The Whispers
of Darsavan

Many years ago, when the light of the old world had begun to fade, there lived a man named Varon Nethric, a name spoken in fear and silence. He was no ordinary man, but a worshipper of dark gods who demanded sacrifice not in gold, but in flesh. To please them, Varon fed upon the blood of men, believing that with every life he consumed, his gods would grant him greater strength.

From the shadows, he built an army, secret, loyal, and merciless. They called themselves the Devoured Ones, and their devotion to the forbidden gods spread like a silent plague across the lands.

But the darkness could not hide forever.

The soldiers of Emir Zameer Al-Khazen, ruler of the grand city Bustan Al Tahraw, discovered Varon’s growing cult.

One blood-soaked night, under a moon the color of rust, the Emir’s legions stormed the hidden fortresses of the Devoured Ones. The war burned for seven days and nights until the last of Varon’s soldiers were slain.

Many believed Varon perished with them, but shadows have a way of surviving.

Wounded and weakened, he hid among the streets of Bustan Al Tahraw, changing faces, names, and homes. For years he remained unseen, escaping the eyes of Emir Zameer’s spies.

When discovery became certain, Varon fled once more, northward, beyond the reach of any city or crown.

There, among the hills and forests, he found a vast village, one of the largest of its kind, known to travelers as Darsavan. And there, Varon Nethric lived quietly among ordinary people, concealing the darkness within him. Yet the hunger of his gods was never silenced. Beneath the calm face of a humble man, he began again to wait, to whisper, to build. The world had forgotten Varon Nethric. But Darsavan had not. And in its silence, the old whispers began once more.