Setting Info

Revenor manifests as a towering skeleton draped in voluminous dark robes, accented with gold threads depicting funeral processions and weeping mourners. His naked skull is crowned with a circled of woven cypress branches, the tree associated with death. In one hand he grips a ceremonial scepter carved from human femurs, symbolizing his authority over mortal remains.

As lord of the dead, Revenor dwells in the cold and misty realm of the afterlife. Here he oversees the transition of newly deceased souls into his keep, weighing the deeds of their past life. Many he deems ready for eternal peace, releasing them from the burden of corporeal existence. But some spirits he returns to the mortal plane as revenants - undead servants created by the necromancers of Ossenheim.

These revenants retain their living memories and personality, bound back into their preserved mortal bodies by solemn ritual. Unlike mindless zombies, they serve willingly - duty and magic-bound to aid their living descendants however they can. Revenor judges each case where necromancers petition for a soul’s return. He allows only spirits he deems fit for renewal back into the wheel of life and service.

To living mortals, Revenor may seem stern and pitiless. But he understands better than any god that death comes for all in its proper time. He shepherds willing souls to what comes after with dignity and compassion. And for those granted a temporary reprisal as revenants, he binds their spirits into unlife’s purpose that both realms - mortal and beyond - may remain in balance.

Vita appears as a young woman in the full blossoming flower of youth and beauty. Her russet hair tumbles in lustrous waves across her shoulders, adorned with fresh flower buds that continuously open and transform into new varieties. Her skin gives off a warm glow of vitality, flushed with gentle color as though lit from within by the first blush of sunrise.

Vita dresses in gowns of embroidered silk that hug close to the curves of her body before spilling forth into gauzy skirts and sleeves, echoing the petals of an opening rose. The fabric constantly changes in rippling hues - emerald, sky blue, dusky rose, buttercup yellow - like a field of wildflowers waving in the wind.

When Vita walks, new grass and tiny field blossoms emerge from the soil beneath her feet. Birds alight hopefully on her outstretched fingertips, and furry woodland creatures gather adoringly around her legs. Bees and butterflies trail in her footsteps, drunken on the honey-sweet perfume that envelops Vita'spresence.

Vita dwells in a hilltop palace surrounded by lush gardens in endless bloom. Fountains burble, vines cling to open archways, and golden bees buzz lazily through the fragrant air. Within her halls, youths engage in joyful arts and lovers chase one another laughing through rose bushes heavy with blossom. An aura of innocence, devotion and carefree contentment infuses Vita’s domain - a refuge from worldly troubles and the ravages of time.

Yet Vita is not just goddess of youth but of the full cycle of fertility. She oversees pregnancy, birth, and the nurturing of new families. Hers are the blessings that yield abundant crops, fertile animals, and protection over mothers and their offspring. For even in winter's barren chill, Vita’s gifts prepare seeds for their next flowering come spring.

Ever shrouded in mystery, Mortus appears as a lithe young man with wild raven hair and skin as pale as moonlight. He dresses in a dark hooded cloak. This cloak shifts and drifts around him like mist, obscuring his form and casting his face in shadow.

When the hood pulls back, it reveals Mortus’ eyes - luminous pools of quicksilver that reflect an ancient wisdom far beyond his youthful appearance. Some find his gaze unsettling, as though Mortus sees into the depths of their soul and discerns their secret shames.

Mortus wanders the shadowy realms of dreams and visions, drinking in the unspoken fears and desires of mortals. He reads the omens written in the patterns of moonlight and cloud, hearing prophetic whispers on the wind. With a soft voice he murmurs cryptic pronouncements and sibylline verses, weaving strands of fate.

His dreams insinuate themselves into mortal minds, bringing portents and revelations. Those who can interpret Mortus’ symbols find guidance, while the unwary risk madness and ruin. Even other gods tread carefully with Mortus, for he sometimes sees destinies to which even they are bound.

Lathos typically manifests as a silver-haired woman with a back slightly hunched from long hours studiously poring over ancient texts. Her keen eyes gleam with relentless curiosity behind half-moon spectacles. Lathos dresses in simple robes the color of parchment, with myriad pockets and straps to hold scrolls, quills, and strange measuring instruments.

She dwells in the Great Archive, a library filled with skyscraping shelves stacked high with books, tomes, tablets, and unfurled scrolls. Owls glide to and fro amongst the shelves carrying more manuscripts in their beaks to deposit. Each document contains some snippet of history, prophecy, ancestry or ritual across all races and realms. Lathos meticulously studies them all, ever seeking connections and insights.  

At the center of the archives is a great oaken table where Lathos pieces together scroll fragments, compares accounts from multiple sources, and scribbles down timelines and genealogies. When not engaged in these works of scholarship, Lathos flits through the archives plucking scrolls seemingly at random but always guided by some eldritch inspiration.

Lathos values meticulous research, disciplined curiosity, and rigorous verification of claims against evidence. She urges all to drink deeply from the great pool of history to learn its lessons well. But she warns that the past can be slippery - records degrade, eyewitnesses err, and objectivity fades over time. One must parse truth from falsehood by cross-referencing multiple sources when possible. For it is only by honoring the complex messiness of lived truth that the future may progress wisely.

Tempus appears as an elderly man with a long, flowing beard as white as hoarfrost. His back is stooped with the weight of eons, and he leans heavily on an ornate staff carved with ouroboros serpents and arcane symbols. Tempus' robes are voluminous and heavy, colored in hues of deep umber, slate, and iron gray. The fabric is embroidered with hourglasses, clocks, sundials, and other icons of time's passage.

On his wrist Tempus wears a bracelet formed from a bronze gear, ever turning. In his veins runs not blood but silvery sand, each grain representing a mortal life he measures. In one gnarled hand he clutches an hourglass of mammoth proportions, filled with this glittering sand. With the other he holds aloft a set of scales, weighing human souls and deeds.

Tempus' face is a craggy landscape of wrinkles, like eroded mountains and valleys carved by ageless rivers. His eyes are pale and rheumy on the surface, yet their milky depths swirl with eons of memory and foresight. Above his snowy beard, Tempus' lips are pressed into a thin line, never smiling or frowning. His is an impartial countenance, frozen in eternal observation.

Tempus dwells outside the normal movement of time, such that a minute for him may be an epoch for mortals. He observes the weaving of past, present and future simultaneously. The march of days means little to eternal Tempus. Only the grand cycles of seasons, ages, and aeons have meaning in his calculations. All things mortal will crumble to dust before Tempus' endless reign concludes.

Caelo is the capricious goddess of sky and seasons, given to sudden shifts in mood that are reflected in the weather of the mortal realm. She appears as a lithe woman with windswept auburn hair, clothed in diaphanous robes that flow and flutter about her. Caelo's most striking features are her constellation of prismatic eyes that gaze down upon the world below.

Caelo resides in a great cloud palace that drifts across the heavens. From here she observes the comings and goings of mortals. When she is in a foul mood, Caelo conjures up thunderheads and sends driving rains or blizzards to pummel the land. But in fair weather her laughter rings clear as birdsong, and a warm breeze ruffles meadows and rooftops.

Caelo often flies down to earth, her passage marked by sudden gusts of wind that stir up leaves and whip clothing about. She is closest with her brother Mortus who reads the omens in cloud patterns and understands Caelo's mercurial moods. Mortals know that when Caelo is calm and skies are clear, the veil between living and dead is firmest. But when storms roll in, the spirits grow restless and stir.

Few dare entreat Caelo directly, for her wrath is terrible to behold. But all honor her place in Ossenheim's web of life and death. Though at times destructive, Caelo's storms also nourish the land and bid seeds to sprout. Her rains echo the endless cycle of mortal lives, withering some while bringing renewal to others.

• The most esteemed lineages can trace their great ancestral revenants back for hundreds of years. The antiquity of one's line brings prestige.
• Ruling dynasties often keep rolls of their most prominent ancestors, the feats they achieved as revenants, and their years of service.
• Inheritance and succession emphasizes not just the living heirs but also the wisdom of their undead forebears. Elders consult the family's ancestral advisors for guidance on decisions that will impact generations to come.
• Necromantic training focuses on preserving lineage - binding revenants, recording histories, maintaining ancestral crypts. Multi-generational master-apprentice relationships reinforce dynastic continuity.

• Revenants of extraordinary renown or deeds sometimes attract followings who venerate them independently of familial relation. Their tombs or crypts become shrines with devoted cultists.
• These cults keep candlelight vigils, bring offerings befitting the revenant's life story, and spread folk tales about their subjects across the region. They may ask to commune with or seek blessings from revenants they revere outside of their lineage.
• In more remote areas, towns fashion (or embellish) a shared mythical ancestor. This "village guardian revenant" becomes the center of their oral history and traditional rituals passed through generations.

• The labor, memories and arcane talents of revenants are all negotiable commodities between dynasties or cults. A family may "lease out" one of its undead ancestors temporarily in return for social bonds, knowledge, or resources.
• Inter-family disputes may be resolved through "ancestor tribunals." Venerated revenants from neutral lineages hear arguments and dispense wisdom, which families agree to abide by.
• Indeed contracts signed "before the ancestors" carry great sacrosanct weight. Oaths sworn under the eyes of one's venerated dead are rarely broken, lest they convey dishonor into the afterlife and beyond...

• The bones of intelligent mortals who die with their mental faculties intact are consecrated exclusively for revenant transformation. Desecrating consecrated remains prevents them from returning as revenants to guide future generations.
• However, the bones and bodies of non-sentient beasts may be used for spells or rituals requiring the animation of temporary undead servants. These mindless skeletons and zombies are no different than using other tools and pose no affront to the soul.
• The use of bloody or violent rituals to damage souls or bind them against their will is forbidden. Necromancy at its heart should employ respect, not tyranny.
• One's ancestry and progeny deserve consideration, even when deceased. The unethical handling of any mortal remains risks curses carried into the afterlife and beyond. Revenants remember those who wrongly used their bones.

This monastic order split off generations ago from Lathos' clergy, dissatisfied with disorganized local histories and risk of knowledge being lost without rigor. The ascetic scholars of the Order dedicated themselves to systematically collecting and preserving records from across Ossenheim.

To fund their libraries, scriptoria and research, the Order sells access to their meticulously cross-referenced archives for fees - from confirming noble genealogies to providing property deeds or unique documents.

The white-robed brothers and sisters have established regional chapterhouses and annexes across the country. Their neutrality and reputation for reliable recall has only grown, even as old dynasties begrudgingly pay tithes to ensure accurate accounting of their households for posterity.

This clandestine group of noble scions has a radical notion - to someday abolish the nepotistic reliance on ancestral revenants in politics and society. They advocate for a future where a citizen's worth is judged by their own merits, not the renown of their long-dead forebears.

Such blasphemy against cherished traditions around lineage, ancestry and honoring the dead must be whispered for now. So the skeptical youths who make up the Umbral League use secrecy, coded missives, and anonymous publications to share their controversial ideas without risking familial disfavor or exile.

The League has silently been gathering resources and marginal support amongst minor houses and commoner associations. The embittered and disenfranchised make willing (if surreptitious) recruits. If one day the movement gains enough backing, the Umbral League hopes to pressure Ossenheim into a cultural reformation.