The Tomb of Timody Taldon

Timody Taldon was a name that echoed through the halls and among the whispers of the people. A warrior without equal, Grand Master of the Red Order, feared on the battlefield and beloved by his people. With his black sword, Dark Aria, he felled tyrants and crushed enemies. But the blade that had taken so many lives began to weigh on his soul.

One day, without warning, Timody hung his sword on the wall and never raised it again. He retreated to his fortress, where he delved into the arcane mysteries, seeking wisdom beyond war. He became the protector of his land not with iron, but with spells that warded off plagues, raised crops, and healed the sick. His people revered him as a saint, but in the solitude of his tower, he faced his own demons.

For every man carries shadows, and Timody's was deep. Some whispered that his magic went beyond light, that he studied forbidden scrolls beneath the red moon. There were nights when screams echoed from his tower and no one dared ask why. They say that one day an old enemy knocked on his door—and was never seen again.

But death, treacherous and indifferent to power, found him in a ridiculous way. Not in battle with arcane horrors, nor in a duel with enemies. Timody Taldon, the great hero, slipped on a wet staircase and broke his neck.

The elders said it was fate laughing at his greatness. His disciples buried him in a spell-sealed tomb on the Plain of Dawn, and his black sword and staff rest beside their master.

The Tomb of Blauhaus the Warrior

In the days of yore, when a men were worth less than the blade they wielded, there lived Blauhaus the Wanderer. He was no prince, nor lord of land, but in the hovels and taverns where the fires crackled and the wine flowed freely, his name was revered with laughter and murmurs of respect.

Blauhaus was a man of colossal size, with shoulders as broad as an oak trunk and arms that seemed forged for war. But he was also an inveterate drinker, finding solace and strength in the rich warmth of ale. With a raucous laugh and a heart as vast as his thirst, he never turned down a bet or a fight, whether for honor or amusement.

Yet amidst the drunkenness and the tavern songs, there was a spirit within him that could not be broken: a silent oath of loyalty to those who called him brother. When his land was overrun by raiders from overseas, Blauhaus was where he had always been—sitting on a barrel, a dirty cup in his hands, his boots covered in mud. But as he watched the flames consume the houses, the women and children being swept away, his mind cleared as if the liquor had evaporated from his veins. Armed only with his old blade and the fury of a man who never abandoned his own, he advanced against the invaders. It is said that he cut down dozens before he was wounded, his blows more like those of a beast than a man. But not even the steel embedded in his body was enough to stop him. With his blood leaking like rivers onto the ground, he grabbed the burning stake of a fallen hut and, in a last act, charged the enemy barricade, opening a path for his people to escape. The next morning, when the smell of death still hung in the air, the survivors found his body lying in the rubble, surrounded by the corpses of his enemies. Raised as a hero, Blauhaus was buried in a sacred tomb, sealed with protective runes, so that his soul would never wander lost.

Travelers say that on stormy nights, when thunder shakes the earth and the wind howls like a wounded wolf, echoes of a deep laugh resound among the cold stones. And if a lost man is about to succumb to despair, there are those who swear they will see a colossal shadow of a warrior with burning eyes, drinking one last drink before guiding him out of the darkness.

Plains of Ash - North

The winds that sweep across the Plains of Ash carry with them the unbreathable dust of volcanic eruptions, sometimes bringing with them the voices of the ancient dead - whispering tales of forgotten times. Once known as the Plains of Dawn, these lands were a verdant paradise, where rivers danced silver in the sunlight and forests rose in reverence to the heavens. The great Murky Lake reflected the vastness of the sky, its crystalline mirror nourishing life in all directions.

These were times of glory and life. The tribes that inhabited these lands saw them as a gift from the gods. It was sacred ground, where only the noblest sorcerers and warriors deserved to rest in their tombs. The ancients said that the spirits of these honored dead rose on nights of the full moon, watching over the crops, spreading their strength across the fertile soil. The power of the past flowed like invisible blood through the roots of the trees and through the golden grains of the fields.

But the old gods are capricious and merciless.

The Great Hecatomb came, and the earth roared like a caged beast, the mountains convulsed, spewing fire and destruction in every direction. Columns of black smoke rose like pillars from the underworld itself, and a storm of ash fell upon the earth, suffocating all life. Lake Murky bubbled in its own death, its waters poisoned by sulfur. The rivers became putrid veins, winding through the barren land, dooming any form of existence that dared venture there.

Now, the Plains of Ash are a wasteland of desolation. The ground is hard as iron, cracked and barren. Charred trees rise like twisted specters. The sky, often veiled in sulfuric mists, refuses to shine over this cursed place. The few who dare to cross this land swear they hear voices carried on the wind—murmurs of the ancient warriors and sorcerers who rest there, perhaps furious that their rest has been disturbed, perhaps still watching over something deep beneath the scorched earth.

Are their tombs strong enough to withstand the eruption? Do the spirits of old still lie sealed beneath the ashes, or have they awakened as dark guardians of a forgotten realm?

More work to Master @Monsen

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https://pt.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lista_de_parques_nacionais_do_Brasil