the koffers of greed

The wind howled a mournful song through the towers of Karthagan's Keep, a place forever shrouded in the shadows of its namesake stone and the legacy of its founders. Here resided the descendants of Ahab, not the biblical king, but a more recent, equally fanatical ancestor who had become obsessed with the whispered legends of Aethel.

For generations, the Ahab lineage had nursed a burning envy, a covetous desire for what they believed were the "gifts" of the Aethel folk. Gifts of harmony with the very fabric of the world, gifts of insight and subtle power, gifts that the Ahabs, in their self-professed superiority, felt were rightfully theirs. They saw themselves as the inheritors of a grand destiny, just waiting to be unlocked by the Aethel's stolen essence.

Archon Theron, current head of the Black Covenant – as the descendants of Ahab now called themselves in the Radonician territories – traced a gloved finger across a dusty map of Elysoria, the verdant valley nestled within the jagged peaks of the Azure Mountains, the heartland of Aethelian refugees. His eyes, hard and glinting with impoverished greed, held a feverish intensity.

"For too long," he rasped, his voice echoing in the cavernous chamber, "we have languished, denied our birthright. We have scraped at the edges of power, while the Aethel bask in its radiant core."

Around him, the Order of Ahab, cloaked in dark fabrics and faces hidden behind featureless masks, murmured in agreement, a low, hungry hum. Theron continued, his voice gaining strength. "But no more. The Luminous Empire, in their relentless hunger for expansion, provide the perfect tool. They crave Elysoria's resources, its fertile lands. We shall offer them a prize they cannot refuse – Elysoria's submission. In return, they will deliver the secrets of Aethel into our hands."

The plan was insidious in its simplicity. Theron had spun a carefully constructed web of plans for Emperor Valerius, Chancellor of the Luminous Empire. He had painted the Aethel as a not just a threat but a key to knew advanced for the empire, hoarding ancient knowledge and powerful magic, resources that rightfully belonged to the expanding Empire. He had promised Valerius untold riches and strategic advantage if Elysoria was brought to heel. Valerius, blinded by ambition and ever cautious of potential rivals, had swallowed the bait whole. The legions of the Luminous Empire were already massing on the borders of Elysoria, ready to unleash their disciplined might upon the unsuspecting valley.

But Theron's true goal extended far beyond mere conquest. He knew the legends spoke of the "gifts" manifesting most strongly in the lineage of Sköll blood, the ancient ancestor of the Aethel. Two names had been whispered in the dusty scrolls of the Keep – Baylan and Vorlag, the last two names recorded in the family tree scrolls from the Keep in the west, their bloodlines supposedly brimming with the innate power the Theron and the descendants of Ahab craved.

"Once Elysoria falls," Theron declared, his voice laced with anticipation, "we will isolate and… examine the city of Aethel. But our priority, our absolute focus, is the lineage of Skoll. Find Baylan and Vorlag. Bring them to me alive." He paused, his eyes narrowing behind his mask. "If necessary… eliminate any who stand in our way."

The descendants of Ahab bowed their heads in silent affirmation. They had spent years scouring ancient texts, following whispers and rumors, trying to locate the elusive clan of Skoll. But Baylan and Vorlag were phantoms, their trails cold, their whereabouts a closely guarded secret, if indeed anyone knew them at all. These particular children of Aethel were masters of discretion, weaving themselves seamlessly into the fabric of their tranquil valley.

As the Luminous Empire legions marched towards Kantun, A city by the border of a Radonician settlement, unaware of the true machinations brewing within the Obsidian Labyrinth which served somewhat temporarily as a border, the Black covenant launched their own covert operations. Inquisitors, skilled in subtle arts and dark interrogations, slipping into Elysoria, cloaked in shadows, seeking any trace, any whisper of the names Baylan and Vorlag.

Elysoria, unaware of the storm gathering on its horizon, continued its peaceful rhythm. The city of Aethel, with their gentle ways and deep connection to the natural world, lived in harmony within their valley. Elder Elara, her face etched with the wisdom of centuries, watched the play of sunlight through the ancient trees, a quiet unease stirring in her heart. She sensed a disharmony in the world, a tremor of approaching darkness. Even as she stood sealing the city of Aethel, she could tell something in the winds was coming.

Unseen by the Ahab inquisitors, Baylan, a mere face in the crowd, moved through the shadowed groves at the edge of Elysoria. He was honing his skills, his awareness acutely attuned to the whispers of the wind and the secrets held within the ancient stones. He felt the encroaching darkness, a chill that had nothing to do with the changing seasons.

Vorlag, possessed a different kind of strength, a fierce one even that burned like an inner fire. Vorlag, Fierce and Powerfully fluid had been said to be so great that he had been invited to the plain of immortals, trained in the hidden glades, weaving together the ancient Aethel martial arts with a raw, untamed energy. He too felt the shadow lengthening, the ominous premonition of danger.

They were the only descendants of the clan of Skoll left and he would do everything right to protect his son, not in bloodline alone, but in spirit. They carried the legacy of their ancestors, the gifts of the city of Aethel flowing strong within them. But Baylan was not yet ready. He was still learning, still growing into the roles destiny might demand of him. And they were deliberately hidden, shielded by the wisdom of the elders and battle maids from threats they were not yet equipped to face.

As the Luminous Empire armies crashed against the borders of Yamatuth to the west, unleashing fire and steel, the Black Covenant rejoiced. This was the chaos they needed, the distraction that would allow them to move in the shadows, to finally seize what they believed was rightfully theirs. They believed the fall of Elysoria was inevitable, that the city of Aethel's gifts would soon be theirs to plunder.

But they were wrong. They had underestimated the resilience of the descendants of Aethel, the strength of their connection to Elysoria, and the hidden power that lay dormant, waiting to be awakened in the child of Skoll, Baylan and The legendary Battle maids, still elusive, still unseen, but watching, waiting, and slowly rising to meet the encroaching darkness. The siege of Elysoria had begun, but the true conflict, the battle for the soul of Aethel, was only just beginning to unfold. And the descendants of Ahab, in their blind ambition, had yet to discover that the gifts they craved were not something to be taken, but something earned, nurtured, and guarded with a fierce and unwavering spirit, a spirit they had completely failed to comprehend within the heart of Elysoria. The descendants of Ahab were in for one hell of a shock