The planet Velos is not a world easily grasped in a single breath. It is a living, breathing entity of overwhelming vastness, carved into nine magnificent kingdoms—each a realm of wonder, peril, and boundless myth. These kingdoms stretch far beyond imagination, made up of sprawling continents that are as ancient as time and as volatile as the essence that weaves through every fiber of this world.
These continents are not static landmasses. They are ever-shifting bodies of earth, stone, and magic, continuously forming, splitting, and expanding as life blooms upon them. Some float high above the clouds, suspended by arcane laws that defy gravity and logic. Others dwell deep beneath the oceans, cloaked in shadows and ancient silence. A few, vast and formidable, rest upon Velos' molten crust, shaped by the raw primal forces of the planet itself. Their discovery is an ongoing tale—each continent named and numbered not by birth but by the moment it was first charted, marked by brave explorers or whispered into legend by surviving tongues.
Take, for instance, the Kingdom of Pyro—the realm of Fire. A land ruled by flame, ash, and the unrelenting pulse of volcanoes that crown its burning horizon. It is a place where the ground glows faintly beneath your feet, and the sky often weeps sparks instead of rain. Within this infernal domain lie over thirteen known continents, spread wide and vast, separated by lava rivers, scorched valleys, burning deserts, sparse forests and sulfur-choked ravines.
Among these, the third continent, Crimora, stands as the backdrop to our tale so far. Crimora lies on the 3rd continent a fiery distance from Pyro Prime, the first continent to ever be discovered within the kingdom. Pyro Prime is not merely a geographical location—it is the cultural and political heart of the kingdom. A continent said to be forged in the breath of a sleeping god, still rumbling in his slumber beneath the molten crust.
It was here, in the scalding crucibles of Pyro, that the Dwarves—the first sentient race to walk Velos—arose. Born of magma, tempered by stone, and refined by centuries of war and craftsmanship, the Dwarves became masters of blacksmithing and forging. Their hands, rough with callouses and soot, gave birth to the first legendary artifacts—items so saturated with essence that their names still echo in bardic songs across kingdoms.
Unlike other elder races, the Dwarves were not prideful nor isolationist. When the Humans arrived—strangers from the land of steel and metal, kingdom of Mechavaris—the Dwarves welcomed them. It was a kindness born of wisdom, for they sensed something within these fragile beings that even they could not define.
Humans, as they first appeared, were unremarkable by the standards of Velos. They bore no innate blessings, no unique resonance with the world's essence. They could not harness mana with the precision of the Elves of Solvaris, who were shaped by the world itself and could make forests bloom or wither with a breath. They could not summon storms like the Raijins and Thunderborns of Volthera, who danced with lightning and wore thunder as a cloak. Nor did they have the divine craftsmanship of the Dwarves, the brute force of the Titans and Giants of Terranova, or the abyssal adaptability of the Merfolk and Leviathans of Aquaris, who thrived in the oceanic trenches where light itself dared not enter. The Aarakocra of Zephyria, birdfolk of legend, soared the skies at speeds no mortal eye could follow.
And yet, the humans endured. They adapted. They evolved.
Stripped of gifts, they discovered their own: Technology. Where others bent the world through essence and elemental alignment, the humans built it from gears, wires, and willpower. They fashioned machines to traverse great distances, constructs to wield mana in their stead, and war engines that could rival beasts born from chaos. The first to unite the scattered tribes of Mechavaris was a being now spoken of only in myth: the Deus Machina. Neither god nor mortal, their name is etched into the very bones of Mechavaris, though no one can say whether they were flesh, machine, or something greater.
Through ingenuity and sheer numbers, the humans flourished. Their true advantage—their ability to reproduce rapidly—soon turned their settlements into cities, and their cities into nations. Mechavaris grew overcrowded, its continents straining under the weight of humanity's unchecked expansion. Thus began the Great Migrations.
Pyro, with its volatile terrain and ancient inhabitants, became the first to accept them. And though humans were but guests at first, their relentless growth soon made them the dominant species on many of Pyro's continents. The Dwarves, proud but never foolish, did not resist. Instead, they taught. They shared. And in doing so, ensured their legacy would not vanish in flame, but be passed through human hands, reforged and retold across generations.
Today, much of Pyro retains the traditions of its ancient foragemasters. Even the grand cities that sprawl across Crimora still echo with the clang of hammers and the hum of essence-infused anvils. In the larger towns, the work of Dwarven craftsmanship is unmistakable—visible in the runes carved into walls, the architecture shaped to withstand heat and quake, the culture of artistry in war.
Yet even in this shared dominion, one truth remains: the Infernal Overlord of Pyro, ruler of flame and sovereign of essence, is no human—but a Dwarf, one who has ascended the awakened ranks to the Transcendent Ranks, a being whose very breath can melt steel and whose eyes have seen centuries burn to ash.
Velos is a planet of boundless history and warring legacies. But in Pyro—on the scorched lands of Crimora—our story continues.
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Far from the bustling city of Crimora, nestled in the molten shadows of a colossal, breathing mountain, a small settlement clung stubbornly to life. Mount Velgrath, ancient and volatile, rumbled intermittently like a slumbering titan—its voice a deep growl beneath the earth. Plumes of obsidian smoke coiled into the sky, and crimson veins of lava pulsed around its cragged base like glowing arteries.
And yet, the settlement thrived.
Forged from heat and resilience, the blackened stone buildings were reinforced with ethersteel, their exteriors runed with glowing glyphs to resist the searing heat. Here, Dwarf blacksmiths labored day and night, sweat and smoke indistinguishable from one another as they crafted magitech artifacts—weapons, armor, and constructs of great renown. Sparks danced through the air like fireflies, and the steady clang of hammer on enchanted metal rang like a heartbeat.
Even in the face of near-constant seismic tremors, trade bustled. Human merchants, adorned in cooling robes laced with tech-powered ventilation threads, haggled with squat, grumbling dwarves over crates filled with essence crystals, alloyed cores, and ignition stones.
But beneath this industrious calm, something darker stirred.
Amidst the traders and forgers, a cloaked figure weaved through the market street. Of human stature, yet unsettlingly silent, the figure moved with purpose—unhurried, unaffected. Volcanic embers licked the air around their boots, and where they stepped upon pockets of open lava, the molten stone hissed... but did not burn.
The figure continued upward, walking along a narrow, spiraling path that skirted the lip of Velgrath's maw, where lava bubbled far below like a boiling sea. Heat shimmered in wild mirages, and occasional jets of flame burst from cracks in the ground. Yet the figure did not flinch.
Eventually, they stopped at what appeared to be a seamless wall of volcanic rock. Reaching out, they pressed a hand against it—fingers glowing faintly with twisting embers of essence. A low mechanical whirr answered, gears hidden beneath the rock grinding to life. The cliffside shuddered as a circular hatch, carved with infernal runes and magnetic seams, rotated open with a hiss of steam and sulfur.
The figure stepped into the chamber beyond, which sealed behind them as the platform beneath began descending, pulled by both aetheric pressure coils and lava-powered energy rails.
The elevator shaft was carved directly into the mountain's inner structure, lined with glowing red lines that pulsed in sync with the heartbeat of the volcano. As it sank lower, holograms flickered across the obsidian walls—feeds of battles, blueprints, surveillance of nearby settlements, and sigils of Ember's hierarchy.
At the base was a wide, open subterranean lobby, all sleek black stone and red-glow light strips, humming with restrained menace. Holographic interfaces floated in mid-air as technicians—both real and projected—moved about, their forms cloaked and mostly obscured.
As the figure emerged, several of them bowed subtly.
"Welcome back, Great Ashborne," one intoned with deep reverence.
The figure didn't respond. Instead, they strode forward, passing a massive obsidian statue of a Pyremaster, its eyes aglow with eternal flame. The path split in multiple directions, each leading deeper into Ember's secret bastion—but only one door called to them.
At the end of the corridor stood an enormous double door reinforced with dragonbone alloy and bound by a fusion of runes and circuits. As the Ashborne approached, the doors recognized the essence signature, clicking and parting like a machine unfolding its jaws.
Inside was a chamber vast and dimly lit, its design circular—like a war room forged in hell. The central table was metallic and angular, surrounded by massive holo-screens displaying the various Ember Circles spread across Pyro. The air was dense with mana... and power.
Three figures already sat around the table.
One lounged arrogantly, legs kicked up on the table, twin infernal pistols holstered at their sides, a mask etched like a grinning skull hiding their identity.
Another leaned back with arms crossed, a long runeblade humming faintly beside them, their posture unreadable behind a flat silver mask shaped like a frown.
The last simply turned their head to meet the new arrival—face obscured by a swirling flame-shaped mask, but a sense of ancient weight radiated from them. Each one was a being of transcendent power—auras coiling through the room like live serpents. If unrestrained, they could flatten entire towns with nothing more than their presence.
As the cloaked figure stepped into the room, her hood peeled back mechanically, retracting in segments as though the metal bent to her will. A smooth smile-shaped mask was revealed beneath, elegant and eerie in equal measure. Her voice, unmistakably amused, and familiar as it would be recognized as the culprit of a certain failed mission filled the room:
"Alright, a general meeting with the big bosses is one thing…" she said, voice laced with faux irritation as she placed both hands on her hips. "But summoning our little Circle immediately after? Really annoying."