In the grim and shadowed annals of Vaelor, there is no single truth, only fractured myths whispered around dying hearth-fires, carved into blood-stained runes, and screamed by mad prophets in the ruins of forgotten empires. The most enduring creation myth, shared in varying forms across the cold north and the rotting south, speaks of the Shattering.
Long before mortal memory, the world was not as it is now. It was once a single, perfect sphere of unformed potential, cradled in the hands of the Primordial Ones — vast, incomprehensible entities born from the void itself. These beings, neither gods nor demons but something older and hungrier, sought to birth existence by devouring their own essence. They tore pieces from their immortal bodies and flung them into the endless dark, each fragment becoming a seed of land, sea, and sky. From their spilled blood came the oceans, thick and dark as ichor. From their shattered bones rose the mountains. From their decaying flesh sprouted the first forests, twisted and ravenous even in their infancy.
But the Primordial Ones were not benevolent creators. Their act of genesis was one of agony and betrayal. As the world coalesced, the strongest among them — called Vael in the oldest tongues — turned upon the others in a cataclysmic war. Vael sought dominion over the newborn realm, devouring his siblings’ essences to fuel his own. The resulting cataclysm fractured the nascent world. Continents cracked and sank, skies bled ash and fire, and the very fabric of reality tore open, allowing the Veil — that liminal nightmare between what is and what should never be — to bleed into the material plane. In the end, Vael himself was mortally wounded, his colossal corpse collapsing into what is now the heart of the continent. His heart, still faintly beating with corrupted power, is said to lie buried deep beneath the earth, pulsing malevolent energy that warps magic, twists flesh, and drives mortals to madness.
The survivors of this divine carnage became the first gods and greater powers of Vaelor: fractured shards of the Primordials, weakened and hateful. Some retreated into the depths of the earth or the heights of the sky. Others became the Seraphim, winged beings who claim celestial lineage yet rule their sky-island of Fajula with cold xenophobia and divine arrogance. Mortals — humans, beastmen, dwarves, and stranger things — crawled from the blood-soaked soil or were shaped from the remnants of divine corpses, forever marked by the violence of their birth.
This is the belief held by most. In Skarnheim’s frozen halls, skalds sing of Vael’s dying scream echoing still in every blizzard. In Eldoria’s whispering groves, druids claim the trees remember the taste of primordial blood. In Valdris’s iron arenas, warriors swear their rage is the last echo of the gods’ final war. All agree on one truth: Vaelor was born in pain, and pain is its inheritance.
Main Characteristics of Vaelor
Vaelor is a vast, scarred continent locked in a perpetual struggle against itself. Its geography is one of brutal contrasts and unforgiving extremes. Towering, ice-clad mountains dominate the far north, their peaks said to pierce the Veil and allow glimpses of other realities. Dense, primordial forests choke the mid-latitudes, their canopies so thick that sunlight barely reaches the forest floor, where ancient things still hunt. To the south lie steaming jungles and fetid swamps where forgotten temples sink into the mire. Eastward stretch ash-choked steppes and volcanic wastelands where the ground itself bleeds lava and the air tastes of sulfur. Farther still are the Sunken Empire’s drowned spires, visible only at certain tides, and the ever-shifting Isles of Mist that lure ships to their doom.
Magic in Vaelor is never clean or benevolent. It is a leaking wound in reality, drawn from the lingering essence of the dead Primordials. Rune magic, blood sorcery, druidic pacts, and necromantic rites all carry a price — usually in sanity, lifespan, or the slow corruption of the soul. Those who wield great power inevitably become something less (or more) than human. The land itself resists civilization. Crops fail under unnatural frosts. Beasts grow larger and crueler with each generation. Ruins of previous empires rise from the earth during storms or sink again without warning. The dead do not always stay dead.
The tone of existence here is grim and unrelenting. Kingdoms rise only to be devoured by internal rot, barbarian hordes, or ancient evils awakening. Honor is a luxury few can afford. Trust is a fool’s gamble. Power is measured in how long one can survive before the world breaks them.
Current State of the World
The year is 1274 after the Fall of the Last High Kingdom (the dating system used in the north). Vaelor teeters on the brink of another age of upheaval. In the north, the kingdom of Skarnheim clings to survival amid endless winter. Its people sharpen blades and hoard grain while ancient orders stir once more. The Bearers of the Broken Blade — an extinct order thought lost for centuries — are being revived by the ambitious and dangerous Elias Veyra, who hunts fragments of the legendary Broken Blade, a weapon said to have been forged from Vael’s own shattered spine. This artifact promises either salvation or total domination, depending on who wields it.
Whispers spread that the pulsing heart of Vael beneath the continent is quickening. Magical anomalies increase: children born with unnatural gifts (or curses), forests twisting overnight into carnivorous nightmares, and submerged ruins rising more frequently, disgorging horrors long drowned. In the south, Eldoria’s elven-influenced court grows increasingly isolationist and paranoid, sealing its borders. Valdris’s warlords sharpen their spears, eyeing Skarnheim’s weakened northern passes. The Ash Nomads of the southeast grow bolder, raiding deeper into civilized lands. Even the Seraphim of Fajula, high above the world, have begun descending in small numbers, their beautiful yet cold presence heralding omens of greater conflict.
Mortal empires squabble over scraps while older, hungrier things awaken. The common folk speak of the Long Dusk — the belief that true night is finally falling over Vaelor, and no dawn will follow.