A Chronicle of a World on the Edge
There are no gods in this world. Only echoes.
Once, perhaps, there were higher powers—but if so, they are silent now, and long forgotten. In their absence, something else rose in their place.
The Runes.
Carved into steel. Etched into flesh. Drawn from the bones of the world itself. Runes are law. Runes are legacy. Runes are power.
And all who seek power must choose a Rune…or be ground beneath it.
To the South, where scorched mountains claw the sky, thrives the Empire of Ulnerax.It is a land of calculation, machinery, and control.Here, ether is no gift—it is a resource.Mined, refined, and devoured by engines of war.
The Empire does not believe in fate.It believes in conquest.And it marches northward with cold, precise steps.
In the North, across wind-scoured plains and ancient fortresses, lie the United Kingdoms of Jonea—a confederation of lords, free clans, and old bloodlines.Their warriors wield Runes not for dominion, but for tradition.Honor. Discipline. Balance.
But tradition is a fragile shield when the world begins to burn.
To the West, rising from the deep, shimmer the islands and crystal cities of the Principality of Nelnea.Born of the sea and blessed by its flow, the Nelneans are healers, philosophers, and keepers of forgotten knowledge.
Yet a rift spreads beneath their waves.A faction called the Gölsts grows restless, whispering of betrayal and silence.They seek to sever all ties with the surface world—and to drown it, if they must.
The center holds Orberia, fierce and fire-bright.Its people are called barbarians by those who fear them.But in Orberia, strength is sacred.To fight is to live.To kneel is to die.
Their tribes may clash—but they do not break.
To the East, beyond blade-like cliffs and stone-carved paths, stir the Velgons.Stone-skinned titans. Ancient. Patient.They do not breathe, but they remember.By day, they are statues.By night, they walk.But within them stirs a wrath for the surface-dwellers, a hatred so old even their monoliths have corroded.
And deeper in the Heartwood of the East, lies the Grove of Elkyes.An emerald realm where beauty is a weapon, and the trees themselves bear memory.The dryads and nymphs of Elkyes are guardians of a forgotten balance.They do not welcome outsiders.But their silence is not passivity—it is warning.
The balance is breaking.
Empires stir. Alliances falter. Tribes ignite.The Ether thickens. The ground cracks.The sky holds its breath.
There are no gods here. Only those willing to take grasps of their fate...
…and mysteries from times before times.