Mountains and Forests

The mountains of Ironforge rose like petrified titans, their black granite slopes veined with glinting ore under a sun shrouded by ash clouds. The Mountain Kingdom was a labyrinth of jagged peaks, smoking forges, and deep tunnels where the clang of hammers echoed like a pulsing heart. The air carried the scent of molten iron and sulfur, and deep ravines housed ever-burning furnaces fed by ancient lava. Ironforge had survived the First Great War, but now faced awakened stone golems, stirred by the mountains’ unstable magic, destroying villages and blocking mines. Its people, smiths and warriors with calloused skin and metallic rune tattoos, upheld a tradition of forging legendary weapons, believing their prophesied hero would restore the kingdom’s glory.

In the Heart of the Forge, a temple carved into a volcanic mountain, Drenvar, the Master Smith, led the summoning ritual. A burly man with a steel-threaded beard and scars glowing like molten metal from years crafting in infernal furnaces, his Core Fire skill shaped lava into unbreakable blades. Loyal but impatient, Drenvar believed brute strength was Ironforge’s answer. Beside him was Lirien, the Rune Guardian, a slender woman with onyx eyes and pulsing runic tattoos. Her Arcane Inscription enchanted weapons with magical properties, but her reserved demeanor hid a fervent belief in the prophecy. “We’ve gathered rare ores and golem blood for this ritual,” Drenvar said as the glowing iron altar flared. “The hero will forge our fate.”

The portal opened with a roar of flames, and Thorne emerged, a broad man in dark plate armor etched with living runes. His brown eyes burned with determination, and he wielded a warhammer seemingly forged from a mountain’s heart. In ATHOMIS, Thorne was known for tank builds, excelling in resilience and crafting, and now his Titan Forge skill manifested: he touched the ground, and nearby ore shaped into a massive, pulsing shield. “This is… real?” he asked, his deep voice echoing in the temple. Lirien bowed. “Welcome, Hero of Ironforge. You are the smith to shape our future.”

Meanwhile, in Eldoria, the Forest Kingdom, the landscape was a living tapestry of colossal trees, their canopies blocking the sun, casting the ground in greenish gloom. Thorny vines wove with pulsing roots, and the air smelled of moss and sweet sap, tinged with rot. Eldoria had been a sanctuary of natural magic, but the First Great War corrupted its forests, awakening mutant beasts and carnivorous trees that attacked indiscriminately. Its people, druids and wood elves with leaf-patterned skin, fought to protect the last sanctuaries, believing their prophesied hero would restore harmony.

In the Eternal Grove, a circle of ancient oaks carved with runes, Sylvara, the Life Warden, led the ritual. A golden-haired elf with green eyes that seemed to pierce reality’s veil, her Forest Touch healed allies and strengthened vegetation. Calm yet fiercely determined, she hid a steely resolve. Beside her was Varnis, the Shadow Hunter, a human scarred by claw marks, wielding an enchanted crossbow firing venomous bolts. Distrustful and driven by vengeance against the beasts that razed his village, he remained loyal to the cause. “We’ve gathered sacred oak sap and beast blood for this ritual,” Sylvara said as the rune circle glowed emerald. “The hero will bring life back.”

The portal opened, and Elara emerged, a lithe woman with brown hair entwined with living vines, dressed in a robe woven from leaves. Her eyes glowed with a deep connection to nature. In ATHOMIS, she mastered support and control builds, and now her Nature Communion skill manifested: vines rose from the ground, forming a protective barrier, and spectral birds circled her. “This place… it’s alive,” she murmured, touching a tree that pulsed in response. Sylvara knelt. “Welcome, Hero of Eldoria. You are the forest’s hope.”

As Thorne surveyed the Ironforge temple, a vision flashed through his mind: the Tear of Eryndor pulsing, showing glimpses of other heroes—Athos in an ashen wasteland, Mira in waters, Draven amid bones. “Other heroes… in other kingdoms,” he said, gripping his hammer. “This is bigger than Ironforge.” Drenvar frowned. “Then the prophecy binds the Seven Kingdoms. We must prepare.”

In Eldoria, Elara saw the same vision, her vines trembling with the Tear’s energy. “There are others like me,” she whispered, looking at Sylvara. “Summoned too. Friends or foes?” Varnis loaded his crossbow. “Whatever they are, the forest will be ready.”