Before time had voice, and before the stars knew their names, the world of Carcer stirred in silence. It was a place of raw essence and untamed power, where stone and sky danced with fire and tide in chaotic union. From this formless beauty, the gods descended. They came not as kings or conquerors, but as creators, shapers of what would be.

With their breath, they carved mountains. With their fingers, they etched rivers. And from their will, they wove a race to carry their legacy forward. They were called the Forsworn, beings of majesty and thought, created not to serve but to understand. They were the first to speak with magic, to name the winds, and to draw the first runes in the soil of the world. Gifted with eternal life and limitless curiosity, the Forsworn were perfect vessels of wisdom. They built the Shining Cities, forged the schools of magic, and shaped the heavens with their deeds.

Yet knowledge alone cannot tend to a world.

To focus their divine task, the Forsworn shaped a second people, the Dworn, born of earth and strength. While the Forsworn reached ever higher in the towers of thought and spellcraft, the Dworn carved roads, tilled fields, raised walls, and gave substance to vision. With lifespans measured in centuries, they became craftsmen and builders of such mastery that even the Forsworn paused to admire their works.

For a time, this balance endured, thought and labor, master and servant.

But the Forsworn, withdrawn from the world they were meant to guide, grew distant. Their vision turned inward. And so, they sought successors. Beings who could walk freely upon Carcer, who could dream, feel, and one day rule in their image.

Thus, the Scions were created.

Wrought from the same essence as their creators, but with hearts that beat in rhythm with the world, the Scions were gifted with brilliance and brevity. Mortal in years but divine in spark, they were unlike their forebears. They did not retreat into towers. They stepped into the world, curious and bright-eyed, carrying the light of legacy across the land.

But legacy is a fragile thing.

As the Scions wandered, they found the Dworn not as servants but as free people. The old oaths, once sacred, had faded into dust. The Scions, raised on tales of divine inheritance, expected reverence. The Dworn, shaped by generations of labor and self-reliance, offered none.

What began as tension became command. Command turned to resistance. Resistance to punishment. Punishment to war.

The Shining Cities, unshaken for an age, began to fracture.

And in the heart of this storm, a choice was made. A moment where some Scions, faced with bloodshed, chose mercy over obedience. They stepped between blade and victim. They defied the will of their kin.

For this act, this mercy, they were cast out.

Branded traitors. Their names struck from record. Their bloodlines cursed. Their oaths erased. Never again would they be welcomed. Never again would they be trusted.

They became the Forsaken.

And so, from a single divine race, the world was given two. One walks still in the light of prophecy, cloaked in duty and burdened by expectation. The other survives in the shadows, guided by oaths, hardened by exile, and shaped by a truth too dangerous to be remembered.

The gods no longer walk among them. But their echo remains in every whispered spell and every broken vow.

The war that shattered a people did not begin with blades. It began with questions and with magic that was never meant to be known.

In the age of awakening, a strange new force stirred beyond the borders of the Shining Cities. It was magic, but not as the Forsworn had come to understand it. It shifted with each invocation, refused structure, and seemed to mock the very laws of essence. To the Forsworn, who had long mastered the elemental powers of the world, this chaos was both a puzzle and a temptation.

They sent their finest scholars and magi to study it. Drawn ever deeper into its mysteries, they found the magic did not yield to inquiry. Yet the longer they remained, the more they changed. Slowly, and then all at once. Their forms twisted. Their minds bent beneath unseen pressure. Their features, once marble-like and serene, became warped. Their once-radiant voices echoed with something hollow. These were the first of the Scorned, Forsworn transformed by magic, now they were something other.

The changes did not stop with them.

The Dworn who had labored in these distant camps were also touched by the unknown. Some grew smaller and sharper, with wiry limbs and clever fingers, mischievous and fast. Others swelled with strength and lost clarity, becoming hulking warriors of fire and fury. Together, these new races were the unintended children of magic misunderstood.

Back in the Shining Cities, the Forsworn debated. Word of these transformations reached them slowly, wrapped in fear and confusion. Some called them abominations, a danger to all creation. Others, recalling ancient kinship, called for mercy. No final consensus was reached but eventually it was decided that something must be done and the Scions were sent.

Two armies left the shining cities to deal with this new threat.

The first moved in secret, quiet, grieving, hopeful.They sought to find their twisted kin and determine if anything could be salvaged. When they arrived, they found the Scorned changed beyond recognition. Their skin was marred. Their voices strange. And yet, they remembered. They mourned what they had lost. The Scions who witnessed this did not strike. They watched. They wept.

The second army arrived later. Their orders were clear. They came not to speak, but to cleanse. Cloaked in divine law, they descended without warning. They saw only a contagion and moved to cut it out. Marching beneath banners of fire and law, they descended with fury. They did not ask questions. They did not offer peace. They struck without warning, intending to end what they saw as abomination. But they had misjudged the strength of those they came to kill.

The Scorned had allies. The orcs had multiplied in the shadows, raised in the wild, hardened in exile. Crude weapons, simple armor, but a fire no scholar could snuff out. The land itself bore the scars of their presence. What the Scions expected to be a purge became a battlefield. The Scions expected an execution. They found a war.

The first army, watching from afar, made their choice. They raised shields against their own. They fought to protect the Scorned and to give the orcs time to flee. And in doing so, they broke the only law the Scions held sacred. They turned against their destiny.

The battle ended. The war did not.

When the dust settled, the battlefield was silent. The Scions who had shown mercy had struck down their kin. Their names were ash. Their oaths shattered. They had defied their destiny to protect creatures their people now called monsters.

They fled into shadow, unable to return, and thus, they became the Forsaken.

Branded as traitors, they vanished into the wilds. Their story rewritten as treachery. Their mercy twisted into betrayal. They swore new oaths, to protect each other, to never beg forgiveness, and to never strike second.

The Scorned, wounded and few, withdrew into secrecy. They abandoned the orcs, whose rapid growth made them too volatile to protect. The tribes scattered like wind across the world, the orcs were free to carve out their own paths in the hills, forests, and plains.

And in the Shining Cities, silence reigned.

No record of the battle. No mention of the mercy. Only a verdict: the Scorned were to be feared, the orcs an error beyond redemption, and the Forsaken a warning. And the magic that started it all, a whisper that still echoes in forbidden halls, too dangerous to name.

The Sundering was not a war. It was a wound.

One people, divided. One choice, never forgiven.

And the world has never been the same.

"Others may call us angels or elves, but such words only diminish us. We are the Scions. We were made to inherit this world."

This is no boast. It is not hubris, nor delusion. It is simply the truth they were given at birth. The Scions were designed to be the heirs of Carcer, destined to rise when the gods stepped away. Their creators wove into them the flame of legacy and the burden of purpose. They were born to lead, to protect, to understand the mysteries of the world and preserve its harmony.

They were not told to find meaning. They are meaning, carved from it like stone from mountain.

From the moment of their first breath, every Scion knows this truth: they must be worthy. Not merely excellent, not merely good, worthy of godhood. They are to inherit the legacy of the Forsworn. To take the mantle of the divine. And if they fail, the next age may never come.

This belief is not confined to the Scions alone. It echoes through the laws of kingdoms, the sermons of priests, the writings of scholars, and the policies of governments. The world expects the Scions to be perfect. And most of them believe they must be.

But belief does not make it so.

The Scions are not Forsworn. They are mortal, despite the spark of the divine within them. They bleed. They break. They falter under the weight of impossible expectations. For every Scion who becomes a legend, there are hundreds who quietly collapse under the pressure.

Some retreat. They withdraw into the sanctuaries of routine and ritual, maintaining a world they can no longer bear to shape. These are the bureaucrats, the keepers of scrolls and systems. Others vanish entirely, seeking solace in isolation where they are no longer required to save the world, only to tend to their corner of it.

This paradox lies at the heart of the Scion people. They are entrusted with the future of Carcer, yet so many have detached from the present. They speak of stewardship but remain distant from those they are meant to guide. Some watch the stars and speak of prophecy while the city beneath them burns. Others guard their districts with meticulous care, but fail to see the wider world crumbling around them.

They are obsessed with preserving the world, even as they struggle to remain part of it.

They are mortals pretending to be gods. And often failing.

Yet for all their faults, their brilliance cannot be denied. The Scions are masters of magic, philosophy, and science. There is no discipline where their knowledge has not set the standard. There is no battlefield where a Scion’s blade does not bring precision and resolve. Their loyalty, once given, is unshakable. Their traditions are ironclad.

The world may mock their detachment or curse their pride, but when catastrophe looms, it is still the Scions who are called. Because despite everything, the fate of the world may very well rest on their shoulders.

And so they endure.

Some rise. Some fall. Some vanish into quiet lives of duty. But all live under the same truth: they must be worthy.

Because one day, the gods will not return. And on that day, the world will look to the Scions.

Though united in purpose, the Scions are not unified in method. The gods left no single path, only a legacy. And from that legacy, each Scion must choose how best to walk the path set before them.

Thus were the Orders born.

Each Order is more than an affiliation. It is a philosophy, a discipline, a lens through which the divine burden is viewed and shaped. While all Scions share blood and essence, their Orders are the chosen families of their spirit. Sanctuaries of thought. Pillars of belief.

The Orders do not interfere with one another. By ancient law and sacred tradition, no Order may raise arms against another. Yet within this peace, quiet rivalries bloom. Alliances form and shift like constellations in a turning sky. For though they are bound by the same birthright, the Scions do not always agree on what that birthright demands.

In these Orders lies the soul of the Scions, many voices speaking one truth in many tongues.

Order of Harmony

The stewards of structure, the governors of civilization. These Scions live in the Shining Cities of their forbears, where marble towers reach for the heavens and the breath of the divine lingers in every corridor. They are politicians, strategists, philosophers, and reformers. They see the world not as it is, but as it could be, and seek to shape it through law, diplomacy, and design.

They are also accused of coldness. Their vision is vast, but their compassion often feels distant. To the Order of Harmony, the needs of the many truly outweigh the few. The fire must be allowed to burn if it will warm the greater world. And if a village must be forgotten to preserve a kingdom, so be it. Yet without their tireless planning, countless disasters would have bloomed. Their bureaucracy is dense, but precise. Their records vast, but invaluable. And their failures, when they occur, are studied more harshly than any outsider would dare.

Order of the Urbanites

At home in the taverns and bustling markets as much as their kin are in parliaments and ivory towers, the Urbanite Scions walk among the common folk. They trade coin as easily as they trade favors, slipping between roles with ease such as merchants, masons, thieves, and healers. They are not beloved by the nobility, but they are respected in every alleyway and square they pass through.

To the Urbanites, divine destiny is not sealed in ancient halls or etched in holy rites. It lives in the eyes of the hungry, the wounded, the forgotten. Their compassion is rarely flowery, often practical, and their anger is slow to rise but difficult to extinguish. They understand the weight of daily survival and act to ease that burden where they can.

In recent ages, they have grown weary of divine silence. Though they would never speak of rebellion aloud, their patience wears thinner with each passing generation. The Urbanites believe that if the gods do not return to fulfill their promises, then perhaps they should be made to answer for their absence.

Order of Masks

Survivors. Paranoids. Warriors. The Order of Masks has been broken and rebuilt more times than any other Scion Order. Scarred by betrayal and targeted by enemies both remembered and forgotten, they have become masters of secrecy and preparation. They believe that the fall of the world is not a question of if, but when, and when the final age crumbles into dust, they will be the ones who endure.

Their most defining trait is the mask. Every initiate crafts their own, shaped by vision, trauma, or prophecy. To the outside world, the mask is not an ornament. It is the person. Names are hidden. Faces are sacred. To reveal one’s true visage is an act of utmost trust, reserved only for moments of binding oaths or deep kinship. Some wear the same mask for decades. Others shift them like seasons, adopting new identities with each chapter of life. They specialize in guerrilla warfare, sabotage, and espionage. Their magic is often subtle, focused on concealment, disruption, and escape. Their strongholds are hidden in forgotten places, built beneath ruins, or behind enchanted veils. Every member is expected to know how to disappear without a trace and survive alone if needed.

Though they do not seek power or rulership, they prepare for the aftermath. They collect histories others would burn. They preserve the bloodlines of beasts and Scions alike. They map the ley lines and mark the fading paths of ancient power. When all others fall, the Masks intend to be the last whisper in the silence, carrying the memory of the world into whatever comes next.

Order of Nomads

Wanderers, sailors, and seekers of wonder. The Nomads believe the world is too vast, too wild, and too alive to ever be ruled from a throne or studied from a tower. They are drawn not to dominion, but to discovery. To them, every horizon is a question, and every journey a prayer. They travel by ship, both upon the sea and through the sky. Their vessels, crafted with care and often enchanted, are extensions of their homes and hearts. Some sail ocean tides in elegant longships with folding masts and rune-carved keels. Others drift through the skies aboard soaring skycraft, guided by celestial charts and winds of magic.

Nomads delve into forgotten ruins and scale mountains untouched since the first shaping of Carcer. They brave the depths of ancient jungles, traverse volcanic plains, and step first onto newly born islands rising from the sea. They chart stars yet unnamed, sketch maps of ever-shifting coastlines, and document the secrets left buried by time.

Wherever they go, the Nomads are often welcomed. They bring stories, supplies, and news of distant places. They trade remedies for plagues, advice for rulers, or warnings of dangers glimpsed in their travels. Their loyalty lies with motion itself. Their allegiance is to wonder. They cannot be caged by laws nor confined by borders.

They say the gods scattered secrets across the face of the world like seeds in the wind. The Nomads have taken it upon themselves to find every last one, not for power, but for the joy of knowing. And they will not rest, for every map is unfinished and every answer leads to another question.

Order of Burials

Grave tenders and guardians of memory. The Burials carry the weight of endings and the sacred responsibility of remembrance. They are the keepers of the Forsworn’s final resting places, protectors of the graves where power and prophecy sleep in silence. It is they who perform the ancient rites, who speak the names that must never be forgotten, and who ensure the world does not bury its own history too deeply.

Their duty is both spiritual and scholarly. They are theologians and engineers, architects of mausoleums, and scholars of soulcraft. Their catacombs are not only tombs, but temples of knowledge. Within them lie relics, forbidden tomes, and the last echoes of forgotten truths. Few outside the Order know how deep their vaults go or what is entombed within them.

Among the Scions, they are seen as somber, distant, and unsettling. They walk softly, speak rarely, and carry with them the stillness of the grave. Yet their purpose is vital. They believe that forgetting the dead is the first step to repeating their mistakes and that only by honoring those who came before can the living be prepared for what comes next.

They are also the most vigilant in preparing for the return of the Forsworn. Should the gods’ chosen walk among mortals once more, the Burials will be ready with their names remembered, their paths cleared, and their legacies intact.

To serve in the Order of Burials is to live among ghosts. But it is also to walk with purpose, knowing that while others look to the future, it is your sacred task to guard the past.

Order of Eternal War

They were forged for a war long ended, a war so thoroughly erased from history that even its enemy has no name. And yet, they endure. The Scions of this Order are warriors without rest. They believe that the ancient threat will return. Or worse, that it never left. While others build, rule, or explore, the Eternal War trains. In silence. In shadow. With discipline honed sharper than any blade. Their rituals are martial, their prayers spoken in drills and sparring rings. Every movement is memory. Every weapon a promise.

To outsiders, they are seen as relics of a forgotten age, zealots guarding against ghosts. Their presence is often questioned. Their funding debated. And yet, they remain. For even among the Scions, there are those who understand the price of unpreparedness.

It was a Forsworn who once said, “To keep them and not need them is a waste. To disband them and find we did need them is a tragedy Carcer would not survive.”

So they wait. On mountaintops and deep within fortress monasteries. At the edge of the known world. Watching for signs, reading omens, and listening for the silence that always comes before the storm.

They do not seek power. They seek readiness.

Because someone must.

“We do not worship in hope. We remember in reverence.”

The Scions are not like other races. They have no need to invent gods, for they have met them. The Forsworn, their creators, walked the world in luminous form. They spoke. They taught. They made mistakes. They triumphed. They died.

And in their wake, they left a question the Scions have never fully answered: Were they gods made mortal, or mortals who carried divinity like a flame? From this question, two great currents of belief have formed, not in opposition, but in tension. Scions do not war over faith. Instead, they study it, refine it, and walk its paths with a scholar’s gaze and a pilgrim’s heart.

The Forsworn Divinity

This is the oldest and most widely held belief. It teaches that the Forsworn were the physical shells of divine beings, vessels through which the gods could walk the world and shape it.

Their deaths are not tragedies, but fulfillments of design. Each Forsworn returns to the Divine Realm once their work is complete, and their mortal end marks a lesson finished. Those who remain are to be obeyed without question, for every word they speak is a ripple from the divine source. The faithful divide the gods into two houses:

The Docs, gods of action, healing, growth, knowledge, and will. They crafted the Scions and taught them how to act in the world. To worship a Doc is to live their virtue.

The Engis, gods of form, nature, and structure. They forged the world itself: the forests, the oceans, the beasts, and the magics. To honor them is to preserve what they have made.

Temples dedicated to both are common in Scion cities. Prayers are acts of duty, clean work, perfect craft, just governance, bold protection. A well-forged sword or a finely penned law is considered a hymn.

The Inheritance of the Unspoken

More recent, more controversial, and growing steadily.

This belief does not deny the divinity of the Forsworn, but it does not consider them the final answer. Instead, it teaches that the Forsworn were merely caretakers, stewards of a truth too vast to be confined within their vision. Beneath the roots of the world, beneath magic itself, lies something older. Something deeper. Something that has no name.

This force is not elemental. It is not good or evil. It defies classification. It shifts with every invocation, resists structure, and seems to rewrite the rules of reality each time it is called upon. And yet, it is undeniably real. Within its strangeness, followers of this belief say, lies the first secret, the hidden shape of the cosmos.

To seek this force is to walk the Path of Pilgrimage. Those who follow it must earn their insights. They retrace ancient migrations, unlock forgotten tombs, and endure visions that fracture the self. The most devoted live in exile, often drawn to ruins where the veil between what is known and what is not grows thin.

Among them, it is whispered that every Scion carries a shard of this mystery in their soul, not as a flaw, but as a question. A spark left behind by a god that was never named.

This belief is permitted, but rarely welcomed. Some fear what its seekers might discover. Others fear what they might become.

Sacraments and Practice

Scion religious practice is less about temples and more about embodiment. One does not simply pray to a god of stone , one builds. One does not worship the sea by words, one sails.

Their shrines are often integrated into their lives: a shelf in a stonemason’s home, a candle in the ship’s prow, a polished mirror in a scholar’s study. Ritual is woven into daily tasks. Ceremonies mark not just death and birth, but the mastery of a craft, the laying of a foundation, the choice of a vocation.

Faith is legacy. And legacy is divine.

To look upon a Scion is to glimpse a fragment of divine intent.

They are not merely beautiful, they are crafted. Sculpted by the will of the Forsworn to be both symbols and stewards, their form carries echoes of the divine that shaped them. And though there is variation between individuals, all Scions possess a presence that sets them apart from the other mortal races of Carcer.

General Traits

Height and Build:

Scions tend to be tall and poised, their posture almost always impeccable. They move with a grace that feels rehearsed, as if their bodies remember a dance taught to their ancestors by the stars themselves. Their builds vary by lifestyle, but even the frailest among them feel intentional, not weak.

Skin and Complexion:

Their skin ranges from moonlight-pale to obsidian-deep, often with undertones of silver, gold, sapphire, or amethyst, a faint shimmer just beneath the surface, as though light tries to escape their very flesh. Some display subtle patterns across their bodies and faces that glow softly when calling upon magic or emotion.

Hair:

Their hair can be everything from silken locks like spun starlight to braids of living shadow. Colors include whites, silvers, deep cobalts, wine reds, polished blacks, and metallic hues rarely found in nature. Hair often seems untouched by age unless chosen otherwise.

Eyes:

The eyes of a Scion are never dull. They shine with the inheritance of power, luminous and reflective, glowing pupils, or mirrored irises. In the presence of great magic or emotional extremes, their gaze may flare or change hue entirely.

Ears:

The ears of a Scion are a subtle yet unmistakable mark of their heritage.

Slightly elongated and elegantly tapered, their ears resemble what many mortals might call elven, though that word feels crude to a Scion’s sensibilities. Their shape is not just aesthetic, it is symbolic, a visible echo of the divine symmetry they were born to embody.

Otherworldly Elements

Some Scions bear subtle marks of their lineage: glowing veins beneath the skin, a soft halo in moonlight, a second reflection in still water, or hair that drifts despite still air. These traits are often suppressed in public, either by magic or discipline, to avoid drawing undue reverence or fear. Members of the Order of Masks conceal these traits deliberately, believing them to be vulnerabilities. Others, especially from Order of Nomads or Burials, wear them proudly, as symbols of trust or mourning.

Aging and Immortality

Scions do not age as mortals do. They mature quickly into adulthood, then linger in physical perfection for decades, even centuries. Most only begin to age when they will it , often as a sign of spiritual growth, grief, or preparation for death. Some choose never to show signs of age at all.

It is said that a Scion who loses faith in their purpose may wither rapidly. But one who rediscovers it may grow even more radiant than before.

Fashion of the Scions

Scion fashion is more than clothing, it is a visual declaration of purpose, identity, and divine heritage.

Every stitch, every fold, every color choice speaks of role and Order. Their attire is clean, deliberate, and meaningful. Even the humblest Scion carries an elegance, for to appear disordered is to hint at spiritual decay or inner doubt.

Cultural Philosophy of Dress

Function Follows Purpose:Scions dress not just to look refined, but to embody the ideals of their vocation. A Scion of the sword wears armor like a second skin; a Scion of law dresses like a sealed document, precise, folded, unmistakable.

Cleanliness is Devotion:

Dirt and disorder suggest neglect, not humility. To let one's garments fray or remain unclean is seen not only as personal failure, but a breach in divine duty.

Adornment is Meaningful:

Every ring, sash, braid, or clasp has significance , family, Order, achievement, or magical function. Enchanted garments are common, but rarely ostentatious. Power should whisper, not scream.

Fashion by Order

Order of Harmony (Bureaucrats, Judges, Strategists)

Elegant and minimal, often in whites, golds, greys, and sea-blues. Robes are layered but symmetrical, with geometric patterns representing law, balance, and clarity. They favor fine embroidery over excessive jewelry. A subtle gleam is preferred over shimmer.

Order of Urbanites (Commoners, Thieves, Tradespeople)

Practical and stylish. They blend in easily with local trends, using clever tailoring and subdued ornamentation. Earth tones, charcoal, and copper are popular. Functionality is key, hidden pockets, reinforced stitching, and flexible fabrics for work or escape.

Order of Masks (Isolationists, Guerilla Fighters, Espionage)

Always masked, either with carved wood, lacquered bone, or painted ceramics. Their outfits are utilitarian: close-fitting tunics, rugged cloaks, reinforced boots. Colors lean dark: black, iron, deep green. Some younger Scions now use painted sigils instead of full masks, a growing controversy.

Order of Nomads (Sailors, Explorers, Scholars of the Wild)

Flowing garments that dance in the wind. Capes and coats lined for weather, often in ocean blues, driftwood browns, and sunset reds. They incorporate shells, knots, feathers, and rare seeds into their clothing, each a memento of their travels.

Order of Burials (Clerics, Engineers, Gravekeepers)

Somber, ceremonial garb. Robes are often layered with armor, symbolic or functional, and rich with embroidery in silver, iron, and bone-white. Symbols of death and transition are common: keys, spirals, braids of black cloth, and etched stones.

Order of Eternal War (Soldiers, Guardians, Demonhunters)

Armored and worn. Their garb is utilitarian and often bears the scars of battle. Deep reds, muted bronzes, greys, and storm-blues are common. Rank is shown through ornamentation: tattered banners, etched pauldrons, and stylized belts. Some wear scars and bloodstains as badges of honor.

Special Traditions

Hair and Fabric Rites:

In times of mourning, many Scions will cut a strip from the robe of a departed loved one and braid it into their hair. This act binds memory to self, a sacred gesture to carry a piece of them always, so that no part of their bond is truly lost

Cloaks of Devotion:

Initiates of the Orders often wear a plain cloak during their training, embroidered slowly over time as they earn marks of achievement.

“Magic is not a tool. It is our inheritance.”

Magic is not something the Scions study in isolation or fear as unknown. It is woven into their essence, as natural to them as breath or memory. From birth, every Scion feels the currents of power beneath the surface of Carcer. They do not learn magic. They remember it.

Their magic is a living legacy of the Forsworn, passed through bloodlines, rituals, and instinct. It is shaped by their Order, their temperament, and the fragments of divine will that pulse within them.

Innate Understanding

Scions are born with an intuitive grasp of magical theory. Even the least gifted among them can sense ambient essence, recognize the weave of a spell, or disrupt enchantments with little training. Formal schooling exists not to teach magic, but to refine its focus.

Gameplay Effect: All Scions begin with 2 additional spell points at character creation to reflect this natural connection.

Other races may master one, perhaps two schools of magic in their lifetime. An exceptional few may stretch further. Scions, however, are different. They often master two or even three disciplines with ease, and many hold working knowledge across far more. While they may choose to specialize, every Scion is expected to be fluent in the fundamentals of each school.

Magic as Duty

Scion magic is bound by tradition and responsibility. Though their powers are a birthright, they must be wielded with discipline and care. Each Order maintains strict codes governing the use of magic. Scions are tested relentlessly before they may cast in public or represent their people.

Some spells are granted only after sacred rites, trials, or journeys of atonement. Others require the approval of a Forsworn relic, or the presence of a full circle of witnesses to be bound.

Wild magic, or unsanctioned casting, is viewed as a grave threat. Those who abuse their gift may be stripped of their sigils, exiled from their Orders, or magically silenced, their essence sealed by rite.

To a Scion, magic is not power. It is a sacred responsibility. To misuse it is not simply a crime, it is a betrayal of purpose, and an insult to their divine legacy.

Though born from the legacy of the Shining Cities, the Scions have long since spread across the face of Carcer.

Some still dwell within the Shining Cities, the ancient strongholds of magic and memory where their ancestors once ruled beside the Forsworn. These great citadels shimmer with arcane wonder, their towers woven with enchantment and their libraries steeped in secrets. Within their walls, Scions walk paths of tradition, bound to ancient Orders and governed by rites older than nations.

But most have left those gleaming spires behind.

In the centuries since the Sundering, many Scions have chosen to walk among the other peoples of Carcer. They live in mixed cities, serve as ambassadors, advisors, scholars, and warriors. Their presence brings awe, respect, and sometimes fear, for even away from their ancestral homes, the divine spark they carry is unmistakable.

Others have founded cities of their own, sanctuaries of Scion culture built in distant forests, atop mountain peaks, along quiet shores, or upon floating islands that drift gently on the wind. These cities are fewer, but each is a reflection of its founders' beliefs: one might be a haven of art and philosophy, another a fortress of discipline and law, and another still a wandering vessel of exploration and wonder.

No matter where they reside, the Scions remain marked by their heritage. Whether standing in the heart of an ancient city or walking the crowded streets of a human capital, they are ever aware of the birthright they carry, and the burden that comes with it.

The Scions have never truly forgiven the Dworn or the Forsaken for what they view as grievous injuries to the world’s divine order. While formal treaties and ancient obligations keep swords sheathed for now, the air between them remains cold. Diplomacy is strained and trust is virtually nonexistent. When tensions rise, even minor disputes can erupt into open conflict.

The Orcs were never part of the Forsworn’s design, and thus the Scions see no purpose for them in the grand tapestry of creation. To most Scions, they are a mistake of history, unruly, volatile, and better forgotten. Some Orders view them as a problem to be managed. Others as a threat to be removed.

Humans, by contrast, occupy a strange place in Scion thinking. They are not part of the divine plan, yet the Forsworn have never shown any concern for their existence. As a result, Scions treat humanity with polite curiosity. Many underestimate them, mistaking their short lives for simplicity, or their ambition for recklessness. Still, the Scions watch them closely, unsure whether their rise is a passing spark or the beginning of something far greater.

Scions work surprisingly well with the Beastfolk and Fey races, especially those who live close to magic or the untouched wilds. These kin are seen as allies in stewardship, protectors of natural order and primal power. While not equals, they are often respected, or at least tolerated so they can be studied, as part of the world worth preserving.

To the Scions, the Forsworn are both sacred and untouchable. They are the architects of destiny, the hands that shaped the Scions from raw essence, the mouths that first spoke the truths of purpose. In the oldest prayers, the Forsworn are named not as rulers, but as vessels, through whom the divine plan was poured into the world.

Yet for all their reverence, the Scions know the Forsworn are no longer what they once were.

Most of the Forsworn have vanished, passed into myth or death, and the few who remain are often silent or strange, distant even from the Orders they helped build. Some say their time is ending, that they are returning to the realm of the gods. Others claim they linger only to test the Scions, to see if their children are ready to inherit the world.

Regardless, the Scions do not question the plan. They were made to lead, and they believe it is their destiny to rise when the last Forsworn falls. That day is not spoken of with joy, but with solemn anticipation, for it will mark the end of one age, and the beginning of another.

To disobey the Forsworn is to defy the divine. Even when their instructions are unclear or their choices controversial, the Scions endure. They obey. For their trust is not in the Forsworn as individuals, but in the will that shaped them, a will older and higher than any one mind could grasp.

Scions are taught from childhood that the Divine Plan is vast, intricate, and incomplete. They do not know its full shape. They are not meant to. Their role is to preserve, prepare, and one day fulfill it.

The Scions believe that if they falter, the world will not survive the next turning of the age.

They will not falter.