Dawn of Legends

And it came to pass, in the days following the Great Sundering, when the world lay shattered and divided, the demons, ever untouched by the lands beyond, remained within the confines of their own cursed realm.

Their domain, shrouded in shadow and veiled by unrelenting fire, stretched from horizon to horizon, a land forgotten by time and separated from the rest of creation.

In this place, the demons knew not of the gods, nor of the world that lay beyond the jagged mountains and desolate deserts. For the land in which they existed was theirs alone, a land that had never been visited by the foot of an outlander. The Great Sundering had left them in isolation, with only their own kind to know their existence.

The demons, a people of war and flame, lived in a constant state of internal strife. Nations, empires, and clans had risen from the ashes of ancient conflicts, each battling not for divine favor nor celestial glory, but for dominion over the land, for control over the scarce resources that lay within their grasp.

Seven great nations stood amidst this chaos, each a reflection of its ruler's will and ambition. The bloodlines of their leaders ran deep with pride and strength, though their hearts were as shadowed as the land itself.

In the Empire of Xal'gor, Emperor Vornak looked out over his armies, his eyes burning with the fire of conquest. "The northern lands are ripe for the taking," he declared. "Let the blood of the weak stain the earth beneath our boots. We shall be the masters of all!"

General Zorith, ever the voice of caution, replied, "Your Majesty, the northern clans are formidable. We face the Varkthar there. They are no simple prey."

Vornak's hand tightened on his weapon as he turned to face his general. "Then we shall show them what it means to oppose Xal'gor. They will bow before us or be consumed by the flames of our wrath."

To the east, in the domain of Drelthor, the ancient mountain kingdom, King Drakar stood at the summit of his citadel, looking down upon his warriors. "The riches of the north shall be ours," he proclaimed. "But only if we are swift and decisive."

His trusted advisor, Lord Takar, hesitated. "The Varkthar still resist. They are not easily defeated, my King. We must tread carefully or risk overextending ourselves."

Drakar's eyes gleamed with the promise of victory. "Careful? We are demons, Takar! There is no room for hesitation. The north shall be ours, or we shall burn it to the ground!"

In the Ghorath Dominion, an ancient land of dark magic, Lord Khoras of House Ghoras gathered his sorcerers. "The northern lands offer great power, yes. But we must secure the ancient wells beneath the earth before we make our move."

Sorceress Althea, her voice tinged with unease, spoke, "The wells are guarded, Lord Khoras. They are not easily claimed. The earth itself will fight back."

Khoras' lips curled into a cruel smile. "Then we shall awaken the earth itself. Let the very ground tremble before our power. No one will stand in our way."

Far to the west, the Varkthar clan stood defiant against all invaders. High Chief Ralthor, the leader of the clan, gathered his war council in the depths of his great hall. "Xal'gor and Drelthor both approach. But we will not fall. Our warriors are strong, and our will unbroken."

Lieutenant Tharak, cautious as ever, spoke up. "We are outnumbered, High Chief. Our forces are smaller, and the lands of Ghorath threaten our rear. We need allies, or we shall fall."

Ralthor's voice was unyielding. "We have no allies but ourselves. We will meet them on the battlefield, and we shall crush them. There is no other path."

In the cold and mist-shrouded mountains of Korrath, the Ashlords steeled themselves for the impending storm. King Varrak, ruler of the Ashlords, strode through his fortress, his mind heavy with the weight of his choices.

"The Varkthar cannot hold forever," he said. "We will move swiftly. We must secure the southern pass before the Ghorath Dominion grows too powerful. The time for hesitation has passed."

Lady Sariel, his trusted advisor, hesitated. "But the Varkthar are proud. If we move against them, we risk the wrath of their warriors."

Varrak's gaze was sharp. "And if we do not act, we risk being consumed by the fires of Ghorath or the might of Xal'gor. We will not be swept aside."

And so, the demons fought their battles within their own lands, unaware of the greater world beyond their borders. They knew nothing of the gods, nor the immortals, nor the World Tree that watched from afar. Their world was one of fire, shadow, and endless conflict, a place where the only truths were those forged in the heat of battle.

The demons had never known peace, and they knew not of the prophecies that whispered through the winds. They fought for land, for power, for resources, and for the survival of their people. Their eyes were fixed on the land before them, their gaze never straying beyond the borders of their own realm.

And so, the great factions of the demons rose and fell in an endless cycle of war, each seeking to carve out a piece of the land for themselves. The outside world was a distant thought, a thing unknown and unimportant. Their world was one of survival, and that was all that mattered.