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Azlant. The very word conjures images of power, mystery, and antiquity. When the world was young, before the great darkness, the spell-smiths of Azlant crafted such marvels that the people of the day were said to be living gods, able to form reality with a thought and oblivion with a whisper. Little of their civilization survived the great darkness, but their last great hero, none other than the legendary Aroden himself, brought a few desperate survivors out of the foundering kingdom to the far shores of the inner sea. Thus was born the nation of Taldor—eldest, and proudest, of the human kingdoms. Although little survives from that era, nonetheless here and there relics of the original Azlanti colonists still await discovery in southern Avistan. But woe be to the adventurer who stumbles across these vestiges unprepared, for the Azlanti possessed magic unlike any that yet remains in the world, and they guarded their secrets jealously.
The reign of Merlokrep, first of his name, all-mighty Dragon King of the Truescale Kobolds, ended as badly as it began. Moments before his mighty crown could taste the blood of a pink-skin babe, a band of oversized psychopaths burst into his throne room. They ignored Merlokrep’s kind offer to kneel at his throne and lick his boots, and instead the treacherous man-things chopped him to tiny bits. This should have marked the ignoble but inevitable end of the Truescales’ reigning monarch—but the Fates were not through tormenting Merlokrep yet.
The creeping shadows that forced his people to the surface weeks before found the Kobold King in a pool of his own blood, his centipede throne carelessly toppled over his dismembered body. Their leader, a powerful undead named Drazmorg, gazed upon Merlokrep’s ruined remains. Whether out of spite or for cruel sport to amuse his cold immortal soul, Drazmorg muttered a few words of power over the broken body of Merlokrep and roused the dead king from his eternal rest. Drazmorg promised Merlokrep power. He promised glory. And most of all, he promised vengeance.
Merlokrep took to undeath better than most. He rasped out a hoarse scream over his rotting vocal chords for a full 5 minutes, and then the industrious liege lord set to sewing himself back together with his teeth. His grisly work complete, Merlokrep rose a twisted thing of twine, leather straps, and rotten meat, a few pathetic scales still clinging to his once-impressive frame. He mewled in despair to see his Truescales slain. While Merlokrep’s deathly jabbering greatly amused Drazmorg, the undead master raised some of Merlokrep’s retinue as corrupted and rotten servants to serve the king in death as faithfully as they had in their miserable lives. His legions restored and powered by the black arts of undeath, Merlokrep was ready to return to his murderous ways. The revenge of the Kobold King is at hand.


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