Heroes and Villains of Castor
As you continue walking through the vast halls of the Library, you notice portraits hanging from the damp stone walls resembling Castors Heroes and Villains with scrolls and novels dedicated to their deeds or schemes, and a daunting thought surrounds you, everyone has a story to tell, and everyone is the hero of their own story and you wonder, what story will be told about you?
Karruun, The Wounded Flame of the First Folk
In the elder age, before the coming of humankind, the land of Castor belonged to the First Folk, radiant beings formed from the dreams of gods, their bodies woven from starlight, song, and root. They lived in harmony with the world, keepers of the wild magics and the sacred groves. Among them was Karruun, High Priestess of the Calliwood and soul haven to Feldric Fae, King of the First Folk. She was revered not only for her wisdom but for her unmatched grace, known in every glade and glen as the voice of peace and guardian of balance.
But peace is never timeless.
From across the sky came the Dwarvani. Sky-borne conquerors sailing in floating isles and rune-bound airships. Drawn by Castor’s deep magic and rare minerals, they saw only resources, not sacred ground. At first they mined and plundered in silence, but when the First Folk rose in protest, the skyfolk answered with war.
For decades, the forests of Castor burned, rivers turned red, and the groves fell silent.
At the height of the war, as hope withered like frost-bitten leaves, Karruun walked alone to the Shrine of the Shapers, the sacred place where the gods once walked. There she sought Nar’Zhulen, the Storyteller, weaver of destinies, hoping to change the tale unfolding before her. But it was not Nar’Zhulen who came.
Instead, through the ash-swirled sky descended Kaelithra, the Battle-Maiden, goddess of fury and glory. Clad in flame and silver, she offered Karruun a choice: the power to end the war, but at a cost beyond imagining.
Karruun, torn between the love for her people and her fear of what might be lost, whispered her consent.
The transformation was agony.
Her body cracked and tore as divine fire coursed through her veins. Wings of scale and sinew erupted from her back. Her silverwood skin turned obsidian and gold, her song-voice became a roar of storms. The beauty of Calliwood was gone. Karruun had become the first of a new and terrible form.
She had become Dragon, a word created by the First folk, now lost to time, only to be seen in the cursed tongue of shadow scribe for “wrath given wing.”
With flame and fury, she rose. The skies burned as she shattered the Dwarvani fleets, their rune-engines melting in her wake. Floating citadels fell like stars from Bliss. The First Folk watched in awe and horror, not knowing whether to cheer or weep.
Then came silence.
The Dwarvani, broken and scattered, vanished into the unknown, never to return.
But Karruun did not celebrate.
Wounded by sky-forged steel and tormented by what she had become, she vanished into the shadowed North-East, beyond the Calliwood. There, hidden deep within a labyrinthine cavern, she is said to guard the last remnants of her people, stone-bound echoes of the First Folk lost in time.
Some say she sleeps. Others claim she watches, ever alert. Few dare seek her out.
Yet the bards still sing her name, and the Fae whisper her sorrow: a once-radiant soul who gave everything to save her kin, only to be left alone, monstrous and forgotten. They say she dreams still of the old songs, of the light she once bore, and of a question that haunts her immortal heart:
Was the dragon her curse… or her true form at last unveiled?
Ollic Pundug, The Goblin King
When the first Human vessels touched the wave-worn shores of Castor, the Fae Folk watched from the misted tree-lines and flowered hills with equal parts suspicion and cautious hope. For centuries, the Fae had nursed their wounds from the brutal Dwarvani Invasion, their once-vibrant realms left fractured and scarred. The arrival of the Humans, unfamiliar, wide-eyed, and seemingly untethered to any god or cause was seen by many as a sign. Perhaps, at last, the gods were offering peace.
Of all the Fae, it was the Goblins who embraced the newcomers with the most favour. Inquisitive and industrious by nature, the goblins were enthralled by Human children—their stories, their play, their wild creativity. Goblin artisans began crafting toys, clothes, and tools for the settlers, helping raise early Human towns from the soil. They shared secrets of the land, taught them how to farm the Fae-blessed fields, and in doing so, helped the Humans survive their first harsh winters.
But the alliance would not last.
As Human ambition grew, so did their hunger for land, metal, and machines. The Boom Time began, an age of sprawling cities, smoke-belching factories, and railways that tore across ancient glades. Human leaders, fearing the Fae’s magic and resenting their influence, began a campaign of fear and propaganda. Goblins were cast as tricksters, thieves, and monsters in Human tales and pamphlets. Soon, they were forced from the cities they had helped build, driven into the wilds, hunted and hated.
One Goblin refused to bow to this betrayal.
Ollic Pungdug, once a renowned toy maker and inventor, had been beloved by both Goblin and Human children alike. His laughter was said to carry down the chimneys of villages during winter, his clockwork marvels sold in every market. But when the edicts came, and his kind were declared “untrustworthy Fae,” Ollic was driven from his workshop, his creations burned.
From his bitterness rose a fire.
Ollic rallied the scattered Goblin clans, demanding dignity and justice. Under his banner, they rose in rebellion, not with swords, but with sabotage, pranks turned into traps, and inventions turned into instruments of war. His people named him Goblin King, not for royalty, but for resolve.
Yet even defiance has a cost.
The conflict grew bloodier. In his desperation, Ollic delved into forbidden magic, forgotten spells and whispers of vengeance too potent for mortal minds. His eyes burned with unearthly flame, and where he once made music boxes, he now crafted curses, but to no avail, his rebellion was crushed and Ollic vanished.
To some, he became a myth,a boogeyman used to frighten unruly children. “Behave, or the Goblin King will come for you in the night.”
But others whisper that he still lives, hidden deep beneath the roots of Ashfell Forest, in a labyrinth of twisting tunnels and enchanted gears. There, they say, he plots a second rise, his army of goblins growing bolder, setting snares for unwary travelers and crafting weapons from trinkets and toys.
Whether man or monster, memory or menace, one thing remains clear:
The Goblin King waits.
And the forest watches with him.
