On the Northern Landmass, directly above the Primordials' domain, resided a peaceful land. There were no wars, no dramas- only the calm of wildlife and several beastkin tribes.
Most of them were of the avian variety: bat-headed, parrot-like, eagles, and more. At the center of the landmass stood what was known as the Great Tree of Rest.
Mammals from all across would come to peacefully coexist- predators and herbivores alike- before departing back to their territories, where nature would resume its course.
It became commonplace for this place to be the birthing ground of all species. With its serene aura of peace and calmness, it felt like the perfect sanctuary.
The more sentient mammals, such as the avian beastkin, revered this place as sacred. Whenever a wounded creature entered, its vines would descend, and the being would glow with a soft, pale green before emerging fully healed.
Those who died were brought to the base of the tree, where its fruits- bearing the faces of the departed- would be mourned by their weeping kin.
And yet, as if in solitude, the tree would smile gently back, bringing them comfort.
But none of these creatures knew the truth behind the smiles reflected in the fruits.
The souls were trapped inside- wailing in eternal grief and suffering- while only a serene expression remained visible on the outside.
A smile of peace. A wish for serenity. A comforting illusion of love.
That was until the first dwarves, abandoning the Primordial lands, made landfall.
Their arrival, burning wood and digging unnatural homes, shifted the balance. Feeling this disturbance, the tree shifted and groaned in disapproval which only grew with time.
Sensing this shift, the avian beastkin and wildlife turned hostile, killing any dwarves they could find. Fierce skirmishes erupted between the species, and the fallen from both sides were brought to the base of the Great Tree to be absorbed.
This war, however, awakened the darker and more malevolent side of life. Though the smiling tree still bore its serene expression, its tendrils, once pure, darkened with corruption.
Clean waters turned purple, emerald leaves bled crimson, and vibrant branches twisted into gnarled limbs. Creatures that came into contact, carrying hatred and the wish for vengeance in their hearts, began to change. Their once-natural forms grew twisted, unnatural bones and jagged spikes protruding from their flesh.
One such creature, a female avian beastkin- a batlike being- was driven by a singular desire for revenge. Unlike the others, she did not cower or hesitate. Instead, she made a bold and terrible wish.
'My kin are dead. Give me the power to walk among these smooth-skinned creatures and devour their essence. Let me torture their beings and return their remains to you.'
And so, the first beastkin vampire was born.
Her skin became smooth like that of a human or dwarf, her fangs dripped with paralyzing venom, and her wings carried her through the skies, both in daylight and under the cloak of night.
Her vengeance upon the dwarves was swift, and soon, their faces joined the smiling fruits of the tree. And for the first time, after the last dwarf fell, a chorus of laughter and delighted giggles echoed from the faces of the fruit.
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All except the vampire froze in place, paralyzed by the sound, before collapsing lifelessly to the ground. Only she remained, her crimson eyes gleaming with sinister satisfaction.
One by one, every creature in the forest was drained and returned to the Great Tree of Rest.
No. The Smiling Tree of Wishes.
Only she would remember the tree’s former name, its once-pure purpose.
And by the end of the second century, there was silence.
No birds singing, no squirrels gliding through the trees. No peaceful hums of the avian beastkin, nor the hearty laughter of dwarves.
Just silence.
A vampire, the corrupted, and her Smiling Tree of Wishes.
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The gray fog of war settled over the island, completely disconnecting it from Atlas’s world view after the year 200.
"I lost control of my own land?" Atlas grimaced, confused.
"The same will happen when the Weavers invade," Wisp chirped, hovering above the landmass along the edges, trying to see if it could glimpse underneath.
"Except when they do, it will be more difficult. While they can't choose central hubs of your species—which right now seems to be the Primordial land—they can perhaps erupt next to your Dark Elves or other species."
"Or in this fog of war, which makes it more dangerous because you don't get a peek at their invasion before the war begins."
"So I need to recapture this landmass before the first invasion," Atlas stated factually, spinning the globe. "Which I can't do anything about yet. Wait..."
A thought came to him, and he projected it onto the globe, which began to spin violently.
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Year: 378 The globe focuses on the vampire leaving the landmass on darkened wings. She traveled to the western continent and has been returning with corpses.
Year: 387 She discovered the Primordial land but sensed the power gap and chose to avoid it.
Year: 419 Bored, she flew the opposite way, expecting to find the other side of the same western landmass but instead discovered this new one. She picked up a few new creatures—some harpies, goblins, a lizard beastkin—but no Dark Elves.
Year: 467
On the western mountain, near one of the tallest peaks, she lay exhausted and bloodied. She tried to fight the Green Primordial Dragon but failed and was spared.
Perhaps after a century, the corruptive tree’s influence on her had waned? As she lay there, her expressionless eyes darted to the dragon’s figure, which morphed into a human several inches taller than her.
There was a conversation—bitter and filled with wrath—but no longer violence between them. It seemed, at least from Atlas’s point of view, they had made some kind of arrangement.
Year: 478 The Green Primordial and the vampire beastkin were roaming the western continent together. It seemed like she had stopped returning with food to the corrupted lands.
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"The fog of war removes view in the lost land, but I can still see incursions elsewhere by hostile units- or units coming out of there..." Atlas mused. "Pretty standard RTS behavior."
"Unlike your games, Weaver Atlas, units can defect."
"I'm pretty sure I had a game like that," Atlas narrowed his eyes and side-eyed Wisp. "Anyway, it seems like that Primordial has her under control. For better or worse. That also explains why I don’t have any stats on her."
Blinking, Atlas froze for a second. He blinked again and looked for her stats.
"Wait, no stats? So she's still hostile?"
"So long as some level of influence is held over her by the Smiling Tree of Wishes, regardless of how small, you cannot view her stats."
"So... what? She's either resisting the tree or waiting for the Primordial to lower its guard?"
"Yes, Weaver Atlas."