Atmoran Clevercraft

Hark, Sons of Wind and Winter! Pay heed, Daughters of Root and River! Too long have the long-eared lies of the Fox’s foemen filled our minds with mire and muck! I arrive from ancient Atmora, hewn from the homeland by the hardy hands of our oldest faith-ways, to rebirth rites and rituals, sacred sorceries and the totemic truth!

If one thing should the brood of the Hawk and followers of the Owl unlearn, it is the angular magic of Mer. The elf turns its back upon the Maker, and to do so is to face the stars. To study starlore is to know gods, but where Man kneels, Mer grasp for power — do not learn this, children of Men! Aetherius is a realm of gods, which we as their children may wield, but know that the Earthbones are our true well of power. The Maker, that clever Fox, put in all matter the spark of Magicka, handcrafted for our hands to craft. It is He who sends us starlight to fuel fire, He who ensouled beasts to strengthen our swords, and yes, He who even imbued bone with a bulwark greater than the frailties and failings of flesh.

These are the hidden truths of Atmora, spake soul-to-soul from the hardening homeland. Mankind’s making ought observe the truth, clever craft unveiled. The Maker did not err in His worldcraft, thus all tools we find upon the Maker’s world are for Mankind to wield. The elf longs to escape the everwise emanation of our Maker, so he will curse the conjurer who calls upon those corpses whose children did not honor them — but I ask of you, if the wight is unwarded from wayward spellweave, then why should the sorcerer stay his spellcraft? The Maker sings all slain spirits into the sleeve of dreaming, but sinew has strength in it yet, and to scorn such skill is to rebuke the right of resource. A spriggan serves the forest in life, but her wood warps to the will of craftsmen in death.

Heed not the hearsay of the Mage’s Guild! Made of the mold of Mer-like magic, all they hold dear, from their rituals to their robes, are bereft of the base acceptance that the Mundus and our Maker must imbue spellwork from the onset. You may ask yourself what recourse comes of these revelations, and I point to the studies and scholarship of Shalidor Spellbreaker, the true Archmagus of Mundus. A mage unmatched, an archon of Atmoran acuity, Spellbreaker was a concealed courier of clevercraft tradition, a Clever Man unlike any since. Many misunderstand his relation to the revenants of the draugr, thinking that Shalidor sought to nullify necromantic knowledge, but how can one maintain mastery over the labyrinths of ancient Atmoran burial barrows and not wield the weave of wightedness?

A Man, son of Sky, so rooted in the realm of Shor, son of Shor, that he became known to all as Archmage unrivaled. In Bromjunaar, we uncover the truth.