Arkhenbeasts

The Arkhenbeasts were a majestic and terrifying breed of giant birds, resembling an enormous fusion of crow, eagle, and other predatory raptors. Their wings spanned up to fifty feet, cutting through the skies like living shadows. Over a dozen species were known to exist, each more fearsome than the last. Referred to alternately as Arkhenbirds or Arnibirds, these creatures soared high above the Pelonnic continent, capable of covering its entire expanse with ease. They made their homes in the mountains that dotted the land, yet even these formidable creatures shied away from the Grand Mountains, where mightier beasts—the Vaskyrs and Grand Dragons—held dominion.

In the ancient cultures of the Arkadic highlands, particularly in the Arnioric lands and the distant realm of Phanim, the Arkhenbeasts were revered as symbols of power and prestige. Those who rode upon their backs were known as Arkhen Gliders, elite warriors belonging to prestigious guilds that, at the height of their influence, trained and armed these creatures for battle. With steel claws affixed to their talons and iron pikes fitted to their beaks, the Arkhenbeasts became deadly instruments of war, capable of tearing through both sky and foe alike.

To tame one of these magnificent beasts was no simple task. The only known method was to raise them from the moment they hatched, forging a bond that could never be broken. Their eggs were as rare as they were coveted, considered the most valuable of gifts in Arnioric culture, a treasure of the highest order. It was said that an egg, once given, signified a promise of unshakable loyalty and immense power.

Despite their grandeur, Arkhenbeasts were creatures of aloofness. They avoided human settlements and only descended from their high perches to hunt in the lowlands. While they were respected, even revered, they were also a source of fear and hate. These great birds often preyed on cattle, and though such instances were rare, they were known to take humanoids when the opportunity arose. For this reason, the Arkhenbeasts, while magnificent, cast a long shadow of dread over the lands they soared above.

Howlerines - hurs

Howlerines, or hurs, as they were known in the ancient Busdravic tongue (Huruz), were creatures born of both nightmare and legend. These formidable beasts stalked the untamed wildlands of Pelon, their origins rooted in the mist-shrouded forests and craggy mountains where few dared tread. A fearsome blend of wolf and bear, the hurs were built for power and endurance, their thick, bristling coats insulating them from the biting winds of the north, while their hulking, muscle-bound bodies could overpower even the fiercest of predators. Their elongated snouts, lined with teeth capable of crushing bone to dust, spoke to the raw strength lurking beneath their fearsome exteriors. And then there were their eyes—glowing like embers in the dark, filled with an unsettling intelligence that hinted at a cunning far beyond mere beasts. It was said they could hunt by scent and sound alone, their howls reverberating through the night like the cries of ancient spirits, sending shivers down the spines of even the bravest warriors.

The size of these creatures varied, their forms as diverse as the lands they prowled. Some were no larger than a hunting hound, swift and agile, while others—those feared and revered in equal measure—towered as large as warhorses, their massive frames looming over all who beheld them. The largest of their kind, known as Grand Hurs, stood as giants among their kin, weighing nearly a thousand pounds. Their paws, large enough to crush a man’s skull with a single swipe, were tipped with claws that could tear through armor as easily as flesh. Their coats, often dark shades of gray, brown, and black, were streaked with silver that rippled like lightning across a stormy sky. A fitting reflection of the fury they could unleash.

To the Pelonnic tribes, the hurs were both danger and salvation. For centuries, the wild beasts had been untamable, their savage nature loyal only to their own kind or to none at all. Yet, over time, the tribes—masters of survival in the harsh wilderness—learned the secrets of bonding with these fearsome creatures. It was no simple feat. Taming a hur required not only skill but courage and, above all, respect. Only the bravest of warriors could hope to establish such a bond, often starting when the hur was but a cub, still wild but impressionable. Through rigorous training and mutual trust, these once-wild predators became loyal companions in both the hunt and in battle. And once the bond was forged, it was unbreakable. A hur, when bound to its master, would defend them with unmatched ferocity, charging into danger without hesitation, its loyalty as fierce as its claws.

On the battlefield, Howlerines were a force to be reckoned with. As swift as wolves and as powerful as bears, they could tear through enemy ranks like a storm through a field of wheat. Their riders, armed with long spears and heavy battleaxes, would use the hurs’ natural agility to flank their opponents, striking with precision before retreating into the chaos of war. The largest of these beasts were outfitted with spiked collars and armored plating, transforming them into living siege engines capable of breaking through fortified lines. Even without a rider, a charging hur was a terrifying sight, its primal roar enough to shake the resolve of all but the hardiest of foes.

Legends abound of entire battalions brought to their knees by a pack of rampaging hurs, their howls ringing out like the cry of death itself. And yet, for all their ferocity, the Pelonnians held the creatures in high esteem. To them, the hurs were more than just tools of war—they were protectors, guardians of the land and its people. In the rituals of the Pelonnic tribes, warriors would don the pelts of Howlerines, believing that by wearing the beast’s skin, they might channel its strength, its courage. Some even spoke of deeper connections between man and hur, spiritual bonds that transcended the physical realm, uniting the two in a way that few could understand.

And so, the Howlerines—whether revered as loyal companions or feared as ruthless predators—left their indelible mark on the history of Pelon. Their howls, carried on the cold winds of the wildlands, served as a reminder of the raw, untamed power that still lingered in the dark places of the world, waiting to be called upon by those bold enough to seek it.

Montmen, Morkhs

The Morkh-beings, a race shrouded in mystery and myth, were creatures of formidable stature, native to the remote and craggy peaks of the Pelonnic wilderness. Towering at ten feet tall, they were as much a part of the mountains as the rocks themselves, their immense forms cloaked in thick, matted fur that ranged from storm-gray to the deep brown of ancient bark. Their appearance was wild, almost primeval, reminiscent of the legendary trolls of forgotten tales. Their fur shielded them from the biting winds and freezing snow, allowing them to navigate the harshest elements with ease. It also served as camouflage, their hulking forms blending into the rugged terrain until they were little more than shadows on the cliffs. But it was their eyes—small, glowing like embers beneath heavy brows—that gave them away, betraying an intelligence that many refused to acknowledge.

Solitary by nature, the Morkh-beings were a race that valued isolation. They lived in the forgotten corners of the world, far from the bustling towns and cities of man. Small, tight-knit communities formed in the heart of the mountains, hidden in the labyrinth of caves and towering rock formations. Among their own kind, they found solace. Outsiders, however, were met with suspicion and often hostility. Few ventured into Morkh territory willingly, and those who did were wise to tread carefully. Strangers who wandered too close to their hidden enclaves were greeted with low, rumbling growls—warnings that carried the weight of millennia. And if the intruder failed to heed that warning, the Morkh-beings would unleash their fury, their immense strength a force no man could match.

Despite their size and power, the Morkh-beings were not creatures of war. They were content with their solitude, spending their days foraging for roots and berries, hunting the game that roamed the mountain valleys, and crafting tools from stone and bone. They lived simply, quietly, and with a profound respect for the land they called home. Their language, a guttural mix of growls and gestures, was foreign to most who heard it, but within it lay a quiet wisdom, a deep understanding of the world that often went unnoticed by those who saw them as little more than beasts. Carvings and symbols, etched into the stone of their homes, told stories of their history—tales of survival, loss, and the mountains that had shaped them.

But while the Morkh-beings sought only to live in peace, others had different designs for them. For centuries, the Arkadic cultures of the lowlands had viewed the Morkh as little more than animals, fit only for labor. They hunted the Morkh-beings, capturing them and shackling them in chains, forcing them to toil in the mines, haul stone for their great cities, and work the fields of the Arkadic lords. The strength of the Morkh-beings made them invaluable as slaves, their immense frames able to bear the burdens that would break a man. The scars of countless whippings crisscrossed their fur-covered backs, and their chains, heavy and unrelenting, dragged behind them as they were led to their fates.

The Arkadians, in their arrogance, believed the Morkh-beings to be simple-minded brutes, less intelligent than even the Causucks—another subjugated race. But in this, the Arkadians were wrong. Beneath their rugged exteriors and primal appearance, the Morkh-beings possessed a loyalty and depth of understanding that few could see. They were slow to trust, but once a bond was formed, it was unbreakable. There were whispers in the Pelonnic lands of travelers lost in the mountains, only to be saved by the very creatures they feared. The Morkh-beings, though fierce in their protection of their homes, were also capable of great compassion. These rare tales spoke of the Morkh sheltering humans during the deadliest of winters, offering them warmth and food until the thaw returned.

Though exploited and hunted by the Arkadians, the Morkh-beings endured, clinging fiercely to their freedom and their way of life. In the hidden recesses of the mountains, far from the reach of civilization, they lived as they always had—alone, yet proud. Their mournful howls echoed through the cliffs, carried on the winds like ancient songs of a race long misunderstood, but never broken. And so the Morkh-beings remained, guardians of the wild places, their legacy etched into the stone of the mountains they called home.

Beasts of Pelonnia

Beasts of the Northern Continent

Sparkons, shadedrakes (qhuliqhul)

The Sparkons, shade-drakes of the dark, were abominable creatures—a nightmarish fusion of lizard and bat, twisted and grotesque like the lost specters of pterodactyls from a forgotten age. They thrived in darkness, their leathery wings silent as death itself, flitting in and out of shadows without a whisper of sound. No creature escaped their appetite, whether beast or human, for Sparkons were as undiscerning as they were merciless, driven by a macabre craving for flesh and, most disturbingly, for the rich taste of brains.

The Sparkons’ cries were a cacophony of terror—a jagged symphony of shrieks, prolonged, haunting howls, and an unsettling array of clicks, snaps, and rattles. Beneath it all was a menacing hiss and low, guttural growl, rising in pitch as they approached their prey. Their long, tapered beaks, lined with rows of needle-sharp teeth, were weapons honed for ripping and tearing. And when those beaks closed, the sound was like stone grinding against bone—a chilling reminder that death was near.

Their bodies were grotesquely adapted for both sky and surface. Strong hind legs allowed them to pounce and cling, their clawed, spider-like limbs finding grip on any surface, no matter how sheer or smooth. At night, their eyes glistened like bottomless black pools, large and unblinking, perfectly attuned to the murk of their surroundings.

Among these shade-drakes, size varied from that of a common bat to the gargantuan qhuliqhul, the feared nightshadow in the Sparkor tongue. This monstrous Sparkon, native to the murky forests and cliffs of the Guin Peninsula, was a predator of legends, a specter that haunted nightmares. Those who saw the qhuliqhul described it as a winged demon, with a span that blotted out the stars and a presence that drained the very courage from men’s bones. And in the rare instances it descended upon a village, the aftermath was unmistakable—the hollow-eyed gaze of the fallen, their brains devoured, leaving only husks behind.

Vaskyrs

The Vaskyrs were an ancient race of avian predators, massive and majestic, with shriveled forelimbs adapted to clutch the sheer cliffs of their homeland, the Grand Mountains. Their powerful hind legs, ending in formidable claws, were tools both of hunting and survival, allowing them to perch effortlessly on crags that even the hardiest of climbers would deem impassable.

Each Vaskyr possessed a smooth, curved beak, strong and sharp, suited for tearing through flesh with ease. This beak, when clacked, created a distinct, bone-chilling sound that echoed through the valleys below. Yet, their voices were far more versatile; they wielded a broad vocabulary that stretched from soft, haunting coos to shrill, high-pitched calls and, when provoked, an ear-splitting screech that could carry for miles. Their feathers, dense and layered for protection against the winds, were most commonly shades of deep blue, like the evening sea. When their wings unfurled, the span could reach an astonishing seventy feet, enough to darken the cliffs beneath them.

The Vaskyrs made their nests among the fjords of the Grand Mountains, seldom venturing beyond this rugged realm. To the north, the arkhenbeasts, ferocious and territorial, patrolled their own lands, creating an unspoken boundary rarely crossed by the Vaskyrs. Westward, however, these creatures sometimes ranged as far as the Murman peaks and the remote Arkhanic mountains, with only the rarest sightings in the far northern reaches of Arkhane. They also found homes among the forbidding Iron Mountains, where their kind were rumored to be as old as the stone itself.

Hunters of vast appetites, the Vaskyrs preyed on nearly anything within their domain, though tales rarely spoke of them taking humans. Rather, they were known as vigilant guardians of their nests and fierce defenders of their territories, often aggressive only when provoked or threatened.

The Vaskites, a mountain-dwelling people, discovered a means to tame these grand creatures: by harvesting eggs from the perilous cliffside nests and raising Vaskyrs from hatchlings. Through this bond, forged from the earliest moments of life, they gained the loyalty of the creatures, training them to serve their needs and bringing a piece of the Grand Mountains’ wild power under their control.

Dragons, due to their unique nature, are listed in a separate category. They are considered one of the major ancient creatures, amongst saginairs, vaskyrs, sparkons and arkhenbeasts. In the Yoneian world, dragons were widely regarded as legends of the far corners of Antoria, few believing they never even existed, and being only part of the Tale of the Three Kings. In the Selenthion era, they were proven to be very much a real thing.

Hellornic dragons, Rasa-khul

The most renowned of Antoric dragons, the Hellornic breed from the Far West, stood apart from all others for one simple reason: they alone possessed the fearsome ability to breathe fire. These mighty creatures roamed the towering peaks of the Hellmoric and Drakomoric mountain ranges, and the fiery volcanic plateaus they called home. From time to time, they would descend upon the lowlands, hunting with deadly precision. Their wings spanned over a hundred feet, casting shadows like storm clouds across the land. These dragons, while capable of breathing fire, did so not for war, but as part of their intricate mating rituals, triggered by the consumption of sulphur found in the bowels of the earth. Their scales shimmered in an array of hues, but red, black, and yellow—and the shades in between—dominated their kind.

In the beginning, the Hellornic dragons were not seen as majestic creatures of legend, but as living nightmares, reviled and feared by all who dwelled in their shadow. They were not merely predators, hunting for food, but scourges upon the land itself. With the same unrestrained fury that marked their mating rites, they descended from the Hellmoric peaks to ravage the lowland villages and cities. They left no distinction between cattle and humans, devouring both with equal hunger, reducing homes and fields to smoldering ashes in their wake. Fear clung to the air like smoke, and the people of Hellornia trembled, knowing their lives could be snuffed out at any moment by the dragon’s flame.

Desperate to defend their homes, the Hellornians mounted countless campaigns, sending their bravest warriors to climb the treacherous slopes in search of dragon nests. They sought to destroy the eggs, to strike at the heart of the terror. But time and time again, these ventures ended in failure, for no mortal could hope to stand against the might of a fully grown Hellornic dragon. The sky was their dominion, and from the sky, death rained down, swift and unrelenting.

That was, until a boy’s reckless courage altered the course of history. Sparkoniz, a mere lad from the town of Sparkofar, ventured alone into the heart of Dom Nuriaz, a land where no Hellornian dared tread. His mission was audacious, perhaps suicidal—to steal a dragon egg. And against all odds, he succeeded. But his victory came at a terrible cost. The theft ignited the dragons' wrath like never before. Their rage was unmatched, and they swept through Hellornia, burning and killing everything in their path as they searched for the stolen egg. Towns were obliterated, and entire families were wiped from existence. Among the fallen were Sparkoniz’s own kin, leaving him alone to bear the weight of his actions.

Fleeing the devastation with the egg in hand, consumed by grief and guilt, Sparkoniz attempted to destroy it, to end the nightmare he had unleashed. But before he could, the egg hatched. And from it emerged a dragon, not a beast bent on revenge, but one that bonded with him. In that moment, their fates intertwined, and the bond between boy and dragon was forged—an ancient connection more powerful than either of them could have imagined.

Through this bond, Sparkoniz endured the wilds, surviving on instinct and the growing strength of his dragon. As the years passed, the dragon matured, and with it, so did Sparkoniz’s mastery over the creature. He discovered that the dragons, while fearsome and untamed, were not wholly driven by destruction. They had two sides: one of blind fury, killing any who crossed their path, and another, reserved for those few they deemed worthy of their trust. Once that trust was earned, it was unwavering—so deep was the bond that a dragon would fight to the death to protect the one they had bonded with. And so it was that Sparkoniz, the boy who had once brought ruin to his homeland, found himself at the head of Dom Nuriaz’s mighty herd, no longer the hunted, but the master of the Hellornic dragons.

Sparkoniz founded the Hellornic Dragon Rider Empire by selecting brave, or perhaps foolish, volunteers to bond with the dragons. Each candidate faced a trial of fire—those whom the dragons accepted lived to become Riders; the rest were incinerated in the blink of an eye. For reasons unknown, the dragons displayed a peculiar preference for left-handed warriors, a mystery that granted these individuals a near-mythical status within Hellornian society. Thus, the Dragon Riders of Elite Argom earned their fearsome name, and with their newfound power, they set their sights on conquest.

With dragons at their side, the Hellornians ravaged the cities of Causuck Coasts and the Pelonvangel Pass, laying waste to the Faireanic territories and the First Perilleanic Empire, the Balbouricon Dimalorion Peninsula. Their raiding parties struck terror into distant lands—Gui, the Land of Ra, the heart of Arnior, and even as far as Shambor, Colossia, and Phanim. Wherever they went, fire and destruction followed, the might of their dragons carving their legacy into the bones of history.

Grand Dragons, Storm-khul

The Grand Dragons, or Stormic Dragons as they were sometimes called, were the other towering giants among the dragonkind of Antoria. Unlike their fire-breathing cousins, the Hellornian dragons, the Grand Dragons were a reclusive species, confined to the icy isolation of the Grand Mountains. There, they dwelled among the sprawling expanses of the Grand Glaciers, their lairs hidden deep within the frozen cliffs and fjords. These immense creatures sustained themselves on the bounty of the sea, diving with terrifying ease into the dark, cold waters of the Stormic fjords to hunt everything from fish to the mighty whales that roamed the depths. Rarely did they venture beyond the jagged peaks of their frozen homeland, content to live in their lofty domain.

Though they did not breathe fire, the Grand Dragons were far larger than their Hellornic kin. With wingspans exceeding 300 feet, their size alone rendered them all but invincible. Few creatures on Antoria, if any, could pose a threat to these behemoths. Their sheer bulk made them impervious to attack, and the thickness of their scales—some measuring up to four inches—ensured that no blade, claw, or flame could pierce their hide. The dragons’ coloration, a shimmering blend of icy blues and pale whites, allowed them to blend seamlessly with their snowy surroundings, though there were rare instances of dragons adorned with unique shades, marking them as even more exceptional among their kind.

The Vaskites, during the height of their power, were the first to demonstrate the true might of these Grand Dragons. While they lacked the fearsome flames of the Hellornian breed, the Grand Dragons needed no such weaponry. Their size alone was their greatest strength. These titanic creatures could simply trample over their enemies, their massive claws and weight crushing all in their path. Even the Hellornic dragons, which had once struck fear into the hearts of all who beheld them, were no match for the Grand Dragons. Where fire proved ineffective, the Grand Dragons retaliated with crushing bites, severing the heads of their lesser foes with a single snap of their jaws. In battles between these two titans, the Hellornic fire-breathers, despite their fiery breath and savage ferocity, stood little chance against the overwhelming might of the Stormic dragons.

It was this clash of titans that spelled the end of Sparkoniz’s Dragon Rider order, for even his elite Hellornic dragons were helpless before the Stormic giants. The Vaskites, in their wisdom, quickly learned that the mere presence of a Grand Dragon on the battlefield was often enough to compel entire armies to surrender. Few had the will to stand against such power. With their dragon mounts, the Vaskites expanded their empire almost effortlessly, subjugating lands far and wide—from the Colossian coasts to Ironland, the Continental realms, Phanim, and Perillenia. Even the distant lands of Yanakhon fell under their sway, their rulers bowing before the awe-inspiring sight of a Grand Dragon soaring through the skies.

Thus, the Grand Dragons, while peaceful by nature, became the instruments of conquest, their very existence a reminder of the unfathomable might that still lay hidden in the world’s most remote and forbidding places.

Rock dragons, Mora-khul

Also known as Ballistic dragons, from Ballis Desert,

Deep dragons, Haub-khul

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Dragons

Saginairs, the wing-lions

Saginairs, the winged lions of legend, were creatures of unmatched majesty and power, native to the towering, snow-capped peaks of Yanakhon. These beasts, larger than even the mightiest of warhorses, moved with a grace and strength that belied their immense size. Their thick, coarse fur, in shades of slate-gray and deep, earthen brown, glistened under the pale mountain sun, perfectly adapted to the biting cold winds that swept through their lofty domain. Each step they took carried the weight of millennia, and their enormous wings, feathered and majestic like those of a great eagle, could stretch a full fifty feet in width, casting shadows across the craggy cliffs and valleys far below. When they soared, they did so effortlessly, their leonine bodies gliding through the thin mountain air as though born to the sky itself.

The people of Yanakhon had long revered the saginairs, not as mere beasts, but as embodiments of divine power. Since the ancient Silantic era, saginairs were woven into the very fabric of myth and worship. They were not simply animals but Lords of the Mountains, Lions of the Heavens, beings believed to watch over the highlands with a regal detachment, their golden eyes ever vigilant. Few mortals ever saw a saginair up close, for the creatures seldom descended from their mountain perches. Most sightings were distant glimpses—figures soaring high above the clouds, indistinguishable from the great birds of prey that shared the skies. Their aloofness only added to the mystique, for saginairs were said to never strike at man unless provoked, choosing their prey with a noble, almost sacred discernment. To encounter a saginair in the wild was seen as a rare blessing, a moment touched by the divine.

During the Selerian Golden Age, saginairs held a place of honor, their likeness emblazoned on the banners of noble houses and woven into the tapestries of temples. Yet, even in that age of reverence, there came a time when the saginairs were hunted. In the misguided ambition of knight-patral Taranthurm, a campaign was launched to capture or slay these magnificent creatures, driven by the greed of men who sought to wear their wings as trophies. Pride, the very vice that men believed elevated them above all others, was the undoing of many in those days. Hunters scoured the mountains, seeking the creatures whose wings could grant them glory. Yet few saginairs were felled, for the mountains themselves seemed to rise in defense of the sacred beasts. Those who succeeded in the hunt returned not as heroes but as haunted men, their nights plagued by the echo of a saginair’s roar and the weight of their actions pressing heavy on their souls. It was said that those who killed a saginair met swift and mysterious ends, as though the very spirits of the highlands had exacted their vengeance.

In the ages that followed, saginairs were no longer seen as prey but as sacred protectors of the wild. Legends spread of their role as guardians of the mountains, silently watching from their perches high above, unseen but ever present. Tales passed down through generations spoke of saginairs guiding lost travelers, their luminous eyes cutting through the dark of night, leading the wayward back to safety. Some whispered of saginairs appearing to warriors on the brink of death, circling above them as a sign that their sacrifice had been witnessed by the heavens. These stories cemented their status as more than animals—they were symbols of the balance between the wild and the human world, forces of nature that could not be tamed by pride or greed.

For centuries, adventurers and scholars alike sought the saginairs, hoping to learn their secrets or even forge a bond with one of the great beasts. But none succeeded. The saginairs, it seemed, were beyond the reach of man’s grasp, retreating deeper into the mountains as civilization pressed ever closer. It was not until the time of Gralon that the impossible became reality.

Gralon, a figure now etched into the annals of Yanakhonian history, was unlike the hunters and warriors who came before him. Where others sought to dominate the saginairs, Gralon approached them with respect and patience. He spent years in the mountains, living among the cliffs, watching the saginairs from afar, learning their ways. He understood what others did not—that the saginairs could not be forced into submission. To earn their trust, one had to offer something in return. After months of quiet observation, Gralon’s opportunity came. He found a wounded saginair, its wing torn by a fall on the jagged slopes of Kallihalissor. Instead of seizing the moment to claim the beast as his own, Gralon nursed it back to health, tending to its wounds with the care of a healer.

In time, the saginair allowed Gralon to approach, and a bond was formed, not through force, but through mutual trust. It was said that when the creature finally spread its wings again, Gralon stood at its side, and together they took to the skies. From that day forward, Gralon’s saginair became a symbol of peace and unity, flying with him across the highlands of Yanakhon. The bond between man and beast, forged in kindness and respect, was unlike anything seen before or since. The saginairs, once hunted and feared, were now revered as creatures of wisdom and power. To see one in flight was no longer a sign of danger but a glimpse into the divine mysteries that governed the world.

Though few in the ages that followed ever managed to recreate the bond that Gralon had forged, his legacy endured. The saginairs remained untouchable, their golden eyes ever watching from the heights, their wings casting shadows over the mountains they had ruled since time immemorial. They were, and always would be, the guardians of the wild places, the living embodiment of the untamed spirit of Yanakhon.