Iron Tomb
Crypt of the March Wardens
Freemarch has earned its name as an independent and just land, thanks largely to the guiding hand of the March Wardens. Proudly refusing royal titles, they have led Freemarch since Eliam cast down Jakub the Warlord shortly after the fall of the Eth. Even the stern Mathosians allowed Freemarch some measure of self-rule, out of respect for the Wardens’ reputation.
To honor their leaders, the Freemarchers built a grand tomb complex where every Warden can rest for eternity in the company of his peers. There, the Wardens lie in spacious catacombs dug into walls of polished sandstone. Eliam himself is buried in a magnificent crypt deep in the complex, and no tomb robber would have dared the fury of the Wardens’ spirits… until the rifts came.
The defilers of sleep
Who but the Endless Court would disturb the slumber of the March Wardens? They have broken into the tomb, torn up the stones with their rude digging, and even raised the bodies of noble leaders as lethal undead thralls. Alsbeth the Discordant, mistress of the Endless and right hand of Regulos, has enslaved many of the Wardens’ souls to build a force of elite ghosts. Three of these leaders, Laric, Darribec, and Humbart, now haunt their monuments as Alsbeth’s tortured protectors.
Unliving filth wanders Iron Tomb, zombies and mummies and worse ready to chew the flesh of pilgrims and break the bones of heroes. Poor Caor Ashstone was once Eliam’s most loyal servant, the only commoner honored with a place in Iron Tomb. His corpse has risen, tortured by Death magic and concern for his master, to fall upon intruders in a misguided frenzy.
Tales also say a rare species of poisonous spider burrows near Iron Tomb, and if the Endless defile the stones any more, these hunters could creep in, making the tomb unapproachable by anyone but the dead.
Defend the dead
Empowered by Regulos, Alsbeth is perhaps Telara’s most powerful sorceress, but even she has yet to break the will of Eliam. His spirit alone has withstood her magic, so she has recruited Ragnoth, a Fire demon adept at enslaving souls. For all this, Eliam’s ghost calls Ascended to Iron Tomb, warning all who will listen that the fate of Telara may be decided in his crypt under Freemarch.
The Endless have not come to Iron Tomb simply because they can’t abide a dignified death, or even for an army of enthralled heroes. The March Wardens were buried where the righteous might of their ghosts could protect an ancient secret. Tales say that deep below Iron Tomb itself lie mossy caves, lit by the hideous glow of an artifact that could bring victory to the Endless Court, and ruin to all Telara.
The Marksman is the lone man in the tower whose shots can cut down an invading charge. Once these ranged specialists choose their mark, it is only a matter of time before the deadly shot strikes home.
Gameplay
Marksmen are offensive sharpshooters trained to thin enemy ranks with ruthless efficiency. They combine swift hit-and-run attacks with devastating volleys, endlessly harassing targets and sowing the battlefield with dead and crippled foes.
Overview
Marksmen are offensive sharpshooters trained to thin enemy ranks with ruthless efficiency. They combine swift hit-and-run attacks with devastating volleys, endlessly harassing targets, sowing the battlefield with dead and crippled foes.
Strengths
Marksmen are experts at hit-and-run tactics, surgically dismantling targets from a safe distance, then sprinting away before the enraged victims can close for melee.
Weaknesses
The Marksman keeps foes at bay for a reason. The key to defeating a Marksman is reducing their mobility, exposing them to devastating melee counterattacks.
Background
The Storm Legion captain strode before the assembled villagers, who stood unmoving in a line. “In joining the Storm Queen’s army,” he called out, “you have joined with Crucia herself. You will follow no will but the Dragon’s until the day you die. Now, it is time to cut ties.”
He gestured, and his soldiers distributed shovels among the villagers. With empty eyes, they approached the corpses littering the village streets, bodies of friends and family who had not submitted soon enough.
Just over a rise, the sole survivor of the slaughter of Whitefall huddled behind a rock. Though her fingers shook with the cold, she guided the bullets into the barrel of her gun.
One of the digging villagers fell, too weak to work, though he struggled to rise with the mindless determination of an ant with a broken back.
“You,” said the captain to another villager. “Crucia spares no love for weaklings. Bury him with the others.”
The helpless executioner stepped forward, raising his shovel. Before the stroke fell, someone blasted the shovel from his hand.
“Marksman!” the captain barked in warning.
The soldiers rushed up the rise. A slender young woman in naught but a nightgown stepped from behind a rock, rifle against her shoulder, eyes frosted over with hate. An arc of lightning propelled her first bullet to spear through the foremost soldier and lodge in the second. The second round followed right at its tail, hitting a third soldier with such thundering force that he sailed back fifteen yards.
One legionary surged forward, but before he could swing his sword, she leveled the muzzle at his chest, blasting him across the snow. By now the bulk of the group had caught up, but she leapt backwards further than human legs should have carried her, landing twenty yards away and resuming fire. Her target crumbled, and the force of her shot bowled his companions over.
An edge entered the captain’s voice as he urged his forces on. The Legion mages strove to get within range of the shooter, but her gun’s incredible reach kept them at bay. One sorcerer finally reached striking distance, stunning the girl with a concussive bolt. For but a moment, she wobbled on her feet, then shook it off like a mild headache, and ran with unnatural speed through the snow. She picked off the mage with a blast over her shoulder, then turned her rifle on the captain.
Scrambling back in terror, the captain called the mindless villagers to screen him, but the girl found him amidst the crowd.
“This is for Whitefall,” said the girl, and though her voice and face were calm, none would have mistaken her cold fury for the void of Crucia’s puppets.
Tales say you can still hear the shot that killed the captain ring out on cold nights in Whitefall. The rest of the battalion fled from the unerring sniper. Nothing could be done for the villagers, so the Marksman Gisa Malik buried her people in the frigid earth, and stole away into Iron Pine to become a legend of the Age of Dragons.
“I dare you to evade my shots. No matter how far you run or where you hide, you are as good as dead. I do not tire, I do not hesitate. And I never miss.”
Necromancers are damage dealers who synergize with their pets. The majority of a Necromancer’s damage comes from a fully supported and buffed pet. In an emergency, Necromancers can also serve as secondary healers by sacrificing their own health to their allies.
Strengths
Together with their undead servitors, a Necromancer can inflict serious sustained damage and survive adversity better than most Mages. Using different minions, the Necromancer can handle various combat situations, and is as comfortable ending one life as he is covering a whole area with necrotic energy.
Weaknesses
Since much of a Necromancer’s damage comes from their pet, they become vulnerable when caught on their own. These minions also require help from the Necromancer to reach peak performance, or they will do only a fraction of their potential damage.
Background
Corthana Wyvernjack helped her brother off the crypt floor, making concerned clucking noises as she brushed off his dented armor. William’s eyes narrowed at her.
“It was your plan to draw the high priest’s attention,” Corthana reminded him. “If you want to protect me, you have to accept the consequences.” Her brother seemed about to say something, but she shushed him, and fished for her needle to stitch his wounds closed.
William’s situation dated back to when he and Corthana had joined the crusade against the Endless, working on their own because Corthana’s magic made others suspicious.
They had great success until Corthana was taken prisoner by the Endless. Perhaps they sensed darkness in her, or simply recognized her cleverness, so they showed her their ritual of reanimation. It was needlessly complex, laden with invocations to Regulos that seemed integral to the magic, yet served no purpose besides turning the caster to evil. Corthana made a show of joining in, but dispensed with all mention of the Destroyer when practicing the art on her own.
Then one day, William, her headstrong Paladin of a brother, burst into the camp of the Endless to free her. Corthana did not hesitate. While he had the enemy’s attention, she cast a grave rot on the ground where the cultists stood, giving those who sought to corrupt her a taste of their own necromancy.
The subtle, pernicious Death-magics alone weren’t enough to overcome her enemies. But the zombies she raised from the ground fed upon the necrotic energies to empower their attacks.
She didn’t forget her brother. It was his foolhardy charge that had given her the distraction she needed to unleash death upon those who sought to cheat it. She knew that Mathosian courage often was the result of a good priest at your backside, and without healing, William would perish by a thousand cuts.
So she gave of herself, her blood, her very life, and sent it to her brother. When the burden became too much for her to bear, she drained essence from those cultists who bore her mark.
Fleeing for their lives, they met the high priest of Regulos, whose evil had earned him everlasting unlife. With a sneer, he aged William unto death with a bolt of dark magic. At first, Corthana felt only a chill calm. She gathered her power and took on the guise of a lich. In her avatar form, she summoned the ghosts of noble warriors who struck the high priest down and avenged her brother. She fell to the ground, human once more, and wept by William’s side.
Her brother never did learn to accept necromancy, but what Paladin could? And every time she stitched him back together, he gave her that cold look with his hollow eyes. It is said he guards her to this day, eternally vigilant lest any minions of Regulos attempt to corrupt her peaceful sleep.
“Come forth noble warriors. Your battles have not ended. Protect the weak, punish the wicked, then sleep once more.”
Riftblades are Warriors who learn to enhance their attacks with elemental magic, allowing them to cast bolts of force across the battlefield and strike with boundless energies.
Strengths
Able to shoot lances of fire, stone, and wind at enemies, Riftblades possess stronger ranged capabilities than other Warriors. Furthermore, much of their damage is elemental, cutting through armor as if it were flesh.
Weaknesses
Offensive specialists, Riftblades do not focus much of their discipline on protecting themselves and are vulnerable to concerted attacks. Their magical damage, while devastating against physical defenses, is just as weak as any magic against the appropriate resistances.
Background
Nazim Kalfani was born to a wealthy family of Eth traders, but as the third son he had few prospects. The clan did lack for mages, so his father sent him off to the far north to study at Quicksilver College with the elves. Nazim enjoyed learning about elemental theory, but the endless hours preparing alchemy and perfecting incantations drove him to distraction. He took his tuition money and left for Iron Pine Peak, to train in the ways of the sword with famed Mathosian warriors.
Swordsmanship suited Nazim better, for he was strong and quick, but ultimately he quarreled with master after master. They were purists who believed in the discipline of form. Nazim liked to mix things up, changing weapons and styles, even casting a few cantrips to throw opponents off-balance. Such unorthodox tactics were frowned upon by the stoic Mathosian knights.
Nazim wandered Telara, sometimes as a blade for hire, sometimes as a hedge magician, seeking his place and purpose. He finally ended up in the Droughtlands as a mercenary. Practicing his swordsmanship one day under an ancient Eth lantern, Nazim noticed how it generated light by using a steel rod to hold open a portal to the planes. Experimenting with his sword, Nazim tried to develop a martial stance that punctured reality at the same angle. At last, with a concussive thunderclap, Nazim found himself teleported a short distance away.
With practice, Nazim found he could control the magical forces he brought forth from the planes. He learned how to hurl elemental spears, and to wreathe himself and his weapon in primal fury. His new martial style caught his opponents off-guard. Were they fighting a warrior or a mage? Should they keep their distance or close in? Nazim could summon energies for every situation. He became known as Nazim the Riftblade, and carved himself a small Caliphate in Shimmersand.
“The elemental forces are so very close to our world. You don’t need to be a mage to grasp that force. Hone your martial skills to their pinnacle, grasp the forces of the beyond with your will, and channel them through your weapon. Few can stand against the assault of magic and swordplay.”
Echoing the soothing ebb and flow of the tides, Wardens specialize in slow healing that escalates over time, making them ideal for prolonged fights that would exhaust most healers.
Strengths
The Warden excels at slowly stacking powerful healing energies on their allies. Given sufficient time to lay down magic, a Warden can bolster their allies through even the most grueling struggles.
Weaknesses
Unable to weave their protective spells quickly enough to overcome a concentrated attack, Wardens have little defense against a rapid or group assault.
Background
The Elves left their homeland and came to the Kelari Isles, finding it a place of wild spirits. Many of these little gods allied with the newcomers, but one in particular would strike no bargains: Ixalou, lord of the river. Many predicted that young Diona would become High Priestess of the Kelari, so one day a rival challenged her to prove her worth by winning over the river lord. Diona boasted that the task would be simple.
She offered a sacrifice at the idol of Ixalou, and paced the riverbank until he rose from the water. “You come seeking my favor, Elf,” said Ixalou, in a voice like water rushing over stone, “but I will give you none. Kelari are passionate, haughty, and unpredictable. This is not the river’s way. Water is soothing, humble, and above all things constant.”
“I will not fail.” Though Diona’s voice rang with dangerous pride, Ixalou granted her use of his magic for a trial.
Diona traveled the river’s length. On the second day, she met a group of fishermen under attack by boglings. Reflexively, she called a towering wave that washed the scum away, but many more remained.
Diona drained the fluid from their bodies and lanced them with spears of water, but she could not stop them all. When Diona finally looked back at the fishermen, she saw that they lay at death’s door. Diona sent snakes of restorative energy toward them, but in the time it took to complete the mighty spell, the boglings’ next attacks snuffed out their lives.
Diona stood aghast. Though she slew the monsters, she could do nothing for the fishers. Sinking to her knees, she waited for Ixalou to come and take her power. She waited, and a day passed, then a second and a third.
At the end of the fifth day, Ixalou appeared before her. “You failed. Do you understand why?”
Diona bowed her head and said, “Water is constant, it needs time to flow. If I had healed the fishermen first, the magic would have bolstered them against further wounds. In my pride, I thought I could slay the demons first. I was wrong.”
The river swelled its banks as its lord gurgled with laughter. “I have never heard a Kelari admit that they were wrong in all of my days. For that alone, a second chance is granted.”
Grateful, Diona followed the water until she heard a clash of swords. Running to the sound, she found a group of travelers about to fall to a band of satyrs.
Diona called up spheres of healing water and threw them into the fray. One or two splashed immediately against the injured fighters, while the others lingered, releasing their soothing energies when the victims had taken further wounds. The satyrs could do no lasting damage against Diona’s waves of healing.
Screenshots
Concept Art
The rolling fields of Freemarch
Travelling back through time, the Defiant arrive in Freemarch and see lush, rolling fields falling away to white sand beaches and the sparkling sea, so different from the hollow shell of a future they hail from. And then they turn and see a Death Rift, pulsing with sinister purpose, and learn what they are fighting for.
Once, Freemarch was the breadbasket of the Eth Empire, called the Emerald March for its fruitful fields. When the Empire fell, a warlord named Jakub crushed the March-folk, ruling from his hilltop fortress of Iron Keep. A simple peasant named Eliam roused the people to cast down Jakub and was elected the first of the March Wardens. Even as part of the Mathosian Empire, the March Wardens were allowed free reign over what came to be called Freemarch, and the land prospered.
Evil abroad
But nothing can prosper in the time of rifts. Death Rifts bloom to spite the fertile plains of Freemarch, and Water Rifts send out their quivering horrors to make the people fear the water. Almost immediately new Defiant see the walls of Port Scion, overgrown with death taint like mold on bread, necrotic ooze seeping from the city’s sluices to poison the sea. Port Scion has been sealed since it fell to the Deathtouched, but Freemarch lives in fear lest the gates swing open, releasing the massed undead within.
In the shadow of one fallen city, another emerges into the light as the Defiant excavate ancient Arkeen, where the Eth sought to master the strands of life itself. Whether the ancient ruin is boon or bane to the Defiant is yet to be seen. Not far from the dig site, the Defiant fend off a Guardian incursion near the broken bridge to Port Scion, hoping to keep the gods’ puppets from invading Freemarch and destroying their work.
The coasts are no safer than the hills, as slimy monsters spill through Water Rifts, their influence sometimes insidious but always horrific. In the fishing village at Lakeside Outpost, the people wear pained smiles and seem to breathe only as an afterthought, following passersby with cold, glassy eyes. Deep Ones scuttle along the beach nearby, the clacking of their claws eerie in the moonlight.
A rot in the heart of defiance
Freemarch is the heart of the Defiant faction. Their wondrous city of Meridian stands by the coast, its back to the mountains, sending out waves of Defiant to keep Freemarch free. Yet every day new rifts open, new monsters emerge, and the laughter of cultists grows ever more confident and shrill. Undead claw their way from their graves to feast on the living and raze farmsteads, turning the heartland black.
This evil traces back to Iron Keep on its hill, a monument to the tyranny of Jakub the Warlord. Jakub lay buried within its nigh-impregnable walls, but the Endless Court drew him forth from the grave, using his cruelty and aggression to form a spearhead into Freemarch. This time, the current March Warden’s forces may be too weak to stop him. Someone must charge into Iron Keep and end Jakub once and for all, lest he rule Freemarch again as the puppet of Regulos.
Jakub the Warlord, heard from atop Iron Keep after the coming of the rifts
Oh Freemarch, I have missed you! Your fertile hills, your yielding soil. I know we parted on ill terms, but I have returned, and we can start anew. I do not blame you for turning on me, for you were poisoned against me by the lies of weak and petty men. Yes, I will punish you for your disobedience, but there is no spite in it! I do this for your own good!
Though I am stern, though I seem cruel, always remember that I love you. I have made powerful friends, and I serve unstoppable masters. Do not resist me, my land and people. If you do, it will go poorly for you. Always remember, Freemarch, that you are mine. It pains me to have to remind you.
