Songsteel & The Singing Knight

Said to have originated in the North, Songsteel is said to be an exceedingly light metal capable of extraordinary flexibility, and with the ability to be honed to an extremely sharp edge. However, these traits were not what the ancient smiths who conceived of its creation were seeking out. Rather, for many years, it was forged solely for its unique acoustic properties as an instrument. When struck, true Songsteel will ring for minutes at a time if left untouched, and the shape of the steel will alter the tones that are emitted. In appearance, Songsteel has a glassy finish upon an otherwise perfect-looking texture of normal steel; the only way to truly test for Songsteel is to strike it and listen to the sound it creates.

The methods for producing Songsteel were closely guarded even before their foray into weaponry; many of the guildsmen responsible for its creation were vehemently against its use as blades. This did not stop noblemen from persuading the guildsmen to teach the methods to their smiths, and if this was not possible, it is said that these noblemen would take the guildsmen themselves and force them to create these harrowing blades. Some even go as far as to remove the steelsmith's hands or tongues to prevent them from ever speaking, or writing their process down for future generations.

Nevertheless,  the height of Songsteel creation was centuries ago, and through many conflicts and time, both the methods of creation and many of the original pieces have been lost to time. Today, Songsteel weapons are considered rare antiquities or heirlooms, and the instruments even more so. However, rumours still say there lives a convent of mute smiths who maintain themselves as the sole inheritors of the knowledge of how to create true Songsteel, and the appearance of previously unheard of pieces every decade or so leaves room for doubt. 

A popular, if not unusual tale, is of The Singing Knight, a hedge knight who used a complete set of Songsteel armour in battle. Born deaf to what most believe to have been lowborn parents, it is unknown how he came about the set of armour. In battle, it was said that when struck, the armour would shriek like the wail of a dying maiden, severely disorienting those standing too close to it. Only the owner was immune to its debilitating howl.

The Eirfolk & Their Truth

The Eirfolk are an enigmatic series of creatures and beasts who occupy the caverns and many ruins littered among and under the twin continents. Some say that their creation was that of the marriage between a monster who had learned the magics, and who disguised themselves as a nobleman. Others say that the Eirfolk are what remains of a lost empire, one that had splintered itself into countless pieces underground, dooming themselves to centuries of warfare that destroyed their minds and their bodies. 

What excavations and discoveries have been made only verify that the Eirfolk had settled across West Tykonia, proving that their influence was not merely in one series of caverns. Several statues, or carvings in stone, show that they had a semblance of nobility or even their own pantheon of Gods whom they worshipped, whose names have been lost to time. In truth, almost everything that is known about them is speculation from scholars of the academies. 

The most common appearance of Eirfolk, being pointy-eared with a prominent, long skull shape, led many to believe that they were related to the Ildae, or specifically the Drow. Though this is unconfirmed and especially called into question due to the presence of Eirfolk who appear bestial. The Eirfolk and what they truly were is one of the greatest mysteries on the continent, and it is unknown if any greater conclusion will be accepted by the world. 

Barael & The Flayed Dragon

The tale of Barael and his fate is popularly retold time and time again, telling of the dangers of adventuring, whether it be the greed that could consume the warrior, or the treasures themselves that corrupt. Over decades, perhaps centuries, it has become a warning to children about the pitfalls of chivalry and the dangers of delving into the unknown, as you may lose sight of yourself in vainglory. Though some claim that it is true and not merely a folktale, that Barael's sword—the Black Blade—and the Flayed Dragon itself is still out there, somewhere below, awaiting the day it can exact its revenge on the wielder of the blade.

The story varies, but some read as follows;
Barael was merely a young man, the apprentice to a blacksmith, when, during a delivery of charcoal, he had heard the cries of a maiden, coming from within a cave, overgrown with vines and moss. Clearing the way of greenery, fending off the spiders no less, there was no maiden. No real maiden, anyhow. A statue of a weeping woman, her arms outstretched and holding a black blade in her palms.

This was the Black Blade of Barael, or what it would be known to be. The sword spoke to a young Barael, that he was destined for greatness, his fate was more than a smith. Barael took the blade into his hands and had renounced his former life to live one of glory and chivalry. The boy, now a warrior, travelled far and wide, slaying beasts, and one day, the stories of a stygian dragon entered his mind. The Black Blade spoke to Barael, that the dragon must be slain.

Despite his misgivings and fear—for one would be foolish to not fear a dragon—, the blade, and a sum of gold from a village had convinced the adventurer that it must be done. The blade had led him right to its cave, where a dragon slept atop its horde of riches. Barael had lost himself, no, the blade had taken his mind. His body was being puppeteered by what was in truth, a cursed blade wishing to have a vessel to enact its own will.

When Barael had finally come to his senses and regained control of his body, what was revealed to him was a horrific mess. The Blade intended to torture the dragon, having flayed the skin of its wings and half of its body. Leaving the dragon to its fate, refusing to end it, Barael left the dragon's hoard in shame.

The warrior cast aside the blade—and with it, a part of himself. He turned from the path of glory, vanishing himself from the world he once bled for. Where Barael went, none can say. The Black Blade, whether buried beneath stone, swallowed by time, or still waiting in silence, remains lost to legend. As for the dragon… it too vanished like smoke on the wind. But in the dead of night, when the wind screams through the mountain passes, some swear they hear something—the echo of wings, the whisper of steel; it is the mournful call of something not yet finished.

Before time flowed and names held power, the sky was a silent canvas. No stars. No sun. No moons. Only the firmament, vast and void.

Into this silence were born the twin sisters of the sky: Rulara and Lunanides, daughters of the primordial night. They were not made of flesh, but of silver breath and starlit thought—celestial beings whose presence shimmered like dreams on still water. Together, they danced across the firmament, tracing spirals of light into the dark. Their joy stirred the first winds, and their songs became the echoes that later gave voice to the gods. 

But even among twins, harmony does not always last. 

Rulara was steady and warm, her light gentle, her path predictable. She sought order in the heavens, a place for every star and a rhythm to the sky. Lunanides, bold and wild, danced wherever she pleased, her silver fire unpredictable and beautiful, shaping comets with her laughter and scattering stardust with her wake. The gods watched with wonder, until Soluun, the Lonely Flame—what mortals call the Sun—rose from the depths of creation. It was not born, but became, a singular blaze that gave warmth and time to the world below. 

Rulara welcomed Soluun, saw in it the anchor the sky had always needed. But Lunanides feared it. She called it a jealous fire, one that would burn away the sky’s mystery and bind its beauty in routine. And soon, her fear proved true: Soluun and Rulara fell in love. In her sister’s embrace of the day, Lunanides felt betrayed and cast aside.

In sorrow and rage, she struck—not at Soluun, but at Rulara, the sister who had chosen the flame.

The blow was terrible. The sky cracked with sound. Rulara shattered, and her scarlet form scattered into countless pieces. The world mourned, and Lunanides, stricken with grief, gathered her sister’s remains—not into a grave, but into a halo. A shimmering ring of silver debris, suspended in orbit, encircles the world below. She vowed to keep Rulara close, forever bound to her, but never herself again.

Soluun, in turn, took to chasing their path. His light touching the ring, making it blaze with sorrow and memory.

Now, when night falls, we see Lunanides, the silver moon, looking over her twin sister.

And Rulara, her broken twin, stretched across the heavens in a radiant band: a ring of moonlight that circles the planet in silence, glowing with Soluun’s eternal light.

It is said that on clear nights, when the sky holds its breath, you can hear Rulara weeping on the wind. And on rare occasions, when the sun dims and the ring crosses just right, their lights align, creating a brief eclipse, a quick reunion, before drifting apart once more.

Some believe that if ever Rulara is made whole again, the sky will change, and time itself may break, just as it did when the sisters first fought.