Relics of Lost Scythria
The Long Dead rise from their dusty tombs, defending their God's rest from interlopers.
Awakened by Blood
The Blood of the Scythrian's Ancient God bestows great power upon those who sacrificed for it.
The Judge
The God of lost Scythria, a being of immense power, engorged with the blood of uncounted sacrifices in ages past.
The Ancient Scythrians are a long-dead empire rising once more, not through necromancy, but through the fulfillment of a blood-bound covenant. In life, they gave themselves willingly to their god-king, the Judge, offering their lifeblood in exchange for a promised return.
Now that promise is kept. Across Doaden, tombs stir, altars bleed, and the dead march, not in mindless hunger, but in disciplined devotion, seeking to rebuild the kingdom they sacrificed millennia ago.
Across the scattered tombs of Doaden, something awakes.
Stone sarcophagi crack open beneath layers of ancient dust. Great pools of blood, still roiling liquid despite the ages, flow once more through ritual runnels. Ossified corpses stir. Forgotten altars weep red. The dead kingdom of Scythria is returning, rising in honor of an ancient vow.
Once, long ago, Scythria stood as a great kingdom, a part, and apart, from the Old Empire. It was a land of order, discipline, and charnel faith. When the old order fell, and Doaden began to wane under the blight of corruption, they made a compact, a last covenant with their mage-king. They would give all their lifeblood in sacrifice, willingly and utterly, in return for the promise that one day, their sovereign, the Judge, would rise again. And with him, the kingdom, and its people, would be reborn.
That day draws close...
Littered across Doaden lie the tombs of dead Scythria, silent, sunken sanctuaries, built in an age of strange faith, and sacrifice. Each is different in shape and scale, yet all share the hallmarks of Scythrian design, sloped stone corridors carved with scripture, bas-reliefs depicting blood-offering rites, and deep cisterns long filled with what should be ancient, clotted remains.
But the blood within these tombs has not dried.
Now, they stir. Flickers of light pass through dust-choked corridors. Hollow footsteps echo from empty sanctuaries. Stone lids slide free as ancient dead return, pulled from repose by the promise once made to them. From these tombs crawl not only warriors and priestesses, but stranger things, golems fused with idols, masses of animate blood, and the slow, pulsing will of something greater than any petty risen zombie.
