The shaping of steel, the coaxing of sultry fire. These are the arts of humanity. Creatures of the Otherworld are wary of both.
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Ælves come from the Otherworld's surreal depths. Their adaption to that misty realm lends them great power in our simple World.
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When traversing the spindly pines at night, mind the treetops. Ragwretches climb pine-boughs like huge, twisted, grinning spiders.
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Hundred of statues were dragged roughly from the sea. When one broke, the truth was discovered; each statue had been cast around a corpse.
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Tombs were found off Kenset Coast. Divers found figures of shaped marble and folded brass; hundreds of statues, yet not a single corpse.
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Atop misty Mount Hellebore, a castle stands. It holds no purpose, as the mountain is of no strategic worth. No human purpose, that is.
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Fire is humanity's key to the World. With it, they burn their mark in the pressing gloom of the Wilderness; they press back the Otherworld.
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On some nights, dull pounding echoes from the dry catacombs beneath land. The catacombs were locked from the inside.
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The walls of Hellebore Castle's catacombs are etched with images of tentacled beasts. Things move and slither dryly behind the walls.
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The library's more ancient tomes, bound in human skin and prone to moving, are kept chained in cells. Sorcery has lent them a fierce life.
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For the foolishness of the ancient Nör, Humanity suffers. Their tiny World is beset ceaselessly by the terrible realms which adjoin it.
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Humanity's fear of eyes in the dark is nothing irrational. The very real terror of red-eyed ragmen was set in their hearts long ago.
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Tombs are repositories for neither the dead nor the buried. They are places for secrets, for things to be forgotten.
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Ælves' veins flow with an inky black ichor. In places, traceries of tiny, black-purple lines show under their ashen-pale skin.
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Deep in the catacombs, empty coffins surround a yawning pit. Its edges are carved with curling tentacles. It stinks of ancient rot.
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Statues stood under the sea. Cold men and women cast from stone; each staring with hard, blind brass eyes crusted with green tarnish.
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Students have died during midnight meeting in the West Garden. Such people are allowed to simply disappear. Such is the value of secrecy.
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The Winnowing calls weird, man-faced beasts from beneath dead trees. They hunt, leering through windows, looking for a source of blood.
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The hunched, horned profile of a ragwretch silhouetted in the moonlight is an instinctively repulsive sight, like a putrid wound.
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The Otherworld is terrifyingly real. All one requires to enter its alien depths is a door. A door, or an ælf as a guide.
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Different personas are worn when visiting the West Garden at midnight. Such guises permit freedom both intellectual and carnal.
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The Academy's library is only partially mapped. Portions of it, hidden behind nooks and secret doors, have long slipped from memory.
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Nailing a horseshoe over one's door is regarded as a silly, traditional deterrence to ælves.
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The Academy's west garden has been locked up for decades. Students meet there at midnight to teach each other what the Magisters won't.
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Some say the yearly carnage of the Winnowing is a force of nature. Others say it's Humanity's fault, that we bring it upon ourselves.
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After bleached bones were discovered inside the undersea statues, a cover-up was staged. The statues were sold, despite their grisly nature.
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It is by the fault of Sorcery that the Otherworld predates our own. Sorcery opened the misty gates through which ælves and monsters creep.
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In their nocturnal moots at the West Garden, students are met by ælves. The Otherworldly creatures whisper secrets over cups of gifted wine.
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The high, croaky laughter of ragwretches cuts through the silent woods like a knife.
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