Graveborns are a faction AFK Arena. These are heroes who serve as death, revived as the Undead, and who seek immortality through dark arts and necromancy. It is not confirmed however if Graveborns serve for the Hypogeans. The heroes' lore focused on their own conflicts and problems. They are enemies even against the Hypogeans.
Ascended Tier Heroes
Legendary+ Tier Heroes
Common Tier Heroes
"The world of the dead has been without supervision since Annih walked away from his duties in pursuit of blasphemous conquest. More and more, the long-slumbering souls have begun to wake up. Their eagerness to return to the world of the living can only be described as a ravenous hunger."
A Graveborn is basically a being who has been raised from the dead by black magic or necromancy. Most Graveborn resemble humanoids, except with pale skin and glowing green eyes. Some have demonic appearances like horns or have been completely deformed.
When a Graveborn is raised from the dead, they lose all memories of their past life and become mindless creatures, bent of hunger and immortality. It was said that the Graveborn first came into being when Quaedam, an ancient soul of a powerful mage, took Annih's place as ruler of the Underworld when he began his conquest of Esperia.
By forming pacts with the most poweful souls of the deceased, he created the art of necromancy and spread the knowledge of the art to form pacts with the living by promising them immortality in exchange for their soul.
As a result, Graveborn are considered the most hated and vilest of all the factions in Esperia. Although, some Graveborn still possess a bit of sentience.
On the World Map, the Bantus Empire is the kingdom of the Graveborn.
The Fall of Bantus.
"The Lenu people originally lived as nomads. They were fierce and brave, resolving all disputes through force. At this point, the Lenu people were not unlike their neighbors, a tribe of bloodthirsty barbarians. Later, the various tribes of the Lenu were unified in war. They built immense fortresses surrounded by strong walls, establishing the Bantus Empire.
Even after settling down, the Lenu could not overcome their violent nature. It seems that Bantus has always had a reverence for death. It was an obsession which permeated every aspect of society. The Lenu believed death in battle was the embrace of glory, and death by natural causes an unthinkable shame.
This fixation on death and violence manifested in many ways. While the ruling class saw fit to educate everyone in their empire, it was an education in war and battle. Bantus was the ultimate militaristic nation. From the very beginning, it existed in a constant state of war, always seeking to expand by conquering neighboring territories. The rulers promoted these attitudes towards death and combat in order to keep their people focused on and in favor of their never-ending war. Countless naive youths found death in pursuit of glory, their lives offered up in meaningless sacrifice to a twisted sense of honor.
During the centuries of its reign, the Bantus Empire was perpetually in wars of conquest. Even in short periods of truce, it was simply refueling for the next war.
The rulers of the empire exercised ruthless and harsh military control, and almost all resources and labor were devoted to the military. In this country, anything and everything was allowed, provided it aided the war effort. Seeking to gain every possible advantage, the empire abandoned all thought of morality and ethics, heedlessly pursuing any source of power within reach. It is only natural that they eventually turned to necromancy.
This was the opportunity Lord Quaedam was waiting for. For centuries, he patiently watched the Lenu as they evolved from bloodthirsty nomads into a fearsome empire. When the Bantus Empire began experimenting with necromancy, he already had countless servants in place at all levels of society, slowly preparing the Bantus Empire to bend to their master’s will.
The Empire, with its special affection for death, became a hotbed of necromancy, the latest trend in their pursuit of greater might. They made good use of necromancy in war. Those who sacrificed their lives for the Empire did not rest after death. They were resurrected as Graveborn soldiers, and continued to fight for the Empire until they could be used no more."
|Use 3 Heroes||Use Three of the following: Elite+||Use Three of the following: Legendary+|
CRIT +15 ATK +10%
Pallid moonlight weakly illuminated the city. The air was filled with the pitter patter of the rain and the muffled footsteps of vagrants shuffling nervously in alleyways.
Within a narrow tucked away lane were two small figures that looked to be no more than 10 years old. Their faces were pale from the icy rain and wind, their clothes disheveled and scattered with holes.
They huddled together for any warmth they could find as they passed the night alone. Silvina and Isabella had come to the city after being forced from their homes, feared and misunderstood by their fellow villagers. This was their new home, the lawless backstreets, rife with traffickers and bandits.
It had already been two days since their last meal but Silvina, being the older of the two knew she had to do something for her younger sister although she herself was not in great condition.
She struggled to pull herself up, steadying her body on the wall against the momentary bout of dizziness. If she didn’t find food now they wouldn’t be able to hold on for much longer.
She instructed Isabella to wait for her but as she did so her words were cut off by a hoarse, raspy voice that uttered…
“Boss, over ‘ere, these two will fetch us a good price”.
Isabella’s eyes tracked the source of the sound. Locating the man, she saw he was accompanied by two others, they were all middle aged and possessed an unkind glint in their eyes as they slowly walked towards the two girls, with both rope and bags in hand.
“We’re in luck today, lads. We won’t have to travel too far tonight. The old crones will probably take these two young ‘uns off our hands for a pretty penny” the man said, punctuating the remark with a sharp laugh.
Isabella realized what was happening, she slipped a slim dagger from her sleeve and clenched it with grubby hands. She held it at arms length as the men approached. She couldn’t tell if the trembling in her hand was due to fear or the cold.
Ever since the incident that caused she and her sister to be driven from their home, evil had followed her little sister, Isabella, and she always kept the dagger close, hoping she’d never need it.
When the men noticed what Silvina was holding in her hands they were taken aback briefly before succumbing to a round of wheezing laughter. What could she possibly do to them? Their laughter was suddenly cut off by the sound of a horse neighing. An immaculate carriage cut through the drifting drizzle and fog smothering the streets.
The cart came to a halt at the alley’s entrance. Through the gloom, the silhouette of the aristocrat of the aristocrat passenger could be seen pressing to the window, apparently absorbed by the scene playing out in the alley.
He took no interest in the rights and wrongs of the situation. There was little difference between the brigands with the ropes and the children with the knife.
They were the underclass. Too rough and uncultured to be considered fully human, they nonetheless provided interesting diversions from time to time. The drama in their existences pantomimed the real issues sometimes faced by their betters.
“Someone’s coming” a thin ruffian stuttered to a stocky balding man, who appeared to be the leader. The stocky man glared at the cart and gave and spoke in an arrogant tone.
“What’re you afraid of? This is our turf! Ain’t nobody who’d dare meddle with us. Now stop wasting time and grab the girls!”
Silvina bit her bottom lip and grimaced, staring the man down with a look of defiance in her eyes. Her grip on the stiletto tightened. Why wasn’t the man in the carriage doing anything? The thin man meekly nodded in agreement and picked up the bag and opened it up wide as he walked towards Silvina. The stress and fear conspired with her hunger, blurring her vision. The dagger dipped toward the ground as she struggled to maintain consciousness.
The thin man saw this opportunity and swiftly moved in for the capture. With the last light of her awareness, she watched him. She saw the mouth of the heavy burlap sack, and in that darkness, she saw not only her own death but the death of her little sister. Something in her flared up and, coming out of lull, she lashed out with the knife, savagely opening the veins in the hand of her would-be abductor. He shouted in surprise, pain, and fear. Lashing out with his good hand, he struck her to the ground.
Isabella screamed as she saw her older sister hitting the cobblestone. She felt that frightening sensation returning, the one that had accompanied the light that destroyed the bandits in her home village. Even had she known how to suppress it, she was too frightened and incensed at the moment to do so. The green light began pouring from her eyes. The assailant froze, too terrified to scream. A plaintive rasp escaped his lips as his skin withered and turned brittle, his eyes sinking deep into his skull and darkening, his hair turning white and falling out.
The two remaining thugs were too afraid to move. They stood in shock, looking at the desiccated corpse that moments ago had been their accomplice. The man in the carriage, however, had a very different reaction. After witnessing the events that had just unfolded, his eyes were gleaming with boundless excitement. He leapt from his carriage and walked into the alley, drawing a slender sword from a sheath attached to his hip. The two men still stood there in a daze, barely registering his approach. Before they could react or say anything to the oncoming man — death. A clean kill. One swing, two heads. He nonchalantly flicked away the viscera and posted himself before the cowering street children.
Silvina pulled herself up from the wet ground, once again hiding her stiletto. She stood silently, but vigilantly staring at the man who stood before them. He put his right hand on his chest and gave a courteous bow.
“Please allow me to introduce myself, I am Count Vedan, it’s my pleasure to be acquainted. I saw your special abilities, I too have a natural aptitude for the arcane. With your willingness, I can guide you both, teach you how to control your feelings and emotions, and in turn your powers, and you’ll never have to feel scared or alone again. I will wait in the coach for your answer.”
He turned and walked back toward the carriage.
Silvina didn’t full understand the weight and implications of the Count’s words, but hearing that he could protect her lithe sister, her decision was already made. She grabbed Isabella’s hand as they both headed towards the waiting transport.
The Wrathful Two
|Use 2 Heroes||Use Two of the following: Elite+||Use Two of the following: Legendary+|
Crows are circling above a graveyard, lured in by some foul prize. Every so often a lone call from one of the birds adds gloom to an already dreary scene. In the middle of the grounds, an arcane symbol rests on the ground like an angry wound.
It is drawn in blood and strewn randomly with bits of bone, the source of which is unknown. At the center of the symbol, a body. For the most part it could be any old corpse, but one thing in particular sets this one apart- it wears a crown.
Grezhul stood before the symbol he had drawn. His blank eyes betrayed no sentiment, but his actions were born of admiration and duty. He had been charged with protecting the king, and yet here the king lay. Butchered in his own hall, by his own brother.
Aye, the brother had paid though. Grezhul had made it cost the traitors dearly before they overwhelmed him, and now he was walking the earth again as a graveborn. The king though... he was another story. The face that Grezhul even had to perform this ritual meant that he had failed. Even so, he had to do something.
He said the strange words he'd memorized and thrust his swords into the earth inside the symbol. It lines began to glow softly, causing flickering shadows to dance on the bones and headstones.
The glow started at the outside edges of the symbol and slowly made its way toward the center and the body resting there. Blood crackled and turned black, emitting an acrid stink.
Staring at the corpse in the circle, Grezhul remembered his time with King Thoran. Though the memories had not come through the veils of death and resurrection unscathed, some specifics still held fast, and the overarching emotions associated with the memories had gone unharmed.
He wondered absently if the memories would continue to detreriorate, as they do in life. His oath, though... The promise he made to protect the king would duty to which he rededicated himself daily.
A memory swam into his mimd. He was seven. Still young, but old enough to say the words according to tradition. His father stood before him, wearing almost the same set of armor he wore now, and beamed. He was clearly pleased that his son would follow in his footsteps as a Praetorion.
It was the family tradition that while younger sons may pursue any profession, the eldest must always join the Praetorians. He said the words, swearing an oath to the king, but he wouldn't understand what it all really meant until years later.
Nine years later, he is standing nervously near the back of the throne room. It is the annual Oath Of the Praetorians, a ceremony in which the young men in training are selected for duty and allowed to become full-fledged Praetorians, and boys are brought before the king to say the oath and be taken in for their years-long wardship. The shining, flawless armor he wears doesn't feel real. As he steps forward to accept his sword, he is in a daze.
Hardly a season after his initiation and he is along for one of the king's hunts. These are usually relaxed and safe but enemies will occasionally use an opportunity like this to strike. He spots the man crouching in the boughs an instant before the arrow is loosed.
Leaping in front of the king, he takes the arrow himself. It is poorly placed and not much more than a scratch, but the poisons coating it are potent. For days he is bedridden, on the brink of death. The palace healers attend him nonstop, and Thoran himself visits daily, urging the young praetorian to fight through it. Eventually, he does.
A rasping sound came from the center of the pentagram, bringing Grezhul out of his reminiscence. The shaking husk of King Thoran slowly stood, finding his balance. His eyes opened and his brows furrowed as a sneer formed on his cracked lips. He radiated spite and hatred. Grezhul placed his hand over the pommel of one of his swords and knelt, bowing his head before his liege. It was time to serve the king.