The North fell into shadow as the howls of werewolves echoed through the blackened woods, heralding the hunt. Men scattered in vain; some fought, others fled, but none escaped the vicious fangs of the lycanthropes. Drawn deep beneath the earth to the cold dungeons of the North, they were quickly delivered unto Shikōmaru, whose monstrous mind weighed their fate. There he forged a dreadful plague, not to end mankind, but to painfully reshape it into something gruesome and unrecognizable. The year 1702 A.E. was ever thereafter known as the twilight of The Expansion, The Silver Age, and the dawn of The Cataclysm, The Bronze Age. Thus began the sunrise of death.
The captured folk of the North, regardless of age or station, were seized by a shadowy host led by The Chariot and The Temperance, a faction known across the lands as The Wild Hunt. Called The Einherjar in the North, The Nightmarchers in Siyowaska, and The Hyakki Yagyō in the far Northeast, their fearsome name strikes dread. The High Priestess granted them a ghostly blessing, that they might don the guise of phantoms and haunt their foes like shadows of death. Yet the Wild Hunt bears no malice beyond terror; honor guides their hand, and they cease their chase if the quarry shows true courage and bravely smites them now in ferocious battle.
Alas, not all Northerners were granted the fortune to best those who hunted them. Many fell captive, dragged deep into shadowed dungeons where The Judgment made his lair amidst ancient tombs and subterranean halls. There, prisoners were bound in countless cocoons, their minds stilled in a trance to quench all hope of resistance. The Doctor then bore their unconscious forms to his grim experiments, forging a plague that would transform men into pale and haunting vampires, beings weakened by the sun’s harsh light yet wielding greater strength beneath the cloak of night. Yet those broken by despair succumb to darker fates, losing themselves to monstrous madness.
The Tethered Triumvirate took the dare to wield the Wild Hunt in their quest to capture countless Northerners, for the last of the Vaeleri elves had withdrawn from the world to dwell in the Heavens. Yet this withdrawal was not a forsaking, for many still intend to return, though they require respite from the sorrow of watching mortal kin fall through countless generations. The elves shall come again, and this truth the demons well understand, setting a quiet limit upon their dark designs and subtle machinations to bring about their cataclysm. Moreover, humanity has proven itself capable of standing firm in the world’s shadow, defending its own fate without aid.
The Triumvirate still regards The Luminari and The Inquisitors of Santora as a threat not to be slighted, for they are led by the Council of Cardinals, whose might and wisdom are beyond question. Though Saint Aurelyn’s seat lies empty, her return is awaited with hope, and her absence does not sunder the unity of the Cardinals, who stand steadfast in their holiness and purpose. The Chariot readies all of the Wild Hunt for the coming war, bolstered by Judgment’s dark craft and cunning devices. Yet The High Priestess harbors no fear, for she weaves a subtle stratagem to best Santora without bloodshed or open strife, much to the astonishment and quiet wonder of her comrades.
The Chariot, The Judgment, and The High Priestess, a solemn triumvirate and steadfast leaders of the Tethered Triumvirate, carry out their duties in the shadow of the Sorathin and their Visionary, the mighty Hierophant. The remaining Seven Scions of Sorath labor in secret, weaving intricate webs of intelligence, recruitment, and subtle stratagems across the lands. Yet one among the Seven, Wisakedjak The Hermit, grows troubled in his service. Having formed a rare and deep bond with mortal kind, he wrestles with the burden of his role in their coming suffering. The Hierophant, all-seeing and wise, perceives this hesitation but knows it matters little, for he foresees Wisakedjak’s vital part in the unfolding days. The ruin of mankind is not his desire; rather, men must endure trial and sorrow, that they may cherish their blessings and temper their infinite ambitions with wisdom born of hardship.
Yet such hardship demands unity and understanding among all mankind, as they forge bonds in shared struggle. So it was when the North sent forth a desperate plea, for their folk were sorely pressed by the relentless might of the Wild Hunt. Across the world, many heeded the call, including the proud nations of the South and West: Santora, Siyowaska, and Thalethys. Three of the seven Cardinals journeyed forth with Luminari and Inquisitors to rival the might of the Einherjar. The healers of Siyowaska tended the wounded Northerners, while Thalethys dispatched sorcerers skilled in the arcane arts to lend their potent aid. In this way, the fate of all was bound by fortitude.
Such mighty reinforcements forged a powerful alliance of men by the year 1705 A.E., two years after the invasion of the Wild Hunt. The vast conflict, thereafter named The Northern Wars, stretched long and bitter, as demons rained slaughter in terrible throngs. Yet mankind, through their wisdom and strength, slowly turned the tide of the war, wielding cunning stratagems that sundered their foes by divide and conquer. Yet all efforts for victory proved fleeting, for the three lords of the Tethered Triumvirate had completed their dark work, the plague and virus destined to bring sorrow and grievous pain, a dreadful weapon yet to fall upon the world and the homes of mortal men.
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The Northern Wars came to their close in the year 1715 A.E., when the Wild Hunt, along with the Tethered Triumvirate, withdrew in careful retreat to the shadowed depths of the Core. Wherever the demons fled, the alliance of men followed hard upon their heels, yet a third of their host they left behind to aid the ravaged North in its slow rebirth. The demons traversed the endless sands of Akhseth and the winding paths of the dungeons below. The Wild Hunt scattered wide, releasing the plague under the watchful eye of the Doctor before slipping back into the dark labyrinths. Over the years, the folk of the Core and their allies who took refuge among them began to fall ill, though the sickness seemed mild at first. So the natives deemed it no great threat, and the alliance of men, finding no foe to fight, broke ranks and returned to their homes. Yet obliviously they carried death’s seed home.
Two decades passed, and what once seemed a mild and harmless ailment grew ever darker and more grievous. The native folk of the Core were first touched, then the alliance of men who returned to their homes. From them, the sickness spread in ever-widening circles, until no human in all Aeltharia remained untouched. Creatures of other kindred and races were spared, for this blight was no common pestilence but the foul plague and virus wrought by Shikōmaru, designed to twist mankind slowly into creatures of the night, vampires who thirst for blood and fall into savage frenzy, lost to all reason and mercy. And these fearsome creatures hunt mankind with relentless fury.
The plague crept slowly, twisting both body and mind of those it claimed. All who suffered its touch were transformed, their forms growing strangely fair, those once marked by mortal frailty now shining with eerie beauty. Their skin took on a ghostly pallor, pale as driven snow, save for those of the Southwest and the Core, whose darker hues endured through ancient blood and secret lore. Sharp, elegant fangs appeared, weapons both terrible and refined. Yet a grievous burden fell upon these cursed folk: the golden sun’s fierce, burning light scorched their flesh like fire, driving them ever to dwell in shadow, bound forever and always to the evernight’s cold embrace.
The cruel irony lies in the plague’s many dark gifts, yet its true curse is far graver than mortal minds can fathom. The Sanguines, once men, may lose hold of reason and fall into madness, beasts more savage and fell than the wildest demons or predators that roam the land. Yet even in their monstrous guise, they keep fragments of their former selves, not for memory’s sake, but to better hunt their sole prey: mankind. By the year 1745 A.E., many once men had become these sanguine fiends. The loss of control comes slow and agonizing, wrought by deep sorrow, despair, and torment. Yet the descent hastens when one yields to The Seven Deadly Sins, Pride, Wrath, Envy, Greed, Lust, Sloth, and Gluttony, without repentance or shame. The plague shall be remembered as both a bestowment and a curse, forged to test the mettle of mankind and to purge life of sinners from its very midst.
Many years passed until, by the year 1757 A.E., all of mankind had become the first generation of sanguine. This grim truth struck terror in the hearts of the newly made vampires, who longed for their lost humanity and the warm embrace of the golden sun. They sought to reclaim what once was, turning to magic, science, and craft, only to meet failure at every turn. In harrowing desperation, they cast their faith upon The Goddess of Creation who dwells in the Heavens, but found naught but silence. At last, the Goddess spoke to all the sanguine in a dream, foretelling that though they must endure great trials, yet through their transformation, over the years they would flourish.
Many sanguine were struck with shock and confusion, yet they offered no lament, for the Goddess and the stars above had long been a guiding light to mankind. She placed boundless faith in humanity, and thus the sanguine, once mortal men, must mirror that faith unto her. In solemn decree, the Goddess bestowed upon them a dream fair and radiant, filled with song and joy, a lullaby gentle as a mother’s breath, that their souls might find peace in slumber. This tender hymn declared that she would never forsake those she guards. Yet even the Goddess of Creation cannot ever stand beside her children, as a parent cannot shield their young through all storms and tides.
The Stars of the Heavens stood united in their solemn accord, accepting the burden laid upon the sanguine. These creatures, born of man yet shaped anew, must learn to endure through trial and sorrow, slowly rising beyond mere ambition to wisdom and power. For centuries the stars watched as the sanguine grew ever more alive, their spirits bound to the primal elements and the very fabric of the world. So deep was their kinship with the seven sources of magic that even their hair, eyes, and blood bore the hues of the elemental powers. Nocturnal became their way, moving through shadowed hours and hiding in secret sanctuaries beneath the sun’s harsh gaze. Yet the sun’s burn remained their burden, and thus they prayed once more to the stars. Their plea was answered as the heavens shattered and eternal night was born, crowned by a radiant aurora borealis dancing across the sky.
