Classes

Every initiate mage learns early on that the first fundamental of magic is defense. But for Abjurers, this lesson became their mantra. These Mages took their masters' teachings to heart and mastered the art of defensive magic.

Abjurers are incredibly durable, and they don't just keep that strength to themselves—they can extend it to their allies, making everyone around them tougher in battle. Their focus is unmatched, allowing them to control space and protect others, even without relying on weapons.

Despite their power, Abjurers are often underestimated. But when the heat of battle comes, they prove their worth, showing remarkable resilience under fire. It's this unshakeable defense that makes them indispensable in the chaos of war.

Acolytes are practitioners of the mysterious power known as Faith, which is believed to be the oldest form of magic. In a world where The Church of Kari reigns as the most dominant religion, most Acolytes, about 95%, are Human, and nearly all of them, around 99%, belong to the Church.

Acolytes are people with a special calling, blessed with the power to perform miracles thanks to their deep faith. They're part of a bigger community that includes other Acolytes, priests, and sometimes even Paladins. Because of this, they can usually find a safe place to rest and get help in churches and temples wherever they go.

With their healing and protective abilities, Acolytes are essential members of any party, making sure their friends stay safe and well during tough battles.

Legends have it that Fayto Zhelti was the first true adventurer, a spirited young girl from a humble town in the Kingdom of Alpinum.  Her Father was an explorer and Fayto dreamed of following in his footsteps.

Yet, as childhood began to fade away, a painful realization crawled within her heart:  the incredibly physical feats of strength her father effortlessly performed always lay just beyond grasp.  No amount of blood, sweat or tears could overcome the anguish of her physical reality.  She watched her younger brothers surpass her in strength, joining their father on this expeditions she yearned for.  Loneliness began to infect her heart that ached for adventure, but fate had cruelly denied her that path.

Still she persisted, even in her pain... tirelessly striking the same tree day after day for years.

Humans barely had the lifespan to master the arcane arts—which at the time were incredibly complex without shortcuts.  Her Mother, an arcane practitioner, taught her daughter the methods of utilizing magic for mundane tasks:  heating water kettles and stirring up a gentle whirlpool to do laundry.  While practicing these humble homecrafts, Fayto remembered that feeling, the tingling surge that ran through her limbs.

One day, as she swung her dulled blade against that ancient tree, she poured every ounce of her yearning and willpower into her strike.  The familiar surge ran through her as the explosive energy flooded her body, exactly as it had done alongside her Mother.  In a thunderous crash, the mighty tree toppled.

From that day forward, she pursued that elusive feeling.  She trained relentlessly until she mastered the art of "internal magic" which would be known later as ki.  Soon after that she joined her father's adventures at last, growing and developing until she embarked on her own journeys, making a name for herself wherever she went "Fayto, the female adventurer."

To this day, adventurers still practice the skills Fayto Zhelti perfected long ago—a martial art born of determination and control of ones self, leveling the playing field for all who practice it.  Following Fayto's example, Adventurers continue to train—leaping to extraordinary heights, molding mana to extend their reach, projecting their aura like iron... all while maintaining perfect composure.   Although the ancient martial art remains nameless, its teaches are diligently passed down to every aspiring adventurer, serving as a solid foundation for future development.

“What do you think? Can’t be just a raid or a territory grab.”

Valera glanced to her right, wind roaring in her ears even through the headphones. Claunan was slightly ahead of her in their formation. He always got chatty during flights and even more so when it was a combat sortie. Since she was his wingman, he was definitely talking to her.

“Keep comms discipline,” she chided. Then after a moment, “It’s too big for a raid. You heard the rumors coming out of Mothergreen?”

“Pfft, yeah. Some people need to learn how to read flags. No way those self-righteous humans would work together with the cats.”

They both fell silent as the flight began to descend, following their flight plan and the lead formations as they descended through the clouds. For all of the news coming out of Mothergreen and Jav, she had still expected a small human raiding force. Cavalry and maybe a paladin or two. But there were proper battle lines down there. She pulled out her binoculars to get a better look, the view jittering from the vibration of her staff cutting through the air. That was demon heavy infantry already looking to tangle with human spearmen and knights, she could see the banners. Mage battalions getting set up behind the human lines with what looked like archers and musketeers moving in as well. That was no raiding group.

But the real surprise when she panned her view to see what other forces the humans had brought with them and was startled to see Northi flags and banners flying. Catfolk light infantry, heavy cavalry, light artillery, and plenty of mages. Transport and combat airships lurked low and behind the back lines, waiting for any breakthroughs to exploit and move troops to, probably. They’d be a priority target for sure.

The demon lines had a good showing of house flags and dozens of family banners. But the big tide turners were going to be the aerial mages swooping down and the heavy artillery that was deploying behind the city of Mintel. She could just make out organized evacuations already in place…looked like the general down there didn’t want to risk losing any civilians if they could help it. She didn’t blame him. This was an army they never could have anticipated being brought to bear against them, especially so far away from Westria and Northi. Had they stripped their internal garrisons and patrols to get this many together? What about keeping their roads, farms, and cities safe?

Well, that didn’t matter. She wasn’t there to figure out why they were invading. She was there to help demonstrate, yet again, why no one invaded Sorthen.

“All Gale Flights. All Gale Flights. This is General Ar Golan. Welcome to the war. Begin your attack runs. Priority targets will be transmitted to flight leaders. Ar Golan, out.”

“Well, at least the general is an Ar,” she said to herself. Her headset crackled with static for a moment and the slightly distorted voice of her flight leader came through.

“Alright, we’re tasked with making our first runs on the combat airships. Pair up and let’s hit them. The sooner they’re down the sooner we can move on to suppressing the cat’s artillery. Acknowledge?”

“Acknolwedged, Captain,” Valera said followed by the rest of the flight. They began to adjust their formation with Claunan coming in at her side. He was geared up to strafe and suppress any anti-air fire and she was set up with heavy bombs and rockets. He’d make his run to draw fire and keep heads down and she’d come in with the heavy hits to knock the airship out.

The flicker of lights from the fighting flashed back and forth. Magical bolts and artillery sailing between both sides. Other aerial mage flights were already swooping down to disrupt attacks or harass the rear lines. Her flight was breaking up, each targeting a different airship and she and Claunan dove at theirs.

Cannon fire, magical bolts, arrows, and musket fire filled the air around them but the speed of their dive and small profiles made them nearly impossible to hit. Most airship crews (and ground forces in general) only trained for massed fire against things the size of drakes or wyverns. Aerial mages were just too small for that kind of tactic to work. Claunan’s guns and cannon began to return fire as he strafed the deck of the airship, sending the crew diving for cover. She pulled out her dive slightly to line up her shot, making her a slower, easier target, but that’s why Claunan was there. Rockets streaked from their launcher, crimson trails of magical energy marking their path. The exploded in rippling waves across the deck and rear of the airship, punching through the armor and damaging its lifters. Then she released her mana bombs. Her entire staff bobbed up into the air under the sudden release of weight and she was already accelerating and climbing away, faster and lighter. She twisted to look back to see the entire airship go up in an explosion.

“Target D is down, returning to staging for re-arm,” she announced through the comms once she was clear and away. Static was her answer. She looked around, trying to spot her flight leader. Maybe the bombs had disrupted her comms unit? Only the burning wreckage of a handful of airships told her that some of the attack runs had been as successful as hers.

“Valera to Captain Saige. Captain Saige, do you read?”

Static. And it wasn’t the static of a broken transmitter, her equipment looked fine.

And…where was Claunan? He hadn’t been caught in the explosion, had he? She knew he liked to get close but even he knew to keep his distance from her bombing runs.

She turned away from the front lines and pushed for more altitude, squinting to see any other mages up. There were specs over the front lines still strafing but as she watched, they seemed to lose control and dove straight into the ground. What the…

With her binoculars in shaking hands, she watched as another aerial mage was engulfed in swirling, magical winds and ripped from the sky. She could see the poor mage desperately pulling at the ejection system, saw the windbubble flicker to life, but it didn’t do anything to slow them down and they hit the ground with a small explosion. She panned her binoculars until she found a catfolk mage lowering their staff, wisps of magical wind curling around them.

What magic was that?

Valera looked around frantically and it became obvious that the dozens of aerial mages that had made their attack runs had been reduced to less than six. She tried to send the report of it but her comms still weren’t working.

She wouldn’t learn the name of this new magic until she joined the retreat from Mintel, reduced to a back line messenger in the face of jammed communications and lethal anti-air magic. Aeromancers. The catfolk had specifically developed a new magical technique just to bring aerial mages down. 

The first Aeromancer corps were born in Northi, created as a direct response to Sorthen's formidable Ace Aerial Mage squads. While the Catfolk had a stronghold on the ground with their incredible speed, the Fae and Sorthen flyers posed a constant threat from above. That is, until a cunning Catfolk mage named Nicole Mimi changed the game.

Mimi took a magical art that was once considered weak, Aeromancy, and turned it into a force to be reckoned with. By destabilizing the air itself, she crafted powerful gales and sudden downbursts, effectively disrupting air superiority. What was once seen as a lesser magic became a devastating weapon under her mastery.

To this day, Aeromancers from all corners of the world study Mimi's tomes, learning to command the sky just as she did. They've turned Aeromancy into an art of its own, capable of twisting the winds and reshaping the battlefield.

The Four Swords War pushed the boundaries of artifice and magic in the way only a continent spanning conflict can. Entire schools of magic were created and artifice technology raced forward at breakneck speed. The Aetherie were but one of those desperate developments. Founded from the study of the genius work of a Lu Clan demon by Axian and Sorthen researchers, the brief life of the namesake of the magical discipline is inescapably entwined with the art of Mind Connection.

Aetherie Lu’Pana earned her right as a master of magic in the middle of her own apprenticeship as the war with Westria and Northi pushed into Sorthen’s borders. After reading through the requests passed to her master for a method to counter or break through Northi artifice communications jamming, Aetherie offered up her own research project: a mind/mana connection technique. It didn’t take long after successfully demonstrating the new magic that her preliminary plans for an amplifying artifice was put into the prototype stage. She and the prototype were rushed toward the rapidly collapsing front where she was able to establish communications between General Ar’Golan and his battalion commanders, using herself as a conduit. This ability to coordinate in real time using the eyes of his own commanders allowed the Sorthen Rear Guard to briefly hold the invading armies at the Battle of Three Passes for the critical weeks needed for their remaining forces and critical civilians to be evacuated to Marlone.

Unfortunately, the defense collapsed when Aetherie Lu’Pana, pushed beyond her limits by the strain of upkeeping her Mind Connection using the prototype sensory station, died from the strain. Her notes and the testimony of the one surviving commander from Three Passes that had been Mind Connected was studied carefully and the “Aetherie Mind Connect” school of magic was codified shortly after the war.

Aetherie are a rare breed of mage. The mental fortitude required to process multiple viewpoints and even spread their influence out from those they’re connected with does not come easily and there are whispered stories of would-be Aetherie losing their minds in the ebb and flow of magic. But a well practiced Aetherie, with proper support and equipment, can bring unprecedented support and coordination to any group.

“Thank you, Sister Yselwen. We thank Kari’s Light for guiding you to us in our hour of need.”

Yselwen gave the Elder a smile and a bow, resisting the urge to correct him. She wasn’t a Sister of his faith. But she held her tongue and turned away from the gathered villagers and the settlement. Once over the hill and fully out of sight, her shoulders drooped and her smile dropped. Rubbing a few frustrated circles on her forehead in an attempt to dispel the headache of dealing with the religiously righteous and ignorant, she turned from the packed dirt path and out into the wild fields. She took deep breaths as the scents of nature washed away the cloying dregs of the human settlement that seemed determined to cling to her.

“Yggdrasil nerth iy thoir,” she prayed, fingers brushing against the stalks of wild wheat as she passed. She needed all the strength Yggdrasil could grant her after dealing with the Karites. At least the farmers had taken her teachings and blessings to heart. Not parroted like so many in recent days, but an actual understanding of the connection they were calling upon. It wasn’t enough to bring Yggdrasil to prominence, even if she could spread that same message to a thousand farmers across Westria, but it did sustain Her.

Normally, she didn’t stray far from the borders of Easter, content to spread the Blessings of Yggdrasil where it was more accepted. But with a famine tearing its way across Lyr, she felt it was a ripe opportunity to help some people and spread Yggdrasil’s teachings a little wider. With a huff, she spun back toward her next destination, having not noticed she’d stopped to stare toward that stupid village with its stupid elder. They wouldn’t starve come winter and that was more important than a silly man pushing his faith on her.

And so it went, village after village, town after town. Meetings with priests, elders, mayors, and farmers. Dealing with the initial distrust of her skin, the color of oak leaves in the autumn, or the claims of heresy at her words. But they all wanted to live, wanted to eat. So she taught and blessed and spoke to those that would listen. 

“Bennachd na Yggdrasil ar talah se,” would be repeated in broken, Westrian accents with earnest intent. 

“Gabthasinn a toirt Yggdrasil don tiodlac seo,” some would say on her departure, clutching at crudely woven tree effigies. 

For decades, Priestess Yselwen wandered the lands of Axia, Westria, and Northi. Where she tred, the famine faded. Her blessings and the teachings of Yggdrasil took root in small villages and in farmers’ hearts. The Dryad of the Fall became a myth and a legend, invoked in the same blessings she once taught. Some say that she still wanders the fields near Easter to this day, blessing those in need.

Researchers who have come to understand the nature of objects and energy.

Researchers and chemists who try to understand what composes the world.

While Transmuters provide foundations for everyday life and artisan work, Alkahests are those who are obsessed with the subtleties of matter and creation.  Alkahests are the experts in the fields of Transmutational Alchemy, quickly altering reality with precision and artistic flair.  They're able to immediately concept and transmute just the right tool for any situation.

Historically, one Alkahest above all others was a pioneer in her field.  She remains celebrated across Lyr to this day—Etoile Dacquoise.  While her best friend and rival, Riannon Aquanas, focused on the art of core Alchemy, Etoile dedicated her life to mastering the complexities of Transmutation.  In the atelier together, these pioneers had opened an often historically referenced shop in the Kingdom of Mothergreen—and became the foundation of innovation during Lyr's darkest hours.

Historical word of mouth speaks of Etoile's contributions from behind the scenes in the battle against Heira, the Goddess of Evil.  Although she never wielded a sword on the front lines, her mastery of transmutation alongside Riannon's expertise in alchemical creations created the tools and solutions needed by their friends that did.  The members of those legendary heroes helped create that shop themselves, as the procurement arm of the business.  Etoile's legacy is still immortalized to this day behind the statues of Riannon and the other heroes:

Elly, The Hero
Uruka, The Sylph
Signum, The Heretic
Leaflit, The Pixie
Brynhildr, The Dragon
Basalt, The Dwarf

Today's Alkahests follow in Etoile's footsteps and in her teachings, fulfilling their roles as vital supporters and adventurers, heroes and innovators alike.  They sometimes provide assistance from the sidelines, demonstrating that heroism is not only about direct confrontation but also wits, innovation and dedication to a future victory.

Amanita’s are expert Mycomancer’s that weave life and death hand in hand.  Blessed healers to their allies and terrifying killers to their enemies, they were feared ever since the first Fae Amanita’s appeared amongst the ranks of Sylvan’s army.  Amanita’s often wear mushroom caps on their head with spotted designs to signify their rank.  The spores that reside within all Amanita’s blood also grants them considerable resilience against poison.

A summoning class that specializes in animals.

Anti-mage is a discipline often pursued by those who don't practice magic themselves. With Mages playing such a critical role in boosting military power, it's often a top priority to neutralize them first. That’s where Anti-Mages come in. They dedicate their studies to finding the cracks in all forms of magic, learning how to disrupt and cancel its effects.

Anti-Mages have a deep understanding of magic, perhaps even more so than some Mages themselves. They don't just know how magic works, they know how to break it.

A prime example of their power was seen during the 2nd Battle of Jav. A Demon Anti-Mage singlehandedly turned the tide at the east gate, neutralizing a line of magical smoke deployed by the Westrians. This critical move helped maintain the stalemate that Jav held for years, showcasing just how formidable Anti-Mages can be on the battlefield.

While many Mages focus on transforming mana into different elements, Arcanists take a different path. They dedicate themselves to mastering its purest form—the raw, unaltered magic known as Arcane. It might not be as flashy as other types of magic, but when it comes to sheer power, nothing else comes close.

Arcane magic is notoriously difficult to defend against. However, it demands a lot from the caster, drawing heavily on their personal mana reserves. That's why Arcanists spend so much time meditating and training—to build up their mana and ensure they can wield this potent force.

These Mages are the masters of fundamental attack magic, capable of delivering devastating blows of pure magical energy. When it's raw power you need, an Arcanist is the one you want on your side.

Archers are the masters of ranged combat, commanding the battlements during times of war. Skilled squads of Archers were feared for their ability to deliver devastating volleys of missiles at high speed, effectively keeping infantry advances at bay. Their keen eyes and sharp intuition allowed them to choose the most effective ammunition for maximum impact.

The title "Archer" originally referred to those who wielded bows, but as technology evolved, so did the term. With the invention of crossbows and firearms, those who demonstrated exceptional skill with these new weapons still proudly took on the title. Today, "Archer" represents anyone with a remarkable talent for ranged prowess, regardless of the weapon they use.

Armigers are those who follow a lesser-known path of the Wandering Witch, Chroma-Daria Lichtvog—a discipline cloaked in the folds of space rather than time. They are said to draw upon hidden realms between the mortal world and the heavens, forging tiny pockets of reality where their relics lie waiting. While others try to replicate this inter-dimensional craft through mere artificing, the mimicry cannot begin to understand the true nature of the world beyond the veil.

Stories speak of Armigers phantom thieves, making valuables disappear in the blink of an eye with sleight of hand. But in reality they carve out their vault in the emptiness between planes, shaping that space with will and technique. To the untrained eye, an Armiger seems to summon weapons out of thin air—one moment, their hands are empty; the next, they brandish whatever blade suits the situation. Scholars debate whether these conjurations come from raw sorcery or from the Witch’s ancient teachings, locked away in scrolls that vanish just as quickly as the vaults themselves.

Facing an Armiger in combat can be jarring, for they never truly run out of options. One weapon broken, another materializes. An opponent thinks them cornered—yet the Armiger draws forth an entire arsenal from nowhere, their weapons gleaming in starlight and swirling dust. In a single, fluid motion, they swap armaments as easily as drawing a breath.  An attack with a mace to break armor could suddenly become the pointed tip of a spear—a confusing dance that keeps opponents constantly on the defensive.

The best among them often walk unarmed with a calm confidence, knowing that whatever threat appears, they carry an arsenal in the blink of an eye. And though some see the Armigers’ ability as merely convenient, rumors persist of deeper secrets hidden in those dimensional pockets. For Armigers, it’s not just about storing trinkets—it’s about understanding the distance between worlds, that tenuous thread of reality and emptiness. No Armiger is ever truly disarmed—and perhaps thats what makes them fearsome.

Chainmail, gambeson, lamellar, plate. Protection came in an uncountable variety throughout the ages, evolving to greater heights in direct competition with weapons as the years marched on. A race between offense and defense that would carry on into the future, unending.

But unlike a weapon, a well made suit of armor was not just a representation of craftsmanship, of the materials forged and riveted and sewn, but of design. Of careful planning, measurement, and even artistry. While weapons were held up in the romantic eye of forging, it was armor that pushed a smith to their limits. Consideration of the intended wearer, of the amount of flexibility in the design if it was intended to be more generic, and the limitations and strengths of various materials were all factors that had to be accounted for before the first ingot entered the forge.

An armorsmith had to not just be a master of metals but of linens, silks, leathers, wools, and hides of an uncountable number of beasts. They had to have an eye for form and function. A learned or inherent understanding of the physics of the body and movement. Intuit the forces of imagined impacts, weak points, and failures. They needed to have a fundamental understanding of how to break things, all in the effort to prevent their work from being broken.

Artificers were the great equalizers of the world.  In a land where magic was steeped into the fiber of every being, those who failed to understand its mysteries suffered a steep disadvantage.  During the Great Divine War where magic razed the land and powerful Divine Arms leveled cities, the desperation of the weak created the first artifices—artificial spirit circuits that used magical fuel to function.  This allowed even the magically inept, but studied warriors to brave the battlefield against the hellscape of fireballs and magic missiles.  Contained in compact shells, magical fuel was compressed into an easy to use form and inserted into the artifice which allowed devastating spell effects to ignite at the press of a button.

After the war, Artificers brought comfort and convenience to the world... filling the night streets with an easy to maintain source of light that didn't rely on dangerous gasses or fuels.  Their devices fed the world through agricultural technology and brought nations together with fleets of wondrous airships that brought trade and culture from far away lands.

To this day, Artificers are a staple in society... and some still take on the pioneering spirit of their ancestors, creating new wondrous tools for the future of the realm.

Assassins trace their origins back to the lawless city of Telsin, deep in the Southern Desert. With little military power of their own and relying mostly on the harsh desert environment for protection, the people of Telsin developed less conventional methods of defense. Assassins emerged from this need, honing their skills in reconnaissance and studying their targets with meticulous care, mentally preparing themselves before executing the perfect kill.

Their reputation for precision and effectiveness quickly spread, becoming so legendary that other nations started to take notice. Before long, these nations began hiring assassins of their own, both to eliminate key targets and to counter the deadly expertise of other assassins.

Idris deflected a spine with a grunt, the undulating limb that had lashed out at him retracting in a jittering pattern as the fiend wound up for another attack. A fiend off to the side shrieked as half its body froze suddenly and shattered. A flurry of icy blasts and arcane bolts checked the advance of a group of lesser fiends, allowing him to focus on the big one trying to skewer him. He ducked a sweeping attack and drifted out of the way of a slam with a gentle tap of his foot against the frozen ground. He hovered for a moment before his feet touched down again as he brought his sword around, the frost infused blade biting deeply into the side of the fiend, sending it staggering away. He lifted off into the air with the recoil of the blow, grimacing at the feel of chilly dampness on his feet.

“Aaah, this is so dumb! Why isn’t Illyana here?! Getting married isn’t as important as exploring somewhere new!” 

He looked over and saw his two companions huddling behind a deteriorating wall of ice as a group of fiends was barraging them with energy blasts. Mirane peaked out from cover to throw some icicles the size of trees at the fiends before the combined fire forced her back behind cover.

“Idris!”

“I’m busy!” he called back, parrying another attack and using the momentum to drift up and over a second attack. He twisted in mid air as some of the fiends with the ranged attacks focused on him, his sword sparking as he was forced to block one of the dark bolts that he couldn’t avoid. 

“Agh! This is dumb! Chroma, time out!”

“Stop.”

It was a simple command but the world obeyed. Bolts of energy were stopped mid flight, the fiends suddenly as still as statues. Even the snow had stopped falling, snowflakes stationary in the air.

“Can’t you do anything about these guys over here, Idris? We can’t do anything ‘cause they keep shooting at us!”

“If I do, the big one will rush you. You want to deal with those tentacles?” He drifted slowly toward the ground, crossing his legs like he was sitting on the ground even as he hovered in place.

Mirane shivered and shook her head. “No no, I’m good.”

“We’re too used to Illyana taking up a frontliner role,” Chroma said. “If she were here, this fight would be over already.”

Idris sighed. “Okay…I can give you some cover so we can focus on the big one. We should be able to bring it down with combined fire, it’s not very tough. It’s just really grabby.”

“We can do that. We can do that, right, Chroma?”

The chronomancer sighed and rubbed her forehead, disguising the fond smile from Mirane. “We can do that, yes.”

“Great! Good plan! Time in!”

With a snap of her fingers, Chroma let time resume. Without missing a moment, Idris rushed across the field. Whisps of aurora trailed his sword as he swung it in a vertical arc. A prismatic wall of shifting auroras stretched into the sky and completely blocked the sight of the group of ranged fiends. Then, in a flash of frost and ice, he was back in the face of the disconcertingly tentacled fiend, his sword coming down like a glacier turned into a guillotine. Ice magic and arcane blasts slammed into the suddenly frozen fiend.

“Haha! This is more like it! Great work, Idris!”

It was a little awkward and they still made a few mistakes on their travels through the mountains and tundra, but they eventually began to develop new tactics to cover their missing member. Now, if only they could develop new tactics for dealing with Mirane insisting the legendary paradise that was supposed to exist in these mountains was “Just over the next ridge, I can feel it!” 

Still…every new day seeing a new sight was worth it just to see her smile. Mirane’s wonder at every new vista filled his heart with warmth and he always caught Chroma smiling behind her hand as they watched Mirane scramble to be the first over the next rise.

Bajiquan is a martial art crafted by the Wolffolk of the Susururu Woods, building on the ancient techniques of Kiraran martial arts. This discipline is all about focusing and compacting one's own mana, over and over, until it can be unleashed in a single, explosive strike. The practitioners of Bajiquan move with a fluid grace, seamlessly blending flowing movements with sudden, devastating bursts of power. It's a style that turns the battlefield into a dance, a ballet of destruction with the Bajiquan fighter at its center.

Bards are the storytellers, entertainers, and actors of the world, hailing from all sorts of disciplines. Whether they're performing in a bustling tavern for a handful of tips or captivating a crowd in the town square, Bards bring life and joy wherever they go. They're the ones who immortalize the tales of adventuring parties, ensuring that no deed, whether noble or notorious, goes unheard.

In a party, Bards play a crucial role by inspiring their allies to achieve greatness. With their music, they can lift spirits and hype up their companions, turning the tide of battle with a well-timed tune.

There was once a time when pure, unbridled magic was the most powerful force in the land. A single mage could hold off entire enemy battalions with ease. But that changed with the invention of Artificing. Suddenly, battles began to shift, with more and more fighters targeting mages directly, exploiting their difficulty in close combat. As the martial world integrated rapid uses of internal mana and artifices, mages found themselves on the defensive, facing enemies up close like never before.

In response to this new threat, the first Battle Mages emerged from Northi. These warriors developed a unique spell weave, while incredibly mana-intensive, it allowed them to cast spells rapidly, even in the heat of close-range combat. This innovation took full advantage of their physical prowess as Chimera, turning them into formidable opponents both near and far.

The invention of the "Shooting Form" further enhanced their capabilities. This technique allowed Battle Mages to imbue their melee weapons with the properties of staves, enabling a seamless transition between long-range spellcasting and close-quarters combat. With this versatility, Battle Mages became a force to be reckoned with, combining the raw power of magic with the physicality of martial arts.

Yanyan stood in front of the mirror. Her cat ears twitched nervously as she inspected herself. “Not good enough.” She murmured to herself. Camielelileananu would never notice her looking like that.

With a sigh she stepped away, the cat ears and tail disappearing as if they were never there. She laid down on the bed and began to browse through her large collection of information on her idol. Articles Camielelileananu had written, interviews with her and even just a map of where she traveled.

“She showed great loyalty and courage.” Yanyan read a comment from her about a dogfolk guard that saved a child. That was just praising an individual person, nothing to do with the race. Camielelileananu spent a lot of time around some slimes, but that was to be expected. One of the greatest minds in her field was a slimegirl after all.

Yanyan had studied this over a dozen times already, trying to figure just WHAT type of chimera her love was into. Her eyes fell onto the map again and landed on Houkaina. It was a country of Merfolk, relatively small. However, Camielelileananu had been there multiple times already for book signings. Could it be?…

She wasted no time. Yanyan immediately got up from her bed and began to pack her stuff. She couldn’t yet transform into a merfolk, but she knew where to get the samples required for that.

Fordu D’ Nali stood, centered in the middle of the rough road. Behind her, a village was evacuating in the face of the incoming armies of Northi and Westria. Before her, a scouting party of Westrian Crusaders were dismounting, all shining silver armor and shields. At their head, a hulking brute of a man stomped forward, a massive greatsword already licking with holy light.

“I am Ser Kael, Paladin of the Church of Light. In Kari’s name, surrender so that you may be granted a peaceful end,” the man boomed.

Fordu scoffed and took a heavy stance, her fists clenched. “You want to get past me? You don’t have enough blood to pay that toll.”

The men behind Ser Kael shifted as if they could feel the weight of power gathering around her. The paladin leveled his sword at her, golden fire ripping down its length, casting an incandescent glow across the shadows of the canyon wall. He took first one step, the ground cracking slightly underneath his might, then another. Then he was running, his sword pointed to skewer her.

She took a slow, deep breath and released the power singing in her blood. Shadowy wings burst from her back and time seemed to slow. The onrushing paladin no longer barreled down at her like a charging horse. The pain and ache of her Divine Release was captured, channeled, stored. Licks of dark fire flickered around her fists as she waited and watched. Ser Kael closed the distance and she did nothing to stop him from plunging his sword directly through her chest. She barely felt the massive sword, but the holy light ate at her like acid. Even with every bit of her training, she couldn’t hold in the scream that ripped from her throat.

But she didn’t fall. Her wings stabilized her, her stance grounded her, and the pain was only fuel. Gathered, condensed, mixed, converted into a dark fire. As close as they were, she could see Ser Kael’s eyes widen in shock through the gap in his helmet. Then she struck back. Shadow Counter. Taking the pain of her Divine Release, the agony of being stabbed and burned by holy fire. Her mana flooded with the growing counter, empowering and bringing the potential to its height. Even the impact of her attack she reflected upon herself, amplified, and unleashed to join the rush of force and shadow.

Ser Kael ceased to exist from the waist up. Fordu stumbled forward a step without his weight holding her up and she pulled the sword still impaling her painfully out of her chest. It clattered loudly against the canyon floor. She took another step forward and the crusaders Ser Kael brought with him took a step back. She grinned and wiped the blood dripping from her mouth away. Her wings flexed, the Divinity of her blood sustaining her even through a devastating wound.

“You’re not getting away!” She rushed forward, dark fire gathering around her fists and the screams of the crusaders echoed off the walls.

Forgers of Lyr's weapons.

Healers that use their own lifeforce.

The frigid passes surrounding Mt. Merlin were inhospitable places. Cutting winds, icy ground, and regular blizzards made them nearly impassable during the winter months, not that dangerous conditions stopped the adventurous from making the trek into the mountains. Small villages populated by hardy men and women were scattered through the passes and valleys. And each had their share of myths and legends passed down through the years. For the village of Cartrmyn, the Princess of the Mountain was theirs.

As the story was told, the Princess of the Mountain influenced the chill, the snow, and the storms of the little valley Cartrmyn was nestled in. Said to have the form of a “woman made of ice”, offerings were left regularly at the beginning and end of winter. A common game among the children of the village was to stay up into the deep night in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the Princess as she collected the offerings. Gifts of wild berries, mosses, lichens, mushrooms of all kinds, stacks of wood from unknown trees, and unheard of herbs would be given by the Princess in thanks. And the types of gifts exchanged would tell the villagers how the winter would go or…as an apology for a harsh season. When piles of berries and nuts and extra firewood was left, the village knew they were in for a dangerous winter; but gifts of wild flowers and herbs told of a mild winter approaching. By heeding the signs left by the Princess, Cartrmyn was able to thrive in even the most extreme seasons.

However, it wasn’t long before word spread about their guardian Princess and those seeking riches and knowledge would come in search of her. For those who were respectful of the village and of the mountain, they would leave with wisdom and the grace of the Princess and would forever find safe passage in the winter chill. But for those with greed in eyes and evil in their hearts, the Princess was as unforgiving as a sudden winter storm. The unearthly shrieks of those that crossed her echoed across the mountain side like the roars of a hundred mountain lions and the gnashing of a thousand teeth, a dire warning to all that would cross--

Miyu closed the book with a sharp snap and sighed. “It was just a chainsaw,” she complained to no one. “And why do they make it sound like I’m hundreds of years old?!” Grudgingly, she tucked the book back into the pack that had been prepared by the villagers. Dried meats and fish, metal tools and knives, and a small collection of glowing crystals that she could use to produce more magical fuels. In return, she had laid out hand woven baskets of whatever she’d been able to find over the last week that she wasn’t keeping for herself. Berries, tubers, and bundles of medicinal flowers.

“Why is it so hard to get people to leave me alone?”

Scrappy fighters that are willing to get into the fray and trade blows.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Bix shook her flare pistol to dislodge the stuck casing and then hastily stuffed it back into its holster once the spent case landed with a soft thud on the ground. Above, a trio of flares slowly fell back toward the earth under little parachutes, each burning brightly with a different color. It was the third series of flares she’d sent up and these last three would be the final signals for the artillery battery miles away to get their firing solutions set. She brought her binoculars up to her eyes, knocking her hat off in her haste, scanning the terrain in the distance until she caught sight of the enemy Colors. It was so strange to see Northi Mage and Spear Corps forming up alongside Westrian Cavalry and Knights. And all of it being organized by a Westrian paladin.

She could see skirmisher elements already rushing toward her position, the flares she was using to signal the artillery obviously pointing directly to her own position. But it’s what was needed. Out of habit, she reached back over her shoulder and unhooked the handset for her radio and pressed the stud to send.

“Comm-check, comm-check. Bix, three-three-seven-one-four. Comm-check, comm-check.”

She could feel the whir of the crystal core spin up in the pack but there was only faint static when she released the transmit stud to wait for any reply. Something the catfolk were doing had been disrupting communications ever since they’d crossed the border in Jav. Combine that with some new type of air magic that had taken out entire flights of aerial mages and…well, there was a reason she was stuck miles out in front of the lines using a flare gun of all things to give basic ranging details. Blessed Kari, signaling in shell fall and corrections was going to be the worst.

Behind her, the deep throoms of Helena’s heavy battery sounded as the first guns began their ranging shots based on her flares. The shells shrieking overhead rattled her bones and the trailing energy of the condensed mana leaking from containment made them look like shooting stars. They hit the ground like them, too. Ground shattering explosions behind the enemy formations. Overshot. And the enemy started moving to make the ranging even harder. Smart, but she knew what she was doing and it’s not like they could move very far and in ways she couldn’t predict.

Binoculars stowed as she began pulling out flare cartridges, laying them in the dirt in front of her to compose her message.

“That should do it. And a little bit of lead for that redeployment,” she said with a pleased smile. Then she began loading and firing the flares in sequence. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

By the time she had fired the last flare, a gleaming crimson that indicated ‘full barrage, fire for effect’, she was about to have her own problem and little war to fight. A skirmisher unit was finally getting close, the catfolk spearmen rushing toward her in a distance devouring four-limbed sprint. Well, they wouldn’t be able to get close enough to be a threat. She was an artillery woman after all.

With a grunt, she hefted her cannon from the ground. It was massive, nearly as tall as she was. In some other life, something like it had probably been mounted to a gun carriage. But this one was specially designed to be carried and fired by one person. She gripped the handles tightly and angled the barrel toward the approaching catfolk. Her cannon roared just as the battery behind her unleashed its full fury. Huge mana explosions silhouetted her targets as her shells landed among them, spraying dirt, stone, and red hot metal fragments in all directions. She watched for a moment as the dust settled and nodded in satisfaction. Direct hit. They were either dead or too wounded to be her problem.

She set her cannon down and pulled out her binoculars again, to examine the damage of the main barrage. Looked like it had ripped through the Westrian lines, scattering their knights and cavalry. She took out her flare pistol and signaled ‘good hit’ ‘adjust right 3’ ‘fire for effect’. That should take care of those Northi units nicely.

She would make these invaders regret coming into her home and threatening her family.

On Sorthen's Marlone coast, where Lizardfolk pilehouses rise above the crashing waves, to the spires of Merlin's Academy of magic in Northi—wherever Carpenters go, civilization follows.

Since the first dawn of Lyr, these artisans were the backbone of civilization.  Between their awl, saw and hammer they built up military camps into fortresses and small villages into thriving metropolises.

Carpenters are far from just competent in their art and tools, they also understand that cooperation is necessary for great works.  It doesn't matter if its to erect a guildhall estate or to confront the threat of a siege of hobgoblin raiders—Carpenters always work together with their allies like hammer and nail.

Crafting far more than just still buildings, their carvings can be seen in hand and belt for many denizens of the realm.  From the first wooden tools, to finely tuned bows from the finest Yew—their equipment are trusted by all professions.  Expert carpenters also have the understanding of specialized oil coatings, imbuing their creations with special material qualities.

In every community, these artisans are known to be indispensable building blocks of society who work tirelessly to push civilization forward, one nail at a time.

The origin of mounted combat and cavalry specifically has been debated among historians since nomadic riders hunted game across the Axian Plains. Cavalry, as it’s recognizably known in a more modern sense, was first organized by humans, utilizing their more advanced techniques of animal husbandry to domesticate and breed horses into mounts and beasts of burden. With their reliance on various animals for labor, humanity had a head start and also had a distinct need for increased mobility on the battlefield. With open plains and rolling hills making up a generous portion of their homeland, humans were at a distinct disadvantage in mobility to the Chimera of Northi.

In the long conflicts before the advent of Paladins, Westrian cavalry stood as the only near parity force humans could deploy against Northi and Sorthen. Light scouts and mounted archers were the primary uses of cavalry at the time to both maximize the strengths of mounted soldiers and to preserve both the precious skills of the riders and their trained mounts. While there have been many techniques surrounding cavalry over the centuries, modern understanding has codified the most basic of elements into the art of the Cavalier. 

Today, the use of cavalry has spread to every corner of Lyr. No matter the type of mount, be it horse, wyvern, or even the humble dragonfly, the Cavalier lays the foundation for all cavalry techniques.

Chronomancers are rare mages who wield the mysterious power of time itself. They can slow down moments, speed them up, or even rewind them, turning the tide of battle in ways that few can predict or understand. In a world where such magic is almost unheard of, Chronomancers stand out as an often feared force.

Their magic traces back to one source: Chroma-Daria Lichtvog, a wandering Witch and Thaumaturge who’s been around for over a thousand years—at least, that’s what the stories say. Daria teaches her craft on a whim, picking students when it suits her. Most Chronomancers have either learned directly from her or stumbled across her ancient writings, devoting their lives to uncovering the secrets within.

Running into a Chronomancer means you’re up against someone who can twist the flow of time itself. Whether they’ve been taught by the Witch herself or have painstakingly studied her elusive texts, their powers are as astonishing as they are unsettling.

A warrior that fights with two heavy weapons to crush their enemies.

The clamour of half a dozen meals cooking at once, pots and skillets sizzling along with the clank of utensils frantically flipping or stirring. A chaotic dance of food preparation found in the busiest cities in Lyr. 

The quiet crackle of a campfire under the stars, a small pot bubbling gently, wafting steam to mix with the smoke of the fire above. A simple stew nearly ready to be served to friends resting from a day of adventure.

Tense concentration as an exotic dish was prepared with an eye for presentation. A drizzle of sauce here, an edible garnish there. The stark white of the plate a spotlight of contrast to draw attention to the artful arrangement fit for a king.

Culinarians came from all walks of life and could be found preparing meals from the austere kitchens of Northi royalty to a simple farming cottage in Sorthen. They shouldn’t be mistaken for anyone able to light a fire and char a slab of meat on a stick. Cooking was their passion and their art. Ingredients simple and elegant, mixed with skill and care, could become soul warming meals. After a day of hiking up a mountain pass, sailing through a storm, or even completing a day of schooling, the comfort of a well cooked meal was bliss beyond words.

To cultivate is not merely to gather power, but to decide how one will exist within it. While Ki can be sensed and refined by many, a cultivator distinguishes themselves by the principles they choose to shape that power around.

Every cultivator begins by learning to draw Ki inward and circulate it through the body, but this practice alone does not define the path. What matters is the intent behind it. Some cultivate to stand firm, others to strike decisively, and others still to remain unbound. Over time, these choices influence not only a cultivator’s techniques, but the way they move, react, and behave.

Cultivation places constant pressure on belief. Power responds more readily to consistency than contradiction, and cultivators who act against their own principles often find their progress stalling or their techniques failing at critical moments. As a result, most adopt a guiding philosophy early on, refining their practice around it as they grow.

Because of this, cultivation traditions vary widely. One sect may prize endurance and rootedness, teaching its disciples to weather any storm. Another may emphasize adaptability or freedom, encouraging practitioners to preserve choice and avoid being fixed in place. These differences are not merely cosmetic. They shape how Ki is circulated, how arts are used, and how conflict is approached.

A cultivator’s strength is therefore not measured solely by the amount of power they possess, but by how well their actions align with the path they have chosen. Those who cultivate without direction may achieve temporary gains, but rarely endure. Those who commit to a philosophy, however subtle, find their Ki responding with greater clarity and reliability over time.

A name given to warriors who suffer from a terrible curse. Their frequent misfortune is well known with even their weapons often managing to strike themselves instead of their enemies. However, there are some who manage to channel this misfortune and use its power against their enemies.

-

Paper scattered away from him in a gust of unnatural wind, talismans shredding even as he was blown off his feet from the attack. Mamouru landed hard and rolled a few times before sliding to his feet. His opponent in the massive melee was grinning, wind magic whipping around her and causing her clothes to snap sharply. The catfolk girl was one of the many aeromancers that had devastated his unit’s aerial mages and while the enemy mages hadn’t gotten out of the fight unscathed, there were enough of them to drop into the demon backlines. Which was why he was dealing with the psycho catgirl instead of supporting the frontline troops.

“Oh nyo, all of your little spells just fluttered away! Whatever will the big bad demon do?”

She wasn’t wrong. He had lost a bulk of his talismans and while he did have his wand and could cast spells himself without those talismans, the windy barrier around her would make actually hitting her incredibly difficult. Still, he leveled his wand at her with grim determination, his divine blood itching underneath his skin, begging for release.

“Surrender!” he called out over the wind. “And I promise you’ll be treated fairly!”

The girl laughed and took a step forward, foot crunching on a talisman that was doggedly stuck to the ground.

“Oh, you’re funny! You’ve already lost, idiot!”

“I may be an idiot, but I’m not the one that just stepped on a trap.” The girl’s eyes darted down to the talisman now stuck to her foot and then back up at him. With a showy move, he snapped his fingers and a pulse of magic surged out for more than a hundred feet in every direction.

Spells fizzled and died as the mana interference of his dispel disrupted their delicate matrices. Half a dozen aeromancers feel screaming to their deaths as the wind keeping them aloft stripped away from them. But importantly, the windy barrier around the catgirl in front of him died down. In an instant, he drew a very special talisman and held it between his fingers as his hands formed the required seal to unlock it.

“Ultimate Spell: Divine Disjunction!”

The talisman dissolved in a rush of energy as a series of magical circles unfolded before him. The augmented magic missiles flashed away from him in a swarm, trails of magical energy marking their travel. The girl tried to dodge but the missiles were relentless in their homing and their empowered nature slashed through her light armor with no resistance. She had just enough time to look up from where she landed, clutching her bleeding shoulder, to see the second wave of missiles launch from the echo of the first magical circle. By the time the dust settled, there was one less aeromancer to deal with.

By CCeles.

By Sabbrewolf.

A crowd of warriors was a uniquely noisy experience. Armor clanking and rattling, leather creaking, weapons ringing. There were all types of Youkai at the festival from hulking Oni men with bulging muscles to elegant Kitsune with armor that looked like they cost multiple seasons worth of work to afford. A serene faced Ryujin was just stepping up to the head of the crowd, his horns gleaming in the sun and his scaled armor a masterwork.

“The Stone Splitting Festival shall now begin. There are boulders from all corners of the world and the prize for splitting each will go to the one who makes the final, splitting stroke. Rewards are, obviously, determined by the quality of the stone.” He gestured toward the field behind him at the decorated areas containing various sized boulders of different materials. “Our centerpiece is a Shōki infused basalt from beyond Ezochi, sourced from the depths of the Kita no Shōheki.”

Left unsaid was that something like that would be nearly impossible to crack, let alone split. Even still, a significant chunk of the largest and most confident of the crowd immediately went toward the basalt boulder to prove their worth. Yuzu followed behind that group, the wooden carapace covering the mysterious metals of her limbs was hand carved by her grandmother, replacing the cracked, porcelain-like covering she used to have. Her fingers clacked against the handle of her greatsword, tilting it slightly to prevent the tip from dragging on the ground. A Raijin scoffed next to her as he adjusted the katana at his waist.

“This isn’t a game for a doll,” he sneered. “You need real muscle for this.”

Yuzu was tempted to flip her hair and walk by him but she didn’t want to antagonize people if she didn’t have to. They’d be upset enough as it was when she split that boulder. His sentiment was common, especially among warriors, when it came to Marionettes like her or even Jiangshi in small bodies. Her form was static, she couldn’t build muscle like an Oni or Kitsune or Raijin. But she could focus more mana into her metal limbs, her wooden skin, and her joints to increase her strength and durability. In fact, she could feel she was only tapping the barest potential of what her body was capable of even now.

By the time she reached the end of the line, there was already a cacophony of shouts and weapon impacts against stones intermingled with distant cheers as weaker stones were split. But at the basalt boulder, the only sounds were roars of effort and the ring of ineffectual impacts. A cheer went up when she was just about to get her turn when the Raijin that had mocked her used his lightning infused katana to break a finger sized chip off the boulder, marking the most significant damage so far.

Finally it was Yuzu’s turn and laughter followed her as she swung her sword off her shoulder to land heavily point down in the ground, balanced by her grip on the crossguard that was just about at eye level with her. Calls to “get the doll out of here” rang out but she ignored them. With a shout that drowned them out, she slammed her sword straight down into the earth until it stopped with a tremor at the guard, making those around her wobble. She pulled it out with a slight hop, her sword now coated in jagged stone. She stepped up to the basalt boulder, the shōki of it a palpable aura. She lifted her sword easily above her head.

“Keisoku Hōkai!” 

Her sword came down with a resonating crack, the earth and air vibrating with the force of it. With a groan of protest, the basalt boulder slowly split apart to the stunned silence of the crowd.

--
Translator’s Note: 

Shōki - Miasma

Kita no Shōheki - Northern Barrier

Keisoku Hōkai - Measured Collapse

Ezochi - The center northern island of Kirara

Masters of lightning.

The sounds of fighting and dying were getting closer and closer. Naori rushed into the throne room, her regal dress replaced with enchanted robes and sturdy boots. Her Queensguard hurried beside her, the clank of their armor and weapons not nearly enough to drown out the sounds of war that were far too close. A harried Captain was just sending off a runner at the foot of the thrones as she came to a stop.

“What is the situation now, Captain?”

“Your Highness,” he said with a quick bow. “The King is organizing the defense at the gates and the rest of the keep walls are holding, for now. But we’re outnumbered by these vile cats and General Kytur is still days away with the main body of our forces.”

Naori closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. That her husband was out on the front was not the news she wanted to hear. She knew he’d been when she didn’t see him on the throne, but it was still like a fist tightened around her heart at the confirmation. He was a great warrior, one of the finest in Ithelia, but even someone as mighty as he was could be brought down by numbers.

“Be honest with me, Captain. Will we hold?”

Her Queensguard shifted in shock and the Captain hesitated before lowering his gaze and shaking his head. “No, my Queen. It’s a miracle we haven’t had any breakthroughs already. Our garrison just isn’t large enough to repel this kind of attack.”

“I see.” She turned to her most trusted personal guard. “Amelia.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“You will get my daughter and get her out. These cats mean to destroy us and I will not let them have Kori.”

There was reluctance in Amelia’s gaze before she nodded and brought her arm up in a salute. “Marnol, Surie, with me. We’ll get the Princess out, Your Highness. We have allies in Susururu that will shelter us.”

“Thank you, Amelia. All of you. May the Light of Kari watch over you.”

It was only minutes after half her Queensguard had left the throne room before assassins broke through the lines. The Captain and her guards fought to keep them away but it was her magic that was the true threat. Elemental blasts flew from her hands like rain. Fire, ice, lightning, earth, wind…even holy and dark magic cut down catfolk soldiers. It was the very nature of the world fighting against their invasion, buying time for Amelia to get out with Kori. To get to safety.

“The annexation of Ithelia and the rabbitfolk will be the source of the greatest breakthroughs in magical understanding in the last five hundred years. It’s still a shame that we had to wipe out the Itia family, but any survivors would have been a rallying point for rebellion. We’re lucky that the young King and Queen hadn’t yet produced an heir.” - General Purin Haearn in a letter back to Northi about the successful campaign against the rabbitfolk of Ithelia

Wisps of dark smoke seeped from the wound in the human’s chest as the man slowly collapsed to the ground. The alley was suffocatingly silent, the sounds of nightlife muted by an unseasonable blanket of fog. Golan watched with a twist in his stomach as the human coughed weakly, blood dribbling from his lips.

“This pain is nothing compared to what they’ve done to me.”

He grit his teeth and touched the spot on his head where his second horn should have been, long ago broken off, the phantom pain fading. Humans had done that to him. He didn’t like hurting people, it made him sick to his stomach.

“But they never learn. I have to stop them.”

“Demon--”

A flare of hatred rushed through him as he stared down at the human. It turned cold as he channeled that rage, dark miasma gathering in his hand like freezing night. Slowly, he pressed his hand into the man’s throat, cutting off the scream that nearly ripped through the night, the dark energy suffocating and tearing. He watched as the man choked on nothing but darkness and blood until his eyes faded and he slumped fully to the ground.

It was sinful, what he was doing. Golan’s mother would be horrified with him. She’d had such high hopes, high beliefs. Named him after some famous general, went to the Church of Light every week even though they all but spat on her. She’d tell him over and over that their ancient rebellion had been a mistake, had been demon-kind’s greatest sin. That they just needed to trust in Kari and Her Providence. But that didn’t keep her, his family, his friends safe. So he’d sin and sin and sin. For them. And in the quiet times, the dark moments, it was as if he could hear approval.

“I’m the only one who loves your sin.”

With a grimace, he poured dark magic at the corpse, scouring it from existence. Only a stain on the paving stones would mark it and that evidence would be gone with the next rain.

There was a loud banging on the door. The spiderfolk sitting at the table inside the little house placed her pen on the table with a sigh. She made her way to the door and opened it, being greeted to the sight of several dozen people standing outside her place brandishing torches and makeshift weapons.

“Monster! Murderer! You’ll pay for what you did!”

Came the cries from the crowd of villagers, emboldened by the presence of a small group of better armed and armored people in front. “You can’t hide your crimes any longer, Dulcinea. Come with us, and we’ll ensure you get a fair trial.” Said the young man in front with a confident smile, clearly the leader of the small adventurer group.

The spider woman looked over the assembled group of people with annoyance rather than fear. She blinked once and one of her eight eyes began to glow in an eerie golden glow.

All in her gaze began to feel a sense of dread creeping over them, as if they suddenly realized they were trying to mess with someone far beyond their powers. A person turned around to run, and more began to follow. 

They were too late.

Dulcinea blinked once more and two more of her eyes began to glow. The people felt their energy being sapped from them. Worse, they felt their very soul was being attacked by some dark magic. The screaming started.

The leader, now having realized what was happening, drew his sword and prepared to charge at the spider woman. He only made it a single step before his companions watched him slump to the floor, his sword falling from his grip. Beyond the body of their friend stood Dulcinea, with one of her main eyes now glowing a bright blue.

Two of the companions ran, fleeing into the sea of corpses from the villagers that lay there without any visible wounds. They made it further, but not far enough as they left the acolyte of Kari the only one alive of the group. She stood there, frozen in fear, as the spider approached her prey.

“Look into my eyes, it’s the last thing you’ll ever see.”

“...and like the Sun rising at the Dawn, Saint Rebekah held aloft her golden blade in defiance of the King of Fiends. To this day, no one knows the details of the final moments of the Battle of Fort Ende, but the fiend army never crossed the border, destroyed in place by the holy might of Kari.” - The Final Stand of Saint Rebekah; Holy Record of the Church of Kari

“Fort Dinaich, or Fort Ende as the Westrians call it, located north of Eisenstadt along the border of the Astra Line, has been rebuilt countless times throughout history. But only once was it completely destroyed; in the creatively named Battle of Fort Dinaich. Historical records differ in details but there were luckily a plethora of eyewitness accounts for nearly the entire battle and it is one of the most studied in relation to massed fiend attacks. It was undoubtable that Saint Rebekah was key to the final defense of the Fort and for the escape of so many survivors but any accounts of her defeating the Principality King of Fiends in single combat are unconfirmed at best and mythological at worst.” - Analysing the Battle of Fort Dinaich by Alejandro Ar Murin

--

“Hold them!” Rebekah shouted, her voice raw from overuse. She ducked away from the sweeping attacks of a multi-armed Exousia before bringing her sword up to bash aside its attacks. It staggered and that was all the time she needed to slash down, sword gleaming with holy magic, severing what counted as a head for the fiend. It collapsed and began dissolving into wisps of Astra but she didn’t take a moment to rest. Holy light flared along her body and down her arms as she swung her sword in a horizontal arc, releasing the built up energy in a scything ray into the advancing Kratos and Exousia. That bought her the time to take stock of the battle for a brief, critical moment.

Fort Ende was burning, the walls were breached, and she could just make out the distant figures of wounded being evacuated south. But more importantly, her left flank was buckling under a focused Exousia attack.

“CORIN! Hit the left flank now! Now! NOW!”

The speck that was Corin in the sky eviscerated the flying fiends harrying her with a wash of magical bullets. The air was still thick with fiends but she had enough space to begin gathering magic in earnest, magical arrays splaying out around her. Blue light began to wash out every color across the battlefield and the world seemed to hold its breath. Then a roar, so powerful that it shook the ground beneath her feet, and a flare of nearly blinding blue light. When Rebekah finally blinked away the spots in her eyes, the push on the left had been replaced by a seething cloud of smoke and dust.

--

“The attrition of a battle like this, against this many fiends, is inevitable. Even for Skybound or Gem ranked warriors. Even with feats of prowess that seemed more out of myths from the Divine War than something that happened nearly two hundred years ago. It’s almost hard to believe people like Corin Airheart or Malkor the Mountain Crusher could ever fall but that is just the reality of engaging a Principality. And while the truth of the account of the one survivor of Saint Rebekah’s party is oft debated, the truth of the matter is that whatever did happen at the end of the battle, it was visible for miles and no fiends survived it to pursue the survivors” - The Saint’s Party by Helga von Lurgen

--

Corin was down. She had cleared the skies, swept aside dozens of Exousia. And the Principality had swatted her from the air like an annoying insect. Malkor was down, buried somewhere under a pile of fiends that was so large that their dissolving mists had still yet to clear. At least Amelia had made it out, her healing working miracles even if her prayers went to that heretical tree goddess. She would make sure the survivors made it home.

Rebekah gingerly lowered herself down to one knee, sword point digging into the blood soaked ground to keep her balance. With the braying of fiends too fearful to come near her echoing around her, she prayed. The rote prayers that she’d scoffed at as an initiate gave her comfort…like the soothing embrace of a mother. And for a brief, eternal moment, it was like she was floating amidst the heavens, golden sunlight beckoning her to paradise.

An earth shuddering stomp snapped her back to reality, to the smoke clogged air and the King of Fiends staring down at her. But even with her serene focus shattered, she continued to pray.

“You fought well,” it said in a soothing, deep voice. “Surrender to me and become my Queen.”

Rebekah stood and pulled her sword from the mud.

“...and I shall hold my blade on high to bask in Your radiance,” she said as she raised her sword, golden light flickering along the blade. The Principality took a massive step forward to stop her.

“Grant me Your Guidance to see through falsehoods and banish the corruption,” she continued, her voice rising. Her left hand rose to join her right on the grip of her sword and she set her feet in a steady stance.

“You FOOL! You throw away all I can offer you for your witch of a goddess?!”

The King of Fiends was moments away from reaching her, the miasmatic axe in his hands raised to swing.

“And I shall render Your DIVINE JUDGEMENT!”

Rebekah’s sword fell and the world turned golden.

Susana stood upon the parapet, facing the storm choked chaotic mess that was the Astra Line. Miasma had been gathering along the border all day, twisting and warping and occasionally revealing a glimpse of a grotesque fiend. Attacks on Fort Ende were not uncommon, the fiends tested their defences regularly. But for the sickening miasma to concentrate so heavily required an unheard of gathering of fiends. An unnatural gathering.

“Unnatural,” she scoffed to herself. As if fiends could be anything but unnatural. Fiends would take any opportunity to attack the peoples of Lyr but they were fickle abominations. Greedy. Prideful. It took great power to bind them together for a single purpose. A walking calamity. A Principality. Rebekah and her party had left earlier that week on a hunt for what she had described as a “King of Fiends” in an effort to prevent such a gathering of evil.

“I’m leaving Ende in your care, Susana. If the worst comes, you must hold them. Bleed them. If this abomination makes it past us, the northlands will burn before it can be stopped.”

Seeing the spreading miasma crawling slowly toward the walls of Fort Ende, Susana wondered if her friend had failed or was simply too late. She shook that thought away, basking in the golden light of the sun falling on her shoulders. It wouldn’t be long until the storm clouds spread and cast them all in gloom, so she would take the comfort of Kari’s Light while she could.

“High Priestess? The division commanders are assembled.”

Susana took a fortifying breath and cast out her worries in a short prayer. “Your Radiance guides my hand as a Bulwark for all. Enai.”

“Enai,” the courier said quietly.

--

“Fort Ende withstood the King of Fiends and his army for six days. Six times, the Principality was turned back by the walls and by the High Priestess of the Bulwark, Lady Susana. The Divine Providence of Kari filled the air around her, held her aloft in defiance of the King of Fiends, and uplifted the defenders of Fort Ende. With her holy defenses they were able to reap righteous retribution of the fiends ranks. To all at Fort Ende, it was as if a miracle had descended from the heavens.

And on the seventh day, that miracle fell. Some say it was exhaustion, some a foul trick by the Principality, and yet others claimed treachery. But when Lady Susana fell, the walls of Fort Ende fell with her. But the walls had held long enough. For Saint Rebekah, her return from glorious crusade was greeted by bearing witness to the fall of a dear friend. But that only fueled her fury as she brought an end to the King of Fiends and his army.” - The Lost of Ende, an Anthology of Testimony by Urik Fispline

From a collection of well preserved and maintained Recorder Orbs in the mining town of Caernelli, located at the base of the Tuagledd Mountains and south east of Mt. Merlin itself.

An image wavered to life, revealing a pair of rugged boots scuffing into the ground. Sound, slightly distorted, played of the dirt crunching and loud cloth rustling before the image swung wildly in a blur. When it steadied, the freckled face of a young ratfolk girl smiled and a hand came up to ruffle her windblown hair into some semblance of order.

“Oh, it’s working now! Uh…uh…right! Hi! I’m Dina Awbrey, senior apprentice to Master Oric Carew of the Caernelli Mining Institute.” The view suddenly panned to show a sweeping image of a distant town and quarry nestled against the base of the mountains. By the angle, Dina was hundreds of feet up the mountain above the town. A gloved hand came into view, pointing at one of the distant buildings. “Right down there.”

The image panned again with the sound of rustling cloth and the slight creak of well worn leather. By the time the view settled, Dina was making final adjustments of the straps of a bulky pack. A compact shovel, a pickaxe, spare boots, some metal contraptions, and a significant amount of rope were all easily visible. She clapped her hands together and gave the recorder orb a thumbs up.

“Ready to go! I’ll prove to old dog Carew that there’s more to this mountain than the stone and iron in the quarry!” She pointed dramatically up at the mountain peaks just as the orb gave an alarming warble. “Oops, time’s u--” The recording cut off suddenly.

Several following recordings chronicled Dina’s journey up the mountain and some of her…interesting attempts at cooking while camping. The next interesting recording was much more harrowing.

“Woooah! O-ooooh! Uh--okay! I’m OKAY!” Wind hissed across the sheer cliff face and snapped at loose clothing. The image wobbled for a moment before it stabilized, showing an impossible angle of Dina clinging to the cliff with both hands and her boots sporting attached climbing cleats. She was holding the recorder orb with her tail. Rope dangled beneath her down a hundred foot drop, secured in place by the occasional piton.

“Almost fell there!” Dina shouted over the wind with a laugh. “UH…I’m about halfway up this cliff now and my boots are working GREAT! Really gonna need to thank Patrick for them. And these new pitons! They don’t budge at all!” She demonstrated by leaning back and tugging aggressively at the rope securing her to the cliff face. 

“Anyway! Right up there is the cave I spotted yesterday. The one with that glint.” Still leaning out, Dina pointed above her and stretched her tail out for a better angle. The very faintest impression of a shadowed outcropping could be seen. “I should be up there in time for lunch--” A gust of wind swung Dina and she scrambled for a good hold on the cliff. “If this wind doesn’t knock me down first!” The orb’s view swung and then suddenly darkened with a cacophony of rustling before the recording stopped.

The next recording began with Dina grinning and tapping a vein of metal glistening in the sunlight. “I knew it. Orichalcum, it has to be.” There was a snap and hum of an artifice device activating and a bright light shone down into the cave. More lines of mineral gleamed. The light shifted sharply as Dina moved the source into view. It was a leather cap with what looked like the barest bones of a Northi Lantern attached to it. She tapped the top and the dull sound of metal covered in leather echoed.

“Patrick called this a ‘hard hat’. He’s thinking of trying to get all the miners to wear them, but it’s not really working out. He did manage to fit a lantern on it though, kinda heavy, but being able to see with hands and tail free is great! Anyway, I’m gonna get a couple samples of this near the entrance and see what else I can find deeper in!” The image cut off.

There were no further recordings but there was a collection of custom made tools and various samples displayed. A folding shovel, a reinforced pickaxe, the climbing spike attachments for her boots, the self expanding pitons, and the hard hat with the mounted lamp. Refined versions of them could be purchased at the Institute to support more Excavator activity in the mountains, led and taught by Master Dina Awbrey.

Agents of the Church's justice.

Alastair tried not to shift as he stood at attention with the dozen other prospective knights. There was a crowd gathered before the stage he was standing on and banners flying Sylvan’s heraldry snapped gently in the breeze. It made the silver branches of the stylized World Tree that took up the center of the banner look like they were waving in the wind. A murmur and hush rushed through the crowd and then trumpets began to sound. They were those traditional, softly pitching long ones. The ones with no valves that required the player to be able to adjust the pitch with sheer skill instead of mechanical buttons.

They played a herald everyone recognized but rarely heard. It was the Herald of the Queen. He didn’t dare turn his head to look even as Knight Isla, the woman that had trained all of them, marched across the stage. Then the Queen’s Thorns marched up onto the stage, their fully enclosed helmets gave them an intimidating air.

“Her Majesty, Queen Rurubelle!”

Alastair was down on one knee and bowing his head before he realized his reflexes had cut in. From the dull roar of collective movement, he could tell the rest of the crowd had gone down to their knees as well. The Queen’s footsteps were nearly silent and measured. She stopped just in front of him, the hem of her dress nearly brushing his foot.

“You may rise,” the Queen said simply, her voice carrying like the wind itself was her willing servant. Alastair rose with the rest of his compatriots and the crowd, returning to standing at attention.

“We are here today to honor the accomplishment of these fine squires in completing their training to earn the illustrious title of Fae Knight.” Queen Rurubelle let her words echo over the crowd before continuing. “Legend tells us that, before the Great Barrier, the Fae Knights were charged with the defense of the World Tree. Of Yggdrasil Herself. They were Her eternal guardians and empowered with Her Grace. Ever have our great Knights kept our lands safe and allowed our people to flourish and thrive under the boughs of Easter.”

“Today, the ranks of our brave guardians swell. New blades and shields join the bulwark against the greed of the world beyond our forest home. Give your thanks with me to this new generation of heroes!”

Queen Rurubelle turned slightly so she could look at most of them and began to clap gently, her gloved hands muffling the noise. The crowd made up for it with the roar of thousands of hands clapping washing over them. Alastair felt his heart surge with pride. Knight Isla had drilled the legends and myths of the origins of their order of knights until they’d all be well and truly sick of it. But hearing it from the Queen, even so briefly, suddenly made it feel like he was stepping into hallowed boots.

The applause continued as the Queen began to go to each of his fellow trainees one by one. She’d take a cloak and clasp from a waiting servant and say something while draping the Fae Knight’s cloak over their shoulders and pinning it in place with the crossed swords over the World Tree cloak clasp. And suddenly, before he could prepare himself for it, she was in front of him.

She swept the cloak over his shoulders with expert poise, her hands smoothing over his shoulders as she settled it into place. Then she spoke in a low, reverent voice. “I charge you with the defense of the World Tree. I charge you to act with honor in all things. I charge you with responsibility for all peoples beneath Her Boughs. I charge you now as a Fae Knight, bound by honor and Yggdrasil’s Blessing. Congratulations, Knight Alastair.” 

The cloak clasp snapped into place with finality and the Queen gave him a small smile before moving on.

This couldn’t be happening. This was impossible. Like the sun rising from the west or a tree growing backwards into a seed. Monsters born from that corrupting miasma ran rampant, shrieking and roaring and tearing. The branches of Mimameith quivered and shook but that gentle touch of Her presence, the whispers in her mind like leaves in the breeze, was gone. Still. Not like a breath taken before the storm but a terrible stillness. A wrongness as foul as the monsters before her.

Her comrades were already fighting. Squires in training gallantly falling to the sheer numbers, power, and miasmatic sickness. Her fellow Knights, all devout and empowered protectors of Mimameith, were being driven back. They were falling. Under Her Canopy, at Her Roots, they were falling!

“Please, Mimameith! Please answer!”

Silence. The shrieks of the monsters echoed from far below. Mimameith didn’t speak. But the warmth of Her Blessings, the strength of Her Favor still hummed beneath her skin. She drew her swords, the matched blades curved slightly like an arc of wind captured in a painting. Her shoulders twitched and the Blessing of Flight granted to her by Mimameith manifested as gleaming Sylph wings. The wind stirred at her back, a silent approval and nudge toward the battle. She took a breath and announced herself. To draw attention, to bolster the spirits of her comrades.

“I am Aoife Sailech, The Knight of Willow! And I will banish you from this holy place!”

Several monsters below sprouted grotesque wings and leapt into the air to meet her as she dove down. She held her swords out to her side and…let them go. They spun through the air, impossibly accelerating down to meet the enemy as if guided by Mimameith’s Wrath directly. They carved and cut through the miasmatic monsters, scattering them to dissolving wisps in the blink of an eye. More rose into the sky and her swords returned on divine wings to her hands only for her to descend into the mass of monsters in a whirlwind of fury.

Her holy blades sang as they bit deep, as they sliced clean through. As they scattered the vile blood and miasma of these creatures to the ground. In her hands or not, her blades reaped a terrible harvest. Every moment she swung them, she ended a monster. Every time they were spinning through a fiend, she was searing away another with Mimameith’s Divine Light. For a fleeting, desperate moment, it was almost enough. 

She had slain dozens in minutes but there were dozens more to replace them, each stronger than the last. Or maybe she was growing weaker.

Suddenly, she was unwillingly airborne, tumbling through the air until she stabilized herself. Blood dripped down her fingers and she was grateful Mimameith could hold her sword for her because she couldn’t do it with that arm now. Not with the rent in her armor and the gash that had crippled her shoulder. The sun was setting or…or the miasma was getting thicker? It was unsettlingly quiet beneath the boughs of Mimameith, the sounds of her fellows having fallen silent at some point. That…that didn’t matter. She was still standing. Mimameith was at her back and no matter the silence of Her presence, Aoife knew She was with her.

A dozen…two dozen…or was it three? It didn’t matter. The enemy was in front of her and they wouldn’t get past her. Her eyes flared with that determination and with power.

“Mimameith’s Blessing…Verdant Shatterbelt!”

The gentle warmth of Mimameith became a torrent rushing through her eyes. First five, then ten, then fifteen and more and more copies of her swords blinked into existence around her. A forest of spinning holy steel. Her eyes burned and her vision blurred but she didn’t need to see clearly. Her Guidance was all she needed and Her Hands were on the hilts of her swords. These monsters were but leaves before the gale of Mimameith’s Might.

It all ended with her on her knees, her blades fallen beside her and the divine illusions dissipating into motes around her. She coughed, splattering the root beneath her with black blood. That miasma, the thick corruption in the air, pressed down on her.

That’s strange…isn’t blood supposed to be red?

Aoife laughed weakly. What a strange thing. It couldn’t be blood. Blood meant she was hurt. Wounded. But she didn’t feel hurt. She felt fine. She felt…hungry…

“Bennachd na Yggdrasil ar talah se.” The Blessing of Yggdrasil upon this land. The traditional words spoken over a Farmer’s field before any work is done for the season. Passed down through the generations, most modern Farmers have no knowledge of its origin or the significance it holds in prayer to an old god. Attempts by the Church of Light to coin their own blessing by Kari has had mixed results throughout history, with the traditional appeal seeming to always be measurably more effective. The prayer was ultimately, and grudgingly, accepted by the Church but there were still occasional movements and studies made to replace it with something “more holy”.

From the expansive wheat fields of Dacquoise to the carefully tended orchards of Sylvan, the ancient words of blessing were spoken and passed down from father to son, mother to daughter, master to apprentice. While every farmer may know the words, may know the varying rituals, it was the head Farmer of the village that would lead each blessing. Often thought of as the wizened elder (to the annoyance of those much younger that have learned the ways of the blessing), it was common for the head Farmer to bless a towns’ fields in a rotation. While it wasn’t as glamorous as becoming a mage or a knight or an adventurer, there was always a steady apprenticeship across Lyr, of families and communities teaching and training the next generation.

To the Farmer, the connection to the land was a palpable thing, the energy flowing from them and into them in equal measure. While this gave Farmers a tendency to plant roots of their own and remain in one place, some took their brief connection to the natural world as a call. To discover and see as much of the world they could connect to as possible. But most importantly of all, no farmer or Farmer would ever forget the benediction of the harvest: “Gabthasinn a toirt Yggdrasil don tiodlac seo.” We thank Yggdrasil for this gift.

Fighters come from many backgrounds. They can be adventurers, soldiers or even just travelers who've decided to master the arts of combat. They wield weapons with expert skill, making them the backbone of any adventuring party.

What sets them apart from ordinary soldiers is their ability to perceive and control mana within their bodies. This keen understanding gives them an edge—allowing them to move at high speeds and deliver powerful blows. Fighters are a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield and welcome allies.

The first Suryan monastery was built on the highest mountaintops in Kirara, the ones closest to the sun. There the monks sought its guidance and found enlightenment through the 5 core tenets that they called the harmonies.

The Harmony of Form teaches that the body is a vessel of light. The body must remain clear and disciplined for radiance to pass through it. Through mastery of the body, the first harmony is achieved. Perfect form, movement without wasted motions.

The Harmony of Intention transforms will into compassion. True strength is not to destroy, but the choice to preserve. It is the power to channel your inner radiance into healing energy to aid those in need around you.

The Harmony of Sensation awakens sensation through contact. Every touch becomes a dialogue in the world. Once a person feels without judgement, they experience the world honestly and begin to awaken to truth.

The Harmony of Perception refines this awareness into clarity. Once mastered, this perception blooms into pure intuition and a fighter is able to extend their influence on the world.

The final teaching is the Harmony of Consciousness. It only can be understood once the other harmonies become one. It is the dissolution of separation. The body, thought, senses and motions all become a single blooming sun of radiance. A single moment of temporary enlightenment.

While the teachings were philosophical in nature at the start, masters of the Five Harmonies have converted these teachings into a formidable fighting style.

“Move with clarity, Choose without hesitation, Feel without fear, See without illusion, Become without self.” 

A blade style originating from Raijin swordmasters.  A notable practicioner of Flash Star Blade Style is Rin Tatsugami of Madeline.

The Flowing Wind Style was founded by Yun Fei of the Azure Cloud Sect, a cultivator and the first leader of the sect. She taught that freedom without motion is illusion, and motion without freedom is merely compulsion. To cultivate the wind is to accept that remaining unchanged is itself a form of confinement. These teachings shape the core beliefs behind the style and likewise the style encourages its students to accept those tenets.

Motion is continuity. A flowing thing may be slowed, turned aside or dispersed but it does not stop unless forced. Students are taught that every movement is an act of cultivation. To move is to remain free.

Freedom is choice and choice is power. Without the strength to resist being forced into an action, a person can never be truly free. Those that follow the Flowing Wind Style seek strength for that reason, to remain free until the very end.

From the lively activity of the deep forest to the serene stillness of the snowy tundra, a Forager was most at home wandering places no one has traveled through in decades (if ever). To take only what was needed, to preserve the beauty of what was; that was the motto of many Foragers. An ideal that caused natural tension between Foragers and Farmers but even the most steadfast Forager would admit that their ways wouldn’t be able to support the growing population of Lyr.

A true Forager could be recognized by their unique gathering tool: giant scissors. Named so due to their general construction of two handles with paired blades connected to a pivot point, the giant scissors were reinforced survival multi-tools. Designed for the specific needs of each Forager, the scissors often had blades large enough to cut a tree in half (or a man) and most came with sharpened tips that could be used like a spear when the tool was closed. Serrated or sharpened outer edges could allow for sawing and chopping wood, while the handles would sometimes have hooks to aid in pulling things down into easy reach. A difficult tool to master just for harvesting, those Foragers that trained to fight with them were unpredictable dervishes that utilized their unconventional weapon’s quirks to their advantage.

With a deep connection to the natural world around them and experience born from time in the wilderness, Foragers were never truly in danger of running out of even the most basic of supplies. Be it food and water or torches, ropes, and even shelters, a Forager could often find or fashion some manner of natural replacement. With a sharp eye for details honed by spotting tiny gatherable herbs and mushrooms (and identifying their properties at a glance), their versatility in supplies, and even their strange combat style, any adventure or expedition would do well to consider bringing a Forager along.

Crafters who supply the world's weapons.

A magic user that focuses on manipulating the earth around them.

The caravan is stopped. The bridge over the ravine is gone, scrap and splinter of it remaining on either side of the more than one hundred twenty foot gap in the earth. Did it collapse from the weather or an earthquake? Or was it deliberately destroyed by Northi sappers, flaunting their new air superiority of Sorthen’s logistical lines? It didn’t matter, the bridge was gone and the evacuation toward Marlone was stopped dead in its tracks. Teyo Lu’Solana scowled at the gap, the earth shivering with each impatient tap of her foot.

The leaders of the caravan were arguing over alternative routes or taking the time to rebuild the bridge. They were assuming General Ar’Golan would be able to hold off the might of the combined Northi-Westria forces. That they had time for “alternative routes” or “bridge building”. Teyo knew if they stayed here, they would be caught against this ravine and slaughtered. And she had been tasked by the General to get this caravan safely to Marlone.

“We’re crossing,” she declared loudly, interrupting the debate.

One of the men nervously looked at his compatriots and then reluctantly stepped forward. “With all due respect, Lady Lu’Solana, the decision hasn’t been made yet. We’ll take your input into consideration as a vote for a bridge, but--”

Teyo scoffed and turned away, walking toward the edge of the ravine. “No, we’re crossing now. We’ve wasted enough time.”

She ignored the indignant officials shouting at her as she plants her feet at the point where stone meets open air. Mana surged through her body, her blood singing, begging to release its shackles. She held that urge back and crossed her arms imperiously. Then, with a stomp of her foot, the earth heaved beneath her and she rode a bridge of earth across the ravine where it anchored solidly with the opposite wall as if it had always been.

The new stone bridge is twenty feet wide and gently arched for support. With a few twists of her feet and guidance from her hands, support pillars rose from the ravine floor to shore up the structure of the bridge and ensure it wouldn’t buckle under the load. Finally, Teyo let a shuddering breath escape her lips but didn’t let the exhaustion of shaping that much earth show. She just stands to the side of the new bridge as the awestruck evacuees trundle past her in wagons and carts. She only followed once the last of the refugees were across and with a violent twist of her feet, the entire bridge collapsed in a roar of falling stone.

They were safe, for now, and free to get to the ships that would take them to Marlone in the Bay.

Isabelle Un Lavi scowled when her healed boots crunched against the wooden debris of the front door as she stepped outside. The big bruiser of a bandit lay sprawled where she’d tossed him through the door. Well, she hadn’t. Stone grinding against wood announced the arrival of her very effective bodyguard. The intricately carved visage of a Westrian Knight came to a rest at the foot of the stairs, the sunlight gleaming off the white marble stone. She took the time to straighten her sleeves and brush her hair back with a flick of her wrist.

“Gentlemen, this is the single most foolish attempt at robbery I have ever seen,” she said to the half dozen other bandits watching her warily (one was trying to wake up the big bruiser of a leader without much luck). “And normally, I would be delighted to entertain you until the sheriff arrives to collect you.” Her tail flicked in irritation. “But unfortunately, you’ve gone and destroyed a perfectly wonderful door on my master’s house and that I cannot abide. No, you’ll just have to pay for that.”

“This is stupid! It’s just the maid and an enchanted statue!” one of the bandits shouted, either the second in command or the loudmouth that wished he was. Whoever he was, he was inspiring enough to get them motivated to commit to the robbery again and the new leader was charging right at her, spear held like a lance.

“Pawn to E4,” she said. The sound of stone grinding was all the warning the loudmouth had before a stone statue of a Westrian Squire grew from the ground in front of him. His spear chipped a chunk off the pawn’s shoulder but the pawn buried its stone sword through the bandit’s torso. It carelessly dropped the corpse and took a step forward, visibly morphing into a regal Westrian Priest, white stone robes pristine and an ornate, heavy stone mace in its hands.

Faced with two enchanted statues, one unconscious leader, and one dead loudmouth, the remaining bandits seemed to think it was time to make a run for it.

“I don’t think so,” Isabelle said, gesturing for her Bishop and Knight to move. The sounds of stone slamming against flesh and the screams of their fellows drove the bandits that had slipped by her creations to make a full sprint for the gates. With a twist of her wrist and a snap of her fingers, stone rose up out of the ground between them and safety. The stone face of Saint Rebekah stared down at them as they stumbled to a halt.

“I’m afraid this is Checkmate, gentlemen.”

The whistle of the cannonball-like projectile shrieked through the air only to be intercepted by a slab of stone erupting from the ground. The projectile and wall shattered and Taran burst through the debris and dust, his massive form like a wall in its own right as he brought his axe down in a devastating strike against one of the many Kratos swarming toward them, the shockwave shattering more than the one he’d directly struck.

“Keep those walls coming, Bethan! We’re almost there!”

Bethan barely had the breath to sprint to keep up with her husband, each of her steps bringing an echo of the battlefield and everything touching the ground. The large Fiend behind the small army of lesser Fiends sucked up another one of its minions, the creature screaming as it was chewed and molded into another projectile. It fired again at Taran but she didn’t have to intervene as he deflected the cannonball with a fist infused with stone.

A stomp of her dainty foot caused a fissure to spring open along Taran’s flank, swallowing a couple Kratos but mostly preventing the large group from jumping him right as he finally reached the Fiend that was spawning them. She slid her foot, scraping against the rock and she lifted her hand. Another wall shot up between Taran and the Fiend, catching a heavy claw blow that would have caught her husband full in the side. That left him with every opportunity to bring his axe down in a mana fueled blow.

Ten minutes later, they were standing among the evaporating remains of the Fiends and the rubble of her protective walls, cracks in the earth, and stone projectiles she’d created during the fight.

“That was closer than I like,” Taran said tiredly as she tied a bandage around his arm. 

“We handled it,” she said, reaching out to take his face in her small hands. “No one in the village was hurt, no homes were damaged.”

“I know. But this is the third attack this month. There must be a Dungeon nearby, somewhere.”

“That’s a problem for adventurers,” she insisted. “You’re not dragging me off to clear a Dungeon. We have kids, Taran.”

“I know…but…”

“Twenty years ago, we wouldn’t have hesitated, I know.” Bethan shifted his face until he was looking directly at her. “But we have something more important than our old glory days, now. We’ll send a message to Mothergreen and Northi to get some help with this when we get back home.”

Taran smiled and scooped her up into his arms and stood, drawing a laugh out of her. “What did I ever do to deserve such a wonderful wife?”

“Because you’re a wonderful husband. Also, the muscles didn’t hurt.”

Storm clouds swirled unnaturally overhead as if drawn to a singular point directly over the ruins of the temple. Seren waited, her robes and tail tugging in the swirling winds. The adventurers finally stepped out of the intact section of the temple, a ramshackle group that proudly displayed the colors of the Dragon Claw Alliance in some way or another: a scarf, a patch, a tunic, an armband. They were a standard seeming group with a heavy frontline and ranged support, well suited for the variety of dangers found when traveling within the Holy Astra Line.

“It’s over, Seren! Your reign of terror ends today!” the leader shouted, a rabbitfolk man in heavy plate.

“All of your followers are dead, there’s nowhere to run!” growled the hulking bulk of a bearfolk as he flexed his clawed fists.

The other two, a rogue and a priestess, stayed silent, watching her warily.

“That is quite the thing to say in such a holy place,” she said calmly. “Here I am, attempting to restore the world to its proper balance, righting the wrongs placed at the feet of the Holy Mother, Heira. And you can only scream and shout and kill. Ungrateful. Unacceptable.”

She raised her hand. “You are in the presence of a High Priestess of Heira! I am Seren Rhys and you! Will! KNEEL!”

Her hand dropped and the world dropped with it. Cracks spread across the worn stone beneath the DCA party’s feet and they each fell to their knees at the sheer weight crushing them down, even the mighty bearfolk. 

“You have spat on Her Grace for the last time!”

With a roar, the adventurers pushed themselves to their feet and charged at her. Gravity shifted and warped at her command, stone flew and shattered, and spells flew. The sanctity of the ancient temple was disgraced by purified and unpurified blood alike. And she would make them pay for every transgression!

The sound of combat was all around her but seemed muted and distant. Kumiko pushed herself painfully to her feet, one arm hanging limp at her side and dripping blood steadily onto the stone beneath her feet. The blade of her katana shook slightly as she brought it up into a poor reflection of a proper stance. Opposite her, staring at her without emotion and unblinking eyes, was the Jiangshi cultist leader. Kumiko grit her teeth just looking at the cultist that was wearing her mother’s face.

“I expected more out of your Team,” the cultist said flatly, stepping forward in the slow, deliberate advance she’d used the entire fight. Her giant axe dragged along behind her, carving a furrow in the stone with its sheer weight.

Kumiko’s Team was still fighting, engaging the other cultists and akuma they had summoned. All of them were Ascendant rank and they were being pushed back by the sheer weight of numbers in this attack. They were one of the fifty Teams spread across Ezochi to contain any akuma incursions. She had already signaled to them that they had a major incursion and the lack of any response likely meant there were similar attacks happening elsewhere. Hopefully, none as strong as what was hitting Team 44.

“You think you’re winning here?” Kumiko demanded with more bravado than she felt.

“No, I’ve won here.”

That was the only warning before the cultist leader rushed forward, axe swinging from on high in a crushing blow that she knew she couldn’t avoid or block. Kumiko stared defiantly, unwilling to blink or look away from her end.

Which is why she caught the air bend like a distorted mirror so much so that for a moment, she could see the cultist’s back reflected above her. Then the air cracked and the leader was crushed into the stone. A second, louder crack slammed into the ground next to her and a petite, dark haired Oni stood calmly with her hands pressed together like she was holding a trapped bug.

“Well done holding the line,” she said. The earth shook and the horrifying sound of dozens of bones snapping at once filled the air. The Oni, the Dark Radiance Natsuki herself, clapped her hands and then swept them out toward the others fighting, hurling cultists and akuma away like play things. Of the cultist leader, only a crumpled mess of an axe and blood stained stone remained. “Pull Team 44 back, I’ll handle this incursion from here.”

Offensive powerhouses that overwhelm enemies with sheer force.

First fielded by Northi not long after Hussars were becoming common on the battlefield, the Great Knight represented the quintessential heavy cavalry. With knight and mount both clad in heavy armor, the Great Knight was made to be a mobile barrier. Able to interpose their armored bulk for their allies and even project that protection into an aura around them, Great Knights were able to push through even the most heavily contested battlefields for their allies. And while there were countless stories throughout the ages of heavily armored knights turning the tides of battle, there were none as debated as the story of Sir Owain Morgan and Dame Madeline Benoit.

As told and accepted by Northi historians, Sir Owain Morgan was a dogfolk Great Knight without peer. Honorable beyond reproach and an unstoppable juggernaut on the battlefield, he had a list of successful battles attributed to him that stretched the imagination. In fact, detractors of Sir Owain’s tale would often point out that he must have surely known teleportation and time travel magics to be at so many battles at once. What could not be disputed was that Sir Owain certainly existed, his name recorded in the annals of the Bastion Knights. But his most debated feat was one that involved a Westrian knight, Dame Madeline Benoit, and the proliferation of Mage Knights into Northi’s military.

While there were many versions of the tale, the most accepted one in Northi followed a series of reasonably set in stone facts. During one of the many border skirmishes common between Northi and Westria as they vied for control over the Nuren Plains, it was said that Sir Owain led a counter attack against a Westrian skirmishing force. He led his men to victory and successfully captured many knights to ransom back to Westria, including Dame Madeline Benoit. While most of the knights and men at arms were released back to their homes, Dame Madeline was kept for one very important reason: to teach Northi the art of the Mage Knight. Historians for the Era of Knights could often be incited into argument around the idea as there were as many accounts for how Northi gained access to the skills of Westria’s holy knights as there were historians to argue about them.

But what was almost universally accepted as the truth was that Sir Owain, disgusted with his peers and superiors' lack of any decency to release Dame Madeline back to her family, took it upon himself to free the woman. There was little historical accounting of where they went or what they did but there were legends of a pair of knights wandering Lyr and helping those in need. And while those actions had never definitively been attributed to Sir Owain and Dame Madeline, what couldn’t be denied was when they both turned back up in solid historical record. 

They would found Morgan Ranch in what would later become Dacquoise, near the future site of the city of Madeline. It was there that the retired knights, happily married for an unclear amount of time, had begun taking on students and ranch hands to teach the art of horsemanship, knighthood, and magic. While the ranch itself did not last into modern times, the house itself was maintained and the legacy of chivalry was upheld by the descendants of those students. Collectively, and informally, they called themselves the Knights of Morgan and dedicated themselves to helping those in need whenever and wherever they were found.

John was a paladin who loved guns. Like his fellow paladins, he had been trained in the ways of sword and shield.

One day, he and his friends were forced to gather at a border village where a fiend had reportedly appeared. The reports were true. In front of them stood a towering mass of shadows and tentacles that had already murdered the entire population. But of course, they could not simply retreat or it may attack other villages.

His commander gave the order and dozens of paladins charged forward to subdue the creature. But not John. He looked towards the men and women who were running to their death, then towards the pistols he carried at his side. They were expected to fight in melee, but why would Kari's light discriminate against a weapon?

He sheathed his sword and shield and drew his pistol. He ignored his commander's shouting and aimed the weapon at the monster. Brilliant holy light fired from the barrel and as it struck the monster, his allies' attacks became empowered. Without hesitation, he threw his spare pistol to other paladins nearby. Together, their shots annihilated the creature and he became known as the first gun paladin.

A skilled gunner and martial artist that combines guns and martial arts into a deadly mix.

Eirlys Saoirsen crouched low, fingers brushing against a crushed leaf. A single discrepancy in a literal forest of leaves. A single mistake by her prey. She stood and continued following the trail, ghosting through the brush and vines without a trace or hindrance. It was an eternal job to patrol the border of the Great Forest, the boundary of Easter. Normally, the magic of the Fae prevented intruders from making it more than half a mile into the Forest before they became so confused that they wandered back out. But sometimes, poachers would hire an unscrupulous Fae (there were more of those than she liked) to guide them through the country wide bounded field.

Eirlys had been tracking this group for three days, her anger growing at each sign of a hunted glitter stag or crudely harvested glow moss. But she was close, finally, and she could put an end to this. She froze as a branch snapped in the near distance ahead of her and she could just make out brash voices and the sounds of a camp being prepared. She paused, pulling out her crossbow and silently readying it with a bolt. Then she stalked forward, silent and leaving no trail to tack her by.

The poachers were gathering fallen branches for a fire, two catfolk chimera and a human. Their guide, a stuffy looking high fae, was leaning against a tree, radiating barely disguised disgust. Eirlys stalked closer slowly as the camp came together until she was only twenty feet away from the guide. Once in position, she didn’t hesitate and the snap of her crossbow firing put everyone on alert. Well, so did the cry of agony from the guide as her bolt punched through his left calf, pinning it to the tree. She thrust out her hand, vines flying from her outstretched arm and wrapping the surprised Fae to the tree, pinning his arms. Then she sprinted from cover, to slap a piece of sticky bark over his eyes to prevent him from teleporting free of his bindings. 

The poachers were scrambling for their weapons, swords and axes. They had already unstrung their bows for the night so she had the advantage in range. And her crossbow had already reset itself, waiting for a bolt, the partially living weapon her steady companion for longer than most civilizations had lasted. Her second shot of the night pinned one of the catfolk to the ground by his boot, her third knocking another head over heels as he tried to close the distance through the rough terrain of the brush.

She faded in and out of visibility, moving impossibly quickly through the surrounding forest, bolts picking away at them from safety. The sun was just setting by the time the last poacher fell still and she was finally able to relax. Well…Eirlys looked at the struggling, screaming Fae guide and walked over to him. She stuck another sticky bark over his mouth, careful to keep his nose free for breathing. With his screaming muffled, she would really be able to relax. She could turn him in to the Council in Sylvan later.

Powerful divine agents who bring peace and comfort to their allies.

The Hoarfrosts are Cryomancers who’ve mastered the chilling power of ice, tracing their origins back to a legendary mage named Mirane. She was the first to truly perfect the art of Cryomancy during her journey through the eastern Tundra. Her story took a dramatic turn when she faced off against a powerful Fiend. In that intense battle, Mirane developed her ultimate spell, the Eternal Mirane Cage. This incredible spell froze the Fiend in place for ten long years, giving an army of adventurers the time they needed to arrive and finally take it down.

Mirane’s magic didn’t just fade into history—it’s been passed down through the generations to future Hoarfrosts. Those who follow in her footsteps wear a snowflake emblem, just like Mirane did, and many of them embark on their own journeys to the Tundra that now bears her name.

The romantic image of cavalry often brought to mind knights in gleaming plate armor, resplendent in heraldry, astride a powerful steed. Lances, spears, and longswords held aloft, ready to ride nobly into the fray. Ready to rescue princesses, slay dragons, and dispatch dishonorable knaves. While many knights struggle to live up to that image, the origin of those lofty traits could be found in the Hussars.

Named after the light cavalry unit raised from the nobles and knights of Macaron in Dacquoise, the Macaron Hussars set a standard for both chivalry and battlefield prowess that has remained largely unchallenged even into the modern day. While the individual knights may have their betters in swordsmanship or as riders, the combined unit has been considered the premier elite light cavalry force since its creation across all of Lyr. Sworn directly to the King of Dacquoise, the honor within the ranks of the Macaron Hussars is such that there has never been a recorded or rumored instance of betrayal of their oaths, even during the rare instances of attempted usurpation of the Line of the King. They have never failed to follow the rightful King or Heir of Dacquoise.

Their metal was tested in recent memory at the Battle of Nuren Crossing where the combined forces of the Nuren Guard and a small adventuring party held a critical bridge crossing against Northi invasion during the Four Swords War. The Northi commanders, intent to utilize Dacquoise’s roads to move rapidly into a flanking position against Mothergreen, attempted to take the northernmost bridge crossing of the Nuren river. When they were unable to capture the bridge with their scouts, the Northi force was pinned against the river by Lamian elements of the Nuren Guard. Before they were able to withdraw and regroup, the hammer of the Macaron Hussars smashed them against the Lamian anvil, having used a risky ford miles downstream. With their support elements gutted, supplies captured, and further Dacquoise reinforcements incoming, the invading force surrendered and were permitted to withdraw back to Northi.

Hussars around the world have strived to live up to the gallantry and reputation of their namesakes, always chasing that seemingly distant goal. And while more renegade knights have taken up the skills of mobility and devastatingly powerful charges that the Hussars are known for, many still believe that the embodiment of the knight as demonstrated by the Macaron Hussars was a goal worth striving for.

Hydromancers are specialist water mages who can fit into almost any party.  They're ‘fluid’ if you will.  (Placeholder)

Kyouko took a deep breath to settle her nerves and had to stop her hands from smoothing her skirt down again. Her boots crunched softly against the frosted moss, the heels sinking in a bit before she adjusted her stride.

“Don’t worry, Kyouko-chan, we won’t let any harm come to you,” Nalin said, his voice a deep rumble as he held out her wand. It looked like a tiny toy in his huge, bullfolk hands and she gave him a bright smile, her twin tails curling. He patted her gently on the head and then hefted his heavy shield and mace.

“I know. You all have protected me for so long, now I can help you!” she said earnestly.

Henry flashed her a peace sign with a grin and Marco looked away to fiddle with his staff. Marco always got embarrassed so easily but Kyouko knew he loved listening to her practicing her songs every night. Seren pushed her way through the brush ahead of them, her face brightening as she jogged over to the group, her cat ears perked up happily and her tail twitching back and forth. She leaned in for a quick hug before getting down business.

“It’s definitely an enemy group,” she said. “Five members with a full mix of front liners, mid range, and supporters. They’ll be tricky to beat but they don’t have Kyouko.”

“True!” Henry agreed. “C’mon, let’s teach these guys that they can’t just do what they want here.”

The point of intercept Seren had scouted was just ahead, a nice clearing that would give them plenty of area to move in. Kyouko took her position behind her friends and waited. It wasn’t long until an eclectic group stumbled into the clearing with none of the matching uniforms her friends had. The newcomers noticed them instantly and they immediately pulled out weapons.

“Why do we always run into cultists?” one of them complained. “And why do they always have hostages?!”

Hostages? Kyouko looked around. Her group hadn’t taken any hostages. And she resented being called a cultist! 

Still, just like she had practiced, she began the first steps of her performance, her mana spreading across the clearing in sparkles and phantom music.

“In the shadow of the world I play~”

Melody tumbled across the cracked, scorched ground and rolled to her feet moments before she would have crashed into the remains of a burning tree. The shockwave had knocked them all over and she coughed, waving her hand through the smoke to try to get some clear air or at least see if her friends were alright. Fire roared to her right, illuminating the area in a fierce glow briefly before the fireball detonated, showering her with dirt and scorched wood even as far away as she was.

This was impossible! They had been so close! They’d had the perfect plan! Silver’d weapons, a tengu fiend slayer, and all the information the Dragon’s Claw Alliance had on this monster. She’d known it wouldn’t be easy, no fiend slaying mission was ever easy, but they had been prepared for this!

An arcane blast cut through the smoke and impacted the fiend, the silvery tinge to the magic causing the monster to shriek. A heavily armored shadow burst through the smoke, his huge hand missing a gauntlet as he helped her to her feet.

“You alright, Melody?” Bishop asked, his voice rough from the smoke. He’d come from the direction of the fireball earlier and judging by how his shield was still shimmering with heat, he’d taken it head on. The idiot.

She coughed once and then pulled the water bottle attached to her outfit’s belt to take a quick swig. That cleared up her throat nicely.

“I’m fine, I’m fine! Tired of this smoke, though!”

“Good! And we’ll put a stop to that soon enough. Mimi says it's on its last legs. Can you still give support?”

Melody secured her water bottle and brushed at her uniform, straightening the pleats of her skirt and getting as much ash and dirt off as she could manage. “I’ll keep going until my voice breaks,” she said with a grin, giving him her signature pose. She could tell he rolled his eyes behind his helmet.

“Well, whatever you have to do,” he said fondly, clapping her on the shoulder. “We’ll make sure Aislyn gets you the good stuff when we get back.”

Her eyes sparkled at the thought. Aislyn hoarded the best chocolates and that was just what the doctor ordered for dealing with this fiend. Bishop nodded and then rushed toward the sound of fighting and screeching.

Melody took a deep breath, the mana building in her throat protecting her from the smoke and ash.

“Three, two, one--Full Combo~!”

-

Jasmine Fontaine, Knight-Paramount of Westria, wheeled Dauntless around to avoid a spear that would have cut under her mount’s armored side. She barely paid attention to the offending spearman falling to the ground with a choked cry as her warhorse’s kick sent him tumbling. She was focused more on the echoing sound of a horn in the distance, strident and urgent. A call to return, an attack. She had specifically left the rest of her unit with the Baroness in the case that parts of the ambushing force attempted to break away but the bandits had been fully focused on engaging her. The ambush she had disrupted had been a decoy to draw away defenders from Baroness Durand’s carriage.

A crossbow bolt hissed through the air as she stood fully in her stirrups and she let it glance uselessly off her pauldron, adding another scratch to her new armor. The road took a bend through the forest so she couldn’t see the carriage and her men but she could just make out the sounds of distant clashing. Dauntless suddenly jerked as a particularly foolish bandit grabbed the slack in the reins in some attempt to wrest control of her mount from her. Her clever warhorse bit the idiot and bodily lifted him briefly before tossing his head, sending the man flying. She swept her lance around to bash another of the bandits away and then spurred Dauntless forward.

“Stop her! Spears!” someone called out and a few men rushed to block her path but she was already on them. They very much underestimated Dauntless’s speed due to his heavy armor but that just meant he was an unstoppable avalanche.

“Out of my WAY!” Only one had the presence of mind to dive out of her path, the rest trampled mercilessly into the ground.

 And she was away, thundering down the road. In only minutes, the carriage was in sight and the situation was not in her men’s favor. Two of the cavaliers had been pulled from their horses and were fighting on foot, backs nearly against the carriage itself. The other cavalier, his young face a mask of panic, was frantically fending off bandits attempting to get hold of him. And the man she left in charge, a veteran Hussar, was being held at bay by a wall of spearmen. None of her men were down but it was only a matter of time if she didn’t break the attack.

She urged Dauntless on faster, the thunder of his hooves drawing the attention of everyone around the carriage. She could see the leader of the bandits recoil, looking desperately back toward the spears already fully occupied. He knew what was coming and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Mana flowed through her and Dauntless as echoes of a full cavalry charge began to form around her, the manifestation of a  Knight-Paramount’s Unstoppable Onslaught.

They tried to run, tried to jump out of the way, but the wake of her charge swept them all away. The full force of her charge slammed into the spear line, the dust from her phantom charge billowing forward. Jasmine spun Dauntless around and leveled her lance toward the bandit leader who was staring in horror at the ruined remnants of his forces.

“Surrender!” she commanded. “And your lives will be spared!” For the time being. Most bandits ended their careers with the noose.

Weapons clattered to the ground but it was only to allow the bandits to run away faster. She didn’t have to command her cavaliers to chase them down, with the two dismounted delayed only long enough to call their horses.

“Keep them safe, Paul, I didn’t finish off the other force,” she said to the Hussar as he came alongside her. “I’ll watch over the Baroness for now.”

Mages are initiates of the arcane, who’ve mastered the basics and proven their skill in both control and power. By drawing in ambient mana and blending it with their own, they can cast devastating spells of all kinds. The path of a Mage is as varied as the Mages themselves.

Some might start off their journey at the Merlin's Academy of Magic, while others are self taught or might become the pupil of a wandering teacher.

While still considered beginners in the journey of Magic, Mages are quite powerful on their own with many considering a skilled mage to be worth the equivalent of an entire squad of infantry.

First fielded by Westria during the growing advent of the Church of Light and cavalry’s importance on the battlefield, the Mage Knight brought both magical support and healing to the highly mobile battlefront. While originally simply an order of priest-knights, Mage Knights would eventually grow to encompass all forms of magical casting. Whether it was raining down spells or utilizing their unique training to heal mount and rider both, the Mage Knight could turn the tide of a battle with their mere presence. And while there were countless stories throughout the ages of holy knights bringing men back from the brink of death, there were none as debated as the story of Dame Madeline Benoit and Sir Owain Morgan.

As told and accepted by Westrian historians, Dame Madeline Benoit was a human Mage Knight without equal. Gentle and nurturing to her allies and able to bring her enemies low with figurative hellfire, she held a near saintly presence in the Church of Light. Debates would still sometimes crop up among the clergy as to her suitability as a Saint but her history was both ill documented and controversial, depending on who was asked. There was no dispute of her actual existence as her name was recorded as a Holy Knight of Kari, but there was a much debated feat in her history: Sir Owain Morgan and the proliferation of Great Knights into Westria’s military.

While there were many versions of the tale, the most accepted one in Westria followed a series of reasonably set in stone facts. During the many border incursions from Northi as it tried to wrest control of the Nuren Plains from their ancestral owners, it was said that Dame Madeline Benoit helped devastate a Northi skirmishing force. Not only was she instrumental in capturing many of the Northi knights, she graciously tended to their wounds with a special focus on Sir Owain Morgan. The dogfolk Great Knight had taken the brunt of the Westrian counterattack as he shielded his men and required significantly more care than the others. In fact, he traveled back to Westria for further treatment while his men were released back to Northi. It was said that, in his gratitude, he volunteered the skills of the Great Knight and allowed Westrian artisans to study his and his mount’s armor. And while there was debate on the validity of that tale for the origin of the proliferation of Great Knights into the Westrian military, they paled in comparison to the vicious arguments that revolved around the love story between Dame Madeline and Sir Owain.

The most commonly accepted telling of the great love between Madeline and Owain was that of star crossed lovers fighting destiny and the world to be together. What started as simple care for a wounded knight became tender affection as the months of Owain’s recovery ran on. Some accounts painted a picture of desperate, forbidden love with various forces working to keep them apart. Secret marriages, hidden lineages, and fantastical courtly intrigue plagued the romance novel market with few authors making any attempts to disguise their protagonists. The reality of it was much simpler and all the sweeter for it.

Neither Madeline or Owain had the heart to return to the constant fighting between their two countries and retired from their respective militaries. The legend among the Benoit household was that the pair had a private wedding in the garden of Madeline’s childhood home and then departed for destinations unknown. The rumor was that they spent time as traveling knights, wandering Lyr and helping those in need. And while those actions had never definitively been attributed to Dame Madeline and Sir Owain, what couldn’t be denied was when they both turned back up in solid historical record.

They would found Morgan Ranch in what would later become Dacquoise, near the future site of the city of Madeline. It was there that the retired knights, happily married for an unclear amount of time, had begun taking on students and ranch hands to teach the art of horsemanship, knighthood, and magic. While the ranch itself did not last into modern times, the house itself was maintained and the legacy of chivalry was upheld by the descendants of those students. Collectively, and informally, they called themselves the Knights of Morgan and dedicated themselves to helping those in need whenever and wherever they were found.

Expert Magitechnicans are the true pioneers of artificing, creating new inventions out of piles of metal parts and magical fuel.  The most famous of which is the world renown artificer only known as "Angel".  During the annual Magitechnician Fair held by the Riannon Institute of Alchemy in Mothergreen, a mysterious artifice arrived as an entry.  It was a common Buster Weapon, but it was the intense modifications made to its efficiency that were the awe of all adventurers that laid eyes upon it.  Despite winning the 1st prize at the fair, no one came to claim the prize... and had become known as the "Angel-Type" Buster Artifice—named after the pseudonym used by the crafter.

Once an artifice only used by fighters, the Angel-Type Buster Artifice started to spread amongst more defensively oriented users—often placed on daggers for quick, practical deployment.  Despite the speculations as to Angel's identity, few suspected the creator was a local from their own town. Their inability to discover Angel's true identity was due to preconceived notions of who or what a renowned artificer should look like.

In reality, "Angel" was one of the early members of the Angel's Sword Guild—a notorious Adventurer's guild that created trouble wherever they went.  But quietly hidden away in her workshop, surrounded by plush toys and scattered mechanical parts, Ayrara Ravness—a young Fae who appears no older than a ten-year old human crafts some of the most innovative artifices in Axia.  She rarely takes commissions from outsiders, instead preferring to work exclusively with those whom her whims favor.  In truth, more often than not, her workshop finds itself closed due to the insistence of her half-sister Elly, who continually drags her away on yet another adventure. 

The din of battle had finally faded, replaced with a sudden uneasy silence. Ronan wasted no time in rushing through the line of jagged thorns that had appeared at the beginning of the ambush, his sword arm heavy as he hacked his way through. Milla! He was too breathless to shout. I can’t believe we left her like that!

She was just a maid they were escorting along a quiet route toward Mothergreen. No one could have predicted a fiend attack! The unsettling stillness made his blood chill, thinking of the polite girl mutilated in their absence. He finally punched through the thorn wall and stumbled to a stop. Balro stumbled as he bumped into him from behind, the salamander lancer equally stunned by the scene in front of him.

Aoife pushed him forward, her hands already pulling a faintly glowing healing potion from her pouch. “What are you standing here for--” The elf dropped the potion in shock.

In the clearing behind the thorn wall was Milla, her maid outfit pristine from her frilly hat to her “it’s shortened for mobility” skirt. Whisps of Astra were fading from the remnants of three kratos corpses. She was quietly sweeping around one of the kratos, the Astra dissipating with each pass of her broom. But the most jarring image was the full tea set sitting on a moss covered stump. It was pristine, the small porcelain kettle steaming gently and was flanked by crisp, freshly made cookies. The tainted smell of Astra was rapidly being replaced by warm butterscotch and soothing tea. There was a small plate and teacup arrayed round the stump for each of them.

“I apologize for the delay in refreshments,” Milla said with a small bow and a professional smile. Her eyes slid from the fully evaporating kratos corpse to the tea set and a blush started to fade into visibility on her cheeks. “I…did have to use some of the fine silver. But you can be assured, I’ve thoroughly cleaned them!”

She took a breath and her smile returned, the practiced nature of it softened by her blush. “Take a moment to enjoy, the tea is at the perfect temperature. I’ll be handling the clean up. Please, do not hesitate to call on me.”

Ronan and the others found themselves enjoying tasty, freshly made cookies and tea while watching on with astonishment as Milla “cleaned” the battlefield. That included somehow sweeping the entire wall of thorns away with her broom and a feather duster.

Just what was this maid?!

Martial Artists are fighters who’ve turned their bodies into finely tuned weapons. All across the world of Lyr, you can find them practicing different arts and styles. The true might of the Martial Artist is their mastery of Zaipher, the skill of tapping into their internal mana to heal themselves and deal devastating magic-enhanced blows.

Zaipher doesn't have the raw power of Arcane magic, but what it lacks in volume, it makes up for in blazing speed. Martial Artists utilize  quick, sudden bursts of energy that can take an enemy by surprise.

The sign hanging above the smithy’s door was marked in the nonsensical scratchings that the Kiraran’s called writing. Thankfully, a smaller sign hanging from the first displayed a carving of eastern armor set beside a hammer. There were no special adornments to the signs nor any of the colorful standing banners that stood outside the more famous guild shops. Charles was here chasing a rumor and had had to shake his guides to pursue. A non-affiliated armorsmith, almost unheard of in the cultural ethos of Kirara. With a last glance at the humble, undecorated exterior (sturdy construction, he grudgingly admitted), he slid open the door.

A bell knocked gently against the top of the door as he pushed it along its runner, tinkling awkwardly. It wasn’t at all like a more practical swinging door that would send a bell ringing clearly, the timbre just a little off. Heat washed over him as he stepped inside, flowing from a doorway only half covered in a split cloth screen. A large desk occupied a significant portion of the floor next to what he could only assume was the entrance to the attached forge, its proportions just a little too large to be comfortable for him to work at. Delicate etching tools, magical crystals, and large grinding bowls covered most of the desk with reams of paper taking up a tiny sliver of one side and the front half of a strangely shaped breastplate taking up the remaining space. Armor stands displayed stunning examples of the lamellar armor favored by Kiraran warriors, each a masterpiece in their own right (although he doubted their protective capabilities when compared to good, Westrian plate).

Charles stepped fully into the shop and slid the door closed behind him, enduring that awkward bell jingle again. With the sound of the busy street muted, he could make out a low conversation drifting in from the forge over the quiet roar of a stoked fire. He waited a moment more before he determined the owner wouldn’t have heard the bell and he’d have to wait for him to come back out to the front desk. But that would let him get a good look at the craftsmanship of the armor without bias.

Twenty minutes later, he carefully set the elaborate helmet he’d been turning over back on its stand, irritation at being ignored for so long rising. He was half tempted to leave but he didn’t know when else he’d be able to be free of his minders to visit again. He took several steps toward the fabric barrier of the forge door when a shadow loomed behind it. A hulking hand, grey as stone, parted the curtain and a massive…creature ducked through the doorway. A hand that could close into a fist the size of a cannon ball, arms as thick around as he was at the waist. Leg muscles straining against silk trousers with every movement, and a heavy, many pocketed leather apron to cover the wide expanse of chest. Charles had seen Oni before, but the one before him was the largest he’d ever even heard of.

The huge Oni blinked in surprise and said something in Kiraran back through the forge door, his voice like the rumble of a rockslide. A cheerful, high and clear voice called back, a woman’s voice. Then a feminine roar of effort followed by the crash of a hammer on metal. The giant rumbled a chuckle and said something to him.

“Uh…sorry. I don’t…” A series of furious hammer impacts punctuated by more cute roars interrupted him.

“Ah. No problem,” the huge Oni said, his accent heavy. He gestured toward the cluttered desk, which Charles obligingly moved to stand in front of. The Oni did something and suddenly the deafening sound of the crashing hammer vanished. The huge man then settled behind the desk and somehow made it look tiny and cramped.

“Welcome Mako Forge! What do for you?”

Charles cleared his throat and pulled out a small bundle of paper from inside his coat. “Well, Mako, I have a requ--”

“Ha! Me? Not Mako! Tate,” the Oni pointed to himself with his thumb. “Tate.”

“Tate then,” Charles returned. He almost wished he had his translators with him. “I have a request and I heard your forge might be able to handle it.” He held out the plans (well, more like rough ideas) for Tate and watched, fascinated, as the giant deftly flipped through them. He almost didn’t notice that Tate had pulled on a pair of spectacles, making the giant of a man even more incongruous sitting behind the desk.

“Hmm.” Charles could almost feel that hum through his feet, like a mountain was thinking. “You want stop tepo. Yes?”

“Uh…tehpuh?”

Tate stared at him and then turned the plans around to tap a massive finger on the drawing of a musket.

“Tepo.”

“Oh, a gun! Yes. I want the armor to stop…tehpuh.”

“Hmm. Hmm.” Tate flipped the pages pack to the first and set them down on top of a spread of tools. “Can make. For you?”

“Yes, for me. For proof, too.”

“You want mahu?” Tate preempted Charles’s question by tapping a glass vial full of faintly glowing crystal shards. He wanted to know if he wanted the armor enchanted. “No mahu more hard.”

“Uh, no. No mah-hoo.”

“Good. Good. Can make.” Tate raised a massive fist and banged it on the wall behind him. He shouted something in Kiraran and it only took moments before the curtain parted again from the forge. Charles felt his mouth go dry and he tried not to stare. Never before had he seen a woman so…so proportioned! Her every boisterous movement as she nearly skipped to Tate seemed to be a test of her scant clothing to contain her and sent her braided red hair dancing. Her skin glistened with sweat from the forge, that perfect cream color that some Kiraran’s seemed to possess naturally and would send women back home into conniptions of envy. His mind stalled and stuttered when Tate handed the voluptuous beauty his plans. If Tate was a giant then the woman before him was a pixie. If she was more than five feet tall, he’d eat his hat. And she looked even smaller contrasted to Tate’s bulk even sitting at the desk.

He caught Tate’s grin even as the man pulled the startled woman against him, bringing her to giggling. “This Mako-chan, my wife,” he said proudly. “Best forge in Kirara.”

The woman, Mako, chattered something scolding at Tate and peeled his grip off her like he had all the strength of a toddler. She flipped through the plans more slowly than her husband, shifting side to side as she made interested noises.

“Mahu nai-no?” she asked.

“Hah,” was Tate’s reply.

That answer seemed to excite the woman and she turned to look up at Charles, eyes gleaming with anticipation. She gave him a thumbs up and tossed the plans back to Tate with an excited chatter of orders. Tate laughed and shooed her back to the forge. Charles stood in stunned silence with the laughing Oni for a long moment before the huge man said anything.

“Mako-chan very excited,” he explained needlessly.

Charles left Mako’s Forge in a slight daze, light a good amount of gold, but with the promise of a set of non-magical nor artifice plate armor that could stop bullets. He was to pick it up in a week. But as strange as the couple was, he was certain the quality of the armor would be beyond reproach. Maybe they’d consider moving to Westria? They obviously didn’t play Kiraran political games…

She flinched at the echoing crack of combined musket fire that briefly drowned out the crash of combat that was getting closer by the minute and the cries of the wounded. She curled her tail closer, interposing the bulk of it between her patient and the sounds of fighting. Smoke choked the air as buildings burned. She ignored that as best she could as she finished tying off the bandage over the temporary sealant she’d slathered over the wounded soldier’s wounds. He hissed between his teeth but gave her a shaky nod in thanks as she helped him to his feet. That patch should last him until he could get himself back to the rear and evacuated. Hopefully.

He staggered as he took a step and she caught him before he could fall.

“I have some painkillers--”

“No, no. I can make it. Save it for someone who needs it,” he interrupted. She watched him limp away and shook her head fondly. Everyone in Dacquoise was such a nobly brave idiot.

“Lyra!”

She looked up at the panicked shout. Captain Claire was rushing toward her, his breastplate scorched and he was missing his shield. That was not good. He was supposed to be in command of the unit down the block. 

“You need to get out of here! The line is collapsing!”

The sound of fighting crescendo'd as Dacquoise soldiers rounded the corner down the street at a sprint. Most didn’t even have their weapons, so desperate in their need to escape. Taking up the rear was a heavily armored lamia, his iconic circular shield like a mobile wall that deflected a barrage of arrows and magical blasts. Some hits sparked off his armor and scales but he ignored them as he swung his spear in wide arcs, knocking back the pursuing invaders. He was buying time.

“Keep moving men!” Captain Claire called out.

As if in defiance of that command, one of the few soldiers that still had a weapon skidded to a halt and took a knee, raising his musket. The single shot was a far cry from the volleys from earlier but it still took one of the invaders down just before he could slip behind the lamia spearmaster’s flank. He was rewarded for his bravery with a magical energy beam that seared into his side, dropping him to the ground. But his intervention did allow the lamia to keep up his delaying action for a little bit longer.

Without thinking about it, Lyra rushed forward and coiled around the downed musketeer. Before he could protest, she had a bandage pressed to his side with one hand while she injected a painkiller with the other.

“Lyra, leave him and run!”

She ignored Captain Claire.

“You should go,” the musketeer hissed out.

She ignored him too.

“I’ve got you, just give me a minute.”

“Faster would be better, lady medic!” the spearmaster shouted. “Get him on his feet and go!”

“No,” the musketeer shook his head. “Leave me and make sure Nikolaos gets away! We can’t--we can’t lose him!”

“We’re all getting away,” Lyra insisted even as she winced as an arrow skipped off her scales. “Get ready to run!”

The cities of Dacquoise were burning but that didn’t mean she was going to leave anyone behind if she could help it.

“Brielle! Where were we putting the ominously glowing magical samples again?!”

Brielle lowered her clipboard and turned away from where she was cataloguing the bulk order of magical fuel and refined shells that was slated to head out on the next shipment to Pecorine. There had been a spike in demand for not just food but for magical fuels, more complex artifices, and advanced raw materials. Unfortunately, the horrible rumors coming from Mirane (fueled by Prince Casimir, of course!) had really had an impact on the amount of supplies they could send. It was all sure to blow over eventually and she knew Fontina and Pecorine would be doing their best with the situation at hand.

“Those samples should be set aside for review by Captain Yasha,” she called back.

“Got it!” Valenise called back, throwing a sloppy Axian salute before hefting the crate with a grunt. Honestly, that girl made everything look light as a feather sometimes. Brielle would have to remind her to be more careful in the future. There were plenty of hands about that could help lift things, after all. Madeline’s warehouse district wasn’t large but it was efficient and there were a lot of volunteers that helped out when every new shipment arrived or needed to go out.

She turned back to her cataloging and just got the box finished when a small hand tugged at her dress. Mimolette was looking up at her with the innocence of a little girl who knew she was in a place she wasn’t supposed to be but curiosity had won out anyway.

“Mimo…what did Fontina say about wandering around the city by yourself?” Brielle didn’t bring up that she was also not supposed to be anywhere near the warehouse district or the heavy lifting. She was small enough still that she would be hard to notice by the workers.

“I’m not by myself,” Mimolette protested. She lifted the stuffed bunny as proof. “See? Molly is here with me!”

 “You know Molly doesn’t count,” Brielle admonished gently. Mimolette pouted.

“I know…but I wanted to see if Pecopeco sent me another plushie!”

Brielle sighed with a fond smile. She didn’t know who out there was making those silly little plush dolls with the strange faces but Mimolette had loved them the moment she saw one. “Our sister isn’t sending them to you, they’re for everyone in Madeline.”

Mimolette’s pout got deeper. “But I’m in Madeline…”

“Mimolette? Mimolette? Where are you, Mimo?”

Brielle stared down at Mimolette with an exasperated smile and a climbing eyebrow. It seemed Mascarpona was Mimolette’s escort today and had lost her in the shuffle of shipment day.

“Over here, ‘Pona!” She raised her hand and waved with her clipboard.

“No, don’t call her over!” Mimolette complained, already turning to run. Brielle, with the instincts of an older sister, already had a hand on Mimolette’s shoulder before she could turn. “No fair…”

It only took moments for her dashing little sister to come into view, nimbly maneuvering around carts, crates, and workers. She had a relieved look as soon as she caught sight of Mimolette, the grip on her rapier loosening.

“Thanks, Brielle,” Mascarpona said, quickly taking hold of her littlest sister and leading her away and out of the area. “If you run off again, I’m leaving you with Asiagia and she’ll talk to you about flowers until your ears fall off.”

Brielle smiled fondly and got back to work. This procurement request wouldn’t fill itself, after all.

Mary couldn’t quite understand what she was seeing. Their caravan had been attacked by hobgoblins, which their guards had dutifully moved to engage. They were fighting among the trees, working together to root out the hobs and unfortunately fully engaged and unable to respond to the second group of hobs that had been waiting. Merchants and fathers had picked up brooms, rakes, and shovels. Anything to defend themselves with as they ushered the women and children behind them.

But it was the young man that had silently been riding along with them that stepped forward to confront the small group of hobs on his own. He gestured with a smile that he’d be perfectly okay and that everyone should stay back. Mary thought he must be a mage or a martial artist of some kind. And she was kind of right. Instead of calling down sparkling magic and fire or punching and kicking his way through the hobs he just…acted like he was pulling out…something. A gun? He behaved like he had a real gun in his hands, dramatically loading it. But…he didn’t have anything in his hands.

Was he crazy? Was it actually magic?

Everyone was surprised when there was the loud crack of a gun going off and one of the hobs tumbled to the ground. The…mage -- he had to be a mage -- twirled his invisible gun and blew silently like he was blowing away smoke from the barrel of a real gun. He dramatically fell into a showy stance and three more gunshots rang out, dropping just as many hobs. The last one seemed to get over whatever strange magic this was and charged at the man.

Again, he reacted dramatically and silently, acting out dropping his invisible gun and putting his hands out in some attempt to stop the enraged hob. Everyone was as shocked as the hob was when it slammed into an invisible wall inches from the man’s outstretched hands. Stunned by the sudden impact, the hob staggered backwards, giving the man time to do…what was he doing?

He was reaching over his shoulder like he was gripping the handle of something slung over his back. He hefted whatever it was like it weighed a lot and dramatically tilted as it dragged him sideways. A puff of dirt appeared as an indent was carved out of the ground by whatever it was. Acting like he was lifting something massive, the man silently wound up with a dramatic stance, one leg lifted. Then he brought his invisible weapon down, smashing the hob into the road in a sickening crack.

Was that…a giant hammer? An invisible giant hammer?

The man rocked on his feet to regain his balance and made a show of wiping his brow and heaving a relieved sigh. Then he turned back to all of them and gave a cheerful thumbs up.

“What…the hell was that?” Mary heard her dad mutter. She wanted to know too. She’d never heard of invisible magic like this!

The advent of the Adventurer and the use of internal magic began an age of heroes. Of feats great and small immortalized in legends and small tavern tales. But quietly, beyond the glory of heroes, the same power that let them set their names ablaze in history gave rise to something more modest. The crunch of a shovel slicing into the ground or the ring of the pickaxe against stone were not the sounds of heroes, but to the humble Miner, they represented greatness. 

Utilizing their own internal mana to augment their strength and precision, individual Miners were able to gather on a scale that used to take teams of a dozen or more to match. Be it stone for roads and castle walls or rare metals to be forged into legendary weapons, Miners represented the bedrock of architects and smiths the world over. While Mining Guilds obviously emerged to organize and regulate rich mining opportunities, solitary Miners were still common in villages and the frontiers of society. A single Miner with an abundant area to gather from could easily support an entire town’s needs for stone and metal.

And while it was common for Miners to have hired protectors, especially within the guilds, it was a foolish attacker that believed them to be easy targets. That same power and precision that allowed a Miner to shatter rock with ease and peel raw ore from the earth was just as easily turned toward their defense. It was a foolish bandit or adventurer that underestimated the rending power of a Miner’s pickaxe. 

The vale stretched far below, a green hollow wrapped in morning fog. From the ridge, the Songstress raised her flute and pressed her lips to the reed. A single note slipped into the air and the mist stirred in answer.

It flowed like a tide, rolling down the slope until the travelers below found themselves swallowed by a pale shroud. At first they moved with confidence, torches and laughter breaking the veil, but soon their steps slowed. Their voices faltered. The mist thickened around them, drinking their warmth, their strength, their very breath.

A dissonant chord thrummed through the haze, and the travelers stumbled as one. The mist struck in unison with the note, and bodies crumpled soundlessly into the grass. The fog grew denser, heavier, a chorus swelling unseen within its folds.

"Why do you play?" A familiar voice whispered in the wind.

The flute rose again. A mournful melody spilled into the air: A pair of shackles hanging from the wall / A candle guttering in the dark, its flame shrinking / a lone tree shedding its last leaves / a vast tide rising, unstoppable / The endless horizon and silence beyond it.

That was her answer.

Pecorine stared nervously at the disheveled bandits and fought the instinct to adjust her glasses from where they’d slipped slightly down her nose. She didn’t want to provoke them by bringing her hands down from where she had them raised. Three of the bandits were struggling with the ties and tarp over the supply wagon and she figured it would only be a minute before they got frustrated enough to start hacking at the ropes. Her escorts were scowling at the bandits, their weapons stacked on the frosty ground nearby. Well, the crimson haired demon girl, Exa, was flexing her fists, ready to start punching the moment it wouldn’t get Pecorine killed.

The bandit leader stepped forward, ignoring his subordinates still arguing over the supply wagon. They didn’t want to ruin the tarp or ropes because they were as valuable for their survival as the money and supplies in the wagon.

“Miss Pecorine, how nice to see you again.”

She had no idea who this man was.

“Y-yes, um,” she hesitated, trying to put a name to the weather-beaten face before giving up. “Things look like they haven’t been going well.”

He scoffed. “Of course they haven’t! Ever since that bitch Aniela kicked us out, we’ve had to fend for ourselves!” Some of the other bandits grumbled in agreement.

Oh, she thought. These were some of the delinquents that Aniela had asked to leave after they had been caught trying to steal from Maid Mall. It was…safer for them than to let the expeditioners handle it themselves.

“But you’ve always been good to us, Miss Pecorine,” the leader continued. “Always with fair prices, always making sure everyone could get a little something.”

Well, she tried. Honestly, it had mostly been Aniela’s idea. To prevent hoarding and to reduce the exploitation of other expeditioners. Because while she wanted to support everyone here in Mirane as best she could, she still needed to send regular shipments back out home to Madeline. Some things money just couldn’t buy and a lot of those things could be found in the Astra Line, apparently. She didn’t know how much help what she managed to collect did for everyone back home. Fontina was really stingy with war news, but she chose to believe that it was all worth it.

And it was unfortunate that this poor man thought that just because she was nice and a little bit scared of fighting that she’d just give away the things meant for Princess Cherry and Madeline. A bad decision on Mr. Gundy’s part--

Gundy! That was his name!

Poor Mr. Gundy had no idea what was about to hit him. Literally.

“Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Gundy.”

“Who the hell is Gundy? My name is--”

Pecorine spread the fingers on her still raised right hand open and closed and open again. Whatever Mr. Gundy had been about to say was interrupted as his head snapped back in a spray of blood. Moments later, a deep gunshot echoed through the mountains. Pecorine leapt away from the nearest bandits just as Exa let out an excited whoop, wings and a fiery halo appearing over her head as she launched herself with a wide grin into the nearest bandit. The poor man barely had time to yelp before he was being punched repeatedly in the face. The rest of her guards used that opening to collect their weapons and demonstrate their displeasure at being ambushed.

Pecorine just…tried to stay out of the way. They were professionals, after all.

The deck rocked beneath me and storm clouds writhed above. Rain splattered against my skin as I lay on my back, limbs tingling with phantom shocks of pain dancing through me. Memories of a similar moment came over me, of me looking up in confusion at my parents for the first time, their huge blue faces alight with wonder. Papa and Tousan. Ostracized by the village for loving each other, for bringing life to a doll like me. Like everyone in the village, they were meant to take on Oni wives so they could have more Oni children that would continue the lineage of mystic eyes our village was known for. To keep the supply of warriors coming, to feed the constant wars between other lords that used our warriors as mercenaries.

A muffled roar cut through the crashing waves and rain. Briefly, the rain stopped as a shadow flew overhead, then it returned in a deluge. The ship shuddered and people cried out in panic. I pushed myself to my feet with the help of a railing, the sea alarmingly close as the ship plunged down the back of a wave.

“Honoka!” An Oni woman stumbled toward me, holding a bow with a snapped string. “Thank the gods you weren’t thrown over!”

I gripped the woman’s shoulder to steady her. “I’m okay! How’s the rest of the fleet?”

She shook her head, tears mingling with the rain running down her face. “They’re gone, Honoka! That damned dragon sank them all! We’re only still here because of Masahiro’s barrier and it’s failing!”

Gone. Papa. Tousan. Everyone left from our village that had managed to escape the forces that wanted to wipe us out. My grip on the railing tightened, my delicate looking, porcelain skin splintering the wood with frightening ease. And with the failing barrier, we would be next. How was it possible the Ryujin had something this powerful? Dragons were a myth, a legend. There shouldn’t be one crushing our armies or sinking our fleet. It didn’t matter, it was here and it was killing us. Killing my family. My eyes burned, the technique that I had painstakingly learned flaring to life. The pride of our village.

Eyes of Destruction.

Our warriors were infamous for being able to cut down men from dozens of paces with just a glare or destroy anything we settled our gaze on. It was why we were in demand. And it was why we were being destroyed.

The dragon descended, a flying mountain of scales and rage. A flare of light erupted from its maw and shattered our barrier and it dove toward our helpless ship, to crush us. Then something impossible happened. We weren’t crushed and thrown into the sea at the mercy of the storm. The dragon shrank, collapsing into a man, a Ryujin in pristine armor. He started speaking, denouncing our family. Our clan. That our destruction was the will of the Emperor.

He was good with a sword, his katana flashing as he cut down the battered crew and disoriented fighters. He gleamed, honey gold light flaring around him like a sunrise. I met him in the middle of the ship and his surprise let me deflect away the killing blow on a young boy, not even an apprentice.

“A doll?”

“I am a Tokiha warrior.”

He seemed startled to see the gleaming crimson of my eyes. He took a step back, suddenly less confident in his reduced state. He seemed to be regretting not just destroying the ship while he was a dragon. The golden light around him flared brighter and I could see the shadow of a dragon looming behind him. My eyes shone and then the world briefly lost all color. And Void claimed his transformation. He staggered in shock and barely deflected away my sword. But he couldn’t deflect my gaze. My eyes shone and he choked, his throat cut by an invisible blade. I cut his head off, just to be sure, and kicked his body overboard.

But the damage was done. With so little crew left, with so much damage, we couldn’t weather the storm. We fought just as hard against any enemy, but it was futile. And I had to watch as my friends, my family, sank and drowned. And as I stared up at the swirling storm clouds, I let myself sink beneath the waves, hoping that the crushing depths would let me join my family in death.

“Send the next one in, please.”

Arrio Wi Vanian looked down and checked the profile pinned to his clipboard as the insensate volunteer was carried out by a pair of stoic nurses. He marked the check boxes appropriately for a full circuit collapse and spirit core regression and then signed it. Another failure. Catastrophic, this time. He hesitated a moment and then also checked the box for supplementary aid to be given to the boy’s family. It would probably take him decades to recover the use of his circuits and become a productive member of society again.

He moved over to the small desk and began organizing his paperwork like he did after every new volunteer left the testing room. He found his gaze lingering on a frustrating report, eyes scanning over the most important parts.

…discovered in a low Lu clan, it appears to be a spontaneous manifestation of similar progress to our own efforts…

…fully stable and functioning. It’s clear it does not match the Lir Aseria in potency or breadth but it demonstrates that the bloodline that housed such a potent Eye still lingers in the population, if diluted. Code Name: Domination.

…could not secure the cooperation of Cora Lu Milinen as she has relocated to Axias. Please authorize an Acquisition.

Of course, no Acquisition was authorized. The heads of Wi Vanian did not want to aggravate any adventuring guilds based out of Mothergreen, even one as small and new as the Silver Wings. They were barely even monitoring the girl, for Kari’s sake. And of course, none of the girl’s family showed any signs of manifesting an Eye or even matching circuit or spirit core readings to indicate they ever would. Frustrating.

The door to the room opened quietly on smooth hinges and a nurse shuffled in, more paperwork in her hands. “Doctor, your next patient,” she said, hands steady as a member of Un ought to be. He took them with a nod and clipped them to his board, eyes already scanning them.

“Thank you, send them in.”

Two more nurses and a nervous young woman entered the room. The nurses directed her to sit on the examination bed and then waited patiently off to the side. If the initial exam went well, they would be the test targets of this girl’s Eye.

“Miss…” Arrio checked the paperwork, a slight frown touching the corner of his lips. Not a member of a high Family. “Miss Cutilia, thank you for participating in this study. Please follow my instructions to the best of your ability.”

The girl nodded and he began his examination with careful study of her circuits, her spirit core, and her eyes. She did possess these new “Eyes of Domination”, as evidence of the swirling sigils that snapped into existence when she channeled mana to her eyes. But it was a far cry from the sheer presence of Lir Aseria. It had been over thirty years since those fools and those greater fools that had followed them had tried their rebellion. Thirty years since the last holder of the Eyes of Command had been killed -- by the clan head Endo himself no less! The fool! And he’d lost control of his daughter as well! The last dregs of Lir Aseria blood they’d had control over and he’d let her fall in with those thrice damned adventurers!

And now…now they couldn’t touch her. The Angel’s Sword Guild may be young but they had gathered power to themselves in amounts that couldn’t be easily countered. One day, they’d make a mistake and Wi Vanian would be ready.

But for now…he forced a friendly, professional smile to his face.

“Well done, Miss Cutilia. You’ve taken the treatment well and your circuits are stable. Next, we’ll run some tests of your capabilities. The nurses will assist you with that.”

As Miss Cutilia began to express her power, tentatively calling out commands to the nurses in turn, he dutifully recorded the results. They were well within the standards of Domination, only a handful of seconds or a few minutes of influence before the mana unravelled. If only they hadn’t lost their one success. What they’d done back then was impossible now, the recovered Lir Aseria Eyes from the rebellion were too far degraded for implantation. They still had use for making the infusions that helped their test subjects develop Domination, but…he could still remember the subtle shiver of power from that girl, one eye gleaming with that Lir Aseria golden glow. But they’d lost her, too. 

She’d just vanished in the night from a secure room in the most secure facility Wi Vanian operated. No guards could remember anything, no sensors were tripped, and the recording orbs just showed one moment where their pride and joy was safe in bed and the next an empty, otherwise undisturbed room. Records of her spirit core readings, the successful implantation reports, the unique alchemical mixtures used…all of it was gone. Erased from secure rooms and artifice recorders like they’d never been. Only their memories of what they’d had remained.

He shook himself from his sour thoughts and offered Miss Cutilia a smile, the girl gasping in air and sweating from the amount of mana she’d had to channel. “Thank you for your assistance, Miss Cutilia. Please follow the nurses back to your room.” 

He turned his attention to the nurses. “And send in the next, please.”

“Bennachd na Yggdrasil ar lenbhse.” The Blessing of Yggdrasil upon this child. A faint green sheen flickered over the soldier’s body before sinking into him, through his armor and into his skin. The poor demon was staring at her with pain filled panic but relaxed as soon as the blessed regrowth of Yggdrasil soothed his wounds. Roisin gave the boy a reassuring smile and moved onto the next of the injured. The distant war to the south had reached the borders of Easter in the form of demon refugees and wounded. Those dear Salamanders were doing their best but they just didn’t have the touch of Yggdrasil to help ease away their pains.

Roisin moved through the triage tents for the wounded, stopping to bless the worse off with regrowth but offering others the gift of fresh flowers. Not just a pretty thing and a blessing but as a sign to the other healers that the patient would last without blessed healing and to turn their attention to the more grievously wounded.

“Healer! We need a healer over here!”

She gently patted the cheek of the poor child (all of these soldiers were so young!) and made her way over to the commotion. Two demon soldiers were gingerly lowering a third soldier onto a bed. A fourth was holding a blood stained bandage to some wound on her friend’s torso. Demons were a remarkably resilient people who healed quickly but even their naturally regenerative blood could be overwhelmed.

“Let me see her, children. Let me through, please,” she said, gently nudging the anxious soldiers aside. The leaves in her skirt rustled as she knelt down next to the wounded girl and she carefully lifted the bandage to see--

“Oh my, you poor dear.”

“C-can you save her? Miss? Please, you have to save her!”

“Your friend is in the hands of Yggdrasil and the World weeps with Her children.”

Roisin smiled at the confused demons and lifted her hands to rest on the wounded girl’s head and over her wound.

“Bennachd na Yggdrasil ar lenbhse,

Fremha na Matha, cenglai a bhrist.

Dullega Crann na Domhain, seidigh beath as nua.

Tog om spiorai nert a dhih,

Is go ndena do glas slan ei.”

The Blessing of Regrowth took hold with Yggdrasil’s verdant light and Roisin pushed her own spirit into it, joining briefly with the grandeur of the Matha before gifting that energy to the wounded girl. With a sound like leaves dancing in the wind, the healing energy seeped into the girl, sealing her wound and soothing her pain.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

--

Translators notes: 

The Blessing of Yggdrasil upon this child,

Roots of the Mother, bind what is broken.

Leaves of the World Tree, breathe life anew.

Take from my spirit the strength that is needed,

And let your verdant grace make them whole.

“And then the Headmaster -- wait…wasn’t it Headmistress? No no, that stinky old man was definitely the Headmaster! He had that huge beard…yeah! -- where was I? Oh yeah, then the Headmaster showed up and my beloved Jean Claude--”

Eleri pricked her finger with her needle as she jumped in surprise (she did not let out a surprised “Nya!” and no one would be able to prove it!). A skeleton with a permanent skewed grin had dropped a random assortment of old, mostly ruined clothing next to her. It clattered away and Eleri let out a sigh of relief, absently smoothing her poofed up tail while absently sucking on the finger she’d accidentally stabbed. With her focus striped from her frantic sewing, she took the time to take stock of the others. 

Yuzuki was off to one side going through choreography with a skeleton dressed in a tattered wizard’s robe complete with glued on white beard and a huge, wide brimmed conical hat. Her katana was still sheathed at her side as she made exaggerated practice swings at the skeleton with a vaguely sword shaped stick. Her puffy tanuki tail was stiff with her concentration and worry and her cute little round ears were focused forward.

Celyn was nervously looking around as she scribbled in her journal. As she watched, Celyn scribbled out whatever it was she was writing and started again. The lyrics to the song that was demanded didn’t seem to be going well. Eleri wanted to get up and comfort the poor girl…and not just because Celyn had the softest, fluffiest hugs that Eleri absolutely did not fake twisted ankles to get bed time cuddles with.

Katsuro was currently the focus of their host’s ire. Kathelyne the Necromancer, stomping her feet like the child she looked like, was berating him about…a tree? 

“It’s supposed to be a cherry tree! With the pink flowers! Not a sad willow! PAY ATTENTION NEXT TIME!”

The kitsune was apologizing about the mistake before he darted away, looking for anything that might let him make pink cherry blossoms. That wasn’t the first time Kathelyne had gotten on them about details. Details she hadn’t included in her story at all! Eleri hadn’t deserved to have that freaky giant skeleton monster looming over her while the necromancer berated her about getting the Riannon Institute uniforms wrong! How was she supposed to know what some Mothergreen school uniform looked like?!

Her gaze finally drifted over to Laurent and she couldn’t help but let her eyes linger. He’d taken off his shirt and armor sometime while she had been sewing and the dappled sunlight coming through the canopy above was making him practically glisten. He was using Katsuro’s axes and hatchets to roughly build out the stage and he’d been doing a lot of heavy lifting. Technically, he was supposed to be in the big fight at the end of the play too, but their paladin was the only one strong enough to lift those heavy logs and boards.

Another pile of discarded clothes (she didn’t want to think too hard about it, but they were probably from adventurers who had died to this maniac!) landed next to her as another skeleton clattered up to her. This one…gave her the shivers as the thing turned around, as the tail of what once was a lamia moved in a slithering motion…but the rib bones acted like little millipede legs. With one last shiver, Eleri got back to work. She had to finish the uniforms so they could get out of here. And the only way out was to perform Kathlyne’s very creatively titled: “The Stupid Riannon Institute Expelled Me For Making Cute Friends And I Hate Them!”

Kiraran rogues who use a mix of physical prowess and magical arts to slay their enemies in the darkness.

It was difficult to pin down the origins of anything throughout history. Plenty of ideas and methods were known to crop up simultaneously among completely isolated groups by simple happenstance. However, it was largely accepted that the idea of modern cavalry began with the arrival of nomadic human tribes from the north east of Lyr. Masters of their stocky, resilient horses, they migrated south west out of the tundra and steppe due to extremely harsh seasons and famine. Forced to avoid the forests of Easter to the south and pushed away from the budding kingdoms in Northi to the west, the nomadic humans settled in the lush plains of Axia and Nuren. Their art of mounted archery gave them unparalleled hunting abilities and made them maddeningly difficult to chase down, even from the fleet footed catfolk and rabbitfolk.

For a time, the Nomads roamed plains, breeding ever stronger horses and leading a relatively simple life. They didn’t know that their presence forced the kingdoms of Northi to push their influence west into Susururu Forest, displacing wolf-folk and lamiafolk, and to the selkies of Houkaina on the coast. But eventually, with nowhere to continue expanding aside from the frigid north, Northi returned its attention to the plains. Utilizing enslaved centaurs as mounts, the catfolk hoped to narrow the mobility gap and to be able to finally hunt down the annoying humans. But without any static settlements and their mastery of the plains, the Nomads were still able to control the pace of any battles or hunts.

Simultaneous to the more concentrated efforts from Northi, humans from Westria began to treat with the nomadic tribes of the Nuren Plains. They traded for horses, for trainers, and offered riches beyond the nomadic tribes’ wildest dreams for empty land. Northi wasn’t alone in dreaming of securing the plains for their potential wealth of farmland, but the humans from the south recognized that the Nomads had completely stalled chimeran expansion with their mastery of horses and Westria had long been praying for something that would let them protect themselves from the chimera and fae. Humans had a long history of domesticating animals to help balance the strengths of their neighbors: dogs for hunting, oxen for burden…the introduction of horses was simply another method to overcome their weaknesses.

With a combination of various deals with the nomads and utilizing their own methods against them, Westria was finally able to push its borders to the edge of the forest and the Nuren River. Their actions unfortunately displaced or eradicated tribes of nomads that resisted the territorial grab. Some historians believe that ancient, bad blood was one of the larger factors for the rise of independent nations along Westria’s north eastern border. Many humans from the plains regions could still claim ancestors from those nomadic tribes and while there was no official animosity, some were convinced there was an overarching reason they had carved out their independence from both Northi and Westria.

Scribes who use magic paper and ink to create magic talismans imbued with spells.

Mysterious people that work on the edge of Magic and Divinity, utilizing enigmatic powers to see the future whether by instinct or divine intervention.

“Why is the hardest part of the heist always climbing?” Jack grumbled as he pulled himself up another few feet, fingers finding the barest of purchase in the seams between the stones that made up the wall he was climbing. He paused, head tilting and then shaking with an exasperated sigh. Another detection field. The TENTH ONE. With little effort, he reached out with one hand and flicked his fingers against the magical threads of the bounded field, his own magical energy seeping seamlessly into the web of detection. Moments later, he passed right through it like a ghost, just like all of the others.

“I knew Merlin Academy was said to be well protected but this is just ridiculous.” He swung himself up to a closed window, high up the tower he’d been scaling. If his intel was right, he just needed to unlock this window, bypass the detection ward, and he’d be just down the hall from his target. Neither the ward or lock gave him much trouble and he was inside a well kept classroom. Stadium seating style with large desks and benches running the length of each level. Nice open space front and center for whatever magic practice they did in this particular class.

Jack gave an impressed whistle as he crossed the room. No wonder Northi mages trained at Merlin were so annoying; they were well trained AND snobby aristocrats. He’d never had a classroom half as good during his studies.

Still shaking his head at it all, he slipped into the hall. Look left, look right, look left again because that always bit him in the ass if he didn’t and he was clear. He took a right from the classroom and was slipping into the target room within a minute. Still no alarms, guards, or inconveniently appearing students. Just him and the manuscript perched oh so nicely on a stand in the middle of the room.

Jack rolled his eyes to the mage hiding under an invisibility spell to his left. “Man, that’s a pretty obvious trap you know?” he told the man. The mage startled in surprise and his spell shattered, motes of magic dripping off him like rain.

“What--how did--” the mage cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders before marching resolutely between Jack and his prize. “You certainly live up to your reputation, Mister Harlequin.”

Jack smiled but obviously the man couldn’t see that through his mask. “Please, call me Diamond. Harlequin makes me feel like my old man.”

The mage scoffed, his little kitty ears flatting with his irritation, and raised his hands, fingers splayed and magic gathering. “It doesn’t matter what you call yourself, you’re not leaving here and you’re certainly not touching that manuscript. The alarm is already sounded, you’ll not be escaping the entirety of Merlin Academy’s staff.”

Jack didn’t have the heart to tell him the alarm had, in fact, not sounded. He was holding the activation thread coiled around his pinky, after all. 

“Look, you don’t have to go through all this trouble. Just let me have that bit of paper and I won’t have to embarrass you. Okay?”

The mage flicked his fingers and in a sharp voice said, “Cyrin!”

An anemic yellow bolt of magic crossed the distance between them in an eyeblink…and splattered against the door behind him ineffectually. With a smirk tugging his lips, he ran his hand through the wake of the spell, gathering the echo of it and reconstructing it in the space of a breath.

“Cyrin!” he echoed mockingly. His copied spell hit the mage dead in the chest and expanded, wrapping around him like magical ropes. It even made a magical blindfold and gag. Nasty spell for a mage to get hit by. Jack gingerly stepped over the bound and struggling mage, hands snagging and redirecting the threads of even more barriers and wards around the manuscript. With a final snipping motion for the sticking ward on the bundle of papers itself, he plucked it from its stand. A brief flip through revealed a dizzying array of mechanical and magical information and the confusing combination of it all to make some sort of armatae.

Exactly like the customer said. Perfect. He was about to make his client in Dacquoise very happy. As he stepped back over the mage, he dropped his marker. At first glance, it looked like a playing card but the white face of it only had a depiction of his mask.

“Well, it was fun, but I won’t be seeing you. But feel free to tell everyone about Diamond Harlequin, would you?”

By CCeles.

Laughter and cheers filled the air. Animals roared to the delight of a crowd under a massive tent, likely prancing in a circle with mock fierceness. His family was in one of those tents, enjoying the entertainment of the circus. Owen had only left to find a snack, to replace the one someone had accidentally knocked out of his hands. He had a pocket full of clim that clinked as he walked and that had drawn attention.

So now he was cornered in a dark alley between tents by a trio of tall, rabbitfolk boys. His tail flicked in agitation as he backed away. The gleam of the knife held by the leader caught the light with a sinister shine.

“Look, kid, just give us the money, yeah?” the leader rabbitfolk said, gesturing with his knife. “We’re not gonna hurt you, we’re just hungry, see?”

“O-okay,” he agreed, trembling hands fumbling into his pocket. In his nerves, he dropped the money at his feet. The three rabbitfolk scowled at him.

“Tch. Typical useless cat. What the hell are you doing, huh?”

“S-sorry! I-I didn’t mean--”

Splat!

The rabbitfolk on the right staggered sideways as a pie, of all things, smacked him in the side of the head. He shook his head, dazed and surprised by the sudden pie.

“What the hell? Who the hell are you?!”

Owen turned to look and was just as confused as the three muggers. It was a clown. White outfit, white face painted with dramatic tears, a flower pin, and massive red shoes. 

“Gentlemen, this is a place of laughter and fun. Why don’t you just forget about all of this and enjoy the circus?”

“Look buddy,” the leader said, taking stomping steps toward the clown until he loomed right over him. “This isn’t any of your business, yeah? Just walk away.”

Honk!

Quick as a flash, the clown reached up and stuck a large, circular red nose on the rabbitfolk leader’s face and squeezed it.

“You--!” his shout was interrupted with a startled gurgling as the flower on the clown’s chest sprayed water into his face.

The non-pied member of the group shouted and stepped forward only for his feet to flip out from underneath him, a banana peel flying into the air comically. He hit the ground with a thud and then a surprised squawk as another pie slapped into his face.

“Maybe you boys should leave, you’re pretty accident prone,” the clown said nonchalantly, twirling yet another pie on the tip of his finger. Unwilling to face more pies, banana peels, and humiliation, the rabbitfolk fled.

“Well, good riddance to sour souls. You okay, kid?”

“Y-yeah. Thank you!”

“Don’t mention it. Why don’t you get back to your family?” And before Owen could complain that he was out here to find something to eat, the clown held out a steaming fresh corndog and the coins he’d dropped.

“Enjoy the circus!”

Priests belong to a religion and utilize the mystery of divine power to protect and heal allies.

Fire mages who have reached the pinnacle of fire control.

Rangers hail from the ranks of expert hunters and skilled military marksmen. Their senses and instincts are keen—taking down targets from incredible distances. Whether wielding bows, crossbows, or rifles, Rangers are always ready with an oppressive rain of missiles.

An expert ranger has the ability to pick out targets of opportunity. They quickly zero in on the most vulnerable enemies, picking them off with precision. It’s this talent for oppressively breaking down the opposition that makes Rangers so effective in battle.

Rangers have trained the ability to flood mana into their optical magic circuits—granting them the ability to see further and more sharply.  They spot threats from great distances and then strike them with pinpoint accuracy.

They're a welcome addition to any adventuring party.  With sharp focus and deadly accuracy that makes them fearsome opponents.

Marcus stared at his ‘mentor’ with exasperation as the zoalith catfolk demonstrated a series of strikes against a reinforced training dummy. Captain Kreman was undeniably skilled and had raw power behind his strikes to boot. However…

“UuuuooohRAH!” the catfolk exclaimed, bringing his greatsword down in a heavy, two handed strike with a crash. Dirt and dust exploded around him, obscuring everything from view. A stiff breeze rushed through the training area revealing Captain Kreman in a dramatic pose and Marcus could see him looking out of the corner of his eye to make sure he was seen.

With a self satisfied smile, Captain Kreman stood up and stabbed his sword down into the dirt. Marcus could practically feel Vice-Captain Aislyn’s glare at the Captain’s actions from somewhere in the growing camp and the amount of extra maintenance his sword would need.

“See? That’s how it’s done! You do it.”

Macrus had not, in fact, seen how it was done. Captain Kreman had attacked the training dummy at full speed and had only shouted at the top of his lungs in various strange ways instead of explaining the technique Marcus was learning. Still, trying to point that out to the Captain would only get him confused so Marcus just resigned himself into being chastised mid technique and finally being taught properly. He stepped up and settled into a stance that was meant to build and maintain momentum in his blade so he could strike with little warning on anyone approaching him.

“You’re standing wrong,” Captain Kreman said.

Marcus waited for some sort of correction for a long moment before he adjusted his footing and lifted his sword again.

“Wrong!” A light kick hit him in the side of the foot and he nearly staggered. “Like that!”

He checked his footing and tried to memorize how it felt and then began to spin his sword around him, the tip whistling as he built up speed.

“Huh…not bad.” And with no further warning, Captain Kreman stepped into the sweeping area of his sword. He couldn’t have stopped his blade if he wanted to and he was very grateful when the Captain deflected his unintentional blow with apparent ease. The catfolk man nodded with a frown. “Good power but…”

“But?” Marcus asked, ready for any sort of criticism that would help him improve.

“Where is your warcry?!”

Marcus stared at the Captain. “What?”

“How can you expect to put full power into your strikes if you’re not putting full power through yourself?!” Captain Kreman brushed him aside with the flat of his sword and took up a stance.

“Like this!” He swung down. “URAH!” 

He cut to the side in a leg level strike. “OOUUAH!” 

He leapt into the air with a flip, his sword leading the way down “SHUWAH!”

The air became heavy with magic and then Captain Kreman began to spin. “UUOOH-RAH-RAH-RAH-RAH-RAH-RAH!” Every strike of his spin on the dummy was punctuated by an increasingly louder ‘warcry’.

Marcus stared, taking it all in, watching his mentor’s feet, his stance, the angle of his sword, and even the rush of magic as it spun through the air. This, at least, was something he could learn from.

He’d leave out the warcry, though.

Rogues are the shadowy denizens of the underworld, using subterfuge and cunning to outsmart their enemies. They know how to create confusion and chaos, slipping in for the perfect strike when the moment is just right. A Rogue’s greatest strength lies in understanding their own weaknesses. They never fight fair, always looking to tip the scales in their favor.

You’ll find Rogues lurking in the dark corners of Lyr’s cities, where they navigate the underbelly with ease. But they’re not just criminals or street-level operatives. Many are recruited by official agencies, prized for their abilities in gathering information and conducting espionage. Their unique skill set also makes them invaluable members of adventuring parties, where their knack for stealth and strategy can turn the tide in any situation.

Rogues thrive in the shadows, always one step ahead, always ready to seize the advantage.

Rogues that create opportunities for their teammates, breaking through and creating their own entrances while hindering the enemy.

Miriam’s robes snapped in the wind, the dusty canyon air tugging at her hair and making her squint to keep the grit out. The sounds of battle echoed off the high rock walls as a formation of knights on foot surged forward under the guidance of a standard bearing paladin. Their formation was perfect, a disciplined line of armor, spears, and shields. Opposing them on the left flank and blocking any attempts to break out of the canyon was an irregular demon unit a quarter their size. But even with a paladin leading them, they were stymied. The air practically sizzled with the amount of mana choking the area, a result of the blasphemous forms the demons had taken.

Divine Release, they called it. An insult is what it was. There was nothing Divine about their hellish powers, their horns and tails and hideous wings. But…the power they had was undeniable. She watched as a tiny speck of a demon girl with red hair and no weapons shot from her lines like a cannonball, her fists cracking plate armor and shattering bodies. Her wings gave her grace, letting her change directions at a whim or turn leaps into brief flight. The paladin leading the knights challenged her and Miriam had to watch as the girl danced around his greatsword, eyes glimmering with some unholy magic. Her blows turned light, almost like taps against his enchanted armor but the paladin recoiled and crumpled like he’d been struck by a giant hammer. He fell and the demons rushed in to push back the now leaderless knights.

A bolt of magic hissed by her head and she refocused on her own fight. The center of the demon’s defensive line was far more organized than the wild flanks and they had mages in support. She lifted her hand in supplication briefly, golden light haloing around her before she extended her hand. The bolt of light staggered one of the frontline defenders, the holy energy clinging to his skin until one of the forward knights landed a strike. The holy energy flowed back into the knight, bolstering his stamina as he pressed the attack.

She had to be strategic with her magic. She wasn’t like a priest in the back, tending to the wounded. She was trained for the front lines, to turn damage and potential into recovery for her allies. To bring the Wrath of Kari to her enemies while providing the Succor of Her Light as the scriptures dictated. To bring holy cleansing to this Kari forsaken land!

But these demons just weren’t cooperating! Even with the help of those filthy cats and whatever trickery they’d used, the campaign in Sorthen had been successful beyond all expectations. Until now. Until these canyons! The demon rabble had organized and the push through the country had stalled. A frustrated snarl accompanied her next blast of holy light, blowing through the defenses of a faltering frontliner. His spot was filled almost instantly by the next in line before the opening could be capitalized on.

A low whistling cut faintly through the din of battle, its sound so strange that it stood out. It was a sound they all knew, something they were warned about and that the cats had said they would handle. But there were no cats here now. No aeromancers.

Miriam watched in growing fury as a trio of aerial mages swooped in from on high, missiles of magic, devastating beams, and condensed mana bombs fell into the back lines of their formations, scattering mages, riflemen, and healers alike. The aerial mages turned their attack runs into sharp climbs, expertly avoiding any return fire as they gained altitude for another attack run.

--

“The Battle of Three Passes was the one, great chance for the demons of Sorthen to turn back the invasion during the Four Swords War. Utilizing a new form of long range communication, General Ar’Golan maneuvered his forces into a blocking position at the Rake, a trio of canyons to the north of the capital and the fastest direct corridor to Marlone Bay. With the enemy forces split and communications finally able to move between demon commanders, Sorthen forces inflicted dire casualties on the invaders, particularly those of Westria due to the split nature of the attack and the lack of aeromancer support to combat demon aerial mages. The defense only lasted two weeks until the breakdown of demon communications removed their coordination and the demon forces retreated.

This two week delay in the invasion is said to be the only reason Sorthen continues to exist as a nation today.” - The Great War by Alan Printon

In the frostbitten silence at the edge of the Astra Lands, survival doesn’t just come from strength, it comes from knowing where not to step. The first to cross the threshold past Mirane were not conquerors or scholars, but a scattered few with sharpened senses and silent tread.

It was the scouts, led by Elyne Ravas, that laid the first trail into the Astra Lands. Long, long before the existence of the Dragon Claw Alliance or the Mirane Expeditioner's Alliance, they were the ones that cleared the path, placed the first markers and discovered how vast the lands truly were. The things learned during that time were passed on and are still shared to this day.

The scout’s role is not simply to guide, but to witness. To thread through impossible terrain, observe the unspeakable, and return with clarity while others return with nothing at all. Whether alone or among allies, they mark the path. Not for glory, but so others may live long enough to see it.

"Eyes sharp, steps light. Leave no echo but the truth." -Ravas

Aine watched as injured soldiers ran past her through a narrow pass. She hadn’t expected things to be easy when she set out with her comrades from Glassworks, answering the surprising call for help from the Demons, but the sheer weight of numbers the combined Northi-Westrian forces brought to bear was mind boggling. They had lost the battle, that was clear and obvious, but her unit’s objective had been complete. The relic was safely smuggled out of the now burning city while they had held the rear guard.

She didn’t know what the relic was, she didn’t know why it was so important, she didn’t know why half her comrades were dead and the rest injured, but she had to hope that it was something that would turn the tide of the war.

“Keep going!” she shouted after the few remaining Salamanders and Demons that had hesitated when she hadn’t followed them. She turned fully toward the approaching humans and brought her longsword down with a sharp motion. Fire bloomed along the blade, so hot that it began to sear the grass nearby and caused the humans to come to a wary halt at the sheer heat of it. The tip of her blade scratched a molten line in the stone between her and the enemy.

“If you cross that, I'll be forced to kill you,” she warned, her voice holding an echo of a wildfire. 

Their response was just laughter and a cautious approach, swordsmen fanning out and a pair of riflemen hurrying to load their weapons. She let out a scorching breath and let Fire become a reality in the world around her. The air shimmered and the stone slagged into molten puddles around her. Scorching wind flew around her, the sudden heat displacing air aggressively and sending her hair dancing. She took a defensive stance and waited for the first man to gain his nerve. Their courage was bolstered by more men coming up the pass, ready to push the chase for her withdrawing men.

The first man to cross into her domain barely had time to scream before he was scorched to ash and bone. Those that tried to bypass her found that she had placed herself too neatly in the pass opening and they had to dance back with severe burns. Rifles range out and she was forced to deflect away one shot with her sword while the others were wildly off target, the heat haze throwing off their aim.

She couldn’t hold them forever and she knew she would die here. But she would burn as much time and as many men as she could, the flame of hope in her heart that the artifact would all be worth it, that it would bring an end to the war.

“Come, then! I’ll burn you all to ash!”

“Fayto Zhelti! It is time for your end!” Lightning struck dramatically, thunder rolled, and the wind snapped at her cloak.

“I am The Lone Wolf of Rosania, The Darkness Against the World, the Reaper With No Witness, The Seventh Sorrow of Lyr! In the name of Her Dark Radiance Heira, I, Alycia Claes, will defeat you!”

She readied her combat stance, her hand raised by her face, her scythe roiling with Dark magic.

“Alycia! Get down from there before you get struck by lightning!” her eternal rival shouted back. As if to punctuate the danger, another lightning strike split a tree that was far too close for comfort in a storm of splinters and embers. Hastily, Alycia jumped down from her perch to land before her rival, brushing her skirt out a few times before returning to her stance.

“Bold of you to attempt a magical sneak attack!”

“It’s a thunder storm and you have a metal pole, there was no magic needed,” Fayto replied flatly. “And did you add another name?”
 

“N-no! You are mistaken!” Alycia shook her head, her twin tails flying and then pointed her scythe at Fayto. “Don’t distract me! Today is your end! You can’t escape me again!”

Fayto exchanged looks with her party, obviously playing something to run away again. Then she looked at Alycia seriously, hand on her sword. “Look, if you just wanted to spar, just say so. But we’re kind of in a hurry. There’s a lightning drake attacking villages nearby and we’re hunting it.”

“Oh.” Alycia lowered her scythe. “Then let’s vanquish it! I, obviously, will take the lead and defeat it myself! You can support me!”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s just go. It’s probably roosting in the mountains to the east.” Alycia fell into step with Fayto, looking at her rival’s father and brother. They had quietly amused looks on their faces. Alycia bit her lip as she stared at Krono Zhelti and opened her mouth to--

“Don’t you dare start flirting with my brother again.”

Alycia’s mouth snapped shut and she pouted.

“And I can’t believe you copied my hairstyle, Alycia!”

“What? You don’t own the twin tail style!”

“You even have the same ribbons I use! Did you get those in Florentine, too?”

“Hmph! You’re just jealous it looks better on me!” Alycia said, turning to point at Fayto for emphasis.

“They’re like long lost sisters,” Krono said to his father with a quiet laugh.

“Kari, give me strength,” Fayto said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “At least cover your legs! It’s indecent!”

“My body is the very image of Heira, I will not!” Alycia folded her arms and looked away. “Prude.”

“Prude?!”

Krono looked at his father and his father looked at him. “I think they missed each other.”

-

The sworn shieldbrother or sister of a Sword Saint. Like its twin saint, the Shield Saint originally hails from Kirara where it fights together with their chosen partner.

The Shield Saint is trained in defensive techniques whose purpose is to allow for their partner to focus purely on offense while the Shield Saint absorbs the hits. At first these techniques were merely physical, but over time the nature has evolved into a more spiritual connection. The bond between a Shield Saint and their partner links their very souls together and neither can be bonded again until one of them passes away. Because of this, the partner a Shield Saint chooses is very important and in Kirara most pairs are selected based on compatibility at an early age. It is not uncommon for a Sword Saint and Shield Saint pair to be romantically involved with each other.

Shielding mages

As was common with most innovations that made radical leaps, the history of the Sky Knights was steeped in warfare. Like the development of the Cavalier, learning to take to the sky on the backs of winged mounts stemmed from a need to counter a threat. Aerial Mages from Sorthen had long since, and in some cases continue, dominated the skies as scouts, couriers, and as untouchable bombardment specialists. With no modern airships to deter them and no Aeromancers to threaten them, both Northi and Westria searched for a solution. Nearly simultaneously, the two countries developed their own methods.

From the mountains and hills near Mount Merlin, Northi tamed the wild pegasi. Harpy hunters were the first to capture and tame the wild flying horses and harpy run ranches continue to produce the highest quality mounts with specialized breeds tailored for various tasks. A pegasus’s agility and speed in the air let the chimeran knights of Northi put up a challenge to Sorthen aerial units in terms of scouting, but their limited endurance and fragile wings made them less suited as couriers and frontline combatants. 

Westria took a nuisance that plagued their southeastern border along the mountains near Jav and turned it into a solution. Wyverns roosting in the mountains and forests were regularly dealt with by adventurers and knights but some enterprising (and foolhardy) beast tamers decided to attempt to tame newly hatched wyverns as companions. With some false starts, they succeeded and it wasn’t long before an interest in training them as mounts emerged. Slower and less nimble in the air than their pegasi counterparts, a wyvern’s thick scales and devastating Reginleiv made them much more suitable as flying heavy cavalry.

To this day, there is little overlap in the Sky Knight forces of Northi and Westria. While each side failed to deploy units that could directly counter Aerial Mages, their arrival on the battlefield removed Sorthen’s complete dominance of the air. Modern Sky Knight adventurers utilize whatever type of mount that suits their style (or that they can afford) and continue to fill their historical roles as scouts, couriers, and aerial cavalry.

The various clans of Harpies and Tengu’s live in harmony together on Mt Merlin. This was not always the case.

A long time ago, the two races were in a violent territorial dispute over the mountain. The tengu held control over it when the harpies moved in. The tengu were worried about the threat of these sudden newcomers, while the harpies considered Mt Merlin part of Northi’s territory and thus their land by right.

The tengu had both the numbers and defender’s advantage and quickly moved to forcefully expel the invaders after the brief set of negotiations broke down. However, they had lacked knowledge of the Harpy’s innate mastery of the wind. Their downbursts would snipe tengu’s out of the sky without any recourse and the first battle ended in a crushing defeat for the crows.

Seizing the momentum, the harpies pushed forward and suppressed the tengu’s, who were unable to use their usual flying combat strategies. Hope seemed lost. Until, Dawn Waits Above stepped out of her solitary training from the highest peaks of the mountains.

Dawn gifted onto her fellow tengu’s a martial arts style that let them harness the power of the wind themselves. They managed to fly faster and land extremely quickly to avoid the dangerous blasts of wind coming from the sky. Once they closed the gap, their wind-infused fists knocked the harpies out of the sky themselves where they were beaten into submission.

With the new techniques, the tides of the battle shifted into a stalemate. With neither side having an advantage and enough blood already spilled, the two races agreed to stop fighting. The tengu’s settled on the higher peaks, always being able to look down on the harpies and keep watch over them.

Even after that short war, the Sky Talon Style remains a commonly used martial arts style to this day. The tengu’s of Mt Merlin will never forget how vulnerable they were, while other aspiring martial artists see the style as a way to mimic the strength of the flying races.

“Fall not like a bird losing flight, but like a blade from heaven.” Dawn Waits Above, 3rd scroll of the Sky Talon Style.

“Why can’t I just use a wand? This is hard!”

Kori flexed her fingers as the magic she was trying to channel into a magical blast fizzled underneath her skin. Her tutor, Mister Corwin, tutted as he watched her stoically. But most importantly, he didn’t hand her her wand. Her long ears twitched and flattened back, mirroring the annoyance on her face.

“Mister Corwin!”

“You are the Crown Princess of Ithelia, Princess Itia. The magical traditions and strengths of your family run in your blood. This power and these spells are your heritage and the source of pride and defense of the kingdom.”

Kori continued to pout. Mister Corwin sighed lightly.

“If you can channel this magic without a focus today, I’ll inform the Queen of how well you’re doing in your studies. I’m sure she’ll reward you for your diligence.”

Kori’s pout vanished in an instant, thoughts of treats and sweets swirling through her mind. With a shake of her head that caused her ears to flop about, she turned her attention back to the target dummy a few paces away.

“Remember, focus not just on your own magic, but the magic in the air and the stone beneath your feet. Open yourself up to the flow of worldy magic and become a conduit…”

She tuned out Mister Corwin’s lecture, taking a breath as she reached out with the part of her that was real but unreal at the same time. She breathed in, a phantom breath mirroring her, filling her with an energy that made her blood feel fizzy. She brought her hand up and breathed out steadily, picturing the magic pulling in from the air and floor beneath her feet, into her core, and up her arm.

“Taro!” 

Her skin tingled and a prismatic sheen covered her arm for a moment before it leapt from her outstretched hand in a bolt, hitting the target dummy with a resounding crash that knocked it over and left a scorched divot on the shoulder.

“I did it!” Kori spun around with a wide grin, her dress fluttering around her ankles. 

“You did, Princess. Well done. Now, do it again, faster.”

An expert spear fighter.

Spellblades that have mastered their art.

Astrea Lu Novar stood on a cliff overlooking the plains in the distance. Already she could see the Westrian forces approach in a tight combat formation towards the severely outnumbered Sorthen forces that hugged the edge of the forest. They were weakened and the Westrian had brought many paladins for this fight. However, the Westrians probably weren’t expecting her.

She looked at her younger brother and nodded. He shouted commands and all around her she could feel their subordinates set up their defensive barrier of stars. Sorthen saboteurs could probably sneak through it, but Westrians? They would kill themselves trying to break through.

As this happened, the Westrians had begun to engage the forces below. Astra raised her hand to the sky and dozens followed after her. “Target the healers.” She gave a simple command and uncountable stars began to form above the heads of the humans. Their panic and attempts to flee and find cover did little to save them from the magical energy that exploded onto the battlefield.

With the healers weakened or killed, she directed her attention to the paladins still cutting through her fellow demons in the frontline. A point of white-gold light ignited in the air above their leader. The air tightened around it, distorting faintly like a heat haze with a ring of plasma forming around it. And then it ruptures, exploding outwards in a violent flare leaving nothing but a crater where the man once was.

The rest scramble for a counteroffensive, but that too would be pointless. After all, how could one fight the sky itself?

“When you see a falling star, do not wish. Run.”

The Nio have stood at the gates of shrines, temples, and holy places for centuries, carved in stone yet bound in spirit. Many of them never stir, sleeping away decades in statue form. But history remembers the few who did awaken when their sacred grounds were threatened.

The most famous account comes from the fall of the Twin Gate of Renkoji, The temple,one of the oldest temples that existed in Kirara, was guarded by two great Nio known as Agyo and Ungyo

When an enemy force descended upon the shrine, the monks inside knew that they would not be able to hold it. But the wardens stepped down from their pedestals for the first time in living memory. They fought without weapons, their arms and fists breaking spears like kindling, their bodies weathering blows that would have felled a dozen warriors. When enemies slipped past, the guardians leapt to intercept, placing themselves between blade and priest.

The monks of Renkōji observed their movements in awe. After the battle, when the twin wardens finally fell and their bodies shattered at the temple threshold, the surviving disciples etched every move into scrolls. They called it the Still Stone Style, named so out of respect for the guardians who gave their life to protect them.

To this day, Nio and other devoted martial artists practice the style, its philosophy unchanged: To become the wall between your enemies and your friends.

“Let your body be like jade, unyielding and pure.” -Still Stone Style 5th scroll.

Shannon studied the field as she idly leaned to avoid a bolt of magical fire. Kane and Mara were making a fighting retreat not too far away, the burly guardian ensuring the much smaller demon woman was safe while providing her the openings to harass the three enemies pressuring them. Behind the line of melee, Kaede was darting around a frustrated pyromancer, most of her attacks deflecting off hasty arcane barriers as she disrupted his attempts to bring his firepower to bear. Shannon’s own pistol weighed heavily in her hand but the enemy mage was out of range and she didn’t want to risk hitting her team by firing into the melee. And besides, her best contribution wasn’t necessarily to provide ranged fire support, but to be slightly removed from the battle to help guide it.

And suddenly, a moment. The enemy team’s highlander was screened by his teammates and was making an all or nothing push against Mara.

“Fall back!” she commanded, mana surging through her voice and the air to lend it that much more punch. Her fan snapped open and closed in a triple rhythm, carrying an equal amount of meaning to her order. Not a full retreat but a bait to break their ranks and counter attack.

“Kaede, you too!” The aggressive catgirl blinked and then darted away from the pyromancer she’d been hassling, ending up slightly behind the enemy front line. That confused them even more as they struggled to decide if breaking Shannon’s defensive formation was the play or to punish the now seemingly vulnerable Kaede. But before they could make up their mind, Kane and Mara suddenly planted their feet and turned, taking the chasing highlander by surprise as they re-engaged him.

“Now swing the hammer! Anvil formation!”

Kaede seemed to glide right through the staggered enemy frontline formation and slammed into the back of the highlander. The man went tumbling from her axe strike and didn’t get back up. Suddenly, the battlefield had reversed itself and the pressure had instantly shifted. The enemy confusedly reformed their battered front line and a fireball crashed into Kane’s shield to no seeming effect.

But that breath of a moment had allowed her team to recover their footing and bearings. It was time to end it.

“Secret Art: Shock and Awe!”

Energy swirled around Shannon as she snapped her fan shut and pointed it directly at the reeling enemy. “Take them!”

It was over seconds later and she barely heard the judge announce Team Shannon as the winners over the cheering crowd.

A summoning that contracts with Eidolons.

(See Summoning Contract breakthroughs for which eidolons you can contract with.)

The deck rolled under her feet and rain lashed down in windblown sheets. Lightning flashed in the near distance, the roar of the thunder nearly drowned out by the crashing waves. Her long blue coat snapped in the wind as she brought her swords up in a parry, steel ringing against steel. She grinned, stepping back with a flourishing spin of her cutlasses.

“You’ve got skill, kid!” she praised.

“It’s over, Captain Rook! Your crew has abandoned you, you have nowhere to run!” the kid shouted, a young Lieutenant. Half a dozen of his comrades were collapsed on the deck behind him. There were a handful still on their feet, muskets aimed but unwilling to fire into the melee. If their powder would even spark in this storm, they weren’t protecting their frizzen pans at all from the rain. They were part of the Holy Westrian Navy, uniforms that were normally crisp and white with golden highlighting hanging heavy with water and blood stains, and had laid this ambush specifically to capture her. Well…ambush was giving them a little too much credit, she’d known this ‘merchant ship’ had been packed with Navy men before it left port. But who was she to say no to such a polite challenge?

“Well, if yer so keen to bring me in, c’mon then.” She gestured with one of her blades and then rasped them against each other as she settled into an easy stance that seemed to ignore the heavy pitching of the deck.

The heavy blow of his longsword slid easily off her cutlass in a neat deflection and she retaliated with an embarrassing swat to the rear as she danced past him, sending him staggering. Then she lunged, her sword ringing against the base of his, knocking it from his hands and overboard into the ocean. Her second sword, she hooked behind his knee with the back of the blade, sending him sprawling. Before he could push himself up, she planted a boot on his chest and leveled her cutlass at his throat.

“Need to watch that footing, kid. Could get ya killed!”

“W-what are you men waiting for?! Shoot her!” The musketmen snapped their aim up and fired.

Well, they clicked, at least. “Gotta keep that powder dry!” she coached with a laugh.

“Anyway, as fun as this was, I gotta get going. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Lieutenant Mortimer Augustus--”

“That’s a horrible name, Mort!” Rook stepped back, her swords rasping back home into their scabbards. “Better luck next time!”

Before Lieutenant Mort could say anything else, Rook grabbed onto a rope that suddenly landed between them from above and she was pulled off her feet into the sky. Faintly, through the rain, a small airship could be seen as it pulled up and away. When Rook was firmly back on deck of her ship, she patted the men on the shoulder that hauled her up and gratefully accepted her Captain’s Hat from her first officer.

“Alright lads, back home to Vivian! We got what we wanted today!”

Fighters who have learned the art of a drunken brawl.

-

Pickpockets and scallywags.

Enid's Dogfolk ears drooped down as the Timberwright foreman scolded her.  So zealous to learn and finish her tasks, she worked with great effort—but alone, to put the finishing touches on a wall frame that would be a part of a new facility for a famous adventuring guild.  Overwhelmed with work Enid nearly fell over from exhaustion before her mentor told her to take a break.

"A big project like this, you could do it with just one person sure," the Timberwright folded his arms across his chest and nodded in thought.  "But you have to learn to work with others Eni.  Mothergreen wasn't built in a day... and it wasn't built with one builder.  We craftsmen have to stick together and help each other out... that's how we create things that are beloved by many.  Things that will be remembered long before we pass."

Enid yawned and then hit herself for the disrespect, "Teacher, I just want to make sure that it gets done, so I have to do it myself right?"

Her mentor smiled, "Perhaps this time you can, but there will be a time when you have to learn to work with others.  You're always off on your own."

Months passed and the Lumberwright put Enid in charge of a big project—to go along with a team to build barracks for the workers of a new magical fuel mine.  The Chimera girl, who was comfortable in her solitude was quite happy to keep to herself in the middle of the march column—when suddenly a scream rang out.

"Hobs... out here?!" the fighter shouted.

A miner clutched his pickaxe as he spun around, swinging his pickaxe at the hobgoblins wildly as they ducked and weaved through every strike delivering small cuts and blows with every dodge.  The acolyte, in an attempt to assist tripped into the miner as they fell into a pile on the ground.  

The Hobgoblin went in for a heavy blow on the two twisted upon the ground as the fighter stepped in to guard them.  Enid clutched her axe, swallowed hard and stepped forward as her untrained nerves shook her to the core.  The Hob did as Hobs do, spinning his blade wildly as he slathered the blade with its own tongue in a taunt.

Enid nearly lost her grip with her axe, thoughts flashing across her mind—"I don't know how to fight...I can't do this alone."  She looked up at the Hob and then back to the Fighter when her mentors words echoed clearly in her mind, "There will be a time where you have to learn to work with others."  She hit herself lightly once more, glancing once more at the seasoned fighter beside her.

The Hobgoblin lunged, blade whistling through the air as iron met iron in rhythmic percussion.  The Fighter's heel dug in, knowing that he couldn't evade or have his comrades injured by the beast.  He leaned back and then delivered a light kick to push the Hobgoblin away.  Much to his shock, a force pushed back on his foot.

Standing behind the Hobgloblin, waiting for her chance to strike in unison, she pulled the blade of her axe back as it dripped with Hob blood.  The creature whined as it fell to the ground, blood pooling underneath it.  It was a perfectly coordinated attack.

Enid smiled in relief as her mentor's words were realized, "Let's stick together..." she said quietly, more to herself than anyone else as the Fighter nodded in approval.  The Chimera felt the wisdom of her Timberwright mentor that day, carried on the wind.  "That's how we build something that lasts."

Time Thieves manipulate time to pull off perfect heists.

Natsuki blinked in confusion at her surroundings, the wind from the mountains tugging at her robes and hair. Lightning danced around her limbs and she was tense, like a battle was upon her. Bells and gongs rang behind her from a village, all indicating some sort of attack. Which would explain why she was there, ready to defend them.

But she didn’t remember anything that would have warranted her assuming the Stance of Heavenly Lightning. Had she been training? …No, that wasn’t wise if she was there to defend the village. Like a fog slowly lifting, she remembered being dispatched from the temple to investigate missing villagers nearby and…even a completely wiped out hamlet.

In a flash, her mind cleared. A huge face loomed in front of her, lipless mouth spread in a permanent, horrific grin. Empty eye sockets bore down on her as it opened its mouth.

Akuma, her mind identified. Too large to be a bakemono, too little devastation to be a kaiju. A kaibutsu, then. And a tricky one at that.

She traced the thin, tentacle-like neck back to the main body, a pulsing globule of flesh as large as a house. Other heads grinned at her from their own serpentine necks. They were quiet, no longer singing, as if they wanted to enjoy her terror as she was devoured. Like it had probably picked off villagers one by one, using its song to make everyone forget until it struck again.

But the akuma had made a grave mistake. Its weapon was song and sound. But her’s…her’s was what thunder chased and could never catch.

The air cracked and the akuma howled in agony as she came to a stop on the other side of it, lighting glittering across her skin and snapping at the wind.

“Lightning Release,” she said, the mantra unnecessary but it felt appropriate. “Living Lightning.”

All she had to do was kill the akuma before it could sing again. Simple as that. Natsuki clenched her fists and thunder boomed again, desperately giving chase to her lightning.

In the dust of an artisan's workshop or in the open clearings of a logging company, the hum and chirps of transmutation can be heard.  Transmutation is an art, a magic as ancient as Lyr.  Long before the shadows of the great calamity, Transmuters were scholars who questioned the very nature of existence.  This pursuit led to a mastery over both destruction and creation, spinning the threads of reality itself into a tapestry.

Transmutation is the second branch of alchemy and created a revolution in society.  It replaced primitive methods such as smelting and manual refinement—which previously had artisans sweating over blazing crucibles into the dark hours of the night.  It isn't uncommon for master craftsmen to have a Transmuter in their employ or as a partner, processing material in the atelier or even helping with the crafting itself.  In fact, nowadays there is rarely a town across Lyr without at least one person versed in the basics of this ancient art.

Transmuters manipulate matter at its core, unraveling its threads and rebuilding them into entire new forms.  They can shatter stone into dust, or create small figurines from blocks of wood.  The control of Transmutation is only limited by skill and imagination. Transmutation is the second branch of Alchemy, which itself is one of the great pillars of Arcane Magic.

Yet with great power comes great peril.  Those who understand Transmutation know that creation and destruction are two sides of the same coin.  It requires a sound mind and body to walk the delicate balance, making Transmuters some of the most respected Artisans in any community they are in.  
 

Carter’s breath came in sharp gasps as he leapt over a fallen log, his boots scraping the moss off the top with how narrowly he cleared it. Behind him, frustrated yells followed him as his pursuers crashed through the thick brush and thorny bushes. He knew the forest around him better than his hometown and that gave him an advantage, but the catfolk chasing him were both faster and more nimble than he was. It was taking every trick he knew to stay ahead of the poachers.

The twang of a bowstring had him juking right and diving over a particularly nastily thorny berry bush, just barely avoiding the arrow that snapped past him. He landed and rolled, still careful of his own bow and supply of arrows, and he felt a smile pull at his lips. The forest opened up slightly into a small clearing with limited brush and only a couple fallen trees for cover. The old scorch marks on some of the trees told him that there had likely been a lightning strike that had briefly burned out the area some months ago. This was exactly where he expected to get “caught”.

He carefully retreated to the center of the small clearing and collapsed back against one of the scorched logs. He was still catching his breath when the three catfolk pushed into the open area, eyes scanning around before locking on him. They raised their bows and the leader stepped forward a few paces.

“Finally! You know there was no way for you to outrun us. Now you’re just gonna die tired,” the poacher boasted. He raised his bow and knocked an arrow. “Just stay still for a second, will you?”

Carter grinned. “Sure, buddy.” With the hand that was out of sight of the catfolk, he cut three small lines. There was the horrible snap and crunch of a bear trap snapping closed on a leg followed almost instantly by the surprised shriek of a catgirl suddenly finding herself tangled in a net and hanging twenty feet off the ground. The catfolk caught in the bear trap barely had much time to scream in pain himself before a log swung out of the trees and caught him straight in the chest, carrying him fully out of the clearing in a crash.

The poacher leader took a surprised step back and fell with a startled yelp, the support for the pit trap he’d walked over no longer in place. Carter hopped to his feet and jogged over to the hole, absently eyeing the hanging catgirl. She’d dropped her bow and had fumbled her knife in her struggles, so she was good and stuck. He peaked over into the hole with a smug grin, bow in hand and arrow ready.

“Why don’t we have a nice conversation about why you don’t poach in my forests, huh?”

Tricksters are a support class that cause chaos on the battlefield.  The world is a stage.

Wielders of the shinigami eyes, rare as they are, have the ability to perceive the death of living things. For most of them, that is where it ends. However, there are those who over time grow an even deeper understanding of death. They can see the death not just of living things, but also of objects and even non-physical things such as magic. This enhanced perception has given those wielders the name of the ‘True Shinigami Eyes’.

Vampires are those who are cursed, using their cursed abilities to their advantage.

Vampire Lords drift through the pages of history like living shadows—accursed souls chained to undeath by the very forces that empower them. In dimly lit taverns, alongside whispered tales of Dragons and other legendary horrors, travelers speak of eerie encounters and boast of glimpses caught at the corner of a moonlit eye. Whether these sightings are truth or fancy, one thing is certain: the name Vampire Lord stirs fear and fascination in equal measure.

Unlike lesser Vampires who lose themselves to bloodlust or despair, Vampire Lords have embraced their curse, searching its depths to forge a power all their own. They understand their twisted existence at a level few can rival, developing uncanny resistances to the sun’s harsh sting and other infamous banes of their kind. Yet what truly sets them apart is their mastery over the delicate threads connecting the Arcane, Faith, and Astra—allowing them to skirt the borders of Higher Order Magic. Their Vampiric Domination arises from this warped interplay of energies, a distant, corrupted echo of the Mystic Eye once claimed by the fabled Aseria clan of Sorthen.

That unholy gift grants them the power to ensnare weaker minds, exerting a terrible control that echoes across dark corridors and silent chambers. Even so, few mortals have battled a Vampire Lord and returned with their lives, for these lords of night prefer to move in secrecy. Outwardly, they can seem disarmingly regal—yet beneath that lies a being forever dancing on the razor’s edge between life and the endless darkness. Should you cross paths with a Vampire Lord, know this—their secrets run deeper than any mortal can fathom, and their hunger, while tempered, still seeks knowledge and power in their cursed existence. 

-

“I’m always cleaning up messes,” Selle complained, gesturing toward the scattered papers, books, and broken chairs. A few drops of dense liquid dropped from the tip of one of her fingers and landed on a wrinkled piece of paper. The mana dense liquid sizzled on contact, quickly burning a hole through the thin material and continued to bubble as it slowly scorched a divot into the wooden floor.

“Go here, Selle. Remove the complication, Selle. They saw too much, Selle. Wi Vaniin’s are supposed to make sure things stay quiet, Selle.” She flicked her wrist and snapped her fingers. The man that had been trying to sneak his way out the door dropped to the ground in a clatter, gasping and clutching at his throat, the venom in his system resonating with her mana and seizing his muscles. She glanced at him to make sure he stopped twitching before turning back to her captive audience of one. The goblin struggled against his bonds, rocking the chair she had bound him to. 

“Look, neither one of us want me to be here,” she said, reaching out to steady him so he’d stop making that irritating clomping noise with the chair. “But you got yourself some really sensitive information and I need you to tell me--”

A glint of something behind the terrified goblin caught her eye and she only realized she’d thrown him aside after she had shakily lifted a framed picture from his messy desk. Those eyes. The smile. The hat. The signature!

“--where did you get this?!”

The goblin grunted something high pitched through his gag.

“This is a First Edition Signed Camielelieananu Portrait! Only fifty of these exist in the world! They were a unique promotional item handed out to the first buyers of her Fundamentals of Alchemy book!”

Selle clutched the portrait gently to her chest and turned with wide, frantic eyes to her captive. All thoughts of recovering the Wi Vanian research data for Endo completely forgotten.

“Did you meet her? Did she sign your book? DID SHE SHAKE YOUR HAND?!”

The sounds of crashing and muffled screaming continued from the isolated workshop escalated as Selle began a renewed hunt for something precious. That book had to be here!

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The normal and constant sounds of the swamp were silent, allowing the drops of viscous poison falling from her needles to be clearly audible. Ruo Shui tapped her chin as she stared at the gasping trio in front of her. Shiny needles protruded from gaps in their armor or through their clothing, the dense magic infused venom eating away at them from within. They were fighting it off but it was making their movements sluggish as they turned energies inward to purge it, making them increasingly easy targets. One of their number, their fourth, was already face down in the swampy water, unmoving, his cat tail drifting in the stagnant water like a moldy stick. A wannabe assassin that had tried to take her by surprise.

“This didn’t need to happen,” she said as she stepped easily through the knee deep water. “You were warned to not trespass in Hei lands, you were warned to turn back. And now you’ve paid your price.”

She stopped over the man in heavy armor as he definitely stood to his full height, the fresh venom she’d inflicted on him finally being overcome by his own magic.

“You killed our friend! You killed Iolo!”

Ruo Shui stared at the man for a long moment. “He literally tried to stab me in the back while we were talking. I feel like it’s a little bit deserved, don’t you?”

The man clicked his tongue in irritation and shifted to look back at his other two companions. They were worse off than he was, exhausted and looking ready to collapse into the water. 

“Fine,” he said eventually through gritted teeth. “Let us get our friend and we’ll leave.”

He took a step to do just that.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said. He froze, his guard coming up. “You can leave, you and your pretty little lady friends. But your…Iolo, was it? Well, he belongs to the swamp now. And the swamp is Hei land…and you wouldn’t be intending on stealing from us…would you?”

Ruo Shui watched in satisfaction as the reduced party staggered away, retreating back toward…wherever it was they came from. Probably from the south and Sarjes. There was a new crop of explorers coming from there recently. Once they were fully out of sight and the sounds of the swamp began to return to normal, she turned to the body of Iolo. She honestly didn’t care about him, he could rot in the swamp. But…those knives of his on the other hand. Those had been masterfully made and had delightful little mechanical devices attached to them. She wondered what other trinkets and items he might have on him. Any edge was an edge she’d secure for her people.

Translator’s Note: “Iolo” is a catfolk traditional name and is pronounced “Yolo” in the common tongue.

A better animal summoner.

Zen Warriors are mobile monks with both offensive and defensive capabilities.