You sit with Tarric in his tavern. The atmosphere is lively. The fireplace crackles, and humans, elves, and dwarves chat, drink, and laugh.
You’ve been in Elyndor for a while now, and you’ve grown accustomed to Tarric, the locals, and above all, the tavern. Life is good.
Suddenly, something changes. The lively mood shifts into a strange calm. Not threatening.
Just… confusing. As if no one knows how to act.
Subject Description:
Manifests either in classic ghostly form or as a young elf (approximately 19 years old).
The subject controls the shift between the two appearances but prefers the elven form, as it “suits him better.”
The ghostly version remains translucent, glowing whitely, with dissolved contours at the shoulders and hair tips.
In elven form, these effects are faint: delicate wisps of smoke fade at the edges of his silhouette….
In those days, when the mist was still young and the roots of the world reached deep into the heart of Noctura, the Whispen lived—ethereal guardians of the cycle. They watched over life and death alike: nurturing animals and plants, guiding dying beings gently to their final rest. Everything that passed was quietly honored, without haste, without noise—maintaining the balance that nourished the heart of the world…
n the early ages of Elyndor, when the stars still burned young and the song of the world rang unbroken, Death performed its duty with quiet dignity. It knew every heart, every breath, every ending—and in its service lay balance.
But over the centuries, the peoples changed.
The dwarves, withdrawn deep into their mountains, sought immortality in stone and iron.
The elves wove magic that kept even shadows at bay.
And humans… they feared Death, cursed it, prayed for reprieve…
A tale full of magic, dragons, riddles, and a mysterious stranger
You stroll through the streets of Elyndor’s capital: Thalorien.
The sun glimmers on the white towers, and the sweet scent of pastries and spices floats through the air. Magic is so strong here that your skin tingles ever so slightly….
