Wynhalos
Long ago, in the age before time knew balance, Oohr, the god of war, known for his fiery temper and unyielding strength, looked upon the mortal realm and saw a woman who captivated him. Her name was Dreya, the Queen of Wynhalos, a land known for its beauty and peaceful harmony. She was the embodiment of grace and wisdom, her kingdom untouched by conflict, thriving in its serene isolation.
Oohr, struck by her strength and spirit, descended from his celestial throne, seeking her favor. His heart, usually filled with the bloodlust of battle, yearned for her love. He offered her the gifts of immortality and unmatched power, promising that together, they could rule the world.
But Dreya, wise beyond her years, saw the fire in his eyes, the violence in his soul. She rejected him, not out of cruelty, but out of fear—for she knew that a love forged in war could never bring peace. She told him, "I am not the one to heal your heart. Your war is within you, Oohr, and I cannot be the answer to your rage."
The god’s fury ignited like a thousand burning suns. His pride, shattered by rejection, became a raging tempest. Oohr returned to his divine realm, but his heart, now a storm of wrath, demanded vengeance. In his fury, he turned his gaze upon the kingdom of Wynhalos, the land that had dared to defy him.
With a roar that shook the heavens, Oohr summoned a cataclysm, unleashing an army of storms, earthquakes, and fire. The skies darkened as lightning split the earth, and oceans rose to swallow the shores. The once beautiful continent of Wynhalos was torn asunder, its cities obliterated, its people scattered and broken.
Dreya, seeing her people perish in the wake of his rage, called out to the gods for mercy. But it was too late—Oohr’s wrath had become a flood that could not be stopped. As the final blow was struck, the land of Wynhalos sank beneath the waves, lost to history, and its people left only in whispers and forgotten tales.
And so, the myth of Oohr's lost love is told, a tale of a god whose heart, scarred by rejection, became as violent and unforgiving as the wars he once led. His name is now whispered in fear, for the god of war no longer seeks love, only conquest—and the ruin that follows.
The Wraith
Long before the heirs walked Asvaldr’s cliffs, there was a Shifter who defied the natural limits of his magic. Born of shadow and sea, he carried the hunger to impress his mate, a daughter of the Lake whose beauty had drawn him like a tide.
But his ambition unraveled him. In reaching for a form greater than he could master, he broke the tether of his own soul. His body stretched into something monstrous, his magic scattered like shards in the surf. Where once had been a man, there remained only a hollow echo—his heart splintered, his bond severed.
He became the Wraith.
Bound to the ocean that witnessed his fall, he roams the black waters, blind yet ceaselessly searching. His voice is a wail carried on the tide, a thousand fractured whispers of grief and longing. Some say he hunts the living for scraps of their magic, desperate to rebuild what he lost. Others whisper he hunts only for her, for the bond that snapped when his body broke.
The statue carved into the cliffs tells the rest. His mate never abandoned him, though her prayers went unanswered. She walks the shoreline, her offerings lost to the waves. In her despair, she cries to the sea. Some claim her spirit is bound within the stone idol that kneels forever in prayer, coils of a serpent entwining her form, watching for his return.
But still the Wraith remains, half serpent, half shadow, no longer man, no longer beast. His pale eyes are sightless, but his hunger never dims. The heirs are warned: never meet his call, never follow his cry, for the Wraith does not know friend from foe, love from stranger. He knows only the bond he lost, and the endless hollow it left behind.
The Song of the Mother Tree
No good ever came from a crown on a brow,
No peace from a throne, only broken vows.
Five kings clawed for land not theirs,
With hearts full of rot and war-born stares.
They reached for power like fire and gold,
And what they touched, withered and cold.
In Cresshire’s keep, Queen Thana stood,
Above her sons of stone and wood.
The dawn lay still, the field asleep,
Unknowing it soon would weep.
Boys below with blades too wide,
Dreams of glory, no clue how to die.
From the east, a shadow swelled—
A tide of steel where silence dwelled.
The king had lied, the war was false,
A mortal crown with a traitor’s pulse.
Thana’s power stirred in her veins,
A deathly gift wrapped in chains.
She summoned four with blood and silk,
Fae queens fierce, none bred on guilt.
Through ash and lake and haunted sky,
They came with tears and steel-hard cries.
Enya, Sylvie, Cordelia too,
Zephyra’s wings the tempests flew.
Together they ran through siren-slick seas,
Toward Salices, through death-kissed trees.
Through cavern deep where jasmine chokes,
They found the Mother 'neath moonlight soaked.
‘End this war,’ the queens did cry.
The Mother answered with thundered sky.
Then give to me your magic true,
Your breath, your blood, your souls anew.’
Five women wept but didn’t break,
For all their people's lives at stake.
From flesh and flame, from vow and plea,
The goddess raised the Mother Tree.
Its roots ran deep through time and stone,
Its leaves still hum with queens long gone.
So, raise a glass to queens of old,
Who gave their fire, not for gold.
And should the gods come call again—
Pray we still have women like them.