The Raven: Prince of Iron and Blood.

Numeris Devintas

As the moon dipped into the horizon, casting a sickly glow over the ravaged field, the monsters soared through the darkness, their ethereal forms weaving a macabre dance above the Queen's crumpled form. Her once-majestic presence now reduced to a tangled mass of limbs, her sword lying limp and still beside her. The air was heavy with the stench of death and sweat, as if the very earth itself was exhaling its last breath.

The Queen's eyes, once burning with an inner fire, now seemed to have lost their spark, her gaze fixed on some distant horizon where hope had long since fled. Her throat convulsed in a desperate attempt to form words, but only a faint whisper escaped her lips: "Please, my love..."

And then, as if drawn by some unseen force, a creature of unholy terror descended from the darkness. Its gaze pierced the Queen's soul like a cold, dark blade, and it seemed to hold her very essence in its grasp. The words she had struggled to utter trembled on her lips, begging to be freed, but they were silenced by some unseen hand.

In a time long past, when the world was young and the Ancient Ones still walked among Mortals, the Ravens of the dark Thorn Kingdom held sway over the land. Their dominion was a dark and foreboding place, where the very stars themselves seemed to weep tears of blood.

It was when a bloody war broke out between the Mortals and the Ravens, a conflict that would shake the very foundations of the Realm. The Mortals, driven by some mad desire to claim dominion over all they saw, had invaded the deadlands, seeking to claim them as their own. The Monsters were awakened. They rose up from their ancient slumber, their ethereal armour shrouding them in moon mist. They marched forth to reclaim what was rightfully theirs, their path lit by the fires of war and bloodlust.

Amidst the mist-shrouded Eldorathorne Mountains and the carnage of battle, two armies clashed in a war, crueller that had never been seen before. The Ravens stood as sentinels between the realms of life and death, while on the other side of the battlefield, the Mortal Prince did the same.

It is whispered that when their fragile truce was shattered, a force so ancient and powerful that it could bend time and space itself was unleashed upon the world. The trees of Faryn trembled in fear as if they knew that their very existence hung in balance. And in that moment, all who lived knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

Only the Ancient Ones of Faryn recall this story unaltered by the series of bloody events that corrupted the Realm.

In the heart of the forsaken field, where death's dark veil hung heavy as a shroud, the Queen, as far as the sun and the sea lay spent, her body a tangled web of broken limbs and ravaged flesh. Her once-majestic form now reduced to a mere husk, as if the very essence of her being had been drained away of blood. A brutal and great sword, fashioned of bone, rocks, and Raven blood, rose from her, its blade slick with her own blood.

As the moon dipped low in the sky, casting an eerie glow over the desolate landscape, a lone figure descended from the darkness above. The legendary monster, a creature born of ancient terror and whispered lore, hovered before the Queen, its eyes burning with an otherworldly intensity. It gazed upon her, its unblinking stare piercing the very soul of the fallen monarch.

-EXTRACT FROM THE BOOK OF PROPHETS OF FARYN.