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In the lands south of Thera, an ancient god still lives. He is nameless, and all but forgotten, and he delights in nothing but the spilling of blood. His return to this plane was heralded with blood, but a most unexpected turn of events thwarted his plans. It is here that the story begins. <br><br>Once there was a cruel man who ruled a small kingdom in the lands south of Thera. A very cruel, and very powerful man. He built his kingdom on blood, and derived his power from the spilling of it. He sought out others like him, who would kill in the name of his Nameless God, and drink, and bathe, and delight in the blood of others. And together, they conquered. <br><br>Their reign of terror was unlike any other. They killed for any reason, and no reason at all. They skinned their victims, mutilated them, drank their blood, and forced others to watch until it was their turn. They razed entire cities, killed women, children, and babies. All in the name of a Nameless God. <br><br>Their ruler studied the magic in blood, found ways to manipulate it, and eventually discovered a way to pass on his dark powers to an heir, so that the Reign of Blood could continue. But he needed a strong vessel, and so he set out on raids, searching for a prime candidate to grow his demon seed. Her name was Ellethendriel, an incredibly powerful elven priestess. <br><br>Over the years, she gave him two female heirs, which he subsequently slaughtered in front of her. And then one day, she gave birth to a son. And he was named Alastair. She was rarely allowed to see her son after he was born, for his father spent nearly every waking moment with him, teaching him, turning him, creating a monster. <br><br>On his thirteenth nameday, he was to inherit his father's bloody legacy, if not for an unexpected turn of events. Ellethendriel had spent many years waiting for this moment, plotting in her cell. Alastair's father had all but forgotten her, and in doing so, ensured his own demise. For on that day, he felt the full wrath of a mother's scorn, and the power of the Theran Gods. She brought the castle crumbling to the ground, killing Alastair's father and all his highest officials. <br><br>She, of course, fled with her son in tow, never to be seen in the southern lands again. Over the next grueling years, she managed to gain her son's love, despite the evil instilled in him by his father. She taught him about her people, and her Gods, and of the way of healing and defensive magics. But Alastair was greedy, and always desired more. He resorted to using blood magic in secret, to further his connection to the arcane. <br><br>It was his folly, then, that was his salvation. For one day, his mother found him lying in a pool of his own blood. He had cut himself wrong and spilled out. He was nearly beyond repair, but she was very skilled, and began to work her power on her beloved son. What she did not anticipate were the tendrils still feeding from his blood, the dark secret he was hiding. They lashed out and struck, instantly, and without warning. She was ripped apart and devoured, and Alastair none the wiser as he lay helpless at her feet. <br><br>When he awoke and found his mother's lifeless body destroyed, he knew for certain what had happened. It played over and over again in his head, as he spent years in misery and grief. Far and wide he travelled, in hopes of finding himself, and in doing so, he swore off blood magic forever. He had learned a valuable lesson: The man who thinks he can bend the laws of the universe is a fool. One must work within the constraints of those laws, or risk being destroyed. And so he found himself in Thera, ready to begin anew. Ready to learn, and ready to pass on his knowledge to future generations.