Desnora Odseniron

Red Wizard of Sturvik, Scion of Fire and Blood, Fugitive of the Haugar Throne

Born of Fire and Legacy

Desnora Odseniron was born into legacy, not luxury. She is the only daughter of Archmage Zlatan Odseniron, a feared and respected leader within the Red Tower of Sturvik, and direct heir to some of the oldest and most dangerous bloodlines still known in the North.

Her great-grandmother was a half-dragon—the secret consort of Goldred the Twin-Blooded, the ancient draconic warlord who bore both red and gold within his heart.

Her maternal line traces to Glinka, a warrior-mage and one of the founders of the Red Wizards, who once carved spell-sigils into the frozen bones of giants.

And from deep within her father’s lineage, she carries the mark of the Neztra Magus Family, one of the great arcane dynasties of old—making her a distant cousin of Caladawn Magus, the wandering prophet, chronicler, and sorcerer who has shaped epochs.

Desnora was born not merely powerful, but myth-bound—a living intersection of draconic fire, arcane tradition, and deep Sturviki prophecy.

The Red Tower: Prison of Pride

She was raised within the looming walls of the Red Tower, the seat of the Red Wizards—who were once noble tribal sages but are now little more than mage-slaves under the rule of the vampire dynasties of the Haugar Kingdom.

The Red Tower was no school. It was a gilded prison.

Children of magical blood were taken young, ripped from their clans, and raised under a brutal curriculum.

Their lives belonged to the bloodlords, their spells to the Haugar throne.

Their bodies, if disobedient, were discarded or sold.

Even as the daughter of an Archmage, Desnora was never safe. If anything, she was scrutinized harder. Expected to be flawless.

She was taught:

That her blood was sacred, but her will was not hers.

That her lineage was powerful, but her life belonged to the Tower.

That loyalty was everything, and rebellion was madness.

But Desnora was born rebellious. Her sorcery surged not from rote learning, but from instinct, emotion, and ancestral fire.

She spoke to spirits of flame.

She shaped spells by feel, not formula.

She questioned authority, even as a child.

And she paid for it with solitude, lashes, and silence.

The Githyanki Raids – A Catalyst of Betrayal

The breaking point came when the Red Tower was raided—not once, but repeatedly—by Githyanki war-parties from the Hykanean Empire.

The Hykanean Empress had grown old and needed sacrificial spellcasters to prolong her life. Red Wizards, marked with planar sigils and fireborn blood, were prized.

Githyanki invaders breached the tower with planar portals.

Dozens of Red Wizards were taken in chains—Desnora’s mentors, peers, and even children.

The Haugar nobles, vampire generals, and bloodlords did nothing. They watched.

They called the Red Wizards “replaceable.”

They said "Sturvik must endure the price of power."

Desnora begged her father, Archmage Zlatan, to retaliate.

He looked her in the eye and said:

“A fire that rises against the master only burns its own walls.”

That night, she packed a satchel, stole her mother’s grimoire, and vanished.

Flight through Haugar (Late 619 PR)

In the early winter of 619 PR, Desnora Odseniron fled the Tower.

She moved through snow-laden forests, mist-shrouded villages, and roads where the names of traitors were whispered like curses.

She used her magic only in secret.

She spoke only when necessary.

She slept with embers in her hands, ready to burn if cornered.

She saw what the vampire lords had done to her people—the Sturvik Tribes, once proud and sovereign, now turned into peasants, cannon fodder, and cultic offerings.

She fled west—past the moaning woods of eastern Haugar and into the old roads of Goffik.

Through blighted forests where the trees whispered in Gith tongues

Past villages too afraid to speak, where magic was taxed like sin

Along roads soaked in fog, shadowed by raven-eyed riders

But she never stopped. Not once.

Goffik: A Breath of Arcane Air

In the Goffik Kingdom, Desnora breathed for the first time.

Magic was not feared here—it was regulated, respected, and occasionally even celebrated. Hedge-mages and courtly wizards walked in public. The old gods were still whispered to.

Desnora hid her past but not her gift.

She passed as a foreign tutor, teaching alchemy and elemental theory.

For three months, she tasted something like peace.

There, she found brief safety, posing as a scholar from a forgotten academy.

In Goffik, She danced with noble students under starlight, whispered truth to peasant hedge witches, and even dared to laugh.

But it could not last.

She was hunted. The Tower’s sigils were still carved on her palms.

But word of a Haugar fugitive reached ears in Goffik.

So she moved on—again.

The Tudor Empire: Cloaked in Silence

The Tudor Empire was unforgiving.

Magic was illegal, and Red Wizards were executed on sight. Desnora crossed its borders under false names, forged papers, and enchanted cloaks.

She did not cast.

She did not speak her true name.

She became a ghost—another silent woman in a veil, moving through cities without sound.

She traveled in silence:

Wearing gloves to hide her runes

Selling faked alchemy as “tonics”

Slipping past inquisitors with forged papers

Her fire dimmed—but did not die.

It took her three months to reach Leadenport, the largest western port.

There, she bought passage on a ship bound for Albion—once the seat of dragons, now the land of King Wulfred Goldred, a young monarch whose lineage shares blood with her own.

Arrival in Albion (Spring, 620 PR)

In early spring 620 PR, Desnora set foot on Albion’s blackstone coast.

For the first time in her life, she felt safe being what she was.

Magic in Albion was not banned, but revered. The land remembered the old days, when dragons ruled as kings and arcane fire was a crown, not a curse.

Desnora made for Dragon Keep, the royal capital—seeking the Crypts of Goldred, to trace the truth of her draconic bloodline.

The Crypts of Goldred – Fire in the Dark

Beneath Dragon Keep lie ancient tombs carved in obsidian and gold.

Desnora entered them alone, tracing sigils and dragon carvings that matched her great-grandmother’s tattoos. She uncovered proof that Goldred’s blood did indeed flow through multiple lines, both noble and hidden—including her own.

But something else stirred.

Deep within the crypts, a Lich, twisted by rot and dark purpose, had raised the bones of old kings and warriors. He served Zonid, the Glutton of Influence—one of the God Hands, an ancient and evil triad of twisted deities.

He spoke to her:

“You are fire. Join us. Burn for eternity.”

She refused.

And then—the Unchained arrived.

The Unchained

Scarred, wounded, hunted—but alive—the Unchained descended into the crypts after signs of dark magic.

They fought the undead with steel and spell.

Desnora fought beside them—unleashing arcane fire so old it made the bones scream.

Together, they slain the Lich and sealed the crypt.

In the firelight, Neth asked, “What tower did you burn down?”

Desnora smiled, for the first time in months.

“Mine.”

And they welcomed her into their ranks.

Desnora Odseniron Now

She is a Red Wizard still—but no longer one in service of tyranny.

She remains loyal to her Sturvik people, not their vampire overlords.

She still bears the sigil of the Red Tower—but it is cracked, burned, and reshaped.

She seeks to find and free other Red Wizards still trapped.

She is watching the rise of the God Hands, and she knows too well the whispers of power that rot the soul.

And somewhere in the shadows, Zlatan Odseniron, her father, is still alive…

...and he wants his daughter returned safe and Alive.

Desnora Odseniron and the Peaceful Rise of Albion

“It is easy to burn. Harder still to build. Hardest yet to build where ash has fallen.”

The Unchained Become Diplomats

In the year 620 PR, with Albion still fractured and surrounded by hostile empires, the Unchained turned from swords to scrolls, seeking to unify the realm without bloodshed. At the side of King Wulfred Goldred, they became ambassadors of alliance, and Desnora—once a fugitive mage—emerged as a key diplomatic mind and arcane presence.

No longer hunted, she wore her red robes freely, marked now with the seal of Albion’s royal court, and her words burned with the authority of one who once served tyrants—and swore never to again.

The Courtship of House Brummur

The first and boldest political stroke came when Wulfred proposed marriage to Mez’Barris Brummur, Matriarch of the Drow House Brummur—a noble line known for both military prowess and matriarchal pride.

Desnora advised the king to meet Mez’Barris as an equal, not a suitor. She helped craft letters, interpret Drow gesture-runes, and mediated the terms of alliance.

The marriage was accepted—not as a love match, but as a strategic union, and in doing so, the Brummur Drow pledged themselves to Albion.

The Heart of the Forest – Lady Syvis Goldrose

In the Rose Forest, where the wood sings and time weeps, lived Lady Syvis Goldrose, protector of the fae-touched glades and hesitant guardian of her people.

Lady Syvis distrusted monarchs, especially those of dragon blood.

It was Desnora who broke through—speaking of Wulfred’s restraint, his desire for peace, and the tyrants she herself once served.

Syvis saw truth in Desnora’s pain—and when the wind passed, she gave her pledge.

The Rose Forest joined Albion, and the trees whispered their approval.

Desnora’s Thoughts on the Duel, the Defeat, and the Coward’s End

“He died not with honour. He died with control. And that... is far more dangerous.”

Vor’i’s Trial by Combat.

Desnora watched from the edges of the blood circle, arms folded beneath her crimson sleeves, as Vor’i's—blade-silent, eyes like blue lightning—faced Garnaith Lutrin's flesh monster, the so-called "bound beast of the Eastern Rite."

She had studied monsters that Garnaith created in grimoires and vivisection notes. Flesh twisted by arcane scars. A mind trained not to question but to crush.

Yet Vor’i's stood calm. Not because she was reckless.

Because she knew who she was.

And when the beast lunged—howling with forgotten tongues—Desnora saw it.

“Vor’i's is a weapon forged in discipline. Garnaith's beast forged in fear.”

The duel ended as it should: with Vor’i's victorious, blade slick, breath steady.

The Unchained called it justice.

Desnora called it a correction.

Garnaith’s Suicide.

But then came the stain upon the moment.

Garnaith Lutrin cornered—not only refused surrender…

He called upon forbidden rites, pierced his own heart, and died laughing—robbing them of victory, of secrets, of justice.

A coward's death?

Perhaps. But to Desnora… it was worse than cowardice.

“He died on his own terms. He spit on the law. He denied the Unchained closure, denied Vor’i's the full weight of her triumph, and denied me a mind worth dissecting.”

It wasn’t honour.

It wasn’t even defiance.

It was control.

And control, in death, is something Desnora understands far too well.

Desnora did not mourn. She did not scorn. She simply took note.

Garnaith Lutrin proved one thing:

“A defeated foe is never defeated if they still have agency. Even in death, power persists.”

She respects Vor’i's as a warrior. The trial was necessary. Her victory deserved.

But part of her wishes they had bound Garnaith, locked him in a soul-bind circle, and extracted everything before he had the chance.

His death robbed them all—especially her—of knowledge, and leverage, and utility.

And Desnora, for all her fire and oath-breaking, believes in one thing above all:

“Everything has a use. Even your enemies.”

Garnaith denied them that.

And for that alone, she curses his name—not out of vengeance, but out of principle.

Final Thought

“Vor’i’s blade was perfect. But a perfect blade cannot stop a dead man’s will. Next time, I will ensure the body is mine before the soul can escape.”

Desnora Odseniron’s Reflection: The Trance of Genethia Roth

“I have seen kings weep for less. I have seen gods tear down cities to silence voices that speak those names. And she... she just said them. Like a child humming a lullaby.”

The Moment She Touched It

Desnora had already marked the amulet—a jagged relic pulsing with green-sick energy, tainted with layered wards and entropy-bound glyphs that made her stomach churn.

Even in death, Garnaith Lutrin's corpse guarded it, coiled like a forgotten curse waiting to be spoken.

But then...

Neth reached out.

Fingers brushed gold-sickened silver.

A breath caught in the air—hers? Desnora’s? Time blurred.

And then—

Light.

Not holy light. Not even divine.

But Green Radiance, twisting, wreathing, like vines made of memories and madness, swallowing Genethia Roth whole.

The Trance

Neth stood unmoving.

Eyes wide, glowing, lips moving in an unnatural whisper:

" Urmbrik... Zarlnis... Geardaz... Zlaniz... Zonid..."

The names came too easily.

Names that should be locked behind temples of bone and languages buried beneath time.

Desnora didn’t move.

Not out of fear.

But out of cold calculation and rising dread.

Desnora’s Internal Monologue

“God Hands. She touched their artifact, and they touched her back. Not with wrath. With curiosity. That is worse.”

“If she had burned, I would understand. If she had screamed, I could act. But this… trance? They are showing her things. Sowing seeds. Looking through her.”

“And why her? Not me. Not Vor’i's. Not even Pyro. Why her?”

“Because Neth is pure. And purity… is the perfect vessel for corruption.”

She stepped forward—not as a Red Wizard, not as the heir to fire or bloodlines.

But as Desnora, the woman who has seen too many lives lost to the whispers of old gods.

Her Emotions

She clenched her jaw. Her breath was quiet, steady.

But inside—fear.

Not of the gods.

Not of the power.

But of losing Neth.

“She is not ready. Not yet. If they take her now, if they brand her soul with their marks—then I’ve failed.”

“I did not escape vampires and fire to watch a girl I care for be swallowed by something worse.”

When the Trance Broke

Neth collapsed—eyes wild, gasping, body cold and slick with sweat.

Desnora caught her. Not gently. Not softly.

But with both arms, like claiming a spell scroll about to burn itself to ash.

She whispered into her ear, voice low and commanding:

“Never touch something like that again, Neth. Not without me. Not without a circle drawn. Not without knowing the price.”

But her next words were softer, only for Neth:

“You are stronger than them. But strength needs guidance. You are not alone.”

Final Thoughts

“The God Hands are watching her now. But so am I.”

“They may whisper her name in their cursed halls—but they will know mine too. Desnora Odseniron, daughter of Zlatan, bearer of dragon blood, flame of Sturvik. I will burn through heaven or hell if they try to take her.”

Desnora Odseniron’s Reflection: Kegan’s Killing of Valgard Bjorn

“There are deaths that serve a purpose, and deaths that serve a point. Kegan’s kill did both—but not the way Neth hoped.”

The Scene Burned Into Her Memory

Kegan didn’t hesitate.

When King Valgard Bjorn—drunk with pride, spitting insults about Norlan, calling it “a forgotten ice-waste of half-men and dead gods”—finished speaking…

Kegan smiled.

That smile. That calm, empty, unnerving smile.

And then came the steel.

Fast. Clean. Without ceremony. Without permission.

No trial.

No parley.

No surrender.

Just one blade. One dead king.

Desnora stood still, watching it unfold from the shadows of the war tent. Her breath did not quicken. Her hands did not tremble.

But her mind moved like fire through kindling.

Desnora’s Thoughts on Kegan

“He didn’t kill Valgard for Albion. Or for Neth. He killed him for Norlan. And for himself.”

“That smile—it wasn’t joy. It was… resignation. The same smile I’ve seen on warlocks about to sell their soul for one more spell.”

“Kegan has killed before. We all have. But this? This wasn’t just a sword through a tyrant. It was a blade through a tether. He cut something loose inside himself—and I’m not sure he wants to tie it back down.”

Desnora doesn’t fear Kegan.

But she respects him.

She watches him now—more closely than ever.

Because a man who smiles like that after killing a king isn't dangerous because he might lose control.

He’s dangerous because he already has control—and no longer cares what it costs to keep it.

Neth’s Reaction — and Desnora’s Conflict

Genethia Roth, in her usual way, sought the higher path.

She had hoped Valgard would be taken alive.

That a captured king might end the war without more blood.

That Albion could stand taller for not stooping to revenge.

When Kegan killed him, Neth’s face cracked—just for a second. Not sadness. Not anger.

Disappointment.

And Desnora saw it. And despised it—not in Neth, but in how much it hurt her.

“She wanted peace. He gave her victory. And neither was enough.”

“I could have told her kings don’t end wars—they just change who dies in them.”

“But I stayed silent, because she needs her idealism—for now. I can’t take it from her. Not yet.”

“Valgard Bjorn was a barbarian draped in wolf fur and drunk on blood. He would have never accepted surrender. He would have sung war songs in a cell, rallied loyalists from chains. His life would’ve cost more than his death.”

“But Kegan didn’t kill him for strategy. He killed him for pride. That... is a weakness. One I will remember.”

“And Neth… she will learn. Not all victories feel like triumph. And sometimes peace dies so that kingdoms may live.”

Final Thought

“Kegan killed a king and freed a beast in himself. Neth weeps for peace that never existed. And me? I watch the game unfold. Because in the end, it is not who dies—but who rewrites the tale afterward.”

"The Smile That Wasn't Joy"

Desnora and Kegan, beneath Albion’s uneasy night sky

Kegan Domatia sits on a flat stone at the edge of camp. Polishing his blade.

Quiet.

Watching nothing. Or everything.

Desnora Odseniron approaches.

Not with anger. Not with magic.

But with intent.

Her red robes don’t whisper—they stalk.

She stops beside him.

Desnora:

“You smiled, Kegan.”

(Kegan doesn’t look at her. He keeps cleaning the blade.)

Desnora:

“When your sword went through Valgard’s chest… you smiled. Not victory. Not rage. Not even contempt. Just… calm.”

Kegan:

“Should I have wept?”

Desnora:

“No.” (Her voice is low, even.)

“But I want to know why that smile was so still. Like you’d just remembered something. Or… like you’d just let go of something.”

(Kegan pauses. Looks up. His eyes catch the flicker of firelight—but they don’t reflect it.)

Kegan:

“You ever see a man burn his own home down, Desnora?”

Desnora: (carefully)

“Yes.”

Kegan:

“That’s what it felt like. Killing Valgard. Not justice. Not duty. Just… making sure the thing that broke me wouldn’t stand another day in the sun.”

Desnora steps closer, gaze narrowing, voice sharp as a scalpel.

Desnora:

“You know Neth wanted him alive. That’s not a judgment. It’s a fact. She believed his capture could end the war without another funeral.”

Kegan:

“She believes in peace. I don’t.”

Desnora:

“I know. But she also believes in you. That’s more dangerous.”

(Kegan’s jaw twitches. He looks away.)

Desnora (softer now):

“I don’t care that you killed a king. I’ve watched children burn cities for less.

But that smile... It didn’t look like control.

It looked like a man finally giving in to the thing he’s been holding back.”

Desnora:

“I’ve seen that before. In the Red Tower. In the halls where wizards cut their humanity away one scream at a time.

And you know what followed?

Nothing good.”

Kegan finally speaks, quieter.

Kegan:

“He insulted Norlan. He insulted my people. He spat on what I buried.”

Desnora:

“So you carved your answer into his ribs. Fine. But next time… don’t bring that smile. It’s not your sword that scares people, Kegan.

It’s the calm.”

(She begins to turn away, then pauses.)

Desnora:

“Just answer me one thing.”

(She looks over her shoulder, eyes gleaming like embers.)

Desnora:

“Did you kill Valgard to protect us… or because you liked how it felt?”

(Kegan doesn't answer. Not for a long time.)

Then:

Kegan:

“…Yes.”

Desnora walks off.

No fire behind her. No parting curse.

Just the echo of a truth she doesn’t want to test again.

And the memory of a smile that still hasn't faded.

Zelphar Thumbervel – Pride of the High Elves

Lord Zelphar Thumbervel, High Elf archmage and ancient noble of the city of Aidsfor, refused parley at first. Albion was “a rustic experiment.”

But the Unchained, accompanied by Desnora, offered something rarer than tribute:

A place for High Elves to lead again—not through war, but through wisdom.

Desnora’s heritage—both Neztra and draconic—caught Zelphar’s interest. Her firebound eloquence, fused with ancient elven cadence, moved him.

He pledged Aidsfor and the Thumbervel name to Albion.

The Grimmur Warhost – Honour for Honour

In the mountain holds of Grimmur Clan, Desnora stood among warriors clad in bone and steel. Warlord Calgacus Grimmur, a towering orc marked by ritual scars, demanded respect through strength.

Desnora did not bow.

She simply said:

“The vampires I fled feared orc steel. If you truly seek honour, don’t fight the past—forge the future.”

Calgacus nodded.

The Grimmur Clan joined Albion, not for politics, but for glory and war against tyrants.

Sudryal Qintris – The Silent Lord of the Celta

In the starlit groves of the Celta, Lord Sudryal Qintris rarely spoke.

Where others argued, Desnora simply listened.

She shared no flame, no spell—only stories of what she had seen: Githyanki raids, soul-devouring Liches, empires built on screams.

Sudryal, after long silence, said:

“If your king truly listens to hearts like yours, then I will listen to him.”

The Celta groves joined Albion.

The Swa-Lis-Ka Accord

Among the swamp-born Lizardfolk of Swa-Lis-Ka, the warlord Jatriza Thaxl demanded more than words—she wanted land restored.

Desnora offered something rarer: a dragon's ear.

She promised that the Black Wyrm, Kaddik Zamzitiv, would be approached, and that the Lizardfolk would have what was theirs.

Jatriza agreed—if the Wyrm delivered, so would she.

And so, the Unchained journeyed to meet the dragon.

The Bargain with Kaddik Zamzitiv

The ancient Black Wyrm, Kaddik Zamzitiv, was vast, proud, and bitter—his body draped across the ruins of ten cities. He greeted Desnora and the Unchained with disdain, calling them “torchbearers for a soft king.”

But his demands were clear:

Kill Yala Yinil, the Yuan-ti Matriarch of Kali-is. Do not offer her peace—eradicate her.

Arrange a political marriage with Villais Acidbreath, daughter of Xantamoor.

And his eyes lingered on Genethia Roth as he said:

“I see the Black Dragon Scale Child. That should make this easy.”

The Death of Yala Yinil

Though some among the Unchained hesitated, Desnora understood what was required. She had seen the price of too many compromises. And Yala Yinil, known for sacrificing innocents to Sseth, could not be turned.

The Unchained struck, killing Yala Yinil in a swift and brutal raid.

The Lady of Kali-is died with curses on her lips and venom in her blood.

The Proposal to Villais Acidbreath

In Dragon Keep, Desnora and Genethia Roth arranged the proposal.

Genethia turned to her uncle, Killik Tenlow, high-ranking commander of the Black Dragon Scales, to send formal missives to the Acidbreath clan.

By the month's end, Villais accepted.

The Dragon’s Pledge

Kaddik Zamzitiv, satisfied, declared:

“I will not only return the land to the Lizardfolk—I will hold Albion’s skies in war.”

The Black Wyrm joined Albion, and with him, the final fractured borders closed.

United Albion

With Desnora’s presence, magic, and insight:

Brummur, Goldrose, Thumbervel, Grimmur, Qintris, Swa-Lis-Ka, and Zamzitiv all joined Albion.

Not a war was needed.

And Wulfred Goldred, descendant of dragons, sat upon a throne finally worthy of the name.

The Unchained, born of battle, became diplomats, statesmen, and flamebearers for a new era.

And Desnora?

“I once fled kingdoms that silenced magic. Now I build one where fire sings freely.”

Desnora Odseniron — On the Rise of Empires and the Blood of Her People

“Some kingdoms rise from ash. Others... from bones they pretend not to see.”

The Return of the Tibur Empire

When whispers reached Desnora—first through merchants, then through spies—that the Tibur Empire had begun to reform, she said nothing at first.

But the silence was not peace.

Her blood boiled beneath her crimson robes.

Her hands trembled when no one was looking.

And her thoughts spiraled back to the crimson histories of southern conquest, written in the bones of her ancestors.

Tibur, once shattered, now rose again.

Claiming stability.

Claiming order.

Claiming the southern coasts, city by city, under banners gilded in old glories and new gold.

To most, it was news.

To Desnora, it was a nightmare rekindled.

The Tiburans, like the Haugar vampires, were empires of arrogance—a people who saw sorcerers as weapons, tribes as barbarians, and tradition as a blade to turn inward.

She remembered their priests mocking the Red Wizards, calling them “arcane savages.”

She remembered Tibur nobles riding through broken Sturvik villages on pilgrimage to watch executions.

She remembered treatises written by Tibur scholars, claiming draconic bloodlines like hers were “corrupted by tribal instability.”

And now they marched again.

Desnora’s breath seethed in her throat.

“I fled tyranny once. I won’t watch another take its place while wearing clean gloves.”

She burned the scroll in her hands and whispered to herself:

"If Tibur marches north, I will answer in fire."

The Rise of the Sturvik Kingdom

And then… came the other news.

Quieter.

No horns.

No banners.

Only word-of-mouth among wandering traders, and old letters smuggled through Goffik lands.

The Sturvik Tribes had risen.

Not a rebellion.

Not a riot.

A war.

Against the vampires of Haugar.

Against centuries of stolen blood and broken kinships.

Against the Black Courts who ruled from icy thrones with fangs bared and empathy lost.

The Red Wizards, once docile, had unleashed fire again.

The Sturvik chiefs, long splintered, had united in blood oaths.

And Desnora—far away in Albion, surrounded by banners of gold and peace—felt a piercing in her chest that was neither pain nor joy.

It was both.

She wept alone that night—not with sobs, but with silent fire, her breath like steam in her room.

Her Thoughts, Journaled in Fire-Ink

"The Tibur Empire returns with fanfare and coin. And the world claps. But I see the truth: it is the same empire. Same hunger. Different paint."

"But the Sturvik tribes… they rose not with declarations, but with fire and scars. They rose because no one else would save them. Not the elves. Not the dragons. Not even me."

"I left them. I ran. And yet they still rose. My people."

"I am proud—and ashamed. I should have burned the Tower myself. But I was only one flame. They were the wildfire."

"Let the Tibur Empire rise. Let them march. Let them remember that there are kingdoms in the north now—born not of conquest, but of vengeance long denied."

At the Door of the Sky Temple

“Above the clouds, the gods breathe thinner truths—and mortals meet who should never cross paths.”

Through the Dragon Fire Woods

The forest burned—not with flame, but with memory. The Dragon Fire Woods, ancient and veined with deep ley lines, pulsed with primordial energy. Every tree seemed to lean closer, every gust of wind whispered like a prayer from a forgotten god.

Desnora Odseniron walked silently, her crimson robes gathering frost as they ascended. Her breath came cold, but her mind was burning—what lay at the summit, and who might claim it first, haunted every step.

“This place smells like power. Old, untouched, unclaimed. Which means someone will try to own it. Likely us.”

Arrival at the Sky Temple Summit

At last, they stood atop the peak—a flat, wind-blasted cliff ringed by broken columns, where the Sky Temple waited.

It was carved from pale stone and streaked with veins of dragonbone. Its sealed doors loomed thirty feet high, etched with runes in Draconic, Celestial, and Old Speech.

But they were not alone.

The New Companions at the Summit

Huddled near a crackling fire, smoke trailing into the thin air, stood four figures. Each turned slowly as the Unchained approached. Not weapons drawn—just awareness sharpened by mountain winds.

Apple Pen – Kenku Wizard

Clad in layered patchwork robes and speaking in clipped, mimicked tones, Apple Pen carried a gnarled wand and a leather-bound tome covered in runes she could only read when moonlight touched the page.

She watched Desnora like a mirror—one mage studying another.

Desnora’s first thought:

“A mimic mind… fragmented, but focused. She’s broken in ways that make her dangerous.”

Apple Pen never asked to join. She nodded once, then simply followed when they moved.

Frigg – Green Tiefling Druid

Her skin was moss-colored, her hair tangled and streaked with pollen and petals. Her horns curved like elk antlers, but were overgrown with fungi, moss, and glowing mushrooms.

She smelled of earth after lightning.

Quiet. Patient. Listening.

Desnora’s thought:

“She has never been indoors willingly. And I doubt she’s prayed to anything with a name in decades. She is the wild made flesh.”

Frigg didn’t speak. She offered them a handful of glowing blue lichen, then pointed at the temple door.

Sally – Satyr Cleric, Female

Soft curls, a silver pendant of a trickster moon god, and a smile that said, “I know your worst thought and I still like you.”

Sally’s laughter cut through the tension like a song. She moved with warmth, but her divine power was undeniable—cracks in the air stitched when she passed, and her eyes shimmered faintly under moonlight.

Desnora’s reaction:

“A cleric with love in her heart is a gift. A cleric with limits to that love is a weapon. I hope she’s the latter.”

Sally took Desnora’s hand without asking and said,

“You're very serious. That usually means you’re lonely. We’ll fix that.”

Desnora blinked. Then said nothing.

Tyrion Grimbeard – Dwarf Monk

Burly and wide-shouldered, with a braided beard and scars like tree roots across his knuckles, Tyrion was not loud. His presence was.

He wore no armor. Just a monk’s sash, leather wraps, and a belt with six shattered gemstones woven into it.

When he bowed to the Unchained, it was deep and honest.

Desnora’s analysis:

“Discipline. The kind born in mountains. He’s not here to find the gods. He’s here to stand where they stood and see if they flinch.”

Desnora’s Final Thoughts on the Meeting

As the wind howled around them and the stars opened above the Sky Temple, Desnora stood slightly apart from the others, her hand resting on the spell-etched clasp at her throat.

She watched the new four interact. Laugh. Share names. Begin to meld into the madness that was the Unchained.

And then, quietly, to herself:

“Four more lives. Four more masks. Four more threads in a tapestry held together by fire, trauma, and stubborn hope.”

“Let’s see how long before they break—or break the rest of us.”

But then…

she looked at Neth.

At Tyrion offering Sally his coat.

At Apple Pen mimicking Neth’s laugh.

At Frigg giving Vor'i's a mushroom.

At the warmth building in the coldest place she’d been.

And her next thought surprised even her:

“Maybe… they won’t break. Maybe this time, something actually grows.”

Desnora Now

Desnora stands at the crossroads of two bloodlines:

The Goldred fire, passed from her half-dragon grandmother.

The Sturvik resolve, carved into her soul by chains and scars.

She is no longer merely a Red Wizard.

She is a daughter of rebellion.

And she watches the world shift once more—one empire rising, another reclaiming its name.

And she knows:

If the Tibur Empire ever turns its gaze north—or toward Albion—

Desnora Odseniron will be ready.

Not as a refugee.

Not as a servant.

But as a crimson flame whose people no longer burn alone.

Legacy & Purpose

Now, Desnora seeks:

Justice for Sturvik

Vengeance against Haugar

And knowledge of the God Hands, who whisper temptations she understands all too well

She carries the blood of:

Goldred the Dragon Sovereign

Glinka the Tribal Flame-Witch

And Neztra Magus, distant kin to Caladawn

In her veins burn the legacies of war, prophecy, and rebellion.

But in her heart, only one command remains:

Never again serve the silent.

Never again let fire sleep.