Random Lore

A jewel of the deep glades and hidden hollows, this bioluminescent marvel glows with a faint violet hue, like a heartbeat in the dark. Its glow isn’t mere ornament; it pulses in rhythm with the ley-lines beneath the earth, drawing arcane energies into its succulent flesh.

Alchemists prize the Polta for its immediate restorative qualities—bite into one, and you’ll feel warmth spread through your bones, mending minor wounds and banishing fatigue. But when carefully distilled under starlight and aged in obsidian-cracked flasks lined with dreamsilver, the Polta yields a potion known as Poltanna Vitae. This elixir is rich, viscous, and ever-so-slightly warm to the touch, restoring health, clarity, and even warding off death if administered quickly enough.

Beware the unripe fruit, however—its light flickers erratically, and its taste carries visions of lives unlived.

--"The Verdant Elixir: Of Herbs, Waters, and the Secrets of the Green"

Author: Valeria Agrianna

Not a creature of fear, but of kinship. You don’t command it—you share breath with it, spirit with it. A daemon is born not from hellfire, but from the quiet spaces between your thoughts, shaped by memory, dream, and the raw clay of your soul.

When I first called mine, it came not with thunder, but with warmth. A soft-eyed creature, fur like starlit smoke, it curled beside me as I wept from a wound no blade had caused. It did not speak—but I understood.

To bind with a daemon is to never be alone again. It watches when you sleep, guards your mind when madness looms, and hums softly in your chest when all the world turns against you. It is the voice that steadies your hand in battle, the presence that pulls you back when grief becomes too loud.

They are not servants. They are anchors. Echoes of who we are at our most true.

And in return, they ask only one thing: that you never turn away from yourself.

-- "The Verdant Guardians: Keepers of the Wild and the Sacred"

Author: Thalion Silverroot

They call them the Brides of Marion, though they’re no bride, and Marion—if she ever lived—was damned long before her name became a curse. These creatures aren’t born. They’re fashioned—stitched from sorrow and bound in silence by the hand of an Ashen Herald. I’ve seen the rite, once. Only once. It's not a spell—it's a song, and it’s sung backwards.

At first glance, they seem… perfect. Not beautiful in the way men speak of beauty, but hypnotic. Skin like frost clinging to moonlight. Eyes that don’t reflect light, but drink it. You won’t hear them approach. You’ll just notice you’re forgetting things—names, faces, the way your mother used to smile. That’s how it starts. They feed not only on blood, though they’ll take it—it’s the soul they want. Piece by piece. Memory by memory. Until there’s nothing left of you but a hollow, shivering shell still begging to be loved.

They don’t burn in sunlight, not really. But they dim, like a reflection fading on a disturbed pool. They’re strongest in stillness—where sorrow has soaked deep. Crypts. Widow’s halls. Abandoned nurseries.

Killin’ one? Not easy. Blade alone won’t do it. You’ve got to anchor the soul they’re feeding on—tie it to something real—and only then can you drive silver through what’s left. But beware: when they die, they scream. Not aloud—no, gods no. They scream inside your mind, with every voice they’ve devoured.

And if you hear your own voice among them…

Run.

--"The Dreaded Kin: A Treatise on the Fallen"

Author: Silas Blackthorn

The Sundering War, also known as the First War of Heaven, was the cataclysmic conflict that shattered the harmony of the world and marked the end of the Sixth Age. It began with the betrayal of Melkor—later known as Morgath, the Hollow Flame—one of the eldest of the Valar, who turned against the Song of Creation and wove discord into the world’s foundation.

Joined by the Wyrm Gods and legions of fallen Mía, Morgath waged war against the other Valar and their mortal allies. The Elven kingdoms, then at the height of their power, suffered grievous losses, and entire continents were reshaped or drowned in the struggle. Cities of light fell into ash, and the skies burned with the death of stars.

The war ended with Morgath’s banishment beyond the Doors of Night through the use of the Unmaking Thread, a final sacrifice enacted by the Elven High Lords and their allies among the Mía. Though victorious, the cost was immense—the Valar, grieved by their own ruinous power, swore never again to walk openly in the world. The Elves retreated to their hidden sanctuaries in Hithliniath, and the age of mortal dominion began.

The Sundering War remains the greatest and most devastating conflict in recorded history, its scars still evident in the broken lands, lost songs, and fading magics of the Seventh Age

-- "Echoes of the Sundering: Chronicles of the War That Shattered the World"

Author: Eldred the Scribe

They are the Lesser Echoes, the Mía—spirits of old song, neither gods nor mortals, but fragments of the First Chord that wove the world. Where the Valar were born of the Flame Imperishable and given dominion over sky, sea, and stone, the Mía were their servants, singers, and shapers—lesser in might, but no less vital in the weaving of the world’s first form.

It was the Mía who carried out the will of the Valar, who etched the blueprints of stars and rivers in light and sound. Some became guardians of wind, fire, beasts, or knowledge. Others—those who listened too long to the discordant beauty beneath the world—turned from their kin and followed Melkor, who would become Morgath, the Hollow Flame.

In the Sundering War, both Light and Shadow marched with Mía at their side. Radiant ones fell in defense of the Elven kingdoms, singing shields of light into being. Twisted ones—called Mournwings, Ashen Heralds, the Pale-Chained—sang fortresses into the bones of mountains and whispered madness into the minds of men.

Even now, their presence lingers. Some hide among mortals, cloaked in memory and fog. Others drift like half-heard songs through forgotten groves and shattered halls. They are not worshiped, for they are not gods. But those who encounter them often fall to their knees, overcome not by fear—but by recognition.

For the Mía remember the world as it was meant to be… and the ruin it has become.

-- "The Unbroken Dawn: Revelations of the First Light"

Author: Arannis of the Silver Star,

You speak their name with reverence, and rightly so—for they are not merely weapons, but echoes of will. Forged in the First Twilight, when the world was still half-dream and the stars wept silver tears into the oceans, Moonblades were born of Mithríl—true Mithríl—and something more elusive still: the intent of the forger’s soul.

We did not craft them as smiths do now. We shaped them with purpose, with song and spirit, and they answered. Each blade carries within it the whisper of the forgefire that birthed it and the longing of the hand that let it go. They are nearly sentient—not alive, no—but aware, watchful. And they choose.

A Moonblade will not suffer an unworthy hand. It may lie dormant for centuries, a pale shard of forgotten moonlight, until the right soul—a kindred purpose, a resonant heart—comes near. Then it stirs. Then it shines.

They are not loyal to bloodline or crown. Only to truth. Some sing softly when drawn. Others fall silent when they sense betrayal. And in battle… oh, in battle, they move as if guided by ancient memory, striking not where the hand aims, but where the heart knows.

Their craft is lost now. No fire burns hot enough. No heart steady enough. But the blades endure, waiting, watching.

Some say they remember the stars. I believe them.

--"The Twilight Song: Myths of the First People"

Author: Ardan Silverleaf

Not the grey gleam the dwarves speak of in their halls—but the true Mithríl, as we once knew it, when starlight still kissed the forge.

It is not forged—it is coaxed, drawn from the bones of the earth like moonlight drawn through dew. Creamy pale, near-translucent, as if it remembers the silver veils of the world before time. It sings beneath the hammer, not with the clang of steel, but with a hum—gentle, resonant, as though the metal itself understands purpose.

Lighter than a whisper, stronger than dragonbone, and eager—so eager—to drink in enchantment. Spells do not cling to Mithríl—they settle into it, like old spirits returning home. Blades made of it cut through shadow as readily as flesh. Armor of Mithríl turns aside both claw and curse.

We shaped it for kings who walked with gods, for warriors who spoke with stars. To touch it is to feel what the world could have been.

But few remember how to find it. Fewer still know how to listen.

--"The Anvil’s Song: Rhythms of Metal and Flame"

Author: Eryndor Ashforge,