Agonis, patron deity of the Midgardian Empire, began his life not as a god but as a fisherman’s son in a humble coastal village. Even as a child, he bore signs of divine favor—strength surpassing grown warriors and a healing touch that soothed wounds as though the sea itself breathed through him. His younger brother, Cainis, shared no such power but possessed a mind honed to razor clarity and a prodigious talent for spellcraft. The brothers were inseparable: strength and wisdom, tide and moon.

Agonis survived only by crawling into a cave, barely clinging to life. His healing gift faltered; his strength ebbed. In desperation, he prayed—not for rescue, but for a chance to undo what had been unleashed.

The gods answered. Light filled the cave, knitting his wounds, restoring his strength, and granting him a final gift: radiant aether-wings that shimmered like dawn. Renewed and transformed, Agonis rose into the sky and flew north, following the demons’ devastation.

For years, Agonis traveled the world to unite its fractured peoples. He journeyed to Baragorn, the dwarven strongholds of the northwest, where stone was law and loyalty was iron. Then east to Vaelithar, the woodland realm of the elves, where ancient archmages debated him for days before acknowledging the threat.

At last, an unprecedented alliance was forged—humans, dwarves, and elves, marching beneath a single banner of light. Together, they forged Agonis’s legendary flaming sword.

Their united armies advanced south, purging the demons city by city, mountain by mountain, until only the Hellgate remained.

With the world saved, the gods descended and offered Agonis a choice: remain mortal or ascend as a divine sentinel. He chose ascension. His body dissolved into light, his wings spread across the firmament, and he rose into the Aether, the Elemental Plane of Air.

Today, Agonis stands as the god of Light, Order, and Justice, guiding the empire that bears his legacy.

Falenfas, birthplace of the Hellgate, never healed. The eruption of hellfire left the mountains cracked and the valleys drained of life. Soil turned acidic, rivers ran black, and storms of ash swept the region for generations. No seed grew. No creature endured. In time, the land was renamed Helthas, meaning “Land Claimed by Hell.”

When the Hellgate sealed, its edges brushed the border of the lower Hells, allowing a few devils to slip through alongside the demons. Trapped in the mortal world, these devils were forced into the same brutal Darwinism as their demonic rivals. Violence became survival. Survival became culture. And from this chaos came the Fiendkin—hybrids born of demon ferocity and devil cunning.

Features vary: obsidian skin, molten eyes, horn ridges carved like volcanic glass. Their minds walk a razor-thin line between law and chaos. They rebuilt the ruined cities of Helthas into jagged, brutal settlements where every leader rules only until someone stronger kills them.

The one law they all acknowledge: “Survival of the Fittest.” Gladiator arenas settle disputes. Hellhounds and dire wolves roam the streets. Clan power rises and collapses in a heartbeat. Travelers enter at their own risk—and often leave in pieces.

The Fiendkin whisper their own version of the great myth:

“The god of light saved the world, 

but he did not save us. 

We are the children of the world’s wound.”

Some say Lilith and Cainis whisper to them from The Maw. Others say the wound itself birthed them, no corruption required. But all agree on one truth: Helthas stands as the scar of the world—the reminder that even holy victories leave shadows behind.