Community

Hello all! Thank you so much for those that have donated, and also those that have been sharing the project on social media. We are currently lat $160. We need the whole $8,000 in order to keep the funds, but I have faith that we will succeed! We have a bunch of clips still rolling out each day on our social media. We have clips about politics told through Augustine's antics, and a little intro over over a dozen characters. Cannot wait to share more of this world with everyone. Thank you again, and happy adventuring.

Our socials: https://linktr.ee/amaliachronicles

You can also pre-order the novels from David Kain (linked in the tree above) to help support the world.

Hey all! Our lovely graphic designer has finished with one of the Pantheon Stickers that will be going out to those who order them. They are listed as an add-on for any donation level.

Jorrax is the god of ruin, the whisper in the corpse’s ear, the hunger that comes after all has burned. He is death not as peace, but as transformation through agony. Plague, decay, war, and madness follow in his wake—not because he desires suffering, but because he sees beauty in the collapse of order. Where others see endings, Jorrax sees beginnings made from ash and bone.

His symbol—a chained scythe crossed with a sickle and ringed in a loop of braided iron—embodies destruction as ritual. The scythe cuts down the living; the sickle reaps what festers. The chain binds the tools together, representing the inevitability of decay and the divine right of entropy.

Jorrax is revered by necromancers, warlords, plague-bringers, and those who live on the edge of life and death. He does not demand temples—he demands aftermath. The battlefield strewn with the dead, the quarantined city, the crumbling ruin—these are his sanctuaries. Prayers to him are written in blood, whispered to bone, or carried on the smoke of burning flesh.

His rites are brutal and transformative: the forging of bone-blades, the tattooing of death marks, the raising of the dead as vessels of war. Some cults flay themselves to better understand decay; others feast only on carrion or ash.

Jorrax is depicted as tall and robed in rot-stained cloth, his face veiled in chain. Where he walks, the air turns cold, and the living feel their hearts beat louder—as if reminded of their fragility. Legends claim he was once mortal, the first necromancer who defied the gods and won. Others believe he is older than time itself, born from the first scream of a dying star.

He stands in eternal opposition to the gods of balance and healing, not because he despises them, but because he believes all things must fall before they rise. War is the hammer. Disease is the chisel. Death is the hand that carves.

In whispered fear or dark devotion, mortals speak his name—and when they do, something in the world begins to rot.