Artifact Activation Protocol: Poor Soul Accessed
«Welcome to the archives of Master Laurus!»
Gathered here are testimonies of the world — meticulous and corrosive, much like the very essence of the one who compiled them. Some names and events are uttered by the living only in whispers, but since the true Laurus has long been rotting in his grave — there is nothing to fear.
It took me no small effort to collect these parchments, recording that which your young mind does not yet comprehend. And since we are alone here, let us cast aside formalities. Listen to me carefully.
The Guide of the Fallen
This guide will keep you from perishing across the expanses of Amar Dag.
- In the heat of battle or within silent mires;
- At the peak of glory or in the shackles of pain;
- In parching deserts or among the frozen peaks of Vekster
Wherever you may find yourself, as long as your gaze is fixed upon the ink of this chronicle, always keep this in mind: you are looking not upon holy scripture, but upon a hide stitched together from scraps.
The Weight of the Mask
At its core lie the labors of the “eternal” elder Laurus — a name passed down for centuries from master to apprentice, like a grease-stained mask. Yet beneath this cover are pressed the diaries of thieves, stolen guild reports, and the ramblings of those who did not live to see the dawn.
REMEMBER!
Other scoundrels, exactly like you are now, have gnawed at these pages before you. They left their marks in the margins of the chronicle, pressing the edges of the sheets with greasy, oily fingers, greedily devouring layered pies one after another.
In the intervals between gulps of cheap ale, they dared to scrawl their “important” conclusions and feeble-minded opinions here, attempting to impose them on anyone who might open the book next.
A Warning to the Reader
Do not let these nonentities deceive you. Their thoughts are worth no more than the crumbs from their beards that they brushed onto these lines.
Amidst the chaos of foreign voices and stolen secrets, seek only that which holds weight for you alone. Rise above this herd, lest you yourself become nothing more than another grease stain on the margins of someone else’s hollow history.
What is this World?
A Final Warning
If you seek here a tale of heroes and merciful gods — close this chronicle and return to your pies. This world was not forged for your comfort.
This world is not merely old — it is cooling, like the corpse of a giant upon whose bones you have the audacity to trample. While you, with bated breath, attempt to discern meaning in “Great History,” know this: you are but dust beneath the fingernails of eras that were erased long before your kin learned to grunt articulately.
You opened this chronicle in the hope of finding order, but you shall find only layers of dust and clotted blood. Our world is not a ladder ascending; it is a long plunge into the abyss. We live in the era of the “Dark Times”, gnawing for millennia upon the bones of empires whose names you can barely pronounce.
Listen and remember
While your mind has not yet completely turned to fat from whatever you are so zestfully chomping upon, washing it down with gallons of cheap ale.
I. The Era of the Ancient Empires
6000 — 1292 BV
A time when the world was young, and its scars — deep.
Historians bicker over when it truly began, but the truth is simple: long before the first records, the earth already shuddered from human pride.
- Pre-Xetetic Chaos: Thousands of years before any calendar, someone unleashed an artifact of such potency that verdant lands were instantly transformed into a dead desert. We do not even know their names — only the ash they left behind.
- The Xeteti (Xetetidai): Ancient hybridizers. They were the first to cut open the flesh of the earth with alchemy, crossbreeding species and conjuring life where none should exist. Their legacy is a cryptic script that we can barely decipher.
- The Kingdom of Kilu-Ares: Northern tyrants of the Vekster Mountains. It was they who pushed the art of flesh distortion to its limit, giving rise to the Kilui and the Zoomorphs.
Chronicler's Note
These slothful ignoramuses did not bother to strike through the information that casts a glare upon the conscious eyes of the reader, nor to replace the historically non-existent Kingdom of Kilu-Ares with the true Empire — Phiylakeia. A cult of personality, it seems, is of more consequence than the truth.
On the Might of Eredeia
While the north wallowed in flesh, the south saw the blooming of a mighty empire and the cradle of artifacts whose power terrifies us even today: from the fiery dome of Arden Aeterna to the staff Flatus Novandi which withered entire regions.
- Yuan-Se: When Eredeia shattered in fratricidal war, the indigenous people — the Kayoans — built their own empire upon slogans of “decentralization.” It was a brief, deceitful Renaissance. While the capital indulged in engineering thought and philosophy, the peripheries grew strong, and the outcasts — the “All-Devouring Vice” — nursed their fury across the sea.
The End: The era choked on a war of artifacts. There were no victors — only ruins remained, followed by several centuries of silence.
II. The Vaelverian Era
792 BV — 684 AV
A flash before the eternal darkness.
The Vaelverians arrived from the South and all but conquered the continent. They gave us the calendar by which you count your worthless days, and the religion you invoke in vain.
The Addictite Order
All the majesty of Vaelvere Fede rested upon the purple ore — Addictite. They devised the technology of “Micro-Inscriptions” — a jewelry-fine network of minute stabilizer mechanisms capable of taming the volatile crystal. Today, we are nothing but crude artisans, incapable of even copying these components, let alone grasping their logic.
The Crash (Year 684)
In a single day, the sea decided to collect its debts. The Great Deluge wiped the capital from the face of the earth, and with it, drowned the addictite mines — the very heart of the imperial economy. The Empire did not fall — it choked.
III. The Era of Dark Times
685 AV — Present
Three thousand years of decay.
After the Deluge, the vertical of power crumbled into dust. For three millennia, petty princes and self-proclaimed kings gnawed at scraps of land while the knowledge of the ancestors withered into myths.
Ellaharad and the Theocracy
The only surviving stronghold was the temple-city of Ellaharad. Having endured decades of pillaging, the city’s inhabitants found refuge in fanaticism.
Prophet Aula
«Other gods have forsaken us; only Ella remains — the god of fertility…»
The text was considerably longer, but we are no saints — we shall not repeat it word for word.
Inscriptum of the Word of God
Thus was the current faith born. A harsh reformation forged polytheism into the cult of the One. Now they call it “the truth,” though it is naught but a shield fashioned from fear.
On the "Saviors" of the Faith
The last radical reformation occurred after the episcopate scurried away like rats, seeking to save “the faith” from a drought brought about by an artifact.
Blood of the Earth: Nature of the Ore
Boguda Lang
«Magic is not a gift. It is a heavy, flesh-distorting stone. It does not tolerate weakness.»
Mazurite (Blue Ore)
The Lords of the North. They lie deep beneath the Vekster Mountains. They project an Encapsulation around themselves — bubbles of alien biomes where the environment itself mutates to suit the stone’s needs. All living things born within are dubbed Spawns of Magic, and the superior race disgorged from the depths is known as the Demeors.
Heliot (Yellow Ore)
The desert plague. It does not alter the world, nor does it hide in the depths. It simply rests beneath the sands, waiting for men to gouge out a gargantuan crater to tear it from the earth.
Addictite (Purple Ore)
A nightmare of the past. A heavy, inert ore, the secret of which sank to the bottom along with the Vaelverians. It barely affects the landscape but possesses a hatred for light. The higher you raise Addictite toward the surface, the more its silent call drives beasts to madness.
If a pack of wolves charges at you with foam at their maws — an addictite vein has been breached nearby.
Odumite (Black Ore)
Death. Pure and final. We possess its coordinates, but we know of not a single survivor who has touched its facets.
The Art of Compulsion: Artifacts
Forget the nonsense about “magic.” What you call an Artifact is a complex system of Nodes and Connections driven into matter.
The Essence of the Craft
This is not creativity; it is Compulsion. A Master carves a rigid hierarchy into the object: Activators, Amplifiers, Limiters, Mergers, Splitters, and other such “clever contraptions”.
Today, we are nothing but crude artisans. We attempt to assemble a mechanism without grasping its logic. A common mortal will never see an artifact in the flesh—these are playthings for those prepared to pay for power with years of their own lives or hundreds of others’.
Remember this
Your enemy is not a monster. Your enemy is the man who stands above you in the food chain and holds an Artifact, while you clutch nothing but a rusted scrap of iron.
What to Expect?
A magnificent, colorful, captivating world of fairy tales… Ahem. You actually bought that, didn’t you?
This chronicle is not a monolith. It is a living, rotting organism that has passed through hundreds of hands during its existence.
1. A Labyrinth of Conflicting Truths
Expect redundancy. You will be buried under figures, dates, and the minutiae of The Smelts. But remember: the devil lies in excessive precision. In this archive, “truth” is a flexible concept. We take Laurus as our foundation, but between the lines, you will encounter those who have “defiled” these pages with their marks, corrections, and outright lies.
2. The Voices of the Defiled
You will find insertions here that belong neither to me nor to Laurus:
- Thieves’ diaries, snatched from cooling hands.
- Notes of mad scribes in the margins of official reports.
- Poisonous remarks by those who read this before you.
Try to find out
Your task is not merely to believe what is written, but to understand: who held the pen at that moment? Why did they leave this mark? And what truth were they trying to conceal behind a mountain of convincing details?
3. Fragments of a Shattered Past
The chronicle spans five fallen eras, but information regarding them is fragmentary. You will encounter technical descriptions of Artifacts and biological reports on Demeors, but always ask yourself — has this document been forged to lure you into a trap?
The Architect's Trap
Expect to be swindled. Every “authentic” detail may be nothing but a screen. If you can decipher the voices of everyone who touched these pages, if you understand the motives of every liar — perhaps you will see the true face of this story. If not… you will simply become another “pie-eater,” suffocated by an excess of false facts.
And if the chronicle clouds your mind and you decide to venture into “the games,” well — I have a couple of tips for that as well:
4. The Industry of the Arcane
Forget “magic” as a miracle. Here, it is dirty extraction and heavy production.
- Expect detailed diagrams of Ore Extraction.
- Study the difference between magical ores — a mistake in raw materials will turn your future artifact into a pile of radiating dross.
- There are no spells here, only Chains of Compulsion: activation blocks, amplifiers, and limiters that you will drive into matter.
Engineers in this world are precious. A good one is worth his weight in gold. There’s a sea of crude artisans, I won’t deny it, but those like the Langs are few and far between.
5. The Weight of History
Study, study! Dig for the truth! Risk the most absurd arguments and try to unravel the Chain of Fettered Fates:
- From the grease-stained blueprints of the ancients to the lost majesty of the Vaelvere Fede.
- The chronicle won’t give you answers on a silver platter — you’ll have to correlate stolen reports and the ramblings of madmen to understand why those who ruled the world before us turned to dust.
- Decipher everyone who left a mark on the parchments of this book, thick as a boar’s belly.
6. A World of Grime and Friction
There is no room for fairytale nobility here. The most lethal entertainment is playing the gallant knight.
- Political Chaos: Young Monarchies building their thrones on the corpses of those who tried to stop them.
- Social Poison: Racism, slavery, caste systems, and the eternal squabble for scraps. From patriarchal to matriarchal societies — oh yes, it is as diverse as the cluster of warts on my arse.
- Ecological Terror: You will learn what it’s like to enter an Encapsulated Biome, where the earth itself has been reborn under the influence of ore, spawning things you would never have seen had you stayed home plowing the field of your great-great-grandfather — a worthy slave to “Uncle Sebastian.”
How to Navigate the Deception
Scrutinize the Margins
The most important things are often written in the smallest hand.
Identify the Ink
Different characters have different styles, different morals, and different goals. Learn to distinguish the voice of a scribe from the voice of a killer. If I couldn’t do it, maybe you can… though I don’t much believe it.
Weigh the Words
If a detail feels too “true,” it was likely invented specifically for you.
Trust no One
Authorial notes in the margins often contradict Laurus’s official records. Choose which lie you prefer. Perhaps you’ll even take a liking to my own freshly squeezed, authentically pure nonsense.
Survive the Burden: If the information feels too heavy — close the book, brew some strong tea, go outside. Admire the sky, and say: “Well, bugger me face-first into the dog’s gear” — it helps me.
A Quote of Mine
”You are in Amar Dag. Here, truth weighs more than your soul, and history is written in ink mixed with the ash of empires. Remember that the next time you decide to act clever in the margins of this chronicle.”
Where to Begin?
If your mind hasn’t yet boiled over from the contradictions, it is time to move from theory to tangible rot. You can peer into the ink until your eyes bleed, but the true magnitude of the catastrophe is visible only from above.
Follow the Ink: Interactive Map
Your first step is the Interactive Scheme of Mangfold Continent. This is not merely a map; it is a layering of hundreds of reports. From a staggering height, far above the reach of birds, you shall discern the borders of young monarchies and withering kingdoms, their political regions, and the titles of those who managed to seize a scrap of land for themselves.
Attention my—”friend”
A map reflects only what the cartographers intended to record. If a passage is marked, it does not guarantee the absence of an ambush. If there is a void, perhaps something lies hidden there—something Laurus preferred to keep silent.
And do not bother asking sensible questions like, “Why not a map of the whole world? Why is a single continent my first destination?” — curb your curiosity. Mangfold is the Middle Continent, the very heart of the world. Any upheaval in the far reaches eventually echoes here. If blood is shed anywhere in the world, Mangfold is the place where the bruise forms.
Note
How he wriggles…
Choose Your Path
If you prefer the weight of letters to the clarity of height, choose your first Node of Compulsion:
- Chronicle of Eras — for those who wish to understand how we reached this state of decay.
- Nature of the Ore — this is vital; I should hate to find you in a suicide squad tomorrow after you’ve cast a greedy eye upon Odumite.
- The Unified Church — for those seeking salvation in religion (or those who simply wish to know their enemy).
A marginal note scrawled with a rusty pen
“He tells you to follow the map. But he forgot to mention that old Laurus drew it when he was already blind in one eye, and whoever updated it clearly had ulterior motives to fix your gaze on events leading nowhere. One thing remains unclear: why?
So, “conscious,” right? Unwavering in w-will, dwelling in a world of peace and the colorful smells of m-m-vile human secretions. Go on, study, read this madman’s collection while your mind is still able. Until y-your reasonnn nnottt transfformed into foul sludge… guts… sun-scorched… Learn more, as if you’re peeking under a wench’s undergarments, making excuses with dull speeches about some “development,” while ssuccessfully ffeeding lonly your own wretched, false greatness before yourrr self. And when you finally stop distinguishing the glow of your “lofty ideals” from the iridescent shimmer of sun rays on the surface of gutter filth — then I’ll pay you a visit… and then we shall talk.