Hi, this is the first 'Lore Drop' for our new Narrative game : The Three Burial of Magister Corvan, which will release for free on our plateform next month.
The story focuses on a class called "The Whispered"
I. Orphan of Silent Streets
Marek Slayne’s first memory was of echoing footsteps in Greyglass’s winding alleys—footsteps that always trailed him. As a street orphan, he learned to move without sound, melding into every shadow. When he spoke, it was only to barter or plead, his voice a brittle thing seldom used. In those early years, he stole scraps of warmth from lantern-lit doorways, surviving on whispered promises and bruised resolve. The colder the night, the more he craved silence—yet even in darkness he felt eyes watching, as though his unspoken name drifted through every empty courtyard.
II. Blade in the Pale Court
By fifteen, Marek’s talent for silent movement caught the attention of the Pale Court’s spymaster. He was inducted into the Court’s covert cadre, trained in blade-work and whisper-lore: the art of binding fallen foes into obedient echoes. His hands soon learned to carve runes into bone-tipped daggers. Under torchlight he memorized every secret treaty, every whispered betrayal, storing them in the recesses of his mind. When his masters betrayed one another, Marek’s blade moved swiftly—always quiet, always unseen. Yet each fatal strike etched a deeper hollow into his soul, a disquiet he could neither silence nor escape.
III. The Codex of Unspoken Names
On a rain-slick night, Marek discovered the fabled Codex of Silent Graves buried beneath the Mortuary Hall. Its pages pulsed with spectral ink—each rune a whisper of a life undone. He believed the Codex would grant him mastery over both silence and death. But when he attempted the Severance Rite upon its first page, the words spat back in anguish, fracturing his essence. The library’s candles snuffed out; phantom hands seized his throat, choking him with secrets he could not contain. He fled, clutching the Codex and his bone‑etched dagger, haunted by every name he’d ever taken.
IV. Buried and Reborn
When his former masters learned of the forbidden tome, they moved against him without mercy. Marek’s last memory was steel across his back and the collapse of a shallow grave’s earth. They left him buried beneath broken oaks, assuming death would silence him at last.
Now, blinking against rotten light, Marek Slayne pressed his fingertips against the cracked, hastily‑nailed coffin lid. He forced it aside and crawled free into the fetid dusk. His hand closed around the dagger’s familiar hilt before his mind fully remembered his name. The Codex lay heavy in his cloak—and its whispers surged, urging him onward. There was still work to do in this broken world.
Hope you liked this story.
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