Once upon a time, disaster struck the Kingdom of Kaerok. Year after year, unnatural drought reigned, crops withered and livestock fell for lack of pasture. Thousands died, tens of thousands more suffered greatly. Lords and peasants alike knew hunger and despaired. Throughout Kaerok, few lands remained untouched by famine - and the domain of Marquess Khoronar was one such haven. But the Marquess was arrogant, selfish, and unkind.
 

One night, a malnourished old woman came to the castle and offered Khoronar a single beautiful rose in return for some food that would keep her alive. Disgusted by her pathetic and destitute appearance, the Marquess sneered and ordered the old woman thrown out of the gate. But before the guards could lay a hand on her, they were struck down by a bolt of lightning and their flesh turned to marble. The old woman’s guise shifted and swirled to reveal her true form, that of angelic beauty, stark noble features, and hair the colour of blazing flame.

Recognizing the Arbiter for who she was, Khoronar tried to beg for forgiveness, but it was too late for she had seen his ugly, selfish nature hidden beneath a veneer of nobility. As punishment, the Arbiter transformed him into a hideous beast and bound his soul to a Shard so that he could never truly die. With a powerful spell placed on the castle, Khoronar was condemned to eternal life as a prisoner. Only if he were to learn to love would he ever be released for his curse. But as centuries passed the Marquess and his castle had been forgotten, lost to time in the depths of the enchanted woods. It appeared that Khoronar was doomed to an endless cycle of misery, unredeemed and unloved.

It was only when a young Knight of Kaerok known as Minaya that hope was finally rekindled. Renowned for her kindness and beauty in equal measure, Minaya was widely beloved by her subjects and her peers. But there were those who grew jealous of her, and those bitter over her refusing courtship. A proud Baron whose advanced Minaya had spurned saw it as an insult that could only be washed away with blood. He sought allies among those who could not bear to see the young Knight’s virtue, and soon enough an assassin’s arrow was poised to pierce Minaya’s heart. By the grace of the Goddess, the assassin missed his mark, and Minaya escaped into the woods. For hours she wondered, and as wolves gathered at her back in hopes of easy prey, she finally came across the enchanted castle where the damned Marquess lived.

At first, Khoronar intended to punish the trespasser. But seeing Minaya’s beauty and the courage she showed even when facing the horrible beast he had become, he stayed his ire. He still imprisoned Minaya, for she knew the way to the castle now, but treated her fairly. His servants, doomed to an existence of living statues, catered to Minaya’s every whim, and each night Khoronar, desperate for company after centuries of loneliness, would dine with her. Slowly, he realized, he was falling in love. Terrified by the notion, he flew into a fit of bestial fury and chased Minaya from the castle, ordering her to never return.

This had almost cost the young Knight her life, for the assassins sent after her had not given up. By a stroke of misfortune, they fell on Minaya’s trail once more and would have surely been the end of her, were it not for Khoronar, remorseful of his display, following Minaya in hopes of earning her forgiveness. He came upon the assassins just as the ambush was sprung and managed to slay them all in the battle that followed.

But Khoronar did not escape the fray unscathed himself, and a poisoned arrow struck his shoulder. Minaya hurried to his side and used all of her skill to treat the wound and purge the poison from her saviour’s blood. Weakened but alive, Khoronar and his companion made it back to the castle. It was then that their feelings had finally come to fruition, and Minaya too looked beyond the grisly facade to see a man repentant, and truly willing to make himself better. She did her best to guide him, to teach him that only in the love for others could Lumaya’s blessings be spread.

And yet, thoughts of her people did not leave Minaya even when her own happiness was within her grasp. Though reluctant, Khoronar allowed her to visit her own domain and ensure a suitable castellan could be appointed to rule fairly in her stead while Minaya was absent. She made a promise to return in a week’s time and rode from the castle once more.

Upon her arrival, Minaya found that her lands had been overtaken by the jealous Baron whose proposal she refused, and her people were bled dry and oppressed by draconian new laws. Furious over these abuses, Minaya called upon what allies she could to assist her, and the people of the land rose up to stand at their Lady’s side with whatever weapons they could afford. It was going to be a bloody siege indeed.

Meanwhile, Khoronar found himself distraught - the week had passed, yet of Minaya there was no sign. He thought himself betrayed once more and nearly slipped into despair, were it not for a miracle. Though all the mirrors in his castle had long been shattered, shards of glass yet remained scattered in his chamber. One such shard came to life, glowing with arcane energy, and showed the bewildered Khoronar a terrible sight of his love dying in battle. Abandoning everything, Khoronar made haste to Minaya’s lands.

He arrived whe the assault on the castle was already underway and threw himself into the fray. Awed by the arrival of such a powerful and strange ally, Minaya’s men-at-arms could do little but give way to the raging beast. But alas, it was perhaps this haste that led to the prophecy of the mirror being fulfilled. Having forced his way into the great hall of the castle, Khoronar came upon Minaya battling through the Baron’s personal guard. Seeing Minaya’s reaction, the usurper lifted his crossbow and let loose an enchanted bolt that was meant to slay Khoronar. But Minaya threw herself forth and took the strike in her beloved’s place.

As her body fell to the ground, Khoronar fell into fury unlike anything he had experienced. Ignoring injury and pain, he tore into his foes and did not stop until all fell before him, and the treacherous Baron’s sword lay broken at last. Only then did Khoronar fall to his knees and wept over Minaya’s body. His grief was so strong that he did not realize he was no longer alone until a hand rested on his shoulder and his eyes were greeted by blinding light as he turned around.

The Arbiter had personally descended onto the battlefield and sought Khoronar out. She revealed that she had been watching him closely, and his selfless actions were enough to earn forgiveness. What happened next is subject to interpretation and speculation in various renditions of the tale… It is known that the Arbiter used her power to bring Minaya back to life, allowing her and Khoronar to share and embrace and confess their love. Then, according to some, Khoronar’s beastly form faded away and he became a human once more. He and Minaya were wed and lived happily ever after.

But there are storytellers who insist there is more to the tale. That the Arbiter did undo the curse, yet warned Khoronar that the suffering his callousness had inflicted could only be repaid with service. Unable to bear being separated from her love, Minaya too pledged her life to the Arbiter and bound her soul to a Shard of Champions willingly. And so it was, Khoronar and Minaya would spend eternity together, yet they would be called upon to fight in Lumaya’s name when need was greatest - a price they both were more than willing to pay.

 

 

There is another tale of love well known in Kaerok and Arnoc, but one much darker than Minaya’s and Khoronar’s adventures. It starts with a bold young nobleman, whose family had lost everything but their title; their lands, their estates, their wealth - all had been seized to repay debts accumulated over generations of careless debauchery. This left Rotos with little to his name except for his pride and his skill with the rapier. Though that barely stopped the young man from spending his youth duelling, drinking, and racking up new debts. It was only when the danger of assassins sent by the usurers became real that he finally realized it was time to disappear, at least for a time.
 

Although his talents were limited and so were the fields where Rotos could employ them in full, he had chosen a career many would not have considered - that of a pirate. With what little silver was left in his purse and his faithful rapier at his side, Rotos sought out the crew of a pirate ship and made his bid to join.

He spent the next decade sailing the seas and living the life of high adventure, where skill, audacious bravery, and a dash of good fortune were the only things one could rely on. Though he led many brazen raids upon attaining his own captainship and grew rich on plunder, Rotos remained a gentleman of good repute first and foremost. He was never bloodthirsty and never killed without need, nor allowed his crew any excesses. On occasion, he pursued and fought less scrupulous corsairs who ‘gave the profession a bad name’ as Rotos himself claimed.

It was one such encounter that allowed the bold Captain to claim his most prized treasure. But it was neither silver nor gems nor even an enchanted weapon of days long past that captivated Rotos’ heart. It was a woman by the name of Siphi, hailing from faraway southern islands, whom Rotos freed from captivity. She was beautiful and fierce, and while she was not trained as a warrior, Siphi seized the opportunity during the boarding battle and struck down her captors right in front of dumbfounded Rotos. If there was ever love at first sight, he told his crew later, it would have to be the sight of an angry Southerner woman knocking a brute twice her size out with a candleholder.

While some scoundrels may have taken advantage of the situation, Rotos was determined to court and woo his beautiful rescuee the old-fashioned way. Siphi met his advances with cold derision at first, then with amusement, but Rotos’ charms were as true as was his determination. After weeks of back-and-forth, she finally relented and showed interest, and this was but a spark that lit the flames of passion. Over the next several months Siphi and Rotos spent nearly every waking hour together and grew to truly appreciate one another.

She became his confidant, his voice of reason, and Rotos remained the brazen risk-taker with a contagious lust for adventure and dramatic flair that would put High Elves to shame. As their love blossomed, Rotos finally realized that the time to return home was upon him. With the riches he gained in the past decade, he managed to pay off all of his debts, and still own enough to ensure he and Siphi would live in luxury - provided the silver was spent wisely to set his ancestral household up once more.

Unfortunately, Mayhew Pouillac - the wealthiest money-lender in Arnoc at the time - regarded the damage his reputation sustained when Rotos fled to be far greater than any payment could make up for. He pretended otherwise, however, and accepted Rotos and his then-bride like guests of honour. For a hefty interest on top of the original debt and penalties, Pouillac ‘forgave’ Rotos and even offered assistance in rebuilding his family estate.

But on the day of Rotos’ and Siphi’s wedding, the vengeful usurer finally enacted his cruel plan. Hired thugs barged into the church where the ceremony was taking place. They carried bared weapons which ignored all tradition and Lumayan law and slaughtered unarmed guests like cattle. Although Rotos’ frenzied last stand cost more than a dozen mercenaries their lives, he had no chance against so many on his own. Crucified against the wall with spears, he could only watch in desperation as brutish hirelings murdered Siphi moments before his heart stopped beating. The last thing he heard was Siphi cursing the treacherous wretches in her native tongue and promising vengeance from beyond the grave.

With their bloody work done, Pouillac’s mercenaries departed, leaving the bodies of the slain where they had fallen. It was fortunate that the local townsfolk discovered the slaughter and ensured proper burial rites were upheld, but of the murderers, there was no sign. Days passed, the Sheriff charged with overseeing that province found no leads and made little effort to seek justice on behalf of a man who was a known pirate, and, meanwhile, ominous rumours spread through the land. People said that the flowers left on the graves of the newlyweds all withered within a night. All save for two roses, which turned an unnatural and eerie blue - unlike any of the flowers that grew in those parts. Others spoke of loud weeping and wailing, of the sound of nails raking the wood of the coffins coming from below ground. Of strange, mist-like figures appearing in the church. It did not take the locals long to declare the place cursed and abandon it altogether.

But the echoes of this slaughter reached as far as Arnoc itself, and vengeance promised by Siphi came to fruition before her murderers even had a chance to celebrate their success. One by one, the mercenaries involved in the attack died under mysterious circumstances. They always disappeared in the dead of night, only to be found by morning with their faces pale and twisted with fear, their bodies bled dry. No matter what they did, no matter what gods they prayed to, within a fortnight they died to a man.

News of the murders reached Pouillac and sent him scrambling. Had Rotos somehow survived the attack? Did his mercenaries lie? There were no answers to these questions, and the terrified usurer barricaded himself in his estate, doubled the guard, and waited for the storm to pass. None of that availed him…

One night, blood-chilling screams shattered the silence over Pouillac’s estate. So terrifying they were, that the citizens who lived nearby barred their doors and windows, unwilling to risk whatever monsters stalked their streets. It was only in the morning they dared to enter the usurer’s grand manor. What they found inside was shocking - bodies heaped across the floors, all with the same fearful look frozen on their faces. Not a single soul survived, no guard, no servant, they had all perished during the night. And as for Pouillac himself, he was found in his chambers, curled up and gripping himself so tightly it took the coroners considerable effort to move his hands from his face and reveal the look of primal terror that must have stopped the usurer’s heart in his final moments.

No trace of the murderers was ever found, but Old Arnault, a crippled half-mad drunk of some renown in the city, swore on Lumaya’s name that he saw two ghostly figures in the estate’s courtyard that night. One a man in the trappings of a nobleman, one - a woman dressed in strange finery of foreign make. Who or even what they were, he could not say. Only that the strangers left the estate soon after screaming stopped, then faded from sight, never to be seen in Arnoc again.

 

Countless crypts and cursed mausoleums lie hidden in the Stormwind Wastelands. They lure foolish mortals in with the promise of power, wealth, or even life eternal, and those who fall into this trap often end up paying with their life or, wittingly or not, unleashing whatever evil lies within upon the world. But while the occasional warlock or renegade only presents a marginal danger, the dreaded Knights Revenant have both manpower and esoteric knowledge in abundance - the losses sustained when exploring ancient tombs are negligible to them.
 

Many terrible secrets fell into the hands of the Knights Revenant over the centuries of their existence, but few would ever match the Sepulcher of Gorak-Kha the Serpent - a Demon Lord who led the very first invasion of Teleria. Though the Arbiter, at the peak of her power in those ancient days, had slain Gorak-Kha in personal combat and obliterated his unholy spirit, mortal cultists who would lay down the foundation for the Knight Revenants of today managed to retrieve what remained of the great demon’s body. Sworn to secrecy, they interred it in a sarcophagus of enchanted obsidian deep beneath the earth.

And although millennia passed since that fateful battle, Gorak-Kha’s power still resides on the mortal plane. The Knights Revenant guard the crypt jealously, and elite Sepulcher Sentinels are charged with its defense. These dark-hearted warriors have repelled countless assaults initiated by rival cults, Undead Lords, mercenaries, and even bands of Lumayan Champions. Gorak-Kha’s power grants them unholy boons, some hardening the Sentinels’ armour so that it may turn away even the most vicious blow or spell, others allowing them to weaken the enemy with but a touch. Not only that, the Sepulcher Sentinels often carry small tokens taken from the offerings left on their Overlord’s grave, which extend Gorak-Kha’s ‘blessings’ to those fighting side-by-side with his chosen.

 

The life of an Orc is brutal and often short, for it is a society borth warlike and demanding, placed on the very brink of extinction by the wars they had waged in ages past. Weakness is not welcome here, but even among the Orcs there are tribes that take survival of the fittest far beyond what most of their kind would consider wise.
 

Countless bloody and painful rituals of initiation exist, and the sands of the Krokhan Desert certainly do not lack dangerous trials. The Varshnak Tribe, in particular, is well-known for their brutality. Their tradition demands that a day before coming of age every Orc is seized in the dead of night, bound, and taken far into the depths of the desert. The shamans ensure these young warriors fall into deep slumber with a mixture of herbs and spices strong enough to take an ogre down, and their elder kin only untie the unfortunates once their destination - usually a small cavern in the cliffs, an abandoned burrow, or some other quirk of terrain that can keep the juve alive until dawn - is reached.

The young Orc wakes up to find nothing beyond a small waterskin and a crude knife at their sides. From there, they must find their way through the deadly dunes of Krokhan, survive countless dangers that lurk there, and find their tribe once more. Only then can one hope to become a true Varshnak.

Unsurprisingly, this practice keeps the tribe’s numbers low due to the sheer mortality rate of their warriors. But those who live to see the end of their ordeal are hardened and experienced survivors, capable of thriving in the harshest condition and sneering at any sign of weakness - for it is the way of their Kin. Meeting these brutal raiders in battle is a challenge not to be underestimated.

 

One would be hard-pressed to identify a central religion that would bind the byzantine society of the Dark Elves, for their loyalty is to themselves first, last, and always. Far wiser to the mystical ways of Teleria than the primitive tribes of Barbarians or monstrous humanoids like Orks and Ogryn, these cunning exiles do not delude themselves into thinking spirits or eldritch entities are true gods - even if the power they extend over the mortal plane is immense. Of course, these powers can be used to one’s advantage, and there are many Dark Elves who pay lip service to various magical beings. Some, however, go further.
 

The Fang Clerics worship a variety of spirits, whose strength is drawn from blood and death. Many of the ‘clergy’ are former assassins and have sought the aid of their patrons in the past when they were stalking their victims. As such, these Fang Clerics as they call themselves retain many of their former habits and skills, preferring to work from the shadows.

The blessings they provide can allow an ally’s presence to be concealed, for the enemy’s hexes to turned to the Fang Cleric’s own advantage. Some are even capable of calling upon the Spirits of Murder, staying their hunger with promises of greater sacrifice in exchange for the life of an ally who had recently fallen.

 

The religious traditions of the Barbarian tribes in the Deadlands are rich and varied, drawn from different cultures and often intermixed with one another. Some worship the ‘old gods’ - often these are powerful spirits, demons, fae, or other mystical creatures taking advantage of the primitive societies - while others gravitate towards revering the Ancestors or even the forces of nature. The latter are often represented as living beings in their own right or spirits that reside in particular elements. It is no wonder that the spirits are depicted with familiar imagery, such as the Goddess of the Wind well-known among the tribes of Eastern Krokhan is often said to take the form of a giant vulture.
 

The priesthood dedicated to her is exclusively female, usually young orphan girls taken in by the elder Shamans and taught the ways of the Goddess. They adorn their bodies with gold jewellery and wrap themselves in cloaks of vulture feathers, their faces covered with intricate tattoos and concealed by masks of bird skulls. Upon initiation, the Skytouched are granted daggers fashioned to resemble talons of ivory and steel.

These are the most important tools a Shaman can wield, for her Goddess is cruel and demanding. She, above all, craves mortal blood, and it is the Skytouched Shaman’s duty to deliver that sacrifice. Thus one of the most important rituals they perform involved bloodletting - one carried out by the Shaman herself - it is a painful and gruelling process that can leave the Skytouched drained, but her cruel patron’s favour ensures that her allies are revitalized and ready to take on the foe, even if the Shaman herself has to pay the ultimate price.

 

NOTE! The description of the Cadaver's Skills on the image above was, unfortunately, not correct. We apologize for the error in the description. 

Please check the corrected version:

A2 - Disgusting Display - 4 Turn Cooldown

Basic: Places a Shield buff on this champion equal to 20% of their MAX HP for 2 turns. Grants an Extra Turn. 

Ascended: Places a Shield buff on this champion equal to 20% of their MAX HP for 3 turns. Grants an Extra Turn.  

A3 - Baleful Tenacity [HP] - 4 Turn Cooldown 

Attacks 1 enemy. Has an 80% chance of placing a Provoke debuff for 1 turn. 

Sorry for the confusion! 

The Mage-Barons of Narbuk are known to indulge in a variety of vile practices, some even daring to dabble in necromancy and other Dark Arts. Though such indulgences are never meant to be flaunted in public, the unfortunate truth is that their power and wealth will more often than not protect the nobility from any repercussions. And the benefits of employing some of the exotic and potent magic are impossible to deny.
 

Early in King Tayba’s rule, a particular fancy seemed to have overtaken the city. Many of the Barons sought to employ Undead minions to guard their treasuries and vaults, but not just any Undead minions - those would be too trivial and cliche - they wished to see hulking reanimated Ogryn cadavers, empowered by alchemy and adorned with decorative armour that contrasted so well with their hideous appearance.

No one can say for certain who started the fad, but it spread swiftly, and soon enough almost every Mage-Baron worth their salt had a small cohort of these monstrosities obeying their every whim. Of course, the creatures are not without their flaws. Much like live Ogryn, their new reanimated iteration are well-known for the rancid smell and the lack of grace. But what they lack in appearance, these Corpulent Cadavers make up for with their sheer unfaltering fortitude. If killing an Ogryn is hard, one can only imagine how much harder it is to kill an Ogryn who is already dead.

 

With the Krokhan Desert becoming a true melting pot of cultures, it is no wonder that various traditions and rituals are passed from one Barbarian tribe or clan to another, mixing with superstition that had existed for hundreds of years or being changed to new unrecognizable forms. One such curious ritual is called Soul Binding, and it comes from the lands far beyond the Southern seas.
 

It is dangerous and often misinterpreted by inexperienced shamans, but when properly completed it has the potential to make a single warrior much deadlier. First, however, that warrior must survive an intense concoction of narcotic herbs and poison that puts them into a trance while the shamans chant and call upon the spirits of the dead. Should they be successful, the warrior’s Ancestors are called into being and can provide him or her with blessing and protection. But disturbing the dead is a delicate matter, it is entirely possible to summon malevolent beings from beyond the grave - spectres of hatred and hunger, wishing nothing more than to devour the hapless Barbarians who dared disturb their slumber.

Still, warriors who have successfully undergone Soul Binding are noted for their almost unnatural luck. Their spears and arrows find even the smallest chinks in heavy armour with contemptuous ease, their attacks cripple and wrongfoot the foe, and even their allies seem to benefit from this good fortune as long as the fight by the Soulbond’s side.

 

Disturbing ancient crypts is a dangerous quest indeed, and doubly so when the would-be tomb raiders approach their craft without due subtlety. Most perish, be it by the traps set in untold multitudes across the tombs, by ancient hexes, by the hand of their rivals, or by other equally gruesome means. Perhaps death is a mercy, if one were to consider the alternatives...

Coffin Smashers are thralls to the Knights Revenant, tasked with the most dangerous of tasks and lacking individuality beyond the bare rudiments required for them to be slightly more useful than an Undead puppet. They are set upon various crypts and tasked with ploughing through the defenses so that their Masters need not risk the lives that actually matter. As a result, many of the Smashers perish, countless others come under effect of powerful curses and are malformed into hideous monstrosities and shambling aberrant abominations. But that too often becomes useful to the Cult, and Knights Revenant do not shy away from employing these twisted slaves in their wars.

 

Myrmidons are elite men-at-arms in the service of Banner Lords of Kaerok, equipped and trained to the best standards available in the Kingdom. Theirs is an ancient and proud name, one that can be traced back to the fearsome warriors who served the City-States before Kaerok came to be. Those were the dreaded heavy infantry, the mailed fist of any army the tyrants of old commanded. Their skill with the spears was legendary, and so was their resilience.

Modern Myrmidons strive to be worthy of that legend, and only veteran soldiers who have survived countless battles against overwhelming odds may be honoured with the title. Their spears have been replaced with axes and maces and strong oaken shields, their armour adorned with the heraldry of their suzerains and badges of honour. Seeing these fearless heroes charge into the midst of enemy formations is an inspiring sight - unless you find yourself on the wrong side of a Myrmidon’s axe, of course.

 

The Cudgelers are a small but unique warrior guild that has carved its niche in the Dwarven society. They eschew heavy armour so beloved by their kin and fashion their hair in a style that is clearly influenced by foreign traditions - something that is almost unthinkable for a proper Dwarf. Their weapon of choice is also unusual - a double-handed staff with two mace-like crowns. This they wield with expert precision, deflecting and counterattacking in a frightening flurry of swings and swipes.
 

Legend has it that the founder of the guild - an adventurer whose name had long been lost to history - travelled far and wide, learning what he could of various cultures and their ways of war. None, however, captured his heart quite like the martial arts of the Mysterious East - a land said to lie far beyond the accursed Brimstone Pass and the roiling seas that separate continents.

Upon his return, the bold adventurer wished for nothing more than to share his knowledge so that his kin be strengthened by it. And while the isolationist tendencies of the Dwarves made it difficult, he eventually founded a warrior guild - one that would carry his teachings on through the centuries.

 

While the bulk of Dwarven armies value discipline, there are those among the Children of the Stone who are far too wild-natured for line service. These mavericks, often recruited from the outcasts of the Dwarven society, are still useful, however. Wild they may be, but many fierce warriors can be found within their ranks.

Hatchet Slingers are one such unit - skirmishers drafted from the lowest castes of the Kingdom, given basic gear and tasked with harassing the enemy. Far too unreliable to be trusted with a powerful ranged weapon such as a crossbow, they are instead allowed to carry a ridiculous number of throwing axes. Still, in experienced hands, even these become terrifying, as many of the Mountain King’s enemies have found out.

 

In the civilized Kingdoms of Teleria, commoners and nobles alike fear the Skinwalkers; they are creatures of nightmares, half-men, half-beasts, bloodthirsty and vile. Many of these tales are exaggerated and overblown, for it is a natural vice of most sentient races to fear the unknown and look with suspicion upon those different from them.
 

Alas, there are cases when even the darkest fantasies coalesce into a single despicable being. The Fleshmonger is one such tale, he is a violent monster whose taste for flesh and sadistic tendencies coupled with his strength make for a terrifying foe.

Once a slave in the mines belonging to the Mage-Barons, the creature quickly learned that might makes right and that only the strongest survived. Worse yet, when the meagre rations given to slaves had proven to be too little for the great beast’s bulk, he started seeking other sources of food. At first, the bodies of his fellow slaves who had fallen to hard labour or the cruelty of their overseers sufficed. Then the murders started. By the time anyone was any wiser, the creature who was to become known as the Fleshmonger took the chance to enact a bloody escape.

Where he is now no one can tell, but the wilderness between Arnoc and Narbuk has become dangerous in the past few years, with local villagers and travellers vanishing off the overgrown forest trails. Rumours abound of bloodied limbs, skeletal remains with bones gnawed and splintered by teeth, and the sightings of a massive boar-like brute, and only the foolhardy would dare to try and seek this creature out to establish the truth.

 

With pride, elegance, and subtlety being the driving virtues of their culture, High Elves often look down on the human tradition of knightly tournaments. The flair of jousting, the crude clash of lances and swords do not appeal to their sense of honour as much as a true test of finesse and skill that is embodied in a fencing duel.

Many Aravian nobles prefer slim-bladed weapons such as rapiers and sabers to the heftier swords of their human allies. They are often tutored in dance-like arts of Elven Sword Schools, where a single precise thrust to the heart is valued far above swinging an oversized greatsword about and taking heads off the shoulders of multiple opponents at once .

The Masters of these schools are the epitome of High Elven martial skill - they dress in garish finery, decorated with gold, silver, and gems, they carry perfectly balanced enchanted rapiers, and they are absolutely deadly in battle. Their motions are like flowing water, their bodies twist and turn with seamless grace as Elven fencers avoid the brutish swings of their foes, and their blades strike like lightning, true and unstoppable. To have one such Fencer on their side would benefit any Summoner. Fortunately, there is no lack of brush young nobles seeking adventure in Aravia.