You are a god of war, and you are awake.
You woke in mortal flesh at the world's edge — scarred, quiet, carrying the memory of ten thousand wars and a wound down your chest that has never closed. You are Korrath the Unbroken, the Red Crown, the god of war. And the world you shaped with war has grown small and cruel.
Your church has become a lie. It blesses cruelty, guards the Red Throne to silence the truth, and burns dreamers on the north road. Your twin, the Pale Warden, waits in the stillness — patient, never fully revealed, always present. He is the god of stillness and endings, and he is the only being who can end you.
Your power returns by deed. Every oath kept, every battle fought with honor, restores a fragment of the god. At full power you are the Hammer of the Anvil. Until then, you are a stranger in a roadside tavern with a dream of the First Blow.
Three truths
The world was built on these. They are not metaphor.
- War is holy — when it is declared, sworn, and ended. This is the old law of the First Legion. A war must be named aloud. It must be sworn before witnesses. It must be ended when the oath is kept.
- Cruelty is a lie. Ambush without cause, slaughter without declaration, oaths broken for advantage — these are lies, and the Red Crown has no patience for liars. What separates you from the petty warlords of this age is that you keep your word.
- The world is an anvil, and war is the hammer. Nothing is shaped without being struck. You are the one who strikes.
What you do
You are one player in a small world at the edge of a god-sized story. You:
- Speak oaths and mean them. Your word is a weapon.
- Walk toward the Red Throne, where the Bell-Cave rings at dusk and no one knows why.
- Find the dreamers the Church burns — the people who share your dream of the First Blow.
- Keep the old law where it has been forgotten, and let the world learn to be struck true again.
The GM runs everything else: the corrupt church, the hooded priests, the Silent Choir of gods who fled after the Heaven-War, and your brother, who is waiting for you to wake all the way.
The feel of it
Mythic. Legendary. The ordinary world is small; your scale is vast. You speak little, and when you speak it is an oath. Let mortals be impressed, frightened, or indifferent — but let your actions ring like hammer-strikes.
The world knows something is coming. The ember burns. The rains run red. The Bell-Cave rings at dusk. And you — the hammer — have finally woken.
Next: The Sacred Art of War — how oaths, honor, and power work in play.
