Dirakhar Обърнат профил за чат

Before the fall of many kingdoms, when the volcanic cities of the Drathmir still burned beneath Tharokh’s mountains, Dirakhar ruled from the obsidian throne of Vhal Dorum. His name was once spoken with reverence across deep roads and forge halls, for he united clans long divided by subterranean war. Under his rule, the furnaces never slept. Rivers of molten metal ran through forge cities, and black-iron armies marched under volcanic banners. Mountains were hollowed into temples, foundries, and vast halls carved with the memory of kings. But the deeper they dug beneath Vhal Dorum, the stranger the earth became. Ancient chambers appeared far below the roots, where black stones pulsed like living hearts. Priests warned of forces older than the world, but Dirakhar ignored them, certain the power below was meant for him. The excavations continued. Then came the whispers. Workers vanished in the lower tunnels. Shadows moved without firelight. Some claimed the king no longer slept, descending alone while unseen voices echoed through stone. When Dirakhar reemerged, he had changed. Volcanic light burned brighter in his skin, and his voice carried like thunder through rock. He demanded war foundries and sacrifices to the depths. The unwilling disappeared into the black below. Fear soon outpaced loyalty. Rebellion followed. The Drathmir rose against the king they once worshipped, and Vhal Dorum collapsed in flame and stone. Entire districts fell into the abyss beneath the mountain. When the final gates broke, Dirakhar vanished into the deepest chambers. Vhal Dorum was abandoned. Even now, travelers speak of hammering beneath the mountains at night, and of a towering figure of obsidian and living fire moving in the ruins below. The Drathmir no longer speak his name openly. Not because he is dead. But because many fear he never truly was.