly’s temple for four months, trading secrets of the isles, the 1st alliance, the upcoming realm, gods, and magical paths.

By 1230, Oly’s ambition had expanded as he helped establish the Bulls Order. For decades, Oly played a dangerous, calculating game. He had convinced himself that power, status, and a high-ranking position within the Bulls Order would justify the ghosts of his past. He aimed to climb the ranks of this powerful faction, which aggressively expanded until it became known as one of the Greater Hordes. Oly had methodically stripped away his humanity.

Oly had built the foundations. He had used his channelling aura, his imposing frame, and his logistical brilliance to help establish the Bulls Order in 1230. He was the architect of their early structural victories. Yet somehow his climb was slow, as if delayed or hindered by an unknown factor. When suddenly, the devout Hel-Gi, a mere priest of words rather than of channelling power, was elevated as the archpriest of the bull’s order. Hel-Gi didn’t possess Oly’s decades of administrative sacrifice, nor did he carry the heavy emotional scars of abandoned loves. What Hel-Gi had was a terrifying, flawless mask of absolute piety and charisma that perfectly rallied the fanaticism of the Greater Hordes. While Oly worked in the shadows balancing the blood-soaked economy of the order, Hel-Gi captured the hearts of the masses.

In a bitter political betrayal, the leadership bypassed Oly entirely. Hel-Gi ascended to the absolute peak of religious and political power within the Bull’s Order. To add insult to injury, Oly was handed a consolation prize: the role of chief accountant, as the order needed someone with a meticulous eye and that they could trust with the coin. Oly was appointed chief accountant, managing the vast wealth of the Bull’s order. The archpriest position was meant to be his crowning achievement, the final validation for every sacrifice. The cold ledgers of the Bull’s Order felt like a cage to Oly, similar to the Octogon one, but the realisation that he had been entirely outmanoeuvred by Hel-Gi was a much more suffocating prison.

Sitting at his desk, staring at the endless rows of numbers, a suffocating wave of bitterness washed over Oly. He had traded Miasmo’s warmth and Esylot’s brief fiery passion for a lifetime of cold stone walls, only to end up as the man who counted the gold that funded Hel-Gi’s grand speeches of nothingness. The yellow aura around his fingers flickered dangerously, no longer bright with the joy of youth but dim and sharp with resentment. He had sacrificed everything, only to be made a servant to the very ambition he had sought to own.

His administrative genius did not go unnoticed, however. In 1249, Oly was approached by none other than Black Oak, the formidable leader of the 1st Alliance and the soon-to-be High King of the realm. Black Oak offered Oly the prestigious position of Ceremony Master at Grimsborg, the realm’s emerging capital. Oly accepted, stepping into the highest echelons of royal society.

When Oly had fast-forwarded and laid out the realm’s ceremony definitions, he fulfilled his purpose for Black Oak. He had built the grand cultural machinery the high king needed. Once that foundation was complete, Oly experienced what Black Oak had learned decades ago. And Black Oak’s choice was aided slightly as Oly’s previous actions caught up and his bitter, intense energy became a volatile liability in a court that required stability, not frantic resentment. Eventually, in 1264, Tobi Sahsnot, now the 1st Herold of the royal court at Grimsborg, finished an engineered coup that ousted Oly and allowed him to take the grand title of Ceremony Master. The coup that removed Oly from his position as ceremony master was not a sudden mistake; it was the result of a perfect storm of ancient loyalties and a reckoning for Oly’s oldest, deepest flaw.

Sahsnot was not only backed by the old guard of the Ye Olde Zephyrs but also other noblemen like Amras, Gizmo, Doodman, Kanziganthir, and more. He demanded his reward for a lifetime of loyalty and for the restoration of his sister Esylot Sahsnot’s honour. She had recognised Oly as the charlatan who had made her pregnant in 1164. Black Oak, realising Oly had not only outlived his primary usefulness but now became a crack in his fortress, chose the unbreakable bond of his youth and honour over his brilliant ceremonial master. The High King stepped aside, letting the political plot take place.

While Oly was distracted by late-night rendezvous in the palace gardens and composing grand court spectacles to impress her, Sahsnot was quietly dismantling his power base. Sahsnot systematically replaced Oly’s trusted guards, and corrupted his clerks. By the time Oly realised that Tolyse’s affections were a calculated act, Sahsnot had already seized the title of Lord of Ceremonies. What had made Oly overlook the outmanoeuvring was a mastery of logistics and grand theatre, playing on his fatal weakness once more. He was completely blinded to Sahsnot’s plotting because his attention had been entirely captured by a new damsel in the court, a cunning noblewoman named Lady Tolyse. Tolyse was fake, secretly positioned by Sahsnot to play directly into Oly’s grief and vanities. She flattered his intellect, stroked his bruised ego regarding Hel-Gi, and feigned an intense, breathless fascination with his channelling aura. For a man who had sacrificed Miasmo and Esylot on the altar of ambition, only to be left lonely and bitter, Tolyse felt like a late-life redemption.

From the very man who had hunted his brilliant head, Black Oak, there was no support. Black Oak was a high king first and a comrade second, and his history with Sahsnot ran too deep to ignore. Decades earlier, in the dawn of the 1st alliance and before the realm was ever conceived, Black Oak and Sahsnot had ridden together as hot-blooded warriors in the Ye Olde Zephyrs horde. They had survived brutal winter campaigns, bled in the same mud, and shared a bond forged in the fires of combat.

Oly was silently stripped of his grand office. The demotion was done publicly as a preparation for the next High King election. Demoted but still valuable, Oly was relegated to a lower role: administration clerical accountant. Once again, his longing for the warmth of a woman had left him exposed, proving that even after a century of life, the towering Mermerant was still entirely human. And his keen eye became shadowed by personal matters, clouding his perception of the books.

It was during this period of brooding that Oly’s eyes became so clouded that he was completely fooled by Niellu Muhuaela, the cunning master minter from 1272-74, who managed to manipulate the ledger books and run circles around Oly’s financial oversight. Or, as some claim, Oly figured it out, traced some of the smuggled-out Liber Floris and later used it to rebuild his temple. Regardless, it became a dark period for Oly.

In the year 1274. The 3rd High King had finally uncovered the massive financial treason, as he saw it, of the realm and ordered the public execution of Niellu. The square of Grimsborg was a choked sea of mud and silent, wide-eyed onlookers. At the centre of the scaffolding stood Niellu, the master minter, his hands bound in iron, his neck bared to the grey sky. For years, Oly had lived in a state of suffocating humiliation, reduced to a mere administrative clerk. He had been the man verifying the counting of the replaced gold, blinded by his own grief – and he was next.

As the Third High King raised his hand to signal the executioner, something fundamental in the air shifted. The sound of the blade cleaving through the minter’s neck was the cortical catalyst event; the sheer shock and gravity of the moment triggered a profound fate awakening. The precise “Seed of Fate” that pierced Oly’s mundane, embittered existence. In that fraction of a second, Oly ceased to be a victim of court circumstance and became a catalyst for reality.

A sudden, violent tremor tore through his body as The Flash of Hardening took hold. Oly’s physical and spiritual mana husks underwent a rapid, irreversible thickening, crystallising instantly into an impenetrable shell. The mundane world lost all grip on him. This sudden transformation was a brutal biological shock; a violent, searing fever spiked through his veins, making his massive frame buckle as his body struggled to accommodate the terrifying new density of his dual husks.

The warm yellow light of his channelling aura didn’t just glow; it erupted. Because his new crystallised shell locked out all external contenders and stopped all energetic leakage, his internal energy was instantly pressurised. The yellow light became a blinding, swirling vortex, trapped within him, compounding its potency instead of dissipating into the crowd. He was no longer a leaking vessel; he was now a sealed vault of power, operating entirely of his own will.

The hidden eyes of the gods looked upon him with immediate hostility and suspicion. To them, Oly was no longer a harvestable field of moving mana. He had not just broken his chains and killed the executioner but also just become a locked treasure chest they could no longer easily pick. Oly raised his head. His eyes had entirely changed, taking on the gaze. The unmistakable mark of an awakened hero who no longer perceives the world as a fixed set of rules but as raw clay to be forcefully moulded. The petty politics of Sahsnot, Black Oak, the Octogon, and the Realm suddenly felt trivial. His eight stat pillars, from his physical strength to his ethereal intuition and wisdom, snapped into a complete, balanced architecture of god-like potential.

He didn’t run; he walked away from the execution square, his footsteps carrying an unnatural, magnetic weight that warped the probability of the air around him. Armed with an impenetrable husk and a mind completely severed from the divine wheel, the newly awoken Oly Huezen turned his back on Grimsborg and began his long march back to Muldum, ready to exert his force upon the world. The road from Grimsborg to Muldum was no longer a simple path through the dirt; for Oly, it had become a walking battlefield of invisible forces. As a newly awoken hero, he was now a vault of pure, unyielding potential. Because he no longer leaked energy, the gods did not take kindly to losing their harvest.

As Oly crossed the desolate moors separating the capital from the provinces, the sky turned the colour of a bruised vein. The astral winds began to howl, pulling at his yellow channelling aura. Suddenly, the atmospheric pressure plummeted, and a blinding, localised storm of pure celestial energy slammed into his path.

It was the Bullheaded God, or was it really the very entity whose ancient crossing had shaped the factions of this world and who sat at the spiritual apex of the Bulls Order. The divine entity did not strike with physical weapons. It struck with a psychic leash. A projection of absolute, crushing majesty filled Oly’s mind, offering him a golden pact. The voice echoed with a thunderous promise: Return to the Bulls’ order. Replace Hel-Gi. Take the mantle of archpriest that was stolen from you and channel my divine power across the isles.

For a fleeting second, the old, bitter clerk inside Oly screamed to accept. It was everything he had ever sacrificed Miasmo and Esylot for. The leash tightened around his consciousness, attempting to hook into his ethereal pillars of presence and wisdom, trying to turn him back into a glorious, divine pipeline. But the leash required a price: Oly would have to crack his shell and let the god use his husk.

When the god attempted to force the connection, Oly’s Fate Awakening, which represented his absolute autonomy, revolted. He looked at the vision of Hel-Gi’s throne, and with his newly acquired Gaze, he saw it for what it truly was. A gilded slaughterhouse. Hel-Gi was just a well-dressed straw, leaking his soul to a master who would eventually break him.

“I will not be leashed,” Oly growled, his voice carrying the immense narrative weight of a true hero.

Infuriated by his refusal, the bullheaded god shifted from a leash to a break attempt. The sky ruptured. Crushing waves of astral force descended upon Oly like a physical hammer, trying to shatter his crystallised husks and scatter his pressurised yellow energy back into the common wind. Regular men would have been vaporised. But Oly’s core was now a complete architecture. His physical pillars. Strength and constitution hardened into a living fortress. He planted his feet, his frame anchoring into the earth as the divine pressure forced him to his knees.

Blood leaked from his nose, but his internal pressure held. He actively drew upon the surrounding ley lines, forcing his yellow aura to expand outward in a violent, defensive shockwave that shattered the divine storm. When the dust settled, the god’s wrath was gone, repelled by a mortal vault it could not crack.

Instead, it said, “What if I give you your child? Will you submit for that?”

As Oly stood up, wiping the blood from his lip, his path became crystal clear. He could no longer seek the archpriest mantle through the Bulls’ order, because that throne belonged to the god who had just tried to destroy him. Hel-Gi could keep his hollow, stolen crown; he was nothing but a servant.

He replied with a laugh, “No, you can keep that as well, if you find it.”

Oly did not return to worship the divine or empower the Bull’s Order; instead, he aimed for caring for a further waste of time, and the whimsical god vanished. He returned to the temple he built with his hands. But not to worship the divine or empower the Bull’s Order; instead, he aimed to build an independent bastion of pure mortal will. He would turn Muldum into a true sanctuary for those who refused to be sponges for the gods and clench those who did. When he returned, Hel-Gi came to welcome him, but halfway through the hand- and tongue-wriggling chirada, Oly told him to leave.

Slowly Oly built his corps of clerk-warriors, as strong as the Bull’s Orders’ own: the Grimsborg Guard, the Opalisers, and other strong-minded hands Oly had seen in his lifetime. Some even said that he had opposed the bullheaded god and had allied with vampires. A rumour in late 1276 prompted Da'Vey to enter Oly’s temple. Da’Vey stayed for a week, a clear indication that Oly had not been embraced. Oly not only rebuilt his temple but also a corps of solemn and sinister warrior-monks. He also equipped them with void steel, Morken Stål, Ironthorn, and other quality materials, weapons, and armour.

But peace was short-lived. In 1277, The Great Invasion, massive enemy hordes descended upon the isles, the free city of Muldum, and his sanctuary. Oly fought like a god to defend both, using his channelling powers to hold the gates. But the forces were overwhelming. Forced to flee the burning ruins of his temple, the resilient Mermerant sought out the remnants of those who still fought for the realm of the isles. With a century of life experience, a sharp mind for strategy, and a burning desire for vengeance, Oly joined the 2nd alliance, ready to write his final, blood-soaked chapters.

Thus, he once more rode alongside Black Oak, Sahsnot, Mayor Tri-M, and all the other heroes of his past. No divine-fed yellow aura, just his own channelling of arcane energies. With his personal experience of facing a god, he finally shone on his own and delivered severe blows to the invaders and traitors alike. When the smoke of the Great Invasion finally cleared, it left behind a world that was permanently altered by the sacrifice of the favoured eight. With the contender gods thwarted and their absolute chokehold on the astral wheel shattered, the heavy cosmic pressure that had weighed on Oly Huezen’s shoulders began to lift. He was 144 years old, a towering Mermerant whose crystallised husk had withstood both divine wrath and the fires of war.

Instead of pursuing further conquests with the 2nd Alliance or seeking vengeance against old ghosts like Hel-Gi or Sahsnot, Oly turned his back on the battlefields. He chose to rebuild his old temple in Muldum and returned to the blackened, ash-choked ruins of the town he loved. As he was free of clerical and godly bonds, Tobi had gained respect for him during the war. Esylot, one day, walked into his temple, sorry for her brother’s reaction. She begged forgiveness. Oly gave none, as there was nothing to forgive. Esylot said that their daughter was lost during the war and was presumed dead, and she left again.

He did not rebuild his temple with the rigid, hollow geometry of the Octogon Clergy, nor did he decorate it with the heavy, oppressive iconography of the Bulls Order. Instead, Oly and his few surviving followers physically cleared the rubble using his massive frame and the pressurised, untamed strength of his yellow channelling aura. They laid down massive stone foundations capable of withstanding the elements of the Rim, creating a sanctuary that mirrored his impenetrable structure, a physical fortress for the mortal spirit.

In 1282, when Oly raised the roof and lit the hearths, he did not set up an altar to any god. Instead, he stepped forward to herald his hard-won, newly gained vision to the survivors, refugees, and wandering outcasts who flocked to Muldum’s gates. Standing before them, his eyes alight with the gaze, he spoke not of divine grace but of absolute mortal autonomy.

He taught them what he had discovered through decades of heartbreak, betrayal, and his ultimate Fate Awakening: that mortals were never meant to be “living straws” or passive sponges for the divines to harvest. He heralded a vision of a world where reality was not defined by the gods but a pliable clay meant to be forcefully moulded by the power of one’s inner will. As he spoke, not only Hel-Gi, who was also not involved in the cleansing crusade, but also other more sinister agents of the Octogon and the gods, watched his every move and weighted every word he spoke. But Oly didn’t care, as he knew his immortal allies were watching him closely and studying his actions.

Oly’s temple in Muldum became a legendary beacon across the isles. He spent his time not as an embittered clerk or a weapon of war, but as the realm’s first true philosopher of the independent soul. He began teaching a generation of nascent heroes how to protect their own internal potential, ensure their husks remained unbroken, and walk through the world as forces of nature, completely free from the leashes of heaven.

-And he slays every invader, traitor, or godly conduit that won’t repent.

Skjald Vinotis