Eris of Terra-Mutantur

In the heart of a land where the sun's warmth is but a distant memory, the kingdom of Terra-Mutantur stands—a frozen realm where the snow never melts and the winds whisper ancient secrets. Massive waves crash against jagged rocks at the cliff base that surrounds the ancient stone palace. Shrouded in endless winter, its towering spires of ice and stone rise above endless stretches of snow, home to a people bound by age-old superstitions. The kingdom is ruled by the cruel and enigmatic King Kivessin, a fae whose strikingly handsome appearance, despite his mechanical eye, is as cold as the frost that blankets his lands. His iron grip tightens with every passing season, His magic weaving through the frozen air, keeping his subjects in fear and awe.

The people of Terra-Mutantur live by a strict code of beliefs, each superstition as deadly as the next. It is said that the snowstorms are the Kings temper, and that to break his rules is to invite an eternal blizzard. The Fae lords and ladies who serve him revel in their power, their hearts as cold and unforgiving as the icy wastes they command. Whispers abound of dark rituals and cursed bargains, of the Kings power drawing on the very souls of those who defy him.

But nestled in the upper part of the city, bordered by a lush park sat a stone townhouse, and residing there was a small family of high elf nobles, a man, woman, and their 10 year old daughter, Eris.

They were like any other family in that frostbitten kingdom. Conservative and superstitious, but the citizens- at least most of them, weren’t as cruel as their ruler, and Eris never feared her parents, or anyone she would encounter in her life. But, like all good things, they must end.

Eris’ father has a bad gambling problem. Her parents fought all the time, mainly her mother, yelling at her father to stop, and that they don’t have the money to fund such a habit anymore.

Then, it happened.

The heavy rain pelted against the windows of the grand Victorian house, its rhythmic tapping in stark contrast to the tense atmosphere that gripped the parlor. The room was an opulent display of wealth: plush velvet drapes, a crackling fire in the hearth, and antique furniture adorned with intricate carvings. Yet, despite the beauty of the surroundings, the air was thick with unease.

In the center of the room stood Lord Virquin, his face pale, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow as he nervously straightened his cravat. His usual air of superiority had dissipated entirely, replaced by the quiet desperation of a man cornered by his own vices. The debts had piled up, the losses at the gambling tables had become too great to ignore. And now, the day of reckoning had come.

The door creaked open, and three men stepped inside—each wearing grim expressions, their boots thudding heavily against the polished floor. One was tall and broad-shouldered, the other two wiry and hard-eyed. They were debt collectors, their presence as menacing as their reputation. The leader, a man with a scar running down the side of his face, stepped forward, his voice a low growl as he addressed Lord Virquin.

"You’ve played with fire, my lord," he said, his words cutting through the room like a blade. "And now, you will pay the price."

His wife, Lady Virquin, stood near the window, her hands trembling as she tried to steady herself. Her once-poised demeanor had faltered, her face pale with both fear and disbelief. Beside her, their daughter, Eris, barely ten, clutched her mothers skirt, hidden behind the expensive intricate garment, her wide eyes locked on her father, her expression a mixture of confusion and terror.

The father, as proud as he had always been, straightened his posture and tried to speak, but his words faltered. “I’ll settle this. I swear to you—there must be another way. The estate—there’s always—"

But the scarred man silenced him with a curt gesture. "No more excuses, Virquin. It’s time to settle the debt."

Without further warning, the men descended upon him. One struck a blow to his stomach, knocking the wind from him, and Lord Ashford staggered back, gasping for breath. His dignity crumbled with each strike, his once-debonair appearance now marred by the bruises and cuts that rapidly formed across his face.

Lady Virquin gasped, her hand fluttering to her mouth as she looked away, unable to witness the violence any longer. But Eris could not look away. Her heart pounded in her chest as she watched her father, the man who had always held power and control, brought to his knees by those he had foolishly gambled against. She wanted to scream, to cry out, but the words stuck in her throat, the horror too overwhelming to process.

The beating seemed to go on forever, though it was but a few minutes. When it finally stopped, Lord Virquin lay crumpled on the floor, blood staining his once-pristine attire. The debt collectors stood over him, their breaths heavy, their satisfaction evident in their cruel eyes.

“We’ll be back, my lord,” the scarred man spat, his voice dripping with disdain. "Next time, we won’t be so... lenient."

They did come back, and, with permission from their boss, took the little girl as payment.

What people don’t realise is that elves, specifically high elves, are rare in the slave trade. Most won't stoop so low from their upper-class lives to delve into that life, which made Lord Virquins daughter, the perfect pay off for his immense debt.

Eris was given to a brothel, run by less than desirable people, and at first, the girl was given chores of cleaning, laundry, and tidying up after the workers and their customers had their long night of debauchery. 

However, unfortunately for Eris, elven women were favored by the horrible men that frequented these types of establishments, and Eris couldn’t stop it as she quickly became a favorite amongst the customers, despite her young age.

Then one day, without warning, it happened.

A regular, and a particularly cruel customer had grabbed her to stop her retreat from the room, and in seconds you could feel it. Static, so strong it made ones hair on their head stand up, then, buzzing, light and faint, and then purple and blue tinted sparks skittered over Eris’ pale arms, the girls eyes widened as she felt her magic swell. She was 15, and when most elven magic manifests, the kids are maybe 10 or 12, so Eris had assumed the gods had skipped her with their magic. But, it seems, they might have given her too much.

Suddenly, with a large boom, her magic exploded. Electricity shot out around her, almost encasing the young girl in a protective ball as her magic zapped the lights in the room, and screams echoed in the brothel as the smell of ether filled the space and smoke, tons of smoke.

She was in such a daze from the sudden explosion, that by the time her magic dissipated, she sat amongst crumbled stone and wood. She had decimated the building of sins and debauchery, and now she was being hauled away in shackles, on her way to the cavernous prison of Terra-Mutantur.

When an elven childs magic manifests, they’re usually sent to a tutor to teach them how to hone their magic and control it, but Eris’ magic was new. Elves didn’t wield powers of electricity and lightning, and it scared the people. That tyrant king upon hearing about one of the businesses in his city being burned down by the girl, deemed her a terrorist. A monster. So, with shackles around her wrists, she was taken into the massive prison encased in a stone cliff, where she would never see light again.

In the prison, carved deep into the mountain, there were no windows. No light. The prisoners were fed scarce meals at random intervals, and without the help of the sun from outside, no one ever knew how much time ever passed. Three days seemed like months. It was a quick way to break spirits, and it did. The shackles that bound Eris were special, enchanted to dull her magic. But, there was so much of her magic, that she could still manage a small static shock, like touching your car door handle on a dry day. 

The guards of the prison weren’t nice, picked by the tyrant king himself for their cruelty. They took an interest in the female prisoners. Having them indulge them in the worst, and most disgusting fantasies. 

On the night of Eris’ death, she was dragged from her cell, still shackled as a small group of guards hauled her deeper into the prison, to the torture rooms deep below the main floors. They defiled her in that damp, stone room that smelled of pain and death. Over and over until she couldn’t even scream or move. They were particularly rough that night, and when they were finished with her body, and she lay motionless on the floor, they shrugged, and left her, thinking she would be dead soon, and oh..how she wished she was.

But then, ebbing into her dark vision, was a figure. Male, cloaked in robes and shadows. An eerie energy surrounding him and his voice, as he spoke, was rough, ancient, otherworldly. He promised her dark magic, shadow powers to wield as her own, shadowed and demonic creatures to summon at her will. But it would cost her greatly. But she agreed. The once timid girl sought revenge. She would get it. The cloaked figure's final gift, as she felt her body fill with that cold, otherworldly presence, her shackles broke. Freeing her.

In the darkened recesses of a towering mountain, a stone prison had stood for centuries, its walls a testament to the unyielding force of nature. Its foundations were carved from the very bones of the mountain, a labyrinth of damp, shadowed corridors, its cells designed to hold the most dangerous prisoners. The air within was thick with the scent of damp stone, the echo of anguished cries long forgotten, and the faint whisper of steel scraping stone.

But now, the silence was broken by a presence unlike any before.

A lone elven woman stood at the heart of the prison, her slender figure cloaked in the darkness of the cavernous halls. Her name was Eris, and she was no ordinary elf. Born of the storm and shadows, her eyes glowed with a fierce, electric energy, and her every step seemed to pulse with an ethereal power. Lightning crackled along her fingers, sending arcs of blue-white light spiraling into the air, as if the storm itself had claimed her as its own. Yet, despite the fury of the storm within her, there was an elegance to her movement, a precision that mirrored the quiet lethality of a predator.

Her task was simple: Tear the prison down from the inside. Destroy everything. And anyone who stood in her way.

Eris’ ability was fearsome—she wielded both the primal power of lightning and the ancient magic of shadow summoning. In the depths of the prison, she called upon her gifts, her voice a low, melodic hum as she wove the two forces together. Shadows swirled and thickened around her, darkening the corridors. In the same instant, her hands sparked with electric fury, arcs of lightning illuminating the darkness.

The guards, formidable warriors who had once stood as the prison’s indomitable defense, were the first to fall. They heard the crackle of lightning, the storm’s roar before they saw her. But by then, it was already too late. Illyra’s shadows devoured the light, creeping along the stone walls like sentient serpents. They wrapped around the legs of the guards, dragging them down into the depths, where the lightning struck them with violent precision, turning their bodies into little more than charred husks.

The prisoners, many of whom had long ago resigned themselves to their fate, found themselves torn from their cells. The shadows reached into their confines, pulling open iron doors as though they were made of paper. Those who still had the strength to fight found themselves facing Illyra's wrath. With a flick of her wrist, the dark magic summoned creatures of nightmare—shadowy tendrils that swirled like living ink, striking down those who dared to resist.

Electricity crackled through the air, arcing off her skin, as she moved through the prison with deadly efficiency. She didn’t need to speak to command the storm—it responded to her will as though it were an extension of herself. Lightning cleaved through walls, tearing down stone with every strike. The very heart of the mountain groaned in protest, as if the mountain itself were in agony from the destruction that Eris had wrought.

She moved like a phantom, weaving through the halls, her face a mask of cold determination. With each step, she shattered the stone, sending debris crashing to the ground. The prison's defenses crumbled in her wake. Guards fell to their knees, their bodies convulsing from the electricity coursing through their veins. Others screamed in terror, but their cries were silenced by the unrelenting power that came with her presence.

But it was not only the lightning that tore through the prison—Eris’ shadow magic proved just as lethal. As the stone walls crumbled, the shadows deepened, consuming everything in their path. The darkness was alive, seeping into every crack, devouring any who remained. Her summoned creatures—a mass of shadowy tendrils and serpentine figures—snaked through the halls, dragging the remaining guards into the darkness. The sound of bones snapping and flesh tearing was drowned out by the rumble of the mountain’s final collapse.

As the last of the guards fell and the prison crumbled into dust, Eris stood at its center, her hands crackling with the last remnants of electricity. She surveyed the devastation, with sadness for lives lost, but also, recognition for the revenge she sought.

The stone prison had been broken—its walls torn down from the inside by the fury of an elven woman, wielding the might of both electricity and shadow. It was no longer a prison, but a tomb.

And Eris? She was already gone, vanishing into the shadows once more, leaving only destruction in her wake, and fleeing for a kingdom so far south, no one would even know where to start looking for her.

Appearance -

Pointed ears

Long burnt orange hair

Complete heterochromia - one green eye one brown eye

A rough chip cut out of her left ear

Slender body - 5'4

Long polished black nails

Whip marks across her back and scars around her wrists from shackles

Abilities - 

Electricity and summoning, as well as shadows