The Dweghom are the firstborn children of War, and their long history is steeped in warfare and loss. Originally crafted by the dragons as a race of peerless craftsmen, their Ancestors were forged to be the ultimate servitors – hardy, industrious, loyal, and dedicated to the creation of beauty. Their lifespans were vastly extended, and their memories made deep and enduring, so that the secrets of their craft would not be lost from generation to generation. For millennia, they labored for their masters, and the Dragons thrived. Matchless artifacts and beautiful relics swelled the Dragon hoards, while the Rooks, the dragons’ lairs, were transformed into marvels of architecture and engineering.

Revolts and uprisings were all but unknown, as loyalty had been imprinted into their very essence, and they found it impossible to raise weapons against their masters once one of them joined the fray directly. Those few rebellions that did occur were swiftly put down, their leaders rounded up and executed, while the followers were exiled to the unforgiving depths of their vast mine networks to toil in the dark and dangerous passages close to Destruction’s heart. But the dragons had wrought their craft too well. Those Ancestors who were exiled to the depths were bowed, but far from broken. Their gift of memory stoked the fires of their fury, fueling their determination to bring down their masters. Their tunnels delved ever deeper into the hidden places of the earth, the cool stillness of those dark chambers echoing with their anger as they dug, the quiet slowly giving way to the seething wrath of the planet’s core. There, surrounded by a fury and rage that dwarfed even their own, they came across their doom, as well as their salvation. Bound by the Dragons in Primordial Earth and Fire since Eӓ itself was still young, it had languished in the smothering embrace of its chthonian tomb for eons uncounted, beyond the reach of the mortal races – or so the Dragons thought. Every rage-fueled strike of the Ancestors’ pickaxes and every angry, shattering blow of their hammers had become a prayer, turning their ordeal into a pilgrimage that burrowed through not only the miles of obdurate stone that separated them, but across the very borders of reality itself, until they stood before the throne and prison of War, the Second Horseman and Incarnate Soul of Destruction.