Inhabitants Of Chane

Devils — or demons; in the Vale the words mean the same thing — are the blood of the underworld walking in mortal shape. Most stand human enough in outline, but none pass unmarked: skin in some shade of red or blue, dull crimson to deep violet, and always at least one hellmark to give them away — a crown of horns, a barbed tail, cloven hooves, a forked tongue, teeth made for tearing, a pair of wings too withered to lift them. The marks keep no rank. A prince of the underworld and the lowest of his servants may bear the very same horns.

They name their homeland the Seven Cities of Hell, though “cities” flatters it. They are seven houses — rival dynasties of the damned, each ruled by a prince who claims the others’ seats and holds none but his own. Their courts turn on old and cruel pleasures: flattery and torment, beautiful things and broken ones, hungers a mortal would rather not have named. But what every house wants, beneath all the rest, is souls — and the endless quarrel between the houses is, at its heart, a contest over who will gather the most.

A devil reaches the living through the bargain. Where a mortal can be tempted to call one up — for power, for knowledge, for a death turned aside — a house will send a servant to seal the pact and stand surety for it, and the price, always, is the soul, collected at a time of the devil’s choosing. It is patient, hungry work, and the houses have been at it a long while.

Not every summoning ends as the summoner hoped. When the rite breaks before the pact is sealed, the devil it called is left here, cut off from its house and its hell with no way home. Some claw after a way back; many do not. Generations on, their descendants are simply part of the Vale — born here, raised here, carrying the old marks and little of the old purpose, making lives as merchants and soldiers and neighbours among peoples who have mostly chosen to forget what they are. Mostly.

And not all the blood of Hell wears a courtly face. For every devil who keeps a name and a trade, there are things in the deep places that kept only the hunger — feral, half-shaped, going by other names if they are named at all. The Vale calls those demons too, and is not wrong to.

Dragonkin are rare, and live in small enclaves scattered across the Vale. They are scaled, in bronze and coal-black and emerald and a crimson so deep it shows black until the light turns it, and each carries the dragon’s mark somewhere — a crest of horns, a ridge of heavy brow, a line of frilled spine, talons that keep their edge. No two clutches are alike, and even within one the young seldom match.

Their clutches are small, an egg or two and seldom more, and from this two things have always followed: the dragonkin are few, and what new forms appear among them appear slowly, a little changed across many generations. Where the line first came from, none can say for certain. They tell of an ancestry among great beings of fire, present near the making of the world — an old belief, with nothing left to prove or deny it.

What dragonkin hold to is not where they began but what they were once for. Their oldest memory, worn down now to a name and little else, is of the Dragon Phalanx: an order out of the world’s first ages, raised to stand for order and to put itself between the world and the things that would unmake it. What it was, who it answered to, how it came apart — all of that went with the Sundering.

What remains is the impulse. Most dragonkin are raised to a duty no one taught them to want: to use strength with restraint, to answer for what that strength does, and to stand between the strong and the weak when no one else will. Not all of them carry it, and those who do could not always tell you why. The reason is not lost — only the dragonkin have lost it; it is kept elsewhere, by those who do not forget. But it holds often enough that others have come to count on it, and a dragonkin who has forgotten everything else will still try to live as the dragons of old are said to have lived: steadfast, fierce, and true.

Dwarves are compact and powerfully built, their flesh and bone dense enough to turn a blow that would break another body. They hold this comes of an old kinship with stone and the deep places, and the kinship shows on them: in age, a fine mineral grain rises through the hair and skin, brightest in the beard, which a dwarf keeps oiled, polished, and cut to long custom.

Across the Vale, dwarves are the builders, engineers, and delvers, and their work is made to outlast them. They prize what is solid and proven over what is new: a method is kept because it has held, taught from one mason to the next with little change. They build down to bedrock and into cliff faces, and where they settle among other peoples they tend to take on the shared works no one else will, the walls and drains and foundations a town forgets about until they fail.

Their gatherings carry several purposes at once. One evening in one hall may hold a dispute, a celebration, and a remembrance together, settled through argument, song, and oaths spoken aloud so they are witnessed and cannot later be denied. This is how a scattered people keeps its memory and its obligations, in company rather than in writing.

Most dwarves hold that Ord made the world, and made it deliberately, every part set where it was meant to go. From this comes their watchword, “what will be, will be”: not a shrug at fate, but trust that a world built with such care runs to a purpose, and that work done properly will last because lasting is in the nature of a well-constructed thing. A dwarf rarely signs what they make. The work speaks for itself, sound and in use long after the maker is forgotten.

Many high elves hold that they were shaped in the earliest ages by the Aetherim, formed to tend knowledge, preserve craft, and give ordered shape to a world still unfinished. Whether this belief reflects literal creation or later interpretation remains uncertain, yet it continues to frame how high elves understand their origins and responsibilities. They commonly see their lives as part of a long extension of an earlier age, remembered for coherence and continuity. Their oldest surviving accounts dwell on the Age of Song, when art, governance, and memory developed together under Aetherim guidance.

High elves live throughout the Vale alongside other peoples, and only rarely form settlements of their own. When they do gather in number, they gravitate toward sites that carry visible traces of the first age. Ancient halls, towers, and civic structures are preserved and adapted with careful attention to proportion, material, and method. Elven builders draw directly from early models, repeating forms whose origins lie beyond living memory. Craft within this tradition is an act of recollection. Architecture, music, and ornament are treated as continuations of the same discipline, each shaped by patterns first established in the Age of Song.

In the absence of the Aetherim, individual elves have taken on roles once associated with their presence. Many devote their lives to study and transmission, serving as historians, tutors, archivists, or keepers of specialised disciplines within mixed communities. Others pursue artistic or technical callings grounded in older forms, recreating melodies, scripts, and designs whose meaning is preserved through use. Over long spans, this focus draws attention inward. Elven priorities tend to follow long continuity, and their relationships with others reflect patience shaped by extended perspective.

High elven culture places weight on memory and endurance, even when practiced quietly within broader society. Life is approached deliberately, with long periods devoted to a single calling, place, or discipline. Art, lore, and beauty are understood as inherited obligations that require sustained effort to maintain. This work is openly nostalgic in character, shaped by attachment to an age that cannot be restored. It is also regarded as necessary. Through careful repetition and preservation, high elves believe they carry fragments of an older order forward, ensuring that what survives continues to have form and meaning as the world changes around it.

Many wode elves trace their lineage to ancient sylvan spirits, bound to the deep forests known as wodes. This belief is not held uniformly, though a shared sense of connection to old woodland is widely present. Even those raised far from such places often describe an unease that settles over time, a sense that certain spaces feel incomplete or wrong when stone replaces root and canopy. For wode elves, the forest is not seen a destination or calling, it is an extension of self, or even a birthright.

Among the mundane peoples of the Vale, wode elves are widely regarded as misleaders of travellers and quiet tricksters. Stories circulate of guides who arrive unasked, directions that prove accurate only partway, and companions who vanish once their usefulness has passed. Wode elves seldom contest these accounts, and often encourage them through silence or small acts of confirmation. They show a fondness for controlled confusion, subtle misplacement, and encounters that resolve without confrontation. Those turned aside or delayed often conclude they were deceived, though from a wode elf’s perspective the interaction simply ended when interest did.

Their talent for obscuring presence is known as glamor. It is not limited to concealment, nor is it entirely deliberate. Glamor bends attention, blurs certainty, and allows a wode elf to exist half-noticed even in plain view. In the forest, it mingles with leaf-shadow, birdsong, and shifting light. In towns and cities, it settles into corners, crowds, and neglected thresholds. Many wode elves learn to shape this talent with intent, though it remains closely tied to mood and instinct.

To others, wode elves appear fey-touched and difficult to read. Their eyes are large, dark, and reflective, catching light at odd angles and holding it too long. In forest shade, that gaze unsettles even experienced travellers, lingering without blink or visible focus. Wode elves within the forests watch paths as part of the biome’s surface, noting each footstep, broken stem, or disturbed stone. Those who move carefully pass without incident. Those who do not might find themselves redirected, delayed, or left turned around, uncertain when the change occurred or who set it in motion.

Note; Goblin does not exist in Draw Steel rules- we’ll be homebrewing this only if someone chooses to be it. Their abilities are TBD.

Goblins are quick-witted, sharp-tongued folk found throughout the Vale’s busiest quarters. Workshops, market lanes, tinker yards, storehouses, and repair sheds all tend to attract goblin presence over time. They show a strong aptitude for improvisation, with an instinctive understanding of mechanisms, stress points, and objects that invite disassembly. Reassembly usually follows, often improved in small, surprising ways.

Their reputation for curiosity and mischief is widely known. Many see goblins as effective problem-solvers who notice solutions others overlook. Others describe them as persistent meddlers who explore private spaces, appropriate unattended items, or provoke disorder through idle experimentation. Goblins themselves treat these views as familiar commentary, neither rejected nor fully embraced.

Goblins rarely act with malicious intent. They approach the world as a series of practical challenges, each open to adjustment, shortcut, or playful interference. This outlook encourages experimentation, risk-taking, and humour at moments others might hesitate. Small disruptions are viewed as acceptable costs of discovery.

Socially, goblins form dense networks of family, associates, and adopted kin. Loyalty within these circles is strong and actively maintained. Skill, cleverness, and practical contribution carry significant weight, often exceeding ancestry or formal standing. Reputation travels quickly through goblin communities and tends to persist.

If something breaks in a goblin neighbourhood, it will be fixed before dawn. If something goes missing… well, it’s probably being fixed too.

Hakaan are widely known for an open manner and an ease with strangers, which makes their departures stand out all the more. When a hakaan sets out on a long journey, the act is commonly read as an omen. This belief is old and persistent, rooted in stories the hakaan themselves continue to tell.

Hakaan tradition holds that their people descend from ancient giants who walked the world before the Age of Song. These ancestors are said to have bargained with Cyrvis, the trickster god, trading a portion of their strength for foresight. What they received was limited and severe. A hakaan may glimpse only their own death, and the vision is never calm, minor, or distant from upheaval.

Such visions are known as Doomsight. They occur infrequently and always with consequence, tied to moments of disruption, collapse, or decisive change. A hakaan who receives Doomsight is bound by custom to follow its path. To turn away is understood as an act that invites lasting harm upon family, kin, and name. This obligation is taught early and reinforced through shared memory and cautionary tale.

For most of their lives, hakaan remain settled among the wider peoples of the Vale. They work trades, keep households, and take part in civic life without distinction. Travel becomes inevitable only when Doomsight asserts itself, drawing the individual away from familiar ground.

As a result, the hakaan most often encountered on the road are those moving toward a known end. Their presence signals that larger currents have begun to shift. Even so, hakaan on such journeys remain generous in spirit, steady in companionship, and ready to meet what waits ahead with humour, resolve, and open hands.

Humans belong to the world in a way the other speaking peoples do not. They sense the presence of the supernatural instinctively — that oily smell in the air, as some describe it, or the way their skin prickles when something unseen is nearby. The presence of the Deathless sets their hair on end, and graveyards affect them deeply for reasons few can explain. Whatever magic is, its hold on humans is light; whatever drives the Deathless, something in human nature recoils from it.

This sensitivity shapes human behaviour across the Vale. Humans notice subtle shifts in mood, pattern, and atmosphere, especially where something has gone wrong. They detect danger early, even when signs are indirect or difficult to explain. This awareness does not drive them away from the world. It encourages them to anchor themselves within it.

Humans respond by building enduring social structures. Villages, towns, guilds, caravans, households, and alliances form quickly where humans settle. Bonds are established through shared labour, mutual need, and lived experience. Stability is treated as a collective task, maintained through cooperation and presence. The world feels unpredictable to them, so they respond by binding themselves together.

Humans excel at gathering people, ideas, and cultures into something larger than the sum of its parts. They thrive in mixed communities, adapt readily to change, and face the unknown with a combination of caution and stubborn bravery. No one is certain why humans sense what others do not. What is clear is that this sensitivity has shaped them into the Vale’s most prolific and communal people.

Memonek traditions speak of a purpose long forgotten. Their oldest accounts claim their ancestors were fashioned for a singular task now erased from history. They were not born into the world through chance or lineage. They were made, shaped with intent toward an end that never came to pass. Whether this account records truth or interpretation is unresolved. The memonek experience of it remains constant: a quiet certainty that something important was left unfinished.

Their bodies reflect this old belief. Memonek skin has the smooth, cool texture of porcelain or finely polished stone, often marked with faint metallic patterns beneath the surface. Their features are symmetrical and precise, their eyes steady and unblinking. Even their movements carry an impression of deliberate control, as though every gesture has been rehearsed.

Memonek minds follow the same pattern of control. Emotion reaches them with overwhelming intensity, sudden and destabilising. In response, they cultivate order as a means of survival. Speech is measured. Routine is maintained. Action follows thought, never impulse. This discipline is not a display of superiority. It is a practiced defence against inner forces they experience as disruptive and poorly understood, shaped by a purpose that no longer has a name.

Because of this, many memonek quietly dream of a realm of perfect order, a place where everything behaves as it should and nothing pulls the heart off balance. Some say such a homeland once existed; others believe it is simply a yearning shaped by their nature. Whatever the truth, memonek work earnestly to live among the peoples of Chane, taking roles that value clarity, precision, and reliability. Their calm discipline is not an attempt to rule the world, but to find peace within it, one ordered moment at a time.

Orcs value distance, quiet, and control over their own ground. They favour settled routines, familiar people, and places where expectations remain clear. Outsiders often mistake this preference for isolation or hostility. In practice, it reflects a desire for stability and limited interference, shaped by a nature that reacts strongly when boundaries are crossed.

Orcs tend to avoid large cities and dense population centres. Places such as Crownhold draw many peoples together, bringing constant negotiation, interruption, and unspoken expectations that clash with orc preferences for directness and shared understanding. In such environments, small misunderstandings accumulate quickly, and patience is tested through no fault of any one party. For this reason, orcs who do live in major cities often do so alongside other orcs, forming compact households or working crews that preserve familiar rhythms. Distance from crowded centres is not born of fear or hostility. It is a practical choice, made to limit friction with those unfamiliar with orc ways and to protect the calm that allows their communities to thrive.

Every orc carries a volatile inner heat that responds to injury or threat. When blood is drawn, this fire manifests visibly, lighting veins and skin with a dull glow. Pain does not slow it. Anger sharpens focus, drives endurance, and sustains the body beyond limits others would fail to endure. Orcs describe this state as standing at the edge of themselves, balanced between control and destruction.

This intensity shapes orc culture. Orc communities place strong emphasis on restraint, consent, and clear warning, grounding their lives in honest work, shared meals, and the steady rhythms of community. Anger is understood as a force to be managed, not indulged, and violence without cause is treated as failure, not strength. When conflict comes, it is meant to end decisively, restoring calm and leaving no cause for return. Because of this, those who live near orc settlements take care not to disrupt their gatherings or daily life. Among such neighbours, a dwarf proverb is spoken often:

“Be thankful orcs do not hold grudges.”

Often called halflings or gnomes by outsiders, names some find charming and others quietly resent, polders are a small, adaptable people found throughout the towns and cities of the Vale. Though not human, they live closely alongside them and readily absorb the customs, jokes, and rhythms of the places they settle. Their origins, like those of many peoples, are lost to time and remembered only through scattered local traditions.

Standing around three and a half feet tall, polders are nimble and quick-moving. Many possess a natural talent for shadowmelding, allowing them to slip into dim light with practiced ease. This has earned them an enduring, but perhaps undeserved reputation as thieves, a charge polders commonly dispute by pointing to their prominence as chefs, merchants, innkeepers, and keepers of active households.

Polders thrive in lively neighbourhoods and close-knit social circles, favouring communities where familiarity grows through daily contact. They appear across nearly every profession, including baking, civic service, record keeping, and craft. Friendships form quickly and are maintained through constant presence and shared routine. Their faith follows local custom, with devotion offered to the same Saints as their neighbours, and many towns proudly claim a polder saint among their own.

Sociable, clever, and quick to adapt, polders bring humour, warmth, and practical sense to the places they join. They fit themselves into the life of a community with care, becoming part of its fabric through use, trust, and everyday contribution.

The dead sometimes walk among the living. Revenants do not rise through necromancy, but through a union of injustice and unyielding will. When a soul a soul refuses passage through the Crucible, clinging fiercely to an unfinished purpose, it returns with its memories intact and no need for breath, food, or water. Many whisper that such rebirth is sometimes a gift (or is it a trick) of Cyrvis, the Fatebreaker, who delights in defying destiny.

Revenants are rare and often feared. In small, insular communities, the sight of one may spark panic and hurried prayers against the Deathless. Some revenants keep to the roads, wary of such reactions, while others make their way to Crownhold, where the city’s diversity offers a measure of safety and anonymity, and institutional authority reduce scrutiny.

Whatever their path, revenants stand as stark reminders that the boundary between life and death can be crossed, and that a determined soul may outlast its own grave.

Riftborn are marked from birth by a persistent distortion linked to an ancient rupture in space and time. This vast, unknowable event survives only as fragmentary myth, with no surviving account of its origin or scope. The effects manifest as an intrinsic condition, with all Riftborn carry its lingering scars. Time feels strange around them: moments arrive too early or too late, memories slip out of sequence, and brief flashes of things-that-might-be flicker behind their eyes. These visions are never reliable, often painful, and always unsettling.

Riftborn bodies reflect this condition as clearly as their perception. All possess four arms, light and flexible frames, and crystalline facets in place of organic eyes. Scholars debate whether these traits emerged alongside the rupture or predate it, shaped to endure divided attention and constant recalibration. The faceted eyes permit simultaneous focus across multiple points, while the additional limbs support parallel action without hesitation. Together, these traits suit a people trying to function within a fractured experience.

Their movement and speech often display a subtle irregularity, as if slightly misaligned with the world. Their unusual perceptions make others wary, and people can interpret them as unnatural or threatening, assigning supernatural significance where no intent exists; some call them omens, others believe they are touched by strange magic. Lacking a shared homeland, they live wherever they find acceptance, often travelling from place to place in search of quiet corners where their disorientation draws less attention.

Riftborn develop adaptive habits shaped by long exposure to uncertainty. Careful observation, deliberation, and attentiveness to change emerge as practical responses to unstable perception, and when not misunderstood they become known as keen observers, patient thinkers, and unexpectedly steady companions. They navigate the world carefully, knowing better than most that time does not always flow as smoothly as people believe.