Punk Werewolf

ALT

Runes are the language of Old, spoken by titans when they still walked the planes. Though most of the language is long since dead, a few written words remain scattered  upon the earth. These few snippets carry with them the power to wield magic, and are highly sought after. To cast a rune is to cast something akin to a spell. Each rune is unique in the power it holds, and must be taught directly from the source. A reader cannot teach another reader the words they know - making rune finding a crucial, albeit treacherous task.  Readers most easily cast a rune verbally via saying the word, phrase, or name. After extensive practice and focus, runes can be cast simply by visualizing them.  Runes are most commonly, if not nearly exclusively, found alongside dead titans. With some being in tombs, some in unmarked graves, some within the very skeletons of their writers: runes are notoriously difficult to find. There have been some known to attempt to map out runes they’ve come across, or otherwise mark them for passersby to see, but others are just as keen to keep locations of runes to themselves. The destruction of markers is not at all uncommon, and some have even gone so far as to attempt to destroy the runes after reading them themselves.  The ability to read runes stems from the distant genetic connection to titans. There are three dialects of runes, spoken by the three different titans. Anyone with the ability to read a rune is, in some way, related to one of the three titan kinds. Titan blood does not mix, and any rune reader is only ever born connected to one. They are as follows: ᛏᚬᛘᚬᚾᛁᚴ - Daemonic language of gods ᛞᚱᚪᚳᚩᚾᛁᚳ - Draconic language of wyrms ᚷᛁᚨᚾᛏ - Giant language of the jötnar

There is nothing left of what once was. The men of the past knew this land so unalike to what it now is. When they looked to the sun, they saw meadows, thick greens, trees with canopies impenetrable. They saw the walls of kingdoms, forged by calloused hands and steadfast against their enemies. Titans walked among men, in this past life.  They watched as before them birthed an era of plenty, and chronicled it in their own various means.  The world went by a different name, then. Now it is simply the Mor. There are no more men, no more kingdoms. A catastrophe took all that it could, and blanketed the rest in frost. All that remains of this grandiose past are relics and ruins - abandoned to waste away beneath the weight of time. The land holds no other memories of what once was - the green, the meadows, the trees;  forgotten. Those so blighted by survival are ignorant to what caused the world’s decay, and the now defunct society that died with it. They’ve only ever known the ice, the cold, the Mor. What is left now is hardly much of anything. The Mor is a cold, unforgiving continent surrounded by frigid seas. Its inhabitants are at constant war - against both the elements, and their peers. Though once home to magic aplenty, what little exists now is just as dangerous as it is useful. Life is nothing more than a long, bloody feud to the death: one in which everyone eventually loses.