Detailed History

The World of

Rift Bound

In the centuries that followed, the world never truly recovered. Whether Khazrun's disappearance marked the beginning of the world's decline or merely warned of what was to come is a question scholars still debate. What cannot be denied is that every generation has inherited a smaller world than the one before it. Mighty empires crumbled into fractured kingdoms. Great cities became abandoned ruins reclaimed by the wilds. Entire noble bloodlines faded into memory, while races that once numbered in the millions slowly dwindled with each passing century. Elven forests grew quieter, dwarven strongholds fell dark, beastfolk clans scattered across the frontier, and even humanity the most numerous of the races found itself retreating behind fortified walls. Though civilization endures, few believe the world remains as it once was.

Then, without warning, reality itself began to tear apart. Across the continent, strange fractures appeared where none had existed before. The air shimmered unnaturally. The land warped beyond recognition. Entire regions became swallowed by crystalline growths and unstable magic. These phenomena came to be known simply as Rifts. No one knows why they appear. Some scholars believe they form where the world's magical energies gather beneath the earth. Others insist they are remnants of an ancient catastrophe whose consequences have only now begun to surface. Every theory carries its own evidence, and none have been proven true. Whatever their origin, the devastation they leave behind is undeniable. Forests become twisted beyond recognition. Rivers glow with unnatural light. Ancient ruins awaken with forgotten power, while creatures caught within a Rift's influence emerge transformed into terrifying reflections of what they once were.

The greatest danger, however, is not found within the Rifts themselves. It is what they leave behind. Those exposed to unstable Rift energy risk succumbing to a mysterious affliction known as Rift Blight. The earliest signs are subtle, a faint shimmer beneath the skin, an unnatural hum echoing within the body, dreams that feel more like distant memories than sleep. As the corruption spreads, memories begin to fade. Thoughts become fractured. Flesh slowly crystallizes beneath the skin until the afflicted are no longer recognizable as the people they once were. No healer has ever discovered a cure. Entire generations of scholars, alchemists, priests, and arcanists have devoted their lives to understanding the Blight, yet every attempt has ended in failure. Those claimed by it are mourned long before death finally takes them.

Not every tragedy born from the world's decline begins with the Blight. Among the races of the continent are rare individuals known only as the Hollow. They are born with souls that never fully anchor themselves to their mortal bodies, leaving them caught somewhere between life and whatever lies beyond it. To the untrained eye they appear no different from anyone else, but as the years pass the bond between soul and body weakens. Some experience moments where their spirit drifts beyond their flesh, while others slowly lose the strength to remain tethered to the world at all. Left untreated, their bodies eventually collapse into lifeless shells, not dead, but empty limp vessels abandoned by the souls that once gave them life.
As the Rifts continued to spread, fear gave way to suspicion, and suspicion gave way to war. The Dominion of Man now finds itself locked in an increasingly bitter conflict with the Elven Concord. While much of the known world struggles against the growing threat of the Rifts, the ancient forests of the elves remain strangely untouched.

Their lands have endured for centuries without suffering the same corruption that plagues neighboring kingdoms. Whether this is the blessing of forgotten gods, knowledge carefully guarded by the Concord, or mere coincidence depends entirely upon who is asked. The Dominion demands answers. The elves refuse to give them. What began as uneasy diplomacy has become open hostility, with both nations convinced the other hides a truth capable of changing the fate of the world.

Standing between these fractured kingdoms is an organization that answers to no crown. The Veilwatchers Guild exists for one purpose alone: to understand the Rifts and, if such a thing is possible, bring an end to them. Its members venture into lands where armies refuse to march, exploring forgotten ruins, investigating newly formed Rifts, recovering lost knowledge, and confronting horrors few survive long enough to describe. Every expedition is another gamble against extinction, every discovery another piece of a puzzle that has remained unsolved for centuries. That search has now led the Guild to the Duchy of Rosaria. Once a prosperous frontier, Rosaria has become one of the most dangerous regions on the continent. Rifts appear there with alarming frequency, twisting the wilderness into a place where the laws of reality seem uncertain. Entire expeditions have vanished without explanation, leaving behind only abandoned camps and shattered equipment. Stranger still, recent reports speak of dark figures moving within the Riftlight itself impossible silhouettes that neither resemble the Blighted nor any known creature. They leave behind only questions, and an unsettling silence where once there had been chaos.

The world stands upon the edge of an uncertain future. Kingdoms wage war while reality slowly fractures beneath their feet. Ancient mysteries remain buried beneath forgotten mountains, and every answer uncovered seems only to give rise to new questions. Yet despite the fear, despite the countless lives already lost, there are still those willing to walk into the unknown. For if the truth is ever to be found... It will not be discovered by kings upon their thrones or scholars within their libraries. It will be found by those willing to stand before the world's oldest wounds and step through them.

There was a time when the world knew peace.
Long before the wars of today, before kingdoms fortified their borders against impossible horrors, magic flowed freely beneath the earth through vast rivers of mana known as the leylines. These unseen currents nourished the land, giving life to ancient forests, towering mountain ranges, and the great civilizations that rose above them. Across the continent, humanity, elves, dwarves, beastfolk, and countless other races prospered in an age remembered only through fragments of history and fading legend.

Then came the Fall of Khazrun. The great dwarven kingdom, renowned for its unmatched craftsmanship and engineering, disappeared almost overnight. One day its gates welcomed merchants and travelers from across the world. The next, they stood silent. No invading army claimed victory. No survivors emerged to tell what had transpired beneath the mountain. The halls of Khazrun became abandoned, its fate swallowed by time. Those few who dared to enter its ruins returned with stories that defied reason. They spoke of impossible crystal formations stretching through ancient halls, of corridors that twisted in ways no stone should, and of places where reality itself no longer obeyed the laws of nature. Many explorers never returned at all. Every nation tells a different story of what befell the dwarves. Some believe they unearthed something that should have remained buried. Others claim the gods themselves passed judgment upon their ambition. Many dismiss the tales as myths crafted to frighten children. The truth remains buried beneath the mountain.

Human History

Dutchy of Rosaria

The Duchy of Rosaria once stood as one of the Human Dominion’s most prosperous provinces. Its fields were wide and green, its river routes fed half the Kingdom, and its capital, Rosaria, was known for its lantern-lit streets and lively trade. In truth Rosaria was one of the most shinning beacons of humanities ingenuity, Travelers used to call it the “Garden of the East,” a place where life always seemed a little easier than the rest of the Dominion. Due to its prosperous haul the wheat houses were always full, this always brought attention of new comers to Rosaria seeking a new start in life under a vigilant leader.
That was before the Rifts opened. Before Rosaria became the last standing keep in the forsaken region, Before the refugees came causing terrible strife, murder, arsonist and thieving.
Before the war with the elves, that cost so much bloodshed upon both sides, Before Rosaria was forced to become something it never intended to be, or ever dared to become. Today, Rosaria holds together not by strength or pride, but by the thin, fraying thread of a people desperate to survive in a world that’s falling apart. Everyone so desperate to keep alive what little hope they have left in this world, be that in their own way.

The Fall Into Desperation
The Duchy of Rosaria the once proud and fertile province of the Human Dominion. Its rolling plains that once fed entire armies had dried like a raisin, its rivers that once cut grounds now overgrown like swamps, its trade routes that once thrived with life now carry the faintest sound of footsteps that once tredded their path, and its capital city, Rosaria,

that once shone with lanternlight and laughter long into the evenings. That was before the wars. Before the Rifts. Before desperation reshaped the very soul of the duchy, In truth it remade the dutchy. Today, The Dutchy Of Rosaria is barely surviving, grasping upon the thinnest thread of hope they can grab ahold of, still clinging to order while the world around it collapses. Its banners still fly from the keep, its markets still open their stalls each morning praying for a better day, but beneath the appearance of normalcy lies a nation cracking under the weight of fear, war, and survival and what tomorrow might bring.When the Rifts first began appearing across the Dominion, refugees poured into Rosaria from every corner of the realm. Entire villages had vanished overnight, others had been swallowed by crystal growths, and still more had fled from places where the air shimmered with unstable mana. Rosaria, situated far from the first tear-lines, became a beacon of relative safety and a hope for a better tomorrow. At first, the duke tried to open his gates with open arms to every lost soul that stumbled upon his gates. Small refugee camps were built. Food was rationed. Clerics tended to the wounded. But the flow of displaced people did not slow; it surged, Dozens became hundreds then Hundreds became thousands. Within a year, Rosaria had more refugees than its own natural born citizens. At this rate the dutchy was falling apart. And was on the verge of collapse, the food storage once so grand now ran dry, the duke was running out of options and most of all…. time.. and fear began to spread in his mind and the Dutchy was soon to follow.Among the slums Banditry rose. Its streets were filled with famine, hungry children begging for food to any passerby. Fights erupted between Rosarian-born humans and those seeking shelter. Non-human refugees dwarves, halflings, beastkin, fae-blooded and Hollow-born were confronted with hatred and suspicion guards sworn to protect now turned a blind eye to outbreak within the slums and children cried throughout the night, while the smell of smoke never fully cleared from the streets. The duke on the verge of insanity convened his council, hoping to seek wisdom. What emerged from that chamber reshaped the duchy forever.

The Branded |The council declared a decree | Refugees could enter Rosaria but only if they were branded.
A mark seared onto the cheek, impossible to hide, impossible to remove. A declaration that they were “guests of the duchy” and under Rosarian law. In truth, it was a symbol of ownership. A redefinition of personhood. A start on a path the Dutchy could never wipe from existence marked within the halls of the dutchy’s history alongside that of their forebearers. Branded refugees became a labor force, A currency, and a class beneath all others, some refer to them as slaves, others a nuisance, Rosarian citizens justified their words easily, speaking behind closed doors spewing venom from their serpent lips “These people came to us for help.”, “We must keep order.”, “They owe us their lives.” And beneath these excuses simmered the true sentiment whispered behind locked doors: “They brought this filth to our lands.”, “They ruined our cities.”, “They are the reason our kingdom falls.”. True colors shine brighter in the dark where others cannot bear whiteness.
The branded were forced into the slums that ringed Rosaria like a dying wreath trying their best to escape the judgment of rosarians. Homes were built hastily from scrap and timber or from any heap of trash they could get ahold of. Narrow streets pooling with dirty water. Reeking of their own excrement, The air reeked of too many bodies and too little space suffocating any chance for hope to breathe. Children born in the slums inherited the brand. Whether they wished to or not.
As for Alistair? logic consumed him, twisting compassion into something perilous. He tried to save everyone, and by the time he understood his mercy was killing the very people he sought to protect, it was far too late. That realization broke something in him. The idealist became a hardened man, willing to take actions he once would have called tyrannical not out of cruelty, but from a grim, unwavering determination to preserve what remains. He is no tyrant, no saint only a ruler who must make impossible choices and carry their cost alone.

The Elven Apathy | What made everything worse was the news from the north:
the Elven Nation had suffered no Rifts at all. None. Their forests were untouched, Their cities were unharmed, And their people remained behind closed borders, safe and silent. The Dutchy demanded to know how the elves resisted the Rifts. Why their forest felt no touch of the rifts, The elves offered no explanation. No aid. No acknowledgment. The entire nation simply turned inward, sealing themselves off from the horror overtaking the world. Rosaria felt the sting of betrayal most sharply. To the people living in the slums and to the humans forced to walk past them every day the elves became a symbol of cold indifference.
While humans drowned in their own suffering, consumed by the indifferences among them and other races living within their border the elves stayed silent in the wether or not that be of ill intent within their shining forests.
Hatred grew and so soon war followed.

Rosaria | The City Divided
To a traveler approaching Rosaria for the first time, the city still looks strong and thriving. Its walls stand tall. Flags bearing Rosaria’s crest sway in the wind. Smoke rises from chimneys, and the gates remain open for merchants.
But inside, the truth is much darker.
In the upper wards, the noble district gleams with polished stone, tidy gardens, and mage-lit windows. The streets are patrolled by seasoned guards, and the people walk with confidence.
In the lower wards and beyond, everything leans. Houses sag under their own weight. Tents made of patchwork fabric cling to alleys. Fires burn constantly, both for warmth and out of necessity to keep the mana-mist from settling.
The branded work from dawn until long after dark.
They keep the city running, yet receive none of its comfort.
Guards pass them in the streets without meeting their eyes.
And above all the city, in the keep, the Duke watches.... ever so closely

And so Rosaria stands as it is now:
A kingdom still breathing, but only barely.
A place where survival has become its own currency.
And where the branded walk the streets with proof of their suffering carved into their skin.
Behind every decision is fear.
Behind every smile is resentment.
And behind every oath of loyalty is a simple truth this duchy refuses to speak aloud:
Rosaria is dying.

Elven History

Kingdom of Viridor

The Silent Kingdom of Viridor
A Gentle Chronicle of the Elves Before the Rifts
Before the world cracked and the skies learned to shine with Riftlight, the Elven Kingdom of Viridor stood as one of the oldest and most untouched realms in existence.
Nestled beneath silver-canopied forests and veiled in ancient wards, Viridor was a land where magic breathed as naturally as wind, and centuries passed like quiet seasons.
Elven poets often claimed that the world itself was born in these woods that the first light of creation struck the roots of Viridor’s trees, and their people awakened from the glow. Whether truth or myth, the elves never corrected anyone who repeated it.
Their cities rose like pale constellations carved into the land: tall spires, arched bridges, and crystal-lit gardens that glimmered under moonlight as if holding the stars themselves.
Life in Viridor flowed with slow, measured grace.
Elves danced through centuries the way mortals danced through days.
At the heart of the kingdom ruled the Viridor royal line, an unbroken bloodline stretching farther back than human memory:
King Altar Viridor, revered for his wisdom and steady hand

Queen Sae, gentle in spirit and renowned for healing arts

Prince Elthen, gifted from birth, the “Silver Star” of the court

Under their guidance, Viridor enjoyed an age so long and peaceful

that many believed such harmony to be eternal.
For countless generations, elves lived apart from other races not out of hatred, but out of quiet certainty that their way was the world’s natural rhythm.
Their borders were sealed by ancient wards, their culture rooted deeply in magic and tradition.
Humans grew, built, warred, and died.
Dwarves forged kingdoms beneath the mountains.
Yet the elves watched from afar, distant as constellations.
It was only in recent centuries that Viridor’s isolation eased.
Elven scholars walked the deep halls of the dwarven realm of Dur’Khaal, and dwarven smiths were welcomed beneath the silver boughs of Viridor’s counsel.
For a brief and gentle moment, two ancient peoples shared knowledge, song, and art.
But the alliance was short-lived, ending as quietly as it began. No war followed. No scandal was spoken.
Only the soft closing of borders once more, as though Viridor exhaled and returned to its natural solitude.
Still, the elves remained as they had always been patient custodians of magic, guardians of their forested paradise, confident in the endurance of their realm.
Their cities stood serene. Their forests whispered ancient songs.
Their people looked toward centuries yet to come with calm certainty.
In those days, before the mountains screamed and the sky tore itself open, Viridor was a kingdom of stillness, beauty, and unbroken tradition
A land untouched, watching the world beyond its borders with quiet, timeless eyes. falls.
As for its current state? thats still to be decided. To whatever or whomever tries to walk its grounds seem to find themselves stranded and confused. Most who try to walk their grounds awaken in strange locations... no one seems to be able to enter their lands.

It Seems like Nothing else is written in the great libraries about the kingdom of Viridor or the elven nation. . .

Dwarven History

Ruins of Dur'Khall

The dwarves of Dur'Khall were once hailed as the greatest craftsmen the world had ever known. From their colossal kingdom carved deep within the heart of the mountains, they mastered the ancient arts of stone, steel, and fire, forging legendary weapons, neigh impenetrable armor, and magnificent halls hewn from the living rock itself. Their forges burned day and night, fueled by techniques perfected over countless generations, and every creation that left their halls bore the unmistakable mark of dwarven excellence, Yet it was not their smithing alone that earned them their renown. The masters of Dur'Khall were also the unrivaled keepers of Runecraft, an ancient art said to predate even the oldest kingdoms of men. Through painstaking precision, they etched intricate runes into steel, stone, and precious metals, binding each creation with powerful enchantments that strengthened armor, sharpened blades, and granted their works extraordinary properties. No two mastercrafted relics were ever truly alike, for every rune was carefully chosen and painstakingly inscribed to suit its bearer and purpose. Across the world, kings sought their weapons, nobles coveted their armor, and temples commissioned relics worthy of the gods themselves. To wield a masterpiece forged within the halls of Dur'Khall was more than a mark of wealth, it was to carry a piece of dwarven legacy, a creation born from centuries of unwavering dedication, unmatched craftsmanship, and the sacred union of forge and rune. Even today, the surviving relics of Dur'Khall are whispered about in legends, their runes still glowing faintly with power despite the passing of ages, a testament to the enduring genius of the mountain folk.

The Fall of Dur'KhallFor thousands of years, the halls of Dur'Khall stood unchallenged. Their forges never cooled, their runes never faded, and the mountain kingdom prospered beyond comparison. It seemed as though nothing in the world could threaten the dwarven civilization. Then came the day history simply remembers as the Big Bang. The great halls were adorned with banners of crimson and gold, every corridor decorated as though a grand celebration was about to begin. Songs echoed through the mountain, the forges roared brighter than ever, and families gathered beneath vaulted ceilings carved by their ancestors. What the celebration honored has long since been lost to time, its purpose buried beneath the mountain alongside those who witnessed it. Without warning, the earth itself cried out. The foundations of Du'Khall trembled violently as the mountain split from within. Towering pillars collapsed, bridges of stone shattered into the abyss, and entire districts disappeared beneath avalanches of rock. The once-mighty halls became tombs in a matter of moments. Countless dwarves were crushed beneath their own life's work, while rivers of stone and debris sealed passage after passage until no light remained. Those few who escaped spoke only of deafening thunder, impossible darkness, and the mountain itself seeming to wage war against its own people. No one could agree on what had happened. Some claimed the gods had turned away from Dur'Khall. Others whispered of an ancient force awakened beneath the kingdom. Many believed it was simply the mountain reclaiming what had always belonged to it. None could ever prove the truth. When the dust finally settled, the greatest kingdom the dwarves had ever built was gone. Entire bloodlines vanished beneath the rubble, their names forever etched into broken stone rather than history. To this day, the ruins of Dur'Khall remain largely untouched. Ancient rune-forged relics still lie hidden within its buried vaults, untouched by time, while whispers tell of distant hammer strikes echoing through abandoned tunnels where no living dwarf should remain. Whether those sounds are ghosts, survivors, or something far older, none can say.

The Construct Rite

The Construct Rite Two hundred and fifty years ago, a dwarven expedition ventured into the buried ruins of Dur'Khall in search of relics from their fallen kingdom. Near one of the city's great gates, they uncovered what is believed to be the first Construct ever created. Though its body had long since fallen silent, one hand still clutched a bundle of ancient writings. Time alone had not claimed these texts. Entire pages had been torn away, passages carefully cut from the parchment, and vital sections ended abruptly, as though someone had deliberately stripped the ritual of its secrets before the city was ever buried. Believing both the Construct and the writings to be priceless relics of their ancestors, the dwarves spent the next fifty years painstakingly deciphering what remained. Much of the original ritual was lost forever, but from the surviving fragments they forged a new rite of their own. Two hundred years ago, the first modern Construct was born.

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