The Myth of Lorian, the Mortal Who Became Emperor

=== The Myth of Lorian, the Mortal Who Became Emperor ===
In the days when the gods still walked among mortals, and the winds carried whispers of fate, there lived a humble man named Lorian, son of Orestes, a simple farmer in the kingdom of Ishtara. His family toiled upon the soil, and though the earth was generous at times, it was cruel in others. And so it was that Lorian knew the bitterness of hunger, the ache of calloused hands, and the sorrow of watching the wealthy grow fat on the toil of the poor.
But Lorian was not content to bend beneath the weight of fate as his forefathers had. He looked upon the great cities of the land, their marble walls gleaming in the sun, and heard the stories of kings who ruled not by the will of the people, but by the edge of their sword. He knew in his heart that something was wrong with the world—that the gods had abandoned Ishtara to its suffering. But Lorian, unlike the kings, had no army, no riches, no birthright to claim. He was but a single man, one among thousands.
One fateful evening, as the last rays of the sun dipped behind the Blackspire Mountains, Lorian wandered into the Valley of Thorns, a desolate place of jagged stones and twisted trees, where few dared to tread. It was here, in the shadows of the Blackspires, that the ancient god of justice, Themis, once laid down the scales of fate and swore that one day, a mortal would rise to reshape the world.
Lorian, weary and desperate, climbed the rocky hills of the valley, seeking the whispers of old. And it was there, among the gnarled roots of an ancient oak, that he found the relic—the Crown of Night. The crown, forged in the dark forge of the gods themselves, was said to grant dominion over not just men, but the very forces of fate. But it came with a price: to wear the crown was to bear the weight of an empire, to command the heavens and the earth, and to carry the burden of a people's hopes and curses.
As Lorian’s fingers brushed the crown’s blackened rim, the earth trembled, and a voice like thunder rumbled through the valley. It was no mortal voice, but that of a god—Luros, the god of the wind and storms.
"O mortal," Luros boomed, his voice carrying both the gentleness of a breeze and the fury of a tempest. "You stand at the crossroads of destiny. Take this crown, and you shall become king of Ishtara, but know this: your reign will be wrought with sacrifice, for the crown does not choose the unworthy. Wear it, and you will rise to command an empire—but be warned, the gods watch, and their eyes are ever keen."
With a heart full of both courage and trepidation, Lorian placed the Crown of Night upon his brow. In that instant, the skies above Ishtara grew dark, and the winds howled as if in mourning. But from that storm came a strength unlike any mortal had ever known. Lorian felt the weight of the crown settle upon his head, and with it, an overwhelming clarity. He saw the kingdom of Ishtara as the gods saw it—fractured, torn by warlords and tyrants, ruled by the whims of those who cared little for the common folk.
Thus, Lorian’s fate was sealed. With the Crown of Night, he became more than a man. He became the Herald of Destiny, the Mortal King, a force of nature whose name would echo through the halls of time.
In the years that followed, Lorian waged war against the warlords who ruled over the fractured lands. His armies were not born of gold or glory, but of the people—the peasants, the outcasts, the disillusioned warriors who saw in Lorian the embodiment of their hopes. Under his banner, the farmers and the noble-born alike stood side by side, for Lorian’s cause was one of unity, and his spirit was unbreakable.
The gods themselves took notice of his rise. Apana, the god of light, sent visions of grandeur, and Apona, goddess of wisdom, guided his strategies in battle. But it was Ares, the god of war, who whispered the darkest secret to Lorian: "The crown you wear, mortal, will not allow you to rest until the world is your own. There is no peace for kings born of fate."
Yet Lorian pressed on, for his heart was pure. Through blood and fire, he defeated the tyrants and brought peace to the land. The people, once oppressed, now raised their voices in song as the Ebon Empire was born, its foundations laid in the blood of a thousand battles. Lorian crowned himself Emperor not in the halls of royalty, but beneath the open sky, where he had first found the crown that had shaped his destiny.
But the gods had not forgotten the price of power. As his empire grew, so too did the weight upon Lorian’s shoulders. The gods, in their jealousy, tested him with storms and famine, with treachery and betrayal. Yet Lorian, with the heart of a god and the soul of a mortal, weathered every trial, for his people were his strength, and he would not falter.
And so, Lorian ruled for many years, bringing prosperity and wisdom to the lands, but in the end, it was not in battle or conquest that he met his fate. On the eve of his final days, with his empire secure and his legend carved into the very stones of the earth, Lorian made his final pilgrimage to the Valley of Thorns. There, with his crown heavy upon his brow, he knelt before the ancient oak and spoke the final words of his reign:
"I have ruled as both man and god, but in the end, I am neither. I give this crown back to the earth, to the winds, to the gods, that it may find another worthy soul. Let it be a reminder to all who rise: the greatest empire is built not from power, but from the will of the people."
And so, as the stars above flickered in the heavens, Lorian laid down the Crown of Night upon the altar where he had first found it. The gods, watching from their lofty thrones, murmured among themselves, for they knew that Lorian’s legend would endure far beyond his mortal life.
And the Crown of Night, it is said, still lies hidden in the Valley of Thorns, waiting for the next mortal who dares to rise and shape the fate of the world.
It is said that Great Lorian is a Fortis and is a descendent of Duke Dutch Fortis