The Astaray Knights

Keepers of the Weave

The Astaray Knights stand among the most revered and enigmatic orders within the Church of Xal’Kanan. Founded in an era when magic was still regarded as a force to be understood rather than simply wielded, the order was established to serve as scholars, diplomats, and warriors of knowledge. Their mission was never conquest, nor was it merely the enforcement of divine law; the Astaray were entrusted with a greater purpose—the preservation of knowledge in all its forms. They traveled the world as seekers, cataloging histories, philosophies, and magical traditions, always watching, always listening. Their presence at court was a sign of prestige, but also scrutiny, for to receive an Astaray was to invite both wisdom and judgment. Their methods set them apart from other knightly orders. While the Church’s more militant forces, such as the Royal Lance Corps, relied on sheer force of arms, the Astaray blended magic and martial skill into a seamless discipline. To the untrained eye, their fighting style was impossibly fluid, as though they anticipated every move before it happened. It was not true foresight, but rather an instinctive connection to the Weave itself, a cultivated mastery that allowed them to act with precision and efficiency beyond mortal limits. Every strike was calculated, every motion refined by centuries of study and adaptation. Their training was not only in war but in diplomacy, theology, and philosophy. They were as comfortable in a grand library as they were on a battlefield, capable of unraveling a conflict through words as easily as through steel. Despite their high standing within the Church, the Astaray were never fully trusted. There was something about their quiet autonomy, their insistence on preserving knowledge regardless of its origin, that made them suspect in the eyes of more rigid clergy. They were not missionaries, nor were they instruments of conversion. They did not enforce dogma; they recorded, analyzed, and preserved. To many within the Church hierarchy, this was an uncomfortable position—an order that understood too much, that saw the cracks in carefully constructed theological narratives and did not shy away from asking questions.

It was this very nature that led to their role in Areeott’s formation. When the Dragon Insurrection threatened to consume the world, it was clear that Stormwatch Pass, the lands of the Arin people, would be the linchpin in any strategy for survival. The Arin were fierce, isolated, and unyielding, having resisted the ambitions of Avindor for over a century. The Church could not simply send an army to claim the pass—it had to send an emissary, one who could navigate the cultural divide and find a path to peace. The Astaray were the obvious choice. They entered Arin lands as strangers, with no true understanding of what lay beyond the mountain passes, and yet, through patience and wisdom, they earned the trust of a people who had sworn never to allow outsiders into their world. But the Astaray did not simply negotiate an alliance. They changed. The warriors who entered Areeott did not return the same. The Arin’s ways were not merely accepted—they were adopted, woven into the very fabric of what these Astaray became. The world beyond the mountains waited for their return, expecting reports of conquest or conversion, only to find that the Astaray had embraced Arin traditions as their own. Their magic, once rigid and structured, had adapted to the intuitive, unspoken rhythms of Arin folk magic. Their philosophy had shifted, embracing survival and pragmatism over doctrine. By the time reinforcements from the Church arrived, the Astaray had become something unrecognizable, something wholly Areeott’s. Those who remained in the Church viewed this transformation with suspicion, and in the centuries that followed, the Astaray who had not gone to Areeott became the order’s only true inheritors within the Church’s structure. They continued their work as scholars and advisors, but their reputation was forever shadowed by what had happened in Areeott. Some called it a loss, others a betrayal. It did not matter. The divide was permanent.

In the years that followed, the Church of Xal’Kanan was thrown into chaos by the Shattering, and the Astaray who remained loyal to it had their own struggles. What had once been an order defined by the pursuit of knowledge became an institution burdened by uncertainty, sifting through the wreckage of lost history, trying to reclaim what had been taken from them. They had always understood more than others, but now, even they did not know the full truth. The Seinrill column in the great halls of the Church blackened overnight, a silent proclamation of something that no one could explain. Xal’Kanan himself, in communion with the Hierophants, gave no answer. It was a moment that should have reshaped the world, but without knowledge, without certainty, it was reduced to whispers, speculation, and unease. Areeott, for its part, remained outwardly loyal. It paid its tithes, upheld its faith, and never made demands. But it also never gave back what had been lost. It never relinquished control. It never returned to the fold. For three centuries after the Shattering, while the Western Church Kingdoms tore themselves apart over relics and records, Areeott stood untouched. No army that has ever marched into Areeott has ever marched out. And so, no army has tried. The Astaray of the Church continue their work, but they are never allowed to forget that there is a piece of their history that they will never fully understand. Some still investigate, trying to piece together the controlled narrative of Areeott’s past, but they have no true access, no leverage, and no certainty. Corvyn Seinrill, the architect of Areeott’s continued independence, does not give them an inch. He does not move against them, but he does not allow them to move against him, either. They watch, they wonder, and they wait, knowing that something happened in Areeott that even their god will not speak of.

What remains of the Astaray in Areeott is something else entirely. They are no longer Astaray by name, and their methods are no longer bound to the traditions of the Church. Corvyn took what he had learned, what he had been, and reshaped it into something the world could not anticipate. The Seinrill House Guard is his final work, his perfected vision of control, an institution that does not enforce law, but enforces his will. They do not fight wars, because wars never begin. They do not threaten, because their presence alone is enough. They do not serve Areeott, they serve him, and even if he were to fall, they would not stop. The Astaray Knights remain one of the most powerful and respected orders in the Church of Xal’Kanan, but they are also one of the most uncertain. They look to Areeott, to the secrets buried within its borders, to the question of what happened during the Shattering, and they know that something is missing. They listen for answers that will not come. They wait for a reckoning that has never arrived. And above all, they wonder: if the truth were ever known, would it be the salvation of their order—or its undoing?

Structure

The Astaray do not rule by decree, nor do they command through fear or force. Theirs is an order built upon duty, where structure is not a measure of power but of responsibility. Every Astaray, from the lowliest initiate to the Hieromagus, is bound by purpose. It is this purpose, not titles or lineage, that defines their place within the order. At the center of all stands the Hieromagus, the singular guiding voice of the Astaray. Chosen not for strength or knowledge alone, but for their ability to see beyond both, the Hieromagus does not rule—they serve. Theirs is the burden of judgment, the task of balancing the needs of the present with the wisdom of the past. To hold this title is to be the steward of the order’s mission, the guardian of its purpose, and the final voice in matters of doctrine. Yet, even they do not stand alone. The Reliquar bear the weight of the past. They are the keepers of sacred things, the stewards of history made tangible. Their charge is to protect that which must not be forgotten—the weapons, relics, and artifacts that hold the echoes of centuries. To them are entrusted the Master's Edge and Weave Runner, not as mere tools of war, but as burdens to be carried, as lessons to be remembered. The blades they wield are not theirs alone; they are part of a lineage of duty, an unbroken chain stretching back through time. To be a Reliquar is to understand that a weapon is not a thing of conquest, but of legacy. It is a history written in steel, and history must be protected. The Praxis walk the order’s harshest path. They are neither judges nor enforcers in the way the outside world understands such things, for the Astaray do not deal in laws—they deal in truth. It is the Praxis who ensure that truth does not falter, who stand as the quiet watchers of the order’s purpose. They do not seek corruption for the sake of punishment, nor do they hunt their own for sport. But when an Astaray’s devotion strays, when ambition overtakes duty, when knowledge is twisted into something lesser, it is the Praxis who remind them of their oaths. Sometimes with words. Sometimes with silence. And when necessary, sometimes with the blade. The Luminar move where others cannot. They are the voices of the Astaray beyond the halls of the order, the diplomats, the advisors, the ones who bring wisdom into the courts of kings and the councils of nations. Where the Praxis ensures the order does not falter within, the Luminar ensure it is understood without. They are the ones who weave through the labyrinth of politics, who speak when war can be avoided, who listen when others will not. To be Luminar is to understand that knowledge, when wielded properly, can cut sharper than any sword. The Citari do not speak unless they must. They do not command armies, nor do they shape the course of politics. Instead, they listen. They study the Weave not as a force to be controlled, but as something to be understood. They see the patterns in the world that others miss, not through prophecy, but through patience. The Citari do not seek war, nor do they guide it, but when they are called upon, even the Hieromagus listens. There are things in the world that are not meant to be spoken of lightly, truths that reshape understanding. The Citari walk at the edges of these truths, and they step forward only when the world is ready to hear them. There is no single path within the Astaray, no rigid hierarchy where one title outranks another. Instead, there is balance. The Hieromagus guides, but they do not dictate. The Reliquar guard the past, the Praxis safeguard the present, the Luminar shape the future, and the Citari remind them all that time is not so linear as mortals would believe. It is this balance that has allowed the Astaray to endure where others have faltered, to remain where others have been forgotten.

Culture

The Astaray do not see the world as others do. They do not measure their worth in conquest, nor do they seek power for its own sake. To an outsider, their ways may seem rigid, bound by unseen laws and expectations that shape every action. But to those within, there is no rigidity—only purpose. At the heart of the Astaray’s culture is the belief that knowledge is not simply to be kept, but to be understood. To learn something is not merely to possess it, but to bear its weight, to see its consequences, to recognize its place within the grand design. This is why the Astaray do not hoard knowledge like a miser hoards gold, nor do they release it carelessly into the world. Every lesson must be placed where it belongs. Every secret must be earned. This philosophy defines the way they live. Astaray do not rush to speak when silence serves them better. They do not act without knowing why. To an outsider, they may seem cold, but theirs is not the coldness of detachment—it is the discipline of those who have seen what knowledge, given too freely, can become. They temper their wisdom with restraint, their curiosity with caution. They do not fear truth, but they respect it, knowing that not all who seek understanding are prepared to bear it. To be Astaray is to be bound by oaths, not to men, but to ideals. Their vows are not recited mindlessly, nor are they abandoned easily. Those who fail them do not simply shame themselves; they diminish the purpose of the order itself. This is why, within the Astaray, failure is met with consequence—not out of cruelty, but because to stray from the path is to invite ruin upon more than just oneself. Despite their structure, the Astaray do not live in solemn silence. They are scholars, and scholars debate. The halls of their sanctuaries echo with the sounds of argument, discussion, the clashing of ideas as sharp as any blade. They do not seek mindless obedience; they seek those who will question, challenge, and refine what is known. Their apprentices are taught not to recite, but to reason. Their masters do not dictate, they guide. This is why they do not view tradition as something to be worshipped. The past is a foundation, not a prison. Even the most ancient teachings may be challenged if reason and evidence demand it. This is what sets them apart from other orders within the Church of Xal’Kanan. Where others revere the written word as inviolate, the Astaray ask: Who wrote it? Why? Where others cling to doctrine, the Astaray test it, refine it, strip away what is flawed and replace it with what is true. But in this pursuit, they walk a careful line. To be Astaray is to know that truth, in its rawest form, is dangerous. Knowledge changes those who bear it, and not all who seek wisdom do so with good intent. This is why they are cautious in what they teach, why they test their initiates not only in skill but in judgment. It is said that an Astaray does not ask can this be known, but rather should it be? This belief is woven into their rituals, their ceremonies, their very way of life. Every lesson is earned. Every rite is deliberate. Even in battle, they fight with precision rather than brutality, with discipline rather than rage. Every strike must have purpose. Every action must be justified. And so they walk through the world, bound not by chains, but by duty. To be Astaray is to understand that there are truths one must carry alone, burdens that cannot be shared. It is to know that wisdom comes not only from learning, but from knowing when to speak and when to remain silent. They are not the enforcers of faith, nor the servants of kings. They are the ones who endure. The ones who remember. The ones who, when the world is ready, will speak the truths that others have long since forgotten.

Public Agenda

The Astaray Knights make no claims to power, nor do they seek dominion over the kingdoms of the world. They exist as an extension of the Church of Xal’Kanan, dedicated to the preservation of wisdom and the careful stewardship of knowledge. In every hall where learning is valued, in every court where rulers seek counsel, and in every temple where the faithful gather to understand the will of the divine, the Astaray are present. They are scholars, diplomats, and teachers, bringing education to those who would otherwise live in ignorance, guiding rulers toward wisdom, and safeguarding the integrity of magic itself. To those outside the order, the Astaray are seen as nothing more than a force for enlightenment. Their reputation is one of service, of quiet, steady influence, of a hand that guides but never grasps. They are the wandering voices of knowledge, traveling to the farthest reaches of civilization to teach reading and writing to those who have never held a book. They are the advisors in royal courts, settling disputes before they can turn to war. They are the careful stewards of history, ensuring that no great truth is lost to time or distorted by those who would twist it to suit their own ambitions. Their presence is a sign of stability, a reassurance that wisdom still has a place in a world that so often chooses violence. Yet for all their humility, there is an undeniable reality that few are willing to speak aloud—knowledge is power. The Astaray do not rule, but they decide what is taught. They do not command armies, but they determine what history remembers. For all their insistence that they merely safeguard wisdom, it is they who weigh what should be passed on and what should be buried. To study under them is not a right; it is a privilege granted only to those they deem worthy. Their libraries are vast, yet not all who seek entry are permitted to read what lies within their vaults. There are things that should not be known, truths that must remain hidden, not because the Astaray fear them, but because they understand the weight they carry. To the rulers of the world, they are a stabilizing force, ensuring that faith does not become blind, that magic does not become reckless, and that those in power do not allow ignorance to shape their decisions. To the common folk, they are wandering sages, men and women who bring light to the darkest corners of civilization, offering the gift of literacy, of understanding, of history preserved. To the Church of Xal’Kanan, they are a necessary but ever-watchful presence, an order that stands apart even as it remains within. Their duty is to the faith, yet it is not to doctrine. Their loyalty is to wisdom, yet it is not to the Church itself. It is easy to believe that the Astaray have no agenda beyond their stated purpose, that they are nothing more than guides and keepers of knowledge. And yet, for all their carefully measured neutrality, they shape the course of the world as surely as any king or priest. In every land where their voice is heard, in every kingdom where their wisdom is sought, it is they who decide what must be remembered and what must be forgotten. They do not govern, but they do something far greater—they ensure that history itself belongs to them.

Assets

The Astaray do not accumulate wealth in the manner of kings. They do not hoard coin, nor do they build great bastions of war. Their holdings are spread across the world, not in fortresses, but in sanctuaries of knowledge, hidden libraries, and halls of study where wisdom is safeguarded against time, destruction, and those who would misuse it. Their greatest resources are their archives, containing texts that do not exist anywhere else—records of history long forgotten, grimoires of magic that predate the Shattering, and philosophical works that have been kept from the world for reasons known only to the order. Some of these libraries are accessible to scholars, their halls open to those who seek enlightenment. Others are sealed, locked behind protections that even the highest-ranking Astaray dare not break. The knowledge they guard is not meant for all. Though they do not raise armies, the Astaray are never without protection. Their warriors are few, but among the most disciplined in the world. The Reliquar stand as the guardians of their most sacred holdings, ensuring that what is entrusted to them is never lost. The Veridical stand watch over the roads, escorting scholars and diplomats who travel under the order’s banner, ensuring that knowledge is never silenced by violence. No kingdom claims them, yet no ruler ignores them. Their power is not in force of arms, but in the understanding that when the Astaray declare something beyond the reach of mortal hands, none may dare take it. They do not own fleets, yet no port is closed to them. They do not build castles, yet their halls stand untouched. They do not rule, yet their words shape the decisions of those who do. Their wealth is not measured in gold, nor in land, nor in armies. It is measured in the knowledge they keep, the trust they have earned, and the duty they will not forsake.

History

The Astaray Knights trace their origins to the earliest days of the Church of Xal’Kanan, forged not as warriors of conquest, but as scholars, diplomats, and guardians of knowledge. Their order was never meant to rule, nor to command legions in battle. Instead, they were created to preserve wisdom, guide those who sought it, and ensure that knowledge—both arcane and divine—was never lost. The earliest records of the Astaray’s founding describe them as wandering scholars and mage-knights, traveling between the great temple-cities of the Church, offering counsel to rulers, and recording histories that would otherwise fade. Unlike the militant orders of other faiths, the Astaray were never an army. They did not claim land. They did not demand fealty. Their duty was to the pursuit of wisdom and the protection of that which must not be forgotten. As the Church expanded, so too did the Astaray. Their scholars became advisors to kings and hierarchs, their warriors became guardians of sacred places and lost knowledge, and their presence in the courts of power ensured that magic and faith remained in balance. They were respected, but always watched, for even in their earliest days, there were those within the Church who feared their autonomy, who questioned whether an order so devoted to wisdom could ever truly remain loyal to doctrine. The defining moment of their history came during the Dragon Insurrection, when the world faced the Risen Scourge and the Church of Xal’Kanan sought to secure Stormwatch Pass. The Astaray were sent not as conquerors, but as envoys, tasked with forging an alliance with the Arin people, whose lands held the only true defense against the draconic onslaught. The Astaray’s approach was cautious—they entered Arin lands as outsiders, knowing little of the culture, the terrain, or the ways of those they sought to speak with. And yet, through patience, through understanding, through a willingness to learn before they sought to lead, they succeeded. But in succeeding, they were changed. The Astaray who entered Areeott did not return the same. What began as an attempt to parlay with a fierce and insular people became something far more. The Astaray did not simply learn from the Arin; they became part of them. Their rigid arcane traditions adapted to the Arin’s more intuitive folk magic, their philosophy shifted from doctrine to survival and pragmatism, and by the time reinforcements from the Church arrived, they found not missionaries, not conquerors, but something entirely new. To the Church, this was unsettling. The Astaray were supposed to be the hand of Xal’Kanan, a force of reason and wisdom untainted by the cultures they encountered. But those who had gone to Areeott had become something else, and that was not easily ignored. After the Shattering, the division between the Astaray and the Church of Xal’Kanan grew even wider. In the chaos that followed, with knowledge lost and history broken, the Astaray became both a stabilizing force and a silent threat. The Church needed them, but it did not trust them. The Astaray had kept records the Church had lost. They had retained knowledge of the past that others had forgotten. And while the world around them burned, they remained. As centuries passed, their role solidified. They became an order apart—still of the Church, yet never fully within it. They advised, they taught, they guided. But they answered to no one but themselves. The Hierophant might call upon them, but he did not command them. Kings might seek their counsel, but they did not rule. Their influence has never been measured in crowns or armies, but in something far greater: the trust of the divine, the knowledge they have chosen to preserve, and the unshaken certainty that what they guard must endure beyond the rise and fall of mortal power.