[@Samdragonx][@Lyla][@Tominas]

[hider=Translated "History" section of Xiavoc]

The masterful quill has written down many a story with ink, though one tale of old has become lost to the annals of time. 

In the hero's case, his story originates from not at the dawn of time, but from the time his people first learned to read and write down their stories. 

Little does humanity know what kind of power lies within their written texts and not in their memories, tales written down to record their past and the peoples who inhabited it...the heroes whose names became cemented into the primitive legends of the past. And yet this hero would come into legend because of what he wrote...for what he did. 

Xiv was a man among his tribe who could write very well among his primitive people, among the tribe that he so lived within. His writing was consistent, vivid, and full of wonder, such that those who read it among his people felt like they came alive when reading from it. His words seemed to draw up vivid pictures in their minds, the sounds of battle, the roar of creatures, among other things he wrote of. 

His own powers of spinning tales and stories were next to none in the very beginning, among his own peoples. Many knew that only well-written words, stories, and tales would never make a world real, or lead to real good occurring on their lonesome. For what is good without evil? Thus this writing and reading among the people could be both used for good and evil. 

So his people created vile words about him, horrific heresies written down by the same quill that had once spun beautiful stories among them at first. What good words he himself could spin, others wrote of evil and vile thing about him that were not truth. 

In doing so, he desired to stem this tide of evil and terrible writing, introducing to his people a new word: "Love". And at the same time, this man seized power among his people, becoming the "Law" among his people to try to help direct and guide them. 

And yet that word he sought to embody among his people, "Law", would come to be his downfall after five years. After that, the elders of the village decided that, to get rid of this man who taught the people writing and sought to lead them, would become more than a man. He would be turned into a sacrifice to the gods, to placate them for their "supposed" anger at his actions. Thus the elderly sages and leaders of the village came together, and granting him tools and weapons among the best quality. Such was how sacrifices to the gods were treated, to be given the best in preparation for their untimely death. They planned on casting him down a cliff, as had been the village's tradition, so that they themselves would remain in control of the village and its people rather than him. For otherwise, the people would rebel against him being killed. For the people loved their younger leader over the elders. 

Under the guise of it being an offering to the gods, they told him as they had told others they has sacrificed in the past that a serpent would come and take him to the edge of the world. Indeed, he would be taken there to live with others like him, to be in the midst of the gods themselves. Though Xiv knew their true intentions for choosing him as a sacrifice, for he had heard these words being told to others before, and had seen them pushed from the cliff to naught but their death. He had seen them act this way before, and now knew just what they were after in the process. They sought to overthrow him. 

Yet he could not disrespect this rite of sacrifice, which had been followed among his people for so very long. Indeed, he willing allowed himself to be cast down willingly regardless of knowing the truth, cast down by his people to what would be a certain death. And yet, he did not die. At the bottom of the great cliff he lied wounded, but this time not dead. Even more so, a snake did appear and bit him on the ankle, flowing through his system as if to taunt his miraculous survival. Grabbing unto the snake and crawling back up the cliff, he kept the gear he had been given by the elders before this, not seeking to return that which had been granted to him before his death. Yet despite this, the snake's venom made him fall asleep for a whole day as a result.

Upon waking up, Xiv felt a feeling surging through him, something he had never before experienced. He woke up feeling the very “the thrill of the hunt”, as it was called, piercing through his very being, and the desire to kill or be killed become very desirable to him. For the first time in his life he felt like this, as being on the brink of death for such a time had caused him great excitement in the process. 

Afterwards Xiv walked back to the village he once loved, desiring to be among his people again...even if he was shunned for living, even if he was willing to die for their fears of having offended the gods with his survival. Only, his people were gone. The village he had led, protected, and sought to better with his actions had been destroyed overnight. All of the shiny colored stones that had been owned among his people, shining hues of emerald, ruby, and sapphire, were gone as were his entire people, an naught but death and destruction remained.

Ever since that day he’s was never the same, renaming himself "Xivaoc Quetez". After this time he vowed to avenge his people, write of his travels and actions, and would cement himself into the realms of myth. That much was certain. If he could scare others by simply granting them the gift of writing of myths and legend, so much that his own people's elders would seek to kill him, then how much more terrifying would it be if these myths be wrote of became true. How much more his enemies would tremble before him when the written word came to haunt them. 

So he wrote of his own life, to try to cement them into the memories of others, portraying himself as though he was a fearsome warrior, blessed by powers beyond this world. He spread these words from village to village, from people to people, even as those in the isolated and cordoned-off area of the world he came from continued to advance. 

He also too stayed to the ways of old, the ways that had guided his people for many generations over the centuries. He would hunt among the animals in the wilds. He would do his best to survive, even against all the forces nature and people threw in his path. He tracked down the people who took his family, and took some of the shin stones they had stolen from his people back from them. He was stealthy in the night to travel past the guards unnoticed, moving like the jaguar in the forest. He kept calm the dogs set to guard the people's camp back to sleep, and soothed the people's horses to make sure they did not spook and made sounds of fear that would alert the enemies of his presence. 

After freeing those among his people who had been kept prisoner within the camp of the enemy, and freeing them back into the world, he abandoned them once more as they had abandoned him. He left them with their illiterate elderly who has sought to kill him, and left them too with a stone tablet containing his myth etched into its surface...all according to the words of the elderly who had led the people to their doom. He then, before the sun had risen and the night faded away, placed another tablet into the enemy camp with his own written account of the events he had performed among them during the night in their camp. This was not as a hint to take them on again, but as a warning, that he could have killed them all in their very sleep, but had instead spared them from the same fate his people had once tried to force upon him by sacrifice.

He left his people the people in the enemy camp his weapons, shield, cloak and even his mask. Though the enemies couldn’t do anything with it, not knowing their usage, they took it home. And many years later, they opened a museum that spoke of his legend and what he had done to free his ungrateful people from captivity. Ultimately, however, his life ended far different than the myths he had etched into those stone tablet told of. An infectious leech from a jungle river got the better of him, and this happened even the hero died in his favorite writing spot......a waterfall pool that was in the heart of the jungle. 

Years after he died, the two tablets, these documents that he had placed his tale upon became the source of a new conflict among scholars who debated who he was and what he was. Only when his corpse was eventually discovered did history grant people light to the truth. For at the time he had died, literally with him was a tablet of his true life that settled many disputes and debates of him among scholars. The tools he had were examined and enchanted during these times, by those who wished to respect his legend and person. His loincloth was enchanted to sustain one’s body beyond regular injury, and his cloak with the magic of teleportation and stealth. All of his weapons that were from wood originally were replaced by their mythical material counterparts they supposedly were. His mask was the most courageous piece of engineering in the artifacts department to try to bring his legend "alive" for those who would see, with it being able to completely transmute a live and moveable tree around a person for stealth, and allowing the wearer to understand dog and horse noises (as these were the most used at the time). Further, it was enchanted to give tour information to its wearer when they at important destinations mentioned in most museums. These things would be lost however, as when they recreated the myth, the various rivalries and mockeries of the texts caused a breakdown of opinion, which became so heated that the museum in which all of these things were stored was destroyed overnight itself. The government at the time told people to stay out of the rubble, and had to enforce it with police for fear of looting and such occurring within the rubble of the building. 

Until finally, this people who had learned of hi story too passed away, and knowledge of Xivaoc's legend was also lost with them along with the items that had once been owned by him and enchanted by this other people. Where are the items, however, which were so kept since the time of Xivaoc? Only the cruel mistress of time could tell such a thing now...

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