Races of Serathorne
Birthed by gods, shaped by time. Each people of the Realm bears a divine whisper in their blood.
Grakkari
Patron: Tork
“There are no Kings amongst the Clans. The tunnels remember and the Priestess speaks in whispers.”
The Grakkari are not a race – they are a reckoning. Forged by Tork from the essence of the earth, they walk with scars carved deeper than skin. Tall, lean, and hardy, the Grakkari wear ash and oath in equal measure. Their skin like basalt, their eyes shine with the low fire of tormented memory and history.
There are one hundred-four known clans, each bound by the Rite of Torment and the weight of their own dead.
Every chieftain sits the Varruk-Stone, a heavy seat carved from the bones of death and war. But no chieftain rules alone. In the shadows of every clan-hall waits the Ash Priestess, the true hand of divine will. The power of Tork.
Grakkari do not form nations. They do not track gold in ledgers. They track debts in blood and memory. To wrong a Grakkari clan is to step into their history – and history does not forget.
Zavariin
Patron: Zarakael
“The Flame favors the strong. The weak are not punished. They are forgotten. Banished into historical oblivion.”
The Zavariin are the iron edge of Zarakael’s will – merciless, exalted and made for conquest. In body, they are towering, horned and crimson-skinned, with the muscle and speed of ten human warriors. In spirit, they are unshaken. Zarakael shaped them for bloodlust and battle, and they have never strayed.
The have no thrones. No cities. No treasuries. They do not build – they burn, them move, they take. Their lives are measured in raids, contracts, and kills. Their wealth is in blades and flesh.
Among the Zavariin, the strongest leads, and the strongest mates. Pairing last only as long as power is kept. A warrior may hold his companion for a month or a decade, but when his strength fails, she chooses another.
They fight for pay, for glory, for hunger. But beneath it all, they fight for Zarakael. To prove they are worthy of the Flame’s favor.
They were not made to inherit the world
They were made to take it
Lorekai
Patron: Zarakael
“He made them to lead. They chose to live.”
The Lorekai were not merely made by Zerakael – they were hidden. Forged in secret fire apart from their Zavariin kin, they were meant to guide the tide of conquest. Meant to be kings, generals, war-scholars, and brilliant tacticians. Zerakael built them not for slaughter, but for command.
But the Lorekai turned from the Flame.
When their blood stirred, they followed not the hunger of war, but the call of peace. They fled conquest and made their home in the Archipelago of Mael’Kareth, where cliffs rise like gods from the sea. There they became fishers, weavers, artists and teachers. They are no less formidable than their kin – imposing in body, keen in eye – but they choose strength of mind over strength of blade.
They mate for life, raise their young in gentleness, and build rather than burn. They know what they were made for. They simply chose otherwise.
The Zavariin do not know this truth. The world has forgotten.
But Zerakael remembers. And with each passing generation, the flame within him darkens.
“To refuse purpose is the gravest heresy. And still they endure.”
Human
Patron: Myrallune
“Though we fade quickly, our spirits burn bright.”
Of all the mortal races, the humans are second only to the Grakkari in number. But they are the most fleeting. Where other races endure in stone or song, humans blaze like torches in the dark. They life short lives, but fill them with ferocity, yearning, and unyielding hope.
They worship Myrallune, the Heartfire – a goddess of passion, love and courage. she in not the goddess of perfection, but of pursuit. And her fire lives behind the ribs of every human who dares to dream beyond their span.
Human nations rise and fall like tides. Built on the backs of ambition, vision, or vengeance. Some build cities; others walk the roads. Some pray with song, others with sword. But they all carry the flame of striving.
Where the dwarves endure, and the elves perservere, the humans change. They love fiercely, mourn loudly, and hope even when they should not.
“They will not outlive the gods. But they may yet defy them.
Kuthrak
Patron: Jgungir
“The mountain seldom speaks. Listen well.”
The Kuthrak are titanic and few. They are solitary beings of towering strength and unrivaled patience. Standing eighteen feet tall and wrapped in skin like volcanic slate, they roam the forgotten corners of the world, following paths etched in stone and memory.
They do not build. They do not trade. They do not gather – save once.
When age cracks their bones or weakness coils in their lungs, the Kuthrak walk alone into the desert. There, beneath the scorched dunes, lies Locust Cavern. The only place were Kuthrak are seen together. It is not a refuge. It is not a city. It is a waiting place – a place to fellowship among their own before the sands of time have emptied.
Their patron is Jgungir, The Stone Beneath – a god who does not speak, but whose presence is felt like pressure. From him they inherited silence, solitude, and the will t carry burdens shared with none.
They mate briefly, only when the air shifts and blood calls. They then vanish once more into mountain, tundra, or ashland.
To meet a Kuthrak is to glimpse the deep time of the world.
To fight one is to challenge the will of stone itself.
Yndrellin
Patron: Vellura
“To shape beauty is to speak to the goddess in her native tongue.”
The Yndrellin are the smallest of the mortal races, but no soul shines more brightly beneath the gaze of Vellura, goddess of beauty, growth, and grace. Delicate of frame, with long fingers and luminous eyes, the Yndrellin were shaped for creation. The creation of beauty.
They live in tight-knit conclaves, often nestled alongside dwarven strongholds, where forge and finesse meet. At the heart of each settlement rises a statue of Vellura, wreathed in flowering stone. Around her presence, the Yndrellin build homes like stone domes, smooth and warm.
Each Yndrellin master craftsman carries a life goal. to create one thing so perfect, so radiant, that Vellura herself will bless it. This sacred act – the Mira’leth – is the culmination of a life well-lived, and its blessings extend to one’s children and bloodline.
They do not fight. They do not compose great verse. But their hands are unmatched in precision and poetry. The gilded handles of royal blades, the diamond-inlaid crests, the necklaces worn by queens – these are their legacy.
Elves
Patron: Thal'Kor
“We do not deny him. Bet neither do we love him.”
The Elves are the longest lived of all mortal races – tall, luminous, and ever poised at the edge of both wonder and sorrow. Shaped by Thal’Kor – The World Forger they were meant to be almost eternal. Yet thought they revere him as their maker, they do not worship him.
Their devotion flows instead to Nymariel, goddess of the heavenly firmament, and Liora, the gentle light of healing and restoration. The elves lift their eyes to stars and softened hands.
Their society is divided, elegant and cruel:
- The Nobles of Silvaelorn, ruling from high groves and golden bloom.
- The Common Elves of Thalorwyn, tending soil, song and tradition
- And the Rejected of Vishael – the half-elves, the malformed, sickly, and flawed. Cast out into shadowed wood.
Since the rise of the Word-Bound Age, 1700 years past, the elves have crowned but one king.
Their beauty is a burden.
And their worship… is not for the one who made them.
Hearthlin
Patron: Merrivelle
“In a warm room, next to the hearth, with a full belly and a joyful song – what more do the gods require?
The Hearthlin are the smallfolk of Serathorne. Round of belly, broad of smile, and bright of spirit. They are the beloved of Merrivelle, goddess of hearthfire, kinship and quiet joy. She is the Autumn Bloom.
Their home is Eldenhollow. Nestled in the fertile valley and along the southern sea coast. The Hearthlin are a simple folk – but never shallow. They prize comfort – ale, mead, pipeweed, and plenty of it – but they also carry the deepest magic: contentment.
They are not warriors. They are not kings. But they are loved, by each other and by their goddess, and that is wealth enough.
When the world is in ash and ruin, the Hearthlin will remain – tending fire, telling stories and baking the last bread of the age.
Dwarves
Patron: Khorrundar
“We do not carry his name. We are his name.”
The Khorrundar, known to others as dwarves, bear not a title—but a burden. They were hewn from the god Khorrundar himself, not sculpted, not sung—but struck into being as one strikes iron from ore. Their name is his. Their breath is his lingering forge-heat.
They dwell in deepholds beneath mountain and cliff—cities not built, but excavated, shaped from bedrock with purpose and reverence. Their homes burn with steady flame. Their temples hum with the rhythm of hammer and prayer. They craft not for vanity, but for legacy. Each blade, each stone arch, is made to outlast its maker.
Among the Khorrundar, clan is law, and craft is identity. To break from your line is to walk unshaped. To tarnish your work is to shame the god who formed you. Forgiveness exists—but only after cost is measured, and stone judged.
They are not hasty, not loud, not quick to love. But when they speak, it is remembered. And when they act, it is final.
They are Khorrundar.
Not because they were named so—
but because no other name ever dared remain.
Satyr
Patron: Lunirae
“Once we danced in her shadow. Now we wait in her silence.”
The Satyr are the horned lords of vine and wild dusk—larger, bolder kin to the faun, and self-declared stewards of the old swamplands and jungles that lie west and east of the world’s gentle heart. Their homes, and those of their faun cousins, rise from the marsh and mire as moss-covered ruins of whitestone.
They rule, but only by custom, not conquest. Their sway lies not in banners, but in inheritance—of horns, of voice, of memory. And though they wear titles, they rule over little more than overgrown thresholds and sun-dappled gatherings.
Once, Lunirae came to them in many forms: a faun princess with laughter in her eyes, a satyr war queen crowned in moonlight. They followed her blindly, joyfully. But now she dances as a woman—humanoid, playing a lyre beneath a moon that never wanes. Her rites grow stranger. Her silences longer.
The Satyr’s patience begins to fray.
They still dance, still sing. But their joy now holds edge and echo.
The horns are heavier now.
And the lyre plays a tune no one asked for.
Faun
Patron: Lunirae
“The flute can weep just as well as sing.”
The Faun are the smaller, goat-footed kin of the Satyr—lighter of frame, gentler of nature, and long content to live among swamp reed and mist-hung moss, under the errant smile of Lunirae, goddess of joy and moonlit sorrow.
But joy has thinned.
Once, the faun danced freely through forest and fen. Now, many dwell in shantytowns and lean-tos, clustered along the wetstone paths of the western swamps. Their young are watched closely, especially the daughters—for the slave caravans come quietly, and always with coin. Among certain human nobles, a faun servant is a mark of grace, rarity, and status.
And whispers grow louder: that it is not only humans who profit. That Satyr elders, burdened by dwindling influence and empty coffers, have begun to barter their kin to keep power polished and purses full.
Yet not all faun weep.
In the deepest waters, beneath tangled canopies, a rebel faction waits. They have no name. They carry no banner. But they are training—watching, learning, gathering.
Their music is not for comfort.
It is a signal.
When the lyres fall silent, the swamps will rise.
Makarae
Patron: Ma'kharynthae
“We do not question her silence. We were born to answer her scream.”
The Makarae were forged by Ma’Kharynthae, goddess of war—not shaped, not sculpted, but hammered into existence at the height of her fury. She loved them, deeply. But her love was battle. Her gifts were blood, strength, and purpose. And in time, her wars led the Makarae to the edge of extinction.
To save them, Thal’Kor rose—not as savior, but as warden. He silenced Ma’Kharynthae, sealed her voice, and offered the Makarae survival: peace, health, and island sanctuary, in exchange for obedience.
They accepted.
Now, the Makarae train on the island name after them, Makarae, an island hidden and ringed by impossible currents. Only Thal’Kor comes. And when he does, he chooses warriors—ten, thirty, sometimes more—and they leave in silence. They do not return.
Their culture is absolute. You are either a warrior, a warrior-in-training, or one who supports the warrior path. Their skin is red; their tattoos black—each line a story of pain endured or blood drawn. Family ties run deep. Their clans are tribal, united not by territory, but by oath and scar.
A fully trained Makarae can defeat a Zavariin in single combat.
They do not boast of this. They simply know it.
Now, with relics stirring and divine chains weakening, Ma’Kharynthae has been heard again. Not in words, but in dreams, in heat, in the restless sword-hand of her people.
This time, they will leave the island by their own will.
And the gods would do well to tremble.
