The ancient bloodline of Prakon became extinct in the Old Age at the hand of those who had feared and divinized them; the last living specimen is around now in the Borderlands, traveling through time-space whirls that led him to consume the coveted revenge on the green and flourishing lands of men.

At the edge of the known world, in the heart of the frozen mountains, lurk the home of the Prakon: the oldest temple built by men for his ancestors.
Prakon’s life is eternal if it can feed on fatuous fires of the mountain that is its vital fluid and its weapon against those who threaten him.

Bas reliefs now consumed by the time narrate the rise and fall of his bloodline and the beauty of the human world, where they could roam freely and live in harmony … but the foolish fear what we do not know in depth and prefer weed out diversity, hidden behind a wall of fake prostration, then break it at the appropriate time with battering rams and catapults, in a blaze of fire and death.