For centuries, the people of Rathe have known an era of peace, untouched by the ravages of war; yet, as a rising tide of unrest sweeps across the land, that peacetime is disintegrating before their very eyes. There are those who know the history of this ancient land, who quietly prepare, recognising the tides of change. Then there are those who remain unfamiliar with the fires of war, who are only just beginning to notice the flames which threaten to consume all of Rathe.
From Aria to the Savage Lands, Metrix to Misteria, heroes rise to the call, arming themselves for war. Weapons both ancient and new emerge; forges blazing, war horns echo into the night... In every corner of Rathe, its people prepare to fight.
The General’s daughter, cornered, bared her teeth. Armed with a pair of stolen blades, she carved a path through the raging coup, silver flashing amongst the flames. In freedom, she would bide her time, waiting for the chance to strike, seek revenge, and claim her birthright. Her name lives on in Cintari legend, a renegade sellsword who stoked the fires of war.
In the fiery badlands, predators stalk the ashen plains, as volatile as the landscape in which they roam. Here, the only option is to kill, or be killed. Jungle creatures clash with lava beasts in a battle to survive, blood spilling across the barren earth. In this fierce warfare, claws and fangs are their only weapons, and those born without will quickly learn to make do.
Plasma Barrel Shot
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An omen of death, forged in the darkest shadows, blade sharpened on the spirits of the damned. The product of a fiendish ritual, the wicked sword inevitably corrupts all that it touches. Its victims are caught in a constant state of torment, their wounds bleeding and bleeding without end. Even as they collapse to the ground, weakened by the blade’s heinous curse, the blade never falters, ever hungry, draining every last drop of blood.
Amidst the cold, damp dark of the underground, a strange tension underlines the commotion, an undercurrent of disquiet lying just beneath the mayhem. Once, a lone renegade descended into the Pits. Striking from the shadows, she worked her way through the underground, eliminating powerful players without a second glance. A flash of polished copper in the darkness, the twang of a crimson bowstring, and another one bit the dust. With time, the red string became a legend in its own right; a symbol capable of striking fear into hardened criminals.
Sledge of Anvilheim
Beyond the walls of the golden city, past the frozen wasteland, lies a land of plenty. This ancient landscape conceals a wealth of secrets, a history which lies just beneath the surface. A tall, icy mountain holds the entrance to a sepulchre, the final resting place of a noble defender of the realm. Lying upon a stone slab, the shimmer of silversteel is unmarred by the passage of time, as brilliant as the day it was forged. Hidden beneath the stone of the mountain, the greathammer waits; for in the hands of a true hero, it might finally find a purpose once more.
Talishar, Lost Prince
Deep within the underground lies a pawn shop, dusty cobwebs hanging from its dark ceiling. Every surface is covered with curios and trinkets, weapons of every kind lying on the tabletops, spellbooks and journals lining the shelves. Centuries of clutter fill the building from floor to ceiling, crowding every corner, some of Rathe’s oldest mysteries hidden within its dark depths.
Within the darkness of the pawn shop lies an ancient blade, set out on a tablecloth, explorer’s tools scattered nearby. Worn leather bindings have been stripped from the burnished bronze handle, exposing the carvings marking the hilt of the blade. The blade itself is chipped and worn, lacklustre, its filigree inscriptions are marred by centuries of disrepair, water marks tarnishing the once-bright silversteel.
Yet, despite its age, the blade has a certain majesty about it, the well-worn look of an adventurer, an explorer, the subject of legends. Here, the streaky, dappled mark of rek’vas venom. There, a smooth, stretched ripple from nearing magma. There, the pitted, warped sheen of a lightning strike. Here, in the dark, Talishar’s name is unrecognisable, its tales forgotten, the journal that once accompanied it lost long ago.
Long ago, a craftsman sat on the edge of a great canyon and looked down at the winds racing below. Gathering a lifetime of memories, he decided to create one final pair of weapons for the people of his clan, drawing inspiration from the land they called home. Small and lightweight, they were made to mirror the gully, carved with the patterns of a storm in motion. For three days and three nights, the craftsman worked, oblivious to the passing of time, focused only on his memories and the task at hand. When at last they were finished, he smiled, lay down his tools, and passed on. Ever since, the weapons have been passed down through the clan, holding the story of their maker. The carvings have barely faded, forever the colour of a clear, blue sky.