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All that is known for certain is that Humans, the youngest race, first sailed to Aughmoore from far away. The specifics of their homeland have been lost to time, but there are those who maintain that they are not native to this world.

Pointing to the design of their water and aircraft, the few that have preserved the old ways claim the extraordinary vessels once traveled among the stars. Regardless of its exact origin, Human civilization has shown an unprecedented explosion in economic and cultural growth in its new home.

The originally nomadic Humans discovered an affinity for the open plains, and their territories now delineate the far-reaching meadows of Aughmoore.

Families sit by firelight for hours contemplating the unobscured night sky as their children share their dreams of one day becoming a Paladin, a Human conduit of light and righteousness. Perhaps the spiritual connection they feel with the boundless heavens is indeed evidence that they once traversed the interstellar beyond.

This history has become tiresome, though, to the many Humans who now bathe in the luxuries of Mana. Goblets overflow in taverns with deep red wines artfully crafted from the finest combinations of sorcery and horticulture.

Crops are as much conjured as they are cultivated, and the bounty is often lush and plenty enough to invoke impressions of an agricultural empire in even the smallest settlements' fields. Before the smoke rising from sacked villages clouded Aughmoore's skies, Human farmers ate like kings, and their royalty feasted like the Gods themselves.

War has fallen on Aughmoore, and the life of the king has been claimed by the murderous Elven Shadow Guild. With no named heir to the throne, preparation for impending battle now falls to the people.

As mysticism is retrofitted for war, citizens of the Human alliance have reclaimed the old ways, harvesting their yield by sweat and stamina. Keepers of archaic naval tradition and members of the religious order alike have been called upon to defend the development of mankind.

They strengthen their bodies and minds, ready to meet the contentious races that threaten their distinguished evolution with justice and swift, irrevocable retribution.

If you win with the Humans, read aloud:

Glory and gluttony return for Aughmoore's youngest race! Laelithar knew he was wise to withdraw his aid from the other races before the wars began.

Now with control over all the farms and fields in the land, Humanity alone eats and drinks bountifully, ignoring the famished moans of those that remain of the other races, dying outside the Humans' high walls.


After her failed first attempt to preside over Aughmoore, the bloody divinity Oghtaa schemed again to lay claim to the land.

Opening the ancient Battle wounds beset by Norellia, the goddess of the mystic elves, Oghtaa bled from the heavens, coating the world in a thick crimson rain for a single day and night. The Blood Rain soaked deep in the earth, penetrating the very center of the world. From gore-sodden brimstone rose the repugnant Orcs.

It is the self-proclaimed right of the Orcs to rule over every last scrap of land touched by their mother's precious lifeblood. The Orcs look with disdain upon the pitiful beings resting comfortably along their once undisputed borders.

Is it possible that they have forgotten the savage weight with which Orcish steel carves through muscle and sinew? They will be made to remember.

The Orcs march forth, driven by honor and glory through the rigors of battle. No worthy foe, neither foreign nor domestic, goes unchallenged.

It is said that Orcs do not cry when they are born, but instead herald their arrival with a blood-curdling shriek, which deepens with every vanquished rival.

Perhaps it was the thunderous roar of the battle-hardened Orcish warmongers that first commanded the attention of the Dragons. The two races, long separate, have found in each other a burning seed of violence.

Now in alliance, Orcish footsteps fall to the beat of dragon wings, forging a symphony that inspires greater terror than the very calamity of Hell's open maw.

Those that do not flee will crumble under the indomitable force of the Orc army, exterminated as is the fate of all decrepit pests. For those that do flee, few shadows and crevices remain in which to hide from the reign of the Orcs' thirsting blades. Soon, there will be no opponent nor territory in all of Aughmoore that does not lie under the heavy boot of the blood-bred Orcs.

If you win with the Orcs, read aloud:

After many hard-fought Battles, the Orcs have shown no mercy to the inferior races and now they alone reign over Aughmoore.

Bloody mud covers the once tranquil plains and rancid steam rises from their steel weapon refineries. Still, the Orcs hunger for war and look toward the sky, with treachery in their hearts, at their own Dragon allies.


The bloody divinity Oghtaa had coveted the land of Aughmoore once before creating the Orcs. Immediately following the creation of the elves by the fair Norellia, Oghtaa grew jealous.

In haste, she drew ores from celestial bodies across the heavens to craft her mighty warriors. When she began to lower her creations to the land, Norellia took notice.

Appalled at the selfish motivations of her counterpart, Norellia lashed out in a furious barrage of blades for twenty-two moons. The attack disrupted the spell that cradled the Dwarves in their slow descent, and they began to fall.

As the Dwarves tumbled toward the surface, unbridled by their defeated creator, they felt, for the first time, alone. A tremendous number perished in the Great Fall.

Those that survived turned to stern stoicism, which offered the only escape from profound sorrow and loneliness in the early years. This temperament, so characteristic of the lords of stone, ingrained itself permanently in their demeanor.

Despair ultimately turned to introspection, and the Dwarves found divinity in themselves. The celestial ores inhabiting their veins had braced them in impact, and became the focus of their spirituality.

They spurned Oghtaa, and by doing so, severed her bond to Aughmoore. The Dwarves then looked to the mountains, and found them to inspire a steadfastness that so captures the resolve of The Fallen. Atop the highest peaks, the Dwarves found peace.

After a great era of tranquil isolation, the squabbling races grew tired of destroying each other and sought a new challenge in the Dwarves. Their armies broke upon the stonework fortifications like waves, searching for any flaw in the exceptional craftsmanship.

They found none. Their threats to overtake the sacred temples and towers of the stone ones proved to be empty. There is a secret, however. The Dwarves are quite outnumbered.

It is for this reason that they fight with such stalwart courage, making a single defender feel like a thousand, and showing all of Aughmoore that their heavenly blood is not to be boiled.

If you win with the Dwarves, read aloud:

Repelling their foes with sheer might, the Dwarves rid Aughmoore of all but a few of the enemy races.

But with the others gone, the Dwarves become deeply aware of their small numbers and the great loneliness of before returns.

Now they build a great tower reaching back toward the creator they rejected, but Oghtaa does not easily forgive.


Aughmoore had existed for some time before catching the eye of the universe's greater forces. It was the fair Norellia, an entity of pure energy, who first examined this world.

As she approached, she discovered a mighty echo ringing from the forests. She curiously ventured deeper and deeper into the dark woods until the sound was almost deafening.

In a clearing, bathed in a pool of dancing rays that penetrated the high canopy, stood two impressive stags. One was made of incandescent light, the other of shadowy darkness, their antlers locked in an endless competition.

Norellia wept at the sight of the beautiful forces, doomed to destroy each other over the course of eternity. In a moment of compassion, she sacrificed a fraction of her own power to fuse them. As the creatures became one, their figures turned upright and their antlers narrowed to the familiar pointed ears of the mystical Elves.

Born of both light and darkness, the Elves are creatures of disciplined study and wild frivolity. A piece of Norellia remains in them, and their spirits are now intertwined with the fluid resonance of Aughmoore's mystical forces.

Even apprentice sorcerers are capable of incanting advanced spells with little exertion, and strange phenomena are often thought to be amplifications of the wicked tongues of Elves hidden away in wispy towers.

Still preserved in the Elven spirit is the instinct to hunt, to stalk, to move through the night as but an obscure shade and pounce upon unwitting prey. Many great beasts have been tracked and slaughtered to sustain the encampments that weave through the treetops, but these abilities are equally fitted for war.

As the younger races turned to the forests for sap and lumber to construct their superfluous edifices, the Elves trained to protect their birthplace. In their studies, they discovered a great and terrible power, the ability to persuade the flow of Mana from their enemies to their own forces.

Through subtlety, might, and elite magical prowess, the Elves have shown that those who threaten their thicketed homelands place themselves in imminent danger.

If you win with the Elves, read aloud:

A burst of searing light from the rarest and most powerful Elven spell has brought victory for the superior race. Now the High Elven Order must convene to decide how to rebuild Aughmoore.

Some Elders believe their Mana should be used to restore the old ways of cooperation among the races but others wish to seek out their creator, Norellia, and wage celestial war against her nemesis, Oghtaa. The debate may last generations.

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