All men found themselves cast into the crucible, burning away impurities in the soul; weakness, indecision, cowardice, and more. In the end, what spirit remained defined the man. Else, the husk may lay down and die, never having made any mark upon the world, never having earned respect from men who mattered, and doomed to walk the dust as a soul alone, unseen and unheard.
Fate came for many in those days, the strong and weak alike. Yet for those few who fought free of her cold embrace, they might forge life anew. They might find a place among their brethren, a lot in life wrought of their own hands and not by Fate’s fickle whims.
Great glory trailed in a Varn’s shadow. To earn their gaze, even for a moment, might elevate the merest mortal beyond those destroyed in the crucible. For those few, grace might be found, favor earned, and for one shining moment, Fate herself would sway to their will.
Such was the strength the Varn brought to their lesser kin. Such was the life they brought in the world of death.
