Thalara Ironwake

18

Thalara Ironwake forged her name in the sunken temples of the Eastern Wastes, where most who followed her never returned. Born into a barbarian clan, following in the traditions of battle and strength. She travels light, trusts few, and laughs in the face of danger. Now, she’s pinned a job notice on the guild board: “Seeking brave souls for dungeon crawling. Expect goblin hordes, cave trolls, backstabbing raiders, and treasure beyond reckoning. Cowards need not apply.”

High Inquisitor

17

Kaelthorn Veydrik, once a mage of the Arcana, now the Ashvorn High Inquisitor. When the mad king declared magic outlawed, he betrayed his own kin. Sanctuaries burned because of his whispers. Spellcasters perished under his hand. He rose swiftly in the Ashvorn Order, turning his own sorcery into weapons of suppression—electrorods that shatter spellwork, armor powered by enslaved wards, and rifles belching smoke and ruin. Now he looms like a nightmare from myth and machine. Clad in obsidian-black plate forged in the image of a Balrog—horned, snarling, and glowing with ember-seared seams—his armor fuses dark magic with steampunk design. Sleeveless, it bares sculpted arms laced with veins of black iron. His skin is ash-pale, his bald skull gleams with soot, and a crimson cloak trails behind him, its tattered edges whispering like flame. His face is brutal and unforgiving—bearded, furrowed, locked in permanent scorn. Eyes burn with unnatural menace. Across his back rests a massive steampunk rifle, each shot a thunderous roar meant to kill men, break walls, and scatter hope. On the battlefield, he stands atop the ridge of a broken city. Behind him, the Ashvorn Order floods the streets, torching homes, dragging fugitives from the shadows. He points forward with a single commanding gesture, and the black tide obeys. Wherever his army marches, mages fall silent. Their screams do not echo long. And you are next…