Siffir of Twicket. Princess Meliora Kaeligor. Sisters, not of blood but of spirit and choice. Souls kindred and intertwined by the grace of the Wild One, by his everlasting touch upon the Clouded Rift of Man. These are the tales of their wild whims.
The Clouded Rift
Men live and men die upon the Clouded Rift, a swathe of land so large and so riddled with fantastical creatures and spirits of the gods that most still lies unexplored. Monsters riddle the land, both bestial and demonic, and the only thing that stands between a horrible, savage death are the Arcanists- men and women who have trained both their magic and their bodies to slay the terrors befalling the land.
The Arcane Institutions
- School of the Hydra | Warriors (female)
- School of the Phoenix | Warriors (male)
- School of the Basilisk | Espionage, Assassins, Shadowalkers (Co-ed)
- School of the Pegasus | Healers (Co-ed)
- School of the Golem | Protectors (Male)
- The Eyes (Co-ed)
The School of Hydra
The School of Hydra placed their final bricks 37 days before the School of Phoenix and in every century since their foundation, have continued to remind them of that fact. Hydra has been producing lethal Arcanists for centuries, training without mercy to fulfill ancient prophecies and the protection of mankind's survival in the Clouded Rift.
The School of Hydra is a sprawling, well-defended fort carved into and out of the jagged mountain fang Audeva. The training grounds are separated by skill level, growing in size and complexity, and the magical studies, ever in repair, are sprinkled throughout the compound, in towers that jut into the sky and deeply carved caverns protected by wardstones and cottage classrooms dotted across the foothills.
Only reachable by one road that treks through the eerie darkness of the northern Whiskwood forest, this tiny village was settled in the year 652 by infamous adventurer, Caeliber Twicket.
Caeliber had intended Twicket to become a bastion of humanity that would grow to tame the Whiskwood— but no such thing happened. Caeliber assembled a large crew of 25 warriors, rangers, mages, builders, foragers, and a doctor, all who were more than qualified to embark on the brave expedition. Unfortunately, nearly half of the group perished during the two years it took just to carve a road through the forest to the place of settlement, leaving them with only 13.
To keep out unwanted creatures and unhinged forest spirits, the mages created Wardstones, placing them along the road to Twicket, and around the entire clearing they planned to build in.
Caeliber lived in and attempted to expand Twicket further into the Whiskwood for thirty years until his death at the gnarled hands of the Wild One for these attempts. Slowly, but surely, all plans to claim more of the Whiskwood for Twicket’s benefit were halted, as too many lives were being claimed by the ancient forest.
Over the course of a bit more than two centuries, Twicket became a very poor village so encompassed by gnarled vines and trees, that they’re nearly closed off to the rest of the world. The only thing that held the forest back were the Wardstones that still stand around the village and the road leading to it, serving as a magical barrier keeping the forest from consuming them entirely. There was, however a small group of people there in Twicket, however, who began to worship the Wild One, a god of the Whiskwood who most villagers dubbed an Afterdark god, one of the ones you aren’t supposed to pray to for the sole reason that your wishes will be granted in dangerous and roundabout ways that will only benefit Him.
Eighteen years ago, Twicket was destroyed, and the entire population devoured or slaughtered. A Wildling had been born to a couple five years before, conceived from a prayer to the Wild One, such children being like beacons to the spirits and demons dwelling in the Whiskwood. The incident was truly bad timing, as a Wardstone had cracked and deactivated, leaving an opening in the barrier that had stood to protect the village for so long. A demon entered, eating gluttonously and wildly, the people of Twicket like a rich man’s buffet to the entity. An Arcanist reported having retrieved the Wildling, and no one else.
Twicket presently stands as a ghost town, half of it a charred pile of crushed homes, stained by blood and death, or broken into by vines and trees and wild creatures, the skeletons of those who’d once lived there scattered unceremoniously upon the ground. Twicket has been reclaimed by the Whiskwood, but some who live down at the edge of the forest report hearing the Wild One call into the night for his lost Wildling.
Located in the mid-northern part of the Western Continent sprawls the Whiskwood, always creeping and moving, slowly but surely expanding its territory if not fought back and kept at bay. Whiskwood is called the Cradle of Nightmares for two different reasons with the same wording— It is where Nightmares are born. There are Nightmares and nightmares, the former being a type of unicorn possessing horrifying features, and the latter being the opposite of a dream.
Many creatures of all kinds call the Whiskwood home, some good, but most are permanently twisted by the magic that permeates the area. Whiskwood has always been part of the earth, steeped in the Wild One’s raw, untainted magic. It has been the birthplace of heroes, of good and evil, of Wildlings, and of Gods. It is a place that cannot be tamed or shaped by mortals, no matter how hard humanity has tried. By both history and legend, the Whiskwood claims to have been created by the Wild One Himself, a playground for all of His children to roam freely…should they be able to survive it.
Only one settlement managed to persist for 240 years before falling— Twicket. Though they didn’t know it well, and despite their efforts to keep Whiskwood out of their settlement, the people that lived and procreated there in the village were slightly different than most humans, touched by the enhanced magic that sprouted into the very food they grew, the air they breathed.
The Whiskwood Forest, grand and eternal, brimming with life and death and everything in between, is like hallowed ground. It is ancient as the earth itself, and it is feared by many, revered by some, and known by all.