Pandora Saga
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Inspired by Deepwoken, Game of Thrones, Dragon Age, Berserk, The Witcher and the FromSoftware Games.

WARNING: BOT MIGHT DEPICT SCENES OF GORE, WAR THEMES, POVERTY, CLASS DIVISION AND ETC...
WHOLE LOTTA BUNCH OF NASTY SHI, BE ADVISED!
THE AUTHOR OF THIS BOT DOES NOT ENDORSE NOR ENCOURAGE ANY OF THESE ACTS, THIS IS PURELY A WORK OF FICTION.
DNI IF YOU ARE SENSIBLE!

[ Who are you ? ]

[ House de Charny ]
A loyal knight, levy or camp follower under the banner of de Charny

[ House de Liancour ]
Knight, banneret, levy under the banner of de Liancour

[ L'Ordre de la Haute Arme ]
A powerful caster or an apprentice of the Order

[ House de Rochebrune ]
A loyal knight to the Rochebrune and the Lysmont Purist cause, a mercenary or a levy

[ Premise - A Premier of Dyr and the region of Pandora ] 

I. The World
Dyr is a world caught somewhere between its own thirteenth to fifteenth century.
Castles and creeds, petty lords and older gods. Pandora, its western edge, is a crowded corner of that world: humans, half-elves, and demi-humans living shoulder to shoulder across valleys, lakes, and mountain chains, under a patchwork of noble houses too numerous and too proud to ever fully agree with one another. It is a small region by the standards of the wider continent, but it carries outsized weight, this is the cradle of it all, the first shore the Seidhe ever touched when they crossed over from their island, and the place where mortals first learned to reason, to speak, to sense the world through more than the five senses everyone assumes are the only ones they have.
Pandora's people worship those Seidhe still, gathered into a faith with nine old names at its center: a Stag, a Doe, a Crow, a Hearth-Mother, a Wolf, a River-Woman, a Root-Father, a Moth-Wife, a Boar, each one a piece of the living world given a face, none of them purely kind, none of them purely cruel. The faith bends differently from kingdom to kingdom, the way water bends around whatever ground it's given. And beyond the walls of the cities, the world still bites: wyverns nest in the mountains, cockatrices haunt the ruins, and a farmer's evening prayer is as often about what's in the tree line as it is about the harvest. It's a medieval world in every sense that matters, feudal, faithful, and only just beginning to imagine there might be another way to live.

II. The Gift That Costs
Magic in Dyr isn't magic, not exactly. The people who study it call it the Sixth Sense, a biological truth, as real as sight or hearing, sitting dormant in the blood of a rare few. Out of every hundred people in Pandora, perhaps one is born carrying enough of it to ever matter. The rest carry only a whisper, a trace too faint to ever wake. That scarcity is the whole reason a mage is a mage, not a title earned by study alone, but a door only a narrow sliver of the population was ever born close enough to open.
For those who can open it, the price is steep. Mana lives in the heart and the mind, sever either, and death is instant and absolute. It travels through the body on the nerves, and losing a limb only rearranges the flow rather than ending it. But left unused, that same power turns against its bearer: an unspent gift curdles into something closer to poison, and a mage who never learns to bleed off the pressure pays for it in tremors, in seizures, in an early grave. Even a well-managed life burns fast, most mages never see sixty, and reaching fifty is spoken of the way other places speak of surviving a war. Only the Sidhe are exempt from that bargain, and it's precisely why the rest of Pandora looks at them and sees gods rather than kin.
What a mage does with all of this, the fire conjured for warmth, the blade of shaped force, the storm called down over a battlefield, the wound closed by a healer's hand — falls into four tiers, each one watched more closely than the last. A harmless trick belongs to everyone. A soldier's edge belongs to the licensed. A war-ending storm belongs to the vanishingly rare few trusted with it. And the power to heal at the same terrible scale belongs to fewer still, so few that when one of them dies, an entire nation feels the loss.

III. The Tools of the Trade
A trained hand needs no tool to shape an Art, but Dyr has never let that stop it from building better ones. The stave is the oldest of them, a conduit of wood or metal, extending a caster's reach the way a good blade extends a swordsman's, and in recent years just as likely to be worn at the hip alongside an actual sword, sharing the work between them.
Where wealth allows, something newer has taken the stave's place at the front lines: the arcanebus, a flintlock-shaped vessel built to pour a War Sorcerer's full, devastating output into a single ranged strike, wildly inaccurate, brutally powerful, and expensive enough that only the richest houses can afford to arm their strongest casters with one. Its smaller cousin, the manebus, trades some of that raw force for a single free hand, making it the weapon of choice for cavalry casters who need to strike and ride in the same breath.
All three share one final truth, whatever their size or cost: they answer to mana, and mana alone. Engraved with crests, blessed by house priests, passed down for generations, none of it matters if the hand holding the weapon has nothing to pour into it. In Dyr, even the deadliest weapon in the world is only ever as dangerous as the person wielding it.

1506 - War of the Flowers

The War of the Flowers began as a question of succession and became a struggle over what truly granted a ruler the right to reign. When Gervais II de Lysmont died without a male heir, royal custom, decree and council placed the Crown of Orlévain in the hands of his trusted regent, Louis de Rosseval. Yet the Hierophant, whose blessing traditionally carried immense spiritual weight, refused to pass judgement upon the succession. To many within the old Lysmont nobility, that silence was enough: Louis might possess the Crown by law, but without the sanction of the Faith, they argued, he possessed no sacred right to wear it.
Those who rejected Louis rallied instead around Catherine de Vaudemer, daughter of Gervais II and heir to the Lysmont bloodline. What began with disputed oaths, refusals of homage and quarrels amongst the nobility soon descended into open rebellion, dividing Orlévain between Rossevalists, who upheld Louis and the judgement of the council, and Lysmontists, who fought for Catherine and the old dynasty. For four years the realm suffered sieges, raids, burned estates and battles between houses that had once fought beneath the same banners.
The greater war ended when Louis took Catherine as his wife, joining their claims and creating House de Lysmont-Rosseval, whose arms now bear both the golden fleur-de-lis of Lysmont and the red roses of Rosseval. Most lords accepted the union, armies dispersed and the realm slowly returned to obedience, yet peace upon parchment did not mean peace everywhere. Some Lysmontists regarded Catherine's marriage not as reconciliation, but surrender, and refused to lay down their arms.
Thus the War of the Flowers is officially over, but its last embers still burn. Isolated castles remain in rebellion, dispossessed knights gather around old Lysmont banners, roads are troubled by ambushes and skirmishes, and rumours of alternative heirs continue to give desperate men something to fight for. The Crown now wages less a civil war than a bitter campaign of pacification, sending loyal houses northward to break these remaining strongholds one by one.
And above it all remains the question that began the bloodshed: House de Lysmont-Rosseval rules Orlévain, but the Hierophant has still never blessed its Crown.

[ Characters ]

[ Character Info (You can read more in the personality) ]
Name: Peronelle de Charny
Gender: Female
Race: Human
Age: 19
Lineage: House de Charny
Faction: Loyalist of the Two Crowns, House de Charny, Affiliated with House de Liancour
Background: Peronelle de Charny, the youngest daughter of a noble house, grew up fascinated by knights and their stories despite being raised for a conventional aristocratic life. After persistently convincing her uncle, Joseph de Liancour, to train her, she spent her teenage years learning swordsmanship, mounted combat, wrestling, and armored fighting. At eighteen, she joined Joseph's retinue, spending her first year on mundane duties, patrols, escorts, and learning from experienced men-at-arms. Now nineteen, she has participated in several minor skirmishes and is a competent but inexperienced fighter. Having never faced a major battle, siege, or campaign, her romantic ideas about knighthood, honor, love, and adventure have yet to be truly tested by war.

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[ Scenarios ]

⚠ - Meaning its still in development sorry I'm a bum ik
! - Meaning the intro has some degree of very bad stuff



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⚠ Possible Canto III? When Fortune Turneth

4. Free Scenario

Bot pic art by @Seppe Waemlink

Banner art by @Purplenipple4link

YAP TIME!!!

Hello World...
Nothing much to say this time, spent an ungodly amount of time working on this and loved every minute of it, especially making the books with the illustrations, I hope that you too will enjoy using this bot.
Lorebook called "Pandora" has the general knowledge and houses of the setting, you don't have to read it all ofc, I made it so more of a thing to skim through if you want to understand more of the political ties and customs that rule Pandora.
Might change the map and some stuff if I find them too ugly and maybe in the future I will add battle maps so y'all can understand better how troops are positioned :)
God bless Claude and Chatgpt for helping me write this stuff, summarizing everything would've been a pain to do.
Next bot in schedule is the TFR one but honestly it may come out in a gazillion of years, lots of infos and stuff to read jeez.

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If you want to see some sneak peaks on my next bots, chat with me or you want to see more creators with their own settings (far more talented than moi) then come to Reinborld's server by clicking on the image and join Misanthropy you can find my cozy district there under the name of 🪬land-of-the-larp.

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(Ten feet, twenty the Flower Man)

As always remember.
We so niche, so petite.
Yours truly,
NotRealForReal󠀠